Fortress of Lost Worlds (37 page)

“Very nicely handled,” Ahmed Il-Mohar told him moments later. “I didn’t think you’d allow a panicked mob to sway you.”

Gonji scratched his beard stubble and cocked an eyebrow, unsure of the Morisco’s sincerity.

“You can be certain of one thing, though,” Ahmed said quietly. “The dead
do
assault us, as poor Corsini thought. That Moor whose parts refused to rest in peace last night—it was Ottef Abu-Nissar, the ‘Butcher of Oran.’ They hanged him, about three years ago. Unsuccessfully, it seems.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

Ahmed’s safe sea lanes having vindicated his claims—though Gonji had been skeptical, at first—the galley encountered neither Barbary pirates nor the powerful Turks, as they wended their way to the African coast. On a crisp, sundrenched morning, they dropped anchor off the coast of Tripoli, on a barren stretch of rocky shore rising above a sandy beach for as far as the eye could see.

Gonji bequeathed the galley to the dissidents, and four round trips of the remaining rowboat deposited twenty-six men and four women on the lonely shore.

For a space they rested and surveyed the area, no one broaching the subject of how they would undertake their next move, having no horses. Only Ahmed Il-Mohar seemed patient and unconcerned, and when Gonji pressed him for advice, the Moor was evasive, preferring to speak in the abstract and profess for the first time his personal reasons for coming along.

“The Moriscos are not long for Spain,” he said. “I think that’s clear. Christianity has entered an unfortunate epoch of eating at itself from within. It was best we made for home. If I’m to be killed, I’d prefer dying fighting the Turks on my home soil than my fellow Christians across the sea. You, my friend,” he told Gonji, “are a most fascinating fellow. Your unwavering stance against tyranny and evil has rendered you quite a heroic figure. You make idealistic death seem a noble pursuit. That’s something I’ve not seen in a long time.”

Gonji listened to him for a space, answering little, pondering the irony of the man’s words, wondering to what extent he could be trusted. His ruminations were given short shrift, for early in the afternoon a large mounted party thundered toward them out of the desert.

“Turks?” Gonji probed Ahmed as his party anxiously readied their weapons.

“No,” Ahmed said with confidence. “Nomads of the desert. The wandering people of Fezzan.”

The nomads postured threateningly as they fanned out in a long skirmishing line on high ground, neutralizing the threat of the horseless refugee-party’s guns with meaningfully angled short bows.

Ahmed went out to meet them atop the rolling sand hill, gesturing as a friend and speaking with them at length. Gonji was uneasy as he waited; their unfamiliarity with the language placed him and the Europeans at a disadvantage. They were forced to trust the Moriscos.

As Ahmed returned, smiling, the samurai noted that the Moors now concentrated their gaze on the litter-borne Simon, who was still incapacitated by weakness and blood loss.

“They know our need, and they seem willing to convey us to a nearby oasis where we can purchase horses and take on water. Yes,” he said in answer to Gonji’s questing glance, “even here your friend
lobis homem
is known by reputation. You and I will accompany a contingent of them to the oasis. There is someone there it will be useful to speak to. They will leave horsemen to help protect our group. There is one thing you should bring along, I think—the artifact you bear with the symbol of the birdmen, a powerful omen among these nomads.”

Though suspicious, Gonji had no choice but to comply. As they swung astride two borrowed mounts, hasty explanations having been made, they heard the booming of guns far out to sea, flashes and smoke in the distant Mediterranean haze. It was quite likely that the galley had come under attack.

“For now, it seems our choice was the right one,” Ahmed declared.

On an impulse, Gonji called for Pablo Cardenas to join them, inasmuch as the solicitor had been the bearer of the wygyll emblem. When he hesitantly moved to do so, Valentina came forward to accompany them, as well.

Gonji motioned for her to move back with the others, affecting a stern countenance. “I don’t want you anywhere near me while we’re threatened.”

“Why?” she demanded. “I can fight.”

“Worrying over your safety slows my reflexes. I can’t be burdened by that.”

“I’m responsible for my own life,” she countered.

“Be responsible for it out of my presence.” To see the look she gave him, he immediately regretted both his choice of words and his tone. But tenderness in public came hard to him, and he was relieved to see her turn away and offer no further argument.

“We must hurry,” Ahmed advised.

* * * *

Gonji entered the tent and bowed deeply to the tiny, wizened figure seated on the rug at its center. The bearded man was incredibly aged, his skin cracked and sere and browned by desert suns whose number could be measured against the stars in the heavens. His beard curled in a half-circle on the rug before him. He smiled at Gonji, Ahmed, and Cardenas as they moved near.

He fluttered his fingers, and Ahmed took from the samurai the wygyll medallion. This artifact the old man caught up eagerly and held before one peeled-open eye, as he shut the other. He bobbed his head with certainty and bade them sit.

Ahmed introduced them. “This is Mirhoobah Habibiti. Eh, as near as I can gather, he is a Fezzanian dervish mufti—the Grand Mufti of the oases. Interpreter of their beliefs, guardian of their lore.”

The mufti began to speak, almost in a chant, Ahmed translating haltingly. “He says you are friend to the sky children, and that that marks you as something special—eh… ‘selected.’ The undead warriors who follow you are indeed merciless killers brought back by—no—their moment of death has been
stayed.
Eh, captured—held by,
guarded
by—the temple cats, who are—ah, their familiars, their—
shadows
. Ephemeral by day. Harmless, he thinks. But also unkillable by day. They—
hold
the moment of death of each of the assassins. Protect it. Their deaths are suspended—outside time itself.”

“What can we do about them?” Gonji asked, intrigued.

Ahmed held a long exchange with the mufti, then sighed deeply, raising his eyebrows. “Well—it seems we have three choices: Kill each assassin’s familiar cat, and he will die along with it. Not an easy task, as they are like the water snake. But they must remain within the proximity of the undead.”

“What else?”

“You can—conjure each one’s original executioner, if you are adroit with such magic—”

“Mmm. Go on,” Gonji said glumly.

“Or you can discern the assassin’s original mode of death—and execute it…once again.”

“
Hai
,
that’s…” Gonji rolled his eyes as his voice trailed off. “Killing the cats is the way, then.”

“And we have killed one,” Cardenas reminded. “At least we think so.”

“
Hai
,”
Gonji breathed, recalling now, “but how many more are there?”

The mufti chanted on again.

“Mirhoobah says that—he understands you seek the Fortress of the Dead—and your reason for it. He, eh—applauds you. Praises you—something like that. But he warns that no one seeks the Fortress of the Dead…lest he find it. For
if
you do… you will
surely
find it?—I’m sorry, Gonji, this is all…difficult to translate. He says now that the good remain with the dead, and only the
Evil
come back from the grave—I think he’s babbling now.”

“Probably has been since we arrived,” Gonji observed, futility occluding his expression.

Cardenas’ voice came as if from a distance, as he quoted Francis Bacon again: “‘I do not believe that any man fears to be dead, but only the stroke of death.’”

Gonji snapped to attention, ignoring the old mufti’s droning. “Polidori—that Milanese duellist—how did they say he died?”

“Uh—stabbed in the back, I think,” Cardenas replied, snapping his fingers. “That’s one more. All you need do is—deliver the stroke.”

“
Hai
.”
There seemed no comfort in the thought. “Ahmed, ask him why they follow me. Why they kill any who choose to ride with me.”

Ahmed did so, and received this reply: “Someone has set them to tormenting you. They will follow you to the shores of eternity. And when there is no one left who will call you friend, then they will kill you. They will pursue the task set them with fiendish determination, for their reward is immortality—their deaths will be suspended forever.”

“Then I must go on alone,” Gonji said bitterly.

Cardenas made a scoffing sound. “Oh, listen to this fine indulgence in self-pity. The lonely, star-crossed warrior rides on into the twilight. ‘Fear not, my friends, I shan’t submit you to further danger at my side. Just enjoy your sojourn in the desert whilst I lead the assassins away at my heels.’”

Gonji scowled at him but heard the wisdom between the words of sarcasm.

“I must agree,” Ahmed said. “I humbly hesitate at calling it
stupid
,
but since they would merely go on killing any others you might befriend, we may as well see this through together.”

“I get your message, gentlemen.”

The mufti gestured for Ahmed to move close, jabbering at him again, his jaundiced eyes wide with amazement as Ahmed answered some request affirmatively.

The Moor groped for the right words. “Well, heh-heh—the mufti has agreed to allow his followers to sell the horses, water, supplies, what garb we need—The price he urged them to set is reasonable, I think, but there is a catch. He understands that we travel along with the—the Beast with the Soul of a Man. He would discuss with Simon Sardonis certain aspects of—shape-shifting. It seems…he claims also to be a shifter.”

Gonji’s spirits plummeted. “Wonderful,” was all he could say.

As they began their return to their party, the horses and supplies in tow, they heard the howling frenzy of the mufti in his tent as he threw himself into a wild dervish ritual.

Gonji chuckled. “Oh, Simon’s going to love this.”

Ahmed rode up alongside the samurai. “I did ask him to put us on our way, but all he did was point, eh,
that
way. Southeast. Then he held this up as though it were a guiding beacon. You best not lose it.” He returned to Gonji the wygyll medallion.

“Cardenas, do you have any…intuition about all this?” Gonji inquired.

Cardenas snorted. “I’m a rational man. I don’t believe in intuition.”

Gonji laughed derisively. “That’s very funny,
senor
scholar. And in your rational studies, did they mention how to regard the sudden appearance of werewolves and the walking undead, the machinations of witches and warlocks? What place do they hold in your rational universe?”

“Those things I’ve seen with my own eyes, experienced with my senses, I must believe. Somehow they do have a place. One that I cannot explain based on what I know.”

“I’ve heard that from priests and scholars before,” Gonji said.

“And what of the teachings of our faith?” Ahmed asked Cardenas coyly.

“My beliefs are based on more than mere intuition,” Cardenas responded, “and as I said, I haven’t answers for everything.”

“Nor have I,” Gonji allowed amiably. “But I have found that some answers are not nearly so interesting as their questions,
neh
?”

“
Wunderknechten
twaddle?” Cardenas asked archly.

“Perhaps,” Gonji admitted, “but it would seem wise to stop the killing between those who revere the questions but disagree over the answers.”

They struck camp in the evening and prepared to ride through the night. After a brief argument, Simon agreed to be escorted to see the mufti, though he was convinced it had been set up by Gonji as some sort of devilish joke. He was strong enough to ride already, and he moved off in advance with the nomads, astride a skittish black Arabian steed. Gonji’s party planned to pick him up when they reached the oasis.

Simon had needled him one last time before departing. He’d kicked his horse up to where the samurai stood with three of the mercenaries, all donning caftans and burnooses, the functional garb of the desert tribes. The samurai had modified his caftan to resemble a kimono.

“You’re the
dernier cri
,”
Simon had told him, evoking laughter from the others.

“What’s that?”

“The last word in fashion, as usual.” Simon had yanked the reins and ridden off with his Morisco interpreter, Gonji eyeing him disdainfully.

Gonji’s company climbed the dunes to the higher ground as the sun turned the western sands molten. They hadn’t ridden far when a Morisco shouted for them to turn. They peered down to the seashore far below. There was thick mist roiling along the water’s edge. They watched it intently, knowing what it must contain.

The tiny red flames appeared first, shooting through the mist in their nocturnal rebirthing rite. The cats took shape and aligned themselves in a single rank at the head of the swarming mist. Behind them, rising out of the sea astride snorting chargers, were the nine demon-assassins of the Dark Company.

It was Ahmed who first confirmed glumly that Abu-Nissar had indeed reassembled his parts to ride among them.

“Nine, then,” Gonji said softly.

“We take ’em, eh?” Buey asked, tugging the reins of his steed toward the sea. Others grunted in assent. The mercenaries and renegades had been spoiling for a fight ever since the lore of the Dark Company had been brought back. The deaths of their comrades at sea were etched deeply into their souls.

“
Iye
,”
Gonji said. “Not here. Not now.”

“But why not?” Sergeant Orozco grumbled.

Gonji turned his mount to face the troop. “I’ve already lost too many friends and sword-brothers to these killing corpses. Charging into them like wild boars is not the way. Anyway, I want to reach that fortress. Somehow…its secrets are important. You’ll have to trust me. And anyway…I’d like to keep most of you alive.” With a growl, he wheeled them toward the desert interior. Valentina was the first to nudge her horse after him.

“
Most
of us?” Orozco puzzled.

His chafing warriors angled frustrated, jaw-clenching glances back toward the beach. The ghostly army now silently followed, eyes flashing darkly, with the time-skewing motion of fever-dream goblins.

To a man, they inwardly embraced Gonji’s decision and pushed on into the desert.

* * * *

They picked up Simon and his interpreter at the oasis as night thickened over the Sahara. They found him impatiently awaiting their arrival, scores of nomads seated around him under the date palms, jabbering in awe as he tried to ignore their attention.

“What did he want?” Gonji inquired, trying to show no amusement over Simon’s discomfiture.

“Typical heathen nonsense about assuming the shapes of animals—listen,” Simon said menacingly, “if you ever subject me to something like that again, I’ll rip your head off.”

“So sorry,” Gonji replied evenly, “but I’d have to prevent you.”

They rode on into the desert fastness, Simon withdrawing from the others in anger. Gonji headed them southeast.

“Will we not make for Fezzan?” Ahmed asked with concern. “We can replenish our supplies there.”

Gonji shook him off. “We go the way the old shaman pointed. I’m chafing to find this fortress we seek. Many answers to many questions lie there. I am certain of it.”

“I hope so,
senor
.”

They trudged toward the lifeless vastness of the Libyan desert, a thousand miles of sand sprawling before them.

They rode by night in order to stay ahead of the nocturnal Dark Company, who followed ineluctably across the starlit expanse of arid wasteland, gliding like the huge, amorphous shadow of some flying horror. By day the pilgrim warriors erected crude shelters and rested and ate and kept watch and baked in the sultry heat and slept and argued and kept more vigilant watch and dehydrated and fought over trifling matters and thirsted and braved sandstorms and cursed at dying horses and always, always, first and foremost—

They kept watch.

They watched for the undead assassins of the night—who kept pace no matter how hard they rode—to make an unprecedented appearance and attack by day. And they watched for the Turkish conquerors of this land, fearing to encounter a patrol at any time, day or night.