Feathered Dragon mt-3

by Douglas Niles

  The second troll leaped toward them, but Hal’s reaction was nearly as quick as his old companion’s. He felt the tingling of pluma around his wrists, the tiny cuffs of feathers adding to his strength. Helmstooth carved a silver arc in the air and sliced right through the troll’s midsection. Soundlessly the two halves fell to the ground, wriggling in a growing pool of black blood.

  But Hal’s gullet rose in horror as the two halves of the troll didn’t cease their movement. With horrifying determination, the torso began to crawl forward, using its taloned hands to pull itself along. The trail of black blood spurting from the wound slowed to a trickle and finally ceased altogether. Even as Halloran moved away, a tiny pair of legs sprouted from the wound, growing slowly, but with visible and inexorable progression, Hal stumbled backward, gagging in horror.

  The legs, meanwhile, kicked randomly. That portion, too, quickly ceased bleeding. Though the regeneration proceeded more slowly, a small lump of flesh formed at the wound and began to sprout upward.

  “Look out!” Erixitl screamed, and Halloran saw movement beyond the boulder. Horrified, he saw the troll that had been shot by Daggrande slowly claw its way back onto the rock. Then he saw more green heads-a whole file of trolls-moving up to attack.

  “Run!” he shouted, swinging the deadly blade until his companions started to move away. He heard the chunk of Daggrande’s weapon, and a second quarrel transfixed the troll’s forehead.

  But now six, eight, even more of the beasts swarmed toward them. Halloran spun and raced after his companions, his heart chilling at the thought of Erixitl’s peril. Once again he stopped and turned, driving the first troll back and lopping a hand off another, a hand that continued to crawl, horribly, after its escaping quarry.

  They dashed along a dusty path that slowly twisted upward along a narrow ridge. Halloran turned frequently to hack at the nearest trolls. Apparently the beasts felt pain, for they cowered back from his crushing blows, though they quickly leaped back to the pursuit as soon as the man turned away.

  Daggrande paused to load and launch another missile. The force of the bolt knocked a troll from the narrow ridge, sending the beast tumbling in a cloud of dust to the gully below. Halloran knocked another into space with a clobbering blow from Helmstooth, but he faced the grim realization that all he could do was slow down their advance. He could not kill them.

  Jhatli threw rocks, revealing a surprising strength in his youthful body as he lifted good-sized boulders over his head and pitched them at the green-skinned monstrosities. In the

  lead, Erixitl tried to pick the safest route along the crest of the eroded sandstone ridge. It narrowed perilously until they worked their way along a trail only a foot or two wide, with steeply sloping drops to either side of them.

  Halloran stumbled, almost rolling off the ridge. He caught himself with his free hand but then looked up in horror. A troll lunged for him. Still off-balance, he knew he could not counter the creature’s attack.

  Then a black and white shape soared across his vision as, with a shrill cry of defiance, the great eagle darted past them. The bird’s powerful talons seized the monster’s coarse black hair and pulled it roughly to the side. With a harsh bark of anger, the troll tumbled from the narrow crest, the eagle releasing its hold to pull powerfully upward again. Screeching and howling, the creature slid and bounced down the jagged slope, until it finally stopped, broken and motionless, against an outcrop of rock. Even from this height, they could see the twisted limbs and gashed, bleeding skin slowly start to heal.

  Halloran sprang to his feet, recovering his guard in time to meet the next troll. The beast, drool spattering from its black, fang-studded maw, growled savagely but stayed just beyond reach of the deadly steel. Hal lunged and stabbed and slashed, but always the gangly creature, towering high over the human’s head, stepped nimbly out of the way. Loose rocks rolled from beneath the mans feet, bouncing and tumbling into space on either side of the ridge.

  Halloran briefly considered casting a spell-one of the few he had learned as an apprentice magic-user. He quickly discarded the thought, knowing a magic missile or enlarge spell would be of little use.

  “C’mon! Keep moving!” Daggrande snapped in frustration from behind Hal. The dwarf itched for a chance to bring his keen axe to bear, but the ridge was too narrow, and in any event, he knew that the swordsman, with his enchanted sword and the power of pluma in his arms, could do far more damage to their enemies. Instead, the dwarf loaded another of his dwindling supply of quarrels into his crossbow, remaining alert for a chance to shoot.

  Halloran backed along the ridge, barely holding the lead troll at bay. Then his boot snagged on an outcrop of rock and he fell heavily. In that same instant, the troll sprang.

  But Daggrande was there. He released his missile, and the heavy bolt tore into the troll’s chest, right through the brand of the Viperhand- With a gurgling howl, the beast tumbled away, and by the time the next of the monsters lunged forward, Halloran had regained his feet. He met the charge with the bloody edge of Helmstooth, and again he managed to hold the rear for his retreating party.

  The companions followed the serpentine landform for a half mile, staying just ahead of the trolls. Several of the beasts followed their progress at the foot of the ridge, and each of the humans knew that any misstep would send him rolling straight into deadly talons and fangs.

  Suddenly their progress halted. Hal risked a quick glance at Erixitl and saw that she stood at the brink of a sheer drop. There was no way down, and still the trolls pressed at the rear. Below, several of the beasts had started to scramble up the steep sides of the ridge.

  “A neat trap, this,” grunted Daggrande. He fired another bolt at a climbing troll, sending the creature tumbling back to the bottom. “Two left,” he said ominously as he reloaded.

  With a chorus of growls and snaps, the trolls rushed forward to the attack.

  From the chronicles of Coton:

  Amid oceans of disaster, a small island of plumage holds us afloat.

  Lotil, the featherworker, and I greet the passing of the monsters from Palul like the birth of a new day. The village lies in ruins below us, the inhabitants slain or fled. Only a few buildings, such as Lotil’s house, still stand, passed by the horde in random whimsy,

  In this mercy, I sense the destiny of this old blind man and the necessity of my aid to him. We are bound together now,

  not just by the danger we have endured, but also by the road that beckons before us.

  The horse of the strangers stands ready to carry us, and on this new day we prepare to embark. Both of us have dreamed vividly of the great pyramid in the desert, with its vibrant colors and the secret wonders, concealed beneath the surrounding sand.

  The vision of pluma tells us where we must go.

  And Qotal! The Plumed One will soon be here, and we understand that die great pyramid will be the place of his arrival. The horse, when we have mounted, carries us toward the south, toward the altar of the Feathered God’s advent.

  Both of us sense the rightness of the horse’s course.

  7

  THE CITY OF THE GODS

  The nearest troll lunged upward, and Halloran slashed it away in a shower of black blood. Daggrande fired the last of his quarrels, then grimly unslung his axe, ready to fight to the last. The two fighters stood before the rest of the companions as dizzying cliffs plummeted into sheer gorges beside and behind them.

  Halloran growled inarticulately, slashing at a troll, but then a strange dizziness whirled in his mind. Stumbling, he stepped backward and planted his feet firmly.

  A cocoon of color swirled around them. Startled, Halloran looked at Erixitl and saw that she was equally amazed. Her cloak puffed outward and began to spin in a brilliant kaleidoscope of color. Slowly the brilliance reached out to encircle the desperate party on the ridge.

  The trolls gaped dumbly. The companions saw the desert through the filter of pluma, everything painted in bright greens, deep blues, a
nd vibrant reds. The colors grew to blazing brightness, and the monsters cowered involuntarily backward.

  “What’s happening?” gasped Jhatli, gazing wide-eyed at the rainbow dervish.

  Then, with a sudden blink, the world around the companions shifted. The ground fell away, and everything became a blurry maze of motion. In another second, they stood together, still, but in a different place. The ridgetop below their feet was wider, firmer. Most importantly, there was no sign of the trollsBelow them lay the same bleak chasms and barren rocks that had blocked their passage this day. Yet now that landscape lay to the west, behind them!

  “Here, where we stand! This is the ridge we saw this morning,” Erix said. She pointed to the west. “We were over

  there!” “How-what happened?” demanded Jhatli, sitting heavily on the rocks.

  “Teleportation,” Daggrande said gruffly. “And a mighty timely bit of it, too. We moved somehow across all that stuff down there.” The dwarf gestured at the chaotic land. “It would have taken us days to walk this far!”

  Slowly Halloran adjusted to the shock of the teleportation. He and Daggrande gazed westward, relieved that all sign of the trolls had now disappeared in the distance. Jhatli sat on the ground, an expression of blank astonishment on his face.

  “Poshtli’s coming!.” Erixitl pointed to the sky. The eagle winged toward them in a shallow dive, accelerating out of the western sky. It soared forward, then flashed over their heads, continuing its dive into the valley to the east.

  “And look,” Erix said softly as her eyes followed the eagle’s flight to the land beyond the high ridge on which they stood. “This is the place where he leads us.”

  “What in Helm’s name is fhat?” gasped Halloran. Jhatli and the dwarf, equally surprised, could only stare in astonishment.

  The valley to the east was surrounded by steep ridges, its floor an expanse of dry, sandy flats broken by massive clumps of jagged boulders. It was a place of wilderness, uninhabitable and uninhabited.

  Vet that was the most astonishing thing about it, for in the center of the valley rose a structure so magnificent, so immaculate in its crisp lines, so fresh-looking in its brightly painted colors, that it could have been completed yesterday.

  It was a pyramid, certainly. Yet it was a pyramid three times or more the height of the great pyramid in Nexal. It rose like a mountain into the sky, a series of tiers encircling it at regular intervals. The walls above these tiers were painted in bright colors, depicting abstract images of parrots, jaguars, and snakes in an eternal chase around the pyramid. A steep stairway ascended the side facing them.

  Erixitl recognized the place, for her knowledge of the True World was the most complete of the four. More to the point, the place triggered a deep sense of reverence in her soul, and she felt that the object of their quest lay before them.

  “This is Tewahca,” she said- “The City of the Gods.”

  Zaltec lumbered southward. The monstrous stone figure covered twenty human paces with each step. Yet some profound sense of urgency caused the god to increase his pace until the earth thundered under each crushing footstep.

  The god of war marched inexorably across the desert, taking no note of the parched land, the complete lack of life, The mountainous form stood out like some jagged, natural bluff, worn by wind and water into the crude resemblance of monstrous features. Yet in its motion, it belied the explanation, for it became a menacing, monstrous object of impossible scale.

  Zaltec moved in a straight line, not veering for mountain or canyon. His eyes always remained fixed before him, as if he searched for a place he remembered from a long time ago.

  A place where, finally, his destiny compelled him to return.

  The companions approached the pyramid of Tewahca with an unconquerable sense of awe. Though it had seemed to loom, huge and near, from the ridgetop, its very size made that proximity an illusion. Each step they took toward it made it grow even larger, until they could only believe that the thing had been made by the gods themselves.

  It had been midday as they recovered from the shock of the teleportation. Yet the sun had neared the crest of the western ridge by the time they had descended and crossed the valley floor before the pyramid. The structure stood in

  pristine beauty, shining over the wasteland of the valley

  On top of the mountainous edifice stood a tall stone temple. Unlike the sides of the pyramid, which were decorated w detailed mosaics and murals etched in vivid color, the temple walls were barren of symbology. Its door, huge and open, gaped like a black mouth awaiting nourishment.

  As the companions walked, they noticed other shapes around them. Here was a square framework of stone, visible at the base of a dune. There stood a series of stone arches, surrounded by waste now, but once they must have supported a grand structure. A much smaller pyramid, now broken and eroded, with sand dunes drifting around its base, squatted off to the side. Gradually they realized that they walked among the skeletal remains of a once massive city

  “Tewahca,” Erixitl breathed softly so that her voice did not break the thrall of awe that bound them. “Built by humans as a battleground for the gods.”

  Always the great edifice loomed above them, but now they identified a second, smaller pyramid off to the side. As they neared the base of the huge structure, they saw that they walked down what had once been a wide avenue, leading directly to the pyramid.

  What had first appeared to be shapeless mounds of sand now assumed regular, evenly spaced forms-the remains of old buildings. Palaces, perhaps, or great temples.

  “Look at this one,” Daggrande indicated as they passed a wide, flat plaza, like the porch of some great structure. Square, blocky columns stood in long rows, like silent sentinels guarding a ghostly abode. Behind the columns, dark doorways, framed by partially collapsed stone mantels, gaped like dead, silent eyes.

  Shadows lengthened among the many stone columns, and the companions shuddered, sensing the lingering presence of ancient lives.

  “This place must be centuries old,” Halloran whispered, as if he worried that the gods could hear.

  “Many centuries,” Erixitl agreed. “I can feel the age in the dust under my feet. It’s been more than a thousand years

  since these buildings were abandoned. And how long before that were they built?”

  “And all ruined,” said Daggrande. “All except that one!” He gestured toward the great pyramid.

  “It might have been painted yesterday” Jhatli whispered. “The colors are so bright, the pattern so vivid.”

  They reached the foot of the massive structure. The shadows lengthened around them as the fading sunlight slowly climbed the western face of the pyramid.

  The steep stone stairway extended up the side of the pyramid before them, though from directly below, it was visible only as far as the first terrace.

  “Look!” Halloran, gasping in surprise, looked at the dirt around the pyramid’s base. He indicated a clear outline of hoof-prints-the prints of an iron-shod horse!

  “Could one of Cordell’s scouts have found this place?” Daggrande asked.

  “Not likely. He’d have to cross the same ground we teleported over. Can’t see any horseman coming across that if he didn’t have to.” Halloran followed the prints along the base of the pyramid.

  “They’re fresh,” Jhatli explained, looking at the dust swirling into the faint depressions. “Less than an hour old.”

  Further questions died on their lips as they rounded the corner of the pyramid. Two men stood there, before a black mare that nickered tentatively as Halloran came into sight. “Storm!” he cried, astounded but absolutely certain that this was his faithful war-horse. He had given the steed up for lost, since Storm had been in the very heart of Nexal on the Night of Wailing.

  Then he turned to the men, aware that Erix had already rushed into the arms of… her father! The blind featherworker was here, in the desert! Halloran identified the other man by his garb as a priest o
f Qotal, more wrinkled and stooped than others he had seen.

  “My daughter! My son!” Lotil embraced Erixitl and reached out a hand to clasp Halloran. The old man displayed joy but not a great deal of surprise, Hal noted with interest. “This is Coton, patriarch of Qotal,” added Lotil, indicating the priest. “Now we must hurry.”

  Erixitl looked at her father in surprise. “Hurry? For what? Why are you here? What should we do?”

  “Why, to welcome the Plumed One, of course! Why do you think that we are here?”

  Harak blinked his deep-sunk, bloodshot eyes as he scanned the horizon for signs of the quarry. The huge troll was grateful that the brightness of the midday sun had begun to fade, yet he was irritated that he seemed unable to find the trail of the humans and the dwarf.

  He led a portion of his creatures across the broken ground between the two ridges. The trolls, fearing for their lives should Hoxitl learn of their failure, had hastened to the east, propelled in that direction by some instinctive awareness that their quarry fled somewhere before them.

  As dusk settled around him, Harak quickened his pace, at last leading the band of trolls up the steep ridge that followed their rough crossing. His heart pounded, and he felt as though he approached a place of great power. It awakened some dim, primordial feeling within him, a feeling that mixed loathing and terror with the most joyous exultation.

  Before the Night of Wailing had showered its god-sent change upon Harak, he-like most of the other trolls-had been a priest of Zaltec. The transformation had left his mind shriveled and weak, yet some of his learnings remained with him.

  The former priest remained devout, for was not the power of Zaltec manifest in Harak himself? In his long arms and legs, the green and wart-covered skin a thin disguise for the strands of ropelike sinew beneath? In his hooked talons, or his long, curving fangs?

  These thoughts propelled the great troll forward. The others of his kind, three hundred strong, lumbered after their leader. They had pressed through the barren wasteland in a long, straggling file, scrambling up steep slopes of dusty red rock or picking their way through chaotic,