Ironhelm mt-1

by Douglas Niles

"You may enter the presence of the Revered Counselor, Honorable Captain of Hundredmen." The servant quietly opened the door.

  The knight stepped into the room, his eyes downcast, his coppery face expressionless. Immediately he knelt and kissed the floor. He rose and walked toward the dais, repeating the submissive gesture two more times before he stood below the throne of power. The warrior averted his eyes from the plumed figure before him, resting his gaze instead upon the raggedly dressed row of courtiers and clerics behind the splendid throne.

  "Most Revered Counselor, I regret to inform you that our expedition against the Kultakans ended in disaster. The enemy fought well, luring us into ambush. Many of our warriors have gone to the flowered altars of Kultaka."

  Naltecona reclined along the floating cushion of emerald feathers, his eyes half closed. They must not see my distress! he thought grimly. "You yourself, plus two of your comrades — and three Jaguar Knights as well — shall offer your hearts in penance to Zaltec. Pray that he is satisfied!"

  "I can but hope that our First God finds my companions and me worthy substitutes." Still the knight's face bore no expression.

  "We will learn tonight." The counselor rose and turned away from the man he had just condemned to death. He ignored the slowly swirling fans suspended in the air around him, then suddenly pushed in annoyance past the magical plumes to step across the dais. "We will send another expedition tomorrow! Thus will the Kultakans learn the wages of defiance!"

  The Eagle Knight showed no emotion. He kissed the earth before his ruler and backed to the door, stopping twice more to repeat the ritual of submission.

  "My uncle?" The voice came from one of the rumpled courtiers, a handsome young man with steely courage glinting in his eyes. Even under the dirty cotton mantle, this man carried himself like a noble. Now he alone dared speak, when all around him, the older and more experienced lords of Naltecona held their tongues.

  "Speak, Poshtli," the counselor said.

  "My uncle, would you not desire to teach the Kultakans a true lesson? Could you, in your wisdom, see to the rebuilding of the armies smashed in this latest venture? When they are reformed, they can join your fresh forces, and all of them march to battle Kultaka!" Poshtli bowed politely and waited calmly for Naltecona's response. He knew, as did they all, that a hasty expedition against the warlike Kultakans could only result in further disaster. As the son of the counselor's sister, Poshtli could dare offer advice to Naltecona, but he had no assurance that such advice would be either welcomed or accepted.

  "Indeed," mused the ruler with a disdainful glance at his other attendants. "This I shall do. We shall strike against Kultaka only when I am ready."

  The doors burst open as Poshtli suppressed a sigh of relief. An obviously agitated warrior entered, quickly kneeling and kissing the earth as he bobbed toward the throne. His cotton battle armor was visible beneath the ragged shawl he had donned at the door.

  "M-Most Highly Revered Counselor," he stammered, pausing in fear of Naltecona's reaction.

  "What is it? Speak to me, man!" The counselor sat erect upon the throne-bench now, glaring at the reckless intruder.

  "It is the temple… the temple of Zaltec! Most Excellent One, please, you must come and see for yourself!"

  "What do you mean by this? I must do nothing. Explain yourself!"

  "The temple has burst into flames! I myself stood in the great square and saw the eruption. Even though no spark was touched to it, the very stone itself took to blaze! The temple is destroyed!"

  Naltecona rose to his feet and sauntered down the stairs, closely followed by his horde of courtiers. He stood a full head above them all and walked with a conscious pride that made him seem taller still.

  Naltecona could not entirely contain his agitation as he found himself hurrying through the door into the grand hallway beyond. Followed by his retinue and the guard, he crossed a walkway over one of the canals, which flowed directly through his palace. He then climbed a stairway and emerged onto a broad balcony.

  Across the huge plaza stood the great pyramid, higher than any other structure in Nexal. Side by side atop the pyramid stood the tall temple of Zaltec and the lesser shrines of the sun god, Tezca, and the rain god, Calor, the two favorite sons of Bloody Zaltec.

  Indeed, true to the guard's word, the large temple in the center smoked and crackled at the heart of a roaring blaze. The stone walls glowed red, oozing thickly downward. Before the stunned eyes of the watchers, the mighty building slowly melted away.

  "There was no spark to start it, Most Revered Counselor," repeated the guard.

  "Indeed." Naltecona looked for a long time at the dying blaze, his face an inscrutable mask. What can it mean? he wondered secretly.

  "We shall have it rebuilt at once!" he barked. "Until then, the clerics will use the Pyramid of the Moon. Zaltec shall still feast tonight."

  They must not see my fear!

  The deep growls of the guardian jaguars still rumbled around Hoxitl as the cleric made his way slowly toward the mouth of the Highcave. He muffled a curse as he tripped against a rock in the darkness.

  For an entire long night, he and a trio of apprentices had climbed huge, smoldering Mount Zatal. The volcano overlooked the city of Nexal and was known to house the sacred soul of Zaltec himself. Now, not far below the summit, Hoxitl and the young priests reached the entrance to the mystic cave that the patriarch knew as the home of the Ancient Ones.

  "Wait here," hissed the cleric, and his black-robed assistants needed no encouragement. They nodded their heads, bobbing the spiked ends of their blood-caked hair, then sat, sober-faced, outside the mouth of the cave.

  Wisps of steam and burning, sulfurous vapors swirled around Hoxitl as the high priest entered the cave. He threw back his black hood and peered into the darkness, which was faintly broken by occasional flickering pools of crimson bubbling rock.

  Suppressing a cough, Hoxitl held his breath as he passed a noxiously spuming geyser. Tears came to his eyes, further blinding him.

  Then he sensed the presence of one of the Ancient Ones as the shadowy figure moved from an alcove to block his path.

  "Praises to Zaltec!" whispered the cleric.

  "High praises to the god of night and war!" hissed the black-cloaked figure, completing the ritual greeting.

  Hoxitl stared at the Ancient One as he had stared a score of times before, but he learned nothing he had not learned from previous observations. Who are you? What are you? he wondered.

  The Ancient One stood shorter than Hoxitl, and his figure was more slight. His body was completely swathed in dark robes and cloth, down to the thin gauze that concealed his hands while still allowing him full use of his dextrous, slender fingers.

  "The sign," began Hoxitl. "We must know the meaning!"

  "We know of your concern, and its significance." The dark figure spoke in muffled tones, his voice coarse. "You have guessed correctly in your words to the counselor. The fire in the sky is indeed the sign of Zaltec's hunger. He must have more hearts! He starves for lack of blood!"

  Hoxitl nodded, pleased with his analysis of the sign, yet deeply disturbed by this evidence of the Ancient One's wisdom. This frail figure knew what had transpired in the Revered Counselor's throne room that very afternoon!

  "But there is more." The voice of the Ancient One dropped even further, to a dull rasp. "Zaltec desires the heart of a young girl, a child living in the village of Palul. Her name is Erixitl, and her life must be given to Zaltec by the close of this tenday."

  "As you wish. Our temple in Palul will claim her for evening sacrifice as soon as I can send word." Hoxitl did not bother asking why this particular girl had been deemed a threat to Zaltec. The word had been given, and the life of one more peasant girl amidst the dozens of sacrifices made to Zaltec each evening would not be noticed.

  "Do not fail in this!" The words of the Ancient One this time were unusually strained, Hoxitl thought. He tried to fill his own voice with confidence. After all, he wa
s the supreme human cleric of Zaltec, wielder of the Viperhand — but even to himself, the words sounded hollow.

  "She shall be dead before next we meet."

  From the Chronicle of the Waning:

  Dedicated to the resplendent glory of the Plumed One, Golden Qotal.

  The passing of an empire and a people can be a gradual thing, measured not in days nor years but in generations and centuries. Yet the waning of the Nexala, by this scale, becomes a sudden and cataclysmic plummet to disaster.

  Even so, my chronicle must pass ten years in the space of these words. More threads must gather, and those at the core of the tale must grow firm and strong.

  The portents shown to Naltecona grow more dire. His armies meet continual disaster in Kultaka. Bloody Zaltec, according to his patriarch, is displeased, and more slaves and captives are offered to sate his gory appetite.

  The threads of the children grow firmly to young adulthood, one as a slave girl of the Kultaka, the other as a proud soldier, mastering on the field of battle the confidence that eluded him in the wizard's tower.

  And now my portents show me another, a master warrior of the same race as young Halloran. But this is a man of great power over others, capable of brilliance and cruelty, remarkable audacity and perplexing greed. He is a commander of warriors the like of which I have never seen, and under his command they seem invincible. I know that he is to be a prime instrument of the Waning.

  His name is Cordell.

  THE CONQUEROR

  Two dozen galleys surged through the narrow strait, oars beating the water in powerful cadence. Two dozen banners streamed in the air, representing an equal number of pirate captains. This fleet included the most savage buccaneers of the Pirate Isles.

  Wicked battering rams — copper-tipped beams mounted in the bow of each galley — turned toward shore as Akbet-Khrul, Grand Vizier of the Pirate Isles and scourge of the Sword Coast, sent his fleet racing for the beach.

  In moments, each brightly painted vessel struck the sandy bank, riding well above the surf on the force of its momentum. Instantly savage crews swarmed from their vessels, massing on the beach in a broad formation glittering with scimitars, spears, and axes.

  The pirates of Akbet-Khrul were the most numerous, the most barbarous of the buccaneers inhabiting the Pirate Isles. Their unequalled and ferocious cruelty had earned them prominence among those isles. Now only a small group of mercenaries, hired by the desperate merchants of Amn, stood between Akbet-Khrul and complete domination of the waters off the central coast.

  "Forward to the legion's destruction!" The pirate lord himself, Akbet-Khrul, gestured toward the line of defenders arrayed upon a low hilltop. "Let not one of them escape my wrath!"

  The pirates surged forward, flushed with savage confidence. There were six of them for every one of the defenders on the distant hill, and the greatest worry in their captains' minds was that the mercenary legion before them would come to its senses and flee before the pirates could reach them.

  Harsh voices barked through the morning air, and even the whirling gulls ceased their cries as the army began to advance. The flocks wheeled in graceful silence over the colorful phalanxes gradually moving inland from the rocky shore.

  Banners fluttered in a breeze that slowly became a wind. The pirate army, three thousand strong, spread across a mile of frontage. Its wings spread hungrily, and its greedy jaws prepared to swallow the tiny group of defenders arrayed before it.

  Then suddenly the whole mass of colorful, steel-bristling pirates halted and stood restlessly, waiting.

  Ten figures dressed in shining crimson silks strutted forward from the pirate mass, each followed by a pair of retainers carrying a round iron pot. The black kettles contained heaps of glowing coals, frequently emitting sparks of hissing embers.

  Ten pots were suspended from tripods, ten fires quickly kindled. Slowly, at first indistinct in the sunlight but soon glowing angrily, a fire thickened and brewed in each caldron.

  Suddenly, one after another, the blazes surged upward until a tall column of fire erupted from each of the iron kettles.

  These columns took shape, swirling and growing, sprouting limbs, leering with flame-scribed faces, until they became not columns of fire, but beings of fire. These beings remained in contact with their caldrons, but strained and reached in a crackling effort to break free.

  Suddenly, as if in answer to a single command, each blazing figure twisted away from its pot and swept across the plain, a cyclone of fiery anger directed against the enemy beyond. Following in the scorched path of the fire things, the pirate army roared its lust for battle and surged forward.

  "Perfect."

  The remark, spoken with cool self-confidence, came from the midst of the company deployed on the hilltop. A golden pennant fluttered from a long pole beside him. As the wind snapped it taut, its emblem appeared: a shrieking golden eagle, wings spread and claws outstretched. Emblazoned in the bird's breast was the staring eye of all-seeing Helm, patron god of the Golden Legion. Outlined in black, the eagle shone vividly from a background of metallic, gleaming golden fabric.

  "They come toward us quickly, with little thought of tactics. Matters will reach a head in good order — it will take them some time to reach us, and when they do, we hold the high ground."

  The speaker turned, with the assurance of command, from the advancing army, addressing the small group of captains at his side. He was a small man, but he spoke and moved with a confidence so ironclad that other men could not help but listen. A black beard, too sparsely grown to hide his pockmarked skin, surrounded his tight mouth. Currently that mouth curved upward in an ingratiating, genuine smile.

  "Almighty Helm has granted our enemies into your hands, captain-general Cordell." Another man, tall and bearded, his slender form cloaked in a brown robe, nodded to the leader. A shirt of chain mail showed through an opening in his robe. His hands were cloaked in metal gauntlets, and each gauntlet bore the realistic image of a wide — staring eye — the unblinking symbol of Helm the Vigilant. The man carried a tall staff and wore a mace suspended from his belt. Though he towered over the others, his movements showed the stiffness of age. His bearded face was weather-beaten and dour.

  "And he has granted me the tools with which to break them, Bishou Domincus." Cordell nodded warmly at the cleric. "You have seen to the spiritual strength of the legion well, my friend. Now we shall test that strength."

  "May Helm find us worthy," said the Bishou humbly, nodding his thanks at the praise.

  The captain-general turned to another warrior, heartily thumping this steel-clad companion on the back. "Now, Captain Daggrande, is the ambush prepared?"

  "My crossbowmen are ready, Captain-General." Captain Daggrande was shorter still than his commander, his broad shoulders and bowed legs marking him as a dwarf. He wore a shiny steel breastplate, and his skull was protected by a shiny helm with an encircling, uptilted brim. "I'll join my men now, sir."

  "Indeed." Cordell nodded, dismissing the dwarf, utterly confident of the grizzled veteran's abilities. Daggrande and his hundred crossbowmen were in many ways the central weapon of the legion, for their deadly missiles allowed Cordell to engage an enemy before that enemy contacted his armored swordsmen or cavalry.

  A more penetrating concern showed in his eyes as he looked around the group. "Where's Broker?"

  "He sent us, General Cordell — Captain Alvarro and myself," Sergeant — Major Halloran answered. The young horseman wore a light chain shirt and bore a slender sword and small shield. A sleek black charger stood behind him, slowly tapping the earth with one hoof. Beside him stood Alvarro, a cavalryman with hair and beard of blazing red and teeth staggered in a gap-toothed grin. Alvarro was an older warrior who currently looked with unconcealed scorn at the young speaker. "His wounds," continued Halloran, "prevent Broker from fighting today."

  Cordell nodded, studying the two men. Broker, his trusted captain of horse, was lost for the battle. Indeed, from what Cordel
l had seen of Broker's wounds, the captain might never fight again. So his current choice was obvious.

  "Sergeant-Major — no make that Captain Halloran — you have command of the lancers in Broker's absence. Take tactical command of the Blue and Black companies."

  The commander turned to regard Alvarro, staring frankly into the man's flashing eyes. Cordell made no attempt to justify his decision to promote the younger man. He had given an order and it would be obeyed. "You have tactical command of the Green and Yellow companies. Be certain you wait for the signal to charge!"

  Again the brisk nod before continuing. "I want all four companies of lancers to charge together, in echelon from the right. Blue and Black companies take the lead, behind your banner. Captain Alvarro should follow with the Yellows and Greens."

  "Yes, sir."

  "But wait until the trumpet sounds your charge. I want no interference with Daggrande's volleys. Let the crossbows prepare them for your lances."

  Halloran smiled grimly at the prospect, and suddenly his face looked much older. "We'll ride when the trumpets sound, and not a moment before."

  Cordell eyed Halloran keenly, the commander's black eyes quickly taking the measure of the young warrior. Hold on to yourself and serve me well! he thought. Cordell had observed the courage and skill of these men for many years. Alvarro was the finer horseman, the more relentless and punishing fighter. But Halloran possessed a self-assurance that seemed to attract the confidence of other men. And Hal just might have the discipline to hold the high-spirited riders in check, something the impetuous Alvarro could never do.

  The roar of the pirate charge grew louder as they swept into the last mile below the legion's hill. Quickly the captain-general turned to his other captains, admonishing his sword-and-buckler men to hold firm in the center, his reserve to remain in position until called forward. The other captains turned to their own companies, and soon Cordell stood alone on the low rise except for one other.

  This one was not armored like the warriors, nor tall nor broad enough to seem at home with the company. Cordell's companion was not, in fact, a manly fighter. She had white hair and pearl-colored, translucent skin. A deep, cowled hood shaded her face, protecting every surface of that skin from harsh sunlight. If the hood had been thrown back, an observer would have noticed the pointed ears characteristic of the elves. Her flowing robe, with its many pockets, marked her as a magic-user.