by T. C. Rypel
“Destroy it!” Gonji shouted. “Cut it to bits!”
But the others were slow to respond, and even the samurai hesitated, uncertain how to approach the wetly creeping sections; where to strike effectively. Fear of the dark sorcery that animated the undead killer froze their thews.
The body was drawn over the rail, the head and leg section slipping eerily through the scuppers, and the tripartite assassin disappeared under the waves. The cat leapt off the hull, bows being rushed to engagement at the rail. But the creature dissolved into a dark spot atop the water and casually drifted off, an inky form, dotted by hellish red eyes, whose stain moved off upon the waves.
Gonji cursed and slammed a fist on the rail, sprinting for the stern again, when he heard Buey shout his name.
The werewolf was pulling itself inexorably up the rope, growling furiously at the ashen squad.
“Can we kill him?” Orozco blared.
“It’s harder than you think,” Gonji responded. “I’ve seen him take more wounds in a single night than that thing we just dispatched back there.”
They opened fire with the pistols, one shot at a time, gauging the effect on the lycanthrope, trying to avoid hitting him in any vital area. With each shot the creature’s progress was slowed, until finally it released its grip and fell into the churning water.
“Cholera,” Gonji growled, hoping they would not lose Simon to the sea. “Simon!” he cried down into the ship’s wash.
For a heart-clutching space, the bipedal wolf was lost from view. Then a golden-tufted arm grasped the dinghy’s oarlock, thirty yards aft. Another… The werewolf painfully pulled itself aboard, began slashing and tearing at the small boat’s mast, leveling it in its rage and pain, bashing at the boards until it began to take water. Still the savage Beast vented its primitive fury, crashing out sections of hull to reveal the skeletal futtocks. And when it had spent itself, it collapsed and clung to the shattered fragment of boat still towed by the shredded, unwinding mooring rope.
As the moon’s unrelenting eye was gradually obliterated by dawn’s gray haze, only Gonji remained to watch the accursed man’s return to humankind. He was fearfully pulled from the water by shaking hands, his wounds attended to by two women and a man with fretful faces. The others discovered the phenomenon Gonji recalled from the campaign at Vedun: The pistol balls and arrowheads had been ejected from the body during reversion. His many wounds, cauterized by sea water and bound carefully now with a Moorish unguent and bandages, already had begun to heal. Exhausted and near delirium, Simon managed a weak gesture of gratitude for what they’d done, heartened as he was by the prospect of freedom from the Beast for the space of a month.
* * * *
The dead were buried at sea while Gonji slept. Anxiety and atavistic terror over the portentous events of the previous night, coupled with the effects of exhaustion, caused violence and mutiny among the refugees.
An Austrian mercenary imagined that a Morisco who approached behind him was the assailant from the night before. He shot him through the head. A fight ensued, broken up by Buey and the other lancers before any other serious harm was incurred.
Gonji was roused from slumber to find the ship’s complement hotly disputing the completion of the quest. Many favored abandoning the accursed voyage and trying to rejoin their fellows in Austria. Those who had had enough of evil sorcery were now supported by certain detractors of Gonji and his methods of leadership, fueled by the belief that Simon’s aid was lost to them. Delivered from the shadow of the Beast, they poured out their secret misgivings.
Gonji held an impromptu vote, those choosing to go on aligning themselves with him at the bow. The Spanish lancers and Italian rogues joined him, along with Valentina and two women whose men had been killed, the Moriscos, and several individuals splintered from the dissenting factions. But the samurai was surprised to find that his side was outvoted.
Drawing the Sagami, Gonji summarily brought an end to the proceedings by reminding them that they operated under the military structure of a free company, not a democracy. He dispersed them with a blunt warning against failed resolve.
“Very nicely handled,” Ahmed Il-Mohar told him moments later. “I didn’t think you’d allow a panicked mob to sway you.”
Gonji scratched his beard stubble and cocked an eyebrow, unsure of the Morisco’s sincerity.
“You can be certain of one thing, though,” Ahmed said quietly. “The dead do assault us, as poor Corsini thought. That Moor whose parts refused to rest in peace last night—it was Ottef Abu-Nissar, the ‘Butcher of Oran.’ They hanged him, about three years ago. Unsuccessfully, it seems.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Ahmed’s safe sea lanes having vindicated his claims—though Gonji had been skeptical, at first—the galley encountered neither Barbary pirates nor the powerful Turks, as they wended their way to the African coast. On a crisp, sundrenched morning, they dropped anchor off the coast of Tripoli, on a barren stretch of rocky shore rising above a sandy beach for as far as the eye could see.
Gonji bequeathed the galley to the dissidents, and four round trips of the remaining rowboat deposited twenty-six men and four women on the lonely shore.
For a space they rested and surveyed the area, no one broaching the subject of how they would undertake their next move, having no horses. Only Ahmed Il-Mohar seemed patient and unconcerned, and when Gonji pressed him for advice, the Moor was evasive, preferring to speak in the abstract and profess for the first time his personal reasons for coming along.
“The Moriscos are not long for Spain,” he said. “I think that’s clear. Christianity has entered an unfortunate epoch of eating at itself from within. It was best we made for home. If I’m to be killed, I’d prefer dying fighting the Turks on my home soil than my fellow Christians across the sea. You, my friend,” he told Gonji, “are a most fascinating fellow. Your unwavering stance against tyranny and evil has rendered you quite a heroic figure. You make idealistic death seem a noble pursuit. That’s something I’ve not seen in a long time.”
Gonji listened to him for a space, answering little, pondering the irony of the man’s words, wondering to what extent he could be trusted. His ruminations were given short shrift, for early in the afternoon a large mounted party thundered toward them out of the desert.
“Turks?” Gonji probed Ahmed as his party anxiously readied their weapons.
“No,” Ahmed said with confidence. “Nomads of the desert. The wandering people of Fezzan.”
The nomads postured threateningly as they fanned out in a long skirmishing line on high ground, neutralizing the threat of the horseless refugee-party’s guns with meaningfully angled short bows.
Ahmed went out to meet them atop the rolling sand hill, gesturing as a friend and speaking with them at length. Gonji was uneasy as he waited; their unfamiliarity with the language placed him and the Europeans at a disadvantage. They were forced to trust the Moriscos.
As Ahmed returned, smiling, the samurai noted that the Moors now concentrated their gaze on the litter-borne Simon, who was still incapacitated by weakness and blood loss.
“They know our need, and they seem willing to convey us to a nearby oasis where we can purchase horses and take on water. Yes,” he said in answer to Gonji’s questing glance, “even here your friend lobis homem is known by reputation. You and I will accompany a contingent of them to the oasis. There is someone there it will be useful to speak to. They will leave horsemen to help protect our group. There is one thing you should bring along, I think—the artifact you bear with the symbol of the birdmen, a powerful omen among these nomads.”
Though suspicious, Gonji had no choice but to comply. As they swung astride two borrowed mounts, hasty explanations having been made, they heard the booming of guns far out to sea, flashes and smoke in the distant Mediterranean haze. It was quite likely that
the galley had come under attack.
“For now, it seems our choice was the right one,” Ahmed declared.
On an impulse, Gonji called for Pablo Cardenas to join them, inasmuch as the solicitor had been the bearer of the wygyll emblem. When he hesitantly moved to do so, Valentina came forward to accompany them, as well.
Gonji motioned for her to move back with the others, affecting a stern countenance. “I don’t want you anywhere near me while we’re threatened.”
“Why?” she demanded. “I can fight.”
“Worrying over your safety slows my reflexes. I can’t be burdened by that.”
“I’m responsible for my own life,” she countered.
“Be responsible for it out of my presence.” To see the look she gave him, he immediately regretted both his choice of words and his tone. But tenderness in public came hard to him, and he was relieved to see her turn away and offer no further argument.
“We must hurry,” Ahmed advised.
* * * *
Gonji entered the tent and bowed deeply to the tiny, wizened figure seated on the rug at its center. The bearded man was incredibly aged, his skin cracked and sere and browned by desert suns whose number could be measured against the stars in the heavens. His beard curled in a half-circle on the rug before him. He smiled at Gonji, Ahmed, and Cardenas as they moved near.
He fluttered his fingers, and Ahmed took from the samurai the wygyll medallion. This artifact the old man caught up eagerly and held before one peeled-open eye, as he shut the other. He bobbed his head with certainty and bade them sit.
Ahmed introduced them. “This is Mirhoobah Habibiti. Eh, as near as I can gather, he is a Fezzanian dervish mufti—the Grand Mufti of the oases. Interpreter of their beliefs, guardian of their lore.”
The mufti began to speak, almost in a chant, Ahmed translating haltingly. “He says you are friend to the sky children, and that that marks you as something special—eh… ‘selected.’ The undead warriors who follow you are indeed merciless killers brought back by—no—their moment of death has been stayed. Eh, captured—held by, guarded by—the temple cats, who are—ah, their familiars, their—shadows. Ephemeral by day. Harmless, he thinks. But also unkillable by day. They—hold the moment of death of each of the assassins. Protect it. Their deaths are suspended—outside time itself.”
“What can we do about them?” Gonji asked, intrigued.
Ahmed held a long exchange with the mufti, then sighed deeply, raising his eyebrows. “Well—it seems we have three choices: Kill each assassin’s familiar cat, and he will die along with it. Not an easy task, as they are like the water snake. But they must remain within the proximity of the undead.”
“What else?”
“You can—conjure each one’s original executioner, if you are adroit with such magic—”
“Mmm. Go on,” Gonji said glumly.
“Or you can discern the assassin’s original mode of death—and execute it…once again.”
“Hai, that’s…” Gonji rolled his eyes as his voice trailed off. “Killing the cats is the way, then.”
“And we have killed one,” Cardenas reminded. “At least we think so.”
“Hai,” Gonji breathed, recalling now, “but how many more are there?”
The mufti chanted on again.
“Mirhoobah says that—he understands you seek the Fortress of the Dead—and your reason for it. He, eh—applauds you. Praises you—something like that. But he warns that no one seeks the Fortress of the Dead…lest he find it. For if you do… you will surely find it?—I’m sorry, Gonji, this is all…difficult to translate. He says now that the good remain with the dead, and only the Evil come back from the grave—I think he’s babbling now.”
“Probably has been since we arrived,” Gonji observed, futility occluding his expression.
Cardenas’ voice came as if from a distance, as he quoted Francis Bacon again: “‘I do not believe that any man fears to be dead, but only the stroke of death.’”
Gonji snapped to attention, ignoring the old mufti’s droning. “Polidori—that Milanese duellist—how did they say he died?”
“Uh—stabbed in the back, I think,” Cardenas replied, snapping his fingers. “That’s one more. All you need do is—deliver the stroke.”
“Hai.” There seemed no comfort in the thought. “Ahmed, ask him why they follow me. Why they kill any who choose to ride with me.”
Ahmed did so, and received this reply: “Someone has set them to tormenting you. They will follow you to the shores of eternity. And when there is no one left who will call you friend, then they will kill you. They will pursue the task set them with fiendish determination, for their reward is immortality—their deaths will be suspended forever.”
“Then I must go on alone,” Gonji said bitterly.
Cardenas made a scoffing sound. “Oh, listen to this fine indulgence in self-pity. The lonely, star-crossed warrior rides on into the twilight. ‘Fear not, my friends, I shan’t submit you to further danger at my side. Just enjoy your sojourn in the desert whilst I lead the assassins away at my heels.’”
Gonji scowled at him but heard the wisdom between the words of sarcasm.
“I must agree,” Ahmed said. “I humbly hesitate at calling it stupid, but since they would merely go on killing any others you might befriend, we may as well see this through together.”
“I get your message, gentlemen.”
The mufti gestured for Ahmed to move close, jabbering at him again, his jaundiced eyes wide with amazement as Ahmed answered some request affirmatively.
The Moor groped for the right words. “Well, heh-heh—the mufti has agreed to allow his followers to sell the horses, water, supplies, what garb we need—The price he urged them to set is reasonable, I think, but there is a catch. He understands that we travel along with the—the Beast with the Soul of a Man. He would discuss with Simon Sardonis certain aspects of—shape-shifting. It seems…he claims also to be a shifter.”
Gonji’s spirits plummeted. “Wonderful,” was all he could say.
As they began their return to their party, the horses and supplies in tow, they heard the howling frenzy of the mufti in his tent as he threw himself into a wild dervish ritual.
Gonji chuckled. “Oh, Simon’s going to love this.”
Ahmed rode up alongside the samurai. “I did ask him to put us on our way, but all he did was point, eh, that way. Southeast. Then he held this up as though it were a guiding beacon. You best not lose it.” He returned to Gonji the wygyll medallion.
“Cardenas, do you have any…intuition about all this?” Gonji inquired.
Cardenas snorted. “I’m a rational man. I don’t believe in intuition.”
Gonji laughed derisively. “That’s very funny, senor scholar. And in your rational studies, did they mention how to regard the sudden appearance of werewolves and the walking undead, the machinations of witches and warlocks? What place do they hold in your rational universe?”
“Those things I’ve seen with my own eyes, experienced with my senses, I must believe. Somehow they do have a place. One that I cannot explain based on what I know.”
“I’ve heard that from priests and scholars before,” Gonji said.
“And what of the teachings of our faith?” Ahmed asked Cardenas coyly.
“My beliefs are based on more than mere intuition,” Cardenas responded, “and as I said, I haven’t answers for everything.”
“Nor have I,” Gonji allowed amiably. “But I have found that some answers are not nearly so interesting as their questions, neh?”
“Wunderknechten twaddle?” Cardenas asked archly.
“Perhaps,” Gonji admitted, “but it would seem wise to stop the killing between those who revere the questions but disagree over the answers.”
Simon had needled him one last time before departing. He’d kicked his horse up to where the samurai stood with three of the mercenaries, all donning caftans and burnooses, the functional garb of the desert tribes. The samurai had modified his caftan to resemble a kimono.
“You’re the dernier cri,” Simon had told him, evoking laughter from the others.
“What’s that?”
“The last word in fashion, as usual.” Simon had yanked the reins and ridden off with his Morisco interpreter, Gonji eyeing him disdainfully.
Gonji’s company climbed the dunes to the higher ground as the sun turned the western sands molten. They hadn’t ridden far when a Morisco shouted for them to turn. They peered down to the seashore far below. There was thick mist roiling along the water’s edge. They watched it intently, knowing what it must contain.
The tiny red flames appeared first, shooting through the mist in their nocturnal rebirthing rite. The cats took shape and aligned themselves in a single rank at the head of the swarming mist. Behind them, rising out of the sea astride snorting chargers, were the nine demon-assassins of the Dark Company.
It was Ahmed who first confirmed glumly that Abu-Nissar had indeed reassembled his parts to ride among them.
“Nine, then,” Gonji said softly.
“We take ’em, eh?” Buey asked, tugging the reins of his steed toward the sea. Others grunted in assent. The mercenaries and renegades had been spoiling for a fight ever since the lore of the Dark Company had been brought back. The deaths of their comrades at sea were etched deeply into their souls.
