arm that he may wish to employ with us, is that so, bárbaro?”
Esteban chuckled in a way Gonji didn’t like. But he said nothing, made them wait.
Navárez’ eyes narrowed, and he leaned forward in the saddle. “This army of King Klann, it rides under the protection of a sorcerer—te entiendo? Understand? Can you pledge your faith in his power and your life to the king’s cause?”
Gonji cocked an eyebrow, momentarily speechless. His thoughts raced, a jumble of variables in an equation that made no sense.
“Black sorcery?”
“Who can say what color is sorcery, eh?” the pirate railed. “Sorcery is power, and power is all that matters in this world. Forget what you think you believe, and be prepared to believe in the impossible. If you can do that, then you can ride with us. Adios.”
With a final oppressive laugh from Esteban, the two pirates wheeled and clumped off into the forest.
Well, what now? Gonji wondered. It sounded like a deadly combination—bandits like that tapped into some lode of sorcerous power. There must be something to it. Men simply weren’t so unabashedly frank about the supernatural without good reason.
But a fat lot of good their sorcerer had done them: From where Gonji sat it appeared that Klann’s army had been raked over pretty well by the Austrian troops. Yet the city they attacked—the seat of the bishopric, a long ride behind—had impressed him as well fortified, the treasury impregnable to anything short of a fully appointed siege force. Klann had stormed it and apparently made off with a hefty plunder. Sorcery or not, the main body of this wandering army must be of respectable size. But what were they up to now, here in the mountains? Could the vampires that had attacked him be sinister agencies of this sorcerer? If so, one might certainly be better off with them than against them.
Sided with vampires—Yeeee gods, what madness!
What will be the next turn on your merry trail, Gonji-san? By all the spirits who ply men’s lives, I’d give an arm for the counsel of just one good friend!
But Gonji was far too intrigued now to obey the tugging of his instincts and leave this strange army to its devices. Pathetically low on money, human companionship, and raisons d’être, Gonji determined his course with a blithe peal of laughter and a hearty shout. He patted the Sagami in a gesture of trust to whatever kami guided its blade and spurred Tora after the Spaniards.
Even the most loathsome companions and deadliest of escapades would be welcome, it seemed, to a man slowly dying of emptiness.
CHAPTER THREE
Navárez rolled off his mount and limped stiffly toward a tight circle of men who sat or knelt under a towering fir. Their multi-tongued chatter and bawling mirth died when they took note of the captain’s set jaw.
Navárez quickened his step when he came up behind the man called Julio, who turned at the sound of his approach but not quickly enough to evade the sharp slap. He hit the ground heavily, crying out in anger more than pain, his tankard of mead sloshing over him and the nearest observers.
Tense silence gripped the camp.
“You stupid, scabby bastard! You left me to die back there, no?”
Julio rubbed his reddening face, glared back. All eyes turned to him. “I thought you were dead, Franco! How in hell could I know?”
“I called out to you, fool, raised my hand. You rode right by like the coward you are.”
“I never saw you!” Julio cried beseechingly, throwing up his hands. “I was clinging low to the saddle. There were musket shots all around.”
“Now you say you didn’t see me. If you didn’t see me, stupid ass, then how did you come to think I was already dead?” Navárez leveled a finger at him. “The next time you wet your breeches in battle, coward, I’ll put a pistol ball right between your eyes, ¿me entiendes?”
Julio nodded sullenly. He cracked a nervous smile and shrugged sheepishly as he rose, gesturing awkwardly as if to restore himself in Navárez’ good graces.
But the captain was already turning away to see why the other men’s gazes had lifted to peer behind him.
Gonji sat rigid in the saddle, looking over the rolling vista of hostile eyes. A cool wind whipped the tree-rimmed clearing, fluttering loose clothing and hair as it sighed over the drama of silent expectancy. Tora nickered and pawed the ground.
“Ah, Señor Sabatake,” Navárez said, grinning and walking toward him. “This is the man who saved me when that dog left me to die. So, bárbaro, you’ve decided to ride with us after all. Bueno. Make yourself comfortable in the camp, eh? Jocko!”
“I’m comin’, I’m comin’, dammit!”
A fat and grizzled old wretch lumbered over in response, scowling and muttering to himself. His hair was a matted gray scrub, and a fringe of tangled beard seemed to have erupted from his face rather than grown.
“Now who’s callin’ Jocko and what’s the trouble this time? Nobody gets along around here without Jocko. Jocko this and Jocko—!”
“Callarse! Be quiet, you old buzzard!” Navárez shot, not without a grudging affection. “Take our new man here and see that he gets what he wants.” To Gonji: “I’ll speak with you later.” With that he hobbled off to another part of camp.
“Sí, make him feel at home,” Esteban snarled needlessly, tracking after the captain.
Jocko growled at the departing tormentor. “Goddamn weasel.”
He looked up at Gonji, shielding his eyes with a hand although the sun had sunk deep into the trees. Beneath a curled upper lip overhung by a ragged mustache, Gonji could see a rancid display of brown-and-yellow stained teeth.
“Well, come on, then, pilgrim.” And with that Jocko half-shrugged and hopped off toward a cluster of wagons and pack animals near the company’s unsaddled horses. Gonji dismounted and led Tora slowly after, stroking the weary animal’s muzzle.
As he played at talking to Tora, Gonji glanced around the encampment, taking in everything. He had been in many such mercenary camps, and little was different here. Gruff, surly voices barked out in a half-dozen languages as men jostled and joked, told ribald tales and challenged each other to mock combat. Blankets and gear were bunched into mounds here and there where men reclined and pulled at wineskins, or sloshed ale and mead from battered goblets. Insects buzzed everywhere, drawn by sweet-sour odors that mingled now with the mouth-watering aroma of a popping and crackling deer carcass spitted over a roaring fire at the center of camp. A few night birds cried in the treetops in response to the lengthening shadows.
The men in camp numbered about thirty. Of these a handful nursed various wounds. One in particular seemed in a bad way. He lay on a makeshift bed of blankets and boughs, one hand resting over a poor patch job done on his ghastly belly wound. The bandage had gone freshly red. His glazed eyes were rolled heavenward as he breathed spasmodically, a wineskin in his limp grasp dripping pale golden liquid. Men passing him did so somberly, with the warrior’s grim awareness of mortality. Tomorrow this might be any one of them. And tomorrow this one would be dead.
As for the rest of the men in camp, most were typically arrogant mercenaries,
