axe. “Can’t leave you now,” growled Daggrande. “Not when we
just got back together again!”
“We’ve had some good fights, eh?” Halloran fell back slightly, catching his breath while the monsters recouped their courage. His throat tightened at the evidence of the dwarf’s loyalty.
“ None better than this one.” The dwarf, too, gasped for air, then raised his axe in the face of renewed attack.
A trio of massive trolls forced their way to the front of the monsters packing the ravine floor. Each held an obsidian-studded maca, and they loomed high over Halloran even as they crouched and advanced.
A sudden shower filled the air over the ravine as shapes darted through the air like locusts, or driving rain… or arrows! Soundlessly, a volley of sharp missiles dropped from the high ground into the close-packed ranks of the trolls. The unseen archers launched another volley, and the attention of the monsters immediately shifted to this new threat.
“Where are those corning from?” demanded Daggrande,
astonished. “From our friends, whoever they are,” Hal answered,
equally dumbfounded.
The beasts howled in pain and chaos, turning their faces skyward in time to receive another volley of dark, stonetipped missiles. As the trolls plucked the arrows free and the bleeding wounds slowly closed, yet another shower sent stone tips digging painfully into monstrous flesh. The arrows came from the shoulder above the ravine floor, but still the archers remained unseen.
Then the narrow gulley resounded with fresh, hearty whoops of combat. Growling and cowering, the trolls raised their weapons and gaped upward, confused and frightened.
“Look! Here they come!” Halloran pointed upward as the
fringe of the ravine suddenly shifted into movement. Their
rescuers, they saw, had lain in plain sight on the slope above
but were so effectively camouflaged that they had been
virtually invisible.
They saw a swarm of small figures pouring into the ravine from the rim of the gulley to their left. Howling with instinctive fury, the new attackers descended upon (he creatures before Hal and Daggrande, striking them with sharp, brutal strokes of their stone axes.
“I can’t believe it,” Daggrande declared, lowering his axe and watching the light, too astonished and too exhausted attack.
“They’re dwarves.’”
From the chronicles of Coton:
In the light of day, we tremble now, as the bloody hand of Zaltec is nigh.
We wait for the future, our fate determined by the strong. arms and keen weapons of a soldier, a dwarf, and a youth; and though the enemy numbers many, our faith is great, for” the one true god of goodness watches over us.
We three, two old men-one blind, the other sworn MS silence-and a young woman who grows more round with child every passing day, can do naught for the battle. Yet our fate is tied irreversibly to those who strike blows in the name of Qotal.
And so we pause in the heights of the twisting ravine. The horse can climb no farther by this path, and even could we proceed, we have no future if our friends fall in this light.
But again the blessings of Qotal are manifest.
Now we find proof of goodness and also the truth of legEND: WE learn that the Hairy Men of the Desert do to fact exist. Indeed they have saved us, for the beasts of the Viperhand flee back to their master, bleeding and defeated We greet our saviors with curiosity, and so do they regard us — but we are allies in a great cause, and in our first contest together we have prevailed.
And now only the desert extends around us, and our goal beckons to the east.
10
STALKERS IN THE JUNGLE
Halloran thought that it must be the strangest victory celebration ever. The companions sat beneath the desert sky,] its immaculate dome of stars arcing from horizon to horizon, among a throng of a thousand dwarves. No fire blazed, even though the night was chill, and their newfound allies spoke in subdued, almost awestruck, tones.
From somewhere, Luskag, the chief of the desert! dwarves, had produced a number of jars of a bitter draft, more powerfully intoxicating than anything Hal had yet sampled in Maztica. Now they sat in groups, gathered along a wide, flat bluff, drinking the liquor and basking in the glow of victory.
Jhatli amused the dwarves by whooping and dancing about, describing to anyone who would listen the deadly rain of arrows with which he had showered the trolls. The youth spun wildly and leaped into the air, and the gruff dwarves chuckled at the spectacle.
Daggrande and.Luskag, meanwhile, talked earnestly in the dwarven tongue that linked them, They passed one era the gourds of drink between them, and Hal wondered] blearily whether the two of them would be able to finish the thing. After all, he himself had had only a few swigs, yet already he found a strange nonchalance flowing gently through his limbs.
“Sure,” he said to the grinning desert dwarf who squatted beside him. “I’ll have another taste.” The stuff coated hid tongue like pungent ink and cut a swath of fire down his throat, but then in his belly it became a flame of gentle warmth.
Daggrande clumped over to him, walking with a steady-gait. Vet when Hal looked at his friend’s face, he saw that the dwarf’s eyes blazed and his cheeks were flushed with a
ruddy glow.
“This was their first battle ever!” exclaimed the dwarf, collapsing beside Hal.
The man shook his head in amazement. “Dint do too bad, did they?”
Daggrande smiled, his eyes glowing brighter, “That’s dwarves for ya. You can take the dwarves out of the fight, but you can’t take the dwarves out of the fight… no, that’s out of the war… something like that.” He shook his head, suddenly morose at the lapse in his memory,
“I know what you mean.” Hal chuckled.
Suddenly the dwarf looked up. “Where’s yer wife?” he asked.
“Isn’t she right over…” Hal’s head whirled around 1 dunno,” he admitted. He climbed awkwardly to his feet, surprised when the ground seemed to shift under him. Odd the way the stars whirled around, too… “1 better go find her,” he mumbled.
A cool wind blew across the desert, cresting the bluff of their camp briskly, with freshening force. The air seemed to clear his head slightly, but Hal still found it difficult to maintain his footing. Not knowing why he did it, he headed toward the edge of the crest, away from the dwarves and his companions.
In a few minutes, he saw, or imagined, a brightness ahead of him. He was not surprised when he found Erixitl sitting quietly and looking upward at the stars.
He sat-fell, actually-beside her, and she laughed gently. When he tried to explain, she placed a hand to his lips to silence him.
For a long time, they sat together, watching the stars wheel gracefully across the heavens. A feeling of well-being encircled them in hope and promise, and they did nothing to break the spell.
“Our lives have changed these last few days,” Erixitl said softly, “We start on anew path-a long journey across the face of the True World.”
Halloran held her tightly He wanted to remind her that they had new allies now, and new prospects for success. They were together, they would have a child… A million thoughts raced through his mind.
For now, he remained silent, sensing that she knew these things and shared his contentment. Challenges and hardships awaited them, they both knew, and the success of their mission was far from guaranteed.
But for now, for tonight at least, all would be well with the world.
Hoxitl groaned in weariness, a bleak sense of exhaustion he had never before suffered. The fight against the humans had been savage, so close to victory! But ultimately so futile.
How he had missed the trolls! If only he had kept those savage creatures alongside him, instead of sending them after the woman! The monsters had returned to his camp now, with their own tale of failure, and a great lethargy settled over all the beasts of the Viperhand.
Somehow, a
lthough the flush of victory fed him and his creatures with energy, the frustrations of defeat sapped their strength in equal measure.
He considered the effort needed to make another attack against the position defended by legionnaires, Kultakans, and Nexalans. He could plainly see the breastworks on the ridge above him, and once again weariness coursed through his body.
Instead, Hoxitl squatted on the ground and tried to focus on a plan. His army remained strong, still savage and bloodthirsty.
Then, deep within Hoxitl’s awareness, Zaltec called to him again. The god of war had but one true enemy, and that enemy had been deflected but not destroyed. The Plumed One could not return to Tewahca. The altar had been destroyed, and this was the scene of his defeat.
But where else could he go? Nexal? That ruined metropolis, heartland of Zaltec’s power, certainly could not beckon
one such as the! Yet, still, Nexal had hosted temples to Qotal and the other gods as well as to Zaltec. A great fear began to grow in Hoxitl, a fear that even as he stood here, wasting his time in battle with these humans, his true enemy could be taking shape behind him, sneaking his way into Nexal itself.
Zaltec’s summons finally stirred Hoxitl’s beast body, and the cleric felt the threat foreseen by his god. Roughly the monster rose to his full height, still stiff and battered from his epic struggle. Zaltec, he knew, would gather his strength for the battle with Qotal that was still to come. Hoxitl, meanwhile, mustered his force. They would turn from the humans before them.
Instead, they would return to Nexal, and there they would await the command of Zaltec.
“My master! I come in answer to your summons!” Gultec bowed deeply before Zochimaloc, relieved to let the peace and serenity of Tulom-Itzi once again wash over him.
“Ah, my brave warrior; said the teacher affectionately. “I wish it were not so, but now we have need of your skill. You must lead our people in war.”
“With the scourge that mars the jungle?” Gultec asked. “I have seen its spoor, but I do not understand its nature.”
“Yes, this is the enemy, arisen from the bowels of the earth and now spreading its stain across all the lands of Far Payit.”
As always, Zochimaloc was a mountain of solidity in the world. Gultec felt a peculiar joy in his heart just to be with the old teacher again. His words, the warrior thought, offered the wisdom of the ages.
The pair spoke in one of the gardens of Tulom-Itzi, beside a fountain that sent shimmering rainbows of light dancing in the sun. Yet that beauty fell away, forgotten in the horrors that the teacher described to his student. Zochimaloc told Gultec of the ants he had seen in his vision, of the villages that had been reduced to decaying compost, and of the inexorable march of the great insect army.
“You saw its path, swinging to the east,” he concluded. Hut now our people hear that the army has turned back. No I longer does its path wind like a snake across the land. Now the ants march true, cutting a straight swath toward their target.”
“They come here, do they not?” Gultec already knew the’ answer, though Zochimaloc nodded his assent. “How far away are they now? And how fast do they march?”
“It seems that they will reach Tulom-Itzi in four or five days, unless we stop them first. Gultec, can we stop them?”
The warrior growled, oddly discomfited at being asked a question by one he had always assumed knew everything. “We can only try,” he admitted.
For the next three days, he gathered together the men of Tulom-Itzi. Though the people had no tradition of warriorhood, they were skilled hunters, and during his studies under Zochimaloc, Gultec had trained them to put these skills to battle use. Now the women made arrows while he sent parties of men into the jungle to observe the approaching army and to learn how to harass its seemingly inexorable approach.
These parties came back with tales, not only of the monstrous ants that seemed almost impervious to arrows and spears, but also of the horrible creatures that led the insects toward war. These dark, bloated figures, scuttling upon insect bodies with the heads and torsos of men, seemed to Gultec an even greater and more unnatural menace than the ants themselves.
He listened to a tale of a large village, well prepared for the attack and even surrounded by a thorny wall of wood, that had lain in the path of destruction. The ants had swarmed over the wall, tearing it down in the process, then scurried through the huts and buildings, even crawling over the village pyramid. Wherever warriors had tried to stand against them, they had perished to the last man. Only a few ants had died in the entire battle.
He tried to plan a firetrap to ensnare the insects in a forest blaze before they reached Tulom-Itzi. But here the rain god, Azul, schemed against them, for daily showers drenched
the jungle, and the foliage remained constantly wet and steaming. Despite their most vigorous efforts with oil and tinder, it could not be made to burn.
Finally he went to his teacher again, knowing that the ants would reach the city on the following day. His heart broke as he looked into Zochilmaloc’s eyes, so wise and now so sad in the twilight of his life.
“My teacher,” Gultec said haltingly, “it grieves me to speak thus to you, to give you this message that tears the heart from my body. But I fear I have no other choice.”
“Speak, my son, and fear not,” counseled Zochimaloc.
“We cannot stand against these ants,” Gultec said finally. “As a Jaguar Knight, I am not afraid of a hopeless fight. Indeed, a year ago I should have rejoiced at the thought of giving my life in such a worthy battle, though the outcome be preordained.”
Gultec paused, and Zochimaloc waited, sensing the warrior’s deep resistance to his own conclusion. “Yet in the time I have studied with you, I have learned some things-things which have made me question the basic principles I have held throughout my adult life.” Gultec spoke more quickly now, growing sure of himself.
“You have made me question the glory of war, and even to see the hurt it can cause. You have shown me a people of courage and grace and learning-people who do not practice war and have not known it during their lives.
“If people such as this can be happy and prosperous, I must doubt that war is a necessity-at least, war for the sake of warfare. Warfare has its place, for there are threats that must be countered. This too, you have taught me, and you have shown me as much by bringing me here to teach your people how to fight.
“But a battle here, before Tulom-Itzi, would merely be a fight for the sake of pride and courage. It would not be war for victory. We cannot hope to win a victory over this army, at least not now. I know, teacher, that you will not question my courage when I offer you this counsel:
“Our only hope of survival is to abandon Tulom-Itzi and seek shelter in the jungle.”
“It shall be as you command,” said the master, with a deep bow.
Poshtli clung to the feathered mane with both hands, desperately trying to retain his hold. He didn’t know where he was or what he was doing, but he sensed that to let go was to die. So he held tight to the plumage and ignored the pitching and bucking that threatened to tear him free.
It was not until later-much later-that he understood the transformation that had come over him. Finally, though, he realized that he was holding on with hands-human hands, with fingers and thumbs! Making a sensory inspection of his body, he realized that the eagle’s shape no longer cloaked him. Once again he was human, But where was he? All around him, he sensed movement, though no wind whipped at him. Bright, soft feathers cushioned and surrounded him, and he realized that he held on to a huge living form.
Qotal! The carried him in flight, away from the scene of the terrible fight. But why, then, was! there no wind?
Hesitantly Poshtli turned his head away from the great’ neck. He saw only gray nothingness, a thick, swirling vapor, that surrounded them both and masked any sense of up or down. He stared away from the dragon, in die direction he guessed must be up. but he could see no sign of the sun through the mi
st.
Slowly, carefully, the Maztican changed his grip on the flowing plumage of the huge serpent’s mane. He crept up ward, until his head emerged from the plumage. Now he looked over Qotal’s head and saw that more of the gray emptiness yawned before them.
He could see that the serpent’s massive wings beat J strongly to either side of its great body. The bright plumage on those wings seemed even more colorful now, in contrast to… well, to nothing. Try as he might, he could discern no
color or shape, no irregular feature within the encloaking
Qotal’s wings still beat steadily as the carried him swiftly toward an unknown destination. Poshtli could only thank the mercy of the god for saving his life and be grateful that he now rode in relative security, wherever it was that they went.
But still, he wondered, why was there no wind?
The great eagle soared slowly to earth, settling to the ridgetop where the line of warriors still stood watch against the threat offered by the horde of the Viperhand. The earthworks, abandoned for the most part, still stood like proud, steep sentinels along the heights overlooking the dusty wasteland to the north.
In the valley to the south, around the lake the Nexalans had named Tukan, a small community slowly grew. Many grass huts lined the shores, while a few dugout canoes probed the deeper waters, where great schools of fish swam. Already stones had been gathered and a low pyramid built-a pyramid dedicated to Qotal, sanctified with offerings of flowers and a multitude of butterflies.
The eagle dropped to the ridge, and then his form shifted, shimmering briefly in the bright sun. The shimmer faded and revealed Chical, Lord of the Eagle Knights. He approached Cordell, and as he did, the Maztican warrior’s face broke into a faint, reluctant smile.
“Good news, man?” asked the captain-general. He spoke a rough mixture of Nexalan and common-speech, understood by the Eagle Knight.
“It would seem so,” Chical responded in the same bastardized tongue. “The beasts march northward, back toward Nexal!”
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