Free Fortress of Lost Worlds by T. C. Rypel Page A

revelation, after the fashion of their tormentor’s morbid sense of humor.
    The pouch identified the knight as a Corporal Alcala. The message he bore from Madrid was simple. Alcala had been part of a detachment of handpicked pistoleros who were to aid Salguero in ending this tedious campaign against the warlock who called himself Domingo Negro. High Command, it seemed, had grown impatient. Salguero was ordered to press an all-out attack on Castle Malaguer. But that was not what concerned the captain and his aides. It was, rather, the fresh, chicken-scrawled postscript, appended in blood below the king’s own seal:
    “You have your orders.”

CHAPTER FIVE
    As soon as Gonji crossed the bridge over the Segre River, he experienced something of a second—if secondary—homecoming. The windswept snowy plains of Aragon were a sight that stirred familiar memories. He knew this place, knew its people, its lore and legendry, its monsters and magics.
    He felt control and wariness in equal measure. Weakness here would surely usher one to madness or death or grim fates unsuitable to such rational description. But neither would it serve one to proceed with fatuous overconfidence.
    Thus, when he happened upon the body of a slain Spanish lancer, the samurai bowed somberly in deference to whatever valor the man had expended in his duty, and then appropriated the lancer’s razor-edged halberd, to supplant the one he had lost in the harsh mountain passes.
    Gonji left behind lands of Reformation strife, where it best availed him to remain neutral in his commitment, for a country ruled by the Roman Church. Here, faith in Iasu was sometimes strong, sometimes corrupted by fervent perversity of design, and always countered by faith in the formless Dark Power, here personified in Satan.
    Christian symbology was employed with uncertain power in certain circumstances. Where its power did not obtain, the warrior was left to his own resources: the might of his sword arm, the strength of his courage, the depth of his experience.
    Tora’s hooves thumped easily across the crusted, barren plain as they departed the river road for the less traveled southwest track Gonji sought. Gaining it at mid-morn, Gonji soon encountered a small caravan of traders bound for Barcelona. These hucksters took a dim view of this singular foreign warrior with his formidable array of weaponry. Gonji doffed his eye-slitted sallet and bowed, engaging them in curt conversation. They cast many an edgy glance at his pistols, wicked halberd, and matched set of swords before considering selling him the few provisions he requested.
    The tinkle of his gold and the advantage of their numbers had just about won them over when a leathery-faced old duffer pointed out the wooden crucifix tied about Tora’s neck.
    “Sacrilege,” the merchant declared.
    “How do you know what my horse believes?” Gonji queried archly. The jest was lost on them. “In truth, I believe the power of Iasu this cross declares will ward off the evil ones. I can think of no simpler, more direct way of showing vampires and werewolves not to waste their time on me.”
    They sold him the few meager goods he asked for, charging prices that reflected their low esteem and drawing the line at the black powder he needed for his pistols.
    “Whatever your business,” one of them told him in parting, “mind that you steer well clear of the Valley of Barbaso.”
    “Hai. Domo arigato,” Gonji replied, to their befuddlement. He bowed and rode on, with their gun barrels quietly leveled at him until he was nearly out of sight.
    Later that same morning, a band of mounted hunters sold him a sinew bowstring for a fee that caused him to wince—the only change of expression he’d shown them, though their bows had been aimed at his breast for an uneasy while.
    They further offered to help him string the difficult three-man longbow for an additional charge. While Gonji had long since developed a bending method for stringing