Fortress of Lost Worlds Read Online Free Page A

long overdue. This he pursued with many a thought, many a reworking of unfinished poetry, given to marking the events of an itinerant life of mystery and wonder. He laved each major body scar as though it were a shrine, pausing long at the cicatrix along his shoulder blade to recall a paean to lost love.
    Dressed again, he ate more of the mushrooms as he pored over an unfurled map.
    Hai. He nodded as he formed his resolution, there lies the next station of unfinished business.
    Without consciously acknowledging it, he had been drifting toward Spain—toward Aragon again—for a long time. Ever since, in fact, the lycanthrope had begun to take such pains to obliterate his spoor. In Aragon, Gonji would confront Duke Alonzo Cervera, explain at last, whatever the cost, the complete details of their wretched crossing three—was it four now?—years before. The full tale of Theresa’s horrible fate in Hungary during the Szekely clan war.
    Theresa’s—and that of Gonji’s unborn child.
    He nodded grimly to see the course he would have to follow if he were to be direct: To reach Zaragoza without delay, he must cross the Segre River. Must pass Barbaso and the dreaded Castle Malaguer. Must, perhaps, dare the hand of the Inquisition itself.
    Karma.
    * * * *
    The panic of disorientation.
    Gonji rolled away from the glowing mound and drew the Sagami with a sharp whine.
    He was sweat-drenched. His eyes cast about wildly before fixing on Tora’s snorting muzzle. The chestnut stallion’s face looked slick, his eyes frenzied.
    The warmth had lulled Gonji into slumber. He had no way of knowing how long, what time of day it might be in the world beyond the mountain sanctuary. But what had awakened him?
    Ogros.
    The samurai licked at cracked lips. Ogros— what? The legend—now he remembered, at least partially. An old woman, smiling old woman, telling her Gypsy lies to a captive campfire audience.
    Beware Ogros. Ogros what?
    Something. The Hunters of the Night. Children of the ancient mountain. Older than man, and still more ravening.
    For endless minutes before he began gathering his belongings, Gonji listened to the chanting that rumbled up to his ears from somewhere— everywhere— in the cave system. Rhythmic, heavily accented, undeniably primitive.
    He was the invader. The interloper. He had used their mountain uninvited. The hunters—the Hunters of Night—he had arrived at night—invaded their home while they hunted— who?
    Ogros.
    It mattered not in these things whether fact followed supposition. Sanity demanded that the lurking shapeless terrors be named and objectified.
    They moved from the cave as warily and noiselessly as possible, Tora being little help there in his eagerness to find open air. The darkness seemed to part less readily before the quickening of the glowstones. Gonji fought back the gooseflesh that accompanied his sudden realization that the enchanted caves’ operation rendered him a conspicuous target.
    The chanting rolled through the tunnels, vibrant and vigorous.
    And Gonji realized with sagging heart that, even as they made their escape, he had no idea where escape lay: His poor sense of direction had done him in again. Cursing, he moved them in a different direction. They crossed the mountain stream twice before he thought he recognized a cavern they’d been in. Gritting his teeth, he dragged a recalcitrant Tora through the archway.
    He stepped on something that gave under his foot, emitting brittle snapping sounds as it seized him by the boot.
    The samurai gasped aloud and drew his katana, the keen blade flashing downward but striking empty air. Gonji kicked viciously twice before shattering the maddening thing against the wall. The illumination of the glowstones at last caught up with his slashing vision: a rib cage.
    The chamber was filled with bones. A charnel cell filled with discarded skeletons of men, animals, and things that were part of both but altogether neither. There were paintings on the