Serpent and Storm

by Marella Sands

  “He can’t expect to win,” said Talking Storm. “No matter what gods might favor him, he can’t stop all our warriors. And they’ve arranged themselves so the sun’s in their eyes. What foolishness is this?”

  Grasping Fire frowned. “I don’t know. I don’t like it. I always knew Dark Lightning had no sense, but this is too absurd, even for him. Something else must be going on.”

  “But what?” Talking Storm stomped a foot in frustration. “He doesn’t even have Mirror anymore. Who’s guiding his battle plan?”

  “Perhaps Mirror told him the plan yesterday before he was killed,” said Grasping Fire. “Anyway, we’ll soon find out. Here they come.”

  Dark Lightning’s warriors, with Dark Lightning himself up in front, walked steadily toward their opponents.

  The dartmen stood in a double row in front of the spearmen on the plain below Sky Knife. When Dark Lightning’s forces were close enough, the dartmen each loaded a short spear into their dart throwers and let loose a volley.

  Some of Dark Lightning’s men fell but the others continued to come. Grasping Fire’s dartmen let loose their second set of spears, then retreated behind the spearmen and drew their knives. Sky Knife looked questioningly at Talking Storm.

  “They’ll go behind the spearmen,” said the other priest. “To kill those badly wounded and to capture whatever enemy warriors they can.”

  Sky Knife nodded and turned back to the field. The spearmen held their spears ready and advanced toward Dark Lightning’s men.

  “Where did Dark Lightning go?” asked Sky Knife.

  Grasping Fire stepped forward. “I don’t know,” he said. “He was in front—”

  The first rank of spearmen from each side crashed into each other with a terrible yell. The dull thwack of spear against spear carried up to Sky Knife. Those who fell wounded were quickly dispatched by the dartmen with their knives. But the dartmen, unprotected by any other weapon besides their knives, were often at the mercy of the spearmen. Men were falling all over the field and their blood spilled freely onto the cold ground.

  The battle progressed quickly, Grasping Fire’s men pushing back Dark Lightning’s forces through sheer numbers. Dark Lightning’s men were being captured by Grasping Fire’s dartmen by the dozens.

  Suddenly, the remainder of Dark Lightning’s men broke and ran. Grasping Fire’s men shouted in triumph and ran after them. Talking Storm shouted “Forked-Tongue Serpent, yes!”

  Dark Lightning’s men looked over their shoulders at their pursuers far too calmly for Sky Knife’s peace of mind. A terrible feeling of anxiety wrapped around his gut.

  “Something’s wrong,” he said. “Something…”

  “What?” said Talking Storm. “What could be wrong? They’re running!”

  “Where’s Dark Lightning?” shouted Sky Knife. “No, no, no…” He looked around the battlefield, but nothing seemed amiss. Dark Lightning’s men continued to run. Those in the back were taken down by Grasping Fire’s spearmen and finished off by the dartmen. By now the plain was coated in the blood of hundreds of men. At least a third of what Dark Lightning had started the battle with only a few minutes before were down.

  “He’s wasting his men, waiting for something,” said Sky Knife. He ran down the hill toward the plain, not knowing what was wrong, only knowing something was.

  “Sky Knife!” shouted Talking Storm.

  But Sky Knife didn’t listen. Something was going to happen. Dark Lightning had some trickery planned—he had never meant to fight in honor. Dark Lightning had to have known he could not win on a field of honorable combat. For victory, he would have to win by deceit.

  Suddenly, a great booming sound, like that of crocodiles in spring, rang out over the field. Sky Knife glanced up toward the sky.

  A serpent, sprouting feathers where scales should be, hovered in the air over the plain. The serpent was striped orange and green and it was huge. The serpent stretched for hundreds of yards. It would take ten men with outstretched arms to reach around its mighty body.

  Sky Knife glanced back toward the hill. Talking Storm held his hands toward the sky, but he was gesturing wildly, hastily. If Talking Storm were working Mayan magic, Sky Knife would say he was making warding-off gestures. This serpent was not his.

  Sky Knife turned back to the serpent. It opened terrible jaws. Long white curved fangs glistened in the morning light. The serpent drew its head back, poised. In the blink of an eye, it struck. It picked up one of Grasping Fire’s spearmen and reared back, carrying him high into the air. Then it dropped him.

  The man didn’t even scream as he fell. He must have already been dead from the serpent’s bite.

  Grasping Fire’s men milled about in confusion, unwilling to dishonor themselves by retreat, but afraid to stay. Afraid to die in the jaws of a feathered serpent, the same feathered serpent that was supposed to be their protector; the god that sat on the throne of Teotihuacan in the body of the king.

  “No!” shouted Sky Knife toward the dreadful serpent. The serpent didn’t acknowledge him. It struck again and grabbed one of the dartmen.

  That was enough for the rest of Grasping Fire’s men. A human enemy they were prepared for, welcomed. But they weren’t prepared to face their god. Grasping Fire’s men broke and ran back toward Sky Knife.

  “No,” said Sky Knife, under his breath this time. Anger warmed his heart, drove away the fear. Dark Lightning would not win by such trickery. He would not let it happen.

  Sky Knife drew out the Hand of God and held it over his head, then quickly jammed it down into the flesh of his left forearm. Red hot agony shot up his arm and took his breath away. The prayer he had been about to offer melted from his mind in the wake of the pain.

  Sky Knife fell to his knees, screaming. He held his arm out in front of him and let the blood flow to the ground.

  “Itzamna,” he gasped out at last. “Accept this sacrifice offered by your humble servant. The sacrifice of my own blood…”

  It was in him now. The power of a sacrifice. Not the overwhelming power of the p’a chi, but something similar. The power flowed through him, not seeming to concentrate anywhere, not coming to rest anywhere. It flitted along his bones and muscles and sent shivers up the skin of his legs.

  The power filled Sky Knife. He felt bloated with it. It struggled against his skin from the inside as if trying to escape.

  Sky Knife held his bloody blade toward the serpent. The serpent turned to him and paused.

  Slowly, Sky Knife realized the fleeing men had stopped. They stood between him and the serpent, silent, as if trapped. Sky Knife had hoped to avoid being trampled; it seemed he didn’t have to worry about that. But what had alarmed the men about him he could not tell.

  No time to worry about that, though. The feathered green-and-orange serpent shot toward Sky Knife, jaws agape, fangs bared.

  Blue fire leapt from Sky Knife’s outstretched fist toward the monster. The fireball rammed down the serpent’s throat in a terrific blaze. It jerked back as if surprised and roared.

  The sound knocked Sky Knife down. The men in the field cowered on the ground. Sky Knife scrambled back to his feet as the serpent came for him again. Sky Knife stood, blade pointed toward the oncoming head of the snake.

  The open jaw engulfed Sky Knife, but the fangs missed him. Sky Knife jammed his black glass blade through the serpent’s tongue. Blue streaks of lightning shot out of Sky Knife’s hands and stung the serpent all along the inside of its mouth.

  The serpent reared back, black smoke pouring from its mouth, its tongue hanging limp from its jaws.

  Sky Knife waited, but the serpent seemed unwilling to attack him again. It backed up in the sky, floating a hundred feet over the ground. It swung its giant head back and forth, scanning the horizon.

  “You won’t escape!” shouted Sky Knife. He took a deep breath and gathered his strength. Then he pointed the blade toward the serpent and threw everything he had at it.

  Blue streams of fire flo
wed from the blade to the serpent. The fire wrapped around the neck of the snake like a boa wrapped around its prey.

  The serpent thrashed, trying to free itself from the constricting embrace of the flames. The wind generated by its flailing blew Sky Knife’s hair away from his face.

  Sky Knife ran toward the men on the field. “Get away!” he shouted. “Hurry!”

  The men ran in every direction while the serpent twisted and rolled in the air above their heads. One tall warrior with a macaw on his shield ran right next to Sky Knife, fear in his eyes. Just then the tail of the serpent slapped the ground beside Sky Knife, sending the warrior sprawling on the ground.

  Sky Knife ran to the man and grabbed him under the elbow. The man pulled away, screaming.

  “It’s all right,” said Sky Knife. “But get up and run! Get out of here!”

  The man stood and ran. He had only gotten a few steps before the serpent’s tail came down again, this time on top of him. The man went down and didn’t twitch.

  Sky Knife looked up and quickly ducked as the tail swiped the air above his head. The serpent’s flailing had slowed and some of its coils rested on the ground.

  Suddenly, as if its life leaked out of it all at once rather than slowly in the manner of serpents, the snake collapsed on the ground. The earth trembled, throwing Sky Knife off balance.

  The serpent kept on collapsing, growing smaller and smaller. It was the size of a house, then a deer, then a dog. Finally, it was only the size of a normal serpent. Then, it got even smaller until it disappeared into the grass. A single feather and the bodies of several warriors who had been caught under it as it fell were all that was left in the area.

  The power drained out of Sky Knife and the agony in his arm reasserted itself. Sky Knife bit his lip and swayed, fighting the urge to kneel, to lie down, to let the pain flow over him and to lie beneath it unresisting.

  Instead, he staggered toward the feather. It was small, only a couple of inches long, and blue. A jade bead was tied to the quill of the feather with a thin cotton thread.

  Sky Knife bent down and picked up the feather, then staggered back toward Grasping Fire’s camp. Dark Lightning had planned this one well. But one question remained.

  Where was he?

  32

  Grasping Fire’s camp was in turmoil. Warriors clustered in small groups, nervously staring around them as if more feathered serpents were going to materialize. Who knew—maybe more would. Sky Knife had no guarantee the feather he carried was the only one being used this morning for sorcery.

  Several warriors near Sky Knife noticed him. They blanched and dropped to their knees, then lay down on their stomachs on the ground, faces pressed to the dirt.

  Other warriors saw and followed suit. With a sound like a great sigh, hundreds of warriors fell to their faces before Sky Knife.

  Sky Knife gritted his teeth in embarrassment. Bad enough when people felt they had to kneel to him, but to lie prostrate!

  Grasping Fire walked around a tent and saw the spectacle. “What?” he barked. He looked down the path between the tents and saw Sky Knife. “Oh,” he said. “Good, I’m glad I found you.”

  Sky Knife waved a hand toward the warriors weakly. “I…” he began, but he had no idea how to finish. He just stood there, shifting his weight from foot to foot.

  Grasping Fire gestured to him. “Come on, come to my tent and tell me what happened.”

  Grasping Fire turned and walked away. Sky Knife followed. He had to step around and over warriors to get to the tent.

  Inside, Grasping Fire sat on a thick pile of blankets. He indicated another pile several feet from him. “Sit down. You look exhausted.”

  Sky Knife sank down into the blankets, grateful to be off his feet. A servant approached him on her knees. She held out a bowl of fruit juice with snow in it. Sky Knife took the bowl eagerly and drank. The cold drink revived him. Sky Knife felt more alert and refreshed instantly.

  Sky Knife returned the bowl to the servant. She backed away, head bowed.

  A man came into the tent. He was dressed in a long orange robe. He bowed to Sky Knife. “May I see to your arm?” he asked.

  Sky Knife nodded and held out his arm. It throbbed, but the pain was more bearable now. The man washed the wound and wrapped it. He bowed again to Sky Knife and left.

  “What in the name of the Masked One happened out there?” asked Grasping Fire. “Talking Storm says it’s not so, but it sure looked like the Storm God protects Dark Lightning.”

  “You can believe Talking Storm,” said Sky Knife. He held out the feather. “I found this on the ground where the serpent collapsed. It was called up with sorcery.”

  “Great,” said Grasping Fire. He took the feather and twirled it absently. “Half the merchants in Teotihuacan know some sorcery. There are vendors selling charms and spells on every corner. Anyone could have done this.”

  Sky Knife had to agree. Not just anyone could have cast the spell into the feather for later release, but the person who had released it this morning did not have to be a sorcerer.

  Magic that came from the gods, like Sky Knife’s, did not need a material item to focus the power. An item like his knife was helpful, but not necessary. The sorcery the Teotihuacano merchants practiced required a focal object—a rock, a bowl, a feather. The sorcery could be stored in the item and sold to anyone for later use.

  “Perhaps if we knew who had the power to call up such a thing, we could find out who they sold or gave the feather to,” said Sky Knife.

  Grasping Fire shook his head. “The Sorcerer’s Guild is a part of the Merchant’s Guild. We’ll get no cooperation from them.”

  “Why not?” asked Sky Knife. “Surely, with the city in the state it’s in, their profits are down. They should want order restored.”

  “It’s not that simple,” said Grasping Fire. “They won’t help unless there’s something in it for them. And from the king, there’s only one thing they want—access to the profits from the obsidian quarries. It’s the last industry left under the control of the king. I can’t endanger it.”

  The Corn Priest ran into the tent, panting heavily. “Gras … Grasping Fire, Sky Knife … come!” He ran back out.

  Sky Knife clambered to his feet and ran after the Corn Priest, Grasping Fire just behind him.

  The Corn Priest headed toward a large tent. “Masked One, no,” said Grasping Fire.

  Sky Knife saw nothing amiss, nor did he know whose tent this was. But Grasping Fire’s alarm was enough for Sky Knife. He got out his sacrificial knife and ran into the tent.

  Jaguar’s Daughter stood in the center of the tent. Behind her, wrists bandaged and leaning against a jaguar-skin pillow, sat a very feeble-looking Deer. Black Coyote sat by Deer, fear in his large eyes.

  In front of Jaguar’s Daughter stood her brother. Dark Lightning. As Sky Knife entered the tent, Dark Lightning lunged for his sister. He spun around to face Sky Knife, Jaguar’s Daughter between them. Dark Lightning held a knife to his sister’s throat.

  “Come no closer,” he snarled. His hair had come out of its leather thong holder. It stuck out from his head wildly so that he resembled not so much a man as a monkey. “You’ve ruined everything, Mayan priest. I would be king of this city now if it weren’t for you.”

  “Let your sister go,” said Sky Knife. “You don’t want to meet the Bolon ti ku with your sister’s blood on your hands.”

  “If I were you,” said Dark Lightning, “I’d worry more about your friend, my sister. She’s the one with a knife at her throat.”

  “What do you want?” asked Grasping Fire. “You should know by now you will never be king.”

  “Neither will you,” said Dark Lightning. “It seems I was wrong. By leaving the boy alive, you retained your hope of his ascension. I didn’t want to kill the boy, but you’ve left me no choice. If you had cooperated from the beginning, he could have lived. His death is on your hands.”

  “The boy will be king,” said Grasp
ing Fire.

  More people entered the tent. Sky Knife didn’t dare turn around to see who they were.

  “None of you can stop me now,” said Dark Lightning. “Go on, get out. Get out of the tent or my sister’s dead.”

  “So kill her,” said the deep voice of Lily-on-the-Water. “You must know we will sacrifice ourselves, including your sister, for the king.”

  “You can’t win,” said Deer from his bed. Sky Knife winced at the weakness of his voice. “Retain whatever honor you can and surrender your blade.”

  Dark Lightning glanced from Sky Knife to Grasping Fire to the others. To Sky Knife, it seemed the other man finally realized he would not succeed. The knowledge seemed to settle on Dark Lightning’s face like a bird alighting on a branch.

  Rage spilled onto Dark Lightning’s face. He pressed the knife against Jaguar’s Daughter’s neck. “Then she dies with me!” he screamed.

  “No!” shouted Sky Knife. He leaped for Jaguar’s Daughter, but Grasping Fire was quicker. The burly man knocked Jaguar’s Daughter and Dark Lightning down and grabbed Dark Lightning’s wrist.

  Sky Knife jumped over Dark Lightning’s feet and rushed to Deer and Black Coyote.

  Deer’s face was tense with pain, but his eyes twinkled. “I knew you would come,” he said.

  Someone came up behind Sky Knife and grabbed Black Coyote. He turned, knife out, but it was Dancing Bear. Sky Knife relaxed.

  “No, Sky Knife,” said Lily-on-the-Water. “Don’t let her take him!”

  Sky Knife stood, confused, but stepped toward Dancing Bear. She held out a prismatic blade. “One step closer and the boy dies,” she said.

  Sky Knife halted. On the ground, Dark Lightning pushed Grasping Fire away.

  “I told you the boy would die,” said Dark Lightning.

  Sky Knife looked at Dancing Bear. “What are you doing?” he asked.

  She spat at him. “For too long, I’ve waited for my chance,” she said. “When Dark Lightning is king, I will speak for the Masked One.”

  “Foolish girl,” said Lily-on-the-Water. “It takes more to speak for the goddess than you know.”