Erix turned back to Hal, her expression once again peaceful. “Can you send for Poshtli? I’d like to talk to him.”
Hal’s heart twisted in pain, a hurt that showed clearly in his face, and his wife’s expression grew concerned. “What is it?” she asked. “Has something happened?”
“Don’t you remember?” he asked softly. “The volcano… the Night of Wailing? Poshtli was with us when the explosion occurred, but he didn’t have the protection of your cloak. He’s… gone.” The man couldn’t force himself to say that the noble warrior was dead.
“But he’s not gone,” Erixitl countered, still strangely calm. “I remember all that-how could I forget? — but Poshtli did not die there, He’s nearby… he comes to us!” She smiled gently, as if Hal were the one having flights of fancy. Even against the beauty of her face, Halloran nearly wept to see how pale she was, how distant was the look in her eyes.
A shadow flickered off to the side, and Hal looked up to see Xatli, a priest of Qotal, approaching.
Like the others of his order, Xatli prided himself on personal cleanliness, but now his once-white robe was tattered and stained from the rigors of the flight. His cheeks, plump and rosy two months earlier, now formed sagging jowls on either side of his face. The eldest of the priests among the refugees, he had become the unofficial spokesman for his sect, which had become once again the dominant faith of the people.
Ironically he had been about to take the vow of silence that was the highest badge of honor known to his order
when the disaster that the Nexalans called the Night of Wailing had disrupted his plans. Now he employed his skills as an eloquent speaker often, to raise the spirits of the refugees during their long marches through the desert.
”Can I do anything to help?” the cleric inquired hesitantly. The blessings of the Plumed One have given me some small measure of healing.” ‘
“No. No thank you,” Erixitl said, tensing.
“If not for you, think of the other life that grows within you,” said the priest quietly, kneeling beside her.
Erix looked at him in surprise as Xatli smiled gently and continued. “The god who has chosen you has placed a heavy burden upon you. This I understand. But he would not have chosen you if you were not strong enough to bear the load”
He placed a hand on her shoulder, and she did not try to evade his touch. For a second, she felt a brief warmth, and a renewed sense of energy filled her. And then she couldn’t help but pull away.
Xatli rose and bowed to Halloran. He turned once again toward Erixitl before he departed. “Know this, Chosen Sister. Our god is not unmerciful”
Hal feared for a moment that Erix would erupt in anger, for such had often been her response to talk of the Plumed Serpent. But instead she turned to him and nestled in the shelter of his embrace.
The moment was broken by a call from a nearby warrior. Worriedly Hal saw Erix start to climb to her feet. Knowing the futility of ordering her to rest, he helped her up.
“What is it?” she asked as several warriors, their tall emerald plumes swaying above their painted faces, trotted closer.
“We don’t know what it means, sister?’ one announced, “but a great eagle has landed in the midst of the people. It stands and stares at us, as if in challenge.”
“An eagle?” Erix’s voice sang, once again vibrant. She hurried ahead of Hal, pulling away from his supporting arm until he had to trot to keep up with her.
The crowd of men, women, and children parted for Erixitl and Hal and soon they saw the bird, resting upon a large rock in the center of a vast and growing circle of humanity.
The eagle stood nearly as tall as a man. Its feathers, clean and smooth, etched its form in pristine black and white. From its vantage point on the rock, the bird’s glittering yellow eyes looked down on the assemblage. Proud and noble of bearing, the eagle turned its head this way and that, until f inally those keen eyes came to rest upon Erixitl.
For a moment, the great creature shimmered before them, as if the bright sunlight reflected from a rippled surface of water. Then the image grew larger, manlike.
The Mazticans around them gasped, many falling to the ground and pressing their faces in the earth. Others fell back, staring in awe as the shape of the bird changed.
“By Helm!” growled a burly legionnaire in die crowd, awestruck.
The shape of the bird remained visible, like a shade in the background, but overlaying it stood the image of a tall, brown-skinned man.
“Poshtli” Erixitl whispered, scarcely daring to breathe the word aloud.
The noble stood tall and silent. A cloak of black and white feathers, faint but visible, swung from his shoulders. Gold plugs ornamented his lip, his nose, and his ears. The great beaked helmet of an Eagle Knight he carried under his arm, so that his long black hair flowed freely in the breeze. His other hand he raised, pointing southward and holding it there for several beats, then suddenly wheeling and pointing to the east before he lowered his hand.
For a long time, the image of the warrior stared at Erixitl, while the watchers remained breathless. Finally he bowed, a deep and honorable genuflection conferred to one of great power. A sudden gust of wind whirled a funnel of blowing sand through the crowd, and for a moment the image was obscured. When the wind and sand passed, there remained only the great eagle, still staring at Erixitl with those sharp black eyes.
Then the eagle raised its huge wings, driving powerful strokes toward the ground. With serene grace, the bird rose from the rock and glided over the heads of the assembled humanity. Slowly climbing, it soared in a vast circle around them before turning toward the southern horizon. The bird remained visible for many minutes, steadily climbing, always flying south.
“Lord Poshtli did not die in the volcano,” Erix announced confidently as the Mazticans around them looked at her in wonder. The noble Eagle Warrior of Nexal, nephew of the city’s late ruler, had been widely respected through his life and widely mourned after the Night of Wailing.
“Now he comes to us, with hope and promise,” she continued. Though she spoke softly, everyone heard. “This is not an idle preaching of blind faith. This was a clear omen that stood here before us. We must follow him now-follow him to the south, and to our future.”
From the chronicles of Coton:
Borne by the steed of the strangers, I ride toward the destiny of my own world.
The presence of the One Plumed God is nearby, imminent. / can feel his breath on my shoulders, propelling me. All the signs of the prophecy have been met; the pathway for his return lies open.
Yet I sense that a new obstacle has arisen from the chaos of the Night of Wailing. The acts of the bloody clerics and the fury of the Viperhand Cult have combined to bring a great presence into the world-a presence no longer content to be worshiped and fed from afar.
He is Zaltec, god of night and war, and he is here.
I sense his power in the darkness all around me. I see it in the vile corruption that has claimed his followers. What power it must be, to take tens of thousands of humans and pervert them into the beastlike forms we now see! He looms more mighty, more dangerous than ever, for now his legions of followers are not restrained by even the thin veneer of humanity.
Qotal is our hope, our only hope. Yet, witnessing the coming of Zaltec, I see that Qotal cannot enter this world unaided. He will require the help of humans, of people who will open the path for him and guard it until he has returned to the True World. Then his power will meet Zaltec’s, and the two gods-the two brothers-will wage war for the mastery of the land.
So now J ride, and 1 care not where the horse takes me. I will be one of those humans who opens that path and guards it; I will leave it to my destiny to guide me to the place.
3
CONVERGING PATHS
The tortuous trail twisted across the sun-baked face of the mountain, climbing ever higher, forcing the monsters of the Viperhand to narrow their column to a single file for the ascent. T
he barren ridge above them marked the far southern extremity of the Valley of Nexal. Behind the beasts, to the north, the ruins of Nexal lay like a dark stain among the murky pools of the valley’s four lakes.
Thousands of snarling, misshapen humanoids formed Hoxitl’s army, now a column several miles long confined to the trail over the steep pass.
Other bands of monsters, smaller but just as fierce, had followed Hoxitl’s orders to spread through the lands and villages around the city, scouring it for human prisoners and destroying any remaining evidence of its original inhabitants.
But this trail held the greatest number, the beasts that marched with Hoxitl at their head. Along the valley floor, they had marched in a shapeless mass, flowing across smooth ground like water sweeps across a beach. Here, however, the narrow path forced them to alter the form of their advance.
Hoxitl, the will of Zaltec burning in his breast, lumbered forward at the head of the column. He lunged up the ridge, pausing only for a few seconds at the jagged, windy crest. The trail behind him, crowded now with the troops of his army, clung precariously to the steep slide of the ridge. Any misstep could tumble one helplessly toward the sharp rocks below. Nevertheless, the monsters hastened to follow their master toward the desert.
Inevitably conflict arose among the chaotic mass. Near the top of the ridge, two brute-faced ogres jostled and pushed, eager to be first through the narrow pass. The file came to a stop behind them as they pounded each other with ham-like fists. Finally they closed in savage, snapping combat, each tearing chunks from the other’s skin with sharp rips of their savage tusks.
For several seconds, the beasts teetered on the brink of the sheer drop, growling and snarling. Ores, in a long column behind the huge ogres, cringed backward, away from the larger brutes’ crushing blows.
Then a rumble of panic spread through the ranks as a huge presence loomed before them. Hoxitl, disturbed by the delay, reared upward, lashing out with his tail and striking several ores from the cliff side.
The cleric beast shrieked his rage, pushing his way roughly through the column until he reached the battling ogres. The two monsters, suddenly distracted by the shadowy form looming over them, gaped stupidly upward.
“Fools! Imbeciles!” Hoxitl’s shrieks of rage terrified them, yet, perversely, rooted their feet to the trail.
With one savage blow, he sent an ogre tumbling off the cliff, the beast’s dying scream shattered by the jagged rocks below.
“This is the fate of the weak and the foolish among you! Let all pay heed!” he howled. “Save your warfare for the enemies-humans who still escape our vengeance!”
In the next instant, his paw, tipped by wicked talons, reached forward. The claws sliced into the other ogre’s belly, tearing the creature’s flesh and bowels in a spray of gore.
With a grunt of astonishment, the beast looked down as its insides gushed out onto the stony trail. Hoxitl’s other paw lashed forward, tearing into the creature’s neck and ripping the heavy skull away from the dying beast’s body. Contemptuously he kicked the gory corpse off the edge, where it tumbled like a bundle of wet rags onto the jagged spines of rock below.
A flush of excitement tingled the cleric-beast’s body as the scent of blood reached his nostrils. He felt the presence of the god of war-Zaltec was near.’ Eagerly Hoxitl turned his
thoughts to the trail and the victims ahead.
“Advance!” howled the manned beast. Mindless of the blood spattering his feet, Hoxitl started through the pass.
Behind him, his grumbling file of monsters started to follow.
Through the long subterranean night, the driders crept onward, gradually leaving the flaming seas of lava behind. No path upward greeted them, but this was satisfactory to the corrupted creatures of the drow. As dark elves, they had shunned the sun; now, as driders, they had little desire to walk the surface.
Yet only on the surface, sensed Darien, could they begin to wreak their vengeance. The queen of the driders now, she led her creatures eastward, thirsting for the blood of her enemies, desperately craving the chance to attack. Her albino skin, which had allowed her to conceal her drow nature among the humans, now set her apart from the black driders. Yet the fire that drove her to lead them came from within, blazing in hatred and power, giving her the strength to master her kin,
Her bitterness and hatred encompassed all the world and beyond, even including the dark form of Lolth, goddess of the drow. Yet, though she hated all things, she feared Lolth. Lolth had wounded her too profoundly, taking her lithe, female body and corrupting it into this malformed monstrosity, this hideous creature! And because of this, she feared Lolth.
She knew that the lime for vengeance must wait for now until the driders recovered their strength. Allies-an army of them- would-be necessary before the humans could be made to suffer the full wrath of the spider-beasts. She could not know that Lolth herself propelled her toward these allies.
Darien led her followers to the east, far from the volcanic reaches below central Maztica. Through great schisms in the limestone subsurface of the world they crept, finally reaching the jungled stretches of Payit. Always they traveled underground. Here great pools of water blocked their passage, but they plunged ahead, swimming for hours.
Once a channel of brine rose around them, and here she turned southward, for she knew that they approached the sea. Ever onward they pressed, until the dank, impenetrable recesses of the Far Payit jungle lurked above them. Now she was guided by a deep, primordial memory, a lingering awareness of a presence that the driders could employ for their own ends. Here, she sensed, they would find the tools of their vengeance, awaiting only her masterful command.
Darien did not sense the hand of Lolth in her discovery She did not know that, once again, she had become a tool of that hateful goddess. Instead, she only knew that she herself burned with hatred, and perhaps now she discovered the means to act upon that malevolence.
They came upon the nest in a great, moss-draped cavern, far below the steaming jungles. All around her were the eggs, and the dormant forms of the giant ants. Thousands of them, her army, cowered here and awaited her command.
A myriad of dark antennae flicked upward as the driders entered through a narrow, connecting cavern. The soldiers rose to meet her. but Darien raised a hand and twisted it before her, employing the magic that had so empowered her as a drow. It did no less for the drider.
The soldiers, antennae quivering with tension, stood aside as the pale, spider-shaped woman-thing crept past. The red ants stiffened and jerked with conflicting compulsions, but the might of the drider held them at bay. Holding her torso erect, Darien at last confronted the queen.
The great insect, her belly bloated with eggs, sensed her doom in that moment. Glittering, multifaceted eyes faced the drider as Darien again raised a hand.
This time she barked a harsh command, and power flew from her lips, wrapping the queen in a hazy glow of blue sparks. For long moments, that arcane might surged, and the great form before her twisted in unspeakable agony. The segments of the queen’s body bent and creaked, spilling eggs and ichor throughout the nest, until at last the magic tore her to pieces.
The great ants looked impassively at their queen’s gory remains. Again antennae twitched along huge, dark columns of soldiers. Hundreds and hundreds of the creatures, each nearly as large as the driders themselves, observed the killing and saw the spidery creature that now claimed them. Darien raised a hand, and they obediently followed her forward and upward.
She had found her army, and now the driders’ vengeance could begin.
Erixitl looked at Halloran. She said nothing, but the joy radiating from her face was a great tonic for him. All around them the camp of the Mazticans was breaking up as the refugees once again started their southward trek.
He looked upward, at the soaring eagle, and shook his head in wonder at the miracle that had apparently befallen him.
“You told me all along Poshtli was alive,” Ha
l admitted. “I shouldn’t have doubted your faith.”
“My faith.” Erix smiled wryly. “My faith in Poshtli was one thing; why can’t I find the same faith in Qotal?” She looked at the bright cloak that swung from her shoulders, touching it with her long brown fingers. “Perhaps there is a lesson for me in the return of our friend. Perhaps if I showed the same belief in the god who has chosen me…” She did not conclude the thought.
“Something must have brought him out of that mountain alive,” Hal observed. “What’s more likely than the power of Qotal?”
She looked at him seriously. “You’re right, you know. I have to find the hope and the strength to keep searching. Poshtli could be the sign that brings me to that point. After all these days of running and fleeing, maybe there is a goal for us and for our child.”
“The eagle will show us the way,” said Hal, going to Erix and taking her hands. “But after all this is done, we’ll go where we please. We won’t run from anything, and we won’t chase anything-just go and live where we want to.”
She leaned against him and pulled his body close to hers. The slight roundness of her belly was a firm bond between them. “Where should we go, then?” she asked. “Where do you want to go?”
Hal was silent for a moment. “Someday I’d like to go back to the Sword Coast-with you. Would like to see my world?”
“I… don’t know,” she replied honestly. “It frightens me, the thought of going so far away So much frightens me now!” He could hear her voice tighten and could feel the tension in her body
He held her for a while, not speaking, and they stood together among the departing folk. His arms wrapped and protected her, and in the warmth of his embrace, once again she grew strong.
Thousands of miles away, eastward across the Trackless Sea, the sun warmed a long coastline. Many nations thrived here, trading and building and warring among themselves. These lands, places with names such as Calimshan, Amn, Waterdeep, Tethyr, Moonshae, and the rest, had developed a certain smugness over the centuries.
Feathered Dragon mt-3 Page 4
