Gonji: A Hungering of Wolves (20 page)

* * * *

Simon was chained in an oubliette of an abandoned fortified prison, amid rank, sweating stones of ancient origin. Thick musty odors assailed his nostrils. He was a man again; it must be day in the world outside. He scarcely had time to check the strength of the chains when an overwhelming nausea overcame him. He knew the feeling well: They’d been starving him; nor had his lips tasted any water. For how long, he could not even guess.

A portal swung open in the ceiling. Filthy light seeped through a grating. Peering down at him was the object of his lifelong hatred. The being who had effected in his pregnant mother a
secondary
conception, that of the shape-shifting demonic spirit.

Grimmolech smiled down benignly.

“Why don’t you just succumb? What can your life be but an endless nightmare filled with forlorn hope? I could not have expected that those fanatical priests would take you from me and raise you in their…obsolete faith. Keeping my son a prisoner for all these years.”

“Bastard out of Hell! Come down here and join me. I’ve looked forward to ripping you to pieces for such a long time.” Simon’s entire body radiated loathing.

“Be silent,” Grimmolech said in a steady voice that bespoke confidence, a lifetime of command. “I will speak to my son now.”

“Your son is a raving madman. An idiot without so much as a name to call himself by.”

“Until such time as he is free of you,
Simon
will serve as his name.”

Simon roared at his tormentor and strained at his shackles until he dropped, exhausted, his anger vented. And then, in a rare event that occurred only at such times as Simon would be too weakened to prevent its reentry, the energumen projected itself outside of their common sphere, appearing on the floor of the cell as a small male child, naked and reaching up imploringly to its unholy sire.

“Father! Father! Take me up with you. Save me.
He
—he made me drunk—the dirty swine!”

Grimmolech made a placating gesture. “I know, I know, my son. You must be patient. Soon you will be freed. Have courage, as befits a higher being.”

“But I can’t stand this any longer!” The spirit began to weep. “He tortures me. He makes me suffer so—”

“And he shall pay, as will all these beings who have prevented your fulfillment. Now stop that. Be strong. Noble. Show no weakness.” An impatient tone insinuated itself into Grimmolech’s voice now.

The energumen tried to climb a wall of the oubliette, but its ectoplasmic substance lacked strength to operate in the real world, and it soon rediscovered that it could not exist outside Simon for long. Despairingly, with a mad wail and an ineffectual flailing of its small fists, it reentered Simon’s imprisoning body with violent vibration.

When he had recovered from the shock of their melding, Simon shouted up at Grimmolech through the grating: “We’re all prisoners of something,
n’est-ce pas?
But yours will last for eternity, demon.”

Grimmolech eyed him coldly.

“This
is
your
world—until you’ve had surfeit—”

Grimmolech slammed down the trapdoor. In fury, he set a spell of localized, increasing heat upon the ceiling of the dungeon cell, subjecting both Simon and his disembodied son to an agonizing session of stifling torture.

* * *

The small mercenary detachment who stood rampart watch on the walls of the abandoned fortification and former prison gazed down in awe as their present lords, the Farouche Clan, assembled in conference.

Breathless, these free companions, to observe the council of those unnatural beings who were said to have their origins on a world concentric to the earth known of ordinary men.

In the ward below strutted the ruling clan’s patriarch, the off-world sorcerer Grimmolech, reeking of regal bearing. His moon-maddened son Belial bounded up from the shadows, his goat’s hooves clattering on the flagstones. Belial bowed to his father before squatting down on his haunches to play sadistically with a large rat he held tethered, strangled on a string.

Anton Balaerik entered through the gatehouse, signaling his two escorts to remain at the barbican.

“Gen-kori
—honored cousin,” Balaerik greeted Grimmolech, who replied in kind.

There was a brief wait, during which the sentries on the walls were so rapt by the figures below that they failed to take notice of the hulking black form that had scaled the curtain to loom up behind them. The first warrior felt the hot breath at his neck, spun around, and drew his pistol. There was a snapping of powerful jaws, a flash of canine teeth—

The mercenary screamed as he watched the pistol, and the hand that clutched it, flung away into the night air. Dark blood pulsed from the stump of his arm.

“Very careless,” Blaise Farouche growled. “But I think you’ve learned a valuable lesson here. Take it to your grave.” With the vicious swipe of a clawed arm, the man was battered off the rampart and down onto the ward fifty feet below. His body struck with a wet crash and a clatter of breaking bones.

The rest of the mercenary sentry detail fell back in stunned awe.
Now
their alertness was restored.

“Blaise, is that necessary?” Grimmolech said in a calm voice that nonetheless commanded attention.

The coarse black ruff relaxed on the werewolf’s neck as he glanced down at his father. His lips snaked back in a grin as he looked to the next soldier, who stared at him, shaking and open-mouthed, trying not to fix on the dark hole that had once contained the human Blaise’s right eye.

“My depth perception isn’t so good these days,” Blaise said archly. “I meant to bite through his pistol barrel. Don’t get me angry. Curry my coat before I address my father. I seem to have picked up burrs…”

The terrified mercenary began raking his fingers through the werewolf’s coarse, ruffled fur.

“Ahhh—you have a nice touch…”

The mercenary swallowed back a knot of fear.

Down below, Blaise’s brother Roman Farouche padded through the gatehouse—an enormous white lynx, scrutinizing the environs warily before greeting his father.

“And where are Serge and Rene?” Grimmolech asked after a time.

Roman, the lynx, raised himself from all fours up onto his hind legs. These began to grow and broaden in accordance with his need for support. There was a distending action in his throat as he sought the ability to make human speech.

“Blaise?” Roman hoarsely called up to the wall. “Come down and tell Father what you told me.”

Up on the bailey wall, the black werewolf slapped aside the reluctant groom’s hand and leapt down dramatically, with a resounding
thump
, to join his shape-shifting fellows.

“Serge, I can tell you,” Roman told Grimmolech, “has declined to attend. He insists he’ll be in touch with us soon. It seems he’s on the track of certain…scrapping outlanders who are making trouble in the province. Huns, he thinks. Also—”

“Also?” Grimmolech echoed impatiently.

Roman sighed. “Serge hates this host who imprisons our brother. He claims it’s infuriatingly hopeless. He maintains that we should…sacrifice our nameless brother to be rid of this troublesome
Simon
.
”

“So—more obstinacy,” Grimmolech said. “And how am I to command respect from lesser beings when I can’t even control my own sons? What of Rene?”

Now Roman stepped back and eyed the wolf-formed Blaise, who came forward erect, smiling ferally and clawing at an itch across his abdomen. “You’ll like this, dear father,” Blaise declared. “Brother Rene, it seems, has been
murdered
by rebels, his cord severed.”

“What?!” Grimmolech demanded.

“It can only be he, I’m certain. They say they have a shape-shifter buried in a secret grave. They’ve called for officials of the French king as well as representation from Dijon for the great unveiling.” Blaise was cold and smug, seemingly enjoying the thought of the retribution to come.

“How
dare
they?” Grimmolech intoned.

“I’ll be there, of course,” Roman said, “as the duke’s representative.”

“Who did this thing?” the demon father inquired with mounting anger.

“The town of Lamorisse,” Blaise apprised him. “The ‘holy’ Knights of Wonder again.”

“We’ll give them something to wonder about, eh, milord?” the satyr Belial advanced, trying vainly to gain his father’s approval and attention.

“They should never have been allowed to exist for so long,” Grimmolech said, eyes shining.
“Gonji
again. That samurai warrior’s influence again. Wherein have we failed? This lone samurai’s interference should have been stopped years ago. Balaerik—you had him in Toledo and again in Africa—”

The manipulator from yet another alien dimension seemed displeased with the reminder. “I’m afraid he slipped through our fingers because of unexpected aid. Certain churchmen…had their eyes opened, decided to oppose us, if only with the invisible powers they wield in ignorance. That is bad for us—those who learn and accept the secret of the enfolded worlds, of our cabal, and then begin to think about their lowly place in it, and to rebel…

“And then there is the ongoing problem of this…Japanese warrior. He still seems protected by Powers Unknown. In Africa,
again
he found unexpected aid. He is more dangerous than the church and secular leaders. And now they are influenced by him. He teaches them to see how they are being controlled. Perhaps even the pope has listened to him. This Gonji seems a man of great faith. He understands its mysterious power. That feeds his skill and renders him a formidable foe. He may even be protected or helped now by
supernatural
powers—adepts from the other spheres. Inimicals. Meddlers themselves who condemn
us
for meddling—our
enemies
, Grimmolech.” Balaerik folded his arms.

Grimmolech turned to his sons again. “What about you, my fine sons, fruit of my loins? Last winter you had him in your grasp. He should have been discredited and destroyed. A foreigner invading French territory with an army of highwaymen. Roman—Blaise—you channeled a costly amount of cosmic power through the gateways, and to what end? A callow and ineffectual display of elemental rage. Do you realize what chaos you caused on contiguous spheres by crossing winters with the Kirok 7 sphere? But I shan’t punish you,” he said, strolling away from his sons, lost in thought for a time.

Belial looked disappointed, always warmed to see his more favored siblings in trouble of their own making. Blaise’s pointed ears had been pinned back penitently. They perked now, and his sly grin at Belial evinced the fact that it had as usual been pure artifice on his part. Roman seemed unmoved, awaiting his father’s next command.

“No, I shan’t punish you, for I am as guilty of failure as you. It was I who allowed my wayward half-son Simon Sardonis to slip through my hands all these years, to be perverted by those monks who guarded his youth. He might have triumphed with us, once. I might have adopted him, taught him the ways of the spheres, introduced him to a larger cosmic scheme. He
is
a most atypical Terran…Now, I
have
him, and yet he resists every effort to tear from him the soul of my true son.” His face clouded, almost with pain. Grimmolech shook it off. “The
samurai…he
is our greatest enemy. Don’t you see what he’s done to us, Balaerik? He’s caused us both to succumb to emotionalism, to sink to the level of these unenlightened beings.” Grimmolech’s eyes darkened as he formed a vision. “He hasn’t begun to suffer. Where is he now?”

“In Austria, I believe,” Balaerik replied.

“Have you prepared things for him there?”

“The machinery has been set in motion.”

Grimmolech nodded curtly.

“What of Lamorisse, Father?” Roman asked.

“Rene’s tragic intemperance doubtless caused his own demise,” Grimmolech said with disdain.

“That…seems likely from what I’ve heard,” Roman agreed.

Blaise laughed gruffly. “An easy trap to fall into. There is a wonderful variety of carnal diversions here to stave off monotony. It’s easy to—”

“You were placed here to learn control, Blaise,” Grimmolech shot back by way of censure. “To ply the subtleties of terrorism. To prove your abilities at manipulative gamesmanship, your superiority and fitness to rule lesser beings. Thus far, you’ve fallen well short of my expectations. You are not here to push the limits of hedonistic endeavor. You take these beings too lightly, as mere playthings. Their faith and capacity for self-sacrifice are stumbling blocks that we cannot overcome without perseverance. Don’t take too much pride in your superiority. There are lessons to be taken from the brutal history of this sphere.”

“And Lamorisse?” Roman asked again when his father had restored his equanimity.

“Learn who the leaders are,” Grimmolech said evenly. “Instill fear in their children. And after they’ve lived with it awhile, we’ll extract vengeance in kind.”

CHAPTER SEVEN

“Surely you must thirst by now.”

The lycanthropic form of Simon Sardonic peered up through the crusted oubliette grating. His eyes radiated hatred. There was no malice in Grimmolech’s expression now but only something oddly resembling paternal anxiety.

Simon hadn’t kicked over the loathsome bowl this time. He was desperately thirsty, and now that night had brought the painful transformation into the Beast, the bowl of blood had begun to smell maddeningly appealing.

“Perverted monster.” Simon abruptly chose torturous self-denial and kicked over the bowl with the snap of a clawed foot.

“Your spirit is mighty,” Grimmolech allowed. “You could be a magnificent ally.”

“Go to the hell you’ve earned,” Simon told him in a parched voice. “You dare suggest I could ever be your ally? Set me free and see what an enemy I make.”

“I have seen, and you’re a formidable one indeed. If only these priests hadn’t conditioned your mind so. You direct a prodigious faith into such inglorious pursuits.”

Simon rasped back, “Servant of Satan! God will have His vengeance for what you did to my sainted mother, to my father—”

“Is that what they told you? Tales of ‘Satan’ and half-truths? Would you like to hear my side of—”

“Lies! Your special area of knowledge—” Simon’s throat was on fire, his words strained and broken. “—the Deceiver’s bequest to you—”

“Truth is relative, Simon. Surely you’ve learned that. Let me tell you about us. About this world I’ve asked you to join, the world you deny my captive son inside you. We came, seeking dominion, from another world which coexists with this lesser one. You learned something of the secret of these congruent worlds in Africa, I believe. We have rediscovered some of the ancient magical effects which facilitate travel through the gateways between worlds. We have even learned, as you’ve seen, to
remake
parts of a world, if need be, to suit our purposes. To transpose portions of one world onto another, as we wish.

“I am a High Lord of arcane arts on my world, arts which can only be understood as magic among these primitive peoples. Earth magic. The Power of the Spheres. Power which transcends that of any weapons your people might conceive. Balaerik and I are related. You might call him my cousin. He is an operative, an agent of the cross-world isle of Akryllon—of which I think you’ve heard. King Klann the Invincible, eh? By the way, in overthrowing King Klann’s efforts at taking back Akryllon, you helped us perpetuate our cause. We thank you for that. You see—we’re not complete enemies, are we?

“Balaerik is involved with coordinating efforts at controlling this Terran sphere by manipulation of its political and social systems. He placed my sons in charge here in Burgundy so that they might practice exercising local control. I’m afraid they’ve bungled it rather badly with their ostentatious displays of power,
n’est-ce pas?
They’ve much to learn of subtlety. Never show a monster where a shadow will serve, eh? Superstition and doubt are useful tools. Keep them on their heels, uncertain of whom to trust, what to believe, and—”

“Why?
Why do you do this?”

“Well, now at least we’re engaged in conversation…That’s a distinct improvement, Simon. Why do we do it? We do it for control, of course. For power over lesser beings. We need achievement. And there’s a certain degree of desire to bring order out of the chaos of these…alienated spheres, of course—once they were a system accessible to all. You see…we’ve attained practical immortality, and immortality alters morality, forces one to adopt ambitions that keep boredom from destroying the mind. And control of all that can be known and achieved is
everything
. The ultimate ambition. It’s a complex and intriguing pursuit.”

“You’ve sold your souls to the Devil.” Revulsion laced Simon’s hoarse words.

“There you go again, circumscribing a higher order of life with a simplistic moral and mythic code. Don’t you see that you were raised by the wrong side of the power struggle? You don’t fit their scheme—they reject you! Why do you continue to aid Christianity with your contradictory savagery? Don’t you see what a paradox you represent?
We
at least have made a commitment that is clear. We’ve chosen immortal rule over eternal subservience. What we do is right, under the circumstances. Practical. Your morality is meaningless in the greater cosmic context. We offer practical immortality in exchange for obedience, for abandoning useless devotion to a God who has long since abandoned the cosmic system. Who left humankind amidst fields of untold riches and commanded them not to touch. Do we ask so much? We offer wonderful gifts to a strife-ridden, theologically torn sphere—”

Simon barked out a scoffing sound. “There’s only one thing wrong with this immortality you’re so fond of offering. Someone can forcibly separate your evil soul from your all-too-delicate corpus.” He spat toward the grating.

“But we may live on, so long as we’ve been foresighted enough.”

“And yet…eventually you fail…God’s judgment is all that remains…for eternity.” Simon gasped and swallowed hard to force his dry throat to form words. “You steal time from its endless source…and in the end—
your
end—you owe a debt which can never be repaid. There are no bargains when you barter against eternity.”

“And you know all these things for facts, do you?” Grimmolech asked haughtily, cocking an eyebrow.

“You—
you
must be Satan himself!”

Grimmolech’s long fingers curled about the rusted grating. “I blame myself for this. For leaving you among those priests who poisoned you. Had I acted with expedience against them earlier, you’d be with me now. You
and
my son. But I was preoccupied, and now I pay for my lack of foresight. But the priests paid more dearly, didn’t they? And soon your friend Gonji will pay.
He
who made you so willful in this wayward direction you’ve chosen, keeping my son from fulfillment. I may even
feed
Gonji to you one night during the lunar dominance. Would you like that?”

Simon snarled at him and cast him an obscene gesture.

Grimmolech
tsked.
“I thought it was
immoral
to do such things—
let me have my son!”

“Your son goes before God when I do.”

As if in reply to hearing himself mentioned, the energumen fled Simon’s tortured body again. This time he manifested himself as a little girl with a physical malformation that caused Simon to shut his eyes and pray for deliverance even if it meant death.

“Papa,” the apparition said, already crying this time, “I’m so thirsty, so hungry. Make him eat, Papa.
Make him.
He does things to hurt himself—”

“I know, my son—”

“—it hurts
me!
It hurts me much worse than it hurts
him.
He’s a monster, Papa, a—”

“Be still!” Grimmolech composed himself at once. “Go back now. Show me how strong you are.”

“But, Papa—”

“Show me your pride! Show me the courage of a son born of my seed.
This
is your world for now!”

The grating rattled in the grasp of Grimmolech’s fury before the sorcerer strode away.

Simon listened to the puling sounds the spirit made until it could no longer remain outside his body. He put up a struggle against its re-entry for the small satisfaction of adding to the creature’s discomfort.

“Daddy’s a tough old goat, eh, kid?”

* * * *

They tortured Simon daily. He was exposed to extremes of heat and cold. His flesh was burned and flayed. He was denied food and drink. Now and again predatory creatures were flung down into his cell, and he would be forced to fight from his confining chains against things that bit and clawed at him, hit and run, in the darkness. Always there came a chill of discovery when next the light shone into the oubliette and he saw the shape of his latest kill—each one more hideous than the last. Some of these bizarre creatures had never crawled beneath the sun of the present earthly sphere.

Simon’s extreme tolerance for pain and his ascetic life, as well as his prodigious resiliency—which, he intuited, exceeded that of the Farouche themselves—kept him alive, ever on the path to recovery. But each new assault on his battered body seemed to set him farther back from full strength, and each increment of recovery was outweighed by the next enervating outrage. He began to despair of his ability to suffer this treatment much longer. His solaces were two: daily meditation and prayer for deliverance; and the theatrical agony of the energumen within, whose cravenness seemed to sting its father’s pride.

The nameless cohabiting spirit itself finally brought an end to the torture. One night an overambitious mercenary shot the beastly Simon through the leg with his pistol. Grimmolech’s son raised such a commotion with his screaming and ranting as he repeatedly fled Simon’s pain that the guilty mercenary was ordered murdered at once. Grimmolech sent a squad down into the cell in the morning to treat the now-human Simon’s wound. Three men held him down while the demon-father himself removed the leaden pistol ball and applied an unguent that exhibited immediate healing efficacy.

As the energumen stood outside Simon’s body, thanking his father in the most fawning terms, Grimmolech seemed to ignore him, all the while watching Simon’s stoic lack of concern.

A new tack—a small quantity of pure water and raw fish were now supplied to Simon once daily. This he resignedly partook of. His strength returned slowly, and the energumen positively reveled in the repast, counting himself honored by his father and somehow triumphant over Simon. And at night, when the werewolf transformation was complete, raw meat would be lowered into the dungeon chamber. The wolfish body was electrified with yearning at first scent of the meat, and ordinarily Simon would indulge its passion, seeing no harm, though he knew Grimmolech would be counting this as
his
victory. It was only when the scent was unmistakably that of
human
flesh that Simon would spurn it despite the raving and cajoling of the demonic spirit. That was
Simon’s
token triumph.

Now they also began leaving Simon aids to suicide—for if he would willingly take his own life, the energumen and its man-wolf body would be freed. One day a noose would be fixed to the grating above his head, within reach of his neck. Then a vial of poison. And later a dirk. But sharp objects were quickly eliminated when the nameless spirit reported that Simon had tried to use them to file through the links of his chains.

* * * *

Simon returned to consciousness one morning after the reversion to humankind to find himself in the grasp of several burly brigands. Grimmolech stood before him, bearing a bowl of blood again.

“I’m sorry,” he said, “but this is necessary…”

After a brief, fierce tussle, Simon’s mouth was forced open, and Grimmolech poured the coppery liquid inside. Simon gagged on it, tried to spit it out, but the mercenaries seized him by the throat and forced a reflexive swallowing reaction. His belly churned as the warm blood trickled down.

“The blood of your brothers—my sons, that is,” the High Lord of evil told him. “You’ll find that it possesses interesting properties.
You’ll not be able to spill the blood of a Farouche,
should the opportunity ever arise. You see, Simon, we mean to have either your death or your cooperation. One way or another.”

Simon spat flecks of blood into Grimmolech’s face.

He was beaten insensible and denied food and drink again for three days and nights. On the third night, blood and human flesh were lowered into the oubliette again. After a tremendous struggle with the instincts of the ravening Beast, he kicked the offending cannibalistic feast into a corner of the cell.

* * * *

“Father—I’ll
die
here soon, if you don’t save me,” the energumen pleaded, appearing as a comely youth nearing manhood, but pierced by several gouting wounds. “He means to die here. And then I’ll die, too.”

“Be still. I’ve come to speak with Simon Sardonis,” his father replied. He had descended into the cell rather than speaking through the grating this time.

“Don’t you care about me, Father—the flesh of your flesh?”

“Reenter him and lock yourself away at once!”

The energumen blanched, embarrassed to be so addressed in the presence of his bitter enemy, but he acquiesced.

“I wish he’d obey me like that,” Simon sneered. “What now, bastard of swine and maggot?”

Grimmolech smiled. “You never cease to amaze me. Every day a new insult. I do admire your indomitable spirit. It’s obvious you’re not going to take your life, and I question my son’s…” He looked away an instant, changed his tone, genuine emotion seeping into his voice. “If only—if only, Simon, my craven son could be such as you are. You—the most promising spirit of domination in my acquaintance—fatherless. And I—disappointed in my own issue. I—I may as well be without sons for the disappointment they’ve given me. Simon…what can I possibly offer that might entice you to join us?”

Simon’s expression contorted with incredulity. “You—you’re not only evil. You’re a
lunatic.”

“What can
they
possibly offer you out there?”

“Salvation.”

“Salvation? You’ve killed a thousand men in your time. On what will you base this nebulous notion of salvation?”

“God is mercy without end, and He has sent His Son—”

“Enough of this blather!
This
is your world. And so it shall be—forever. You—shall—be—
ours.”
Grimmolech strode close to him, taking a step to punctuate each word.

And when he carelessly stamped near enough, Simon grabbed him by the throat. All the vengeful hatred of a tortured lifetime infused his crushing grip for an instant, and then—

He felt the object of his wrath pull free as if from the playful stranglehold of a child.

“My
blood was also in the measure you drank.” He met Simon’s horrified gaze with a look of serene conquest. As though there had been no battle waged at all. “Don’t you see, Simon—you can’t win. It’s impossible for you to end your quest after vengeance. Join us, Simon.” This last was spoken in an exhorting whisper.

Simon slumped onto the floor. The energumen separated from him again, looking foully coy…

And in a passable semblance of
Claire Dejordy.

“I just remembered something, Father,” the creature said, smiling at the accursed warrior’s shock. “Something you might offer him…”

Simon was dumbstruck, unable to move, as the energumen spoke of Claire, though it could speak no ill of her, by some merciful mandate of their cohabitation.

“So…you want a mortal woman?” Grimmolech asked softly after he’d heard the creature out. “Why didn’t you say so? We’ll find her for you. Soon this will be
her
world, too…
mon fils.”