Fortress of the Demon: A Time Defenders Action

By Scott Tomasheski

Imagine that you can travel through time, and that you can meet your great-Grandparents and your great-Grandchildren, because THEY can travel through time, too … MEET THE ATHERTON FAMILY. Ambassador Bartolomea Atherton – a.k.a. ‘Mrs. A’ – along with her great-nephew August, and their family members and other associates on the Council of Time Defense, have a huge responsibility: they have vowed to defend the Timeline against those who attempt to change it, in their quests for wealth, power, and revenge. And when the notorious Baron Hookfinger uses his terrifying Aerofortress to reverse the outcome of the Eighth Crusade, putting the fate of Western Europe and the entire free world in jeopardy, August and Mrs. A must attempt to stop him. But first, they must unravel a centuries-old mystery… confront the supernatural forces that haunt a Transylvanian castle… and defeat the mightiest army ever assembled on Earth…

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Aug 18, 2015
• ISBN: 9781682220337

Book preview

Gladiator

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CHAPTER ONE

THE AMBASSADOR

1948.

15th Level Basement Archive Hall of the Council of Time Defense.

Lisbon, Portugal.

After years of entreaties by friends and family members and longtime associates on the Council, Ambassador Bartolomea Atherton had finally been eased, or coaxed, into retirement.

But the great Ambassador, at age 98 the last surviving member of the original Council of Time Defense, apparently had no intention of living a life of leisure.

Certainly, her official responsibilities had been passed along to younger and highly capable hands, but everyone knew that while others would take over for her, none could ever truly replace her.

She would retain her title of Senior Ambassador for the rest of her life. She would be kept fully informed on matters of Council security and protocol, and as a courtesy she would be invited to all Executive Staff sessions, although she made it clear that she had little interest in participating in what she considered dull affairs attended by dusty bureaucrats discussing little of consequence.

Her reputation was intact, and as the greatest strategist and most successful Field Agent that ever lived, she would continue to be sought for her wise counsel on almost every important matter.

She would have luxurious and comfortable apartments at any and all of the Council Headquarters, including the gleaming new facility in Brisbane, Australia. She would have a staff of attendants, and an expense account that was nearly limitless. She would have full and free access to all the Council’s facilities and resources.

It was unlikely, however, that with the exception of the full and free access to the Council’s facilities and resources, she would ever have need or want of any of those other things.

To friends and associates in all corners of the world, scattered throughout the breadth and scope of history, Ambassador Bartolomea Atherton would always be known as Mrs. A. In her youth, an older generation had called her Barty for short, and she would forever be Aunt Barty to the myriad of younger relatives in her family, be they related by marriage or blood.

A worthy example of the last, her great-great niece Augustina, followed closely at her heels now, as she made use of one of those aforementioned Council facilities for the umpteenth time since her recent retirement.

Despite her advanced age, Mrs. A was nearly as spry and active as ever. Her long, spindly legs carried her swiftly and unerringly down a cluttered passageway in the subterranean catacombs of the Lisbon Archives, so swiftly that Augustina, thirteen years old and gifted with the same long limbs that were so typical of Atherton women, was hard pressed to keep apace of the elderly one, and was in danger of falling behind altogether.

A fraction of the disparity in bipedal pace between the two might be attributed to the fact that young Augustina was burdened with two heavy knapsacks, her own upon her back and another, belonging to her great-great Aunt, slung across her chest.

A large canvas duffel bag full of equipment was on one shoulder, and a leather satchel weighed down the other. Mrs. A, meanwhile, was empty-handed, and in deference to her advanced years and as a matter of personal policy, she deigned to carry no baggage whatsoever, as long as someone of the younger generation was available, and with a single unencumbered limb to offer in her service.

The passageway was long and contorted, and lined with high and low shelving, bookcases, and display cabinets. These were packed to capacity, and piled to great teetering heights, with items of every conceivable variety, including the expected books, boxes, folders, and electronic recordings, and everything from boxing gloves to ballet slippers, from a mastodon skull to a rolling Macedonian skate-board, from Genghis Khan’s kid-gloves to Pancho Villa’s poncho. If there was any organization or system of categorization among the jumble it was not apparent to Augustina.

And just as the overburdened valet seemed in danger of falling behind by an insurmountable distance in the labyrinthine Archives, something caught Mrs. A’s attention and she stopped short, giving her younger companion an opportunity to catch up.

Hully hullay! Here’s something, indeed! exclaimed the great lady. Very pertinent to your studies, and the matter at hand! And as Augustina came huffing and puffing to join her, Mrs. A bent down, and selected an enormously heavy tome from a low bookshelf. She blew a quantity of dust from it, and read aloud the title, printed in chipped gold leaf across the front of the volume’s hard leather cover.

"‘Observations on the Protean War, by Throckmorton the Chinless’… a deceptive title, if I may say… Here, take this. You simply must read it," and she handed the huge book over to Augustina, with little regard for the other articles that already weighed the girl down heavily.

But, Aunt Barty, how am I supposed to… she began to protest.

Mrs. A was never much of a sympathetic ear, as far as complaints of physical discomfort were concerned, and since her retirement she seemed particularly unlikely to change, in that regard. She spun on a heel and continued down the winding Archive corridor at a brisk pace.

Oh, just put it in one of the bags. When you’ve finished reading it, remind me to tell you how Throckmorton lost his chin! she called over her shoulder. Come along now, Augustina! I’ll not let you turn out to be a champion dawdler, like your father.

The girl emitted an exasperated puff, and allowed her eyes to roll upward. Now with both the duffel bag and leather satchel slung over her left shoulder, she tucked the heavy tome under her right arm, re-established her balance, and waddled off down the passageway in pursuit of her great-great Aunt.

But, Aunt Barty! she pleaded. When will you show me the Demon Box?

Mrs. A stopped abruptly in her tracks, and rounded on the girl. Demon Box? Where did you hear that silly term? Your father, I’ll bet! Mrs. A scolded her.

Augustina was nonplussed. Why, that’s what everyone calls it! Daddy, everyone… a Demon Box!

"And would you call a snail a seagull, if that’s what everyone calls it? Anyway, it should be right up here. Let’s see, I think it’s just ahead."

They wound their way up and down aisles and corridors for a little while, and then finally, Mrs. A stood before a large, ornately paneled cabinet that was affixed to a four-wheeled chassis, like a rolling armoire.

Hello, old friend! she greeted the cabinet.

Augustina, plus baggage, came up breathlessly to her side.

An enormous padlock, about the size of a human head, sealed the cabinet, but Mrs. A produced a bit of wire from a skirt pocket, and made quick work of the lock.

Then she took a deep breath, glanced briefly at her great-great-niece, and opened the doors.

A-ha!! she exclaimed, as she reached into the cabinet and drew forth a small, undecorated wooden box. It looked like a cigarette case, and it was closed with a tiny brass latch, and loosely tied with a length of black silk ribbon.

Mrs. A’s eyes were wide, and appeared to Augustina to be illuminated from within by the light of wonder, like the spark of recognition at seeing a familiar face for the first time in a long time.

This certainly brings back memories…, Mrs. A began, yes, many memories…

And then she was quiet for a long time.

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CHAPTER TWO

KILL THE DEMON!!

1878.

The village of Cluja Mare, in the Transylvanian Alps.

Near modern-day Bucharest, Romania.

A pitch-fork was an uncommon tool in Cluja Mare.

In the village, there were no farms, no ranches, and relatively few animals. There was little reason to pitch hay, or grass, or anything that could be pitched with a fork.

So, no one in the swarming crowd of marchers owned a pitch-fork. Most of them had never set foot on a farm or ranch, where the pitch-fork was ubiquitous, and many villagers would live their entire lives without ever seeing a horse-stall or a haystack.

But anyone who worked in the mines above the village – that is, nearly every male villager over the age of ten – owned at least one heavy pick-axe.

Mining, specifically the mining of salt, coloured by an occasional rumour of gold, silver, or diamonds, was the business of the community. The miners worked long hours, deep in the mine shafts, using those pick-axes to carve out the heavy blocks of salt that were the village’s lifeblood.

And they carried those pick-axes now.

Kill the demon! Kill the demon! they chanted as they swept through the village, gathering in strength by the minute. Destroy the Cursed One!!

They pounded on doors. Gather your weapons and join us!! they entreated. We go to the Castle, to destroy the demon!!

Few could resist the call to arms. Nearly every man in the village, and many of the women and children, joined in the march, until they numbered nearly three hundred strong.

Some men were armed with muskets, blunderbusses, or flint-lock pistols, and they marched in the vanguard, although ammunition and powder for these weapons was scarce.

Knives, daggers, and swords were more plentifully distributed, even among the children, and particularly among the women bringing up the rear guard.

A few of the women carried torches, despite the brightness of the day.

Kill the demon!! Kill the demon!! the children practically shrieked in the upper reaches of their vocal abilities.

At full strength, the marchers now reached the edge of the village proper. They swarmed up the dozen or more narrow paths that led to the entrances of the great salt-mine of Cluja Mare, then onward they continued, up into the rocky foothills of the Transylvanian Alps, where the paths coalesced into one steep-angled, switchbacked trail, that climbed for about a kilometer and wound into a dark, wooded canyon, where the path was a tangle of vines and low-lying branches.

The going was slower now, and more taxing, and the would-be demon-killers had mostly ceased their battle cry. But their advance was not halted, and they pressed on, in single file where the path was most narrow. Straight up the wooded path they marched, to where it broke into a small clearing, before the heavy iron gates of the Castle of Cluja Mare.

The first ones to emerge into the clearing, those who were fleetest of foot and most deft at avoiding the vegetative and rocky hazards of the path waited to be joined by a satisfactory number of the stoutest hearts and most heavily armed.

Then, they moved up to the huge iron gates themselves, and took a moment to gather their courage. Reinforcements continued to swell their ranks as groups of stragglers completed the trek up the wooded path. Soon, they resumed chanting the bold statement of purpose.

Kill the demon!! Kill the demon!! Destroy the Cursed One!! they cried, and with each stanza the volume and pitch increased, but it did not quite reach the same heights of enthusiasm as it had, down in the village.

The group was smaller now too, their ranks thinned by a handful of twisted ankles, and more than a few sober judgments, and some who opted for the safety of the village over the unknown perils of the seemingly spontaneous demon-hunt.

Some who made it to the iron gates were simply exhausted, and they chose to save their strength and breath for whatever might come next, rather than join in the chorus. Some were curiously amazed, and they stood with slack jaws and dazed countenances before this structure, the Castle of Cluja Mare, and almost every one of their number was seeing the castle up close for the very first time.

It emitted its own palpable sense of foreboding and danger, dark as it was in the hazy morning sunshine, it seemed to consume the very daylight around it.

And yet, when judged according to the standard of that particular region of Europe, the Castle of Cluja Mare was barely a castle at all.

It adhered to no known architectural style, and would have been a proud addition to no reputable architect’s design portfolio. It would have been denied entry upon sight, had it attempted to enter a company of truly grand castles.

It was a short, squat hunk of stone, no more than fifty feet at its highest battlements. Built at the foot of the sheer, rocky cliffside, from a certain angle the castle looked like it might once have been tall, but had somehow been squashed underfoot by Gura Munte, the mountain peak that towered over the village.

It was square and blocky, yet somehow also lumpy and shapeless at the same time. It looked less like a castle, and more like some great, stony loaf of bread.

It was pocked with scars, that might have once been windows in the structure, but were irregularly sized and distributed across the façade, and they had long since been filled in with brick and mortar.

A thick grove of cypress trees obscured the lower reaches of the castle, including a front door or other means of entrance, from the view of the villagers gathered at the iron gates. Beyond the gates, a flight of broken, jagged stone steps climbed steeply upward, disappearing into the cypress grove.

Kill the demon!! Kill the demon!! the crowd chanted with renewed vigor, led by a score or so young men, the most heavily armed of the group, and the most adventurous. They tended to be of the unmarried variety.

Kill the demon!! Kill the demon!! Destroy the Cursed One!! they cried.

Some of the men at the front of the crowd grasped the iron bars of the mighty gate, which adjoined a stone wall. They shook the bars, rattling them to add to the cacophony as they shouted, Kill the demon!! Kill the demon!!

But the next refrain died in the throats of those men, and they jumped back, sending a pressure wave through the crowd that cut off the chant entirely, as the mass of almost two hundred people was suddenly jostled in place.

A black-cloaked, hooded figure had emerged from the cypress grove, materializing at the foot of the jagged stone steps and evoking the crowd’s startled reaction.

With inhuman swiftness the figure covered the remaining distance to the gate, some ten meters or so.

Even the men with the stoutest constitutions, and the most lethal weapons, were silent as the figure regarded them for a moment from the other side of the gate.

A long, slender hand emerged from the folds of the heavy dark cloak and whipped off the hood, revealing the face of a somewhat lovely young woman.

The woman, who appeared to be in her mid- to late-twenties, now put her hands on her hips in a studied pose, and spoke to the group in perfect Romanian, with a high-country accent appropriate to the region, and here translated for convenience’s sake into the language of the reader.

Hully hullay! What in the world are you all yelling about? she scolded. And what do you mean, coming here and waving those silly guns around?

Nervous glances were cast, and mumbles were passed among the crowd.

Why, we have come to help you, Mrs. A! one of the leaders, a young village ruffian named Gheorghe, stepped forward. He held a musket in one hand, and a pick-axe in the other.

Help me do what, exactly? came the reply, with a tone of clipped irritation.

Why, kill the demon, of course!! Didn’t you hear us?

The young woman whom Gheorghe had addressed as Mrs. A could not stifle a chuckle.

The demon! Oh, that’s just wonderful, she rejoined, Everyone knows the way to kill a demon is with a falling-apart, hundred year old musket that belonged to your grandfather. Tell me, Gheorghe, have you ever actually fired that thing?

Gheorghe fell silent under the questioning. He looked at the ground, several inches from the bottom edge of the iron gate, on his own side.

Hmm. It seems you aren’t even ready to hunt squirrels, never mind about demons. And you, Virgiliu? The questioner addressed another young man, who was suddenly less proud of the ancient firearm he bore. Let me see that thing.

Sheepishly, he held it up for inspection.

A blunderbuss!! the young woman exclaimed. "I don’t think I’ve ever seen one. In such poor condition, that is! You know the ignition assembly is missing, don’t you?"

Virgiliu could only mumble an excuse. Well, I’ve been meaning to get it fixed…

That’s what I thought, she cut him off, and with a swift motion the young woman reached up and unlatched the huge bolt that secured the gate. She braced herself, placing both feet flat on the ground, and with a great effort that curved her spine and stretched both her long arms, she hauled the gate open.

Now, where is my lawyer? she inquired, glancing among the faces in the crowd.

A tall drink of water shouldered his way through the assembly and stepped forward. He was dressed differently, and more cleanly, than anyone else, in a lumpen approximation of a Western-style frock coat and frilled shirt. His hair was slicked with oil, and had been carefully coaxed into place. A pair of tiny spectacles pinched his nose. A leather satchel was under his arm, and he held a paperboard tube in his hand, fumbling it nervously.

Here, Mrs. Atherton, he said, I have the documents right here. I’m sure you will find everything in perfect order. He handed her the paperboard tube. Everything is rotary legalized… er, I mean, legally notarized ….the deed to the castle names Bartolomea Atherton, ownership is clee and frear… er, free and clear…

Thank you, Mr. Tomescu. And I beg your pardon, but I prefer Mrs. A or just plain Barty if you chance to see me in the tavern. Now, won’t you come in and have a look around?

The lawyer adjusted the spectacles on his nose, moving them to a point where they pinched with a great deal more firmness. He stuttered and stammered a reply.

"Look around? Come in? Why, no… no, Mrs. Atherton… er, I mean, Mrs. A… I’m afraid I must return to my tavern… er, my office… I have urgent business… yes, urgent business… I’m afraid I must leave right now, catch the office… er, the tavern… I mean train… the train to Bucharest…"

Having thus articulated his desire to take his leave, Mr. Tomescu was soon re-maneuvering through the crowd of villagers, aiming toward the path, back down the hill to Cluja Mare.

So if I need you, I can reach you by wire, at your office in Bucharest? the young woman named Barty, or Mrs. A, called after the learned man.

Yes! he replied over his shoulder. Office in Bucharest… but I may be away for some time…

Oh, and please send me an invoice for my account with your firm, she called, I’m sure you have the address of this place in your files.

Yes…address in files… and he was gone.

Well, I suppose there’s only one ‘Castle of Cluja Mare’ in the vicinity, anyway, she said with a chuckle.

We can be thankful for that! someone called out. Only one demon! added another.

Barty stood straight and tall, with her hands on her hips, and looked at the crowd. They watched her, seemingly in great anticipation.

So, have you all come here to see demons? she asked. If so, you will be disappointed. I promise you, there are no demons in this house. And if there were, I couldn’t be expected to allow you all to go stomping through my parlor in your muddy boots, could I?

There was a murmur of assent, then a voice came from the back of the assembly.

You do not understand, called out a