Fortress of Lost Worlds

by T. C. Rypel

  The man from Leon stood, shaking his head vigorously. “Milord, I repeat that we must be careful of the various factors attendant on this prisoner’s prosecution. You are aware, I trust, that Grand Duke Frederick of Austria, our beloved king’s own cousin, has urged dignified treatment of this Japanese.”

  “Dignified treatment indeed!” someone blurted as the assemblage gurgled with disbelief.

  The Duke of Lerma sighed. “We are not in Austria,” he reminded, enunciating each word forcefully. “The king’s stand on heretics and blasphemers is clear, as I thought the High Office’s to be.” His glance withered the interim Grand Inquisitor.

  Father Martin de la Cenza rose and, bowing to the assemblage, came to the defense of his superior.

  “It must be noted that the Oriental is not, strictly speaking, a heretic. A pagan, perhaps. An infidel. But even that has not been substantiated. His beliefs are unclear, though I understand the council’s concern over the dangers of obscurantism, at least where theological thinking is concerned. But the corollary—the Wunderknechten’s stated posture toward the world of nature: God-centered, as I read it—seems not so different from the statements of faith framed by the learned councils dealing with the problem of the physical scientists.”

  De la Cenza went on, seeming larger than his minuscule stature, his voice rising over the tide of grumbling dissent. “No one provides any evidence of the man’s blaspheming. And we have heard that this oriental noble was—was he not?—once a confidant of our own late king!”

  “That is open to question,” the burly General de la Vega blustered. “But offhand it is hard to believe. Our present beloved Monarch denies it.”

  The general had never met Gonji when the latter had been in service to Philip II, but several officers in the gathering had known him, trained with him. Yet none rose to his defense now. The resentment of Gonji’s former lofty position had run deep.

  “Has he admitted to any crime punishable by auto-da-fe?” Father de la Cenza fairly pleaded.

  “He hasn’t said much of anything,” an officer from the dungeons answered.

  “Political interference,” another added venomously, “seems to have softened the torturer’s hand. If we’d been allowed to pursue this investigation using the full range of authorized persuasions, we’d be reading his confession right now, and this honored council would not be wasting its precious time!”

  There were sporadic cheers and outbursts of assent.

  Father Martin shouted over the audience’s heads: “What can be proven about him? That he holds ideas in his heart that are contrary to our own? He, a man from a far-off and unenlightened land. I have heard that he himself was educated from his youth by teachers of the Society of Jesus!”

  There were gasps of shocked surprise to hear his name so boldly linked with that of the militant Jesuits.

  “I myself have held converse with him in Latin.”

  “Si,” a friar from the Office of Faith replied, “I’m certain he knows it. Even demons, in their perversity, have embraced the language—saints preserve us!—in their effort to confound Holy Mother Church.”

  De la Cenza shook his head. “Granted, his influence seems to have caused some to betray nationalistic ideals, but that is a societal crime, a crime against—”

  “Pardon me, Father,” a prelate from the Hall of Records interjected, “but es lo mismo. It is all the same. Society cannot be separated from the Church. Your fervor in protecting this man confuses your own thinking.”

  Father Martin’s head jerked back as if he’d been struck. He nodded penitently and sat slowly in his chair.

  General de la Vega pushed up onto his feet again. “Perhaps the clergy wishes to pass the responsibility for this prosecution on to the military. Is the Inquisition becoming effete? If so, the army will handle the matter. We need only an order sanctioning the transfer.” The general sat down, a smug look tugging at his stern features. Outbreaks of clapping accompanied his words, subsiding gradually in the tensely charged air.

  Bishop Izquierdo flushed with embarrassment and cast a withering glance at Father de la Cenza, as if to command him to extricate the Office from the compromising position he’d placed it in.

  Father Martin rose to the challenge, more restrained now as he spoke. “I merely point out that a combination of factors renders this case’s prosecution complex. If you fear the Inquisition has lost touch with its fervent aims, you need only inspect the dungeons, the torture chambers. The Burning Court is aflame with heretics and demoniacs.”

  The interim Grand Inquisitor seemed mollified. He leaned back in his high-backed chair and fanned himself casually with a sheaf of papers.

  The Papal Nuncio, Archbishop Roderigo Texeira, Spain’s resident representative of the Holy Father, now took the floor. Until now he’d followed the proceedings in silence. He was a tall, scholarly man with sallow skin and the dour countenance of a judge.

  “Brothers in Christ,” he began in a voice that was low in volume but nonetheless riveting, “I have traveled from Madrid to join with this august body. I’ve listened with patience to words tinged with confusion, to nebulous innuendo that further obscures the issues in this case. I must confess that my patience wears thin. In the faith that this prosecution has been prayerfully considered, I now ask the High Office to clarify its case against this Japanese. What, specifically, are the charges against him?”

  As if the overture of the papal representative had been a signal, Anton Balaerik strode into the hall. Whispers followed his dignified, measured strides as he approached his assigned place, near Texeira.

  “You’ll pardon me, Your Eminence, but we’ve not met,” he told the Nuncio. “I am donado, Brother Anton Balaerik of Moldavia. My order’s necessary low profile prohibits my saying more, but I trust you are aware of the Brotherhood of Holy Arms, recently founded by our late lamented vicar—may his soul rejoice in the company of angels.”

  Texeira nodded. It was not with warmth that he regarded Balaerik’s strange smile. “The Knights of Somber Countenance, I’ve heard you called. Your work has spread far in a short time, has it not?”

  “As it must. Our late Holy Father saw the need for our order in view of the onslaught of supernatural evil in the world today. It was I who uncovered the fell work of this unspeakable oriental sorcerer. As for his crimes, they are manifold: witchcraft, zoanthropy, demonism; he commands monsters and evil spirits; he conspires with heretics and Jews to undermine the faith. Es la pura verdad—it is the absolute truth. But, then…you must have seen the unquestionable authorization under which I prosecute my case.” Balaerik eyed the Papal Nuncio expectantly.

  Texeira considered his words before responding. “I…have read the Papal missive, si.”

  Reproach crept into Balaerik’s features. “More than a missive—surely you realize. This witch is the subject of a specific papal bull! You do not question, do you, the infallibility of the Vicar of Christ?”

  Texeira’s eyebrows arched. It was an unthinkable insult. But he remained calm in the tomblike silence. “No. And yet it must be taken under advisement, given the…turmoil of affairs in Roma in these times.”

  Balaerik eyed him with scornful disbelief, scanning the assemblage with a look that courted their support. “Really! Whatever the tragic nature of recent events at the Holy See, this singular prosecution bears papal sanction. You, of all clergymen in Spain, must surely bend a knee to what that signifies.”

  Father de la Cenza bolted to his feet again and, eschewing protocol, audaciously intruded on their discussion.

  “All these charges are still hearsay, if I may be so bold, honored donado. What evidence supports them?”

  Outraged expressions greeted Father Martin’s temerity.

  Balaerik cast him a baleful smile. “The destruction of the Carpathian city of Vedun, accomplished by
monstrous beasts under the witch’s direction. A town in France—burned to the ground, a holocaust that consumed its every man, woman, and child.” He turned to the sergeant-at-arms. “Have his weapons brought before the council, por favor. He can transform himself into predatory animals—”

  “Has this phenomenon been seen by reliable witnesses?” de la Cenza pressed.

  “Most witnesses are dead, savaged by the witch, to protect his secrets. But I have seen it myself…”

  This dramatic pronouncement had a telling effect on the now rapt audience, and Balaerik went on:

  “There are many who will swear testimony to the Oriental’s undermining of the Inquisition’s aims. He aligns hated heretics of the Reformation with Jews and with fallen Catholics—he threatens with impunity our right to settle our theocratic power struggle without pagan barbarian interference!” Balaerik pounded a fist on the table for emphasis, evoking a supportive emotional response, especially among the military men. He followed up his advantage by raising his voice and continuing with smoldering eyes. “Worst of all, he travels with a demon familiar—lobis homem—the werewolf! Si, my brothers, you thought lobis homem had been eradicated from Spain? So we thought in the Carpathians. He calls it Simon. And it cannot be far behind, nor will it abandon him. Simon—you will recall from Scripture the similarly named magician. It is to entrap this demonic being that we expose the witch atop the battlements so that the familiar might seek him out by his scent. The military officials are correct: He does erode Spanish authority. But he must be handled carefully. He is the bait for his still more deadly familiar. Since they are specifically linked in the papal bull, the Holy Father’s authority is necessary before this Gonji can be tried. I am a representative of that authority, and I hold in check my Corps d’Elite of demon hunters until such time as I deem them needed.”

  Archbishop Texeira spoke again. “I agree that papal clarification is necessary here. And thus I’ve already sent a direct message to His Holiness-elect to pass judgment as to the prosecution.”

  Balaerik looked stung. There was less confidence in his voice as he went on. “Indeed? I did not know that. You are, of course, the Nuncio. I trust His new Holiness will act in prayerful concert, then, with his…tragic predecessor.”

  The Duke of Lerma stood and stuffed his hands into the pockets of his brocaded jacket. “I trust you’ll take no umbrage, Brothers in Christ, but I must observe that we are in Spain, where Philip is king. And I, too, shall approach my superior for word as to the case’s disposition. The Office of Inquisition is supposedly the final authority in matters of faith here in Spain.”

  Bishop Izquierdo looked ashen as he watched his power as Grand Inquisitor carved up and devoured by others. He knew he must save face, posture strongly. But deep inside he realized his efforts were too late, too impotent. Inner voices tugged and pushed. Ambition drove him to speak:

  “You do not question the power of the Church to advance the cause of the Inquisition, do you, milord Duke?”

  The duke eyed him squarely. “As you holy men have agreed, there can be no separation between Church and State. And yet one must rule. If Spain is threatened in any way, that one must be Philip, grandson of Charles the Fifth, the Holy Roman Emperor—by your leave, Your Eminence. Gentlemen.”

  The Duke of Lerma strode out of the chamber. He passed the sergeant-at-arms, who led two soldiers pushing a cart bearing the samurai’s famed swords, his bow, halberd, and pistols. Among them were other personal effects, including his clothing. Two priests marched at either side of the cart, one carrying a censer, the other a holy water font and sprinkler. Pungent clouds of incense filled the chamber, and beads of holy water repeatedly splashed over the samurai’s belongings and those who handled them in this effort at purification, for it was feared that evil magic permeated the articles.

  Balaerik presided over an item-by-item presentation.

  “See his bow. I have seen him use it to launch arrows distances impossible for a man to attain. And these blades—he has continually asked that the smaller one be given back to him so that with it he might take his own life!” Gasps of astonishment. “That would, of course, free his demonic spirit to possess yet another poor soul’s body,” the donado explained. “His deviousness is endless. Look at the longer sword—grooves are notched into its blade so that he might therein collect the blood of those he’s slain.”

  “So what of that?” an officer contended. “We know many swords that contain blood channels here in Europe.”

  “Indudablemente—no doubt,” Balaerik replied, “but their wielders don’t use them to drink the blood of the victims! And what do you make of this?” He held up the wygyll’s carven medallion. “I suggest you consider the central device, which intimates…commerce between a man and a demon. And this article—I shall leave its meaning to your imaginations.”

  Here he portentously flourished Gonji’s nekode, the spiked ninja glove he had used to scale the cliff to the wygyll’s aerie.

  * * * *

  The interim Grand Inquisitor strolled with the Papal Nuncio through a florid courtyard in early evening. The air was fresh and fragrant, heady with the aromas of late spring. They spoke in guarded tones, hands clasped casually behind them. As they passed friars and sentries, who greeted them respectfully, they held their conversation in abeyance and bestowed their blessings, resuming only when the passers-by were well out of earshot.

  “The worst of it, Ignazio,” Archbishop Texeira was saying, “is that you’ve allowed him to usurp the power of your own office. That is the chief reason for all this turmoil.”

  “What else could I have done? He came to me bearing the pontifical edict.”

  “Surely you know how rarely papal bulls are directed against individuals. We’re not talking about an enemy of the Church as formidable as Martin Luther, or Arius, or—”

  “But he bore the papal seal.”

  “Si, si, so he did,” the Nuncio agreed, raising a fending hand, “but did you not consider the possibility of tampering or forgery or even…Ignazio, we live in troubled times. We must be on our guard against the wiles of evil wherever they exist. You know the terrible rumors. Some of them are true. A bad seed has been sown in the very soil of Holy Mother Church herself. We must prune its outgrowth, contain it. By allowing this radical order such power in the Inquisition’s affairs—an order whose very sanction is under question—you’ve compromised the Inquisition’s authority. Now military and political factions have perceived your office as weakened—”

  Bishop Izquierdo threw up his hands in confusion. “Then I should serve up the Oriental for auto-da-fe?”

  “No, you haven’t been listening,” Archbishop Texeira replied patiently. “There is something strange about this Japanese that bears examination, prayerful consideration. He’s aroused interest in too many high places, among so many diverse powers. I’ve received testimonial missives, both on his behalf and in his condemnation, from clergy and nobility…. Some would raise your eyebrows. No one man could be responsible for such workings—whether good or evil—as are attributed to this single warrior. And this sinister Balaerik takes too keen an interest in him. This business of exposing him so that his familiar might be drawn to his aid—ridiculous! Has it never occurred to you that a familiar demon needs no physical direction to its master? I want this foreign warrior’s prosecution stayed, pending direct word from His Holiness-elect.”

  The Interim Grand Inquisitor nodded indulgently. “And until then, que tengo yo que hacer? What am I to do?”

  Texeira averted his eyes from the Inquisitor’s.

  “I think you’ve done all you can.”

  Izquierdo watched the Nuncio’s departing back as his own steps slowed. His words had had the ring of an indictment.

  * * * *

  Father Martin de la Cenza emerged from the confessional, his burden lighten
ed, only to find the donado, Anton Balaerik, awaiting him in the chapel vestibule. The prelate’s heart began to pound, so disturbing was the man’s sudden appearance in the dim lamplight. De la Cenza’s reserved nod of greeting could have carried no less warmth had he been accosted by a suspected highwayman.

  “You don’t like me,” Balaerik said without preamble. His tone reflected no disappointment.

  “No,” Martin found himself answering truthfully.

  “I admire frankness. It’s rather refreshing in these times.”

  “You seem pleased withal.”

  Balaerik smiled. “We needn’t like each other, so long as we fight the good fight of faith.”

  “Do we?” the prelate countered. “I cannot help wondering. Do you know, there’s something you said at the council meeting that has stuck fast in my conscience. You said something about settling our ‘theocratic struggle’ without interference. All at once it occurred to me: You might have said in the same tone, ‘Kill one another off over our differing beliefs.’ And then I thought, ‘Who would remain, if we did so?’”

  Father de la Cenza stalked away, a bit shakily, feeling the palpable menace of Balaerik’s eyes boring into his back, shriveling the borders of his soul.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Evil spirits came to him in the fearsome dungeon nights.

  Gonji would rise from his straw mat to sit facing them, and by sheer force of will he would dissolve them back into the chaos from which they’d emerged.

  Sleep would not return at those times. So the samurai would seat himself on the mat and meditate in the darkness amidst foul sub-cellar stenches and the pungency of brimstone. He would stave off the aching of his joints brought on by the slimy dankness with ritualized contortions and stretches, these finally becoming a nightly habit. Regimentation and patterned living became a buttress against madness.