Fortress of Lost Worlds

by T. C. Rypel

The samurai turned a diagonal blow far aside. His wrist-snapping riposte relieved Sir Hugh’s helmet of its plumage.

  “My heart is true in this business—my needs honorable—”

  He evaded a decapitating arc of humming steel, spun and hacked open the knight’s leg harness. A thin trickle of blood appeared at the seam of the wound.

  “You fight in empty anger—it erodes your armor’s magic valor—and your skills, I fear, need honing—”

  Small tuffs of angry breath gasped out of the knight’s visor as he swung and swung at Gonji with unbalancing rage. The samurai retreated and advanced with taunting quickness and surety of foot. Sir Hugh lunged deeply, his blade lancing for Gonji’s belly as he grunted with the desperate strength thrust into the movement.

  Gonji slapped his point down into the snow, stamped the blade out of his hands with a sharp kick, spun, and drove the Sagami backward over his shoulder. The point barely touched the gorget at Sir Hugh’s throat. Gonji’s exaggeratedly twisted stance oozed confidence and one-upmanship.

  The black knight gave way to fear. He leaned back from the deadly sword point, and his legs suddenly went numb under him. He slumped back unceremoniously into the snow with a jangle of armor.

  Gonji stood over him, sword pointing at his heart in a two-handed clench. Sir Hugh slowly removed his helm. His cheeks were ripe with exertion, and sweat trailed along his jawbones as he gulped for air.

  “I spare you your life, Sir Knight. Now, let me see your father—”

  A cackling laugh ushered from behind the whispering line of mercenaries to Gonji’s left. Two of their mounts lurched aside as the somersaulting figure bounded between them, handspringing through the snow in a high double-flip, to land beside the samurai.

  It was Moon. The minuscule acrobat slipped and fell at the end of his exercise, only to laugh all the harder. He extended a hand to Gonji, who drew him onto his feet.

  “Senor—Domingo Malaga y Colicos?” Gonji inquired, smiling.

  “Domingo, it is,” the Archmage responded, “but as to senor—well, we’ll see. I didn’t suppose you’d be fooled for long. Rise up and join us, Hugh. He’s quite the swordsman, eh?”

  The downed knight stood and bowed to Gonji, who replied in kind. “The best I’ve ever seen, bar none.”

  “Gracias,” Gonji replied warmly.

  “You understand the power of my son’s armor, then?” Domingo asked. “These three are all my sons.”

  “I have come to know the power that faith imparts to certain effects of sorcery.”

  “You’re a bit of an adept yourself, then. And you’ve convinced me that you’re no thief. So come, let’s talk within the comfort of my castle. Do you think these soldiers with you can behave themselves?”

  The Spanish lancers appeared hostile and wary of allowing themselves to be trapped in the warlock’s stronghold.

  After conferring with his men, Salguero came up and spoke to them. His eyes were spiked with hatred as he fixed them on the Archmage. He was deeply scarred by the ravages inflicted on his command. “My men will not ride into that bastion of evil, Kyooshi. I’m for finishing this fight now. I thought that’s what this foray was about.”

  Before Gonji could answer, Domingo crossed the captain’s harsh words with his own.

  “Evil, you say? You’re a fine lot to condemn others of evil. You and your whole vicious Church. It’s true I’m no Christian, but I’m not the one slaughtering my neighbors over forms and rites and blade’s-breadth differences over interpretation of holy writ. As for me, I don’t fit your patterns of stringent morality. You could say that, as regards most of your system, I’m amoral. A pagan, si. Existing outside your severe limitations. And I suppose that makes me evil enough, to your way of thinking. Foolish, grasping little folk. So sure of your crusade, so convinced of your rectitude. So certain you have all the answers you need of life and death.

  “Drive your brothers into the sea, then! But you’ll not drive Domingo Negro from this place. This is where my family has lived for longer than any of you could guess…in one sense or another. And this is where I make my stand. Oh, you have evil to fear, no doubt. Evil in more forms than you imagine. But none more evil than that which you exercise yourselves. There are powers arrayed against powers aligned against POWERS!—It’s a complex cosmos. And the truly evil ‘powers’ know your complacent stupidity and mock you for it.”

  Gonji stepped between them before they could come to blows, as Salguero dismounted in outrage. After a heated discussion, the samurai convinced his old friend of the wisdom of at least hearing Domingo out. At last it was decided that Gonji, the captain, Sergeant Orozco, and Buey would join the Archmage for an airing-out of their grievances over dinner, though Salguero took a long time to win over.

  The ten remaining troopers made camp outside the castle walls, and Domingo promised his protection. As a gesture of faith, the mercenary company was withdrawn to their barracks. Hot food was sent out to the lancers, which they first feared to eat, at last surrendering to the acute knowledge of their vulnerability: The warlock could kill them many ways, and poisoning seemed ill befitting his style.

  Inside the walls the guests gave their mounts over to the care of Domingo’s ostlers, as Gonji probed the warlock.

  “There are many questions I would ask you, Sir Magician,” he said, “but what most bothers me is why did you go to so much trouble to extinguish us only to take us into your confidence now?”

  “Self-preservation, of course. I’ve been battling the good captain’s warriors for some time now, and you chose to ride at their head, though I did take a liking to you with your lone-wolf posturing and fearlessness at the Moonspinner’s lair. Now that was a tale to tell before some future campfire! But it was only when you showed my son Hugh mercy, though you were capable of defeating his armor, that I completely trusted you. Honesty, courage, and compassion are rare qualities these days. A warrior possessing them all should be heard out.”

  “So then,” Gonji pressed, remembering, “why did you at first help me against the great insect and then torch the windmill under my courageous ass?”

  Domingo laughed and cartwheeled through the archway that led into a groined vault which served as the foyer to the central keep. The keep teemed with activity, servants bustling through a variety of duties.

  “Don’t you know,” the warlock replied, shaking his head at the memory, “that despite the superlative coordination of this fine body, I dropped the damned thing! An athlete and a juggler,” he chortled, “and I dropped the torch!”

  Gonji was unconvinced but replied nothing as his attention was drawn to a by now familiar wonder: They rounded a corner to enter what seemed a corridor that went on forever. Servants in the distance approached in their direction, smiling impishly to see the outsiders’ blinks when they closed the space between them at supernatural speed, though their pace had not quickened in the least.

  The warlock broke into high mirth, greeting his servants. “You’ve seen this before, eh? Tricks with perspective, you see. Space…used to its best advantage. Once the ancients traveled between worlds like this. Worlds within—and without, samurai. Ahhh… Everything is science somewhere. Do you know of science? Repeatable, controllable phenomena. But it’s all magic, here. Come—try it. It works best right along the corridor wall. Glide with your back to the wall. You’ll feel the doorways flying past. Just ignore them and make for the farther end of the hall. I want to show you something down there.”

  Gonji was wary, but he tried it first, gesturing reassuringly when Salguero raised a cautioning hand. Buey took to the wall facing Gonji, following the warlock. They cross-stepped with their backs to the granite blocks, finding that the phenomenon was exactly as Domingo had described. Archways flitted past their backs, warping into thinness, as if rolling past under their own power, while the guests felt no sensat
ion of speed themselves, just their stomachs turning in anticipation of same. To Gonji’s perspective, Salguero, Orozco, and the hall behind receded swiftly, as though propelled by a gigantic pulley. The pair soon joined them, blood thrumming at their temples as they regathered at the end of the hall. Orozco seemed a bit giddy, looking back as if he would try it again out of childlike delight.

  Domingo beamed with smug satisfaction and directed them down a flight of steep stairs to a sub-cellar two levels below ground. In a dank, mossy chamber, he held up a hand and addressed them with twinkling eyes.

  “Now prepare yourselves for a strange sight.”

  The rear wall turned to mist and dissipated. They experienced a sudden sense of vertigo. They were peering outward and down—down onto the rooftops of the town of Barbaso. Not a miniature, but the city viewed from a height, crawling with life. People screamed and pointed up at the darkness that had abruptly filled the early evening sky.

  “Terrific, eh?” the warlock whispered with enthusiasm. “Now watch—watch—”

  He fluttered a finger up and down between his lips such that his voice reverberated as if under water, when he pronounced loudly:

  “People of Barbaso—fear not—your soldiers are my guests.”

  Peering down at the wild reaction in the streets, he held a hand over his mouth to smother his laughter. Then he waved them back with a rush to the bleak stairwell.

  “I do so love doing that,” he said, cackling all the while as they climbed. “But a little bit goes a long way, as they say, so I’ve had to keep myself in check.”

  “That was Barbaso?” Salguero asked, disturbed. “Not an illusion?”

  “Of course.”

  “Why haven’t you just destroyed it, then? Rain down molten lead—or monsters?” Orozco punctuated his inquiry with a pragmatic shrug.

  “For one thing,” Domingo answered, “that’s not a proper doorway, merely a sort of viewport. Sound travels through it but not solid matter. True interspheric gateways never show what’s beyond them, in my experience. That makes for some exciting discoveries! By the way, how does it sound down there? I just love to see them scurry—”

  “You are as evil as they say,” Captain Salguero grated as they moved down the foreshortened corridor again. “Evil in that most devious way Satan reserves for himself and his minions. Playing on poor people’s fear—”

  “Oh, dragonfarts!” the Archmage railed. “Evil, evil, evil—that’s all you church fanatics ever see in mysteries that won’t submit to your heel. Tell me what evil there is in warding off a mass attack against my privacy. What evil have I done you personally that can’t be dismissed as defense of what’s mine?”

  “The monsters you arrayed against us—” Salguero roared. “I suppose all the slaughtered men in my command simply died by illusion as well.”

  “The giant,” Orozco reminded.

  “Ah, the giant!” Domingo repeated sarcastically. “Tell me, did he—did he make you loose your bowels by his very sight? He climbs rocks all day and sniffs out unfamiliar flowers. Jesu Christi, he wouldn’t even have any meat to eat if other creatures would stop attacking him out of blind fear and ignorance.”

  “What of the banshee, Domingo?” Gonji asked in a quiet voice, his eyes narrowing to penetrating slits.

  “That death-bitch is no device of mine. Someone else has set that fiend loose. Now you want to talk about evil—there is evil. I told you there were other parties to this bewildering power struggle. And not only here in Hispania. I don’t even understand the alignment anymore, but I believe your presence has something to do with it all, wayfarer.”

  He had addressed Gonji, who started in spite of himself to be singled out in this fashion. It was not the first time he’d been accused of perpetrating movements of power beyond his ken.

  “The birdmen—” Orozco tossed in.

  “A tragic race. Lay no evil charge on their already heavy burden. And the wayfarer here seems to be an old friend of theirs.”

  “The wolves—”

  “The maids in the fire-rings that turn to filth, to—to some sort of monsters out of—”

  The warlock snorted. “Wolves have to eat. In any event, they’ve become uncontrollable of late. I don’t know what’s got at them. They seem oddly…directed, though not by me, and as for the faery-ring maidens…” He turned to Gonji. “The evil dead are unleashed from their graves, wayfarer. That is an ill omen. But I don’t dabble in necromancy. Never have, nor any of my line before me—unless, perhaps, my wayward great-grandfather. It’s so vulgar—”

  He directed them into an opulent parlor that caused Gonji to wince with evident disdain. It was a riot of designs and accoutrements, a nightmare of ornamentation, like the inside of an enormous jewelry case. Red velvet and gold inlay covered the walls. The ceilings were hung with arras of Asian and Turkish influence, while the golden cresset lamps that studded the walls were filigreed in rococo patterns. Gemstones of various sizes and colors reflected the lamplight in rainbow shards from settings in obscure corners. And gossamer webworks in delicate patterns divided the room into sections, wisping aside as one moved through them, retracting from the touch of even the gentlest extended hand.

  “Silk from the Moonspinner,” Domingo explained to Gonji. “Invaluable now, thanks to you.”

  “A vicious creature, despite the high artistry,” the samurai observed.

  “Mmm.” The warlock waxed reflective. “I suppose you’re right. But she, too, had to eat, once she’d been drawn from the natural prey of her native world. And I directed only enemies to her hunting ground. Merchants and harmless travelers were guided through safely—until they stopped coming. No non-militants ever come to my beloved valley now. Goods become scarce. Oh—you’ll pardon the decadent effect here. It’s what comes of centuries of changes in noble taste, eh?”

  Domingo moved to a stand of what looked like silver cattails or wind chimes. These he stirred with a brush of his hand, and they began to play a soft melody, perpetually altering its variations and replete with refrains. Gonji was mystified. The sound was a close approximation of the gentle strains of the samisen, whose ethereal music filled his youthful memories. He saw Domingo smiling at him.

  “Familiar, eh?”

  Gonji bowed. “Domo arigato.”

  “Now,” the warlock urged, “make yourselves comfortable. I will rejoin you presently. Do not be alarmed, now—ex corporam.”

  Domingo’s body collapsed on the plush carpet, lifeless.

  Buey was the first to draw his pistol, sucking in a sharp breath. Salguero and Orozco followed suit, glancing from the fallen form to their surroundings, expecting some imponderable attack.

  “Kyooshi?” the captain called in confusion and urgency.

  Only Gonji had not produced a weapon. His swords still sashed in his obi, he knelt beside the small body and examined it closely. To their joint surprise, Domingo abruptly rose again, smiling dimly at each of them in turn.

  But it was not Domingo. Not the person who had just shared their company. Something was missing. The light of intelligence in the now witless eyes. The small man seemed a bit wambly, at first, then swiftly regained his balance, tumbling in front of them and rising to spread his arms in a gesture that courted applause.

  Salguero grabbed him by the arms. “What is going on? Tell us what trick you play now. Our patience grows short.”

  “Salguero,” Gonji cautioned.

  But the little jester pulled away, displaying no sense of being threatened. Pointing to his throat and shaking his head vapidly, he cartwheeled from the ornate salle and on into the corridor, slower and with less verve than he had shown before.

  CHAPTER TEN

  The four guests at Castle Malaguer were served dinner in the opulent salle. They partook of a thick potpourri that featured a variety of me
ats and vegetables, fresh bread, and wine from Madrid. Their fare was set on a sturdy, intricately carved French dining table, having been procured by servants under the watchful gaze of a stuffy chief steward.

  The elegant cushions they sat upon reminded Gonji of the futons of his homeland, save for one major difference: These cushions floated magically, producing height and distance adjustments made in response to slight nudges of one’s posterior. And when one alighted, the cushions gently descended to rest on the floor until used again.

  Orozco and Buey, relaxing with the wine’s spreading warmth and their gradual adjustment to the strange environment, soon learned to put the cushions’ gyrations to the test. Salguero finally put an end to their pranks in the name of military dignity after Buey took a backward tumble that landed him on his face.

  They were in the middle of their repast when joined by a stranger who shocked them with the announcement that they were now truly in the presence of Domingo Malaga y Colicos.

  This Domingo was not a warlock. She was a witch.

  “Si, the last of my line,” she explained to the staring quartet, “but always the people have expected their Archmage to be male, so I’ve given them what they expect. I deliberated a long time before deciding to show you the truth, since it is the truth we all need now for mutual survival.”

  They rose, one by one, in deference to her, Orozco falling from his floating cushion to grope back up, flushed with embarrassment. Domingo laughed and spoke words of comfort to him as she ushered her three sons—Hugh, Rowland, and Darien—to their places at the table, taking the head herself.

  The sons were quiet and dignified, keeping their places and making only passing comments as they ate, answering inquiries with monosyllables. Evidently brought up with strict attention to manner and protocol, they seemed nonetheless much different from one another in appearance.

  “So sorry,” Gonji said, “but you say you are the last of your line. Are these not, then, your true sons?”