Gonji’s eyes widened. He took an uncertain reach upward, then one step back. The creature lofted to his level, then higher, still rising on its mighty wings. When it had reached the escarpment, it hovered above the helpless would-be invader of its realm.
Gonji experienced an expanded moment of terror as the log fell heavily toward him. An instant’s fatuous thought that he might somehow leap
around
the plummeting missile that filled his vision—
And he was leaping off the wall in breathless frustration, losing his hard-won ground. He landed catlike in the snow, tumbling into a shock-absorbing roll, shoring up his determination before he had come to rest. The bounding log hit him in the back.
The wygyll flew overhead, shrilling at him in ridicule as he gathered his weapons and breath. He glanced at the second pistol, thrust it back into his
obi,
and regained the cliff base with a running leap. Paying no heed to the enemy, he scrabbled up the wall, using the earlier chinks. The ascent was easier this time, and he reached his last handhold in seconds.
When he paused to get a fix on the wygyll, all he saw were sapphire stars and the moon’s crooked golden grin.
Uh-oh.
Something new,
neh?
Swift and silent, the creature pushed itself over the edge directly above him to lance down like a shaft from a siege catapult, clutching at full arm’s length—the sharpened sapling Gonji himself had honed into a spear.
The
katana
snicked out of the back harness as the wygyll dead-dropped straight at Gonji’s face. The samurai swung outward and to the right at the last instant, clinging by the
nekode
and the toes of his left foot. He struck the beast’s weapon a sharp blow as it passed by, deflecting its lethal course. The wygyll shrilled and soared into a tight loop, boring down through the air at him again in seconds. But as it braked with a counter-flap to avoid hitting the rocky wall, Gonji’s blade snapped up, parrying the spear. He completed the circle with a wrist-twisting riposte—a soft
thwack—
a
burst of feathers—
The creature keened a high whining note. Blood spilled from the shallow slice along its convex rib cage. It released the spear and twirled off in a contorted flight pattern, maddened by its pain.
Gonji gained a narrow rock shelf halfway up the
cuesta.
He clawed his way up still higher, reached the shelf with his feet, nerve ends prickling with his desperate desire not to be dislodged again now that his goal was so near. He thrust the naked
katana
blade through his
obi.
Fought the rock, the gnawing wind and bitter cold, his stiffening sinews—
Five yards left.
The wygyll swooped and screamed at him. He slipped his grip with one boot, nearly lost his purchase. Pausing to regain his hold and steady himself, he realized that he was momentarily helpless to fend off the bird-thing. It saw, and knew, and flapped down at him. Its powerful talons cut the air eagerly as the distance closed.
Gonji pulled the second pistol. With practiced flexibility he twisted outward and fired at the onrushing creature. He barked an expletive that was drowned out by the cracking report as the wheel-lock belched smoke and flame. The wygyll shrieked a caterwauling note over and over as the pistol ball tore through a wing with a cascade of gray-white feathers. The samurai was forgotten as it struggled to regain its failing power of flight.
Gonji discarded the spent pistol. Shivering as he pulled and dragged himself upward along the craggy higher reaches of the cliff, he at last secured the brink with the spiked
nekode.
Bobbing and fluttering through the air with the erratic course of a butterfly, the wygyll attacked him with a hail of ear-piercing cries and its pummeling wingbeats. Injured though it was, the creature now fought for the aerie-home it had been so confident of a short while before.
But Gonji, too, had won his territorial objective. With a mighty push he lurched over the edge and onto the cliff. He caught a glimpse of a huge wattled structure and the riven carcass of the boar. Then the powerful talons sank into his back, seizing garment and skin in equal measure. He yelped a pained outcry as he was lifted off the rock. For a saucer-eyed instant he viewed the long drop, the flash of his campfire, no ground to cushion him for a long way. Then he snatched the wiry forearm at his shoulder and held on with the dynamic strength of self-preservation. The squawking beast strove to drop him, but the other fore-claw became entangled in his sword harness, and one hind talon was snared in the fabric of his short kimono. The other clawed his back, and Gonji roared in pain and stabbed upward with the Sagami repeatedly, finding a soft spot behind the chitinous beak and jamming home the deadly point.
Screaming and twisting in the air, unable to control its burden any longer, the wygyll spiraled back over the aerie on the cliff-top. Another backlash of the gleaming
katana
caused it to tear free of their mutually tangled grip.
Gonji dropped onto the cliff and rolled, losing the Sagami in the snow. He drew his
ko-dachi
and raised it in high guard. The wygyll stalked him now with bounding half-flight strides, flapping and crying out in frenzy at this raider of its domain. In great pain and weakening fast, the creature darted in and out with its snapping beak. But Gonji’s short sword deftly held it at bay, clashing and slapping at the wygyll’s waning attack. A crimson tracery of blood marked the creature’s track in the snow.
Gonji found the
katana,
poised it for the kill. But something stopped him. Small twittering sounds emanated from the nearby wattle-work structure—more a thatched hut for humankind than any roost for beasts of the air—behind him.
The wygyll’s nestlings, squalling in fear.
Seeing his notice of its young, the wygyll charged him with its remaining energy, throwing its life into the breech in their defense. But Gonji merely beat it back with a series of double-bladed parries. It came on once more, with the same result. The wygyll fell back, studied his eyes with its own keenly intelligent gaze.
It was a quarter of an hour or so before the samurai made his intent clear. With a noble bow of its head, the creature hunched its battered wings in a gesture that bespoke resignation. It lurched past him to hunker down before its hutch, where it proceeded to work at its manifold wounds.
As Gonji watched it, the
bushido
principle of the warrior’s tenderness permeated him. He felt profound sympathy for this forlorn creature, now that he recalled its full legend.
“I can fight, it’s true,” Gonji told the oddly attentive creature, “but I’ll never be the hunter you once were. And now I fear that, thanks to me, you’ll neither be hunting
nor
fighting for a good long time.”
The nestlings—two of them—crawled from the hutch out of their vestigial responsiveness to human speech. They reminded Gonji of nothing so much as the tiny winged Cupids—albeit with soft beaks where their mouths ought to be—he’d seen represented in art. They ran to their father with teetering steps and, one under either furled wing, huddled close to him in affectionate innocence.
* * * *
An hour later Gonji sat before his blazing fire at the base of the cliff, feeling a curious mixture of anticipation, satisfying fatigue, and formless anger.
He poked at the roasting portion of boar with a stick. The remainder of the chunk he had taken, perhaps three days’ worth, was already packed into a saddlebag. He laved his cuts and abrasions as he mulled over the sad lore of the wygyll, as he had heard it told.
They’d been more human once. A race that had grown side-by-side with man, his friend and mentor in the ways of the hunt, a race of highly intelligent flying humanoids. But man’s jealousy of the wygyll’s unfettered freedom in the skies had been their downfall. A powerful king who was consumed by envy of their glorious airborne culture had set his court sorcerer to placing a double-edged curse upon the wygylls: Their humanity was stunted, their line becoming increasingly ornithoid with each successive generation. The language they had shared with man was lost, and with their power of speech had faded their unique culture. Worse still, the evil curse had visited upon them the paradox of procreative genocide—every female of their race died in birthing her young, leaving a grieving mate to perform a function for which his abilities were ever eroding. Procreation meant death to the wygylls.
Gonji hawked and spat into the popping flames. He took a walk in the pre-dawn stillness, feeling the need for the clean, cold wind in his face. The valley shone dully as the moon lent its silver to the snowbound land. A sprawling vista of loneliness—an old harpy with the samurai.
Hai,
this is the Spain I know,
he thought in an effort to cheer himself.
I know its land, its people; its monsters and magics. The land of my first
landing…briefly. And then later a place of triumph…and tragedy.
He tried to summon a flamboyant phrase out of Gongora y Argote’s poetry—so popular at court when last he’d been in Spain—but it escaped him.
And what of Philip—
hungry
Philip. Philip II. Does he yet reign, backed by Hapsburg power? Has he rebuilt his fleet since the Great Embarrassment? I doubt it. So he will still rely on the strength of his land forces,
neh?
His proud mounted archers. No erratic firearms could have supplanted the skills I helped hone.
Hai,
the king will remember me, but it is the Duke of Aragon with whom I am most concerned.
Cervera—and the fanatics, whose power burgeons, so I have heard. Will
they
still hate and oppress me for what I cannot help being? And for what I allowed to happen?
Returning to his fire, he stooped and picked up a dove-gray feather from the wygyll’s wing. This he pocketed and, unfolding his map, he marked the place of the
cuesta
with a carbon-blacked thumb. Later he would inscribe the name of this significant place:
Wygyll’s Aerie: the Mount of Hunger.
Something dropped into the snow beside him. He drew it up and examined it. A flat, round stone inlaid with the elaborate etching of a man and a huge bird, crouched and facing each other, their heads touching. The symbol was protected by a clear resinous substance that reminded him of the lacquers used in certain craftwork of his lost
Dai Nihon.
And he recognized after a time the nature of the curved, inlaid surface that had been etched.
It was part of a chitinous beak. Perhaps that of the wygyll’s lost mate. It had been fashioned into something like a medallion.
He looked up at the cliff face, saw the creature peering down. Part of a bandage Gonji had applied to its neck could be seen in the pale moonlight.
The samurai bowed to his erstwhile enemy. The wygyll hesitantly replied in kind, before withdrawing slowly out of sight.
CHAPTER THREE
In Toledo, the lamplit halls and austere sleeping chambers above the Office of Inquisition, adjacent to the great cathedral, were abuzz with whispers and murmurs. The solemnity of midnight matins had been disturbed not only by the unorthodox nocturnal visit but also by the appearance and mien of the visitor.
The young initiate who tended the gate and admitted him would later be unable to explain what had compelled him, though he would do many hours of
culpa
in chastisement.
An officious deacon apprenticed to the Hall of Records received the visitor with much ado, ranting a litany of reasons that proscribed his unconventional visit. But the tall stranger in the unidentifiable monk’s habit simply stared him down with steel-vaulted eyes, replying nothing, and serving up at last the packet of traveling papers whose seal so upset the deacon that he was led, shaking and stammering, to the barber-surgeon.
The prelate in charge of the turning day’s ecclesiastical affairs, Father Martin de la Cenza, a small, delicate man of unflappable bearing, next received the sinister visitant. Acknowledging the sealed communique with a single languid closure of his eyelids, Father de la Cenza bade the stranger sit in the sparsely appointed foyer outside the clerical offices. Obtaining a single name in reply to his own introduction, de la Cenza moved at once to awaken the Grand Inquisitor.
Almost an hour later, Bishop Ignazio Izquierdo, the High Office’s interim Grand Inquisitor, stood at the center of the thick-napped carpet in his office, adorned in dignitary vestments and his tall mitre. He strove to find the best way to occupy his hands to keep them from wringing. His palms were moist, his throat parched as he awaited the meeting. An ashen-faced novice scurried about the musty leather and velvet trappings of the shelf-lined room, shakily igniting the ornate wall lamps. In his intimidated haste, he knocked a large tome from its nook. It thudded to the floor. Symmetrical tracks of sweat coursed the novice’s cheeks on either side of the silent O
his mouth described as he hurried from the room in response to the bishop’s impatient hand swipe.
A moment later, the door before Izquierdo opened. The stranger strode through, followed by Father de la Cenza.
“You are Balaerik,” the Grand Inquisitor intoned in a cracked voice that made his face redden.
“Anton Balaerik,” came the calm elaboration.
“You are different from what I imagined,” Izquierdo started haltingly, which evoked a curious, amused twitch from Balaerik. “I mean,” the bishop continued, “our communications—I still don’t quite understand. You are, are you not, a clergyman of some order? I do not recognize your habit.”
Balaerik threw off his hood. “I am
donado—
a
lay brother,” he explained. His face was angular, the skin pasty and offset by a neatly trimmed black beard whose contours made one mindful of a vulture’s wings. When he bowed his lofty head to display an odd half-moon tonsure, its form above the aquiline nose and pointed chin resembled something nameless that vaguely disquieted the Grand Inquisitor.
“Of what order?”
“Ours is a new order. I thought that was clear. An order devoted to the rank-and-file support of the Inquisition’s efforts on levels your own methods might not be suited to dealing with. We are funded by factors within Holy Mother Church, and our work is done secretly, under cover of night. The night is the ‘day’ of the Dark Powers, you see. And through our order, the day of their doom.” His eyes began to shine like beacons over a deadly shoal as he went on. “You are concerned with saving souls through scourging and burning. You drive the possessing spirits from the unfortunate possessed. We attack the possessing spirits themselves, unleashed by you, often to possess again! They and the Dark Power which fortifies them will fall before the holy power we’ve been granted.
“We are the silent scythe of the Inquisition, Inquisitor. For only by secrecy can we combat the disorder caused by heretics and infidels, the creeping rot of the black sorcery they foster. Ours is the same battle, though we are more concerned with the ghastly atrocities committed by the infidels. And…by their supernatural minions.”
Izquierdo’s brow furrowed. He moved round his desk, where he sat heavily in a large, high-backed chair. He motioned for Balaerik to sit, but the messenger declined. The Grand Inquisitor sifted the information in his mind, troubled by this strange interference in his office’s affairs, wondering what it portended. But something more imminent bothered him.
“You make no mention,” the bishop intoned slowly, carefully, selecting each word, “of the source of this…power and authority you claim. What is your spiritual investment in this grim business? What I do, I do in the name of the Lord God of Heaven, and His Son Jesus Christ, who—”
“You place me at a disadvantage, I’m afraid,” Balaerik interrupted, eyes lowering in apparent shame.
“Ay de mi!
Alas for me! We are sworn on solemn oath to speak not the Most Holy Names. Nor even those of the recognized and canonized saints of the Church. It is because we regret the necessity of our…violent military posture, which chafes the very tenets of our faith, that we have taken this onerous vow.”
Balaerik could not have stung Izquierdo more deeply if he had gone on to voice the obvious indictment of the Inquisition’s own hypocrisy. The bishop had heard it many times from the mouths of heretics, but never had it been so unsettling as now, dangled in the air by an ostensible fellow clergyman. Human pride began to cloud his thinking, confusing the issue.
Balaerik extracted from his cloak a round container that fit into his palm. Fashioned of bone or ivory, it was hinged near the top, where a tiny lid had been cut into it. It was simple in design, with no ornamentation or other marking.
“A reliquary of the saint whose patronage guides our order,” the
donado
explained, “who shall, of course, remain unnamed.”
Izquierdo nodded reverently, a bit too acceptingly, by the expression of young Father de la Cenza, who seemed ever about to blurt something. But he held his tongue.
Reaching a hand toward the sealed packet the prelate still carried, Balaerik said, “His Holiness has explained our order’s founding and operation in a missive. He further—”
The Grand Inquisitor cleared his throat, cutting him short. “That is another matter of a delicate nature—your coming here to meet me so altogether…unexpectedly, and bearing the papal seal during this time of awful confusion. God help us all. Have you actually had direct contact with His Holiness, Balaerik? We’ve all heard the terrible stories surrounding the Pontiff’s election. Stories of signs and ill omens attendant upon his succession. And even—” He glanced conspiratorially at de la Cenza, proceeding in a harsh whisper. “—even that the Holy Father has never been seen since that day. That there is, in fact,
no vicar of Christ on the papal dais in 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.