Free Gonji: A Hungering of Wolves by T. C. Rypel

since you’ve come to me for help. Now, dozo —please, the Farouche Clan—what do you know of them?”
    “They’ve turned Burgundy into an evil, withering land.”
    “I know that. What else?”
    “They’re his sons.”
    “What?”
    “Five of them—Grimmolech’s sons.”
    “Cholera,” Gonji swore, using his favorite Slavic imprecation. “Your brothers—the Beast’s brothers,” he corrected in a rush, seeing the other tautening for a snap again. “How can we know them?”
    “We can’t,” Simon said simply, scooping up a small stone and hurling it at the far wall. “ You can’t. They could be most anything. They control…everything. Ahh, all right—one of them, whatever else he might become, bears a certain reminder I left him with, when last we tussled. I ripped out his right eye. He’ll always be missing that eye. You see—their evil sorcery can’t solve everything for them. Other than that, I suppose you could say they bear a certain…family resemblance to me. Losing your nerve, warrior?”
    Gonji stiffened. Gooseflesh had indeed cropped up along his spine, on his arms. With the keen senses of the wolf within, Simon had caught the scent of the atavistic fear. With an exercise of willpower, Gonji brought the center of his being under control again.
    “So we battle an enemy we can’t know for the sake of a woman we can’t trust,” Gonji said acidly. “I see little difference from anything else we’ve ever undertaken.”
    He pulled himself proudly erect, flexing his back muscles as he strutted away from Simon and toward the main street. But deep inside, a great compassion stirred for this man-Beast who had suffered such depravity at the whim of fate.
    Compassion. And profound disquiet. For now Gonji was thinking of Theresa again, and the memory of an old and alarmingly parallel experience…
    * * * *
    Dreams…
    Kuma-san— what are you doing here? — there will be fighting. Something you don’t approve of—
    “Forgive me, Gonji-san, but now I must do my duty…Sabatake Gonji-no-Sadowara, I baptize thee in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the … ”
    And of the Company of Lost Hope.
    Dreams…
    Hai… the Place of Lost Hope, marked by the foothills, the bloated, savaged bodies — the banks of the Saone — the screams of the dying — the voices — the horrible pleading voices —
    * * * *
    Goooooon-jiiiiii—
    Iye-iye! They know! We must turn back! No hope—
    “For God’s sake, do something—”
    “He’s burning up!”
    * * * *
    Luigi Leone returned to the company, a dashed, forlorn figure. The one-eyed mercenary offered little in the way of explanation, muttering only that he and the young widow had had to part company. Too many tears, too many memories, was all that Leone cared to say of it.
    Gonji could only be grateful for Leone’s reappearance. Trustworthy warriors and longtime friends came at a premium in those days. And even a debilitated fighter who had proven himself in action was a welcome sight.
    The morning of the departure for Burgundy, Buey and Orozco, fired by the memory of the latest attempt on Gonji’s life, at last succeeded in convincing the samurai to don a modern half-armor that had been guaranteed pistol-proof.
    The samurai strapped on the golden breast- and back-plate assembly with an indulgent sigh. The armor’s sheen had been dulled by verdigris to enhance camouflage in the field. It was somewhat more cumbersome than the cuirass he sometimes used.
    Gonji drew a single ironic satisfaction from the new armor: Its tightness abated the occasional effect of an old wound suffered in the Vedun campaign—a staved-in rib that pained him when he rotated his torso a certain way and inhaled deeply on bitterly cold days.
    Under the Spaniards’ smug gazes, he strapped on his swords and sallet and mounted a gray destrier. The horse tossed peevishly under his weight.
    “Why didn’t you find me a good horse instead of this god-cursed armor?” he