Sons… of the Mist

The sky remained dark.

On the second day of the eclipse, a sharp, iron scent spread through the damp air of the port like an omen. Daniel Grace’s group gathered in the inner courtyard of Fort Tinuso, at the Storms’ Cove, staring up at the lighthouse tower, which had been lit at Ravia’s command on that dark day to summon the leaders of the underworld.

Sallustia, as always, accompanied Grace with a serious expression, walking at his side with steps as light as a breeze’s touch, even while clad entirely in steel. Unlike the armor she had worn for display in the Devanic Colosseum, as if sensing a storm about to fall on the fort, the paladin-slave had dressed for battle that day.

Thanatos leaned against a pilaster, his gaze darker than usual, while Lais traced a few protective runes on her thaumaturgic focus. And Zanma Gupta was back in action, still bandaged around the torso. With no intention of abandoning the traveler from another world, he filled the reservoirs of his gauntlet with vials of some of his deadliest preparations.

“How is the wound?” Daniel asked, assessing the alchemist’s overall condition.

“It was truly serious” he answered, trying to keep his voice steady. “My movements are still slower than usual, but I’ll survive. Ravia’s men worked their magic, and it’s not as if I intend to die before finishing the job.”

He let out a laugh and patted his belly lightly, careful not to overdo it and reopen the wounds.

Daniel nodded.

In the dim corridors of Fort Tinuso there was an even more unusual flow of people than in the days leading up to Sallustia’s battle in the colosseum. Criminals of every stripe were arriving to hear Ravia’s address, the two largest delegations being from the powerful clandestine guilds: the Scarlet Mask and, of course… the Sons of the Mist.

Even the King of Beggars had sent representatives. And when Daniel met the empty eyes of the sovereign of the gutters’ subjects, he felt ill, remembering how the alien divinity had possessed the body of the boy he had rescued from the Midnight Pavilion.

Varo was obviously dead. He had been captured by the beggars while trying to flee the city a few weeks earlier. Rumor had it he had begged the king for mercy, but apparently, the Truth That Is Blind had not been a benevolent god to the man who tried to deprive him of his host.

Farther on they found Sorcha and Bellusa. The gunslinger leaned against a wall, hat tilted and a cigarette sending up slow spirals of smoke, while the Slender One maintained her blades, posture far too relaxed for someone surrounded by dangerous people.

“Look who’s come back to us, Sorcha?” Bellusa said when she saw the paladin. Her voice had an irritating calm, laced with more than enough arrogance for someone who had been defeated twice. “And still with the same scowl.”

Sallustia stopped before the two, who shared a laugh. Her hand rested on the hilt of the sword she had already summoned that day, even before she sensed any sign of danger. Her face was hard as stone.

“If I wanted to provoke you, I’d say the two of you survived by pure luck” she shot back, measuring Bellusa from head to toe. “Especially you, but luck tends to run out quickly.”

Sorcha chuckled low, blowing smoke from the corner of her mouth.

“No need to get nervous, sweetheart” she said, adjusting the hat unhurriedly. “You came well-dressed today; how long before I make you strip all that armor off?”

Sallustia narrowed her eyes, the muscles of her jaw tightening.

“First I’ll rip off your head.”

“Easy, easy” Bellusa raised her hands in a sign of peace, but muttered to Sorcha, “We definitely should have made her dance.”

“There will be other chances” Sorcha whispered back, a crooked smile taking her face. “But today we’ve got more important business, and business pays better than little ego spats.”

Daniel watched the exchange without getting involved, though the corner of his mouth nearly betrayed a contained smile. Thanatos, by contrast, seemed entertained.

“I like the atmosphere” the jester said, leaning on the wall to mimic Sorcha. “Please, don’t stop these delightful jabs!”

“You talk too much” Sallustia growled, without taking her eyes off Sorcha and Bellusa.

“Well then… if you insist, jester” the gunslinger touched her hat with a fingertip, shifting the shadow that hid her smile. “Who do we have here? The red-haired lady doesn’t say much.”

Lais turned her face toward them and took a good look at the pair, her eyes flashing in the light of a torch. Then she turned again, bored, to the fort’s general movement. Her expression remained neutral.

“I’m not particularly interested in the two wenches, and I have no love for the paladin-slave to buy her fights. I have more important things to observe” the magus said in a low, controlled voice.

“Things like what?” Bellusa laughed, leaning to better see her face. “The famous Lord Fidenzio? He draws so many eyes that even I almost got distracted.”

“You three talk a lot but do so little” Thanatos replied. “Especially the good master de Lio. But don’t worry, I’ll speak to Sidia Pusepu to reserve a private room in the Garden of Statues. Then we can all have our fun…”

“Shut up, Thanatos!” Daniel ordered, massaging his temples. “For the love of the Nine Gods I don’t even believe in. Let’s get this over with, please? The sooner we settle this with the guild leaders, the sooner you can see who’s going to kill whom. Or whatever plan is implied in this stack of subliminal messages…”

Sorcha tossed the cigarette to the ground and crushed the glowing tip under her heel. Bellusa smiled at Sallustia, a mean smile full of promise.

“Don’t worry, paladin. I won’t die easily; that would be far too dull.”

Sallustia did not answer. She simply turned and headed down the corridor, following Daniel.

***

The large subterranean hall had been cleaned in haste.

A long table, old chairs, trays with cheap wine and cold meat had been arranged for the occasion. The smoke of countless pipes, cigars, and cigarettes rose to mix with the reek of mold.

When Daniel’s group entered that room, charged with suspicious stares, where naturally cunning and cruel people strained to live up to their reputations, the guild leaders were already waiting. Notibus Ravia, the host and patron of the meeting, however, was late. Murmurs ran among those present.

Damn it, Ravia! Grace cursed silently. I need you to give this even a shred of legitimacy.

Arcus Ciusennus, leader of the Scarlet Mask, was a tall, strong man with broad shoulders. Fair-skinned, clean-shaven, with a hard jaw. His eyes were amber-brown, his eyebrows thick and straight, and his hair blond, brushed back with volume on top and looser at the sides.

Like Sallustia, he seemed prepared for anything, in blood-red armor with bronze tones and black detailing. His neck was protected by a high collar with an inner lining. The pauldrons were large and circular with concentric elements, and the breastplate was segmented into geometric plates in a hexagonal pattern at the center, coupled to a long surcoat.

He sat with impeccable posture, a near-regal figure, more imposing than many aristocrats of the Senatorial Ring. His eyes, however, were what drew attention, observing everything and everyone, letting nothing escape.

Opposite him sat Palla Urriavius of the Sons of the Mist. A thin woman with elongated features and eyes painted black. Little chains tinkled at her neck, several rings adorned her fingers, and she covered herself with a black mantle of raven feathers.

For the first time in a long while, Daniel Grace cursed his own luck.

Shit! The woman I robbed when I first arrived in the city… so it was her. If I’d known she was the guildmaster, I’d have sent some apology. The bitch may be in Prebito’s pocket, but it would be nice to make her switch sides. Considering our earlier encounter… that’s going to be tough.

Palla smiled without showing her teeth, her eyes always roving. When she noticed Daniel, she greeted him with scorn in her gaze.

Other lesser chiefs occupied the remaining seats — men and women who controlled alleys and villages, the docks and smaller guilds. Each brought two or three bodyguards ostentatiously armed.

Daniel took the seat to the right of where Ravia should sit. Sallustia stood behind him, Sorcha and Bellusa flanking the paladin on either side, with Lais and Gupta taking their designated seats farther to the right. Thanatos, restless, preferred to lean against the wall.

“Let us begin” said Arcus Ciusennus, voice low. No one asked him to raise it; on the contrary, conversations ceased to hear him. “We all have a big problem. Senator Prebito expands his influence in our circles of power each day. If we want to resist, we need unity.”

“Unity?!” Palla Urriavius laughed, the dry sound like snapping branches echoing through the hall. “It always comes at a high price.”

“It’s already expensive, for people like us, to live in this city” Sorcha said with open disdain, lighting a cigarette without taking her eyes off Urriavius. “All the more when we can’t even trust our own. If Prebito takes the Outer Ring, then we’re all truly screwed.”

Daniel raised a hand, asking her to keep calm.

“The Party of the Coins needs allies. It’s our best option against Prebito. Ravia promised that the Sons of the Mist and the Scarlet Mask would bring men, information, and safe routes. But none of that will work if each of you wants to flay the other alive.”

Urriavius leaned forward.

“And who guarantees that the Coins won’t abandon us at the first chance to get their greasy hands on power? Or do you think we trust noble senators?”

“I guarantee it!” Daniel answered, his gaze fixed on the crime chief. “And if my word isn’t enough, then we shouldn’t be here in the first place.”

Silence. Arcus watched without intervening, as if waiting for the right moment to speak. The tension only increased. Veiled promises of retaliation, should things get out of control, gleamed in the threatening looks traded by the lesser bosses.

And still no Ravia.

“Enough of this farce, right, Grace?” Palla Urriavius changed the direction of the conversation, a crooked smile appearing on her lips. “We both know this is going nowhere. Ravia won’t come… because La Farfalla is on her way.”

The name fell heavy in the hall, like a stone disturbing a still lake.

“Soldiers have already surrounded the exits” Urriavius reclined in her chair, satisfied. “They’re waiting for my signal. Prebito pays well, and I work for whoever pays more.”

Sallustia’s hand went to her sword. The hall doors opened again and… La Farfalla entered like a whisper of death itself.

The assassin had chosen the same outfit they had seen at the colosseum: a corset and tight pants, blending sensuality and mobility, all in silk and leather dyed dark to aid stealth. In one hand she wore a glove with polished steel claws, the blades thin and slightly curved, articulated to the fingers.

And, of course, there was the butterfly mask, forged of enameled metal in shades of red and gold, with black details and delicate cutouts that resembled wings.

She made a light motion and tossed Notibus Ravia’s head, which rolled to a stop before Daniel. The hall exploded in screams, scraping chairs, and drawn blades.

La Farfalla moved before anyone reacted. Before even Sallustia. With a precise leap, she crossed the table and drove a curved blade into Daniel’s throat.

Or it should have been.

Gupta, even with movements hampered by his wound, acted faster than the assassin, but without time for an alchemical preparation, he used his own body to shield the Custos Tecit.

The blade pierced his chest and the alchemist choked on the blood that filled his mouth. Daniel shouted, but it was too late. Gupta fell backward, his legs trembling.

In his final moments he looked at Lais — not at his employer, nor even his friend Thanatos. He looked to the magus, knowing she would carry a last message for which he no longer had strength.

“Try to survive…” the poisoner whispered and moved no more.

“No!” Lais and Thanatos screamed in unison, but it was the mercenary magus who acted first, her hands blazing with thaumaturgic energy. “Wretch!”

A jet of flame cut across the table toward La Farfalla, but the assassin dodged with an acrobatic twist. Soldiers in black armor stormed the hall.

The quality of their harnesses quickly showed they were no common men-at-arms. They wore black cuirasses and long capes; their closed-visored helms, with narrow eye slits painted in charcoal, were shaped like roses.

Each wielded a broad sword with a serrated edge, meant to tear flesh rather than cut cleanly. Their movements were precise and silent even under all that steel. Black Rose soldiers.

Everything became chaos.

Crime leaders shouted orders — some fled, others fought to cut down the invaders. The sound of metal on metal filled the hall.

Sallustia charged at La Farfalla. The assassin scored a wall with the articulated blades of her gauntlet, lighting her own face with sparks in the hall’s half-light.

Before the two met, however, Sorcha drew her revolvers. Two shots cracked, dropping soldiers who were moving to flank the paladin-slave. Their heads burst in red clouds against the wall.

The two women exchanged a glance, placing themselves between Daniel — trying to shield Gupta’s corpse — and the assassin. Sallustia said nothing, but did not stop the gunslinger from fighting at her side, while the traveler from another world watched everything, trying to keep himself safe.

La Farfalla no longer waited and threw herself forward, the blades of her gauntlet gleaming as they scraped the walls.

Sorcha fired twice — the first shot tore a piece of the assassin’s mask, the second punched through her shoulder. The assassin hunched like a wounded animal, blood gushing down her arm, yet still advanced.

She went for Sorcha first. The cut grazed the gunslinger’s face and opened a gash above the right eye. Sorcha screamed, stumbled back, and fired again — the bullet nicked Farfalla’s hip, which did not hesitate.

Sallustia shoved Sorcha aside with a shoulder-check. The paladin’s body already in its lowest, most predatory posture. Feet sliding in short circles, the huge blade moving with inhuman precision.

The first clash shook the entire hall. Sallustia’s sword came down in a heavy arc; Farfalla parried with the gauntlet blades but was driven back three steps, the stone floor cracking beneath her feet.

“Too slow, assassin!” Sallustia snarled.

La Farfalla tried to slice the paladin’s flank on a spin, but Sallustia was already coming with the next blow — an apparent thrust that turned into a cut at the last instant, severing two fingers from the assassin’s left hand.

Blood sprayed, flecking Sorcha’s face, who fired again. The shot blew a hole in the enemy’s abdomen.

Even so, Farfalla didn’t stop.

The assassin crashed onto Sorcha, her blades describing a wide arc. The gunslinger tried to raise her arm, but she was too slow, and steel opened her left eye in a vertical slash. She fell back screaming, one hand to her face, the other firing blind.

A shot struck Farfalla’s shoulder. It distracted her just as Sallustia came on like a tornado of steel.

The traditional sword style of the paladin-slaves was pure violence. Sallustia drove forward, the sword cutting in circular motions, each strike followed by another without pause.

A cut slashed the assassin’s thigh, nearly severing the muscle; another scored her face, finally tearing off the butterfly mask and revealing eyes taken by madness.

Farfalla counterattacked in a frenzy, blades ripping the air — one of them punched into Sallustia’s shoulder to the bone. The paladin did not retreat.

The hall became a festival of blood. Drops fell like rain, and the bodies of the Black Rose soldiers spread among those of lesser crime chiefs and many unlucky bodyguards. Torchlight flickered, giving the scene a profane cast.

Sorcha, half blind, fired again. The bullet tore through Farfalla’s jaw, ripping away half her mouth in a spray of teeth and flesh. The assassin reeled, yet still tried to run Sallustia through with a desperate blow.

The paladin-slave twisted and delivered a final strike with the colossal blade. It cleaved La Farfalla’s neck, slicing flesh, bone, and artery. Her head fell and rolled across the stone, the eyes blinking once before losing their light.

The decapitated body staggered two steps and collapsed in a jet of blood that painted the nearest wall.

Sallustia drew a deep breath, but the world began to spin. Her left shoulder barely moved, her hip burned with pain, and warm blood ran down her legs. She took three steps back, the sword slipping from her fingers.

“Sallustia!” Daniel shouted, seeing Sorcha also collapse, one hand still over her ruined eye.

But the paladin only fell to her knees, then onto her side, breathing hard. Thanatos cried for help and ran to her, while Daniel tried to drag Gupta’s body out of the melee.

Bellusa, the Slender One, went to Palla Urriavius and, before she realized it, drove a blade through the woman’s nape, the point emerging from her mouth. The Sons of the Mist’s leader fell without a sound, eyes glassy.

“Traitor!” Bellusa whispered, wiping the blade on the woman’s raven-feather coat.

Soldiers screamed on all sides, set ablaze by Lais’s spells; in her fury she turned enemies into grotesque, charred masses of flesh.

With Farfalla’s death the situation seemed more controlled and soon the remaining rose-clad soldiers, along with many survivors from the Sons of the Mist, fled. Those who switched sides upon hearing of Palla’s betrayal were allowed to stay, all tearing off the guild’s symbol that no longer existed.

Arcus Ciusennus had a pile of enemies at his feet. His crimson armor was stained with others’ blood. Calmly, he finished strangling a man with his bare hands and then looked to Daniel, crouched by a wall.

“Prebito wanted us dead. Now he’ll have enemies who will never accept his gold in exchange for mercy. And if we’re doing this, master de Lio, it’s total war. No quarter.”

Bellusa kicked Palla Urriavius’s body aside and went to aid her gunslinger friend.

“The Sons of the Mist are ashes now!”

Daniel closed his eyes for a moment. Gupta’s body lay motionless in his arms. Lais knelt beside the corpse, her expression empty.

Thanatos did not smile.

“We secured the alliance” he said, tears starting to run down his face after pulling the fainted Sallustia from the fray. “But we lost more than we gained.”

No one answered.

The night at Fort Tinuso ended with the remaining leaders signing the pact against Prebito. Men collected the bodies — without anyone’s orders, for Ravia was dead — and washed the blood away with buckets of cold water.

Outside, the city went on living, ignoring the war being born beneath its foundations. Daniel, Lais, and Thanatos swore that Prebito would pay dearly.

But, sadly, Zanma Gupta would not see the end of it.