Fortress of Lost Worlds

by T. C. Rypel

  Domingo looked at Gonji tellingly.

  “Which is?”

  “The Carpathians, on our world. Have I not heard you called Deathwind of Vedun? I know of Vedun, and of its past and present fate. All adepts do. Were you not a participant in an action in which the ancient city was destroyed, once again?”

  The color fled Gonji’s cheeks, and he swallowed, though he gave no response. But Domingo continued.

  “Once Urso came through, he found he could not return. Hostile powers were in control of the worlds which touched that gateway. The adept who conducted him through was abducted—or worse. I discovered our giant, starving on a barren fragment of an inhospitable world, as I explored the reaches of the gateway here. They touch, you see. The power that controls all points of the geometric figure—our diamond—can strike out at the entire area it encompasses. On all the worlds the figure touches.

  “The north and south tips,” she went on, “lie in northeastern France and—here—the African desert. At every point there lies a fortress. A castle or stronghold of ancient and nameless construction. I myself, despite an enormous body of family lore and a rich heritage of esoteric knowledge, cannot say who erected this place where we stand. Or why. Have you not given thought to the unstrategic position Castle Malaguer occupies? Have you not seen other fortifications in your journeys, weirdly situated, causing you to wonder what possessed their architects to sink the first pilings?”

  In truth, Gonji had given no thought to Castle Malaguer’s site; the Spanish savannahs afforded little in the way of natural support to a fortress. But he had indeed seen castles standing in the most untenable positions. Had even joined the tragic defenders of more than one.

  But now something else broke the surface of his memory.

  “What do you know of a place called Akryllon?”

  “Akryllon?” Domingo repeated in surprise. “That sank ages ago, didn’t it? It should have. Don’t tell me you seek Akryllon. Now there is a place that would fit your definition of evil, Captain Salguero. The Church could have fallen to crusading convulsions over Akryllon. It was an island, perhaps a continent. No one can say for sure. A place that loved power for its own sake above all else, at any rate. The masters of Akryllon would employ any means, however perverse, to set themselves over their fellows. What they could not control, they set about destroying. So the legends tell us.”

  “It’s spoken of as a…floating island,” Gonji said. “A mystical land that appears where it wills and defies efforts at locating it. Is it possible that so large a gateway between worlds might exist? Large enough for an entire island to pass through?”

  Domingo tilted her head in consideration of what Gonji proposed. “I’m not sure. I’ve never seen so large a disturbance. But then, you must remember that I’ve only mapped such worlds as I’ve discovered. They are far more numerous. Perhaps even infinite. As I said, this is not a serious study with me, merely a recent avocation. I have my gardens and my art—I’ve shown you little of that. But if Akryllon still exists, then it would surely fit your friends’ definition of evil. And yet I am not interested in mapping the relative moralities of a complex cosmic network. I simply had an intuition that you, Gonji, should be shown this evidence of the myriad wonders about us.”

  She peered off into the distance, her vision unfocused, reflective, as she went on. “Because…somehow…your aura, samurai, does indeed agitate the Powers that rule this strange interspheric universe. And there is no doubt in my mind that evil weaves in and out of the doorways to these many, connected, concentric worlds.”

  “With Hell at the center of it all?” Orozco asked, eyeing the twinkling plane in the middle of the display.

  “Perhaps so,” she said flatly.

  Gonji’s mouth formed into a grim, pensive line. His brow furrowed, and his intense gaze shone, as if he witnessed an epiphany, there in that haunting, mystical map that rotated gently in the air like a spiritual oasis.

  Or a mirage.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Gonji’s party rejoined the anxious troop of lancers early the next morning.

  The sorceress provided an escort of mercenaries who accompanied them back through the valley toward Barbaso. They were troubled by no menace, common or astounding, as they made their way over the stamped snow. The gray sky was etched with a bright-seamed promise of the sun’s appearance later in the day.

  “You trust her,” Captain Salguero said, riding beside the samurai.

  “Hai. Malicious deceivers rarely reveal so much of their secret selves, and with so much enthusiasm, neh? And you?”

  “I suppose she won me over as well. But I don’t like it. We’ve probably all been bewitched—”

  “Something in that wine,” Orozco said, piping in from behind them as he removed his morion and rubbed his aching head.

  The captain grunted in assent. “But I don’t know how I’ll manage to convince Barbaso of her honorable intentions, the truce and all. They want blood—”

  Orozco snorted. “And golden granadillas.”

  The captain’s head tossed in amusement. “And I can’t say that I approve of her dabbling in sorcery any more than I did before. Somehow I feel it’s a lost cause. Even if I convince Barbaso, what do I do about Holy Mother Church, and my orders?”

  Gonji looked at him sympathetically. “Giri and ninjo—duty and inclination—ever in conflict. Always the dilemma of the honorable man. I understand, senchoo.”

  The sergeant began to cackle to himself. “Just have the witch give them all one of those magical, transporting bushes. Think how cooperative they’ll be when they find they don’t have to climb stairs anymore!”

  They shared a subdued chuckle, and Captain Salguero looked to Gonji with a sudden twinge of camaraderie that was not without a touch of sadness. He sensed he’d be parting company with his old friend, the ill-starred samurai, again. Attendant upon that was the ominous feeling that it would be for the last time. Gonji’s expression reflected thoughts distant and ethereal.

  “Where will you be bound, then?” Salguero asked, knowing what the answer must be.

  “Spend the night in Barbaso.” Gonji shrugged absently. “Watch you try to explain all that we’ve seen to the rabble.” The abrupt twinkle in his eyes darkened almost at once. “Then gather my belongings and ride on for Zaragoza. I don’t think I’ll be having another opportunity to set things right with the duke.”

  The captain sighed but nodded resignedly. There was no steering the samurai from a course he’d set. He could be the most bullheaded of men, Salguero knew only too well.

  “Still bound for suicide,” he said. “Cervera won’t hear you out. We have time. Why don’t you tell me what really happened between you and Theresa—the murdered monk—the Szekelys—everything.”

  The samurai pondered awhile, then complied, speaking too softly for anyone else to hear. What Salguero heard chilled his blood in a way the frigid winter could not. Surely this pagan warrior had been singled out for mortal torment by the minions of Satan. It could only be Divine Providence that had kept him alive for so long.

  “Do you believe what I’ve told you?” Gonji asked.

  “I only know that you’ve never lied to me before,” the captain responded in all sincerity. “Either this is God’s own truth, or you’ve saved a lifetime of lies and heaped them into this story.”

  Gonji’s mouth twisted wryly as he bobbed his head in agreement.

  “At least let me send along with you a letter to Cervera. I’ll vouch for my own faith in what you claim. That will probably seal my doom as well as yours. Hell, it doesn’t seem to matter anymore, Kyooshi.”

  As night shrouded the land, they rode past two guard posts north of Barbaso, at which point the mercenary escort wheeled and pounded off for Castle Malaguer. The posted sentries prepared to fire on the adventurers from th
eir fortified positions, but Salguero ordered them to hold their weapons in check. The sentries regarded him suspiciously but obeyed, then signaled ahead that the column’s remnant was returning.

  Discipline returned only by gradual increments to these dissipated troops: One pair cast him a sloppy salute, while the other made no effort at all.

  When they entered the immediate environs of Barbaso, Salguero felt Gonji’s tension as both men intuited the hostile atmosphere in the town. They shared a telling look.

  “Something’s afoot,” the samurai declared.

  “Si. You men—look sharp,” he called back over his shoulder, then added to Gonji alone: “You’d think they’d all be turned out, no?”

  “Hai.”

  They puzzled over the eyes that peered from behind shutters and door slits as they cantered down the main street. Then as they neared the guild hall, a large contingent of citizens filed out to confront them. At their head was Pablo Cardenas. Torches flared alight in the darkened square as horsemen and pedestrians met and exchanged strained greetings.

  “Why so somber a greeting, Cardenas? And what’s this all about?” the captain called to the solicitor, whose face seemed tight and sweaty by the light of his comrade’s flambeau.

  “Does it seem so? I’m sorry, captain. It’s late. The people are mostly in their beds. I’m afraid…not a man here ever expected to see you alive again, if the truth be known…” His voice diminished to a mumble that ill befit his usual articulate mien. He seemed anxious, as if there were something more he would say but he could not find the tongue for it.

  Father Robles ran across the street to join them from the church. “So, you’ve returned at last. God be praised that you’re still in one piece. Is this all that remains of the troop that rode with you?”

  Salguero was piqued that the priest would call attention to the heavy toll they’d suffered. It was obvious enough. And now, in view of their losses, it struck him full in the gut how one-sided their truce with Domingo would seem, however he chose to present it.

  “Regrettably,” he answered tremulously.

  “So tell us, then,” Robles went on in an accusing tone that made the captain’s jaw tremble with mounting anger, “did you destroy the warlock? End his power for all time? Bring us his head?”

  “I—” Salguero’s voice cracked. “We are tired. My men have been through much these past few days. We can best discuss the situation in the morning. A general assembly in the hall at eight bells. But I’ll say this: You can sleep peacefully tonight—”

  “Then you did not kill the Evil One as you were charged!” Robles stormed, pointing at him.

  “What is this?” Salguero fumed, his hand groping toward his belted pistol. He heard the snick of Gonji’s sword beside him, the pounding of booted feet and stamping hooves in the snow-packed lanes. Spanish troops clattered into the main street, ringing them in.

  They were not of Salguero’s command. He saw their colors—the elite cavalry regiment of General de la Vega, a detachment from Toledo.

  “Hold your weapons, gentlemen! Drop your pistols to the street, or my men will shoot you where you sit!”

  The commander clopped forward, reining in a score of yards from the jostling citizens, who now broke and scampered for cover from the impending fire. Only Robles and Cardenas stood fast in the square. The priest maintained a vindictive pose, while Cardenas appeared noticeably anxious.

  But now Salguero had eyes only for the commander of the Spanish regiment, whom he recognized as Colonel Bartolome Nunez, a hard-line martinet under direct command of the Duke of Lerma. There would be no compromise with a witch under Nunez’s authority. But Salguero had worse problems now.

  Cold lances of loathing pierced Salguero from Nunez’s bushy-browed eyes as he rode up close. His aquiline nose sniffed in evident scorn as he eyed the captain up and down.

  “The celebrated Captain Salguero,” he minced, “still holding his command, though his losses outweigh his victories. But that’s no problem any longer. You’re relieved of command—oh, and…under arrest. You’ll pardon me if I don’t embarrass His Majesty’s army further in front of these civilians by speaking—”

  “What charge?” Salguero snapped.

  “Que?”

  “I said for what charge am I to be arrested?”

  Nunez sneered. “We’ll begin with dereliction of duty, cowardice in the field, and—” He looked with contempt at Gonji, who sat bolt upright in the saddle, hand on sashed sword hilt. “—harboring a known enemy of the faith. But why should I go on? I owe you no explanation.”

  Salguero felt the sweat coursing in clammy rivulets under his garb. Fear, anger, and confusion worked through him, making him indecisive, bereft of speech. He watched Father Robles walk up beside Gonji, heard the priest’s words:

  “You say you are a man of duty. Then you must understand, this was my duty.” The captain saw Gonji nod curtly, heard his single word of acknowledgment. And in that instant the samurai made his move.

  Gonji kicked Tora into motion and drew his blade at the same time. He bolted past Nunez, spanking the colonel’s mount’s flank, causing it to buck. But the intended diversion did not work. The seasoned troops drew beads on him with pistols and bows. He was a dead man.

  Salguero winced, anticipating the volley.

  “No!” Nunez cried, steadying his horse. “Take him alive!”

  The captain looked to his superior with hate-filled eyes, knowing the man’s grisly intent. The Inquisition would have their pleasure with the infidel, if possible. But Gonji would die first, of that the captain was certain. Anguished but helpless, he stared with gritted teeth.

  The cavalrymen blocking Gonji’s path parted, wheeling out of the way of his slashing katana. Salguero blinked—an instant’s beam of hope—then—

  Shots rang out. Tora jerked and swayed with the impact. Horse and rider crashed to the ground. Salguero saw Tora kicking and whinnying madly. And Gonji was staggering to his feet, his storied katana lost in the fall.

  The foot soldiers fell on him with lance hafts, pummeling him. In seconds it was over. Salguero gaped as the bloodied, insensate form of the samurai was dragged before the colonel. He had never before seen Gonji separated from his legendary swords. A lancer now carried them as casually as he would a haversack.

  But it was the wild torment in Gonji’s eyes that pierced Salguero’s heart. Those dark eyes that glared in disbelief at the jolting, spasmodic form of the magnificent Tora. The captain knew first-hand the tale of Gonji’s adventure in separating that eerily intelligent chestnut stallion from the wild herd it had led. Knew the lore of the noble steed’s valor in many battles. And now…

  “So this is the notorious Gon-shee Sabatake,” Colonel Nunez was saying, but his voice registered mutedly in Salguero’s ears as the blood pounded in the captain’s temples.

  There was an exploding report from a musket and a billow of black smoke. Soldiers were milling around the carcass of Gonji’s great steed. Tora had stopped kicking and twitching. Gonji’s struggles against his captors, too, ceased at once. The captain had never before seen the infamous Japanese warrior slump in evident surrender. It was as though that single musket shot had killed two legends.

  Salguero found himself breathing in short gasps as he, himself, was being pulled down from the saddle and led away by an armed guard. He could hear voices yammering testimony against both him and the samurai.

  “Bind him well! That desperado can communicate with monsters!”

  “He compacts with the Devil—he uses sorcery, colonel—”

  “He fights like an animal. They say he can become one—”

  Some of the voices belonged to men whom Salguero and Gonji had led to Castle Malaguer and back safely again.

  “Captain Salguero took his orders from the heathen de
vil—”

  Salguero found himself unable to think.

  * * * *

  The captain leaned against the barred window of an old stone shop he had had converted into a stockade. He had no idea what had been done with Gonji. Unable to sleep, he had brooded and paced through the night and well into morning, alternately pondering his fate, cursing the mutineers who had turned against him, and berating himself for not having come to Gonji’s aid even as the samurai had saved his life more than once in the past.

  He watched the marshaling of the colonel’s troops and materiel, understanding their intention when he saw the barrel of the mighty cannon roll past his view of the street.

  They were going to attack the witch at her stronghold, conquer Castle Malaguer by siege. End by violence all hope of the truce and the understanding of Domingo Negro’s mystical ways, which Gonji had helped engineer. Would the witch be prepared for them? Or would her defenses be softened by the nascent bond of trust she had formed with the outside world? Perhaps Gonji had been right about her magic having been misunderstood. Perhaps her powers could not be dismissed out of hand as the workings of the Evil One.

  Perhaps they had made it possible for her mysterious arts to be destroyed along with her.

  Salguero slammed his hand against the bars, spitting an imprecation from his tight throat. He moved to the small stove that was his only source of heat in the austere prison. He drew his bunk nearer the stove and warmed his numb hands and feet, blinking back tears of rage.

  The lock squeaked and the door swung open. The big lancer Buey stood framed in the doorway, stooping to pass the arch. He bore a large covered tray before him.

  “There he is, eh?” he said over his shoulder to the sentries. “This is the way I like him—bedridden, you know. Only this time without his little trollop!” The guards brayed a forced laugh. Buey’s boorish presence often caused men to fall into line with his moods like ducklings.