A full hundred sleek horses pranced anxiously as an equal number of steel-tipped lances came to rest at their riders' sides. Some of the steeds were black, others were brown or roan or gray. They were all impatient to charge. Be patient, Hal thought. Your time will come.
Halloran tried to suppress a giddy exhilaration. Helms-tooth, the longsword given to him by Cordell personally, hung lightly at his side. By Helm, what a glorious commander the captain-general was! Halloran's heart nearly burst with pride at the honor that had been accorded him.
But Cordell was the glue that truly held the legion together. His skill as a commander, his eloquence as a speaker, his courage in battle, all served to unite his men and propel them toward great deeds.
Through the olive trees, Halloran could see the pirates advancing as Cordell had predicted, still preceded by their twisting cyclones of fire. The horsemen had a splendid view of the developing battle.
The scrub brush withered beneath the fiery columns, many bushes bursting into flame as the cyclones passed. Hal still counted ten of the unnatural blazes, advancing in a long skirmish line ahead of the army.
Suddenly he saw a pale white flash, like a blast of moonlight potent enough to shine in the daylight. The cone-shaped whiteness exploded from a point ahead of the army, expanding to his left. In the same instant as the flash, three of the fiery columns hissed into vapors and disappeared.
Once again came the flash of light, from the same point but this time expanding to Hal's right, and four more of the cyclones vanished.
"Icetongue!" he murmured to himself, feeling relief mixed with a little horror. All the legion knew of Darien, the elf-mage. Aloof and distant toward all but Cordell, this made her affection toward the commander seem all that much more passionate to the men of the legion. And she was mysterious, always heavily robed during daylight, for her albino skin reputedly suffered acutely from the rays of the sun.
Yet her power! Of course she had her slender wand and its deadly blast of ice. But she also could call a searing wall of fire to burst from the ground, a lightning bolt to crackle into the midst of an enemy formation, or even a swarm of meteors to smash with crushing force to the ground. On more than one occasion, those powers had secured victory for the mercenaries during a heated, hard-contested battle.
He saw the black-robed figure of the wizard, standing alone ahead of the army, and then suddenly Darien vanished. Halloran guessed she teleported herself back to the safety of the legion's position.
The pirates continued to surge closer, not visibly demoralized by the damage to their fiery skirmishers. A pair of fire columns still swirled forward to Hal's left, and one lone blaze advanced off to the right. Then he heard the thunderous bark of a man's voice, carrying even over the roar of the enemy's approach, and Hal knew that Bishou Domincus had added the might of Helm to the battle.
The pair of fire columns advancing together separated slightly to pass on either side of a small, marshy pond. As the cleric's magic took hold, however, the waters of the pond surged from their banks and swept across the field in a small flood. They swirled around the bases of the flaming columns, which hissed and writhed in agony. Slowly the fiery forms sizzled into steam. Still the army surged forward, a hundred yards away, now and closing fast.
"Now, by Helm!" Daggrande's bark suddenly carried over the battlefield. The brimmed steel helmets of his crossbow-men suddenly popped over the stone wall, followed instantly by the sharp clatter of a hundred heavy crossbows casting their missiles.
Intent upon the line of sword-and-buckler men a hundred yards farther up the hill, the pirates faltered at the sudden onslaught from the missile troops. Smoothly, Daggrande's men began to recock their cumbersome weapons, while Akbet-Khrul and his lieutenants hysterically commanded their men to renew their charge. A savage yell rippled through the air, rasping from thousands of pirate throats.
"Shoot, and again!" The second volley of bolts took a savage toll, the powerful weapons driving through the bodies of unarmored defenders and penetrating the metal shields and chain shirts of the occasional armored pirates with lethal force.
A great blossom of fire exploded in the enemy's center, fire magic working for the legion now as Darien cast two great fireballs into the midst of the pirate army. The inferno created by each spell dealt instant death to anyone caught in the effect.
Halloran felt his mare easing forward. For a moment, his hold on the reins relaxed, but then he pulled in sharply. He cast a harsh glare down the line of eager lancers, even as he wondered at Daggrande's audacity. Does he have time to shoot again?
The howling mob of pirates came on with undiminished savagery. Halloran watched the bowmen laboriously crank their weapons, certain they could not fire before the scimitars of the pirates cut them to ribbons. The leading attacker — Akbet-Khrul himself, Hal felt certain — was less than fifteen yards away when the first crossbowman raised his weapon. The pirate's face was twisted beyond human recognition, a fanatical picture of battlefield savagery.
The shrieks of the attackers pounded in Halloran's ears. I can't wait any longer! We must charge now! But then another crossbow, a dozen more, were loaded and aimed, their foes a scant ten yards away. Why don't they shoot?
In another instant, the full rank of missile weapons stood armed and ready… five yards. "Shoot! And charge!" A brass trumpet from the hilltop brayed its exclamation point to the order as Daggrande's bark was lost in the din.
"Forward, lancers!" Hailoran's own bellow seemed monstrously loud, though still inaudible, but the tilt of his pennant gave his men the sign. A hundred horses sprang from the grove, some leaping the wall among Daggrande's archers while others swept through a meadow off to the side, riding obliquely into the heart of the pirate horde.
Even as his horse sprang over the stone barrier, Halloran saw the effects of the last volley, delivered at deadly short range. The powerful bolts of the crossbows sometimes ripped through two pirates in succession, and all across the route of their advance he could see broken and writhing bodies.
The shock of the charging lancers completely shattered the momentum of the pirate onslaught. Hal looked for Akbet-Khrul, thought he recognized his torn body among several crossbow shafts, and then thundered forward with the exhilarating momentum of the charge.
Naltecona rode the feather platform to the top of the great pyramid, unconsciously cursing the slow, graceful pace of the regal lift. The high priests and magicians of Nexal, together forming his closest advisers, climbed the steep stairs below as they all sought the vantage of the high temple.
For the gods once more surrounded Nexal with signs and omens. Where once they had incinerated the temple of Zaltec atop this very pyramid, this time they displayed their displeasure not with a fiery temple, nor indeed with any sign directly striking the huge city around him. The gods vented their wrath beyond the city, where it could be seen by all of Nexal.
The great city of Nexal, Heart of the True World, lay amid the crystalline splendor of four broad lakes. Each lake was crossed by a causeway, giving access to the city from all directions. Canoes harvested wetland crops and fish from the lakes, and massive floating gardens further extended the domain of Nexal every day.
The lakes were named after the four predominant gods.
The three largest, to the north, east, and south, contained the freshest water and supported all the commerce. They were called, respectively, Zaltec, Calor, and Tezca. The smallest, to the west, was brackish and salty. This was named for the Silent Counselor, Qotal.
Now great columns of steam rose into the air, hissing from three of the lakes, billowing skyward in massive clouds that threatened to block out the sun. Sharp, unnatural waves hurled tepid water into the many canals of the city, toppling canoes and threatening to inundate low buildings. Only the brackish Lake Qotal remained calm, the only waves on its surface caused by the normal kiss of a light breeze.
Naltecona avoided looking at the lakes, but the sight of the priests and magicians of
fered him no comfort. In the plaza below the temple stood his many courtiers and lords, but they seemed even less useful than the advisers on the pyramid with him.
Lately the one man whose counsel helped, whose presence gave Naltecona confidence, had been his nephew Poshtli. And now that proud Eagle Knight was commanding a military expedition to punish the vassal state of Pezelac, far from Nexal. Naltecona felt very lonely, and the gloriously colored lift, slowly raising him through the air beside the temple, seemed only to emphasize that loneliness.
Almost desperately, the Revered Counselor looked up. A great emerald fan swirled with regal grace, freely floating in the air above Naltecona's head. Around him spread the blue summer sky, a great cloudless dome. Soaring into that sky jutted the three massive volcanoes surrounding Nexal. Despite the summer heat, two of the mountains wore caps of gleaming snow. The third, Zatal, was the highest, but the heat of its internal fires kept the mountaintop clear of snow.
The featherlift reached the top, setting Naltecona on the platform with the airy smoothness of pluma. The ruler spun through an angry circle, confronted on all sides by the portentous omens of the gods.
"More signs! Why must you plague me with mysteries and dire portents?" He shook his fist at the lakes, as if challenging the gods for whom they were named. Ignoring the anxious looks of the priests and magicians, who gasped for breath as they joined him on the platform at the pyramid's summit, he shouted, "For once give me an answer instead of more questions!"
Naltecona raged, his anger divided between the assembled advisers before him and the invisible forms of the gods beyond. What does it mean? The great ruler forced himself to regain control, but the latest evidence of the gods' displeasure made it very difficult.
The Revered Counselor paced atop the great pyramid, the grandest structure in all Nexal. A dozen priests scuttled from his path and then scurried to remain close behind him. An equal number of magicians also hovered near. The latter possessed few real powers, but practiced spells that allowed them some knowledge of future events. For this reason, the counselor sometimes demanded their services.
Nearby on the platform stood the great temple of Zaltec, rebuilt after the mysterious fire a decade before. The statue of Zaltec himself, within the temple, was now caked with the dried blood of thousands of sacrifices. The hungry mouth of the god gaped open, and this was the receptacle into which the sacrificial hearts were thrown.
"Go from me, all of you!" the counselor suddenly roared. "Wait, Colon… I desire you to stay."
The other high priests glared at their colleague as they started down the long column of steps. In a mythos crowded with jealous and vengeful gods, the worshipers of each deity cast careful eyes upon their rivals. That Colon, the patriarch of a long-forgotten god, one who did not even expect the sacrifice of human victims, should receive special notice from the Revered Counselor seemed to the others a dire threat.
Hoxitl, high priest of Zaltec, lingered behind as if he in particular would challenge his ruler's wishes. The cleric suddenly thought better of the idea, starting down the long stairway to the plaza below, though not before he cast a vicious sidelong glare at Colon. The patriarch of Qotal did not acknowledge his colleague's look.
Naltecona ignored the discomfort of his clerics, waiting until all of them had descended beyond earshot. The pair stood alone, high above the city, on the flat summit of the pyramid. He fixed the white-haired Colon with an iron gaze, as if the force of his will could compel the patriarch to speak.
Then he whirled away, knowing that Colon was bound by his vow. "Why is it that the one cleric who might offer me comfort and wisdom has taken it upon himself not to speak?"
He turned back to the cleric. "All the others will instruct me for hours on end! They will all tell me that their gods are hungry, that they need more hearts, more bodies, to feed them! And we give them those hearts, and still they send these signs!" Naltecona's anguish twisted his voice as he looked skyward, earthward, anyplace away from those tormented, mocking lakes.
"What does this mean?" Naltecona's voice lost all control, ringing shrill and frantic. "You know, Colon. You see and understand! You must tell me!"
The cleric met the gaze of the Revered Counselor with his own eyes, compassionate and grim at the same time.
"The lake of Qotal shows no disturbance, while the olhers seem to boil away before our eyes!" Naltecona raged on. "How can I understand? I must know!"
Colon did not look away, but, of course, neither did he speak. In sudden frustralion, Ihe leader turned back to the unnatural vista surrounding his glorious cily.
"Is this the sign of Qotal's return?" Naltecona asked the question in a subdued tone, hoping and fearing at the same time. He continued, as if ultimately relieved to have a listener who would not speak in return.
"I remember your teaching, patriarch, before you assumed your grand office and look your bothersome vow! You told us of the god-king Qotal, the Plumed One, rightful ruler of the True World… how he sailed to the east in his grand canoe, promising to return when the people of Maztica had proven themselves worthy of his leadership!"
For the first time, the cleric moved his gaze from Naltecona, looking to the east as if he expected the image of the Plumed One to appear momentarily. Then Colon turned his age-wizened eyes back to Naltecona, and the counselor met his gaze with pathetic eagerness, seeking an answer in those eyes that was not to be found.
"This is the sign, I believe," said Naltecona, forcing himself to accept the evidence.
"Qotal returns to Maztica."
THE COUNCIL OF AMN
Cordell stroked the thin wisps of his beard, striving to contain his delight. He looked, he knew, resplendent in his green robe with its collar of emeralds and diamonds. Boots of blackest leather reached past his knees, and his ornamental steel breastplate and helm gave him a gleaming martial air.
Beside him stood Darien, her hood thrown back and her striking white hair glowing with its own iridescence. Her own gown of blood-red silk shone in stark contrast to her alabaster skin. A cluster of rubies gleamed in a lone hairpin, a shocking burst of color against the elf's snowy white hair.
"I tell you, one spell and we would have them all!" The elf spoke in an almost inaudible whisper, but the urgency of her argument was plain.
"No… it's too risky. The council is certain to have defenses against such an attempt!" Cordell spoke in a similar whisper.
"But do you think you can persuade them?"
"I am certain of it."
"The Council, Captain-General" A liveried guard opened the brass door with a flourish, bowing low and waving Cordell and his lady into the room.
Cordell strode casually through the door, Darien feather light on his arm. They walked on a carpet of snowy white, the elf woman's crystal slippers gliding through the woolen nap while the general's boots left faint smudges of mud.
"Captain-General Cordell, the Council of Six salutes you. You have struck a blow for Amn, and for the forces of order throughout the Realms." The speaker was a member of the council, one of the ruling merchant princes of Amn. He stood in anonymous darkness across the room. His voice was deep and resonant. The general could see several figures there, above him and behind a partition that looked like the front of a great bench.
Several small candles, shaded with stained-glass screens, cast a dim light through the chamber. The council held court at the great bench, while those who entered followed the carpet to a large, circular area before the six merchant princes of Amn.
Cordell noticed with satisfaction that all six members were present. All six stood to greet him. Each face, of course, was concealed by a black silken gauze of airy weight that provided total concealment. The six were the masters of the mighty trading nation of Amn, and their identities were the most closely guarded secrets in the land.
"The end of Akbet-Khrul's pirates is a historical moment for us all."
Cordell waved off the gratitude, raising his helmet and bowing deeply. Da
rien curtsied with elven grace, and the six members of the council took their seats as Cordell began to speak.
"Gentlemen — forgive me, and ladies, should you be present — it is an honor to attend you. I must point out in all humility that there may be small pirate outposts still thriving in the depths of the isles. But passage through Asavir's Channel should be uninterrupted for the foreseeable future."
"Indeed!" This speaker, a man with a rather high-pitched voice, sat on the far left of the council. Cordell pictured a fat merchant rubbing his palms together in glee, though of course the mask and voluminous robe made any estimate as to the merchant's appearance purely conjectural. "You will find your payment in the chest before you, together with a bonus we trust you will find satisfactory."
"Your generosity, as always, overwhelms me." With a supreme effort of will, Cordell forced himself to avoid looking at the chest. He paused, allowing them to note and wonder at his restraint. When he sensed their growing curiosity, he resumed.
"I wish to present you an alternate proposition, however — a chance to keep your treasure, and gain more. Tenfold, fiftyfold what you have here!"
He paused for another moment to let the seed take root. All six of the merchant princes sat unmoving, waiting for him to continue.
"The trade routes to Waterdeep and all the coast are open to you now, but what of the great land trail to Kara-Tur?" The image of vast Kara-Tur, he knew, could not help but conjure images of tea, spices, rubies, and silk among the merchants.
Cordell quickly launched his arguments. "These routes are closed now by the hordes of the steppes! The spices, the arts — treasures such as this very rug beneath my feet — all the goods of the East are lost."
This reminder, painful to all profit-motivated folk, was not really necessary. Everyone knew that all land routes through the center of the continent, the trade paths for all the goods of Kara-Tur, were currently useless. A vast migratory horde of barbarian horsemen had closed all these lands to civilized pursuits.
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