Tales of Mist and Nightmare

By R. A. Garcia

A collection of tales from the mystical world of Osturias, a world of mist and dreams.

• Language: English
• Publisher: R. A. Garcia
• Release date: Jan 12, 2024
• ISBN: 9798224797783

Book preview

The Dead Man’s Map

The city guardsman threw open the iron door and Gonzago stepped through without even a glance.  He marched into a darkened corridor whose niter-covered walls had once been the haunt of a race of men centuries dead.  Strange markings were engraved along its nighted length, written in a language no mortal had spoken for ages.  The words meant nothing to Gonzago, but they apparently meant a great deal to the man he was about to meet.

This was, after all, the fabled city of Carcosa.

By and by, he came to another door.  This one was stamped in iron and newly installed upon an ancient frame of stone.  It was partly ajar, inviting his hand to swing it further open.  Doing so revealed a small room lit by a single candle.  Tall dark shelves bearing dusty stacks of scrolls and tomes covered its walls.  Candle wax dripped and hissed onto a heavy table and, illumined by the candle’s pale light, was a non-descript man, dressed in the worn robes of a merchant or peddler.  His dark eyes were pouring over a scattering of papers that lay on the table before him.  Gonzago marched in and let the clatter of his sword and armor announce his presence.

But the man did not look up.  Do you know who I am? he asked after a time.

I have heard a name, Gonzago said, evenly, for he had reason to keep his normally turbulent disposition on an even keel.  The mercenaries of his company had not been paid their wages in four months, and he now faced the wealthiest banker in the four cities.  You are the one called Melzi, the painter’s son.

A silence ensued, as the robed man absorbed this reference to his low-born origins.  His face displayed no reaction, and that spurred a measure of irritation in Gonzago.  What, he wondered, could this wealthy son of an impoverished painter want with him?  Gonzago was a Captain-General, and Melzi was one who garnered wealth by borrowing and lending money.  It irked Gonzago that one whose business was peddling coin could command a captain who had led thousands into battle.

Do you recognize this map? Melzi asked.  The long fingers of his hand gestured toward the pale piece of parchment spread out upon the table.  Gonzago stepped closer and examined its inked lines.

Those, he said, now allowing the irritation to show in his voice, are the ruins of ancient Ráshagna.  They lie a short way south of here.

Melzi’s large forehead furrowed and nodded, and Gonzago could see his wrinkled eyes were burning with feverish energy as they devoured the symbols on the map.

They are.  Melzi said these words with bated breath.  In those ruins are items I must have.

Gonzago was unimpressed, for more than once he had traded with smugglers who sought rare magic, and each time he had wasted gold on a useless weapon or artefact of some kind.  I am not a treasure hunter, he said flatly.

"But that is not why I would employ you, buen señor, continued Melzi softly.  I have heard of you.  You have been active in wars against Valverde, and you have met the d’Garza’s in the field, have you not?  You have even dueled the one called Grajo Blanco twice.  I understand that he and his band of condottiere are now passing near Ráshagna.  Word is that you are an experienced swordsman, second only to him."

My sword is second to none. 

Indeed, for word around Carcosa is that this d’Garza has refused a third duel against you.  Now, I have learned that two of his associates have possession of a particular map, one inked by a Cartajenan scribe who died not so long ago.  I have tried to reproduce the details of the map here, but much is missing.  I would employ you to recover me that map, my good sir, from these two associates of the Tartessian d’Garza.

You speak of the Arguentos?

You know of them?

Gonzago nodded, but said nothing.

Yes, very good.  You have heard.  Melzi’s wrinkled eyes smiled as he stared at Gonzago, but the rest of his face was as expressionless as the head of a fish.  These Arguentos would not deal with me, so now I must now find a way to deal with them.  You, with your resources, are that way, my good sir.  The world would not shed a single tear if their corpses were discovered in some alley in the slums, but that which is in their possession, the map, is worth to you six hundred gold livres.  Bring me the map, sir, and you will be paid well for your efforts.

You take me for a brigand?

Melzi showed no sign of irritation to the note of challenge in Gonzago’s tone.  Your opinion of yourself is no concern of mine, he said lightly.  Was the old merchant slighting Gonzago?  The notion was almost amusing, for Melzi carried no sword, and here, in this small dark chamber, there were no guards.  Melzi rolled up the map and put it away in a coffer behind him.  He picked up a small purse and brought it to the table.  When he spoke again, his words and voice were precise and self-controlled.  "You have gained some repute as a captain of mercenaries, Captain Gonzago de Rabat.  Why not yourself become a Señor?  With my influence, I could buy you lands, much like the d’Garza’s.  Imagine yourself living on your own villa, with servants to offer you every luxury.  I could make these things happen, if you serve me properly.  Melzi’s hand slid the purse of coins across the table.  Gold glinted from its open mouth.  It is in my power, he continued.  Six hundred livres, my good friend, should be enough of a start."

Gonzago looked hungrily down at the bag on the table.  There indeed appeared to be at least six hundred gold coins in it, enough to square his men’s pay for a week or more.  His eyes moved to the coffer on the table, the one which held the crude sketch of a map.  But, before he could speak, Melzi’s words broke his reverie:

"I know what you are thinking, Belitman. You think you might find a better price elsewhere by keeping the map and the treasures for yourself.  I assure you, there is no elsewhere.  You will deal with me and no one else."

Twelve hundred livres! Gonzago’s voice rung in emphatic answer. 

The merchant’s high forehead nodded in a sovereign gesture of approval, and his old, lined face became very pleased.  He pushed the coins closer to Gonzago.  Then see this as an advance, and you will receive the balance once the job is done.

Gonzago now allowed himself an amused smile.  Twelve hundred, he repeated.  In advance.  You are, after all, hiring the captain of a company of a thousand men.

The smile Melzi returned reminded Gonzago of a snake rearing its head to strike.  Still, there was no doubt that these relics, whatever they were, were far more valuable to this merchant than a mere 1200 livres.

So be it, said Melzi finally.  He scribbled something on a piece of fresh parchment.  Take this to any bank in Carcosa, and the gold you ask for will be yours.

Gonzago smiled.  He lifted the sack of coins from the table with one deft hand, weighed it, and then snatched the scribbled note with the other.  Bowing triumphantly to the painter’s son, he turned on his heel and left without a word.  Gonzago knew there would be more purses such as this to weigh his hand, and, for his part, he would milk this opportunity, like a calf on a fatted teat, for all it was worth.

*                   *                    *

Don Anton d’Garza, scion of one of Valverde’s most notable mercenary houses, was making water on the rotted stump of a tree that had fallen near the side of the road.  His head ached from his excesses of the night before, and for some odd reason his teeth grated like a cracked millstone.  At least last night’s wine had done a good job of drowning the torment of his dreams.

Marking company territory, good captain? came a warm and familiar voice.

Anton looked up at the dark sky, and closed his eyes.  Inwardly he surmised there was no cause to feel warm or friendly towards any living thing, but the man who had spoken was perhaps his closest friend.  Even mist fears my water, he muttered, as he laced his trousers up.  He turned to face the tall man who approached.  Sergeant Alvar Colina was the last of a noble order of knights whose name had sunken into obscurity, the Brothers of San Jordán.  He still wore the dented armor of his order, but he rarely spoke of his association with them.  Anton tried to smile for this man, but the sky was simply too overcast and his efforts fell woefully short.

I am not the least surprised, continued the old soldier.  Last night you were talking to the ghosts of men forty years dead.

Anton scowled.  They sometimes visit my sleep.

It was indeed a strange and most portentous night.  The sergeant’s deep baritone was as somber as the tolling of a funeral bell.  The moon was cast in frozen bronze, and one of the men swore he saw a nighthawk fall from the sky, its wings ripped asunder and throat torn out.

Don Anton gazed on the sad eyes of the sergeant, and was reminded of an old, scarred warhound licking the wounds of a littermate.  What is it troubles you, Alvar?

An evil wind rides your dreams, good captain, continued Alvar in a low and solemn tone. The men hear you cry out in your sleep.  Our people do not choose to live near ruins such as these.  His armored hand gestured to the fallen pillars that lay strewn to either side of the road.  Not like these Redalgan half-wits, who breathe mist as if it were a harlot’s perfume.  Even some of your older veterans grow restless.  They say this mist is the source of your turmoil.  It shackles a man’s soul to the realm of dreams.  They fear you will become a minion to nightmare.  They are good Tartessians, captain.

Anton shrugged half-heartedly.  The wages of his company were in arrears, and there was hardly enough coin to purchase oil for the men’s torches.  Sometimes, a man must find his path through the mist.

Sometimes, captain, Alvar agreed.  But it is not the Tartessian way to court dreams.  The men would follow you knee deep into the Lake of Forgetfulness, but many of them bicker about these nightmares of yours and, honestly, I cannot fault them for it.  What should I tell them, captain?

Don Anton felt his bowels wilting as much from the shakes as from his sergeant’s reproving glare.  He had sold his best pistol last week to buy fodder for the horses.

Tell them their captain is a Tartessian, too, he said, and brother to Don Eduarto, who also helps pay their wages.  What fool would dare question that man’s orders, no matter how deep he is steeped in nightmare?

The old sergeant nodded and sighed.  He began to strap his steel bascinet stubbornly onto his round, bald head.  These priests of Amare feed the very dreams they pretend to oppose, he grumbled to no one in particular.  They have no reverence for the light of their ancestors, and even their own misguided people do not love them.

They do not have to love us, a rude and grating voice interrupted.  A fat man in heavy robes of velvet and gold waddled towards Anton and Alvar.  Like a mole’s snout poking from a hole in the ground, his bullet head stuck out of the heap of embroidered black cloth that he was wearing.  On his wrist was a golden shackle, a religious symbol of the Amarine Church.  Anton’s sore mind made no effort to remember the man’s name.  He was an archdeacon of some fine thing or another, and his affectations of holiness annoyed Anton to no end.  His round, cherubic face dripped such a measure of contempt that the sight almost made Anton bare his teeth. 

The prophet has seen the words and signatures on your captain’s Condotta, good sergeant! proclaimed the priest, with his fist gripping the air.  The contract bears the hallowed seal of the Patriarch, in wax plain enough even for eyes as nearsighted and irreligious as yours!  Your company is to escort my brothers, men who all wear the sacred cloth of the Amarene, and you are to defend them as their faithful steps travel through these sullied lands.

Alvar grunted a low oath.  I will get the company ready to ride, captain, he said, and stalked off with a rattle of plate and mail.  The priest wisely approached Don Anton now with a more restrained and prudent step.

Captain, are you aware two men of your men are missing? His tone, though strident to Anton’s sore ears, waxed cordial.  Where have your two scouts gone?  Neither my lay brother, nor I, have seen them anywhere among the men of this caravan.

Who?

The Arguento brothers.  I speak of your two scouts.

They are Sergeant Colina’s concern.  Speak to him.  I have no notion where they are or where they have gone.

But you must know they have been missing for three days now.  Does that not concern you?

Don Anton’s head seemed to ache with each word that touched on his ears.  Why should I be concerned?  Both are able men.

The ruins of Ráshagna are nearby, pressed the cleric, and mist hangs thick in the air there.

Tartessian warriors are bred against Mist, said Anton dismissively, though he well knew the Arguentos were from a land far beyond the waters of the Bay of Steam.

Our sacred mission is to monitor the villages of these territories... droned the priest, for corruption.  Anton felt a sudden urge to retch.  ...those closest to these ruins and the mist that pervades them...  The urge did not leave, but even as Don Anton held it down, the priest’s monotone still nagged his aching ears.  ...We are sworn to cleanse those that have fallen into depravity.  When these Arguentos return, it would be wise if I were to inspect them for corruption.

At last, Anton spat up some bile and kicked dirt over it with the toe of one booted foot.  You are welcome to do so, sir.  Would you care to wager which of the two brothers will stick you with his sword first?

The fat priest cleared his throat, turned his back, and waddled away.

*                   *                    *

Riders come, the female child said.

Vicco did not look at the little girl who had once been his daughter, for he did not want even her memory to see the tears welling up in his eyes.  He stared futilely out the window, at the broken pen outside.  The hogs had not been fed in two days, and several had escaped their enclosures.  Perhaps he would repair it tomorrow.  Riders? he softly asked. 

The child sat hunched and motionless in a shadowed corner of the hut.  She had been there all day, conspicuously selecting a place that was the furthest from the light of the open window.  These were her first words for a quarter turn of the Twin Suns.

Visitors come to our village, father.  Even with her childish voice, her words carried the weight of a condemned man’s sentence.  They approach from the north road.  Priests are among them, and a priest will ask questions.

Vicco wiped moisture from his eye with a calloused finger.  Questions? he said to the flesh of the child he had watched grow for nine winters.  Here, in our small village of Nanken, he said weakly, we follow the true faith as spoken by San Amare centuries ago.

The trill of the child’s laughter sent a thrill of fear up Vicco’s spine.

*                   *                    *

The mist was thick, and with it came the deep scents of the forest.  Nymi Arguento imbibed the sights, sounds, and smells of the deep woods, as he and his brother rode their tired horses side by side down the wilderness road.  Shadows moved among the surrounding trees and underbrush, but Nymi was familiar with their presence and ignored them.

So, my brother, do you really believe there will be treasure here in these mist-haunted ruins? 

Nymi did not answer with words, for words were never needed when he communicated with his brother Saveo.  His younger brother liked to talk, though even he knew true brothers never had a need to speak.  So instead, in answer, Nymi quietly tapped the lid of the leather scroll case that was tucked in his belt.  It held a parchment centuries old, a map written in a tongue dead for more than a thousand years.  Blood had already been shed obtaining it, and two brothers had been obliged to rub shoulders with some dubious rogues in order to verify its authenticity.

Saveo’s dark eyes fell upon the scroll case with almost palpable distaste.  Nymi knew his brother did not fear mist, nor did he care that the scavenging of relics was considered a profane practice in the most civilized parts of Osturias.  So, Nymi wondered, what was it that fretted him?

I realize that piece of parchment at your waist promises wealth, Saveo said in answer.  But too many are aware of that promise, brother. 

For this, Nymi had no response.  Instead, he flicked his reins and left the road to obtain a better view of the winding path ahead.  Leaning forward in the saddle, he peered between straggly clumps of foliage, and made out a wavering line of tumbled walls and broken columns in the murky distance ahead.  The ruins they sought were grouped at least half a furlong beyond the next bend. 

What is the name of these ruins? Saveo asked.  There was derision in his tone, for Nymi’s younger brother had a way of mocking anything that made him nervous.  Nymi watched him slide down from his saddle, like a great cat rolling off a tree limb, and drop to his feet.

Ras-shnaga, Nymi said.

Ráshnaga, that was the name of these forbidden ruins, cursed in antiquity by the magic of dreams.  The spirits of its original inhabitants wandered among it, like sightless ants on the petrified bones of a colossus, lost to everything except the madness of nightmare.  Nymi waited till Saveo’s dark eyes fell upon him again, and then moved his gloved hand to the vial of fire-grease at his waist. 

I know, I know, said his younger brother.  Saveo’s lips twisted purposely into his cruelest smile, for he had a love and a talent for chaos and violence.  My eyes will be as sharp as my blade today.  He cracked his back before speaking again.  I do not trust that vulture of a scholar you dealt with in Carcosa.  You know the one.  I suspect he has already sold our names to those who would slit our throats and rob us of our treasure.

Nymi also fell from his saddle, nimbly removing the arquebus from where it rested in its case on his horse’s withers.  His free hand sought the ball-pouch and powder horn where they hung near the pommel and lifted them from their place.  Saveo was already testing the point of his dagger with a naked thumb. 

Vultures, he said quietly, that’s what city folk are. 

In silence, both men tethered their horses and removed the rest of their gear.  Ancient and hidden treasures awaited.

*                   *                    *

But who was he? Gonzago asked one of the ragged scoundrels he had hired.  He had thought he could save some coin for himself by employing men from the docks, and now he was beginning to regret that choice.  What is it you dogs are doing?

The three rogues ignored him and continued rifling through the dead man’s clothes.

There is no map, muttered the one with the unkempt beard, almost gleefully.

Gonzago grit his teeth in anger.  The mist was congealing between the trees of the forest, and he could feel there was so little time.  He was not either of the two we seek.  He was just some traveler.

He won’t be traveling much anymore, chuckled the other shirtless rogue.

His two companions laughed and continued rifling through the dead man’s possessions.  The third one, however, stopped, and rose to face Gonzago.  His eyes were as bored and listless as a feeding wolf’s.

A few extra coins harms no one, was all he said.

*                   *                    *

See those peasants?

Don Anton overheard the one priest speaking to the other over the clopping of hooves on the paved road.  Both priests rode their short-legged palfreys like children balancing on a log, and both geldings were crowding the narrow roadway and wandering dangerously close to Barro y Tela’s strong teeth.  Don Anton mildly clucked his tongue at his war-mare to calm her.  The priest who had spoken was now pointing to a small group of peasants gathering vegetables from a poorly tended croft.

Fools, remarked the older priest.  He was a gray-haired fellow who was even shorter and fatter than the first.  See, that child there carries a knife perhaps used in some pagan ceremony centuries ago.  These peasants pillage the ruins around here for profane relics like that.  They sell their contraband to smugglers and shadowy vendors for a handful of copper coins.

And they hope it will be enough to feed them through the next winter.

Don Anton twitched his reins, and Barro y Tela’s sharp hooves dutifully skipped away from the withers of the shorter priest’s horse.

They do not recognize the dangers of pollution.

Anton’s keen eyes sought the way ahead.  Between the gray buildings of the hamlet that his column was approaching, he could see villagers moving towards a small open square of clay.  Though the sun was high, mist seemed to cling to the rotting eaves of every hut, shack, and lean-to.  A wooden church abutted the square, with a small graveyard overgrown with weeds, to its rear.  It was plain that the village was in a pitiful state, for all the buildings were in poor repair and refuse was strewn about its narrow roads and byways. 

Sacred fire cleanses all, said one priest.

Anton frowned, but he also loosened his sword in its scabbard.  He signaled to Sergeant Alvar, and the old knight immediately began dismounting his squadron of gunmen.  Sergeant Juan Carlo had already ordered his cabo to fan out in groups of two and three, in order to scout the fringes of the village. 

In the words of San Amare, said the short priest. There is nothing more deeply fraught with peril than the unclean spirit of a commoner.

As the company entered the hamlet, Don Anton’s horse passed a rickety, wooden building that appeared to be an abandoned tavern.  He licked his whiskers thirstily and peered inside, but much of the tavern’s furniture and contents had apparently been damaged or looted.

Alvar’s arquebusiers were now formed up to either side of the road, jogging alongside the priest’s horses, with fuses ready.  Sergeant Juan Carlo’s young sable stallion approached at a brisk canter.

Could there be a more pitiful place? he asked. The crows would find this home dismal.

These people are Redalgan, said Don Anton softly.  Who can understand their ways?

"Should I have my cabo circle the village?"

No, said Anton.  Order your riders to scout within its walls and then join us in the square.

Quick as a sparrow, Juan Carlo’s horse galloped away, and Don Anton spurred his own brooding war-mare to rejoin the two bickering priests.  Barro y Tela reached them just as their horses were entering the clay square at the center of the village.  The group of peasants who had gathered there, all huddled about a crumbling stone well, timidly awaited the company’s approach.  Anton noted that at least two of the buildings adjoining the square had been damaged by fire. 

The taller of the two prelates addressed the assembled peasants in a haughty tone.  By the words of San Amare, every village must have its deacon.  Who is deacon here?

None of the villagers came forth to speak, though low words were exchanged between them.  Don Anton reined Barro y Tela and waved the column to a halt  Sergeant Juan Carlo’s horse returned beside Don Anton’s.

At this, a broad-hipped village woman came to the fore.  We have no deacon, reverend father, she said, bowing.  Vicco here is our reeve.

Reeve? Who appointed this reeve?

The bishop, good father, the woman stated. He passed this way last winter

Who is this Vicco? asked Don Anton, and a stocky Redalgan with round shoulders took a small step forward.

I am he, good master, he said to Anton.  I am reeve here.

From his perch in his saddle, he looked down at the man named Vicco.  Anton doubted the man had seen two score winters.  Perhaps he was old enough to be a reeve, but barely so.  The small eyes on his young face were red and sore and, for some reason, faintly elusive.  Don Anton slid from the saddle and handed Sergeant Juan Carlo his reins. 

What is the name of this village? he asked.

Nanken, milord, said the reeve.

A child stepped through the crowd.  She was a small thin girl, bare of feet, with dark uncombed hair and a pale, long face.  She stared up at the man who had been named reeve, and said not a word.  The reeve, with eyes fixed on Don Anton, did not acknowledge her presence.

Nanken, he repeated.

The child tugged at the man’s sleeve and cried in a small singsong voice, Father!  O father!  When he did not respond, she began to prance around him.  Many of the villagers stared at her intently, and their gaze compelled Don Anton’s eyes to follow her too.  Autumn, father!  Her small voice warbled.  A song whose words were not a song.  It is autumn, father! 

The reeve stood silent and motionless. 

Autumn, autumn, the girl continued, dancing and singing in a manner bold even for highland children, O father, my father, when, o when, will winter come?

*                   *                    *

Saveo shivered in the wet and cold.  His brother crouched down beside him.

What is this desperate chill that saturates this air? Saveo asked.  The sun touched the sky hours ago.  Why has it not burned away this mist?

But Nymi would not answer.  Rather, he only stared at the faded parchment that he unrolled in his hands.  Saveo knew little about this map and did not care to learn more.  He had been told it had been found on a rotting cadaver, somewhere just outside the crumbling environs of the ruins they now occupied.  If this was true, then no doubt the map was cursed.  It was believed to hold the location of eldritch treasure, somewhere within the haunted confines of these same ruins.  Its last owner had not the means or courage to recover it himself, so Nymi had acquired it for a respectable price.

A cis-stern, muttered Nymi.

Saveo shivered.  What?

The treasure is-s in a cistern.

What is a cistern? Saveo asked, but he did not expect his brother to answer.  Nymi merely pointed to an inky blot on the map.

We are here, he whispered.  He moved his finger to another section of the parchment.  The cistern is-s here.

Saveo shrugged.  Lead us.  The mist grows heavy and the cold whittles at my spirit.  The quicker we leave these ruins, the better.

Nymi rolled up the map and stowed it in its case.  Making no more sound than a shadow, he stole around and across some rubble and through a nearby doorway.  Mist churned from place to place them as they entered an empty courtyard.  Saveo followed his brother at a safe distance, moving almost as silently.  His gloved hand pinched the folds of his hood to keep the chill air from his throat.

The mist thickened between the shattered walls of the ruins and became an icy fog, as all-encompassing and as heavy as a burial shroud.  Beads of moisture appeared on fallen marble, and dense tendrils of mist were rising from the earth and rubble.  Saveo knew hidden basements and other the crevices often concealed mist wraiths, and it was their gaseous tendrils that he now expected to see pooling in the watery air, gathering mass and taking a shape that was both human and amorphous.  Saveo removed the mechanical torch he kept at his belt and primed it.

Nymi stopped by a deep pit, a sunken rectangular structure constructed of serried stone and overgrown with heavy drapes of grey moss and fungus.  Hello? came a timid voice from its bottom. 

Saveo peered down over the ledge.  A young woman in traveler’s garb stood at the base.  Her hair was a bright red and braided in such a way as to keep it from her face and eyes.  Her face shone with the innocence of a young doe, but Saveo could also see sprouting from her forehead were the beginnings of small budding horns, such as are seen on fledgling deer.  Nymi stepped to the ledge and squatted.  Once more unrolling the parchment in his hands, his eyes examined its faint lines.

What are you? Saveo asked the strange woman.

Can you help me? she asked.  I am a student at the university.  Princess Tulsa is my patron.  I lowered myself into this cistern, and now I cannot get out.

Saveo looked at her legs and arms, deformed by prolonged exposure to mist.  What are you? he repeated.

I am Marie.  Marie Scalisa, daughter to Mario and Linda.  I am a student in the College of Metaphysics, here in Carcosa.  I came to this place in search of a trove of ancient knowledge.  It was supposed to be buried here.

Nymi looked up from his map.  There was no pity in his eyes.  What did you find? he asked.

I found some scrolls, some tools, and this. The strange woman held up a small silver ring.  I will give it to you, kind gentlemen, if you help me escape this pit.

Saveo removed the rope he kept wrapped to his belt and unwound it.  Nymi helped him pay out its length.  The cord snaked down into the pit, and the sad woman snatched the loose end with crude, cloven fingers, little better than hooves, and wrapped the worn cord around her dainty wrists.  In seconds, the two brothers had pulled her up and she was standing beside them.

Thank you, good sirs, she said.  Do you serve the university? I think I once saw you there.  Are you students?

The ring, said Nymi.

Give it to my brother, said Saveo, as he wound his rope back up.  The mist-rotted woman promptly handed the silver hoop to Saveo’s brother, but her large liquid eyes were drawn to the crumbling ruins around her.

The mist is so thick in the mornings, she said.  And the air grows with the chill of the grave.  Something has changed.  Perhaps something in me.  Do I seem the same to you?

Saveo leaned over his brother’s shoulder to examine the ring.  Strange markings, in a language long dead, were engraved along its metallic surface.

I have been living off the flesh of fungus for at least a fortnight, continued the woman.  You know, I believe this experience has indeed changed me.  Up close, Saveo could now see a very fine down of translucent fur covered her fair skin.  She must have once been quite attractive.  It gets very cold here, she continued, smiling, and it has made my dreams much more deep, and much more contemplative.  She offered them another smile, but neither Nymi nor Saveo smiled back.  "I thank the stars for this change.  You see, the ancient Numitor, who are now lost in history, once made wishes by this very cistern, and dreams and wishes live on beyond death.  Look you now, I have given you a ring, a very precious item.  I will seek more, and, now that you have helped me, perhaps we may one day trade again."

Perhaps-s, said Nymi, unsheathing his knife.

Saveo waved his older brother’s hand away.  Without even a word, the two of them turned and stole through the ruins, leaving the strange creature still chattering behind them.

*                   *                    *

Vicco ignored the child’s body that skipped and danced at his feet.  One of the fat priests was helping the other dismount from his ailing nag.

What has become of that church? asked the taller one, who had already dismounted.  Why is it so ill-tended?

It is our church, good father, said Vicco.  More Tartessian soldiers rode into the crowded square on their long-legged horses.  They too began to dismount, handing their reins to a wiry boy with unlaced boots who ran amongst them.  Vicco felt a change in the air as the little girl danced at his feet.

If you have no deacon, then who performs the mass in this village? the squat priest asked.

Idelbo sends us a prelate, explained Vicco.  It is a different one every month.  But, whoever ‘tis, he conducts our mass. Vicco looked among the faces of the assembled villagers.  He knew the names of all of them, and yet not a one seemed to feel the chill in the air like he did.  He looked to his wife, who also stood nearby.  She was smiling hollowly as she watched her daughter’s dancing steps.  Did no one notice?  For a bitter patch of mist was gathering at the periphery of the village.

Some of those graves look freshly dug, the squat priest was saying.  Has the earth there been consecrated?

Vicco smiled and his mind labored for a response.  Armed Tartessians crowded the well, taking direction from their tall, scarred leader.  He was an old man, with hair and beard that bristled ivory and silver.  He paced the square with a martial assurance that Vicco had rarely seen, even among men whose profession was killing.  His soldiers bristled with guns and other sharp implements of war, but he carried only a long thin sword at his hip.  He appeared to be speaking to his sergeants about the mist that was forming at the borders of the village.

Has it been consecrated? repeated the priest. 

I─ I do not know, good father, said Vicco. It’s been less than a fortnight since the last priest was here. 

Neither priest noted the gathering mist.  And the Tartessian commander paid no heed to the girl that danced at Vicco’s feet. 

*                   *                    *

What is it? asked Sergeant Juan Carlo Ugarte.  Are those flakes of snow I see falling in the distant haze?  It was not uncommon for mist to gather in the lowlands, but Juan Carlo, who had ridden at White Rook’s shoulder for well-nigh six winters, had never seen a fog so strange.

It is what highlanders call the frozen mist.  Captain Anton’s large eyes were as dark and as haunted as the empty windows of the derelict buildings that surrounded them.  We will need a fire.

Juan Carlo inspected the battered huts and shacks nearest the clay square, but not a flame was in sight.  What could bring such a visitation come upon us, captain?  It was common knowledge that ill-got dreams ushered mist.  Don Anton turned his back and signaled the company to light their torches.  Juan Carlo removed his own torch from the holster at his waist and flicked its mechanical trigger.  What has brought on this strange mist, my captain? he asked again.

The captain gave no answer.

Who knows? said Alvar in passing.  His bushy brows frowned at the villagers around him.  The foul and degenerate behavior of these highlanders, most likely. 

The captain snatched Alvar’s arm as he strolled past.  Quickly, send a squadron to gather tinder.  The captain’s melodious voice carried a note of urgency.  I want a pyre, here, on this level ground, beside the well.  With flames tall enough to sear the sky.

"Asi, mi capitán."  Alvar trudged off in his heavy armor.

A cordon of Tartessian soldiers had formed around the well.  Young Miguelito, the lad who was the company’s horse teller, was still tethering the reins of the last of their horses.  Frost had gathered on the eaves and lintels of the outermost buildings of the village. 

What of the horses? Juan Carlo asked.

Shelter them in that abandoned church, ordered Don Anton.

One of the little priests, who apparently had overheard, approached the captain.  That is a holy church, captain, he objected in a voice both stern and frail.  It is not a Tartessian stable.  Juan Carlo ignored the fat man and waved Miguelito towards the open doors of the church building.  The young boy led the company’s mounts away, under the horrified gazes of both priests.

If you value your lives more than the rotting beams of a church, remarked Don Anton, then today this building will be both.  He turned to the assembled peasants in the square.  Villeins, the lot of you to your homes!  Fire your hearths!  And seal well your doors and windows.

Some peasants in the square stirred but did not move, while others slowly began to wander to their huts.  Alvar’s gunners had stacked their arms and were now heaping tinder into a pile by the crumbling well, at the very center of the square.  The shorter priest waved a stubby arm at the encroaching mist and turned to his taller fellow.

We should shelter under the roof of Amare’s church, said he.  The mist will not touch us there.

Captain Anton scowled as though he were hearing the prophecy of a madman.  Mist cares nothing for your holy symbols.  Find shelter wherever your soft feet carry you, but take with you the men I have assigned as your guard.

Blue-gray fingers of mist had now reached into the alleys and byways of the village.  Juan Carlo waited behind his nervous line of men, as they stood with swords and torches ready. 

*                   *                    *

Vicco watched as the priests shuffle towards the church.  Gray tendrils of mist were gathering about its walls, and the cemetery beyond was swaddled in a blanket of grey cloud.  For some reason, his little daughter had at last stopped singing.

Father, said she playfully, we must join the priests.  We will enjoy their company.

The slender Tartessian captain, garbed in colors of smoke and ivory, took no notice of her words, busy as he was overseeing the construction the fire.  The people who had once called his neighbors had abandoned the square and gone to their shelters.  Vicco was alone with scores of armed Tartessians, and a little girl.

No, my dear daughter, you must come with me.  To our home.

A length of char cloth was produced by one of the tall awkward lowlanders.  The armored sergeant lit it with his torch and the soldier threw it onto the stacked pile of wood.

Father, I will go with these priests.  You must come with me. 

The creature that was once his daughter grabbed his hand and Vicco, though fearing for life and sanity, allowed her to drag him towards the gaping doors of the church.

*                   *                    *

No smoke rose from any of the village huts.  No sign of fire glowed from their shuttered windows.  And because of this simple fact, snakes of dread slithered up Sergeant Juan Carlo’s spine.  No soldier worth his salt would fear a clean death, and Juan Carlo would dare as much as any other man-at-arm whose feet had straddled the field of war.  But his eyes were now catching glimpses of shadowy wraiths drifting through the steely fog, and the sight unsettled him.  Mortal creatures could be enslaved by wraiths, and possession inevitably led to a tainted death.  Mortal weapons could not harm their gaseous shapes.  Only fire could touch them, and the flame of Juan Carlo’s torch seemed so small and fragile. 

Company, stand your ground! Don Anton roared, in a voice that knew not an ounce of trepidation.  Together we fight the curse!  Hold torches high and ready!  Join your flames, as one, and stand against the boding dark!  The pyre was burning bright and hot, and, as the Captain stared into its warm light, it dyed his calm features and ivory hair in highlights of crimson and gold.  Curse this mist, he whispered softly to Juan Carlo, away from the ears of the common soldier and, to the sergeant’s mind, his words resonated with the calm of death.  I fear this cold will be our grave unless we can find more wood.

The discharge of a pair of guns broke the frozen stillness of the village, and oily smoke billowed from the far side of the square.  The captain rushed there and Juan Carlo, feeling a thrill of panic, followed.  Together they approached the armored figure of Sir Alvar, who stood by two recruits who were holding smoking arquebuses.

What are these men firing at? asked Don Anton.

Something large moved through the mist, captain, said the old knight.  I gave the order to fire.

Was it a fiend?

I do not know.  It was large.  Too large for even a bull.

Without answering, Don Anton waved to Juan Carlo and led him back to his place away from the smoke of Alvar’s guns.  The captain’s gloved hand gestured to the bright and crackling embers. 

I say, we will need more tinder. 

Juan Carlo could see the captain was right, for though the pyre had not yet diminished, it would not be long before it would wilt in this cold and damp.

There was a cart of rotting hay as I rode in, he informed the old captain.  Don Anton’s whiskers bristled in consideration.  It was behind a mercantile west of here, Juan Carlo went on.  Privates Tomaso and Rason were with me and they would know where it is.  Both men could easily push it here.  The bonfire crackled and hissed, and the mist quietly drew closer.  Captain Anton drew the fabled relic sword from his hip.  Juan Carlo retreated a judicious step as its sharp length swung free of the scabbard. 

Sergeant Alvar is now in command of this company, proclaimed Don Anton, at least until I return.  I will go with Tomaso and Rason.  My sword will be needed to guard them as they bring the cart to us.

You, sir? asked Juan Carlo, who could not help feeling lost at the prospect of being without his captain.  The huts were now barely visible in the grey haze, and folds of mist completely concealed the wraiths he had seen drifting through the village seconds before. I could order a detail to guard them instead.

No, Anton rejoined.  Torch-fire would not be enough, not in this frozen vapor.  Alvar is in command, but no one is to leave this square till I return.  

Tomaso de Andavellia’s father had once told him of this thing called frozen mist.  His father had been a crown knight, and he had schooled Tomaso as a boy in ancient tales of glory and courage.  To Tomaso’s mind, no Son of Tartes exemplified these traits better than his Captain, who was the most experienced horseman of Los Tres Leones.  Tomaso’s companions told many tales of the smoke and blast of war, and more than a few of those tales mentioned Don Anton.  At first, Tomaso had thought them exaggerated, for Captain d’Garza was as non-descript a figure as anyone who ever rode horse.  He was not particularly tall, nor was he as commanding a presence as his older brother, the Captain-General.  But all Tomaso’s reservations were instantly dispelled the first time he had seen the captain wield his antique longsword.  For on that occasion, the good captain had leapt from his saddle into a pike-wall of enemy infantry, his quick blade slashing through half a dozen spearpoints, until its point and edge had broken the enemy column with well-placed strokes.  To the cheers of the company, he had calmly remounted his white mare and returned to the squadron with gore-spattered arm and blade.

More than anything else, that one memory fortified Tomaso against the realm of dreams.

The old captain was marching towards Tomaso now.  His slender longsword was resting upon his thin shoulder, like an eagle perched on a cloudy ridge, ready to descend upon some unsuspecting prey.  Tomaso tried not to shy from its edge as he drew near.

Sergeant Juan Carlo tells me you know where lies a cart filled of hay?  His words rang as clear and sharp as the sword in his hand. 

We do, good captain, said Rason.

Aye, repeated Tomaso, trying to hide the hesitation in his voice.  The flames of his torch were dwindling, and the mist was so thick that when he blinked his eyes, he could no longer see any sign of the wraiths lurking in the gloom.

Quickly, Don Anton said, lead me to this cart!  Let us find it before the pyre burns out!  He gestured into the fog with his fatal sword, and the blade seemed sharp and ready enough for anything that lay in wait there. 

Rason, who was a soldier with far less seniority than Tomaso, responded almost immediately.  This way, captain.  The young soldier turned and marched away.  Don Anton’s grey cloak followed, and Tomaso belatedly trailed behind.  Together the three men left the square, and deep arms of mist embraced them.

*                   *                    *

Sergeant Alvar Colina rounded on young Juan Carlo.  Where has the old madman gone now? he asked over the roar of the bonfire.

He leads a detail to recover a cartful of tinder, Juan Carlo explained.

The old knight frowned at the square and at the sons of Tartes who defended it.  Maintain the cordon and the bonfire, he said.  Intersperse pistoleers among the harquebusiers.  Swords and torches, my brother.

Juan Carlo saluted, turned, and roared to the men: Swords and torches, you lot of whoresons!

Tomaso stumbled over a fallen wagon wheel, but the Captain’s firm hand reached out and steadied him.  With every step, he felt the mist rob him of warmth and courage.  Rason had not waited, and the Captain rushed after him, leaving Tomaso momentarily alone between gray cloud and shadow.  He struggled to follow, and only caught sight of Don Anton again as he leaped the broken tines and rails of a picket fence. 

As he loped after, a ghostly face materialized out of the folds of mist, and, just as quickly, disappeared.  The Captain had not seen it, but Tomaso recognized the face.  It had the sharp aquiline features of his father, dead now for ten years.

Wait! shouted Don Anton to trooper Rason, but the recruit’s hunched back continued and disappeared into the mist.  Anton rounded on the young Tomaso, who for some reason was trailing behind.  Keep up! he said angrily, but when he turned, he found that private Tomaso had halted in the shade of a narrow alleyway.  His eyes were lost to sense, staring vacantly at pieces of mist.  Long, vaporous tendrils were reaching out to enfold him.  Anton’s blade slashed and shredded the mistwraith in a matter of seconds.

Wake up! he said to Tomaso, shaking him with one hand.  The boy’s face was as round and pale as an autumn moon, and his large hazel eyes were filled with wonder as absolute as a founding stone.  Anton shook him hard again.  Do not allow it to take hold of you.  The boy blinked up at Don Anton, and it was then, behind him, a woman’s shrill scream pierced the murky air.  Anton roughly shoved Tomaso in the direction he had last seen Rason disappear.  Go now! Go! and the young soldier staggered across the uneven ground, and it was not long before the two of them found Rason, who stood over the body of the wide-hipped woman, asleep and almost frozen to the earth.

Anton had to grasp Tomaso’s collar in order to prevent him from stepping onto her.  What has happened here? he asked Rason.

I heard a scream, said the young soldier said.  His cheeks were flushed and he had somehow lost both his torch and helm.  The young recruit seemed bewildered, as if he had been touched by mist, for he stood gawking at the unconscious woman.  What should we do with her?

Cursing under breath, Don Anton sheathed his blade and lifted the Redalgan woman onto one shoulder.  For her size, she was not as heavy as he had expected.

To the cart, I say!  Together now! 

With heavy steps he staggered after young Rason, and prayed Tomaso could keep up. 

Like a child wading through deep water, he pursued his bold Captain in the name of honor and glory.  Once again, his father’s noble face appeared from the mist.  The face was so sad, but though the lips moved to speak, no sound came forth.  When the face disappeared, Tomaso’s feet were still stumbling after the white cape of Captain Anton d’Garza.

Why were his feet so clumsy? Tomaso wondered.  And what manner of lethargy was this?  His limbs and mind were heavy with the desire for slumber.  His soul was drowning in the peace of sleep, and Tomaso could not resist, for sleep was the balm to all life’s trials.  He felt he could rest for an eternity in its inviting stillness.  He saw hoarfrost on the shutters of a building he passed, but, strangely, he could not feel the cold. 

Over the Captain’s broad shoulders, the sleeping woman hung limp, and the swaying of her arms and legs seemed as leaden as Tomaso’s own limbs.  She lifted her tousled head towards Tomaso, and he saw that she had a kind face, not unlike the kind whore his father had made his wife.  She reached a gentle hand to Tomaso, as if to softly wipe his cheek, and Tomaso slowed his pace and leaned forward, closing his eyes in welcome of a mother’s touch.

Her fingers brushed his cheek, and a stream of icy energy washed over him.  Cold winds buffeted his soul and carried him for what seemed an eternity.  Eventually his spirit found a place in the pervading emptiness.  And he found his physical body again, but though he could perceive its actions and motions, his soul had lost control of his limbs.  An entity loomed over him, something more ancient and more powerful than he.  Tomaso could only watch as it rushed up behind Don Anton, and unsheathed the sharp falchion Tomaso kept in a sheathe at his hip.

The woman he carried on his shoulder let out a death rattle, and somewhere in the mist Don Anton heard a raven’s call.  He threw the corpse to the ground and, as he did so, in the periphery of his vision, he saw Tomaso raise his falchion behind him.  Instinct and training guided his hands, and Anton pivoted and angled his sword.  It parried the clumsy cut of the boy’s sword.  Peering into the young soldier’s eyes, he saw a soul that was lost, and so he sent the point of his demon-forged blade over the boy’s breastplate, into the small of the throat.  The foible pierced the heart of the wraith, and both boy and wraith died together under the fatal caress of Alma de Muerte.  Anton calmly removed his point from the falling corpse, cursing the spirits of Tomaso’s ancestors, who should have guided the boy from death this day. 

A ghostly face, unmistakably Tartessian, appeared through the mist.  It was a countenance Don Anton immediately recognized.

Father, why are you here? the old man asked.  Why do you visit me, now?

Do you fail? asked the specter, peering down at him.  Will you die, like me, unremembered even by those who claim to love you?

Perhaps, said Anton, But deeds matter more than memories, father.  It was then only his keen eyes noticed Private Rason, who stood gawking at him only a few feet away. 

What have you done to Tomaso? Rason asked.

The specter was gone, and Tomaso lay dead on the ground.  Anton used his sash to wipe the last of blood from his sword.  Mist has claimed him, he said, and I have claimed the mist.  It was as good an answer as a man could give.  Now, my young brother, let us find this cart.

It is not far, captain.  This way.

You and your daughter were indeed wise for joining us in this sacred place, said the short prelate as he scurried between the pews towards the church altar.  Vicco could see that several of the sealed windows in the nave had been shattered, and that deepening mist was visible beyond the broken glass.  This church is hallowed ground, continued the prelate, and the vagaries of mist cannot touch us here.

Where are the horses? said one of the tall, long-limbed mercenaries that accompanied them.  They have not followed us.

The mist is thick, said the soldier, a fierce looking man who carried a battle axe in his hand.  Are they lost?

We will need fire, said the first. More than just our torches. 

Vicco’s eyes scanned the structure’s walls, but none of the sconces held a brand of any kind.  His daughter slowly led him by the hand to the priests, who had gathered by the altar, beneath the unlit sanctuary lamp that hung there.  One priest lowered the golden vessel from its rope, and the other opened and inspected its contents. 

It has no fuel, he exclaimed.

And Vicco’s daughter began to sing in a fragile voice. 

"Winter weeps its frozen tears,

"And light flees from the day.

"As ice sustains our mortal’s fears,

Then death will find a way.

The nave became colder, and icy mist began to rise from the breaths of its occupants.  Through the frosted windows, Vicco could see shapes rising from the ground of the cemetery.

We can use one of these pews for tinder, said one of the lanky mercenaries, and he began bashing the fragile wood with his axe.  More shadowy shapes moved beyond the windows, and the other soldier stared blankly at his torch. 

My fire has gone out, he said.

The captain’s relic sword was one of the few weapons in the company that could kill both man and wraith, and, for that reason, every soldier in the company loved and feared the White Rook.  Rason could hear his captain’s footfalls echoing behind him, bearing the unhallowed blade that had just killed Tomaso.  Rason knew he must find this cart of hay before it was too late.

A soldier’s life was forfeit if his body were ever possessed by a wraith.  Thus, had Rason been taught the very first day he had been inducted into the brotherhood of mercenaries called Los Tres Leones.  He had never seen it done so quickly, with such cold disregard for the life or the memory of the man possessed.  He had seen Tomaso raise his sword against the captain, but, between the two of them, who was the one who had been possessed?  He halted beside a wooden building to catch his breath, and Don Anton drew up beside him.  He glimpsed into the depths of his captain’s eyes, hopeful for a word about the demise of Tomaso. 

Are you lost, soldier? asked the Captain in syllables as hard as iron.  Tomaso’s blood speckled his white sleeve.  The winged hilt of his relic sword was poised to strike in any direction.

Sir?

There was a low grunting sound, and then a shadow moved in the fog.  We cannot remain here long, persisted Don Anton.  Dark wings flapped in the gray air overhead.  Do you not know the way?

And the shadow returned, a large and ominous presence.  Rason drew his pistol and squeezed the trigger, but the hammer clicked and the weapon did not discharge in the moist air.  Through veils of mist appeared a large waddling porcine shape.  Rason saw the massive head of a giant hog, but one savagely tusked like a mountain boar.  It leveled its great hairy snout towards Rason and charged on short fat legs.  Rason screamed, but the beast’s tusks still scooped him up and ripped through his clothing and flesh, disemboweling him and sending him flying through the air.  When he fell skidding to ground, entrails tangled in his legs, the last thing he saw was Don Anton’s grey and white form slashing the air with his hell-forged sword.

His blade sliced clean through the thick tendons of the giant hog’s hind leg. The giant mist-beast stumbled, squealing, but still rampaged past him, trampling Rason’s corpse.  Anton set both feet beneath him and watched as the mist-rotted monster swiveled on its three remaining legs to face him.  Its small, porcine eyes burned like twin suns of violet fire.  The colossal pig charged.

His father had been an experienced matador, and this memory served Don Anton well now.  More than once he had watched his sire in the corrida, where man’s courage could be tested against the mist.

The massive body barreled towards him, and Anton’s feet glided away from the piercing tusks.  His sword cut and sliced, and Alma de Muerte cleaved the thick flesh at the beast’s neck.  Crimson blood splattered his face and splattered the frozen ground.  The brute’s legs folded and its massive body plowed the earth at Anton’s feet.

The mist churned and the bonfire dwindled under the oppressive weight of the fog.  Shivering in his heavy steel harness, Sir Alvar watched as two soldiers used their mechanical torches like prods, forcing three approaching wraiths to withdraw back into the shifting haze.

What travels through this cursed mist? cursed Sergeant Juan Carlo Ugarte.

A group of five ragged villagers scurried out of the fog.  The cordon of soldiers parted and allowed the fugitives to enter the lines, and the wretched group, consisting of two men, a woman and a child, huddled by the small well, away from the heat of the burning pyre. 

The child, a boy with limp red hair, spoke first.  Please, good masters, our home has been polluted!

Save us, please, cried the woman next to him.  She was a doughty matron with grey hair.  Much too old to be any child’s mother.

Alvar had no time for the pleas of peasants, for the bonfire was quickly dwindling.  Is there firewood anywhere near? he asked the eldest of the two men among them,