Gonji: Fortress of Lost Worlds. T.C. Rypel
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these troubled times!”
Balaerik drew a deep breath. “The Confounder’s news sprouts wings, does it not? Even here, in the High Office of Inquisition itself, the Wretched One’s poison spreads. Roma, with its lies and intrigues, is a thousand miles away. Ya no hay remedio—there is no help for that now. I know only that you recognize the papal bull I bear and will act on His Holiness’ decree.”
“Decree?”
Balaerik smiled. “It is the reason I was selected to bear it to you personally. My own knowledge regarding its subject. In great measure the decree concerns itself with the very infidel of whom I’ve written you. He whom you yourself claimed knowledge of. And he is here.”
“Here?” Izquierdo stood suddenly, eyes aflame.
“No-no, Your Eminence. Here in Hispania. But that is near enough to warrant your reaction. The decree explains all. The unholy appellations attributed to him are enumerated by His Holiness. Horror and death accompany him wherever he goes, assuming shapes from the Pit itself. Shapes you know well, Your Eminence—lobis homem. The werewolf. You thought perhaps they were eradicated, consigned to the flames for all time? That Spain was free of them? Lobis homem…” Balaerik shook his head somberly to see Izquierdo’s face turn ashen gray. “Is the Inquisition prepared to deal with them, without our aid? And he is bringing them to you, along with other dark sorcery that follows in his wake.
“You know of whom I speak: that infidel bandit, the Japones, who once courted the favor of the King himself!”
The Grand Inquisitor fell back into his chair again, cupping his head in his hands. Father de la Cenza moved as if he would reach out a comforting hand, but Balaerik’s look froze him in place.
“All this evil,” Izquierdo moaned. “In the wilderness outposts—here in my beloved city. And you say I can expect still more.”
The donado smiled benignly and held up a hand. “All attended to in its place. Read His Holiness’ missive and edict. His instructions will comfort you. I shall return tomorrow night to plan strategy with you. There is, I believe, to be a conclave here in Toledo soon? On the coming feast which…I am of course unable to mention? Attending will be the Duke of Lerma, other leaders of the Inquisition from Salamanca, from—” Balaerik paused, his voice waxing conspiratorial. “If I may stoop to speak of political matters, I believe it would be advantageous for you to bring this heathen scourge before the Burning Court as soon as possible. You are, I gather, only in temporary charge of the High Office?”
The bishop nodded gravely. No reply was necessary. It was common knowledge. Less commonly known was Bishop Izquierdo’s fervent desire to inscribe his name in the annals of history as the most successful of all prosecutors of the Inquisition’s aims, greater than Torquemada himself.
“Your immediate attention to this matter might earn the esteem of His Holiness,” said the donado. And without another word between them, Balaerik departed.
Father de la Cenza stared after the strange messenger for a long time before speaking.
“Your Eminence—”
“Martin, I know what you must say. I have enough to consider.”
“I don’t like him. He’s wrong. It’s all wrong. What do you know about this Brother Balaerik now that you didn’t know before you ever saw him?”
Izquierdo sighed wearily. “I’ll know more once I’ve read the papers.”
“The papers,” de la Cenza fairly spat.
“Respect! They bear the seal of the pontiff himself!”
“And what of that?” de la Cenza rasped, his expression one of almost childlike daring. “These days one ought best to place his faith in people before…things.”
“Mind me, Martin. It’s heretical ground you tread.” The bishop leveled an accusing finger at the prelate.
“Forgive me, Your Eminence, por favor. But that man—I fear he may evoke the worst qualities in you. May God alone guide your decisions.” This last was uttered in a rush, and then de la Cenza was gone, the oaken door shushing behind him.
The Grand Inquisitor pondered his words for a time before reverently handling the papal packet, which soon consumed his eager curiosity.
Lauds followed matins, in due course. Unmindful of the murmured breviary prayers issuing from without, Izquierdo considered the amazing things he read, curled back into his own mind and soul, where he found a roiling unease. And, being as devout as he was ambitious and zealous, he took his troubles at last to his God.
The novice who came to clean his office in the pre-dawn gloom found him still prostrate and trembling before the large gold crucifix that adorned one wall. The boy slipped back out, holding his breath, apple-cheeked, until he had tiptoed far down the hall.
CHAPTER FOUR
The buffeting night wind tamed to a whisper as a gray dawn broke over the town of Barbaso.
Capt. Hernando Salguero pushed open the portico door of the late magistrate’s house—his house now, for all intents and purposes—and welcomed the blast of cold air, though he wore no coat or wrap over his jerkin. It was exhilarating, cleansing. He took a sip of rum from the pewter mug he carried.
Down the snow-packed street, toward the square to the north, the smaller houses of rude stone and brick were mounded by drifts on one side. They seemed lifeless, uninhabited. Nothing stirred at the square; the stalls of the great bazaar, hidden by the rooftops, sounded still but for the barking of stray dogs. In the farther distance, Salguero fancied that he could hear herdsmen moving their animals to winter fodder.
No troopers in sight. The First Catalonian Lancers, flower of the territory’s defense, had gone to seed. No clopping of patrol hoofbeats; no morion-helmed sentry at the south guardpost; no morning assembly or drill.
Desolation. Dissipation. Lassitude.
He took another sip of rum, let its velvet warmth roll over his tongue and inner cheeks before swallowing.
Desolation. What in hell are we doing here?
Dissipation. What have we come to?
Lassitude. I must restore order and discipline. Must…must…
His eyes focused on the crumbling cross fixed to the roof of the empty chapel. He would go there today. Si, today would be the day—Jesus-Maria, let today be the day! He would go there and pray as he hadn’t since…when?
Anita’s voice called to him from inside.
Si, later. Later he would go to church, and there he would seek answers from his angry God.
“Hernando,” she called again, “come inside. Hace mucho frio.” She shivered and drew her robe tightly about her.
The captain of lancers raked his fingers through his white-fringed beard and shuffled inside. But he remained in the foyer, gazing vapidly through the portico windows.
“What were you doing out there?” the magistrate’s daughter asked. “I reached over to you, but you were gone. Now why would a man with your needs flee the arms of a woman with my…fullness?” She moved up behind him and began massaging his neck.
Salguero’s shoulders stiffened and flexed to feel the cloying warmth of her touch. He drew away in vague annoyance.
“Iglesia—the church,” he said, nodding. “I was thinking about going to church today.”
Anita laughed in the low, throaty manner he had always found so seductive before. She reclined on a parlor sofa, her twined legs bared to halfway up the thighs. Her dark, flowing hair spilled over the arm of the sofa with artless grace.
The captain tore his eyes from her languid command as an exercise in discipline but looked back again a moment later, not from lack of resistance to her charms but searchingly, trying earnestly to understand what she meant to him.
“The