Ironhelm mt-1

by Douglas Niles

  "We have been ordered not to attack the strangers," demurred the knight.

  For a moment, Mixtal blinked in confusion. He saw the warriors looking curiously toward the girl, and then back to him. He thought again of the prospects of defeat, of facing the Ancient Ones with the tale of his failure, of losing his own life in replacement for the girl who had escaped him.

  He must not fail! Not when he was this close, when his quarry was once again in sight. "Let the fury of Zaltec fall upon your heads," he snarled at the warriors. "The girl will be mine!"

  Mixtal shrieked a challenge and sprang from the concealing undergrowth. He raised his obsidian dagger above his head, still screaming. Then he charged.

  Propelled by instincts running deeper than military discipline, the Jaguar Knights hesitated only a split second after the cleric began his attack. Then the knights rose, a hundred spearmen rose behind them, and the warriors of the Payit followed their priest into the assault.

  "Send Alvarro after her!" demanded the Bishou, with an angry glance up the bluff. "Halloran has no business taking her into the wilds like this!"

  "Daggrande is going," replied Cordell, as soothingly as possible. He knew Halloran. Also, the captain-general understood Martine's headstrong nature, a characteristic of which her father seemed unaware, and he suspected it had not been Hal's idea to move so quickly from the sight of the legion.

  "Helm's curses on that scoundrel!" snarled the cleric, looking after Halloran. "Of all the impudent — "

  "Now look, my friend." The captain-general silently cursed the Bishou, but his voice remained soothing. "They will be back soon. Alvarro is busy on the right flank, seeking grazing for the horses." Cordell gestured up the coast, to the north. He knew that the bad will between Alvarro and Halloran remained far from settled, and he could think of nothing more disastrous to Hal's confidence than to send his rival to look after him.

  "In a few minutes, they'll be back, and I'll have a talk with the lad. He's a good soldier."

  Martine, Cordell knew, was deeply cherished by the Bishou, as a father cherishes his daughter. But her importance to the cleric went even deeper, in some way that the commander couldn't entirely understand — perhaps because she was Domincus's one remaining link with younger, more peaceful times. He had not always been a martial cleric.

  The Bishou glared up the bluff. "If he allows any harm to befall her…" He did not finish the thought, nor did he have to.

  The maniacal battle cry jerked Halloran's attention to the wall of jungle. He sensed the import of the sound even before he saw the knife-waving native burst into sight, followed a second later by the rank of warriors. Their orange headdresses waved in synchronization as the line paused, and the legionnaire saw them placing javelins into the notches of hand-held spear casters.

  Halloran leaped in front of Martine as he saw the javelins soar into the air, raising his shield to protect her head and torso. He grunted in pain as one of the missiles grazed the fleshy part of his thigh. Another cracked against his steel breastplate, while a third stuck in his shield.

  One of the swordsmen was slow to react, and a stone-tipped javelin knifed through his throat. The others raised their shields, deflecting most of the missiles, though one man took a wound in his forearm. The banded leather armor of the footmen, Hal knew, would not be as effective against these weapons as his own breastplate.

  "Shields out!" he called, and the three joined him in an arc facing the native warriors, sheltering Martine behind them, their swords arrayed outward. They watched helplessly as the fourth swordsman, mortally wounded, gasped out his life from the gaping neck wound.

  "Go back… quickly!" Hal commanded Martine, not turning to look at her. "Down the stairs! Get Daggrande!"

  He glanced over his shoulder and saw the woman staring in shock at the whooping, rushing band of spear-wielding natives. Their plumed heads bobbed and their bronzed faces grimaced, twisting the sticks they wore through their noses. They whistled and shrieked, and the din they raised seemed enough to blast the leaves from the trees.

  The warriors charged through the brushy clearing, stopping suddenly about halfway to their quarry. They cast back their arms to hurl another volley.

  "Go, by Helm!" He turned to face Martine, grabbing her shoulder with his shield hand. She finally turned and started to run, but immediately her foot caught among the tangled brush. She sprawled headlong as Hal's heart pounded in fear. He must get her to safety! Nothing else mattered.

  "Captain!" shouted one of the swordsmen.

  Halloran instantly raised his shield and crouched over Martine, huddling with the other three men. The second volley of javelins, though delivered from a shorter range, found no targets among the well-shielded fighters of the Golden Legion.

  The attackers renewed their rush, following the fanatical leader. Shocked by the man's blood-caked, filthy visage, Halloran stared as his attackers closed. He saw the dagger of dark obsidian, the black emblem on its hilt.

  The man tried to dart around Hal, and the captain slammed his shield into the fellow's face. Immediately the black-clad figure dropped to the ground, but the mass of native warriors streamed forward in undimmed frenzy.

  "Strike to kill!" he ordered, doubting their chances of survival. He cast one last look behind him and saw Martine scrambling to her feet, staring in mute shock at the swarm of shrieking, howling attackers. Desperately Halloran pulled her back into the small circle of legionnaires.

  His shield crushed a stone spear tip, and his sword cut cleanly through a native's quilted armor. Another man thrust, and Halloran hacked off his wooden sword, bashing the face of yet another attacker with his shield.

  He saw the flashing steel of the other swordsmen at each side. The four of them sheltered Martine in the middle, defending frantically against a whirlwind of thrusting spear tips. Halloran twisted, dodged, and stabbed repeatedly. He felt as if his life had become a focus of brown faces, waving feathered headgear, and blood.

  He heard a grunt of pain as a swordsman fell, his leg slashed deeply. The three remaining men instinctively closed the circle, but then another man tumbled, claimed by a spear thrust through the bands of his armor.

  Twoscore or more bleeding bodies covered the ground around them, but the numbers of the enemy were too great. Hal's arm grew leaden from the weight of his sword as he stood back to back with the remaining trooper. He did not see the priests crawling forward between them, seizing Martine, and tugging her away from the melee.

  Halloran did see the first priest, the one whose fanatical charge had precipitated the battle, climb slowly to his feet, just out of sword range. For a split second, the spearmen fell back, leaving the two swordsmen to gasp for breath amid the slain forms of the attackers. Hal heard his companion cry out suddenly. The man slumped against him as a keen spear tip slipped over his belt to penetrate his vitals.

  Then the priest removed a stretch of cord from his waist and held it in the air before him. It twisted, snakelike, in the man's hand. Indeed, Halloran at first thought that the object was a snake. He finally saw that it was merely the skin of a snake, though it still seemed to move as if it were alive.

  The blood-caked priest barked some kind of command, and Halloran could not react before the cord darted toward him, growing and twisting into a weblike net that wrapped his arms tightly to his sides and then carried him heavily to the ground.

  In another second, dozens of warriors leaped on him, completing the binding as they stripped away his sword.

  From the chronicle of Colon:

  In beseechment of the truth in the heart of the Feathered One.

  The harbingers of the Waning have landed upon the shores of Maztica. Poshtli, in lofty form, observed their coming. He reports their numbers to be small, but their vessels massive.

  Now is Naltecona thrown into a fit of oppression and brooding. He sees no one, speaks not at all of his anxieties. Instead, he sends more eagles to watch the newcomers, while he waits in agony for words th
at can offer no comfort.

  The Revered Counselor now feels certain of the meaning of these many years of signs. He fears their import, but no longer doubts their meaning. Only I could dissuade him, for I know the truth. But the bonds of my vow of silence restrain me.

  Meanwhile, Naltecona's army commanders, Eagles and Jaguars alike, demand to gather troops, to prepare a force to drive the strangers back to the sea. Naltecona's young nephew, the honored Lord Poshtli, is the most ardent advocate of this view. But Naltecona takes no counsel of their words.

  For he is certain that these visitors are none other than the Silent Counselor and his minions, at last returned to his kingdom in the True World.

  SACRIFICE

  Butterflies of every size and color fluttered in a wicker cage of the finest reeds. Coton, Silent Patriarch of Qotal, carried the cage up the steps of the pyramid. His other hand held a colorful array of blossoms, still smelling of moist earth. Although a litter of pluma rested beside the base of the pyramid of Qotal, Coton preferred to climb the stairs on his own.

  Besides, this structure was not nearly as lofty as the Great Pyramid, which supported the temples of Zaltec, Calor, and Tezca. Coton soon reached the top, and here he set the cage on the white quartz block that was his altar. The stone gleamed in the light of the noon sun.

  The pyramid raised the lone cleric high above the houses of Nexal, and he allowed his gaze to linger in each of the four directions. Toward each side of the table-sized altar he laid an assortment of colorful blossoms. Then he raised the door on the cage.

  One after another, the butterflies fluttered from the cage, bouncing erratically through the air, climbing away from the pyramid. Butterflies of every bright hue imaginable took to the air. One by one they climbed into the sky, like a dazzling thread of color reaching from the altar to the heavens.

  And then they were gone. Coton, his spirit tingling after the ceremony, quickly descended from the pyramid. He was not surprised to see Lord Poshtli waiting in the courtyard below.

  Naltecona's nephew wore the full regalia entitled to him as an Eagle Warrior. His lower lip, drilled long ago, now held a plug of pure gold. His mantle and headdress blazed with a riotous array of plumage. New sandals covered his feet, bound all the way to his knees. A fan of pluma swirled over his head, shading him and ruffling his finery with a faint breeze.

  "Coton of Qotal, I wish to speak to you. You know many things about the True World, and I know little. Perhaps all I know is that I need to learn."

  The mute cleric paused for several seconds, studying the young lord. Poshtli had studied under Coton years ago, before the cleric had become a patriarch and taken his vow. The lad had been the brightest of Colon's students and a natural leader of the other, even bigger and stronger, boys. The priest of Qotal had been pleased to watch him grow to manhood.

  Poshtli had shown the same sentiments for the cleric. Whereas most youths who aspired to warriorhood soon slashed their arms in penance and sought captives for the altar of Zaltec, Poshtli had turned instead to the path of the Plumed God. He sought the Eagle Knighthood, highest and most exalted military order of all Maztica.

  The Jaguar Knights all followed Zaltec because the hishna magic of the claw required blood sacrifice, and without this power the Jaguar Knight was nothing. Warriors of the Eagle creed, however, could worship the god of their choice, and many chose Qotal. But the many years of study, the harsh tests — both mental and physical — and the rigorous discipline caused nine of ten aspiring Eagles to fall short of their lofty goal.

  Even among such as these, Poshtli shone as a man of exceptional skill, valor, and intelligence. He had captured many prisoners in battle, prisoners who gave their hearts to the altars of Zaltec or were sold into slavery in the great plaza. Recently he had commanded the army of Nexal on a mission of reconquest: the subject state of Pezelac — a valuable source of obsidian, salt, and gold — had shown signs of rebellion. Poshtli's army had done a prompt job of punishing the rebellious elements while swiftly resuming the tribute paid by Pezelac to Nexal.

  Now Colon sensed that the lord faced a crucial choice. Though the cleric could not speak to him, he could still listen.

  "My uncle, the great Naltecona, has become the greatest of the great." Poshtli spoke softly. "He is mightier than any counselor in the long history of Nexal. Never have our people collected such tribute, held sway over such vast regions."

  Cotton nodded. He knew Poshtli to be a brave warrior, but also unusually perceptive. He displayed a sense of thoughtful deliberation that Colon found exceedingly rare in the younger warriors. The cleric waited for the warrior to continue.

  "Our city grows daily, claiming more and more land from the waters as the floating gardens extend their reach. More treasure, more cocoa and mayz and feathers — and more gold — all flow into mighly Nexal, Heart of the True World. More hearts are offered in sacrifice to Zallec than ever before.

  "Yet you, Colon, you come here and you release your butterflies. You place your blossoms and say nolhing." Poshtli's eyes did not waver from the cleric's steady gaze.

  "You say nothing because you show us much, and yet we fail lo understand." Something — could it be assent? — colored Colon's eyes. "You show us, I think, what we once were and what we might be again. You show us, and we fail to see.

  "Now, Coton, I have had a dream. I believe this dream is a vision from Qotal, and so I go to seek the will of the god." Poshtli paced slowly, carefully remembering the details he related to the mute cleric.

  "I dreamed of a vast desert, a desert that included Nexal! I crossed the desert on foot, suffering from heat and sun, lacking water. Then suddenly I was surrounded by little men, and these men had a great wheel of silver." Poshtli noticed that Colon's eyebrows raised slightly at his description.

  "In the wheel, I saw the reflection of a feathered snake, a long, sinuous thing of brilliant plumage and great wisdom. And this snake was the voice of Qotal! I am certain of it!"

  Poshtli remained silent for many minutes, patiently regarded by Coton. Finally he looked up and spoke.

  "I will leave Nexal in search of this truth. Perhaps it lies with the strangers. I have seen them, flown above them, as they come to shore in Payit. Perhaps it lies somewhere in between our ways and theirs, or perhaps I may not find it at all." Poshtli stared straight into Colon's eyes. "But I must find this silver wheel!"

  Colon's eyes flickered upward, to the clear blue sky. The cleric's gaze flickered once to the south, then again focused vacantly in the distance. Poshtli saw the guidance in the gesture.

  "I will walk. My feet, not my wings, will carry me through the True World — perhaps to this knowledge that still eludes me, perhaps not.

  "But I will find it, or die in the attempt."

  Daggrande imagined the salt spray eating at the steel, corroding the gleaming sheen of his helmet, pocking the flawless metal of his breastplate, even gnawing at the blade of his short sword. He led a troop of two dozen legionnaires, a mixed band armed with crossbows and swords, toward the top of the stone stairway. Halloran and Martine had disappeared somewhere above some few minutes earlier.

  "Damn that woman anyway!" he grumbled to himself. "Now Cordell tells me to follow Martine, to 'keep an eye on her'!.What am I, a nursemaid?" Daggrande suspected, of course, that the Bishou had a hand in the order. The dwarf had seen Domincus glowering after his daughter and Halloran when the two had started up the bluff.

  "I thought the kid had more brains than that," he complained. "Course, he's only a human, but I expected more from him."

  Abruptly Daggrande ceased his musings, becoming every inch the warrior. He could not define what aroused him, whether it was the scent of blood, the faint sound of combat, or something more primeval, but he instantly signaled his crossbowmen to raise their deadly weapons.

  The dwarven veteran stepped carefully up the last few stairs. He saw the top of the bluff, a brushy strip along the escarpment backed by dense rain forest perhaps a hundred paces
beyond.

  Daggrande moved carefully onto the brushy plain, crouching, with his crossbow held ready. With the same care, he ordered his men off the stairway, deploying them in a semicircle as they reached the top.

  Daggrande could see no sign of human presence save the squat pyramid a mile or so down the coast. He spent no time wondering where Martine, Hal, and the swordsmen had gone. Instead, he quickly turned the formation to the right, toward the pyramid, forming a skirmish line a hundred paces long. The legionnaires started to march, probing the brush as they advanced.

  In another minute, they found the bodies.

  Erixitl watched breathlessly, frozen in the minimal safety of a clump of bushy ferns. She saw the high priest who would have slain her leading the way, his gaunt and bony form plunging recklessly forward. He was followed by his apprentices and a company of warriors. Erix saw the prisoners, including the young woman tied just as Erix herself had been, with blindfold and gag and hands bound before her.

  Most curious of all was the shining warrior who stumbled along behind the woman, neither gagged nor blindfolded. His silver shirt, she saw, was a solid piece of metal, and she knew it must be unbelievably heavy.

  "Him you must rescue," came the supple voice at her ear, and she barely suppressed a scream of shock.

  "Chitikas!" she gasped as the downy serpent slithered from the undergrowth to gather in a soft coil beside her. Though this was only the second time she had seen the creature, she felt a sense of joy at his arrival, as if she had just found her oldest, wisest friend. Suddenly she questioned her reaction. She gazed frankly at the winged snake. "Tell me, what's happening? Why has the priest taken that strange woman and the warrior?"

  "He takes the woman, thinking she is you, to the altar of Zaltec for sacrifice."

  She turned to the procession in disbelief. "How can he think she is me? We have different skins, our hair is not alike, nothing — "