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For details, contact: ovimagazine@yahoo.com No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior permission of the writer or the above publisher of this book An Ovi eBooks Publication 2025 Ovi eBookPublications - All material is copyright of the Ovi eBooks Publications & the writer C The Windmill Gambit The Windmill Gambit Thanos Kalamidas The adventures of Sancho Panza Thanos Kalamidas An Ovi eBooks Publication 2025 Ovi eBookPublications - All material is copyright of the Ovi eBooks Publications & the writer C The Windmill Gambit T he night was not silent, though it wore the illusion well. In the barren fields outside Con- suegra, the windmill known as El Viejo del Norte groaned against the night breeze. Its ancient wooden arms turned lazily, half in protest, half in memory. The moon, thin as a sickle and twice as cru- el, hung above it like a watchful eye, casting long, an- gular shadows that danced like ghosts upon the dry soil. A shape approached, staggering. The man, cloaked, bloodied, eyes wild with fear, carried something pressed to his chest. His boots were caked in mud and ash, and his breathing came in ragged bursts, as though he had outrun both man and devil across the plains. Thanos Kalamidas He reached the base of the windmill, touched its cracked stones with trembling fingers, and knelt. With a final, rattling exhale, he collapsed, face turned to the heavens, his expression locked somewhere be- tween agony and triumph. In his death-grip was a piece of parchment, torn and weathered. Upon it, drawn in clumsy strokes, was a cartoonish outline of a rotund man in a tat- tered vest, his head disproportionately large, his belly more so. Next to the figure, in hastily scrawled Latin: “ Veritas vincit ventos. ” Truth conquers the wind. Above, jammed between a broken vane and a rust- ed gear, fluttered a blood-speckled envelope sealed with wax, its crest unmistakable to those few in Spain who still remembered such things: The Cross of San- tiago, borne by the fabled Knights of Saint James. A relic of war, faith, and buried secrets. A moment passed. Then another. From the shadows behind a pile of discarded bar- rels, half-covered in straw, wholly forgotten, a figure stirred. He did not move quickly, for his knees were stubborn and his back bore the burdens of bread, time, and regret. But his eyes, those weary, kind eyes, were sharp. The Windmill Gambit He stepped forward, revealing a frame more cir- cular than square, wrapped in a brown wool cloak that had known better tailoring and fewer meals. His beard, speckled with grey, twitched as he muttered something under his breath. Sancho Panza, former squire to a mad knight, cur- rent mayor of a dusty village that time had misplaced, and eternal guardian of common sense, squinted at the corpse and sighed. “Ay, Dios mío...” he muttered, fingers stroking his chin thoughtfully. “Always the windmills.” He looked up, half expecting the great wooden arms to lurch toward him as they once had toward his master. They didn’t. They only creaked. Still... he did not trust them. Sancho stepped closer, his boot brushing the edge of the fallen man’s coat. He studied the paper, the wax seal, the crude sketch. “That’s either a poor likeness of me, or an even poorer insult.” He reached down and plucked the note free, brush- ing off blood and dirt. A gust of wind pulled at the Thanos Kalamidas parchment, nearly yanking it from his grasp. The windmill moaned behind him like some old beast straining to rise. The words beneath the drawing were clearer now. Latin. And not just any Latin, the kind that carried secrets “Truth conquers the wind,” Sancho said aloud, rolling the phrase on his tongue like a bitter almond. “Hmph. I should’ve known retirement wouldn’t last.” From the west, a low howl, either wolf or wind, echoed over the hills. Sancho straightened his back with a grunt and tucked the parchment into the folds of his vest. His mule, Dapple, waited a stone’s throw away, tethered lazily to an olive tree and chewing on something that likely didn’t belong to it. Sancho looked back at the body one last time. “You died trying to find something. Or trying to hide it.” His eyes turned once more to the spinning arms above, their endless rotation whispering riddles into the dark. The Windmill Gambit “And I suppose now, once again... it’s my turn to go chasing giants.” With a resigned groan, he climbed atop Dapple, who snorted in protest. Sancho ignored it, patting the mule’s neck absently. “Don’t worry, my friend. We’ll get answers. We al- ways do.” And with that, the unlikely rider and his loyal beast disappeared into the moonlit dust, leaving be- hind only a dead man, a sealed letter, and a windmill that, though ancient and broken, was still turning, still whispering truths no one else dared to hear. * * * * * The sun, that tireless inspector of the earth’s vani- ties, crept over the horizon with the suspicious slow- ness of a magistrate entering a tavern mid-duel. It revealed, with no small degree of divine sarcasm, the squat figure of a man struggling to dismount a mule that had all the patience of a tax collector and twice the spite. “Easy, Dapple, easy! You’d think I owed you money the way you throw me about.” Thanos Kalamidas Sancho Panza slid, rolled, and thudded onto the grass like a bag of onions, albeit onions with strong opinions and a sore hip. He had followed the map scribbled on the back of the parchment found near the windmill corpse. It wasn’t a map, strictly speaking, but rather a sequence of Latin phrases that hinted at a hidden destination. “ Inter silentia fratrum et ventum caritatis, ibi latet veritas. ” (Among the silence of brothers and the wind of charity, there truth lies hidden.) If there was a place in all La Mancha that could boast silence, monks, and an uncanny affinity for breezes, it was the ruins of Santa Verónica, an abbey abandoned since the last bishop developed an unfor- tunate allergy to humility and fire. Sancho looked up at the blackened stones, now host to moss, lizards, and the occasional illiterate poet. “By my belly, you reek of secrets,” he muttered. He stepped cautiously into the nave, the shattered ribs of the roof arching like skeletal hands toward the heavens. His boots crunched over broken tiles and scattered bones, some holy, others only unlucky. The Windmill Gambit He moved with the wariness of a man who had once, years ago, chased a sheep he mistook for a Sar- acen spy. That misadventure had ended with bruises, apologies, and a lawsuit he still insisted was techni- cally unjust. At the altar stood a stone lectern, cracked but stur- dy, upon which rested an open book , untouched by wind or dust. Its pages fluttered ever so slightly, though the air was still. “If this is a trap, it’s a very literary one,” Sancho grunted. He peered down at the text. The Latin was old, old- er even than his appetite and scribed in the looping, arrogant calligraphy of monks with too much time and too little beer. Beneath the text, a symbol caught his eye. A windmill, small, but distinct, circled by flames. “Of course it is.” He reached forward to touch it... THWIP A crossbow bolt slammed into the stone beside his hand. Thanos Kalamidas “¡Madre del queso manchego!” Sancho shouted, diving behind the altar with more grace than a man of his girth should legally possess. A second bolt sang through the air, embedding it- self in the lectern. From the shadows emerged three figures in dark robes, faces concealed by deep hoods. Their move- ments were not monastic, but military. One bore a small crossbow, another a curved dagger. The third, tall and imposing, carried nothing visible, which made him the most dangerous of all. Sancho peeked from behind the altar and shout- ed, “If you’re monks, you’ve taken a vow of very bad hospitality!” The one with the crossbow replied, his voice rasp- ing like parchment scraped with sand: “You were not supposed to find this place, Señor Panza.” “And yet, here I am, without invitation, weapon, or clue as to what I’m interrupting.” The tall figure stepped forward. His hood slipped slightly, revealing an iron-gray beard and a scar that The Windmill Gambit traced the curve of his eye like a forgotten signature. “Hand us the parchment. The one sealed by Santi- ago’s Cross.” “That old thing? I used it to wrap cheese yesterday.” “Lies do not suit you, Sancho.” Sancho sighed, stood up, and slowly drew the fold- ed parchment from inside his vest. He held it up, careful not to wave it too much lest they get ideas about target practice again. “You want it? Fine. But understand ...I’ve faced worse than you. A whole tavern once threw ham bones at me for defending the dignity of a goose. Do you know what it takes to endure that?” The crossbowman fired again Sancho ducked, rolled (a slow, dignified roll), and threw a piece of hard bread from his satchel. It hit the crossbowman in the face with a crack. The man staggered. Sancho charged. Not with elegance, not with speed but with mass and intent. “Saints preserve me!” he bellowed, flinging himself bodily into the nearest attacker like a sack of rebel- lious potatoes. Thanos Kalamidas The monk collapsed under him, wind knocked from his lungs in a woof of surprise. Sancho snatched the dagger from his hand and spun just as the tall figure lunged. Steel flashed. Sancho parried by accident, the dag- ger catching in the folds of his belt. He fell backward, rolled again (less dignified this time), and pulled from his cloak a coil of chorizo links “Stay back! These are smoked with fire and papri- ka—lethal to cowards and the ill-mannered!” The monks paused. Confusion, delicious and rare, crossed their faces. Then, “Enough!” cried the tall one. “The parch- ment holds the location of El Corazón del Viento, The Heart of the Wind. Give it, and we spare your life.” Sancho, panting, stood crookedly, still wielding chorizo like a flail. “Spare my life? I’ve spent it being chased by debts, dogs, and dreams that don’t belong to me. You’ll have to do better than not killing me.” Behind him, Dapple kicked open the crumbling door and brayed with the fury of a prophet. The The Windmill Gambit mule’s hooves caught one monk in the thigh and the other in the pride. In the chaos, Sancho tossed the parchment into the air and lit it with a stolen candle. Flames danced. The parchment curled, hissed, and turned to ash mid-air. The monks screamed. One lunged to catch the pieces, another shouted an oath forbidden even in Rome. “Too late,” Sancho said. “The wind remembers what the fire forgets.” He turned, climbed onto Dapple with painful speed, and kicked the mule into a gallop that sound- ed like barrels falling downhill. As he rode, his mind spun faster than the wheels beneath him. “The Heart of the Wind,” he murmured. “If they’d kill for it, it must be more than poetry.” Behind him, the abbey crumbled further, and the wind picked up, whispering secrets only Sancho could now pursue. * * * * * Thanos Kalamidas The old city slept like a guilty bishop, restless, muttering, and prone to sudden starts. The cathe- dral bells struck midnight, and their echoes twisted through the stone arteries of the ancient alleys like a whispering ghost. Beneath the cobbled skin of To- ledo, beneath the wine cellars and burial vaults, un- der the scribbled graffiti of the disillusioned and the prayers of the dead, moved a man out of place, out of time, and most certainly out of breath. Sancho Panza, having bribed, flattered, and intimi- dated his way past two nightwatchmen and one very suspicious cat, descended into the crypts below the Convent of Santa Escolástica. “Blessed be those who build things above ground,” he muttered, lantern trembling in one hand, dagger in the other. “And thrice blessed those who provide maps to their madness.” He’d traded half a cured ham and a bawdy limerick for a sketch of the Codex Vaults, a forbidden archive said to hold the secret histories of Castile, buried by royal decree and ecclesiastical guilt. At the bottom of the stairs, he paused, then stepped into a hallway lined with ossuaries. Femurs stacked The Windmill Gambit like kindling. Skulls grinning in eternal mockery. “Don Quixote would have said something valiant here,” Sancho mumbled. “Something about glory and bones and the divine folly of man.” Instead, he swallowed his fear and pressed onward. He reached a thick iron door. On it: a faded carv- ing. A windmill surrounded by flames. His heart quickened. “So. This place does remem- ber.” The lock was ancient, but Sancho had borrowed a trick from a locksmith who owed him three goats and a wife (long story, better told drunk). He pro- duced a slender bone pick and a whispered prayer. Click. The door groaned open with the reluctance of a widow answering the door to a debtor. Inside: a long chamber, the air stale with candle soot and secrets. Along the walls, scrolls rested in alcoves, each marked with curious sigils, serpents Thanos Kalamidas coiled around wheels, sunbursts beneath eyes, and always, always the windmill. In the center: a pedestal. And atop it, a wooden box, no bigger than a loaf of bread, carved with such precision that the very grain of the wood seemed to whisper. Sancho approached, eyes scanning the ceiling for tripwires, the floor for pressure plates, the shadows for betrayal. He opened the box. Inside, wrapped in velvet: A small iron gear, heavy as truth. A single glove, child-sized, of brilliant white silk. A codex, bound in red leather, embossed with an ouroboros eating its own tail around a windmill. He opened the codex. The text was in a cipher he half-recognized, a bastard mix of Latin, Arabic, and the nonsense poetry of old shepherds. But one phrase leapt out: The Windmill Gambit “Corazón del Viento: El que controla el giro, contro- la el mundo.” (The Heart of the Wind: He who controls the spin, controls the world.) “By Saint Cucufato’s underpants,” Sancho breathed. “It wasn’t just metaphor.” A grinding sound echoed behind him. The door was closing. He turned, too late. Three figures stepped into the chamber, illuminat- ed by their own lanterns, the flickering flames paint- ing grotesque halos around their hoods. The same monks. The tall one stepped forward. “You’ve done well, Panza. We had hoped you would. Only a fool with no fear of ridicule could find this place. And you, sir, are the king of fools.” “And you,” Sancho said, placing the codex gently back into the box, “are the courtiers of cruelty. You chase secrets as if they were sausages, and I fear you’ve bitten off one laced with poison.” Thanos Kalamidas The monk raised his hand. From the shadows, a fourth figure emerged, hood- less, cloaked in authority. Archbishop Mendoza. “Ah, Sancho,” he said, voice smooth as confession. “Still alive. That complicates things.” “You sent them?” Sancho asked. “You ...of all peo- ple?” “We all answer to the wind, my son. And it has turned.” Mendoza stepped closer, eyes on the box. “Give it to me.” Sancho hesitated. His fingers curled around the co- dex again. “And if I say no?” “Then we kill you.” “That’s honest,” Sancho admitted. “Rare, these days.” He backed up a step, then another. His foot brushed