One moment he was about to capture an important stronghold, slaughter its inhabitants, and plunder at his leisure. The conquest would enhance his rapidly growing political strength.
But a peculiar fog separated Hans, his three veteran fighters, and Wilm from the rest of the army. And when the mist lifted, the five found themselves in this alien realm, Barovia.
Initially unperturbed, Hans called upon his sword to help retrace their steps. In vain! The portal between his world and this one remained hidden. Evil gods and some sorcery far greater than his blade thwarted every attempt to escape.
How could this have happened? All his hard-won wealth and influence lay on the far side of that diabolical mist, and he could not reach them! The mercenary genius who had ensnared so many others was himself ensnared! Hans belabored the problem and brooded for days before he was forced to concede defeat.
There seemed no way out. So. . he must adapt if he hoped to survive. This was, in effect, enemy terrain, and he must study it. Over Wilm's outraged objections to the shedding of innocent blood, Hans coerced information from isolated farm families and wayfarers and left the bodies for scavengers. He learned that Barovia harbored numerous fantastic and deadly creatures. And the mist that had trapped him was not unusual; such mists were all too common in this realm, and were rightly feared.
The wealth and reputation that could have kept Hans and his followers sheltered and well fed lay on the far side of that infernal gate of mist.
In the end, they stooped to robbery, always leaving evidence to imply that the thefts and murders were committed by renegade gypsies. Wilm, naturally, abhorred these despicable forays even as his brother Compelled him to participate.
Inwardly, though, Hans, too, seethed with resentment. He was a master mercenary, a man on his way to great things. It was shameful to be reduced to common pilfering and throat slitting!
He must escape from Barovia. If he could not return to his own world, he would seek out other realms in this one — realms ripe for the sort of conquest Captain Eckert had perfected elsewhere. Once he left Von Zarovich's fog-shrouded land, Hans could create a domain of his own. Wealth was the key, and for a time, he despaired of ever acquiring sufficient funds to fulfill his dreams.
When he first met Lisl and her cousin he did not foresee the gypsy half-breeds'value to him. But tuika brandywine loosened Sebestyen's tongue. He began to boast of big plans for stealing an annual shipment of silver from the Wagner mines. Hans immediately saw the flaws in the clumsy scheme. And he saw how to correct them with the aid of his enchanted sword. The end result would be a masterpiece!
In drunken generosity, the Vistana offered to make his new "friend" a partner. Hans, however, had no intention of sharing. Resisting the takeover, Sebestyen forfeited his life.
Terrorized and grief-stricken, Lisl was easily bound by an obedience spell. She became an unwilling native guide to Barovia, particularly to this mountain trail. Once Hans had the treasure and was safely across the border, she would serve him in a more sensual capacity. And if Lisl failed to please, she would go the way of her cousin. Small loss; there were countless other women he could enslave.
Sebestyen had proposed an operation worthy of Captain Eckert's talents: an entire season's output of refined silver. His palms itched at the prospect, and he lusted to hold the lovely, argent metal, the shining foundation of his future private kingdom.
King Hans! He liked the ring of that, and soon it would be true! The path had begun to fork and divide confusingly, sometimes dwindling to nearly nothing. He held his torch high, probing the darkness, staying to the main trail with difficulty. "How much farther to the campsite?" he demanded.
Lisl tensed at the sound of his harsh voice. "I. . I do not know."
He seized her arm in a brutal grip. "Liar! Your cousin knew. But that map he sketched for me on the tavern's filthy tabletop was as muddled with wine as his brain. Sebestyen bragged that gypsies are familiar with every pathway in this realm. Prove it!"
He thrust her away from him so violently that she nearly fell. The Vistana rubbed her aching arm and dabbed at her tears with the hem of her shawl as she staggered on.
All about them now, trees thinned, scrubbier varieties replacing the forest titans of the lower mountain. Through gaps in the woodland wall, the journeyers saw open ground, a frozen desolation drenched in waning moonlight.
"Hope we is nearin'them mines," a mercenary wheezed. "I wants to get about killin'them pit workers and takin'the silver."
"Save your breath," Wilm said curtly, eyeing his bloodthirsty fellow fighter with distaste. "No telling how much farther he will make us climb. . "
But in fact, within fifty paces they reached the sought-for campsite. Five of the travelers sank gratefully onto the stone benches ringing an ancient fire pit. Hans alone was energetic, buoyed by anticipation. He walked to the northernmost edge of the clearing and gazed out at the barrens. Not far away stood miners' huts, securely shuttered against the night. With an evil smirk, he touched the sword. Lisl and the men watched him anxiously, sensing magic in the frosty air. Satisfied with his efforts, Eckert turned and said, "Gather fuel. Get a fire going."
"Will that not reveal us to them there on the slope, Cap'n?"
"No. Nor will our torches. I willed the miners to see and hear nothing beyond their doors. So you have no excuse for not working. Move."
They did, grumbling. And when the pit glowed with heat, they grumbled about the hard cheese and dried meat they had brought in their packs. Exasperated, Hans used the sword to lure two plump hares within reach, skewering the helpless prey. Content at last, the mercenaries butchered and roasted the game, devouring it noisily.
Wilm and Lisl ate little and sat apart from the rest. Clasping hands, they eyed each other sympathetically, mutual enslavement and hatred of their enslaver linking them. As a cold wind soughed overhead, the gypsy began to croon. The haunting melody gave the brutish mercenaries pause. Even Captain Eckert listened with interest.
"What is that song?" he asked when she finished.
"Regina d'Ghiacco."
He grimaced. "The Ice Queen? 'That ridiculous Vistana legend of a beautiful spirit who prowls this mountain? "
"Jezra Wagner is not a legend," Lisl snapped. "She was buried in an avalanche long ago. Her spirit roams Mount Baratok and the lands about and seeks relief from the terrible cold that always afflicts her. If she touches you. . it is death."
The veterans'eyes widened. Hans, though, spat an obscenity. "Ridiculous!" he repeated. "Who has seen this Ice Queen? You? And if she is such a menace, how has anyone lived to tell the tale after encountering her?"
Lisl shrugged. "I said you die only if she touches you. Some who saw her managed to flee before she got too close. Later, they returned and found their unfortunate companions frozen."
His laugh echoed through the clearing. "And you superstitious Barovians can think of no other way a man might freeze to death? If a fool gawks at a snow mirage until his blood congeals, that does not prove spirits exist. "The mercenaries, encouraged by his explanation, nodded and chuckled.
Lisl insisted, "Jezra is real, and the gods help those who invade her ancestral lands, as we are doing."
Hans lashed out, slapping her hard. She fell back on the stone bench, her cheek reddening from the blow. Wilm struggled to rise and defend the gypsy, but could not; his brother crushed that noble impulse with a scornful glance and a touch on his sword.
"You seem to have an affection for her," he said, his tone mocking. "Very well then, keep her quiet. Share her naive beliefs in Vistana legends, if it solaces, so long as you are not noisy about it. As for me, I believe only in money. Not gold, precious though it is, for it is too soft for my nature. No, I will have a fortune fit for a king — cold, hard silver, enough to last me a lifetime!"