“He is a man!” snarled Tazcara. “Tezcatlipoca demands his death! Kill him! If not now, soon and in the dark!”
Itzcoatl’s face turned ashen. The coatl thrashed upon the ground and they could only see the bronze corded arms of Gathelaus as he still strangled the monstrous form. “Return and cease your endeavors,” he called to his guards.
The crowd still cheered Gathelaus as their bearded white god, Kukulacan, while the movements of the upturned coatl became slower, slower and then finally went still.
A royal guardsmen pushed Mixamaxtla out of one of the prisoner’s cells and actually let him take a long hickory staff. “See if he is still alive,” ordered the guardsman.
Mixamaxtla slowly stepped toward the great still form of the coatl. Its mouth was agape, and its long tongue lolled out, dripping both blood and spittle that glistened in the hot sun. A whirlwind of dust flashed across the arena.
Only Gathelaus’s arms were visible, still in a relentless death grip.
Mixamaxtla jabbed at the jaw of the coatl. He jumped as the tail lashed out a few inches in its death throes.
Waiting another long moment, he prodded at the sweat-covered bronze arms. The fingers were knotted together and then fell apart as the broad arms fell and slammed against the dust.
Mixamaxtla pulled on them and drew Gathelaus forth. He was still breathing, though unconscious.
“Kukulacan lives!” cried Mixamaxtla. The crowd roared its approval, starting the chant all over again.
Cuauhtémoc declared, “He is not a god! Just a foreign devil from the north!”
Itzcoatl glared at Cuauhtémoc. “He slew the great coatl. He killed my namesake. He slew a god and so must be a god himself.”
“He was lucky.”
“Luck cannot slay a god,” argued Itzcoatl.
Tazcara scowled and signaled to one of the guardsmen, saying, “Shoot him now!”
The guardsman gulped. “I dare not, lest he strike me down.”
“Fool!” cried Tazcara as she struck the man across the face. “You! Kill him!” She ordered another who also hesitated.
“My lady. Can you not see?”
“I’m surrounded by fools!” she snarled.
Cuauhtémoc held up a hand. “He is fallen, despite the feat. He is in our power. Let us take him into the dungeons and do away with him, my king. The people who favor him now, will not doubt that perhaps the struggle could have slain both. He will be thought a hero and yet not immortal.”
“Are you sure?” asked Itzcoatl dubiously.
“So let it be done,” answered Cuauhtémoc.
“Shed his blood on the arena floor, so that we do not look weak,” demanded Tazcara.
“No,” said Itzcoatl.
“You are weak!” she declared.
Itzcoatl struck her across the mouth, letting blood mingle with the ruby red of her full lips. “Never speak to me like that again!” he shouted. “Away woman. Cuauhtémoc see to it.”
The sorcerer nodded and signaled to the guardsmen. “Take,” he paused a moment, loathe to declare Gathelaus a god or hero, “him, inside and see to his wounds.”
***
Mixamaxtla held Gathelaus slumped upright on the ground at his feet. He looked about the arena and the chanting of the crowd moved him. The continual barrage of people shouting “Kukulacan! Kukulacan! Kukulacan!” brought about a strength to resist the Tultecacans that had enslaved him for so long. The heroic feat of vanquishing the mighty coatl gave spark to that light of hope that had been buried away for so long. His fist curled about the staff they had given him. He looked to the other prisoners and gladiators that had been watching, awestruck, from behind the bars of their prison cells. They all heard the chanting of the crowd, they understood the words of hope that the god of freedom and light might overcome the bloodthirsty gods of the Tultecacans. And with no words said, he resolved then and there to fight back and strike for freedom even if he might die in the process.
“Bring him inside and take him to the priest’s quarters,” ordered one of the guards.
Mixamaxtla picked up Gathelaus and trudged toward the open cell doors. As he passed through, he wheeled and slammed the door shut. The bolt locked. With a look of utter confusion, one of the guards went to unbolt the door but was met with Mixamaxtla’s staff to his trachea. He fell dead with a look of wide-eyed horror. The guard beside him met the same fate.
The prisoners rose up and tackled the guards inside, disarming them in a heartbeat. Those with spears lashed out and pierced the pair of guards left in the arena that strove to get back in.
Stealing the bronze keys, the prisoners unlocked the doors and raced through the interior chambers of the arena, freeing all those slaves in chains and arming them. The guards who had not suspected such a turn of events soon found themselves stabbed or bludgeoned to death.
In the heat of the moment Mixamaxtla almost left Gathelaus behind, but his own sense of curiosity and wonder bid him carry the unconscious man to safety. He owed the foreigner his life and despite his own misgivings and jealousies, he had to repay the debt.
Xoloc and the other gladiators were armed to the teeth with all their own weaponry from the arena when they burst through the outside gates. The king’s guard met them there, wholly unprepared for the savage ferocity the desperate gladiators displayed.
Like men possessed, they attacked, stabbed, and thrust, cleaving bodies asunder and wading through the carnage like devils.
With the initial wall of guardsmen down, others fled along with the city folk from the wake of the gladiators.
Gathelaus awoke to being drug by Mixamaxtla and Xoloc. “Let me go, damn you!” He drew back, dug in his heels and halted their progress. They let him go and he nearly careened to his knees.
“You saved my life once, I was returning the favor,” said Mixamaxtla.
Xoloc nodded.
Gathelaus took in the chaotic scenery of buildings on fire and the wild screams and shouts of fear.
“If we don’t hurry to the ships, we’ll be overrun when the king’s guard rallies,” said Mixamaxtla. “You can stay if you like, but we are even now.”
“So, we’re taking ships across the lake?”
Xoloc nodded and motioned for them to follow.
Gathelaus wondered why the man did not speak.
Mixamaxtla said, “He was a sailor before they cut out his tongue.”
They hurried along a narrow avenue with more than a score of other freed prisoners, when they were beset with arrows from high on the walls. Several of the fleeing men were struck and cried out. Two fell dead. The rest gathered by the others and rushed around a corner, out of sight of the bowmen.
“They will soon flank us, we need to hurry to the docks or we shall be trapped on the causeway, and that way lies death,” said Mixamaxtla.
“Then let’s hurry,” agreed Gathelaus.
Another man countered, “But we must pass through that plaza. We will be open to their slings and arrows. We shall perish.”
Gathelaus glanced about for anything that might give them some cover or distraction.
“Quick!” shouted Mixamaxtla. “This way to the boats!”
They ran down a narrow avenue as a storm of arrows and atl-tls fell upon them. Another dozen men fell, crying out as obsidian and copper arrows pierced their bodies, but more men made it to the docks and leapt aboard a score of grain barges and small two-man fishing vessels. They pushed out upon the lake with paddles, oars, or hands. All knew the dreadful death that awaited them if they were recaptured.
Gathelaus drove his oar hard into the green waters, watching as the king’s guards ran down the docks, shouting curses and slinging arrows at the retreating slaves and gladiators. Gathelaus cursed as he realized that despite their head start, their enemies might beat them to a causeway bridge where they would be ripe targets.
Glancing to his right, he saw the king’s men racing through the city alleyways and avenues, with spears and macahuitl’s ready to spi
ll blood. The men with Gathelaus were relatively unarmed. They could never fight back and win against such an onslaught. He had an idea. He turned and guided his barge back toward the edge of the city.
“What are you doing?” asked Mixamaxtla.
“I have to buy time for the rest of you.”
“You’re mad. I won’t owe you another blood debt!” declared the tall warrior.
“Then don’t. Just get the rest of them out of here while I run a blockade.” Gathelaus leapt from the barge back onto the city streets of Tultecacan.
Mixamaxtla cursed him but continued steering the barge out and along the causeway.
Gathelaus tore a wide piece of an awning from a cotton merchant then took an oil lamp and finally grasped a small cart of straw. He pushed these toward the entrance of the bridge that swung over where the fleeing slaves were trying to exit. It wouldn’t give them a lot of space but at least they wouldn’t be beneath the very spears of the king. He splashed the oil from the lamp all over the cart and awning, then lit the fire which erupted with a crackling orange roar just as the king’s men rounded the corner toward him.
“The crazy bastard did it,” said Mixamaxtla. “Hurry, they still have bows!” The slaves and gladiators put their backs into the oars and raced beneath the bridge. Some few took wounds from the slings and arrows, but most made it through the gap and escaped out upon the lake.
***
Gathelaus raced down blind alleyways and twisting streets as he fled from the pursuing king men. He leapt over turkey crates and street vendors with the king men right at his heels. He unconsciously made his way toward the western most end of the city, not knowing what should meet him once he got there, but he hoped there would be yet another marina with a ship he might steal.
A guardsman caught at his shoulder and each of them went tumbling into some fruit vendors. The guardsman had been quick to catch Gathelaus, but slow to respond to the Northman’s brutal attack. Gathelaus took him by the head and slammed it like a gourd until it exploded against the flagstones. Then he was up and running again, just before two more guards with spears could pierce his hide.
Gathelaus rounded a corner and held out an arm, clotheslining the first and stealing his spear. He jammed it into the belly of the next guardsman then turned and dispatched the first. The obsidian point broke under the strain of the dying man. Glancing over, he saw that they were only a few yards ahead of a score of men. He raced on.
He made it to the western most edge of the city. The city had ended swifter than he expected. The lake stretched out before him and green forests in the hills miles beyond the azure waters. But there were no boats! Ready to fall into despair he noticed short plants with many peasants cultivating and harvesting them. Shallow rice paddies. He leapt down from the city banks and waist deep in water, but he quickly strode to where it was only a foot or two deep. In another few strides it was only a foot deep.
The people working only glanced at him for a moment then went right back to their toil. Hard work didn’t allow for much care outside of their direct space. Besides who were they to try and stop a huge brute of a man crossing over the fields of the king?
Gathelaus raced over the rice paddies, letting a stream of water and mud fly under his feet. Let them try and catch him.
And the Wheel Turns Round
He ran through the swampy fields. Water splashed and soaked his cloak. He tore off all the unnecessary gaudy regalia as it only slowed him down and was worthless for fighting. The fields stretched on for miles but save for the deep-water canals, there was no other route away from the city, except for the roads that would be covered in the king’s guard far behind and across from him. He guessed that few men would be able to run as swiftly as he across the muddy track. Already the city looked miniature in form behind him. Unfortunately, he was going the wrong direction to find Coco. The dark volcanic mountains loomed behind him, and ahead the short hills covered in thick leafy greenery swayed supreme.
He stopped to take a breather and looked back. Upon the causeway and docks men who looked like small dots, swarmed like ants. He chuckled to himself. He had a good lead on them and with no horses in this country, he could easily outpace them all. He trotted on, keeping an easy even pace so as to not wind himself.
Every now and again, he looked back to gauge the pursuers. A few gained ahead of the others. He paused. They moved with an alien, strange loping. They were not men. Dogs? Watching the bounding shapes, he realized they did not run as dogs but in a curious leaping bound unknown to any northern world creature. It was the kokopelli. They were coming, at least six of them.
“Damn their blood-sucking hides!”
Gathelaus increased his stride. Now he guessed he had better make it to the woods where at least he could put his back to a tree to face the creatures. Out here in the paddies would only get him surrounded and overwhelmed. Not to mention his lack of weapons.
He breathed with exhausted gasps and still had at least a half mile to go. Glancing back, the kokopelli had crossed more than half the distance in half the time. He could almost see their gleaming yellow eyes.
With every tiring muddy step, he looked for anything that could be used as a weapon—a stone, a branch—but nothing remained in the paddies but the foot-deep water and bunching rice.
He trotted on. He could see the slope of the surrounding hills. The entire valley was in the bowl as if it had been scooped out by the gods eons ago. A gentle rise circled up uniformly and within but a few paces beyond that, the woods encroached. There had to be something there he could use. A stick, a stone, something.
His heart raced as the splashes of the beasts grew closer. The guttural growl and bizarre baying was nearer to a wheezing rasp than a hound’s cry, but unnerving nonetheless. If he had but a stone, he could brain the first one. Stepping out of the paddy, muddy water drained from his boots.
A stone the size of a fist lay on the shore like a priceless treasure.
He picked it up and was bowled over by a shaggy kokopelli. Its claws tore his skin as it attempted to get his throat, its prize target.
Gathelaus bashed the face of the monstrosity repeatedly until its skull cracked and it fell from him, convulsing. Blood seeped from a dozen shallow wounds across Gathelaus’s chest. Five more of the kokopelli closed in on him.
They slowed to a steady slink forward. Wary to avoid the man’s stone, watching to see if he had any other surprise weapons.
Gathelaus backed up the shoreline until he had a tree behind him. None of the branches on the ground looked particularly useful as a club.
He had few options. He could climb the tree, but then what? Be treed until the men with spears and arrows arrived? Trapped like a beast? Besides, with as long and sharp as the kokopelli claws looked, he guessed they could climb trees as well as a bear.
To his right and left, kokopelli moved to flank him while the other three came straight on.
The largest one, a mere twenty paces in front of him, opened its mouth in a mute roar, the extended blood feeding tube stretched in anticipation. The sharp prongs on the end of the tube glittered in the sun. The pack of creatures came in slow from all sides.
Gathelaus didn’t want to face a rush of all of them. He had to do the unexpected. He charged the one to his right, stone in hand.
The startled monster balked in its attack and fell back on its haunches in surprise.
Gathelaus brained the kokopelli, grabbed it by its long feeding tube, and swung the creature about, spinning it into the air. All of the kokopelli paused in confusion. He bared his teeth, sure the creatures had never seen a man or beast that would not flee from them in terror. Nor one that would so wantonly harm them.
The lead monster came to its senses and charged. Gathelaus let go of the spinning kokopelli and let its body dash headlong into the alpha. As both bodies bowled over into the water, Gathelaus launched himself at them, slamming the stone down like a hammer.
The alpha kokopelli barked once before its
brains merged with the paddy water. The other one, already dazed beyond consciousness, drowned.
One of the others attacked, its feeding tube pierced Gathelaus’s shoulder, stinging him with its paralyzing bite. A lesser man might have pitched over in shock or fear, but Gathelaus reached with his right hand and clamped down on the tube, constricting its hold. It immediately let go and tried to retreat, but Gathelaus retained his grip and swung the kokopelli into the air and brought its body down like a thunderbolt on the ground, knocking the wind from its lungs. He slammed a foot down, breaking its rib cage. A soft bark escaped its lips and it was still. The last two had seen what happened to their brethren and they wisely retreated, bounding back toward their masters, still more than a mile off.
Gathelaus guessed that, though the forces of Cuauhtémoc would still pursue him into the jungle, he might as well put the fear of the gods into them. He ripped the feeding tubes from all of the kokopellis’ jaws and kept them as grim trophies. His desecration of their favored hunting beasts would make any of his pursuers think twice about confronting the giant northerner.
He entered the jungle, disappearing with a stride into verdant greenery like a black panther bathed in starless night.
***
“What kind of man could do such a thing?” asked one of the handlers.
“No man. A demon from the underworld.”
“Silence fool,” shouted the captain. “He is but a man. He will die as all the rest have with his heart torn out as offering to the blood gods. Great honor will be heaped on he who can claim this white devil.” He swung his short sword in mock combat with the memory of Gathelaus. “Let us press him. We shall catch a man who knows not the way, nor the dangers of our own land. He cannot last long.”
The others cast sidelong glances at the dead kokopelli, but followed their captain on the hunt.
***
Reaching the summit of hills in the valley surrounding the lake, Gathelaus could barely perceive the city and waters through the canopy of green. He went westward, crashing through bushes and brambles, anxious to gain as much distance as possible between his pursuers and himself. He would work at leaving no trail once he had a more advantageous lead.
FIERCE: A Heroic Fantasy Adventure (BRUTAL TRILOGY Book 2) Page 22
