Fortress of Lost Worlds

by T. C. Rypel

  “Neriah-san,” Gonji said, ignoring him, “can your crews be trusted not to have talked?”

  “I’m certain of it,” the merchant responded, “but—”

  “Then there’s only one way: You begin moving your entourage and your cargo aboard your ships. Most of the warship’s crew seems to be ashore. We put them out of action, and then we take their ship—”

  “Que?”

  “How?”

  “Well have to improvise something,” Gonji told them, smiling thinly. “We need that ship, if we’re to get everyone out to sea.”

  “I told you—I’m not going to sea.” Simon’s tone was vaguely threatening.

  “But you’ll help me get these people off?” Gonji asked.

  “I don’t know—”

  “This is madness—”

  “Cholera!” Gonji swore. “Are we fighting men or not? What do we tell all these people? I didn’t ask them to join in my escape, you did. I didn’t ask to be their leader. You all set me up as the leader. And now, so sorry, but you will all help me, or I will go my own way and let you mull this over until the troops arrive. Then you can follow Simon across the Pyrenees in the dead of winter till your asses freeze to your saddles and you’re eaten by—”

  He caught himself and spat disdainfully.

  “I’m afraid Gonji’s right,” Salguero said into the hostile silence. The others began to grunt submissively.

  “All right,” Simon said, the last of them to rise from where they had crouched. “Vamos—Moses,” he said, sneering at Gonji.

  * * * *

  All the people who could safely fit—plus the supplies they would need—were loaded aboard the carac. The procedure was a ponderous one: They were forced to descend a narrow trail with their burdens, moving women, children, and old folks past the suspicious gaze of the Spanish sailors. Neriah’s letters of transit—and the well-greased palm of the venal naval captain—kept the loading peaceful until midnight.

  Now began the part they all feared.

  “This is where we part company, I’m afraid, senchoo,” Gonji had told Salguero. “You and the rest of the family men will have to take the warship and escort the carac to Genoa. I’ll take the galley.”

  “The galley has only five guns,” Salguero had noted. “You’re certainly more likely to see action, if you’re still bound for Africa.”

  “But all the pilgrims will be with you. And if there is trouble, the carac looks defenseless.”

  Salguero had finally accepted it resignedly, and they had shaken hands and bowed before finalizing the desperate plan to commandeer the Spanish galleon.

  The worst of it was that half the refugees had to be held back, along with the fighting men and the Moriscos—whose presence here would surely arouse suspicions. They gathered now on the ledges, hunkering down and huddling against the impending action. Its outcome would determine their fate.

  Jacob Neriah approached the covered dray Gonji had reserved for personal use. Tossing open the flap, he was embarrassed to find Valentina changing her clothes and arming herself, still in her nether garments.

  She smiled and cocked an eyebrow as the old merchant gasped. “Never would have suspected you of something like this, senor!”

  “Vixen! My intent was—was—only to find Gonji—”

  “Come now,” she teased the blushing old man, “I know your ploy—the innocent old dotard.” She chuckled to see him go a-twitter.

  “Hsst!” Neriah cautioned as the samurai approached. “Gonji—Gonji, they tell me we’ve got to jettison part of my cargo!”

  “I’m sorry, my friend, but the people will have to be rushed aboard the warship, assuming we’re successful.” He strapped his swords to his back and thrust a pistol into his belt. “There simply won’t be time for—”

  He was forced to fend off the merchant’s tirade, mollifying him at last with the reminder of the small fortune granted them by the Knights Templars.

  “But let me remind you, friend samurai,” Jacob countered with a sly smile, “that the gold I’ve given you to make your way in Africa is out of my own humble purse.”

  They exchanged bows, and Jacob pronounced a blessing on the separate paths they had to take.

  “We all must make our sacrifices,” were the last words Gonji would remember hearing from his friend Jacob Neriah.

  * * * *

  The majority of the Spanish sailors from the naval galleon, who had come ashore, lounged around a blazing fire near the beach. Slumped in the sand or seated on kegs, they sloshed rum and guffawed as the seemingly endless entourage of the rich Jew gathered below the cliffs, the comedians and rakes among them telling ribald tales or rating the women who came into view. They wondered dimly where room would be found on the two small ships for all these people.

  As midnight approached, an inventive seaman began to describe his rambling scenario of how the Venetian galley’s small hold would be piled high with squirming bodies—“a sardine orgy,” he concluded, vulgar laughter and additional remarks being cast toward the refugee party.

  Then the fight broke out.

  Two big men from the entourage separated from the others. One ran toward the Spanish sailors, only to be tackled from behind by the other, and the slugfest was on. The Spaniards roared with delight to witness this spontaneous exhibition of their favorite sport, as the pair of burly combatants blasted each other with prodigious blows and mighty kicks.

  They chose sides and rooted lustily for their champions, taking no notice of the gathering band of men from the caravan who circled about them, shouting for the battlers to stop. Other disguised renegades and mercenaries casually dispersed through the village, taking up strategic positions.

  On a prearranged signal, all the noncombatants—both on the shore and aboard the loaded Portuguese carac—dropped to the ground and covered their heads. Pistols and blades appeared with a concerted rasping din, and the surprised sailors were overtaken without a shot or a sword crossing. Their weapons were confiscated, and they were hastily huddled into a makeshift prisoner compound.

  Gonji came forward. “Yoi!” he said, beaming and clapping both Buey and Corsini on the backs. Blood streamed from a dozen facial wounds on the pair as they bellowed a joint laugh and gripped arms.

  “One helluva belter, you are,” Corsini praised, spitting out a bloody tooth.

  “You’re not too bad yourself, Napoli,” the Ox replied. He rubbed his aching jaw, working it around gently. “I bear you no more grudge, I’ll say that.”

  The skeleton crew aboard the warship took note, though they were unsure exactly what had happened. The ship’s port guns were quickly loaded and trained on the cliff face, where the remaining fighting men and supplies were rushed down toward the beach.

  “Keep your heads down!” Gonji commanded.

  A whistling volley of arrows and bolts launched out from the crags to bristle the warship. At least one sailor had been hit. The crew reassembled at their gun ports as the second volley swept aboard, fortified now by fire from the beach, the planks chattering with the staccato sound of biting arrowheads.

  The silent form of the werewolf glided up on the unattended, starboard side of the galleon. Clawing up the hull, he unfurled to his full, towering height, displaying his talons on the rail like some night-demon, emitting a blood-chilling howl. Sailors screamed and lost their nerve in the face of this seven-and-a-half-foot apparition, the dripping golden beast posing in bipedal animal fury.

  Pistols came out of the belts of the more courageous souls, but the beast was on the move at once, barreling into a frenzied knot of sailors and driving them toward their fellows. Two pistols cracked off errant shots—blades were drawn and quickly discarded—men began to leap overboard for their lives, their panic infecting their mates.

  On shore, rene
gades and sailors alike observed the eerie event through the shimmering haze cast by the beach blazes. When the last sailor had thrown himself overboard, Simon stood alone in the prow, howling piercingly into the sky before dropping to all fours and shuddering the seawater from his moon-bronzed fur.

  The warship’s pilot was brought before Gonji and Salguero. Shucking the mercenary’s grip on his arms with a ground-out curse, he eyed them in turn.

  “Filthy traitor!” he shot at the captain. “What is all this about? Are you brigands or just escaped lunatics?”

  “Calm yourself, pilot. I’m afraid this was necessary. You see, we need your ship.” Salguero broke away from them and began loading the people and supplies into rowboats and dinghies, moving them out to the galleon. The sodden watch from the ship dragged themselves fearfully onto the shore, held at bay by pistol-armed mercenaries. Most of them still craned their necks back to where the monstrous form of the werewolf loomed over the deck, certain that it would pursue them.

  “You—” the pilot said to Gonji, his face contorting with sudden recognition. “You can only be the notorious barbarian from the East. And that monster—it’s your friend, isn’t it?”

  Gonji looked out to the ship. “Just a man who suffers under a curse he didn’t invite. Both of us, actually. None of your men will be harmed as long as you don’t resist. So sorry. We have to get all these people to safe harbor. We have horses and wagons on the cliffs up there. They’re yours, if you want them.”

  “I heard they torched you,” the pilot said.

  “I came back,” Gonji answered absently.

  Villagers began streaming toward the shore, reacting in horror to see the beast on the warship, casting about in confusion to see the captive crew.

  “Heyyyyyy!” Orozco’s voice called out from the crags. “They’re coming! The knights!”

  Gonji’s eyes went from the sergeant to the scrabbling forms descending the trail. Cardenas was bellowing at him, his face livid in the dancing firelight.

  “Bastard!’ he was shouting at Gonji. “I told you to let me go—now I can’t even get away from here without being murdered as one of you!”

  They rushed the people aboard the galleon. The crew of Jacob’s Venetian galley were transferred to the captured warship, Neriah and Salguero joining them as the captain and half his remaining renegade lancers—those who were with families—reassembled in accordance with the boarding plan.

  “Hurry, Gonji,” Salguero called from the wave-slapped ship. “I don’t want to fire on those knights.”

  Gonji brought his fighting party together and began ordering them into the returning rowboats along with the supplies.

  One of Corsini’s band was holding Cardenas back from engaging Gonji. The solicitor had lost all control now, his tirade—half-directed against Gonji, half lamenting his ever-widening separation from his family—breaking down into angry, frustrated sobbing.

  “Take him aboard the galley,” Gonji said distractedly, watching the last of the entourage running down the trail, Orozco bringing up the rear.

  “Noooo!” Cardenas was screaming. And then Valentina was at Gonji’s side.

  “So, senor samurai,” she declared loudly, brandishing a pistol, “it seems I’ve got my way in the end, eh?” She pointed out to where the carac and the warship were already weighing anchor.

  “Get aboard the galley,” he said petulantly.

  “Listen here,” she said. “This is Ahmed Il-Mohar—” She indicated a short, swarthy, bearded man who came up to them, smiling indulgently.

  “Morisco,” he added, bowing to the samurai. “I have heard that you will be sailing for Africa.”

  “That is true.”

  “Is it also true,” Ahmed probed, “that you seek the Fortress of the Dead?”

  A chill coursed Gonj’s spine. “A fortress—so I’ve been told, though I’ve not heard it so named. I only know that it’s in the desert, somewhere south of Algiers.”

  Ahmed shook his head. “Tripoli. In the Sahara. No man seeks it, unless he yearns for death.”

  “My yearning is for truth. If death is the price, perhaps that is a bargain.”

  The Morisco smiled. “Perhaps. But if your course is set, then you may need our help. You sail into territory controlled by the hated Turks. You will need to know what places to avoid and may need help with the languages. We, my party and I, have no wish to face more hostility in Austria. That would surely be our lot. Let us go with you. We will put you on your way.”

  Gonji agreed reluctantly, for the Moorish band included several women, and he was not sure where their loyalty lay. But the man’s words seemed to make sense.

  “Mover vamos ustedes!” Orozco was bellowing. “Let’s go, you people!”

  Gonji and the Italian brigands led by Corsini were the last to board the dinghy heading out to the galley. Valentina was aboard, as well as the sullen Cardenas, who had again been bound with rope and gagged with a bandanna.

  As soon as they had reached the galley and the oars were attended, the sailors on the beach began hurling imprecations and scampering after any weapons they might find. But the refugees had been thorough. The warship’s crew was left to gesture obscenely in their impotent rage.

  The three ships disembogued, leaving the inlet behind. Gonji stood above the bow gun port, watching their wash trail behind them. He saw the Knights of the Golden Fleece appear on the horizon and fan out atop the craggy cliffs. A small party broke off on foot to descend the rocky path to the village. He could make out the figure of at least one priest who accompanied them. The figure looked vaguely familiar, but there was no reason to ponder it. He’d seen enough Spanish priests to last him three incarnations. He breathed deeply of the sea air, as if to dismiss all thought of the agonizing year he’d spent in the hands of the Inquisition. It was as if that portion of his life was now gouged from memory, save for the paltry few cheering moments: the times spent with Valentina, Morales, de la Cenza; the visits of Jacob and the ghost of Domingo Malaga y Colicos.

  Then he thought again of Tora, his noble steed, and his heart sank.

  Then he saw the dark form knifing through the water, his hand going to his katana. It swam to the dinghy that trailed the galley on a rope lashed to a stern cleat.

  The werewolf. Simon Sardonis. Rolling up into the dinghy to climb under a canvas shroud, where he would remain, Gonji knew, until the moon’s disappearance had transformed him back into a man.

  Gonji felt a pang of sympathy for the forlorn being who so desperately needed a friend, yet resisted all overtures of friendship out of his shame.

  And then Gonji blinked. His breath caught in his throat. His pulse pounded dully in his temples—

  “Iye…it cannot be…”

  They were there. On the shore. There was no mistaking it. A year of resisting the tug of the memory, of dealing with ugly reality, had not erased it for him. The barricades he had erected against believing in them—the near conviction that some fever-spell had created them in his own mind—had not consigned them to mere nightmare. And neither had the avalanche in the Pyrenees destroyed them.

  A mile or more south of the village, the Dark Company—those silent, deathless assassins—sat their mounts at the edge of the sea. And though over the distance he could not see their faces, he knew they were staring at him alone.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  They sailed southeast out of the inlet, making an obvious display of the course they’d set to influence possible pursuit in that direction. South of Ibiza, the warship and the carac would then circle the Balearic Islands to sail north for Genoa. Orozco reminded Gonji of the ironic similarity between the islands’ name and that of the samurai’s nemesis, Balaerik. It seemed that even here the evil donado had found a way to torture Gonji’s thoughts.

  The galley’s progress was
slower than that of the bigger ships, and rather than pushing on, it seemed Salguero had decided to hold the other ships back in escort of Gonji’s party for as long as possible. He either ignored or failed to understand the signals from the galley that he should leave them behind, and it was three days—and a position well south of Majorca—before the carac and the galleon languidly tacked northeast amid much waving and shouting of good fortunes.

  Gonji had taken ill with an ague, compounded by the fever brought on by his deep shoulder wound. He stood weaving and perspiring at the stern cabin as his fellows departed, watching until their sails shrank to specks on the horizon. He bowed deeply toward their wake, praying to the sea kami for their protection. It was a melancholy time. He knew that he had left a sound prospect of sanctuary in Austria for the uncertain terrors of Africa. For the Fortress of the Dead.

  Part of him yearned to be diverted from his course, to be relieved of the karma of this duty. Yet another part desired answers to the mysteries strewn across his tortuous questing path.

  But for now, he spoke into the wind, as if to a jilted lover, judging by the awkward discomfort that clouded the faces of eavesdroppers on deck: “Farewell, Hispania…except for the Inquisition sadists, you are not what I remembered…infested with giants…insects the size of watchtowers…”

  Gonji peered over his shoulder at an open-mouthed sailor whose face had gone gray. Then he sighed and kept the rest of his thoughts to himself.

  * * * *

  Seasickness was their first enemy. Many of those on board had had no prior contact with the sea, and it was several days of violent illness before some of them became acclimated. Others never quite did. Soon were heard the first mutterings of regret that they had not abandoned this vague and ominous quest in favor of joining the Knights of Wonder in Austria. So miserable was life at sea for those who had not reckoned on seasickness that even the treacherous overland route would have been preferred.