Fortress of Lost Worlds (19 page)

“You bastard,” the captain whispered coarsely.

“Uh-uh—first see what I’ve brought you to eat.”

Buey swept aside the top linen cloth to display a steaming meal and flask on one half of the tray. Casting a quick glance to the window, he plucked the edge of the linen beneath it.

“Sergeant Orozco fixed this for you himself—and something special for dessert—”

Buey wrenched the cloth aside. Two pistols lay on one side of the tray. The big lancer grinned impishly, and Salguero backed away a step in confusion, ran his fingers through his hair.

“What—?”

“You see,
capitan
,
Orozco and me, we been thinking. It’s not so good here no more. We did our best, but some…higher authorities, well, they just don’t seem to appreciate us. Orozco’s got this wild idea about maybe one more action before we retire to someplace quiet. Something to do with Port-Bou. If you’ll lead us…”

Salguero could scarcely believe his ears. The madness of what they suggested had occurred to him many times, but never had he voiced it.

“How many men? How many sympathetic?” he asked in a rush of emotion.

“That’s touchy. We know better who
not
to trust. But maybe eight from the patrol and another dozen who stayed here are good.”

Salguero shook his head. “A score of men. We’ve got to get past the flower of de la Vega’s regiment.”

“We have a good escape plan. Leave that to us. Just be ready to travel at ten bells of evening. What about the witch? Do we warn her of Nunez’s siege?”

Salguero paced a moment, rubbing his neck thoughtfully. “No. She’ll have to deal with it herself. Maybe she’s watching through her magic viewing room. I’m sorry that we may have taken her off her guard, but I do have enough loyalty left to Spain and the Holy Office that I can’t bring myself to drive them into a deathtrap. Let God Himself decide the outcome of this power struggle. What about Gonji? I can’t leave him to the Inquisition.”

“Ai-ieeee,” Buey fretted, scowling, “he’s well guarded. But we’ve taken him into account. Don’t worry—now, up with your fists.”

“Que?”

“I can’t hit a man who doesn’t at least expect it.”

Buey hit him with a short, straight left that snapped back the captain’s head and brought blood to his lips instantly. Salguero dazedly rubbed his mouth, streaking his hand and face. Buey took him by the shoulders and, with an indulgent look, forced him into a seat on the floor. The Ox strode to the door and pounded it with a meaty fist.

“I always wanted to do that,” he said to the sniggering sentries as he indicated the downed Salguero.

He clapped one of them on the back with a playful blow that knocked off the soldier’s pot helmet.

* * * *

Gonji sat cross-legged in the dank, coal-black cellar; a cold, night-blooming lotus, radiating hostility.

For a time after his capture he had gone inert, beginning the meditative process he knew he needed to facilitate the healing of his battered body, to reestablish control of his spiritual being. Then anger had inflamed his innards as pain broke his concentration. He hated the Spaniards—soldier and civilian alike—for what they had done to him. He hated their Church for what it intended to do. But most of all he loathed himself for his stupidity, for having so easily allowed himself to be taken. Experience, courage, and skill had seen him through the adventures of a lifetime almost unscathed. Now he had permitted himself to be ignobly captured in a snare any callow young samurai would have avoided.

He recalled his flashing thoughts at the time: He wished not to involve Salguero, who might have come to his defense if he had initiated a fight. But that had been foolish; the captain was in no better circumstances. Better that Gonji should have died honorably, a fighting man to the last. Failing that, he might have slit his own belly rather than be ridden down in his flight like some mindless game animal.

Now he was without his
daisho.
He could not even atone for his shame with
seppuku.

And just as painfully, he was without Tora.

The gallant animal had long inspired deep affection, had been his lone companion on the road and in battle, more often than not. An inexplicable bond had existed between them. And Gonji had let him die without even being able to deliver the mercy stroke himself.

The dull pain of anguish mingled with the more poignant agonies his body suffered. His hands were bound behind him at the wrists, and his arms were lashed tightly about his sides. Fettered as he was, he could not tell whether any of his battered ribs were broken, but he could not twist his torso without sharp pain. His face felt tight and sticky with caked blood, and he believed his nose was broken. His left eye was swollen completely shut. His head throbbed maddeningly.

He spat out blood from his throat as he considered the irony of his state. Yesterday he had been master of his destiny. He had been witness to intriguing new wonders, had entertained tantalizing new hopes and factors in the puzzling equation of his itinerant life. The abrupt and complete turnabout of his karma had shocked his entire system. Now, despite his stoical training, he could not accept the change in his fortunes. He could not reconcile himself to his bleak situation. The darkness served up illusions. He kept imagining that he was in the world of dreams. Soon—soon he would awaken, his swords at his side, Tora nickering at his shoulder.

But each time he tried to convince himself of the nightmare he occupied, to awaken himself from its horrors, the sweating, puffy face of the guard would appear in greasy torchlight at the tiny door grating above the stair.

“Witch!” the soldier kept growling at him. “Your foul sorcery can’t free you now, can it? Garlic hangs from the lintel, and the cross of Christ seals the door.”

All through the day his tormenting warden checked and rechecked him infuriatingly. Mocking him with self-righteous vitriol, ever crossing himself in a fashion Gonji found insufferable, as though the samurai were one of the walking undead.

Troopers brought him food and water, setting it at the top of the stairs at gunpoint, and then crowding about the grating to watch him and taunt him.

They did not untie his hands, and evidently they expected to revel in the spectacle of their prisoner worrying at his meal like a dog. Gonji said nothing and left the meal untouched.

“
Mapache
,” one sentry said as he gathered up the uneaten food. “What those colonists across the sea call
raccoona
! An evil
raccoona
—that’s what you look like! They
said
you could transform yourself into an animal.”

Gonji eyed him balefully, but inside he was warmed by a burst of perverse humor. Both his eyes must be blackened, like those of a scavenging animal he had heard of in the Americas. That’s what the guard had meant. His buried sense of humor emerged to rescue his sanity. They could not break his spirit with their taunts.

From that point on Gonji began to use the guards’ presence as a practice device for his own powers of concentration; he gradually blocked both their sight and sound from his consciousness, as surely as if they were walled away by successive layers of cotton batting.

In the early evening, Colonel Nunez arrived under heavy personal guard with the intention of questioning the samurai. Finding Gonji in a state of meditation, the impatient officer employed every device he knew, from coaxing to outrageous threat, to gain his attention. It was not until he cocked his fist for a blow to the head that the colonel snapped Gonji from his reverie. He never delivered the intended blow: The samurai’s mask of sheer defiance warded him back, sending him off muttering words of impotent rage and promises of Inquisition terrors to come. Gonji felt a swell of pride over the small triumph.

As he sat in the enshrouding blackness of the second night, listening to the shouting and gunfire in the streets above, he intuited that he was somehow involved, but he felt less a principal than a detached observer, expecting nothing, whatever the meaning and outcome of the fighting. It was much later that he would hear of the action of Captain Salguero and his faithful command.

When the din had ended, Gonji’s guard peered through the grating, strained face glowing redly beside the cresset torch. “
Monster, devil—
your witchery twists the senses of the king’s own subjects!”

Gonji had mustered enough social grace to extend him the courtesy of an angry glower.

Not long after, Pablo Cardenas’ face had appeared at the portal, staring down for a long time with an expression that was unreadable. Gonji could only wonder what was on the man’s mind, for the solicitor had said at length, “I’m sorry,
senor.
I don’t know why, but I am.” And then he was gone.

* * * *

At midnight, the maverick lancer Montoya was brought to Gonji’s cell. He shuffled down the stairs sullenly, probing the floor-seated prisoner with surly glances. Evidently a prisoner, he was not bound as the samurai was, and Gonji found something suspicious in the look he exchanged with the harpy warden.

Gonji extended his legs flat on the floor and executed an easy series of rolling stretches to unkink his thews. Montoya snorted as he watched, then began to prattle insultingly, strutting around the cell like a wildcat spoiling for a fight.

Gonji ignored the boorish soldier’s voice, concentrating instead on the pattern and sound of his movements as he settled in a crouch with eyes closed to slits and chin lolling on his chest, as if he would drift off to sleep in the manner of a crane.

When he heard the knife softly withdrawn from Montoya’s boot, he did not react. Nor did he show any cognizance of the man’s stealthy footfalls. It was when he felt the parting of air before the knifing lunge that he sprang to his feet and whirled out of the way. Urgency galvanized his aching body.

“Come on! Come on, you Jappo devil!” Montoya snarled, circling warily, watching Gonji’s deadly feet.

The samurai wasted no motion, and hard black eyes locked onto the Spaniard’s own gleaming orbs through the dim glow of the telltale portal torch. He could feel the guard watching above, the instigator of the attack.

Montoya feinted time and again, dropping his blade point in anticipation of the blocking kick that never came.

Suddenly Gonji stamped forward, causing Montoya to backstep rapidly until he was almost against a wall. A diversionary high kick drew the blade up to eye level, then Gonji’s darting side snap kick caught Montoya in the ankle, throwing him off balance. A swift crescent kick batted the knife out of his grasp. It clanked against the back wall. Montoya froze.

“God damn you,” the soldier growled in a strained voice.

He brought up his hands, but Gonji’s hard front kick to the groin brought him to his knees, moaning in pain. A left roundhouse cuffed him beside the ear, his jaws clacking. Gonji continued his rotation, a whopping right spinning-heel kick belting him slackly onto his side in the darkness.

The only sound was the creaking of the door hinges as the sentry descended with pistol half-hammered. Gonji met his mad gaze with the unleashed fury of the fight still reflecting from his own.

“You think manipulating my death can save your quivering soul?” the samurai bellowed, struggling for control of his radiating anger. “
Finish
it, then.”

More guards appeared at the top of the stairs, weapons drawn. The warden looked to them, then back to Gonji.

“You—you’re Satan himself!”

The warden motioned for Montoya to be carried off.

“Did you offer him his freedom?” Gonji asked icily.

“Silence,
diablo
!”

The warden backed up the stairs, still leveling his pistol. Gonji moved to the back wall and saw something.

“
Muchacho
,”
he called up to the departing soldier. Gonji toed the forgotten knife, grinning mirthlessly. He kicked it sharply to the base of the stairs.

The warden blanched at his oversight, warned Gonji back, and quickly retrieved the weapon. Col. Nunez arrived, then, amidst a flurry of harsh verbal exchanges, taking the warden to task for the execution attempt. Evidently, it had not been ordered by Nunez. So others must have taken it upon themselves to gild their souls by eliminating the “evil” of this mysterious oriental warrior.

Gonji began to apprehend the conflict in high places over how to deal with the problem of the legendary Red Blade from the East.

* * * *

The detachment escorting Gonji to Toledo assembled early the next day.

The samurai was thrown roughly into a thick-barred ox-cart, bound hand and foot now, bundled in a cloak against the weather’s ravages. He wrestled with the grimace that strove to twist his face at every movement, so fierce were his multiple pains now.

The column trundled him past the great siege cannon, past the mounted companies preparing to assault Castle Malaguer.

The rumbling cart’s jostling ride would do nothing to expedite his healing.

His last impression of Barbaso was of an outbreak of shouts and arguments in the street as he passed by. He saw citizens at odds with soldiers over something. He cared not what. He heard shouting about “dignity—at least let him ride with dignity—he’s no animal—”

Dignity.

Gonji earnestly longed for his swords again, feeling empty, devoid of his freedom of choice, without them. As the last buildings rolled past his view and the gates of Barbaso diminished behind him, Gonji’s thoughts turned to death.

PART TWO

Death Be Undone

CHAPTER TWELVE

A strange, multifarious council assembled in Toledo to deal with the problem of the oriental barbarian. They met in austere lamplit chambers, debating deep into the night the disposition of the notorious warrior.

Prelates of the High Office occupied the table on the dais, presided over by the interim Grand Inquisitor, Bishop Ignazio Izquierdo. The remainder of the assemblage was composed of a shifting membership from among the clergy, the military, and the nobility. Toledo had become a hotbed of activity, daily arrivals and departures of notable figures now the norm, such that high protocol and guarded circumlocution were the standing orders of the day.

“This
Wunderknecht
movement, as they’ve come to call it,” General de la Vega was saying, “quietly, insidiously eats at the underside of the military power structure of Europe, in these threatening times. By their very name—
Knights of Wonder—
they proclaim themselves as elitist, lording over all other men, and militant in their attitude—”

An elderly priest, a scholar of the Hall of Records, interrupted him: “
Dispenseme usted, senor—
excuse me, but I believe their use of the word
wonder
refers to their vague awe at the sublime wonders of creation. Their specific tenets bear careful study before a precise mandate—”

“
Por favor
, indulge me,
Padre
,”
another officer piped in, “but time is always an enemy. If you’ll forgive me, theological study has never been noted for its speed and efficiency of pursuit.”

“Eternal concerns,” the priest retorted, “are not bound by temporal considerations. This is a thorny issue.”

“Thorny
and
urgent,” the officer replied, annoyed, but backing off at once to see the eyebrows he’d raised among the gathered august leaders.

The representative of the
adelantado
of Leon rose. “Your Eminence, holy friars, nobles, and gentlemen—His Excellency the Governor appreciates the touchiness of this matter of the oriental barbarian and his misguided followers. But it must be pointed out that he is reputed to be the son of a powerful warlord in his homeland. Japan has proven a rich source of new trade. We’ve all, I think, benefitted by the inroads the Portuguese have made with this…regrettably pagan culture.
And,
I hasten to add, Holy Mother Church has seen considerable spread in her influence among the Japanese. They are becoming Catholicized in spite of themselves, one might say. And a nation’s strength grows by more than might of arms, if our valiant fighting men will forgive me.”

The military contingent sputtered and fumed.

General de la Vega voiced their objection. “And so you suggest we let this…son of a monkey general roam free to erode our strength from within, with his ideas, eh?”

The representative from Leon turned to Bishop Izquierdo. “What does His Eminence the Grand Inquisitor find the more pressing issue—that of politics and economy or, with all due respect, the…well-founded alarm of the military establishment?”

Izquierdo cleared his throat. “Well, honored members, there is much to be said for both concerns. We must extend our commercial interests; the military must see to our defense. But this is the Office of Inquisition. The integrity of the faith must be our primary pursuit here.”

His voice trailed off, and the bishop seemed to shrink behind the table in the uncomfortable silence that followed his noncommittal and pointless recapitulation of the debate.

The Duke of Lerma rose and leaned forward on the table. He seemed bored by the proceedings. A distinguished-looking man who exuded self-confidence, he was the chief secular authority behind the Inquisition. “Gentlemen,” he began languidly, “I fail to understand the conflict here. This is our home territory. Here we are sovereign over any invading power, regardless of its origin. What is all this fuss over a simple warlock or witch or whatever he is? Just turn him over for auto-da-fe.”

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.”