I hope he catches it,” the young athlete said. “Maybe we should go after him, to help.”
His words dispelled Vlad’s fascination with the corpse of the man he had shot. The eagle-beaked farmer looked toward his departing rival.
“Forget it. He’ll never catch them,” he replied grimly. He belted his spent pistol and swiveled his mount to view their situation. “Better help me collect the horses, Jiri. There’ll be more trouble than we can handle here soon.”
Szabo turned to remount, stopped when he saw the twisted body of Tadeusz.
“Shouldn’t we...pick him up?”
“Igen,” Hawk agreed curtly in Hungarian, “you do it.” He moved off after the scattered horses.
Grimacing at the twisted, mud-splashed remains of his dead friend, Jiri cast about for assistance. There seemed to be none forthcoming. He swallowed back his grief and brought up Tadeusz’s mare, began to roll the militiaman’s body in a blanket.
“All he ever worried about,” he mumbled to himself, “was whether he could go through with killing a man in battle.” Jiri Szabo shook his head sadly, knowing all the while that the ironic eulogy had drifted up from the well of self-doubt in his own soul.
* * * *
Rubbing the back of his neck for a restless moment, Nikolai Nagy studied the troubled young hostler. Stefan had acquitted himself well; his deed had been a valorous one for a man still pained by a fresh war wound.
But Berenyi exhibited a new injury now. An internal one whose scar, Nagy knew, marked every man differently. He gave Berenyi space for as long as he thought wise, watching him glance from the corpse of the man he’d dispatched to the blood-stained sword in his good hand and back again. Berenyi’s lips moved silently, and he licked them repeatedly as if their dryness defied the rain.
His first battlefield kill, Nagy realized. No smirk, no jest from the jocular Stefan Berenyi now.
Then Nagy’s usual impatience finally got the best of him.
“Old man’s still got what it takes, eh?” He cuffed Berenyi’s shoulder playfully, breaking the morbid spell.
“Hah,” Berenyi sputtered out of the corner of his mouth. “I had to finish him, old man.” His voice quavered, though he’d tried to sound bold.
Nagy allowed him that concession to his self-confidence, bobbing his head.
“Let’s get this place squared away, young pup.”
* * * *
His brief talk with Simon finished, Gonji climbed aboard the gelding behind Wilf, and they started back toward the squad of militiamen. He was fatigued from the long walk. Cold and benumbed internally.
What monstrous things are yet in store—?
“That man—” Wilf said over his shoulder. “He’s...Simon Sardonis, nicht wahr?”
Gonji nodded. “Hai.”
“The one who beat Ben-Draba to death at the square?”
“The same.”
“Is he...also...the one?”
“What do you mean?”
“The one you’ve sought—the Deathwind.”
Gonji pondered the question as they jounced along. Finally shook his head.
“I don’t know, Wilf. It doesn’t seem to matter. Why do you ask?”
“It’s just that he’s....”
“Hai,” Gonji filled in, “a strange one, all-recht. Tralayn would have us believe that he’s your Deliverer. One man,” he appended for no reason in particular.
“Well, I don’t doubt her,” Wilf said seriously, mopping the rain that slanted into his face. “Having seen him, I’d believe just about anything.”
Gonji cocked an eyebrow, his memories spinning with the details of Simon’s sorcerous origin, as told by Tralayn. The tale of what he would become in two nights.
Werewolf....
“One shouldn’t be too gullible, my friend,” Gonji cautioned. “On the other hand...the world never ceases to surprise me. Expect nothing, accept what happens.”
Like a reviving agent, Gonji’s words seemed to awaken Wilf from a paralysis. He began to tremble.
“Some things you don’t accept.” Wilf’s words came thick with emotion. “Like a loved one—”
“You have no choice, Wilfred.”
“Ja! I do—that thing back there that used to be Phlegor—it came from the castle, didn’t it?”
“Hai, I suppose—”
“What the hell is happening at the castle by now? How many more people are like that? Gonji, I’ve got to get inside Castle Lenska—now!”
“Quiet,” Gonji commanded softly. “Now think: What good could you accomplish going off half-cocked and trying to rescue Genya from an entire castle garrison? Have you forgotten the giant?”
“I don’t care about—”
“Shh! How would we even get inside right now, with Klann’s force on the alert against insurgent action?” Gonji thought of something, his face clouding. “Did you have the tunnel to the castle collapsed as I ordered?”
Wilf sighed. “Ja, they did it, though I tried to make them leave it clear, in case....”
“Listen, Wilfred, your need is no more important than that of everyone else. We are either united in this effort or we are fodder for the invaders. If you compromise our unity of purpose, then you’re as expendable as Phlegor.”
Wilf blinked. “Sure,” he replied bitterly, “then you’d probably turn me in to Klann’s army, like you did Phlegor.”
Gonji was stung by the young smith’s reminder of how he had set Julian to watching Phlegor as a diversion. But he saw Wilf’s shoulders bunch as he added in a near whisper:
“I’m...sorry, Gonji. I didn’t mean—”
“What I meant was that Mord would love to have another subject to ply his evil magick on. Go off like a child in a tantrum and that’s how you’ll end up.”
Wilf nodded glumly. “What did he do to him...to Phlegor?”
Gonji shook his head. “It would be well to keep the news of his fate from the others, neh? Simon stayed back to bury him.”
“What happened to your horses?” Wilf asked.
“Mine met with an accident, and he didn’t have one. Did you find Tora for me?”
“Hai,”
