The demon mist crept up the railings and dripped over the bulkhead. Whispered tendrils wound around ankles and even those in boots shivered as the clammy fingers caressed goose-fleshed skin.

    Higher, deeper, cooler, damper. A natural fog would have swirled as the mate strode across the deck, stirring in his wake, but not this hell-spawned vapor. Even Bram's broad shoulders couldn't force a path and each step felt like pushing through the boughs in an evergreen forest. Unlike foliage, which would spring back as one passed, the mist wrapped wet sheets against his back.

    Every sailor held his chin higher, trying to gulp the clear air above rather than inhale the miasma; each certain that breathable pestilence lived in the gloom and would be content to claim another man's life.

    The sails creaked, and somewhere nearby - too close - Bram heard the crash of waves against the widow-making shoreline.

    "Can you hear the bell? Or see the fire?" the helmsman shouted, his words coming as if from across the sea instead of a few man-lengths distant.

    Every ear and eye strained, listening for the bell or seeking the flames that signaled the harbor entrance. One man shimmied up the mast to search the night for the beacon. The mist had greased the pole, and he slipped as quickly as he climbed. One by one, the men conceded the inevitable. Shoulders sagged as courage failed.

    Unlucky voyage from the start and mislaying the astrolabe had nearly lost them in the first storm. Trading most of the meat supply to a barbarian ship for another one. The captain's leg broken when the shark had flailed after he thought all the fight gone - now he lay in a ranting fever, locked in the galley. The laden rope, holding half the kegs of fresh water, had rotted and worn out, sending the barrels to crack against the mast, and overboard to sink beneath the brine. Bram remembered pulling his knife from Martin, crazed by his thirst but killed by his friend. Blood washed away in saltwater.

    Worms in the meal. Sand in the beer. Half-empty holds to show for their labor. Unlucky, but confidence rebounded as they reached familiar waters, until the fog rose against them.

    In the mist, disoriented by the echo of waves, no man could say in which direction the true coast might lay.

    The mate (this was Bram's first journey in that role) wondered how his betrothed would take his death? She, of the shining hair - perpetually tousled by the sea breezes - and slender form, would not be long alone. Had she even waited for him to return, delayed time and time again by misfortune? He loved her beyond what was wise. Did she know?

    "Lara," he whispered, turning his face toward heaven to wish her well. There, flaring in the hood of night sparkled a star too yellow to be sky borne.

    "Helm! Starboard!" he shouted. A chorus took up the call and, above the hopeful din, the sweet crystalline music of the land-bell rang. All the men, in that moment, sensed the grip of fear release them. The mist flowed like milk back from whence it had oozed, slinking away like a greedy egg-stealing dog after a well-deserved kick in the ribs.

    The headlands appeared, like the twin mounds of a nursing mother welcoming her frightened child back to her bosom.

    On a spire above the storm wall, a slight figure with billowing hair held a torch aloft. The other hand balanced her as she leaned into the wind.

    Closer. Bram could see her face in the light, the grim lines softening into lamp-bright joy.

    Smiling for his return.

    Lara... Waiting for him and no other.