"Did I not tell you it was truly the grandest place beneath the sight of the gods?" boasted Poshtli, beginning to lead them down the trail. "As for defense, no nation in Maztica would dare strike at Nexal. Even if they did, the lakes provide barrier enough. Now, come. We will reach my uncle's palace before dark!"
The path twisted down the mountainside, between looming Mount Zatal to the left, and another great peak, called Mount Popol, to the right. As they descended, the brush around them became thicker, soon towering into lush green trees that blocked for a time their view of the valley floor.
Soft breezes ruffled the trees, which reminded Hal of the tall cedars found along the Sword Coast. The steep descent passed easily, and they encountered no people along the forest trail.
After an hour, they reached a lush garden that surrounded a rock-walled spring. The trail circled the pool, and Halloran saw a stone-lined trench, filled with rapidly flowing clear water, leading away from the spring.
"An aqueduct!" he marveled, seeing the long span of stonework that carried water into the city.
"We have plenty of water in Nexal," explained Poshtli. "But this from the Cicada Spring is the sweetest to drink. It runs into the center of the city, where it can be sampled by all."
He led them from the garden, and the trail again emerged onto a cleared mountainside. Vast, terraced fields of mayz, the plump grain that, in Hal's experience, seemed to feed all of Maztica, surrounded them, and they could look over the softly waving fields to the city again. With Nexal noticeably closer now, Hal saw clearly the wide stone causeways that led from the shore to the city on its bright, lush island.
Erixitl looked over the city as Poshtli described to Halloran the construction of the aqueduct, which had occurred when the Nexalan warrior had been a boy. She saw an abrupt shadow fall across the sun, though no cloud appeared in the sky.
Suddenly Nexal looked to her as it had in her dream: a cool, barren city illuminated by white moonlight. She felt a flash of terror and, with a short gasp of fright, she tried to turn away.
But she could not. She saw the darkness linger over the plazas and the great market. It centered around the Great Pyramid, with its bloodstained altars. As she looked upon the place of those scenes of sacrifice, the shadows grew darker still, until finally she forced herself to look away. For a moment, she closed her eyes, shuddering.
Finally she turned back, and the city, with its intense, fragile beauty, glowed again with a sense of vibrant vitality. She saw it as it was now and relished its grandeur. But still the memory of the shadows remained, and as they neared Nexal, the frightening darkness lay heavy on her mind.
All too soon, she feared, the brightness and vitality before her could be gone.
Naltecona rested, dozing lightly in the soft pluma of his great feathered throne. The cushion of luxurious feather-magic held his body effortlessly, floating easily above the dais in the center of the great ceremonial chamber. The Revered Counselor, comfortable in a soft gown, bedecked with bright feathers on his head, at his shoulders, and knees, enjoyed a rare moment of peace.
Around him the priests, warriors, and sorcerers who made up his court stood in awkward silence. Their attendance was not required while the ruler napped, but none possessed the courage to leave and risk awakening the great man by his departure.
Stirring slightly, Naltecona felt his surroundings and even sensed the awkwardness of his courtiers. Let them stand, he told himself. Let them learn some of the discipline that must guide my every move. He felt a vague sense of scorn for these old men who fawned over him and followed him, yet seemed to offer no help in those matters where the counselor most desired advice and wisdom. Matters such as the puzzling strangers who had landed on the shores of the True World and conquered the Payit in a single, brutal battle.
Dozing again, Naltecona dreamed of the presence of his nephew, Poshtli. There was a true man! A warrior of courage, a man of wisdom and restraint. Too bad he could not replace a dozen of these fools around him with one more like Poshtli.
The doors to the throne room opened softly, yet the movement was enough to waken the Revered Counselor. He looked up in annoyance.
A priest hurried forward, pausing to bow obsequiously three times before he approached the feathered throne. The emaciated cleric, his frail limbs and face covered with the scars of self-inflicted penance, finally stood before his ruler. His hair stood tall above his head, a series of stiff spikes caked with the blood of the priest's sacrificial victims. He waited silently, his eyes downcast, as Naltecona blinked and stretched.
"Yes, Hoxitl?" inquired the ruler, recognizing the high priest of Zaltec before him. Zaltec was the patron god of the Nexala, and his patriarch, Hoxitl, claimed powerful rights of counsel.
"Most Revered One, we have word out of the desert of your nephew, Lord Poshtli. It is said that he returns with one of the strangers as his prisoner. This news is pleasing to Zaltec and the Ancient Ones."
"I have no doubt of that," said Naltecona ironically. He understood that any new prospect of sacrifice was pleasing to the god of Hoxitl. He looked at his other courtiers. "This is the proof for those who doubted Poshtli's eventual return. He left in search of a vision. I have no doubts that his visions have shown him more than most of you will ever know."
"Indeed," said Hoxitl, with another humble bow. "The wisdom of Zaltec has blessed him."
Naltecona's gaze penetrated the priest, though the still-bowing cleric seemed unaware of his ruler's stare. "There is more than one source of wisdom in the True World," he said sharply. "Do not let your faith blind you to this fact."
"Indeed," said Hoxitl, concealing his skepticism with another bow.
"Is that all?" asked the counselor, boredom creeping into his voice.
"There is another matter," replied the priest. "Should my lord counselor deem it his pleasure to attend, I inform you that we will consecrate more warriors into the cult of the Viperhand tonight, at the setting of the sun."
Viperhand. Naltecona felt a chill with the word. The cult of the Viperhand seemed to grow daily since the arrival in Maztica of the strangers from across the sea. It had always been the cult of Zaltec's faithful followers, but now warriors, priests, even common workers flocked to the temples to swear eternal allegiance to the god of war and to wear his bloody brand.
The mark was wielded by the high priest alone. Tonight that brand would be pressed forever into the flesh of more young Nexalans.
Naltecona sighed, ignoring the high priest's request. "Colon, come here," he called, turning to the rest of his retinue.
A white-robed priest bowed and stepped forward from the group. This one, in stark contrast to Hoxitl, appeared well fed, even to the point of a slight plumpness. His shock of white hair and his wrinkled brown skin were clean, unmarked by scars, blood, or dirt. Colon, high priest of Qotal, approached the counselor silently. Indeed, he did everything silently, in deference to a vow he had made to his immortal master, the Butterfly God.
"Leave us for a moment," Naltecona ordered Hoxitl. That priest scowled at Colon but stepped obediently away.
"One of the strangers comes to Nexal," explained the counselor. As always, he felt comfortable speaking to the un-answering Colon. "Hoxitl wishes to place his heart upon the altar of Zaltec.
"We know of the prowess of these strangers. Perhaps it would be good to have this one dead, no longer a threat. But I am curious about them, and how much of a threat can one man be to our city, our nation?"
Also in Naltecona's mind were the legends predicting the return of Qotal, the Butterfly God, to Maztica. He would return from the eastern ocean, it was said, in a great winged canoe. Some legends had even predicted that he would be pale of skin and bearded of face, just like most of these strangers!
These rumors lay heavy in the ruler's mind, but so, too, did the hunger of Zaltec. And now his cult, the cult of the Viperhand, spread more rapidly than ever before. With the coming of the strangers, the young warriors of Nexal seemed mor
e eager than ever to make that sacred vow to Zaltec.
Colon, of course, made no reply, but the voicing of his doubts propelled Naltecona into decision.
"I will not allow his death… not immediately," he explained to Colon. "I must allow him to live, even protect him, that I may learn more about him and his people." His mind made up, Naltecona lurned back to Hoxitl.
"The stranger will be spared," he told the priest. Then he added, in deference to a vengeful god, "But I shall attend the consecration of the Viperhand at sunset."
Darien stretched languorously and arose from the bed, naked, crossing to the candlestick beside the door. Cordell held his breath, entranced by the pure whiteness of her form, the graceful curve of her albino skin. Squinting her tender eyes against the candle's brightness, Darien extinguished the flame with a quick puff of breath, plunging the cabin into darkness.
She returned to the bed, something Cordell smelled and felt but could not see. He silently cursed his lack of night-vision, so desperately did he want to look upon her. Whatever the nature of this burning feeling — was it need, desire, perhaps love? — he had felt it grow into a fire that consumed his heart. Now it burned as he welcomed her into his arms.
Finally she lay sleeping beside him. The gentle sounds of the city of Ulatos around them should have soothed Cordell into slumber as well. But instead he focused on the upcoming day, and on the march he would order his men to undertake at first light.
He prepared to lead the Golden Legion on a mission of unmatched audacity, and Cordell himself confessed to slight doubts as to the rationality of the plan. His force, five hundred steady veterans, would be augmented by perhaps five thousand warriors of the conquered Payit, whose capital city of Ulatos his legion now occupied.
From here, he would lead them to Nexal. Tales of that city's wealth, of the gold and power that lay there, drew him inexorably. These were the fruits of the expedition, the gold that had drawn them across the Trackless Sea. They would march to the heart of this savage continent!
He understood that the army awaiting him in Nexal was greater — many times greater — than the force he had defeated here in Payit. His informant had also told him that another warlike nation, Kultaka, lay across his route of march to Nexal. They could be expected to resist the passage of Cordells force.
Of course, there was no finer band of men than the iron-hard troops of the Golden Legion. Their accomplishments since the start of this voyage already guaranteed success. They had conquered a nation of warriors numbering more than a hundred thousand souls. They had gathered enough treasure to pay for the expedition ten times over.
Yet Cordell was prepared to risk it all for this audacious gamble. Indeed, he had made the stakes plain for all his men by sinking the fifteen ships that had carried them from the Sword Coast to this distant shore. The hulks of those vessels lay on the bottom of the shallow lagoon, beside the fortress called Helmsport just outside this city. The fleet gone, there could be no backing away from this challenge.
The captain-general rose and paced his sleeping chamber as the night hours ticked away. He thought of his captains — the steady Daggrande, the hot-tempered Alvarro, Garrant, all the others — men he could trust and rely upon, once he himself provided them with leadership.
The spiritual guidance of his men he trusted to the grim Bishou Domincus, now propelled by an implacable hatred for these savage people who had sacrificed his daughter Marline on their gruesome altar. And, too, he had the wizard Darien at his side. The albino elf was a force equal to a whole army.
Of the native warriors, he was not so certain. He would allow them to accompany him as guides, and also because their numbers would increase the impressiveness of his force. But he suspected that most of the fighting before them would be borne by his legionnaires.
"Can we do it?" he asked, half aloud, addressing the god Helm, lord protector of the legion. His mortal advisors, most of them, had counseled that his plan was madness — the legion would be cut off and surrounded halfway to their goal. Only Daggrande and Alvarro, perhaps because of the warlike challenge, had shown enthusiasm about the march. But that didn't alter the loyalty of the rest, he knew.
The Golden Legion would follow Cordell to Nexal. This he knew without a doubt. The question then became simple: Would they ever come out again?
Their view of the city grew before the trio with each step of the long descent from the garden and the spring. They passed through many villages of small straw huts, or buildings of shining whitewashed adobe, always drawing stares. Some of these villagers, intrigued by the tall stranger, or perhaps by his great black horse — a creature unique in their experience — followed the little party at a respectful distance as they drew ever closer to the shore of the gleaming blue lake.
Late afternoon brought no break to the summer's heat as they finally approached the water and the white stone causeway that led like an arrow to the colorful island city.
The Jaguar Warriors at the end of the causeway stared in astonishment as Halloran, Erix, and Poshtli approached. The guards' faces, framed by the open jaws of their jaguar-skull helmets, showed eyes widened in amazement. Spotted hides of tough Hishna-enchanted catskin cloaked their bodies, and they half-raised their obsidian-studded clubs, called macas, as the strange party approached.
They stared not so much at the humans, as at the great black beast that ambled placidly behind them.
"Greetings, Jaguar Knights!" cried Poshtli in delight. He strode proudly ahead of his companions. The rivalry between the orders of Jaguar and Eagle Warriors was well known, and now the plumed warrior, resplendent in his cape of black and white eagle feathers, took great pleasure in the astonishment of the guards. Poshtli was also the easily recognized nephew of the great Naltecona himself, and thus was not casually challenged.
The Jaguars stared, mute, as the three humans and the horse marched up to the terminus of the causeway. Behind them, many villagers followed tentatively. The latter waited in anxious curiosity to see how the guards would react to the unusual trio.
"Have you lost your manners?" Poshtli demanded in mock indignation as the Jaguar Knights stared in silent awe. "A beautiful woman arrives at the causeway to Nexal, and you give her no welcome?"
Finally one Jaguar recovered his voice. "Wha-what is that creature?" he demanded.
Poshtli threw back his head and laughed, in what Hal judged to be a command performance. The guards stared at the horse, then at Hal, who again wore his steel breastplate and shiny helm.
"Storm?" Halloran asked Erix, trying to follow the conversation. He sensed Poshtli's joking manner but did not understand the complete exchange.
"Enough!" proclaimed Poshtli, gesturing the warriors aside. "We will explain everything to my uncle! Come, my friends — the palace awaits!" He gestured to Halloran and Erix to follow him onto the long causeway. The smoothly paved roadway, a full thirty feet wide, ran perfectly straight from the shore to the city, perhaps a mile and a half away, that beckoned them on the central island.
Hal saw the Jaguar Knights falling into file behind them, and as he looked backward, he saw that they had begun to lead quite a procession. Apparently every farmer, wife, curious child, or patrolling warrior had noticed their passage. More than a hundred Mazticans followed them toward the great city.
Halloran quickly forgot the growing crowd behind them as they neared the dazzling metropolis itself. The pyramids, brightly painted, decorated with feather plumes, almost alive in their brilliance, dominated the city and the entire valley with bright hues of green, red, blue, and purple. But colors dominated every structure, not just the pyramids. Bushes of bright crimson blossoms glowed on every street corner; the canals were lined with a profusion of hanging, flowery vines; bright feathers outlined many houses, while colored tapestries decorated balconies, walls, and doorways.
The causeway itself, Halloran saw, was guarded in several places by removable wooden planks that extended across gaps in the stonework. His soldier's eye t
ook note of that defensive capability.
The lakes on either side were blue and crystalline, deep enough that he could barely make out the bottom, even through the clear water. He saw fish probing the weedy rocks that supported the causeway. Dozens of canoes drew near, carrying curious Maztican fishermen. Ahead, the pyramids and palaces loomed higher, even more magnificent in proximity than they had been in the distance.
Surrounded by this growing retinue, they passed from the end of the causeway onto the wide avenue leading to the heart of Nexal. Here young girls greeted them, spreading flower petals on the roadway in their path and leading them toward the palace. Now the white houses of the city surrounded them, though frequent canals, passing under stone bridges, reminded them that the lake could never be far away.
Poshtli strode proudly at the head of the procession, un-noticing of Erix and Hal. The latter walked slowly behind the Eagle Knight, looking to right and left, up and down, in complete, speechless awe. The wonders of Nexal overwhelmed them both, and they could only stumble along, mutely absorbing the spectacle. Halloran couldn't begin to estimate the number of Mazticans who gathered at the roadsides as word of their arrival spread. He was sure, very early on, that the crowds numbered in the thousands.
"Look — there's one of those priests!" barked Hal, warning Erix as he spotted a scarred, emaciated cleric in the crowd. The sight of the man's black hair, bristling in the blood-caked spikes he had seen before, sent a tingle of apprehension down Hal's spine.
"A priest of Zaltec," said Erix warily. "There will be many of them here."
The black-robed cleric stared at them as they marched past, but he made no attempt to interfere with their progress. Indeed, his scarred face split into a smile as be saw them advance toward the temples that loomed at the heart of the city.
"It's hard to imagine such magnificence coupled with such savagery," Hal mumbled, half to himself.
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