by T. C. Rypel
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 m
i! 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.
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?
Di
ssipation. 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.
