Emissaries from Béla the Wisent, Béla the First of Hungary, approached Halott Hegy, the Mountain of the Dead, on horseback, a hard time of it, on a steep, craggy road up the least accessible mountain in the Carpathians. A line of pack animals stretched behind them loaded with gold and spices. The leader raised his fist and the procession crawled to a halt. With a grunt he dismounted and walked up the road a few paces. The men got off their horses, stretched, checked their gear, and walked back to inspect the cargo. The second in command, György, watched the men a moment and then followed his commander.

The general stood with his hands behind his back, looking up the mist-shrouded mountain.

“Tábornok,” György said.

“How high do you think it is, György?”

“It is the highest in this area. I have seen higher. In the Alps, Tábornok.”

“You have seen the Alps? When was that?”

“Ten years ago. With the ambassador.”

“I envy you, György. That must have been a sight.”

They stood quiet for a moment.

“Speak your mind, György.”

“That is a great deal of gold, Tábornok.”

“True. A great deal.”

“With that much gold and this many men, we could set up our own kingdom.”

“You are not suggesting—”

“Of course not, Tábornok. I only say—it is a lot of gold.”

“So, you are only making talk?” The Tábornok turned to face him.

György looked away and off down the mountain.

“You are concerned about our errand.”

“I don’t know what our errand is. You have not taken me into your confidence,” György said.

“We are carrying tribute and a message—a request.”

“To whom?”

“Lord Krizum.”

“I thought Krizum was a myth.”

“He may yet be. My mission, our mission, was given to me by none other than Béla the Bison himself.”

“That certainly explains the amount of gold. Did he liberate the Treasury?”

“More than that, I am to make Krizum a royal. He is to be a Count. Our king has commanded that he be officially given these three hundred square miles as his own, and he is to be known as Drakul, Count of Carpathia.”

“And more?”

“I am to, ah, ‘inform’ the Count that Béla the First of Hungary will be marching some portion of his army through the Count’s territory, with the Count’s kind permission, of course.”

“Permission.”

“You heard me. Our king is asking permission.”

“After bribing him with gold and title.”

“Bribe? Let us agree that if we ever see the capital again, we will find a more politic word when we tell this story.”

A soldier trotted up behind the men.

“My Lord Tábornok. Hadnagy György. Are we continuing now, or should I have the men build fires for camp?”

“What do you think, György?”

György pointed up the road. “I do not think I have ever seen that many wolves before, sir.”

At first Tábornok thought his eyes were playing tricks on him. The shadows of the trees and the rocks seemed to be moving, spreading out like blood in the dust of a battlefield. Then the shadows separated themselves and he could see that there were scores of wolves, gray like the rocks, black like the shadows, moving toward them, flanking the road, getting behind the line of horses.

“How many of them do you think we can kill before we are overwhelmed?” said the Tábornok, putting his hand on his sword.

The road ahead was thick with wolves, a roiling sea of fur and teeth and flashing eyes. From among them, the dust seemed to rise, the shadow of dust, and it formed itself into a man.

“Is this what you expected to find, Tábornok?” said György.

“More or less, old friend.”

“And are we dead now?”

“It hangs in the balance. Let us hear what this thing says.”

The man was naked, white as ivory, smudgy like ashes. His eyes were black within black. And he trembled as he walked.

“What say you, man, if man you be,” Tábornok called to him.

The man stopped about ten feet away. Wolves circled around his legs and settled at his feet like loyal dogs. The man looked at the two soldiers, then at the men and animals behind them.

“Pile all the tribute in the road, get on your horses, and go back down the mountain.” The man’s tone was dismissive.

The commander bristled. “I am the Tábornok. I would see Lord Krizum.”

“In the road,” the man repeated, tiredly.

György said, “It’s a king’s ransom, you fool. We cannot just leave it in the road for anyone to take.”

“Go back down the mountain and return to your homeland.”

Tábornok stepped forward and drew his sword. “And what if I kill you now and march right up this mountain to see Krizum myself.”

The man looked into the cold blue eyes of the Tábornok. “Do so. In the name of whatever new god you serve, do so. Free me. Then take yourself up the mountain, the Mountain of the Dead, to Tepes and his gods, his old, old gods. I implore you. Do so.”

The Tábornok snorted. But he was absolutely certain that if he killed this thing, he and his men would be utterly destroyed by the wolves.

“I have more than tribute, you thing. I have messages and greetings and news from the king for Krizum. I will deliver them. I have been ordered to.”

“Krizum knows already. He is Count. Drakul the Count. Leave your filthy lucre and be gone.”

“Maybe I will kill you before I go,” the Tábornok snarled, his warrior blood enflamed.

The man stepped forward and pressed his naked, ashy chest to the point of the Tábornok’s sword. The Tábornok dragged the blade across the man’s chest, hard enough to draw blood. But it was like cutting a piece of chalk. White under white. The Tábornok stepped back.

He turned and told György to begin offloading the tribute. When he turned again, the man was gone, and the wolves were moving off, up the mountain.

 ♢

July 21, 2025