Fortress of Lost Worlds (9 page)

And then the samurai saw. His lips curled at the sight. The windmill was flanked by huge barren oaks. And both the naked branches and the gently tilting vanes of the windmill were festooned with the bodies of Spanish troops.

Better that they had been dead than in their present state. For they hung like silkworms, paralyzed and suspended in dark, translucent cocoons; murmuring like the mindless possessed, seemingly no longer human.

CHAPTER SIX

“Looks like the table is set for
something
,”
Moon prattled in a singsong voice.

He cavorted about the area, unconcerned with the forms suspended in living death. Now and then he would glance into the sky, cackling nervously. Bounding through the snow with amazing energy, Moon suddenly cartwheeled up to a hitching rail before the abandoned farmhouse, which stood beside the nearer tree. Never stopping, he made an acrobatic leap over the rail, a tumble through the snow, and then a springing double somersault that landed him feet first onto a blood-stained skeleton in the snow that had been picked nearly clean.

Brittle bones exploded in all directions.

“Hee-heeeee!”

Gonji gritted his teeth but said nothing, as he looked again at the hanging forms, mortified. Their eyes had been gouged out. They seemed paralyzed, their exposed heads lolling in slow motion, slack mouths emitting idiot sounds.

He dismounted and began to cut the wretched victims out of the cottony black cocoons, one by one. “Help me here,” he commanded.

“Are you
loco?”
Moon replied. “Forget them. Their cause is lost.”

“That’s no way for a warrior to die. Honor demands that—”

“What rubbish!” Moon scoffed. “Name me a
good
way to die! They’re just hanging meat now.”

“They’re
soldiers.
A warrior deserves a better death.”

“You’re
loco,
as I thought,” Moon said. “What land do you come from that rates one death as better than any other? Come on, there’s a warlock’s treasure to loot. And if you let
this
bother you so much, you’ll never make it that far. There are worse things waiting up the road.”

“I’m not here to loot anything,” Gonji said coldly as he went about his grim business.

Moon bobbed his head scornfully. “As I thought—you’re on the side of the soldiers. The warlock will make you regret that, methinks.” He crowed a laugh and bounded away toward the farmhouse’s rear.

The samurai gathered the wretched troopers—fifteen in all—and ritually beheaded them. He piled them before the windmill, wrapping their heads in their jacks. The mystical cocoon material was strange, dissipating when shredded gently, like heavenly dust. But opposed by resistance such as dead weight, it had been strong enough to suspend full-grown men. Gonji labored over an hour at the grisly task, feeling a mixture of fatigue, wrath, and emptiness of soul.

Ambling grimly to the farmhouse to find dry wood, Gonji found the door bolted from within. In no mood to trifle with resistance, he removed his swords from his
obi,
drew back, and skipped toward the door. A hard side snap-kick slammed it open with a thunderous report.

“Not bad,” Moon said from a short distance away. He wiped his lightly bearded lips with the long tassel of his cowl. “Your feet are almost as limber as mine.” He sat among the soldiers’ effects, sipping from a wine jug. They had been using the farmhouse as a station or command post.

“The back door
was
open, though. Still—not bad.”

Gonji cast him a scowl and set to gathering the wood. Outside again, he constructed a blazing bonfire that became the funeral pyre of the soldiers. The cocoons went up like dry chaff. Moon pranced up to him.

“
Some
thing’s not going to be happy about that,” Moon warned. “You’ll probably be taking their place for dinner,
senor
warrior. Look up there.”

Gonji followed his gesture. The sky had indeed become still filmier, gauzelike; webbing over with ethereal patterns that seemed to radiate from the moon, now reaching almost to the ground in spiraling tracks. Tora, too, had begun to sense the waxing peril, tossing and curvetting from his tether.

“Who are you?” Gonji demanded of the other.

Moon snorted. “I told you—I’m a thief. I would steal the warlock’s treasure that some would preserve and others would destroy. Those are the choices for any who would course this valley. Neutrality is impossible.” He looked up to the sky again, chuckling. “And now I see that escape for you is also impossible; so you’ll no longer be needing your horse.”

He grabbed up his staff and ran toward Tora. Seeing Gonji draw his
katana
and race after him, he let out a whoop and pole-vaulted over the anxious steed.

“Hah-hah! I don’t need a horse—stupid, noisy, nervous animals! I just wanted to show you how altogether impotent you are.”

Gonji stamped toward him, sword clenched vertically for a two-handed strike. His mind reeled, trying to make sense of the madman’s mania, and thought cost him reflex. Moon somersaulted over him and struck him a passing blow, high on the back, with his staff.

Moon alighted, squared up, and they faced each other, came to engagement. The thief executed a series of feints, then a rapid high-low-high spearing attack. Gonji slapped the staff aside easily each time. He timed the next strike and parried, slashing the staff aside with a vicious counterattack, then whirled into a figure eight of glinting steel that drove Moon backward.

With a derisive titter, the thief somersaulted backward, using the staff for leverage, then sprang into a low lunge that Gonji leapt over. The samurai moved to attack an inside line as the long staff arced around. His foot slipped in the snow, but he managed to deflect the circling blow aimed at his midsection. They clashed and clacked, neither gaining advantage.

“You fence pretty well for a man who insists on keeping both hands on his sword,” Moon taunted.

Two circling parries chipped wood from the staff. Then a sudden underhand snap of the Sagami chopped six inches from the staff’s end, leaving a sharpened point.

Moon brayed a laugh and blew him a kiss. “So be it, then—you die by your own device.”

But when Moon lunged, Gonji snicked out his
ko-dachi
with an eye-blurring movement, catching and turning the now deadly staff in a twisting X-block with both swords. He drove its point into the snow, and his one-handed swipe with the Sagami forced Moon to release his grip or lose his head. The samurai bore down on the now unarmed, backstepping thief with crossed blades.

“Too late,” Moon gasped. “You’ve lost anyway—look.”

Horsemen ringed them in, descending from the hills. They bore no recognizable colors or uniform. Even in the dark it was clear that this was some mercenary bunch. They must have been forty in number, but they were still quite distant and spaced too far apart to close the trap.

What sort of cavalry technique is that?
Gonji found himself wondering.

“I’ll let you ride with me,” the samurai declared, “but if you offer me one—”

“You still don’t understand, do you, fool?” Moon said, laughing, backing away in the direction of the house. “I know the way out of here. You don’t. You can’t escape them. They’re the warlock’s men. You think they’ll stop for that cross you hang on your horse? The warlock doesn’t fear any symbols of the Church. Maybe they’ll let you join them—if you throw yourself on their mercies.”

Gonji untethered Tora and mounted. When he scanned the approaching band again, he had to resist an urge to rub his eyes. Had he momentarily fallen asleep? Had he been bewitched?

They were almost upon him now. No more than a hundred yards distant!

What foul sorcery—?… What horses could move so swiftly?

Their hooves seemed to touch earth, yet their advance was uncannily fast. They grew in the vision like a spreading stain upon water.

The samurai walked Tora toward the bonfire, uncertain how he would meet this final assault, dashing away the lifetime of memories that vied for audience, the juggled factors of the meaningless equation of his life. Then he abandoned all thought, which dragged the
bushi
down in battle, with its weight.

He decided to stand his ground before the blaze. He drew his longbow and a fletched shaft, preparing for a shot at the advancing riders. He could hear those who approached from behind—there, a second shaft would find ready nesting.

“Hold there!” the leader commanded him, trotting near, his approaching motion now normal, as though he had left sorcerous ground for that of the earth Gonji trod.

The band was composed chiefly of mercenaries, that was sure: Theirs was a motley array of weapons and garb, much as he’d seen in numerous free companies he’d ridden with and against. But three men were clad of a piece. The one who came near, as well as the pair who flanked him, wore a thin-shelled back armor of an obsolete design. There was a strange, soft shimmer to the armor. Its surface looked murky, as if encased in flat black mist. He had seen its like before…
where
?

The leader rode up to within ten paces, unconcerned with Gonji’s bow. He removed his burgonet. A youthful, serene face gazed into the samurai’s.

“You can put up your bow,” he said in a cultured voice. “I’m afraid you’d find it ineffectual.”

Gonji said nothing but complied, for he had by now recalled what armor this must be, and if its lore were true, the black knight’s claim would be borne out. The knight smiled and bowed curtly in gratitude.

“I represent the Archmage Domingo Malaga y Colicos,” he said, pausing before going on. “You probably know him as Domingo Negro. A terrible name, if you represent the rapacious Church.” He indicated the cross that depended from Tora’s neck.

“I represent no church,” Gonji replied evenly. “And I feel no terror.”

“Indeed?” the knight said, plainly impressed. “No terror of so many arrayed against you? Of the Moonspinner, who descends at midnight?”

Moon.
Gonji briefly wondered whether the thief, if indeed he was a thief, had found a way to somersault out of this trap. But then his thoughts were otherwise engaged.

“My life has always pointed toward such an end, if it be ended here.”

The knight seemed to ponder something before speaking again. “It needn’t, you know. We’ve observed your progress for some time now. Since you first entered the valley. I’m sure you know that forces are at war here. You’ve meddled, without making clear your intentions or your sympathies.”

“I wish only to continue on my way.”

“I’m afraid it’s not that simple. You’ve angered the Archmage, trifled in his business, weakened his defenses by your knowledge of their operation. You have, then, two choices: Join this mercenary company that was formed of men similarly recruited, or remain here for the imminent descent of the Moonspinner. You have little time to decide. Midnight approaches.”

“I need no time to decide,” Gonji replied steadfastly. “I am
ronin.
For now, I choose to serve no master. The choice reverts to you.”

The knight blinked at Gonji’s boldness. “You are an unusual warrior.”

“I am samurai. You will not find our like anywhere on this continent.”

“Your words are filled with bravado,
senor
…samurai. Yet I wonder if you truly understand the meaning of valor. I see that you are interested in the armor I wear. Have you ever seen armor like it? It has wonderful properties. No weapon can penetrate it.”

“I know something of this…Armor of Valor,” Gonji noted. “Like most sorcerous working, it relies heavily on the faith and courage of the user.”

“Very good,” the knight said, riding up beside Gonji with a confident demeanor. “And it has served me well, even as well as I have respected its spell. See here.” He pointed to a spot on his breastplate. “The tiny pockmark? A bold-speaking bandit’s pistol, fired from just about the distance between us now.” He let the implication hang in the air a moment.

Gonji never took his eyes from his adversary’s. “The pistol is a poor weapon to use against so worthy an armor.”

The night’s eyebrows lifted. “And do you bear a stronger weapon?”

With reverence, Gonji drew the Sagami. “This goodly steel has struck righteously against both man and beast, sorcerer and demon. But I’ll spare you its edge, if you let me ride on uncontested.”

The knight was stung by the implied insult. His eyes narrowed and his head tilted in amazement. From his look, he might have just been told that his mother and father were sister and brother.

“Strike, then,” he rasped in a tremulous voice.

Gonji hesitated, then shockingly rotated his blade over his head in a broad, torso-twisting slash that ended against the knight’s right pauldron. He froze at the end of the motion for a long moment, the Sagami’s gleaming edge jammed to the knight’s shoulder. Their eyes never broke contact.

Slowly, the samurai drew his blade away, and the young knight’s defiant smile faded. A thin line of blood traced the Sagami from mid-blade to point, although no mark could be seen on the knight’s armored shoulder.

Gonji replaced his
katana
without cleansing it. He spoke just above a whisper: “I do not wish to shame you. I know this sorcery born of faith, and my faith is no weaker than your own. I stayed my blow short of killing you.”

The knight’s look of horrified disbelief was fleeting. He replaced his burgonet and wheeled his steed.

“He chooses to face the Moonspinner,” he shouted to his charges. Laughter and catcalls came Gonji’s way. “Hurry now, before we become entangled in her web.”

They spread out and rumbled off the way they had come, scattering uphill, still in their widely spaced ring, receding from Gonji with that same bizarre spatial distortion that had marked their approach. But they stopped and turned on the surrounding hilltops, and he could see the intent in their poised pistols and crossbows.

He would be coerced into dealing with the “Moonspinner”—whatever that entity might be, whose darker-than-night webs now gently spun down to touch the snow itself.

* * * *

Two bonfires seethed and roiled in stark relief against the backdrop of the tattered windmill. A breathless midnight stillness crept into the valley, as if the brightening orb of the moon were a greedy eye that would claim any creature that dared exercise the fullness of life beneath it.