Fortress of Lost Worlds

by T. C. Rypel

  “Death—is as light as a feather, senchoo. I’ve seen amazing things—”

  The captain laughed heartily. “None more amazing than yourself, I’d wager. I’ll never forget the first time I saw you, twirling that blinding sword atop the carcass of your own dead horse, corpses of bandits strewn about you…” He let his words trail off as he swiftly gauged the others’ reactions. Robles’ face was grimly set. Orozco belched and his chest rumbled with a private chuckle.

  Cardenas cleared his throat. “Your appearance here, senor, substantiates your honorifics. Do you know the things they call you?”

  Anita hurried around the table to refill Gonji’s ale. He evaded her questing glances that seemed to admit of possibilities between them. Her forced allure was an insult to his friend Salguero’s honor.

  “Deathwind of Vedun,” Cardenas continued, “and Red Blade from the East. Even while I studied in Italy I heard legends of a Far Eastern warrior who traveled in quest of some secret beast who roamed the western empire—”

  Gonji waxed melancholy as he sipped. He was moved by the irony of it all. Once he had sought to spread his reputation in Europe, felt disappointment whenever it had failed to precede him. Now he understood what sages had tried to impart to him in times past—the wisdom of preserving one’s anonymity in troubled times.

  But then Father Robles was speaking harshly, and his reverie was swept aside.

  “—and Scourge of Pont-Rouge, senor samurai. Do you give answer for that attributive?”

  Gonji’s mood altered darkly. “Don’t speak to me of Pont-Rouge in that tone, and don’t attach my name to it thusly. What you’ve heard is a confusion of the wretched truth. You have no idea of the horrors that fastened themselves to that place. Never call me the Scourge of that evil town. I purged it.”

  The others were intimidated by the samurai’s cold expression, but Father Robles persisted, fervor seeping into his voice.

  “They say you have a compact with demons, you know. Some say you are one yourself. That you can transform yourself into animals by night.” The priest was tugging at the crucifix which hung from the sash about his waist.

  Salguero stiffened and gripped the table edges and seemed about to remonstrate with Father Robles. But Gonji sighed and slumped in his high-backed chair. Inevitably, but nonetheless incredible for it, his reputation had commingled with that of Simon Sardonis. He wanted to laugh and cry out in anguish at the same time.

  “Zoanthropy,” Cardenas said to no one in particular. “You know, I was a student of the higher sciences in Florence. I was to be a mathematician, a professor of the university, I thought. I studied the principles of the great da Vinci himself. Do you know, Padre, that science scoffs these days at the very mention of such a thing as you propose? Of course, we’re very far from Florence here, aren’t we?”

  “Your science can explain nothing of Satan’s workings,” Father Robles countered.

  Cardenas went on as if he hadn’t heard him. “Take giants, for example. Do you know that a giant cannot exist? That his own weight would bring him down as surely as a cannonball? Yet our lancers here insist that they’ve seen one in these very environs.”

  “Evil abounds,” Robles asserted, “and its shapes know no limitations.”

  “Indeed it does,” Gonji said, leaning forward, “and while the followers of Iasu—Jesus—massacre one another over forms of worship, it snakes about you, feeding on your own petty hatreds. And it’s much more subtle than you dare think. Always it hides its true purpose behind illusion, deception—”

  “It—it—it!” the priest railed. “Call it by its name—Satan.”

  Gonji blinked but remained calm. Nodding to the priest, he went on: “Satan, then, though I’ve heard him called by many names. Illusion and deception. Misunderstanding, greed, intolerance—these are his tools. Not everything you would call monstrous is of the Evil One.”

  Sergeant Orozco snorted. “The monsters here are,” he said, tipping his cup toward Gonji and swigging.

  Cardenas ignored him. “Then you say that the sorcery operating in this valley is all mere trickery? I assure you the warlock has left little to the imagination. People die in the streets here of—”

  “Oh no,” Gonji countered, shaking his head. “What you’ve seen here is all too real. I only question the source of the powers that strike at you. I’ve seen their like in many places. Evil is strong in Europe these days. Strong and directed, like some careful conspiracy. And, so sorry, but your vaunted Inquisition, Padre, strikes out in the darkness at its own possessions, at helpless innocence, like some angry, frightened child.”

  Robles slammed down his goblet. “There’s no surprise in your saying that—you, a heathen, sitting so near the Church’s powerful grasp.”

  “Grasp,” Gonji replied caustically, “is the proper word, I think. Religious rapacity is but one of this continent’s problems.”

  Father Robles’ cheeks reddened. “Si? Well then tell me, por favor, what pagan ideas you would bring us that would solve our complex problems, that would—would rescue us from the darkness of sin and evil.”

  “What do I believe?”

  “Si.”

  Gonji smiled and clasped his hands. “I’m not sure what my…rather eclectic code encompasses anymore. At times I find myself believing almost nothing. There are wonders in existence that neither your theology—nor your science, Cardenas—can hope to explain. Others whose delicate beauty are destroyed in the explanation of the mystery. Have you, since your return from your university, Senor Cardenas, discussed with Father Robles the continuing controversy over the movement of the sun?”

  The two both reddened now.

  “Or will you cross swords over this mystery,” the samurai pressed, “at a later date? Perhaps when the army has cleared the warlock’s power from your lives, neh? I believe there is room enough for all manner of contemplation. Contemplation requires so little space, neh? Observe. Meditate on your observations. And the true works of evil will not be able to disguise themselves from you.”

  The priest splayed his hands on the table.

  “And you, senor, have accorded us a perfect example of the workings of the Devil. Your simplistic views are an invitation to chaos. Obscurantism is the Devil’s ale.”

  Gonji pondered the term. It was the first time he’d heard it used. It would not be the last.

  “If my beliefs give you offense,” he said at length, “then you have two choices: Give me space, or kill me.” A hush settled over the room, dispersed when Orozco coughed and Anita seized the opportunity to refill their goblets. Father Robles clapped a hand over his, checking her almost too late.

  “I wonder,” Gonji added, “which one Iasu would choose.”

  Father Robles sat still as an ice field before cracking an unexpected, if joyless, smile. “Very clever. I shall, of course, give you the space you request. It isn’t often that I break bread with strangers of exotic persuasions, and I must allow that you’re an interesting hombre, if an irreverent one. The captain trusts you; so I suppose that’s endorsement enough.”

  Salguero hid his struggle against a grin behind his goblet. “You’ll have to forgive me, Padre, but I knew it would come to this. Gonji is a longtime critic of certain of Holy Mother Church’s eh…postures, shall we say?”

  “Don’t apologize,” the priest replied, relaxing again. “He found a way into this valley, and no travelers have done that for many weeks now. Quiza—maybe he’ll be the one to show you how to beat this wicked sorcerer who opposes us. I may even grant him my blessing when he leaves, provided he spreads none of his heathen ideas in this already dirty little town.”

  His tone was lighthearted, but Anita, who ever evaded his eyes at all costs, slipped from the room. Gonji bowed shallowly to the priest, who nodded in return.

  “Why have
you come to Barbaso?” Cardenas asked.

  “Si, tell us what horrors you’ve seen along the way.” Orozco shrugged defensively to see the scowl Salguero shot him.

  “No, it’s all right,” Gonji said. “I just wished to take the shortest route to Zaragoza, and Barbaso is the only town of appreciable size on the way. I needed supplies, and some companionship, I don’t mind admitting—”

  The captain laughed and smoothed the tendrils of his mustache. “You have changed—admitting to human weakness like that!”

  “Although I had no idea who I’d find here, thank the Great Kami that you and Orozco here are still in fighting shape. And that’s it. I’ve never had much luck with villages, and Barbaso was it, if my map’s to be trusted.”

  “You’re not serious about seeing Cervera, though.”

  Gonji looked pained. “I must, Hernando. I must clear the air between us, explain the truth of what happened to Theresa. It will be one of the most difficult things I’ve ever done.”

  Gloom descended on the captain. He leaned back with folded arms and stared at his boots. “He’ll kill you, Gonji. You know, I was instructed to do so myself.”

  “It would have been your duty.”

  They shared a look of pained camaraderie. And then Gonji broke it, affecting an arch air. “So old King Philip has gone to his ancestors. I should have known. So old by now. And Philip the Third straddles the dais of power.”

  “Do you think he’s forgotten his father’s favor of you? He never liked you much, you know.”

  Gonji smiled thinly. “Hai, to say the least.”

  “And as far as who holds the lever of power these days in Spain, I’m afraid you’re even more luckless there than if it were Philip the Pup. Most of the administrative strength is in the hands of Prime Minister Rojas—Duke de Lerma, do you recall? The Hammer of the Inquisition?”

  Thumbing his chin, Gonji grew pensive. “Ahh, so desu ka? Is that right?” He shook his head somberly. “Out of the Devil’s hand and into his mouth, so it seems.”

  “I must take exception with that remark, sir,” Father Robles grated.

  “So sorry. I was referring to my own situation—”

  “Were you?” Salguero cut in.

  “It’s a damned good picture of the way things have been,” Sergeant Orozco added, growling into his goblet.

  “It might well describe the command prerogative in general,” Salguero continued, drowning out the sergeant’s muttering. He spoke to Gonji but all the while looked at the fidgeting priest. “Taxes ruin us, the Turks loom at every port the English don’t raid, and what does the cub king do? He oppresses the Moriscos, our own countrymen—and Christians at that!—between observations of endless feasts and hypocritical pious rites that—”

  “Such talk is heresy!” Father Robles railed.

  “Si, and more!” the captain shouted, half rising from his seat. “Treason—I speak treason, Padre.” He turned to Gonji, an almost imploring look wrinkling his brow. “They gave away my hometown, Kyooshi. Gave it to the French out of a gutless fear they called political expediency. Now my family lives under blasted francés oppression while I sit here and die a slow and hopeless death. While I watch my proud company decimated and turned to sniveling scum. They’re besotted and spiritless. Those the warlock doesn’t destroy this filthy town drains.”

  Robles made a censuring noise but said nothing. Salguero leaned against the table edge, his bitterness permeating the atmosphere of the comedor, his harsh words having drawn Anita back to the doorway. She stood at the jamb, aiming a look of contempt at her late paramour. Sergeant Orozco, now well into his cups, slumped back in his seat and kept nodding his head heavily in sullen agreement. Pablo Cardenas worked his jaw silently, rearranging the scraps on his plate with a knife.

  “So what will you do, senchoo?” Gonji inquired gently. “You still have your duty.”

  “Duty!” Salguero spat, reclaiming his composure almost at once. “What can I do?” He sat back down.

  Gonji cleared his throat and drew himself straight and tall in his chair. “You know, I still have to pass Castle Malaguer when I leave the valley. This business has stoked my curiosity. There are certain questions I would have an answer to. And you may need a tour guide to steer you through this sorcerer’s gauntlet.”

  The captain’s eyes glowed. “Kyooshi? Are you saying what I think?”

  Gonji folded his arms, his eyes narrowing. “There is one thing that troubles me about this place, this town. Before I give aid here, I want to know something. Why have I seen no children since I arrived here?”

  They looked from one to the other uncertainly.

  “They’ve been kept indoors, protected, since this war against Domingo Negro began,” Cardenas explained.

  Father Robles elaborated. “It’s never safe, day or night, in Barbaso. The innocents—”

  “I don’t understand what you’re driving at, Gonji,” Salguero said.

  “I want to see children of this town,” the samurai demanded.

  “I assure you we have them,” the solicitor said. “I have two of my own.”

  “Bring them here. Or, if you prefer, we can go to your home. But I want to see them for myself.”

  They groused and debated the necessity and reason for the samurai’s strange request, but at last Cardenas complied, bringing his children, a boy and girl who looked tousled from interrupted sleep but bright-eyed with apprehension. An armed escort led them into the manse’s parlor.

  Gonji made gentle small talk with them, told them brief tales of his youth in Japan, and presented them each with a confection for their trouble. His quiet manner set them at ease, but the other adults were discomfited by this mystery, for they could see how he seemed to study the children, looking them over carefully and probing them with odd questions, seeded throughout the entertaining patter that soon had the children entranced.

  When the children had been led back home, Gonji sat before the parlor’s roaring hearth and poured himself another ale. His somber expression warded away the others’ curious glances. They discussed the lancers’ campaign against the warlock until Cardenas returned.

  “Would you mind telling me,” he said, shrugging off his greatcoat, “why my children had to be disturbed from their sleep and dragged out into the cold night air?”

  Gonji stared into the blazing fire. “They’re very fine young ones. They seem ruddy enough—and well loved.”

  “Muchos gracias,” Cardenas replied, his words laced with sarcasm.

  “Exactly what are you implying?” Father Robles asked.

  “One day,” Gonji replied, unmoving before the crackling fire. “One day I’ll explain.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Buey swung his huge fist in a hard right cross that might have shattered a helmet visor. The little Jappo ducked the blow and darted a straight, short punch at his midsection.

  The man the other lancers called The Ox took the shot full in his hard belly with a snarling grunt. He leered down at his smaller opponent in a broad display of unconcern with the other’s blows. But the last roundhouse kick to his ribs had hurt.

  This hombre could kick.

  Buey had fought the best of the accursed French savate foot-fighters and beaten them all insensible, but this Oriental’s kick-boxing was faster, more deadly, and far more varied in its attack.

  Buey closed on him with a bullish charge, roaring intimidatingly and lashing out with a furious series of punches. The Jappo backed off with a quick-stamping retreat, fending his punishing swings with open-handed deflecting blocks. Buey afforded him no opening, and when he sensed another rib kick coming, he raised his knee sharply.

  Their legs thudded off each other. The Jappo dropped his hands to steady his balance, and Buey bounced a glancing shot off the side of his head. But he
failed to follow it up quickly enough—the Oriental’s sharp punch snapped his head back. He tasted blood in his mouth, felt the warm trickle in his mustache.

  Growling, he came on with a rush of emotion, the barracks crowd, shuffling and pushing out of the combatants’ way, pleading with Buey to finish this arrogant meddler. Buey executed a leaping front kick aimed at decapitating Gonji, but at the top of his kick he realized his mistake. In the air, vulnerable, he watched helplessly as the Oriental dropped low and spun. His sweeping kick knocked Buey’s pivot leg out from under him.

  Landing hard on the barracks floor, he raised his arms across his face as the Jappo leapt astride him.

  But a whomping kick in the back knocked Gonji into a headfirst roll. Buey could hear the breath hiss from the other’s clenched teeth and sensed an advantage. Pushing to his feet, he came at the Jappo with flailing ham fists, his knees pumping defensively to ward off any kicks, seasoning his experienced attack with well-aimed snap-kicks.

  His frustration drove him to insensate fury. His blows alternated between landing ineffectually and striking air. Another kick, this one returning pain for his effort as the Oriental blocked his ankle with a hard and fast knife-hand.

  Another sharp pain in a knee, then an ankle—the other ankle—

  The Jappo had initiated a lightning hit-and-run attack with low side snap-kicks, targeting his shins.

  Buey’s glances flicked down at his opponent’s panther-quick feet. He raised a knee against a kick. Suddenly the samurai was high in the air. His two-legged dropkick caught Buey full in the upper chest. He stumbled backward, breathless, and sat down heavily on his behind.

  But the Oriental had landed badly, wincing from the pain. He must have injured an ankle. Buey pushed himself up again and came on with rotating fists, his shoulders squared with determination. The samurai had altered his stance to favor the sore leg.

  They exchanged a rapid round of punches, the soldiers oohing and bellowing with excitement. It would all end swiftly now.