Fortress of Lost Worlds (24 page)

“Still bound for a martyr’s death?”

Gonji sighed. “The prospect is strangely compelling. But you—and others—have given me more lively thoughts to consider now. There’s evil about, Neriah-
san
. Palpable evil that is committed to destroying me. I would know why.”

Neriah nodded in assent. “It abounds, but so does good. The Evil One revels in this religious strife.”

“
Hai
,
but what do I have to do with it? That’s what I want to know.”

“Be comforted,” the merchant urged. “I must leave this place before I am suffocated. Shall I convey the word to your friends?”

“Word?”

Neriah angled a smile of impish privity at him. “
Shi-kaze—
Deathwind. The word that tells them you will lead them in the fight against the evil that threatens to devour Europe.”

Gonji bowed. “The word is given, then.
Shi-kaze
.”

Jacob bobbed his head in satisfaction and turned to go.

“Oh, Neriah-
san
—what of Simon Sardonis? Has anyone seen or heard from him?”

The merchant grimaced and shuddered. “No one,” he whispered. “Forget that tormented soul. He must seek his own redemption.”

Gonji was alone again. His mind raced backward and forward, sifting through the experiences of his life, attempting to make sense of them, weighing them against the new and electrifying information of the past day. He only dimly heard Valentina’s taunting of Neriah, as he departed, and the old man’s torrent of rebuffs and scathing criticisms of the deplorable dungeons.

Morales came to the door grating later that day, his last shift about to end. They exchanged good-byes.

“One last bit of advice,” Morales rasped in a voice shielded from eavesdroppers. “They never told you, but you chose the
sanbenito
that bespeaks the unrepentant soul.”

“
Que
?”
the samurai puzzled.

“That robe. You might do better to ask for the yellow one, with the red St. Andrew’s cross before and behind. At least—
feign
repentance. For your own good, you know?”

The merest smile perked Gonji’s lips. “I am neither repentant nor unrepentant in this business.”

Morales shrugged and, after a final exchange of slight bows, departed the dungeons. When he had gone, Gonji considered something, then removed his black
sanbenito
and tore it with his teeth, ripping it all the way around until it was about the length of his old short kimono. Most of the red flames of Hades and diabolic figures had been riven with the bottom portion. From the discarded red ornamentation he fabricated a tattered sash, an
obi
, for his waist and a bright
hachi-maki
to tie about his forehead.
The samurai’s headband of resolution.

Thusly attired and seated in the lotus position, Gonji meditated, forming a new spirit of determination.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

The sub-cellar of the four-hundred-year-old stone church on the outskirts of Toledo had not seen such clandestine activity since it was new, when the Almohad invaders were defeated by Christian forces and Moorish power was broken in Spain.

Now a steady stream of surreptitious refugees, adventurers, and dissidents who feared and hated the Inquisition’s might crept into the church by night. After careful screening, those who were deemed trustworthy were brought for individual interview before the renegade officer and his religious counterpart, Father Marquez.

The landless, the unjustly oppressed, the exasperated.

And friends and former comrades of Gonji Sabatake.

“De la Hoz,” the man said by way of introduction as he glanced circumspectly around the taper-lit cellar. “Gabriel de la Hoz. My grandmother—they accuse her of healing by witchcraft. It is said that the soldiers will come soon to arrest her. We don’t know what else to do. She is not a witch. I swear by all that is holy that—”

“I believe you,” the officer said comfortingly. “Even if I didn’t, it is not for us to judge. Is there anything that might bind you to Toledo? Shake your resolve when it’s time to move?”

“Nothing. My family would leave tonight, if—”

“Have you considered the possibility that you could
die
in the action that might follow? We’ll try to bring you to safe harbor. That has been arranged. But only with the understanding that you will play your part in helping us free the oriental warrior.”

De la Hoz hesitated, then nodded firmly. “I understand.”

Final instructions were given, and the blessing conferred, by Father Marquez. De la Hoz departed, and another man was led in. This one was a burly, seedy-looking fellow with an angry facial scar of the sort that could be found in large numbers in the waterfront inns of the Mediterranean, where sword duels were still the most popular sport.

“Corsini,” the big brigand announced. “That’s all you need to know. You have to trust me, just as I am forced to trust you. But I think I can. This business is too crazy not to be the chapel-bell truth. I’ve got to admire your
loco
idealism, captain.”

“Just
senor
will do, for now.” The officer eyed the man levelly, suspicious. “What is your interest in this affair?”

Corsini pulled out a pipe, tamped it and lit it from a taper as he spoke. “I want to see the samurai freed, as you seem to. We have a debt to settle.” Clouds of smoke rose to the low beamed ceiling.

The officer regarded him suspiciously. “I don’t think he’s going to be able to pay any debts, under the circumstances.”

“I’m not here to
collect
,” Corsini told him, eyes sparkling with an unexpected mirth. “I’m here to
pay
. He’s an honorable
hombre
,
and I’m damned if he didn’t turn
me
into one also,” he said, a far-off vision beckoning his gaze. “I owe him my life, at least once. That’s a heavy debt. You’ll be needing me, then?”

“
Si
.”
They shook hands tenatively, and Father Marquez moved in to take over his portion of the briefing.

“
Gracias, Senor
Salguero,” Corsini said with raised brows over twinkling eyes. “I hope your retirement will be long and prosperous.”

Salguero felt a chill to have been recognized. He pondered Corsini’s words, hoping not only that the wry wish would come to pass but also that he could trust the man. If so, it could only be by providential design, for the road he had paved ahead of him was not lined with fortuitous portent. The raid on Port-Bou had spread his notoriety—though he cared nothing of that, for it had been successful; they had evacuated their families and many other refugees, leaving the French bewildered as to the attackers’ origin. Yet they were considering reprisals against Spain, and that hung heavy on Salguero’s conscience. And now he and his men dared rise up against their country, their former fellows—and Holy Mother Church herself!—in this hotbed of Inquisition activity. And all for the sake of a single Japanese.

No. Not just for him. For the ideas he held that the renegades themselves had come to believe in. And to combat the confusion and terror spread by unknown Dark Powers.

But now there was divisiveness among Gonji’s supporters, as well: The rich Jew, Jacob Neriah, was warning them against initiating hostilities, insisting that money and political influence would see the samurai freed without bloodshed; diplomacy was the proper tack that would steer their course to sanctuary in Austria. Salguero and Neriah were at loggerheads over divergent plans, the latter all the more stubbornly self-assured since he had found Gonji in reasonably good health and spirits.

Could this Jew, Neriah be trusted to follow the decision of the majority? Could Salguero make him understand the depth to which the roots of evil had sunk? That they could not be expected to release their grip without being severed through combat?

A struggling cluster of grunting bodies drew the captain’s ruminations to more immediate matters.

The huge soldier Buey shouldered past the voussoirs of the narrow archway, bear-hugging a jostling figure who shouted muffled oaths from under his stifling hood. Sergeant Orozco, dressed like an ostler, stepped close behind.

“We thought you’d better deal with this straightaway,” Orozco apprised as Buey pulled off the man’s cowl.

It was Pablo Cardenas, the solicitor from Barbaso.

“So—it’s true,” Cardenas shouted, tossing his head to chase his matted hair from one eye. “You
have
become a traitor to God as well as country.”

Salguero’s face was crinkled with lines of confusion as he looked Cardenas over, unsure of what to say. When he at last spoke, it was to Orozco: “I didn’t say for you to
conscript
anybody. Cardenas, what is this all about?”

“That’s a fine question for you to be asking
me
,
captain.
Not content with casting your lot with sorcerers and infidels, you now intend to besiege the Church in one of its strongholds. You’re an insane fanatic!”

“We intend only to set certain injustices aright.”

“Injustice?
Injustices
? What about you and that Japanese devil forcing me and my family to flee for our lives from your own
army
with your diabolical wiles? All I want to know is one thing: Why did you involve my children with witchery? Is that why that barbarian bastard you call
amigo
asked to see them that night last winter?”

Father Marquez hissed and clapped in a frantic effort at controlling Cardenas’ volatile outburst. There were strangers—and a few soldiers—in the nave above their heads.

Salguero’s voice cracked when he strove to answer such that it came out in a hoarse whisper. “What in
hell
are you talking about?”

“Mind your tongue,
senor
,”
the priest chided.

“This
thing
,”
Cardenas replied, his certainty shaken now. “This witch’s ornament they found in my children’s bedchamber—”

He fumbled out the device from beneath his tunic. Smaller, and thus less finely detailed, it was nonetheless an exact duplicate of the wygyll medallion Gonji had carried.

“We ran for our lives in the night,” Cardenas explained painfully. “I don’t know how we escaped them. I’ve had to put my family up in secret with distant relatives. I didn’t even dare tell them the reason we had run. All I could say was that the warlock’s horrors had driven us out.”

The captain looked the medallion over intently. “Maybe Gonji can explain.”

“Oh, I’m sure he can. I’m sure he’ll explain
all
he knows of monsters and magic when they roast him at the stake. And I intend to be there to see it.”

“No,
senor
,”
Salguero said softly, “I don’t think so.”

Buey’s massive arm caught Cardenas up by the throat.

“No—sacrilege!” Father Marquez fretted, pushing forward to aid Cardenas.

“No-no,
Padre
,
we won’t kill him,” Salguero assured. “Just render him
hors de combat
,
Buey.”

The Ox-man grinned and nodded as he dragged the uselessly struggling solicitor from the chamber. There came the short, sharp report of an impact from the antechamber. Then the sound of feet dragging across stone.

Orozco scratched his neck and cast a wry glance at his superior, raising his eyebrows in quiet humor. But Salguero was distressed. He sat heavily on an iron-bound chest, brow furrowing.

“That’s one more thing to worry about, Carlos. I wish I’d heard of this before the Jew went to see him. Maybe he could have—
Jesus-Maria
,
I hope we’re on the right side of the lines.”

Salguero gazed again with anxiety at the wygyll symbol.

* * * *

Deep in the night, Hernando Salguero, ex-captain of the First Catalonian Lancers, slipped through the quiet winding streets of Toledo’s highest ground. He passed through myriad gates and by sprawling manses erected in the old Moorish days, listening to the wash of the Tajo in the distance. As he neared the great towers of the Alcazar, he could make out below the Gothic spires of San Juan de los Reyes; and the stonework of El Transito, the converted synagogue. And nearby—the brooding square of Zocodover.

The Burning Court. The Inquisition’s execution ground.

Shuddering in the humid pre-dawn chill, he mopped his brow and hurried on toward the rendezvous point, where he would be conducted to fresh lodgings. This, lasting but a few days, when he would move on again, for only by such caution could he maintain his anonymity.

He reached the narrow lane to which he’d been directed, tarried at the first gate long enough to kneel and clean a clogged boot heel. The signal thus given, he ambled to the next gate.

A figure appeared in the gate arch. Not the one he’d been expecting. A
pistolero.
The angry eye of a wheel-lock’s muzzle was trained on Salguero.

“In a hurry,
Captain
Salguero?”

A small
tuff
of breath escaped the captain’s lips as he took a step backward. Another step—a rapier point jabbed into his lower back. Two more soldiers behind him, blades angled for a kill.

“Your
amigo
was a gutless one,” the leader charged, gesturing with his wheel-lock.

Salguero grimaced. His would-be conductor, an amiable scholar from the university, hung upside down from a bricked-in wall grating. By the light of the lowering moon, Salguero saw with revulsion how the dark blood dripped from the man’s head to spatter the thickening pool on the stones below.

“Cowardly bastards,” the captain growled.

“No,
you—
traitorous dog!”

The leader stamped up to him and crashed the pistol barrel against his jaw.

Salguero saw a blue-white flash, and then the world dissolved from view.

* * * *

It seemed to Salguero that a long time had passed when he again became conscious. He tried to orient himself in his surroundings. He was on his back, still lying in the lane, judging by the narrow patch of sky bordered by the meandering walls. He could not have been out long, for it was still dark. A shooting pain coursed through the left side of his face, where the swollen welt of the pistol blow seared his jawbone.

Where were the ambushers?

He pushed himself up on an elbow, his head spinning, to see the downed forms lumping the darkness of the lane.

Jesus-Maria.

“You are Captain Hernando Salguero?”

The grating voice, guttural and inhuman, emanated from the shadows. He cast about in the darkness until his eyes adjusted. He sucked in a noisy breath when he caught the outline of the enormous form that hunkered in a corner of the gate arch. It was squatting, a cloak draped over it to touch the ground all around, the cowl drawn close with an unseen hand. By the width of the shoulders it was clear that, whoever he was, he would make Buey seem undergrown.

The figure evoked a primal sense of terror in Salguero. It seemed to swell rhythmically, as if containing something within that might burst into an ill-prepared world.

“
Si
,” the captain whispered. “And who…who are you? Did you do this?”

“It was necessary to keep you whole until I could speak with you. You are the one who plots to free Gonji Sabatake from the dungeons of the Inquisition?”

Salguero’s heart hammered wildly. Friend or foe of the samurai? No, it would make no sense for a foe to rescue the captain. Yet, he sensed a terrible savagery in this being, an awareness of a bitter struggle for control that was being waged even as they spoke. Violence was the substance of this stranger’s nature. Another deception fabricated by the powers of evil?

No. It made no sense.

“That
is
my plan,” Salguero admitted. “Have you an interest in this affair?”

A gruff laugh came in response. “An interest?” the voice growled. “
Si—
and a need. Prepare yourself. Don’t scream.”

Salguero’s stomach churned. The figure moved out of the shadows. The hood fell back, and the apparition Salguero saw nearly caused him to loose his bowels. He knew now the instant so many comrades had shrieked in recognition of on the battlefield.

The certainty of the moment of death.