Ironhelm mt-1

by Douglas Niles

  "You mean he didn't escape?" Cordell pursed his lips. "I'm disappointed in him. I thought I made it easy enough."

  "Oh, you did that," Darien agreed, her tone biting. "He escaped… and more." Cordell raised his eyebrows, and she continued. "He stole my spellbook — perhaps not intentionally, but it was concealed in my backpack, and he took it along with him!"

  Cordell winced and looked away from the elf's pale and angry eyes. They both knew the seriousness of the theft, for a wizard needed to consult her book after each spell in order to relearn the enchantment. Without her book, Darien could use each of her spells but once, then would be unable to relearn them until either the book was recovered or an alternate form of the spell was found and copied.

  "There is a rumor among some of the men," Darien continued unmercifully, "that he attacked and unhorsed Alvarro, stealing his charger and fleeing the field."

  "Helm curse him!" Cordell hissed his anger. "I give him a chance to redeem himself and he betrays me! I cannot allow this!"

  "Obviously," agreed the wizard dryly. "But what do you propose to do about it?"

  "Did he get all of your spells?"

  "He got a copy of each, but I have some sheaves of notes and scrolls about that will help me relearn most of them. It will take time to copy the scrolls into a new book, though. He also stole some potions from the crate."

  Cordell blinked his black eyes, his expression cold. "Very well. We can spare no effort. Halloran must be found and killed. Quickly."

  "That might be accomplished more easily than you think," noted the wizard with a slow, cruel smile.

  "How is that?"

  "One of the potions he stole is the decoy… the poison. If he touches it to his lips, he'll be dead before he can lower the bottle."

  Spirali walked among the bloody bodies on the field in amazement. As an old member of a very old race, his training had prepared him for many things. But the evidence on this battlefield left him cold and frightened, for the first time wondering if there were forces that even the Ancient Ones could not control.

  Nightfall made the battlefield a hellish place. The grass had disappeared, everywhere trampled to mud. Great fans of feathers, once-brilliant banners, and countless plumed headdresses lay in the mud, a fit epitaph to the fortunes of the Payit army.

  Silently women and children moved through the dark, seeking a familiar face among the multitude of dead and wounded. Slaves carried bodies to a great trench and laid them carefully, but anonymously, within. Several thousand Payit had been slain and the normally important ritual of individual burial was of necessity forsaken.

  Priests of Qotal and Azul passed among the wounded, tending those they could, but their limited healing magic was overwhelmed by the extent of the disaster. For the most part, the warriors bore their wounds stoically, though an occasional cry — usually from a man in delirium — echoed across the field.

  But these trivial human concerns meant less than nothing to Spirali.

  The Ancient One looked toward the city, where great fires commemorated the victory of the foreigners. By all rights, by a plan laid through centuries, the foriegners should have met complete disaster on this day. But now they danced about the plaza, with its mound of gold, in a way that added to Spirali's sense of foreboding. Indeed, it seemed that these humans were as dedicated to the pursuit of their goals as the Ancient Ones were to theirs. And they were so much more passionate!

  His alarm left him but one alternative. Thus Spirali disappeared from the field at Ulatos, flashing himself with the power of teleportation to the Highcave.

  He arrived beside the bubbling caldron of Darkfyre as it was being nourished by the Harvesters. The latter, black-robed like Spirali but smaller of form, bowed respectfully.

  The Harvesters stood around the caldron of the Darkfyre as they did every night, tending the immortal blaze, feeding it with the fruit of their harvests, garnered from across the lands of Maztica. And thriving on its food, the Darkfyre twisted and flared.

  Indeed, Zaltec was happy, for once again he ate well.

  The Harvesters labored diligently, and soon the feeding was done. Silently each slipped away into the darkness. The task of the Harvesters was finished until the following night.

  Spirali rustled his cape, the sound harsh and jarring through the vast, echoing chambers of the cave. In moments, the Ancient Ones gathered around the Darkfyre. Spirali remained silent, as did all of them, until the frail, shrouded form of the Ancestor emerged to claim his seat above the caldron.

  "The strangers have vanquished the Payit in battle. In one day, they have conquered Ulatos and destroyed the army."

  Capes rustled in mute statements of surprise, even astonishment.

  "Impossible!" hissed one voice, the harshness of her tone offending the sensibilities of the other Ancient Ones. Her cape swished softly, a careful apology for the outburst.

  "It is indeed disappointing that the Payit performed so poorly. Nevertheless, the roots of our power have always lain in Nexal. We can be sure that the strangers will not fare so well when they face the warriors of Naltecona!" The Ancestor looked about the chamber before continuing.

  "The connection of these strangers with the lands of the Old Realms makes it imperative that we do our work quickly and secretly. Were these strangers to learn of our nature, our plans for Maztica might suffer disastrously.

  "They will doubtless learn of Nexal," he mused, his voice like dry reeds rustling in a breeze. "What of the girl?"

  Spirali's head fell. "The cleric failed. He is dead. I attempted to slay her, but also failed." It would, of course, be inappropriate to explain the circumstances, such as the arrival of dawn, that contributed to his defeat. He awaited the verdict of the Ancestor, fully expecting death for his own failure. No slightest whisper of silk disturbed the chamber for countless minutes.

  "You must return and seek the girl. Her death is more important now than ever. If she is allowed to fulfill the terms of the prophecy, the effect could be catastrophic. But it is essential that your identity remain a secret. Do you understand?"

  "Very well." Spirali bowed, the clasp of his black-skinned hands before his body conveying his gratitude for the second chance. "I respectfully report that I shall need help on this task."

  "What sort of help do you require?" asked the Ancestor.

  Spirali answered, and a soft rustle of astonishment circled the chamber. Such a step had not been taken for centuries! But the Ancestor considered the request very seriously, and finally the venerable leader nodded.

  "Very well. You may call out the hell hounds."

  Spirali nodded, pleased with the aid and relieved that no punishment had been declared. He knew that he would not get another chance. After warming his hands and his body beside the Darkfyre, Spirali worked his way deep into the vast cavern.

  He followed a winding, narrow tunnel until he reached an opening, where this passage joined the wide vertical shaft in the heart of the volcano. Heat pressed against his face from deep, liquid fires flickering far below.

  The Ancient One bent over the plummeting shaft and raised his voice in a long, ululating wail. Twice more he repeated the sound, and then he waited.

  Far below, a bubble of hot gas burst from the burbling lava. Fiery red, seething with contained energy, it rolled and rumbled up the shaft, straining against its contained pressure. Higher and higher it climbed, growing in speed and force. It twisted and bubbled with contained energy, finally slowing as it approached the level where Spirali waited.

  When the gas bubble reached the Ancient One's level, it paused for a second. Inside, Spirali saw a seething mass of long, pointed teeth, of blazing red eyes and smooth, shadowy shapes. A dark creature sprang from the bubble into the corridor beside Spirali. More and more of the great wolflike animals joined him, until the entire pack had collected around him.

  Each of the animals was dark in color, ranging from a dirty brown to rust, like dried blood. Great black tongues flopped from their
mouths, and their fangs were long, sharply pointed, and as black as midnight. Only their eyes gave the creatures color, for these wicked orbs gleamed and flickered with a light indistinguishable from the bubbling fire below.

  As soon as the great dogs had all sprung free, the bubble resumed its ascent. Quickly it burst from the mouth of the volcano, spreading into a great fireball in the sky. Far below, the citizens of Nexal watched in awe as the orange globe blossomed against the star-speckled void and then disappeared.

  "Welcome!" hissed Spirali, stroking and scratching the slavering beasts. "Are you ready to hunt, my hell hounds?"

  Darien sought a shady clearing in the garden before Caxal's palace. Here she could work without exposing her pale skin and sensitive eyes to the murderous sunlight. Sitting upon the grass, she laid her components around her with extra care, for without her spellbook, she had but one chance to perform this spell.

  She placed a small bowl upright on the ground, crushing several dry leaves into it. Next to this, she placed a silver longsword — Helmstooth, Halloran's sword, taken from him when he was arrested — and a small box of glowing embers. She found a dry twig and placed its tip in the tinderbox, blowing on it until it flickered with flame. Then she touched the twig to the crushed leaves.

  The powdery stuff immediately puffed into flame, filling the bower with a sweet aroma. Darien now pulled a small piece of horn from a pouch on her robe. Stroking it with her long, slender fingers, she concentrated on her casting, whispering words of deep and arcane power, searching across surrounding planes for the one she sought.

  Her mind drifted across the plane of fire, where heat of all types blazed eternally. Rocks flowed in liquid eruption, and the air itself crackled and hissed. Only the arcane power of her enchantment preserved her, and even the unemotional elf felt a sense of relief as she left the fiery realms behind.

  Next came water, not so threatening but also not her objective. She quickly moved into the plane of air, and here she would find the aid she needed. Resting now in an intangible space of cloud and wind, she let the magic do her work. The spell of summoning thrummed louder than ever, and soon she felt it meet resistance.

  Come to me. I demand you to obey! Slowly at first, but inevitably, the creature answered her call. Instantly Darien returned her full attention to her body, which had never left the garden.

  For a long minute, she sat alone among the encircling leaves. Then she felt another presence. With a final sense of release, she exhaled, for the spell had been successful. Darien suppressed an almost giddy sense of relief as leaves parted and the grass beside her flattened from an unseen weight.

  The invisible stalker had arrived.

  "You are to find a man named Halloran," Darien said softly, her eyes once again shut. The invisible form made no reply, for it could not speak.

  "Here is a sword he once carried. It will give you his spoor. We do not know which way he has gone.

  "When you find him, you are to kill him instantly. Do not delay his death, for he is a resourceful man." The invisible stalker remained beside her. She could sense the creature's resentment of her commands, but it would do her bidding, for it was bound by the power of her spell.

  "Now go!" she said, opening her eyes and watching the leaves rustle as the creature departed.

  From the chronicle of Colon:

  Painted in the certain knowledge that the Waning of Maztica is upon us.

  A lone eagle arrives in Nexala. He brings a tale of tragedy and disaster too extraordinary to be believed. The strangers, he tells us, are the servants of great monsters. These beasts ride upon clouds of smoke and make thunder with the crashing of their feet.

  They are powerful and swift, stronger than many men. But they are also cunning, for they have the minds of men. They fight with weapons, and also with their invincible flesh.

  The Eagle Knight tells us all he has seen as tears flow from his eyes. His heart breaks from the weight of his tale, and he dies upon the floor before Naltecona as he completes the story.

  Naltecona's eyes widen. His skin grows pale until he resembles the description of the foreigners' white, bloodless complexion. His mouth hangs open, working at words that will not come forth.

  "More sacrifices!" he finally cries. "We must consult the gods!"

  And the priests and their captives form a procession. Naltecona wields the knife himself. He seeks the wisdom to decide, asking the gods to provide him with the knowledge and will he himself lacks.

  Of course, they do not answer.

  CONQUEST

  At sunset, the surviving people of Ulatos gathered in somber ranks along the avenues of their lush city to witness the entrance of the conquerors. Though the battle had never reached the city itself, every resident of Ulatos knew the tale of this day's fighting. Nearly every family had lost a father or brother, or even a younger sister or grandparent caught up in the massacre.

  First came the measured columns, six abreast, of Garrant's swordsmen and Daggrande's crossbows. Banners flew above the men, and trumpets and drums paced their step. They advanced in a steady, even cadence, faster than a normal walk. The legionnaires marched precisely, stealing glances to the right and left at the many splendors around them. They saw gardens and flowers such as they had never imagined, and clean white houses. Water flowed in many places, always clean and clear.

  Next came twenty-one horsemen, three abreast. The blue and yellow pennants flew from their upraised lances, and the riders took great pleasure in wheeling and bucking and prancing with their mounts, to the great awe of the onlookers. Alvarro rode at their head, on a black gelding he had commandeered from one of his men. Often he pulled savagely against the bit, causing the horse to rear and kick while the red-headed captain brandished his sword.

  Cordell rode into Ulatos in the center of the Golden Legion, mounted and followed by horses bearing Darien and the Bishou. The other twenty horses, and then the last companies of foot soldiers, completed the grand procession.

  The legion moved along the wide avenues quickly, soon reaching the large plaza at the heart of the city. Trees and flowers grew in profusion around the square. Several narrow canals reached the fringes of the plaza, crossed by the avenues on wide wooden bridges.

  Dominating the plaza was the great green bulk of a verdant pyramid, higher than the one near Twin Visages and also distinguished by the profusion of vines and flowers growing from each of its terraces. Atop the temple splashed a high fountain of clear water, and the liquid leaped down the stepped sides of the edifice in a merry trickle, as if to mock the solemnity of the humans gathered below.

  The soldiers broadened their ranks to cover the square as Cordell and Darien dismounted. The two walked slowly toward the figures awaiting them at the base of the green pyramid.

  One man, distinguished by his resplendent mantle and his collar of green feathers, stepped forward and bowed low. He began to speak, but Cordell cut him off.

  "Are you the chief of this city?" the captain-general demanded as Darien quickly translated. The man, shocked and frightened by Cordell's rudeness, stammered and then responded.

  "He is Caxal, the 'Revered Counselor' of Ulatos" Darien interpreted.

  "Tell him to bring me all of the gold in the city — now. We shall also require food and quarters. But first the gold. They are to bring it here." Cordell gestured to a raised square in the center of the plaza, a foot above ground level.

  Darien translated, then Caxal turned and spoke urgently to the lords and chiefs behind him. "Tell him that if they attempt to conceal any of their gold, their city will be destroyed!"

  Caxal's expression was desperate as he spoke to Darien. "We will bring you all of our gold. Please know that we are not rich. This is not Nexal! We are but the Payit, and our gold is yours."

  Showing interest, Cordell nodded to Darien. "We will learn more about this place 'Nexal.' But for now, let us count the gold before us!" He turned back to the counselor of Ulatos.

  "Caxal, you are to lea
d your lords to every house in your city. You will claim all of the gold in my name and bring it to me here. When you have finished, my men will search. If we find that you have deceived us, your city will be destroyed!" The counselor hastily turned and collected his nobles, sending them scurrying off in all directions.

  "My general, the pennant," Bishou Domincus urged, joining the pair at the base of the pyramid. Several men-at-arms and the sergeant bearing the legion's standard also came up.

  "To the top!" exclaimed Cordell, with a flourish. The little party climbed the pyramid. At the top was a lush garden, complete with clear bathing pools, grassy walkways, and beds of brilliant blossoms. At the center of the square area stood a raised dais, with a statue upon it.

  "A demon!" cried Domincus, spitting upon the image of the Feathered Serpent, Qotal. "Tear it down!"

  Instantly the men-at- arms toppled the squat carving, knocking the leering dragonlike head off its encircling mane of feathers in the process. In moments, they had rolled both pieces of the statue over the edge, where they tumbled down the side and smashed to rubble in the plaza below.

  Already, Cordell could see, natives hurried to pile objects in the center of the plaza. He could see the metallic gleam of gold on many statuettes, chains, and bracelets. Other objects, swathed in cloth for the moment, he imagined were ingots and large chunks of the precious yellow metal.

  "The pennant! For the glory of Helm!" Bishou Domincus tossed back his head and shouted. He snatched the standard from the sergeant and leaped onto the now-vacant dais. His gauntlets, each emblazoned with the blazing eye of his god, gripped the flagpole as he raised it high. With a powerful blow, he planted it in a crack between two rocks. The pennant unfurled, its golden eagle emblem snapping taut, the great staring eye of Helm in the eagle's breast glaring imperiously about the city.

  Behind the pennant, the crystal plume of the fountain slowly sank back into its pool. Then it died altogether.