(The Cursed Patrol)
POV: Gonzalo de Vargas
Tenochtitlan Ruins — Pre-Dawn Light
There were six of them.
Four Spaniards. Two Tlaxcalan guides.
Steel breastplates caught the moonlight as they trudged through the rubble of what had once been sacred ground. Gonzalo's boots squelched against damp stone and ash, his torch sputtering in the heavy air. The dogs—war beasts, trained and rabid—paced ahead, their muscles twitching beneath matted fur.
They'd been ordered here.
Not for tribute. Not for conquest.
But because the natives—their own allies—refused to set foot in this area anymore.
"Cursed," one of them had whispered in Náhuatl.
"The gods are angry."
"Tezcatlipoca walks among the ruins. He hunts us for betraying the Mexica."
At first, Gonzalo laughed. Superstitions. Savage nonsense. Ghost stories passed around campfires by men who couldn't hold steel properly.
But the laughter stopped after the second patrol vanished.
No trace. No blood. Just gone.
Now Cortés was listening. And so Gonzalo—veteran of La Habana, slayer of caciques, Christ's blade in the New World—was marching into the so-called cursed zone with a flintlock, a sword, and something he hadn't felt since arriving in the Yucatán.
Unease.
The dogs were the first to die.
No warning. One moment they were sniffing the wind.
The next—screams.
High-pitched canine howls snapped through the darkness, followed by thrashing, the sound of bone on stone, gurgling barks… and then silence.
The Spaniards froze.
"¿Qué fue eso?" (What was that?) hissed Rodrigo.
"Ambush," Gonzalo growled, unsheathing his sword. "Stay close."
That's when the chanting began.
Low. Rhythmic. Unfamiliar.
It wasn't Náhuatl. It wasn't any dialect they knew.
The shadows pulsed. From between shattered temples, figures emerged—not quite warriors, not quite peasants. Their bodies were lean. Their eyes wide and wild. Some wore the skins of dogs. Others were painted in soot and dried blood.
Then came the man in blue.
No—not blue. Black, but gleaming. A black tilmatli draped across his shoulder like royalty. Cactli sandals. Obsidian-bladed club slung low.
He walked like a man at home in hell.
He stared straight at Gonzalo.
And spoke in perfect, unbroken Spanish.
"Dile a tu capitán Cortés que le di suficiente tiempo.
Dejé que su conquista floreciera…
y ahora su alma y la del resto de ustedes, los cristianos, son mías."
(Tell your captain Cortés that I gave him enough time. I let his conquest flourish… and now his soul and the souls of the rest of you Christians are mine.)
Rodrigo went pale. Juan muttered a prayer.
Gonzalo's hand trembled.
"¿Sorprendido?
¿Asustado?
Deberían estarlo.
Los mataré a todos, jaja.
Los volveré locos y los mataré a todos." (Surprised? Scared? You should be. I'll kill you all, haha. I'll drive you crazy and kill you all.)
The man took a step forward. The others behind him—ghosts of some new, twisted cult—raised their arms and began to howl.
It wasn't war cries. It was ritual.
A violent, primal invocation.
"Soy cada pesadilla que hayan tenido.
Soy TODO a lo que siempre le han temido.
Y no me culpen.
No fui yo quien estuvo dispuesto a entregar sus almas por oro y gloria." (I am every nightmare you've ever had. I am EVERYTHING you've ever feared, And don't blame me. I wasn't the one who was willing to give up your souls for gold and glory.)
"Díganle a su capitán que lo recuperaré todo…
y que vendré a recoger TODAS sus almas." (Tell your captain I'll get everything back... and that I'll come to collect ALL of their souls.)
Rodrigo dropped his sword.
Juan screamed and bolted.
The Tlaxcalans ran without looking back.
Gonzalo stayed just long enough to see the shadows swallow another man whole.
He didn't know what he saw.
A demon? A sorcerer? All he knew was the devil indeed came to collect as his men and the Tlaxcalan guides were being picked off, as Gonzalo ran for his life.
The camp was restless before Gonzalo even arrived.
The Tlaxcalans—normally arrogant in their position—had stopped laughing around the fire. Some had stopped speaking altogether. When one young Mexica concubine whispered about the forbidden quarters of the ruined city, her handler backhanded her. Not out of cruelty—but fear.
Whispers had already begun to spread.
About shapes in the smoke.
About gods appearing at night.
About something… older than the Spanish.
But it wasn't until Gonzalo de Vargas returned that those whispers became a howl.
He staggered through the gates at dawn.
Covered in piss. Barefoot. Pale as chalk.
His torch long extinguished, sword missing, helmet gone. He looked like he'd clawed his way out of a grave.
"¡Rápido! ¡Agua! ¡Un médico!" ( Quick! Water! A doctor!)
someone shouted.
But Gonzalo didn't respond to the aid.
He kept walking. Right past the guards. Right into Cortés's command tent. Eyes wide. Breathing shallow. His lips trembled with something between prayer and blasphemy.
Cortés turned to him sharply.
"¿Qué pasó? ¿Dónde está tu patrulla?" (What happened? Where's your patrol?)
Silence.
Then, in a voice not quite his own:
"Están muertos. Todos muertos… excepto yo." (They're dead. They're all dead… I'm the only one left.)
"Y no fue unos dioses…" (and there weren't any gods)
"Era un hombre. Un indio. Un hombre que hablaba español… con el rostro limpio, los ojos del infierno… y dijo que… que nuestras almas ya no son nuestras." (It was just one man. An Indio. A man who spoke Spanish… with a clean face, eyes of hell… he said… that our souls are no longer ours.)
The tent went silent.
Cortés narrowed his eyes. "¿Qué estás diciendo?" (What are you saying?)
Gonzalo fell to his knees.
His next words were etched into every man's spine.
"Dijo… que tú, mi capitán… tú le entregaste nuestras almas." (He said… that you, my captain… you gave him our souls.)
"Que te dejó conquistar, solo para dejar florecer tu orgullo… y que ahora viene por lo que es suyo." (He let you conquer, only to let your pride flourish… and now he's coming for what's his.)
Panic.
It started subtly.
A soldier backing away from the tent. A scribe making the sign of the cross. A priest whispering Psalm 91. A Tlaxcalan translator asking, "¿El diablo? ¿El verdadero diablo?" (The devil? An actual devil?) in a shaking voice.
Then came the rage.
"¡MENTIRAS!" (LIES!) Cortés shouted, slamming his fist against the table. "¡El demonio no se disfraza de indio!" (The devil doesn't dress up as an Indian!)
But even he looked shaken.
Because what Gonzalo described was not a barbarian.
He spoke in flawless Castilian. He knew who Cortés was. He quoted scripture in reverse. He knew their fear.
He used it.
He made them believe.
That night, rumors spread like wildfire.
"Cortés sold his soul to conquer the Mexica."
"There are demons in the ruins."
"The Mexica gods are returning to punish the traitors."
"No, it's worse—it's the Devil himself."
Among the Mexica slaves and concubines, some wept.
They prayed in silence, holding each other, whispering names of lost temples. Some believed Huitzilopochtli had returned in vengeance.
But others… others began to hope.
That maybe—just maybe—the gods hadn't abandoned them after all. That their pain was being answered.
Even if it was by something dark.
In the Tlaxcalan quarters, things were even worse.
Veteran warriors refused to return to their patrol routes.
"They walk with shadows," one said.
"They chant with blood in their mouths," said another.
"They aren't men anymore."
Even the most battle-hardened veterans of Zautla and Cholula began to question what they'd allied with. And if they were next.
In Cortés's command tent, the captain sat in silence for hours.
No orders.
No speeches.
Just staring at the map of the ruined city.
POV: The Spanish camp — dawn after Gonzalo's return
The smell of incense fought with the stench of rot.
A priest walked the rows of tents, flinging blessed water onto men who no longer slept. They clutched rosaries, muttered prayers, and crossed themselves whenever the wind shifted toward the direction of the city.
It wasn't gossip anymore.
Every soldier in the camp had heard the same thing:
"The Devil appeared in the ruins."
"He spoke perfect Castilian."
"He said Cortés sold our souls."
The Priest's Fear
Father Olmedo, who had baptized hundreds of Indios by force, looked pale as parchment.
He had listened to Gonzalo's full testimony—every word trembling out of him—and afterward whispered:
"If it were a spirit of the old gods, I could have cast it out.
But this… this speaks of damnation, not heresy."
He ordered a mass immediately. The bells were gone, so they used a sword pommel to strike a helmet as a call to prayer. Men came crawling, eyes bloodshot, lips cracked from fear.
When the priest lifted the host, no one looked up.
Even the devout feared that meeting God's gaze might invite judgment too soon.
The Soldiers' Panic
Veterans who had marched through Veracruz and Cholula now tied crosses to their armor with rawhide strips. Some carved INRI onto their helmets.
One man whispered he saw a face in the smoke over the city—a smiling one.
Another begged to be flogged, claiming penance might cleanse him before the Devil came for his soul.
The priests couldn't keep up.
Every confession ended the same way:
"I thought we were doing God's work… now I don't know whose we serve."
The Tlaxcalans' Doubt
Their native allies refused to enter the camp at night.
They claimed to hear footsteps around their fires, or a woman's weeping drifting over the canal. Some began packing their gear, saying the gods of the Mexica had cursed all who fought against them.
When Cortés demanded they stay, a Tlaxcalan captain spat back,
"If your devil hunts souls, let him take Spanish ones first. We still have ours."
By morning, fifty Tlaxcalans had deserted.
Cortés and His Council
Cortés tried to dismiss it as hysteria.
"Some savage with a trick of the tongue," he said. "A heathen mocking us."
But his officers didn't look convinced.
They had all heard Gonzalo's words—how the Indio knew Cortés's name, his mission, even his pride.
Pedro de Alvarado crossed himself twice before speaking.
"Captain… the men believe you made a pact."
Cortés slammed his fist on the table, but it didn't silence them.
He saw it in their eyes—the flicker of doubt.
The unspoken question:
Did you?
The Camp at Night
No one sang.
No one drank.
Instead they watched the fires burn low, whispering prayers between swallows of stale wine. Some tore pages from their small Latin psalters and wore them against their chests like talismans.
Dogs barked at empty darkness.
A horse screamed when a shadow moved too quickly.
Every sound—the crack of wood, the snap of canvas—felt like footsteps approaching.
And when the wind came from the city, it carried faint words that no one dared translate:
"Ya viene por ustedes…"
"He's coming for you…"
In the morning, Cortés ordered another patrol.
No volunteers stepped forward.
So he pointed at men by name.
And though every soldier obeyed, not one looked him in the eye.
The sun had barely crested the horizon, but the air in camp was already thick with unease.
Cortés stood outside his tent, gauntlets still unbuckled, as the priest finished sprinkling holy water on the six soldiers preparing to patrol the "haunted zone."
Each man kept his eyes low, avoiding his commander's face.
Their armor rattled not from movement—but from shaking hands.
"Escuchen," (listen) Cortés said firmly, voice cold and sharp as steel.
"What happened last night was the work of savages. A trick. There are still Indios hiding among the ruins, trying to frighten us. That is all."
He paused, scanning their faces.
No one looked convinced.
A soldier finally spoke—one of the veterans from the Yucatán, his face weathered and his voice trembling.
"With respect, mi capitán… how is that possible?"
Cortés's brow furrowed. "¿Qué quieres decir?" (What are you trying to say?)
"How can an Indio speak perfect Castilian? Marina is the only one among them who knows our tongue, and even she still struggles with certain words."
"But that one… Gonzalo said he spoke like a noble from Seville!"
Another soldier chimed in, louder now:
"He spoke of selling souls to the Devil, Captain! How would a savage even know what that means? They barely understand confession or sin! He knew what hell was! He said—he said he came to collect!"
The line of soldiers began to murmur, some crossing themselves, others stepping back from Cortés like he carried the plague.
A third man, younger and pale, shouted before he could stop himself:
"He was dressed as a Mexica noble, Captain! In fine cotton, not rags! None of the Indians we've seen have had that since the city fell. And Gonzalo said his face was clean—too clean! You think the Devil wouldn't hide in a handsome mask?"
He pointed a shaking finger right at Cortés.
"You've survived every death trap! You've walked through battles where men better than us were torn apart, and you—you always walk out alive! Tell us, Captain—how else is that possible?"
The camp went dead silent.
Cortés's expression didn't change, but his jaw flexed hard enough to show the veins in his neck.
"Careful," he said quietly. "You walk the line of mutiny."
But the words didn't hit as they once did.
The spell of authority had fractured.
Even Father Olmedo, standing behind the soldiers, lowered his eyes instead of defending him.
Cortés took a slow breath and forced his tone calm.
"I have seen the Devil's work before. In Spain. In Cuba. He hides in men's minds. He turns fear into rebellion. That is what this is. You will go, you will investigate, and you will come back with proof that it is no more than a trick."
He stepped forward until the first soldier flinched.
"If it is a demon, then God will protect you."
But as the patrol marched out, the whispers didn't stop.
"If it's truly the Devil…"
"Then the Captain's already damned…"
"And we'll all burn with him…"
By the time their footsteps disappeared into the ruins, even the priest had joined the murmuring.
And somewhere beyond the camp, carried faintly by the wind, came a sound none of them would ever forget—
A slow, mocking laugh echoing from the direction of the cursed city.
POV: Spanish Patrol — Haunted Quarter, Midday
The patrol advanced in a line of six, weapons ready, rosaries clenched tight in calloused fists.
Their captain, Rodrigo de Salazar, took the lead—visor lifted to get a better look at the burned-out ruins of the Mexica quarter.
Birdsong had vanished.
Not even insects stirred.
"It's just stone and wind," Salazar muttered under his breath.
"Stone and wind and superstition."
But the further in they walked, the colder it felt.
And the quieter it got.
Then one of the soldiers—the youngest, Diego—stopped.
"Capitán… ¿ves eso?" (Captain… you see that?)
They all turned.
Painted in thick black and crimson pigment on the crumbling adobe wall was a mural—
A scene of six Spaniards, clearly identifiable by their armor, helmets, and muskets.
But the horror wasn't in their faces.
It was in their shadows.
Each shadow was warped, twisted—with claws, curling horns, and eyes like glowing coals.
One of them had bat wings.
Rodrigo took a step back.
The others crossed themselves.
"Is… is that supposed to be us?" Diego whispered.
"That one in front—it looks like you, Capitán."
"Quiet," Rodrigo snapped, but his voice cracked mid-word.
"It's just a bluff. Some Indio painting lies to shake our spirits. Trickery."
They kept moving.
But the next building was worse.
A depiction of a Spanish man kneeling, offering a golden crucifix to a shadowy figure towering over him—horned, cloaked, eyes white.
The shadow figure had a red hand gripping the Spaniard's head like a puppet.
Below the image, painted in clear, perfect Castilian:
"Él entregó sus almas por oro. Ahora vendré por lo que es mío."
(He gave your souls for gold. Now I come for what is mine.)
The men froze.
One vomited on the spot.
Another tried to scrape the message off with his dagger but couldn't stop his hand from shaking.
Rodrigo looked around.
The walls were covered in similar depictions.
Some showed Spanish soldiers burning, screaming, their armor melted onto their flesh.
Others depicted churches collapsing, crosses inverted, and one had the word "MARINA" written next to a weeping woman held by fire.
"This isn't just art," one of the soldiers whispered.
"This is a curse…"
"This whole place reeks of the Devil!" another hissed.
"No bird, no dog, not even flies. It's not natural!"
"Didn't the scriptures say he'll come to claim what's his?"
Rodrigo gritted his teeth.
"Enough! This is psychological warfare—meant to divide us! You think demons know how to write in Castilian? You think the Devil paints? The savages are using fear against us. That's all this is!"
But no one answered him.
They just stared.
Eyes wide.
Feet rooted.
One soldier, Andrés, pointed to the final mural on a collapsed fountain wall.
It showed the entire Spanish army, all of them faceless—drawn only in shadow—kneeling before a smiling, crowned figure of the Devil.
The Devil had Cortés's armor.
And a long red tongue like a snake.
Beneath it:
"El traidor ya vendió sus almas. El resto es mío por derecho."
(The traitor already sold your souls. The rest are mine by right.)
POV: Rodrigo (Internal)
He felt his throat dry.
His men were unraveling.
And maybe… maybe they were right.
How would an Indio know about the Devil? About damnation?
How would they know Latin verses, prayers, the color of sin?
Rodrigo turned back toward the way they came.
"We return. Now. Tell no one of what we saw. That's an order."
But he already knew that fear could not be muzzled.
By tonight, the entire camp would know.
And by dawn, there would be whispers in Spain's holy quarters that something walked the ruins of Tenochtitlan…
Not a ghost.
Not a man.
But the Devil himself—come to collect.
By the time Rodrigo de Salazar and his five men returned, it was already too late.
Diego had broken first. He hadn't meant to—but the moment he sat by the fire and the others saw the state of him—face pale, lips cracked, crucifix gripped so tightly it left bloody lines in his palm—they asked. And he answered.
The words spilled from him like poison:
• The murals.
• The shadows.
• The horns.
• The messages.
• The devil's claim.
And worst of all?
It didn't matter that Rodrigo ordered silence.
It didn't matter that the rest of the men swore oaths to secrecy.
The tale spread anyway.
By morning, it reached the horses.
By noon, the priests were asking questions.
POV: Camp Barracks – Ordinary Soldiers
There was already talk of a curse.
Some soldiers began refusing to eat the rations, claiming the food tasted "tainted by sulfur."
A few poured holy water on their boots and armor.
One man was caught praying the rosary while weeping, asking Saint Michael to "strike down the demon possessing our captain."
Another shouted mid-meal:
"I won't die for a man who sold my soul!"
A fistfight broke out. Three men were stabbed. Two ran off into the night—deserted.
POV: Priests' Tent – Father Eusebio
Father Eusebio tried to make sense of it. At first, he dismissed the stories.
"The Devil doesn't reveal himself with murals or theater. He tempts. He whispers. This is fear, not the Enemy."
But then he heard the details:
• The precise Castilian.
• The biblical phrasing.
• The implication of damnation.
"An Indio would not know of such things," one friar said nervously.
"They can barely tell Christ from Saint James… but this… this was specific."
Eusebio went quiet.
Then, after a long pause:
"We need to exorcise that quarter."
"We need incense. Crosses. A full mass. And… a confession. From the Captain."
POV: Cortés's Tent – Late Night
Hernán Cortés sat alone, wine untouched, candlelight flickering off the silver icons on his desk.
He'd heard the entire story.
"The Indios say the Devil walks the ruins," said Sandoval. "They say he looks like one of them… but speaks like one of us."
Cortés exhaled slowly.
"There is no devil. Only the fear of one."
"But the men say you—"
"Enough."
Cortés stood.
"I've survived poison. I've been outnumbered ten to one. I've walked through arrows and storms. And I have emerged triumphant."
He stepped to the edge of the tent, looking toward the dark silhouette of the ruined city.
"If the Devil wanted my soul… he would've taken it long ago."
But his hand still trembled as he crossed himself.
POV: Indigenous Slaves and Concubines – Whispered Conversations
In the shadows behind the barracks, within the slave kitchens and tents where the tlacotin (slaves) were kept, the Mexica who overheard bits of Spanish talk began whispering among themselves.
"They fear Huitzilopochtli walks again."
"They say he will take the traitor's heart and offer it to the Sun."
"Some say Cihuacoatl has returned with warriors of the dead."
One woman carved the sign of the Fifth Sun onto her clay bowl.
"The gods have not forgotten us," she murmured.
"They have only changed form."
POV: Diego – One Night Later
Diego woke screaming.
He swore he saw horns in the campfire.
He begged the priest to cleanse him.
When asked what he saw, he simply whispered:
"He smiled. The Indio. The Devil. He smiled like he'd known me for years."
CAMP STATUS:
• At least 17 men have requested reassignment away from Tenochtitlan's ruins.
• 4 desertions confirmed.
• 2 priests demand a holy inquiry.
• 1 captain (Rodrigo) placed under watch for signs of possession.
• Morale: Unstable
• Superstition Index: Critical