Free Gonji: Red Blade from the East by T. C. Rypel Page B

already asleep. And Gonji’s words echoed in his ears mockingly, mingling with the Englishman’s snoring.
    It took a long time for Gonji to drift off into fitful slumber.

CHAPTER FOUR
    Pistols exploded in a ragged volley that thundered through the pass.
    Soldiers and mounts, spilled by the impact, threw the rest of the troop into rearing and screaming chaos. The commander bolted free of the pack and shouted orders, reassembling the stunned party as the bellowing line of bandits descended upon them. The brigands’ line was spread thin but bunched at the ends to deny retreat. The ambush had been well planned.
    Hemmed into the mountain cleft as they were, the outnumbered soldiers could only stand their ground. The commander urged courage. He saw that only two men had been felled by the gunfire and made a swift decision. Howling their battle cry and drawing steel, he waved to his doughty troops and charged the blockading bunch at the southern end of the pass.
    These devils would know they’d been in a fight.
    * * * *
    Navárez closed the adventurers’ charge with a shout and massed his men from the north end to swarm down in pursuit of the madly rushing soldiers.
    The mercenaries hooted and growled with bloodlust, swords whirling above their heads. Navárez rode with gritted teeth, and as he neared the soldiers’ backs he scanned them closely: light half-armor; gray surcoats and breeches; and, unmistakably, they were flying the colors he had been alerted to.
    No quarter for these—the way Navárez liked it.
    At the southern end of the pass sat the Japanese barbarian, hand on sword hilt, reeking confidence. He was flanked by half a dozen men who had been plainly impressed by him since his arrival. They were arranged in a V, the Japanese boldly at the point. Already he was assuming a position of command. That was bad; the captain didn’t like owing his life to any man, less still to a conceited bastard like this barbarian.
    But then the soldiers’ color guard charged front and center and leveled his lance at the samurai.
    His arrogant display would see him skewered. And that was good.
    Navárez and his pack of five and twenty bore down on the haunches of the slowing, jostling troop. The rear half of their broken column wheeled to face the brunt of the charge. Grim desperation etched their dust-streaked brows; swords were smartly drawn in unison.
    Navárez caught just a glimpse of the lancer barreling in on the Japanese, saw Gonji’s horse lurch impossibly to slip the charge, watched the samurai twist the soldier from his mount.
    Then Navárez’ cutlass crashed into an upraised buckler, and he found himself slashing and parrying for his life.
    The soldier he engaged was powerful and disciplined in the saddle. His blade was heavier, and Navárez’ repeatedly glanced off ineffectually. Outmuscled, he was hard-pressed to stave off the other’s hammering steel, and the buckler deflected his own efforts at attack.
    Two free companions dropped nearby, shrieking and clutching at themselves. Horses bit and kicked, panicked and bolted in the clanging, shouting fray, and four men and mounts toppled like dominoes just to Navárez’ rear.
    The captain blocked a deadly slash, then winced as a pistol barked in his left ear. His steed lurched and whinnied, disengaging him from his foe. A soldier, rocked by the pistol ball’s impact, was dashed to the ground and trampled.
    Navárez roared, steadied his horse and spurred it ahead. Another mercenary flanked the captain’s formidable foe just as the soldier’s errant blow cracked into the skull of Navárez’ horse. He fell hard, scrambled away from the pounding hooves, and limped to the side of the trail.
    By the time he was able to gather himself and take stock of the battle, it was over.
    The tangled mass of flesh and steel began to sort itself out. Shouts of victory issued from the Free Company, who raised their weapons and shoved one another, comparing gory blades.
    Julio pranced