Fortress of Lost Worlds

by T. C. Rypel

  And then he was thinking about other things. Captain Salguero, sweat-streaked and bloodied, boarded the barge, bowing to him and clasping his hand.

  Behind him appeared Valentina, cloaked but shivering in the cold. Her eyes transmitted warmth and wildness and feelings that stirred their like in him, though she said nothing.

  Suddenly Gonji almost found himself wishing that once more there could be a wall between them, for he feared what her impulsiveness might cause her to do even in this wildly precarious situation.

  And even more, as the others watched, he feared his own desire to capitulate.

  * * * *

  The city defenders turned their futile rage toward restoring order. No guerillas attacked the Spanish soldiers as they cast about for something to fight. The anarchic rebels had disappeared like transient specters of the night, like will-o’-the-wisps that flared briefly into life, only to wink out before any hand could touch them. No enemy confounded their efforts to bring the fires under control, to enforce the curfew, to collect the aimlessly shuffling horses and cattle. No monsters raged, now, over the rooftops, frightening the children in their beds, terrorizing the soldiers in their duty. It was rumored that the oriental witch had escaped the Inquisition’s flames during the uprising, but that had not yet been substantiated. Other rumors abounded as to the reason for these mad events.

  And even as they wondered who or what their enemy was, the would-be enemy fled Toledo.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Thick smoke fumed over the city of Toledo, towering into the crisp autumn night. The city slowly came to its senses, sorted itself out beneath him, as Anton Balaerik gazed down from the battlements of the Alcazar, eyes twitching with unanswered questions.

  Why did he resist? He wanted to come, but he resisted. The spirit of the host has become too strong. Now he must die along with that pious host. And even more importantly—along with the samurai. The creature’s father will understand. He must understand. It is a necessary expedient.

  He thought of the Grand Scheme for power and control framed by the planners in a far-off sphere. Far-off and yet paradoxically very near in this age of the rediscovery of the gateways. These stampeding, panic-driven little people in this Europe, on this world, were so ignorant of the forces that guided their destiny. Ah, the things they called Evil! The beings they labeled demons!

  Balaerik smiled and shook his head in smug amusement.

  Just a few minor details to attend to, and my work is through here, for now.

  Moving without hurry to the High Office, he went straightaway to Bishop Ignazio Izquierdo’s private chamber. There he found the interim Grand Inquisitor on his knees, immersed in quaking prayer.

  “Your Eminence,” he broke in softly.

  “Balaerik,” Izquierdo said, rising shakily, “what in God’s name did we do wrong? How could he have escaped? The demon familiar came, even as he said it would. It freed him at the very moment of our glorious victory over Evil. Now both of them are unleashed upon the world again. What can I do?”

  Balaerik raised a comforting hand. “Patience. All is not lost. We must unite our forces to track them down and see them destroyed.”

  “It was a no-win situation for me,” the bishop said. “You held me back when I might have burned the witch at any time.”

  “On the contrary. Power was in your hands all along. I merely advised you.”

  Izquierdo’s eyes went wide, their inner fires fueled and fanned as he contemplated aloud. “Si—I am Grand Inquisitor.”

  “You are Grand Inquisitor,” Balaerik echoed patronizingly.

  “The crusade against Evil is mine.”

  “That is so,” the tall donado agreed.

  “I must torture and burn and flay until the Master is satisfied that all the twisted infidels are eradicated.” Izquierdo’s voice was laced with fervor now. “But—but what is the ‘Master’s’ name, Balaerik? Dare we say it?”

  “No. No, we dare not. Because of the work we do, we must humble ourselves and speak not the most holy names.” Balaerik smiled now as he led the tormented man through his rhapsodic reverie.

  “But how then shall we know him?” Izquierdo fretted. “How shall we who fight the good fight identify ourselves to one another?”

  Balaerik extracted the round reliquary he had once shown the Grand Inquisitor, turning it over and over in his hand as he spoke. “Each man must know his own master, must keep that knowledge in his own secret heart. What does it matter who others believe his master to be? But now, there are other matters to attend to, Your Eminence.” Izquierdo’s shining eyes fixed on the glimmering sphere rolling in Balaerik’s palm. He saw nothing else, as the donado exerted his powerful will. “Now you must send word of the escaped witches and infidels and the tragic apostates who flee Toledo and holy justice.”

  “Si, I must,” Izquierdo said helplessly.

  “The king’s finest troops must pursue them, run them down—destroy them. You must alert every outpost. Messengers must be sent to the farthest reaches, to every port.”

  The bishop nodded with grave deliberation.

  “And my own Corps d’ Elite will join in the holy slaughter, such that no drop of blood shall remain to course in the veins of the infidels and their demonic leaders.”

  “Si—it shall be done.”

  In the ensuing hour, the Grand Inquisitor set the wheels of pursuit in motion, signing the necessary orders, composing messages with the aid of Balaerik. Their eyes strained with curtailed sleep, half-dressed novices—the secretariat of the High Office—prepared the orders and affixed the office’s seal. Messengers were dispatched, and authorizations for the disbursement of funds were made by the Grand Inquisitor, these sufficient to cover any expenses incurred in the hunting down of the oriental monster and his bewitched companions.

  All the preparations were completed at the behest of Anton Balaerik, Bishop Izquierdo assuming the position of a token overseer. The novices seemed to take wary note of the Grand Inquisitor’s submissive new demeanor and subordination to the sinister donado, but they kept their place.

  Then, as the secretaries were dismissed in the hour before dawn, their work finished, Balaerik instructed the bishop to perform one more act:

  “You have been betrayed by one of your trusted subordinates, Your Eminence. You must arrest Father Martin de la Cenza for heresy, conspiracy, and demonism. It was he who made it possible for the Oriental to escape.”

  Izquierdo nodded slowly, a dark, ugly look etching his features. He called for soldiers to secure the arrest of Father Martin. Then he and Balaerik were alone again.

  “You needn’t seek me out again,” Balaerik told him, “unless it is to implore my help. You’ve served me well.”

  Balaerik ambled up close to him, took him by the arms, and kissed him on the cheek. Bishop Izquierdo’s eyes flashed maniacally, and a strange cry broke from his throat as he pulled back. He began to laugh, feeling his cheek where the eerie donado had kissed him.

  “Who are you?” Balaerik asked. “What is the secret that only we two share? Who are you?”

  “I am—the Grand Inquisitor,” Izquierdo breathed in awe, as if he had only now learned that fact.

  “And what is your true name?”

  Izquierdo’s countenance brightened. “Torquemada.” His whisper rasped across the space between them. “I am Torquemada.”

  “Yes,” Balaerik agreed, smiling, “first and foremost of all prosecutors of the Inquisition. And what is your holy mission?”

  “To burn and bleed and section the witches, the infidels—all those who oppose me.”

  Balaerik nodded and backed away into the shadows.

  “That is good.”

  * * * *

  Father Martin blinked with surprise to encounter Father Jan Sebastio amid the
scurrying figures in the Zocodover.

  Both were streaked with sweat and grime, their faces and garb smudged with black smokestains.

  “You—” de la Cenza started, gaping at the papal messenger. “I thought—”

  Sebastio pulled him aside, out of earshot of the soldiers. “Were you a party to this business, Martin?”

  De la Cenza hesitated before responding with a slow affirmation.

  “Why didn’t you say something?” Sebastio asked angrily. “I called up to the window of his prison, but that’s as close as I could get to him.”

  “I—I thought that you must be privy to it, being Gonji’s friend, and if not, I couldn’t trust you to—listen to us—conspirators against the Church, against the Crown of Spain—”

  “Not against the Church, but against Evil, Father,” Sebastio countered. “Against things we know to be wrong.” He looked about, bobbed his head toward the clattering columns of troopers. “Out after the rebels, I gather. I trust the plan you wouldn’t let me in on was a sound one.” His voice still carried indignance.

  “I don’t know. I had little to do with it.”

  “Did you speak to Gonji about me?”

  De la Cenza looked pained. “No. I’m sorry. There was little time to speak of anything. And as I said, I thought you’d be off with him.”

  “Hsst,” Sebastio warned. “This looks like trouble.”

  A squad of grim-faced guards from the Alcazar approached them on the double.

  “Father Martin de la Cenza? You will accompany us, por favor, to His Eminence’s quarters.”

  “Why, may I ask?” Father Martin demurred.

  The officer in charge cleared his throat of the pungent tang of sulphur before responding. “You’ll pardon me, but I’m afraid it’s my duty to place you under arrest.”

  “On what charge?” Sebastio blustered.

  The trooper eyed him narrowly, as if urging the priest to mind his own business. But he answered reticently: “Conspiracy, for one. The Grand Inquisitor will elaborate in his chambers, I think. May I inquire as to who you are, Padre?”

  “Father Jan Sebastio, the papal representative, and you, young man, will at once alert the Nuncio, Archbishop Texeira, to join us in the Grand Inquisitor’s rooms. Bishop Izquierdo’s decision-making is unbalanced of late, and I intend to prove that he’s unfit to serve as head of the High Office.”

  “I take my orders from the colonel, Father.”

  “Indeed?” Sebastio bellowed. “And I think General de la Vega will be interested to hear how the Grand Inquisitor has usurped his command prerogatives. Not only tonight, but for some time now. Now would you like to send one of your men after the Nuncio, or shall I see the general about collecting him himself?”

  The officer postured arrogantly a moment before flicking his head in compliance, sending one of the guards off at the run to find Archbishop Texeira.

  * * * *

  “Martin,” the Grand Inquisitor said gently when Father de la Cenza was brought before him. He shook his head morosely, his demeanor that of a calm, loving father forced to censure a wayward child. “Dear, deluded Martin. I was afraid it would come to this since you chose to spend so much time—what are you doing here?” His attitude changed when he saw Father Sebastio follow close behind the arresting squad.

  Sebastio shut the chamber door. “No-no, pay me no heed. Continue with your accusations. Eh—isn’t your adviser here—Balaerik?”

  “I am Grand Inquisitor.”

  “Si, quite so,” Sebastio agreed. “So then charge Father de la Cenza, and present your evidence.”

  There was a knock on the door.

  “Admit no one else,” Izquierdo roared at the mute portal. “This is a private session.”

  But the door swung open with a rush of air, and a grim-faced sentry admitted Archbishop Texeira. Consternation twisted Izquierdo’s features.

  “What is the meaning of this disturbance?” the bishop demanded.

  “I was about to inquire exactly that of you, Your Grace. Why have you arrested Martin?”

  “What business is that of the Papal Office?” Izquierdo trembled with anger and suspicion. An irrational flicker caused his eyes to dart from face to face in the lamplit chamber.

  Sebastio addressed Texeira, the Papal Nuncio, without taking his eyes from Izquierdo. “It seems His Eminence trusts no one now. No one save this mystery monk Balaerik. Who exercises power in this office now?”

  “I am the authority here,” Izquierdo railed, “and those who oppose me suffer the consequences, whoever they may be!” He pointed an accusing finger at Sebastio now.

  “Indeed?” Texeira said. “And shall I be arrested, as well? I question the extent of the authority you claim. Who has set the army to give chase to the fleeing refugees? I have seen people felled in the streets, arrested without reason merely for loitering about in their fear and confusion. Is that not a prerogative of General de la Vega? Did you consult him before setting the army to lashing out at unseen enemies and fomenting possible rebellion?”

  “That is my affair!”

  “Withdraw your orders at once, and release Father de la Cenza,” Sebastio commanded, “until this business can be investigated rationally.”

  “I will give the orders here,” Izquierdo shouted. “Forces have been set into motion that cannot be stopped.” He posed triumphantly now, unsettlingly smug. Even the guards were affected, looking to their leader uneasily. “Guards, take these three all into custody. A taste of the iron maiden will bend you to the will of the High Office. No one dare question my power, which derives from—from the Master himself!”

  Sebastio eyed Martin tellingly. They shared the same thought.

  “He cannot say his name,” de la Cenza whispered in horror.

  “What?” Izquierdo shot back.

  “Have you made the same pledge taken by Balaerik’s evil Brotherhood?” the prelate asked with revulsion.

  “Say his name!” Sebastio demanded.

  “Arrest them! Take them to the dungeons!” Bishop Izquierdo bellowed.

  Archbishop Texeira raised a staying hand, though no move had been made by the uncertain guards. “Tell us, Ignazio, from whom your power derives. Say the name of God the Father and of His Son, Jesus Christ.”

  “Take them away! Take them to the stake!” He made a threatening gesture, the guards tensing. Their leader moved between the bishop and the accused clergymen.

  “I’m afraid the Grand Inquisitor is not a well man,” Texeira informed them. “The stress of his office has taken a toll. Advise General de la Vega, and send word to the Duke of Lerma, that Bishop Izquierdo has been taken into custody for his own safety.”

  “No!”

  Izquierdo attacked the Papal Nuncio, cursing and growling and trying to beat him with his fists. It required three guards to bring him under control.

  The squad leader looked to Father Martin and Archbishop Texeira for guidance.

  “Corporal, alert your commander as to what’s happened here,” Father Martin said. “Tell him we must meet with General de la Vega. I’ll gather the office’s clerks to find out what actions the bishop has taken. We must restore order, foremost. And someone—someone must locate and bring in the donado Anton Balaerik for questioning.”

  “Let me go!” Izquierdo shouted as he struggled with the guards. “You dare to lay hands upon me? I am Torquemada—

  “Torquemada!”

  A chill swept the room to hear the name of the long-dead first Grand Inquisitor, who was associated with a reign of Inquisition terror beside which the present day’s policies seemed insignificant.

  * * * *

  The ten Spanish Lancers waited astride their mounts in the gully of the Tajo River gorge, as they had been instructed. Anxious to join in the
pursuit of the rebels who had disrupted the autos-da-fe in Toledo the night before, they were nonetheless fearful of the power wielded by Brother Anton Balaerik. One trooper had heard of the formation of the mysterious Brotherhood of Holy Arms, and he even now regaled them with the apocryphal information that set them to shuddering, though they growled in boorish approval of the new order’s aims.

  “I don’t like the moon tonight,” one of them said nervously, gazing up at its sickly glowing, gibbous form.

  “Shut up,” his commander enjoined. “Who cares what you like?”

  “What’s he doing out there? Dios—think I should have a look?”

  “Just mind your place,” the sergeant ordered.

  “We’re the ones picked to ride along with this band of his, eh?” another man asked rhetorically, scratching at an itch in his privates.

  No answer came, for they all knew that it was so, and by their grim faces it was clear that they felt as much terror as honor in their selection by the strange donado.

  And out of their sight, farther along the banks of the Tajo, an eerie event transpired.

  Balaerik extracted the round object he had called his “nameless saint’s reliquary.” Extending it in both hands and pronouncing soundless words, he bent and dropped the ivory sphere into the mud of the riverbank. It began to glow softly, then to spin, and out of some unseen aperture there poured a thin gray mist that swirled and billowed into a roiling cloud shot through with animate forms.

  These became discrete, separating into ten twisting cyclones of thickening murk that hovered just above the bank.

  The eyes appeared first, sultry red eye-slits with tiny, iridescent black pupils. Then sinewy limbs appeared out of the mist—animal limbs; four of them, sprouting shiny, hooked claws and settling, at last, to earth. They seemed barely to touch the ground, though the heads and torsos that molded and solidified seemed heavily muscular. Litheness, grace, and savagery vied for supremacy as the creatures began to move as one in the soft sheathing of black mist that seemed ever to accompany them, to conceal the fullness of their shadow life.