Viperhand mt-2

by Douglas Niles

This was the sweatlodge of the Order of Eagles, and the highest-ranking warriors of that avian banner had gathered to welcome Poshtli home in the cleansing ritual of the elite fraternity.

  The returned warrior sat at the head of the lodge, between Chical and Atzil, two old veterans of the Eagle Knights. For the first time since their arrival in Nexal that day, Poshtli felt as though he had really come home.

  After he arranged for quarters for Hal and Erix, he had spent a frustrating hour trying to arrange a meeting with his uncle, the great Naltecona. Finally, at sunset, he learned that the counselor had left the palace to attend the sacrifices on the Great Pyramid. Surprised and slightly worried, Poshtli, too, had departed the royal grounds to enter the city. He had come to this sturdy lodge, the headquarters of the Order of the Eagle Knighthood.

  For a long time, the two dozen or so men who occupied the lodge sat in silence, letting the perspiration drip from their bodies, driving confusion and doubt from their minds. As the sweat trickled from their pores, they felt a purification that extended deep into their bodies, reaching even to their warrior souls. With the stoicism of their military fraternity, they sat uncomplaining as the heat intensified and the steam grew thicker and thicker, penetrating deep into their lungs with each deep, rhythmic breath.

  "It is good to cleanse myself again," said Poshtli after a long silence.

  "You have been gone a long time," Chical answered. "In the wilds, they tell me."

  "Yes. I have not entered a lodge of Eagles since I left Nexal. But on this journey, I have seen many other things."

  "They tell me you have met one of the strangers, a white man," said Chical.

  Chical was old and bent at the waist, with a face covered with wrinkles. His long hair was pure white, and he kept it tied in a braid that reached his waist. Like most Mazticans, his body was virtually devoid of hair except for that on his head. He was the Honored Grandfather, the leader of the Eagle Knights — a proud warrior in his prime, whose wisdom and intelligence allowed him to lead the Eagles even though his physical peak was long past.

  "Indeed I did, Father," replied Poshtli, using the honorary term for his teacher and mentor. He described Halloran to the others. "The invaders are strange men, and the monsters that they call 'horses' are fast and fearsome," he concluded. "But they are not gods or demons — they are undeniably men. Halloran is a courageous warrior, and his sword is sharper than any maca in Maztica."

  He related what he had heard about the battle of Ulatos, where a small force of the strangers had routed a huge army of Maztican warriors.

  "Pah!" uttered Atzil, the venerable warrior on Poshtli's other side. "How can you compare Payit warriors to the Nexal? Perhaps these white men did defeat the Payit, but it is inconceivable that their small numbers represent any threat to the Heart of the True World!"

  Poshtli shook his head. "I mean no disrespect, but counsel you to observe and study these strangers before taking action."

  "Wise words, my son," said Chical, nodding. "An Eagle flies always with the army of the strangers. Our latest word is that they are preparing to march again. We do not know where they will go, however."

  "They will come to Nexal," said Poshtli without a moment's hesitation.

  "How can you be so sure?" demanded Atzil, the sudden tension in his voice belying his previous assertion of confidence.

  "They are shrewd, and they hunger for gold. These are two things I have learned about the strangers. They will learn as much as they can about Maztica before they act. They are certain to discover that nowhere in the True World will they find as much gold as we have here."

  "Certainly they would not think they could march to Nexal and take our gold," demanded Atzil indignantly.

  "I do not know," replied Poshtli, shaking his head. "But I would not be surprised to see them try."

  "My son, there has been much talk of these strangers during your absence," broke in Chical gently. Poshtli noticed, with surprise, that the other warriors had silently slipped from the lodge. Now just the three of them sat in the long, dark room. A slave entered quietly and threw more water on the heated rocks, sending another cloud of steam into the air. The mist hung heavy in the air of the lodge.

  "This man who came with you, the one you call Halloran, has been expected," Chical explained. "There are some who wish to speak with him. But there are others who wish to see his heart given to Zaltec at the earliest possible time."

  Poshtli sat up straight. "Is this the way we treat the guests of Naltecona?" he demanded.

  "Silence!" Chical's voice grew momentarily harsh, then it softened. "It is not certain, but the cries for his heart come from the very highest authority! And, as yet, he is not Naltecona's guest — he is yours."

  "But my uncle will welcome him!" protested the young Eagle. In truth, Poshtli grew suddenly concerned. He had been surprised when his uncle, the Revered Counselor, had been too busy to see him this afternoon, following his return to the city. Now he began to wonder if Naltecona had avoided him for a different reason.

  "That is not certain," interjected Atzil, "for other voices may carry more weight."

  "More weight? What higher authority can there be than the Revered Counselor?"

  "Zaltec himself," said Chical simply. "Zaltec may desire his heart."

  "Through the words of his Ancient Ones?" asked Poshtli, unable to keep the scorn from his voice. He remembered the death of the Ancient One called Spirali, slain by himself and Halloran. Hal had referred to the creature as a drow and had explained that there was nothing supernatural about them, though there was a great deal that was evil. The warrior knew that his comrades weren't ready for that tale yet.

  "Do not underestimate the powers of Zaltec," warned Chical — "You are young and strong. We know of your bravery, and your recent accomplishment even suggests a capacity for wisdom." The venerable Eagle smiled slightly, taking the sting from his words. "But you are no match for the cult of Zaltec."

  "The man comes to Nexal under my protection! Anyone who tries to take him will first have to deal with me!"

  "You are a proud Eagle, my son." Chical met Poshtli's gaze squarely. "The order is also proud of you. Never has one so young proven himself of such worth. You have commanded the army on campaigns to gather many prisoners; you have fought and bested the bravest warriors of Kultaka and Pezelac. Now you have embarked on a quest for a vision and have gained that vision to return with this stranger.

  "You are a great Eagle Warrior, Poshtli," Chical continued, his voice stern. "And you have sworn your obedience to the order. If you are told to leave the stranger in the hands of others, you will obey."

  Chical rose suddenly, with the fluid motion of a much younger man. Atzil, too, stood.

  "You have no choice," concluded Chical softly. He and Atzil turned and left the lodge.

  Poshtli sat alone, dumbfounded. He stared into the air, seeking an answer. But all he saw was the smoke and the ash and the steam.

  The white-skinned hand held the quill lightly, carefully scribing the symbols from the scroll into the leather-bound tome. As each symbol was copied, it flared briefly into bluish light before disappearing from the scroll. Finally the spell was reproduced in the book, and Darien tossed the now-useless parchment of the scroll aside.

  Many blank pages remained in that volume, yet this was the last of the wizard's scrolls. The rest of her incantations would remain lost to her…

  Until she recovered her spellbook.

  Darien's tight lips curled into a sneer of hatred as she thought of the treacherous Halloran. His betrayal of the legion, his escape from imprisonment, these were only minor matters to the elfmage. But, she vowed as she had vowed many times before, for the theft of her spellbook, he would die.

  Shaking her head, she saw with irritation that sunrise had begun to color the sky beyond the window of her room. Outside, she heard Cordell and his officers barking commands, preparing the legion for the march.

  Unconsciously tightening her hood around h
er face, though the hateful sun would not crest the horizon for several more minutes, she pondered her own goals. Her hatred for Halloran simmered low as she considered more immediate concerns.

  The march on Nexal would begin today. She sensed Cordell's passion for the mission and knew that she could do nothing to alter his aims. For a moment, she felt as though she was losing control of things, that events had started to move forward without her. Grimly she shook off the notion, standing and gathering her own possessions to herself. She couldn't allow that to happen, couldn't let the future plot its own course.

  Control — her control — meant everything.

  "Poshtli didn't return here last night, did he?" asked Halloran. He had slept late and now wandered sleepily into the enclosed garden, where he found Erix.

  "Nor this morning," she replied. She sat quietly, looking thoughtfully into the garden's fountain. Idly she picked up a peach and took a bite of the juicy fruit. Halloran noticed his own hunger and took a half melon from the bowl of fruit that had been delivered to their quarters.

  He carried the leather-bound spellbook with him. At first he had intended to sit out here in the garden and study it. His early training as an apprentice magic-user lingered in his mind, at least enough so that he could understand some of the simpler portions of Darien's book.

  But now such a pursuit seemed a dull way to start the day, and so he returned the tome to his knapsack. There he found the two potion bottles. One, he knew, caused invisibility, but the effects of the second were unknown. He picked up the second bottle, looking at the clear glass vial curiously.

  "No!" Erixitl's scream almost caused him to drop the vial. Instead he set it back in the pack and looked at her in surprise. Her face had paled with fear.

  "That one — it frightens me!" she said softly. "Throw it away!"

  "That doesn't make any sense!" he argued. He resolved to sample the vial and learn its contents sometime when Erix wasn't watching.

  "So there has been no word from Poshtli?" Hal ventured.

  Erix seemed relieved at the new topic of discussion. "I wonder what he told his uncle," she mused. "How much do you think Naltecona has heard about your legion?"

  "It's not 'my' legion anymore."

  Hal vividly remembered his last view of his former comrades, the elite company of lancers. Under the command of the brutal Captain Alvarro, they had ridden amok, stampeding like animals among the Mazticans who had gathered to watch the battle at Ulatos. Uncounted hundreds had died simply to slake the man's thirst for blood. Indeed, it had been Alvarro's charge toward Erix that had forced Hal to take up arms against the legion.

  "I'm certain Naltecona has heard enough to make him concerned." Halloran spoke, as did she, in Nexalan, now feeling quite comfortable with the tongue.

  "Poshtli will make him understand!" exclaimed Erix enthusiastically. "I know he will. He seems terribly wise for one so young."

  Halloran turned away, suddenly tense. He looked at the beauty around them, but all he could see was a strange, foreign world. What did Maztica know of wisdom? Of understanding? These people marched complacently up the steep pyramids, offering their lives and their hearts to a god!

  What kind of god would ask such a price? And what kind of people would obey? Maztica remained a dark puzzle to Hal, a place that made him feel very much lost and alone.

  Yet, despite his loneliness, there was Erix. Hal couldn't help but contrast the frightening aspect of Maztica with her. Even if he had another place to go, Hal wasn't certain that he could leave her.

  "Do you remember that night, back in Payit, when we thought we had escaped?" he asked her. The warmth of that night, which they had spent sleeping — albeit chastely — in each other's arms was a memory that seemed to grow warmer with each reminiscence. It had been a time before their enemies surrounded them, when the land had seemed to beckon them with opportunity.

  Also, it had been a night of closeness they had not repeated since. He studied her face as he asked the question.

  "Yes — yes, of course," she said quickly. A flush crept over her features, and she looked away from him.

  "I wish, somehow, that we could go back to that feeling of…"

  Of… what? Simple love? He couldn't define even for himself what he was trying to say. He gritted his teeth in frustration. Why couldn't he tell her how he felt?

  Erix stood and looked at him with understanding. "We can't go back to that. We have enemies now… the priests of Zaltec and the Ancient Ones certainly still seek us, though perhaps we have avoided them for a while. And the Golden Legion — will your old comrades leave us in peace?"

  As if to emphasize her remarks, at that moment they heard a call from beyond the reed curtain doorway to their apartments.

  "Enter," called Erix.

  A tall Maztican man entered and bowed stiffly. He wore a headdress of red feathers and a cape of feathers, golden, green, and white. Two large pendants of solid gold hung from his ears, and his lower lip bore a golden ornament. He was followed by two slaves dressed in clean white tunics.

  The visitor's eyes met Halloran's. "The Revered Counselor, Naltecona, requires your presence in his throne room."

  "Allow me a few minutes to prepare," replied Halloran after a moment's pause. The invitation wasn't a surprise, but it had caught him off guard. He wanted to polish his breastplate and carefully don his armor for this meeting. "We will be ready soon."

  "You are to come alone," said the courtier. "Without the woman." His eyes never wavered from Halloran.

  Out of the corner of his eye, Hal saw Erix clench her jaw. "I need her to translate" he objected.

  "The counselor was most specific. Females are never allowed into his sight during the day, unless he specifically requests their presence."

  Hal searched for another objection, feeling very vulnerable about the prospects of going on his own. He was surprised when Erix gestured, and he turned to look at her.

  "Go!" she told him, in the common tongue. "You must not dispute the will of Naltecona."

  "Very well," he agreed, watching as she stalked from the garden into her own sleeping chamber. Switching back to Nexalan, he told the richly garbed messenger that he wished to dress. The man stood silently as Hal donned his breastplate and boots and set his helmet on his brow. Girding his sword to his belt, he followed the man from the apartment, cursing the haste that had given him no time for spit and polish.

  They marched silently down several long corridors, then stopped before a pair of massive doors. Here, to Hal's surprise, the courtier doffed his feathered accoutrements, handing them to an attendant who gave him in return a tattered leather shawl. The nobleman placed this shawl over his shoulders.

  The attendant lifted another of these ragged cloaks, looking meaningfully at Halloran. But the noblemen shook his head slightly, leading the former legionnaire into the throne room as the slave looked after them in surprise.

  Halloran's steps slowed as awe overwhelmed him. The inside of the chamber was huge, with a high ceiling of thatched leaves supported by heavy beams. Gaps between the ceiling and the top of the wall allowed natural light into the room.

  Perhaps two dozen people stood in the chamber, Hal saw. With one exception, they wore the tattered leather cloaks and torn rags such as the messenger had just donned.

  The exception, Halloran knew, was Naltecona.

  The Revered Counselor of Nexal reclined on a floating litter of brilliant feathers. The litter hovered over a platform several feet above the floor of the room. The attendants, Hal noted, all stood on the floor.

  He was surprised when Naltecona rose to his feet as Hal approached the throne. The ruler wore a headdress of emerald feathers, long plumes of iridescent green that waved regally high over his head. Gold chains encircled his neck, and golden ornaments weighted his wrists, ankles, ears, and lip.

  As the counselor rose, a great cape of feathers spread behind him, floating weightlessly in the air and trailing after Naltecona as he moved forward
.

  "Greetings, stranger," said the Revered Counselor, approaching Hal and then stopping two paces away to look him up and down.

  "Thank you. Your… Reverence," replied Halloran, uncertain of the correct title. His Nexalan, which had begun to flow so smoothly with Erixitl, all of a sudden felt like a clunky foreign tongue, something he would never master.

  Naltecona clapped his hands, and several slaves brought forward bundles to lay at Halloran's feet. "Please accept these presents as a token of welcome to our land," offered the ruler.

  Halloran looked down at the array, suddenly dizzy. He glanced quickly past the feathered cloak and thick bolts of cloth, instead focusing on two bowls that had been placed with the treasure. He wanted to kneel down and scoop up those bowls, one of which contained a pile of metallic yellow dust and the other a pile of smooth, cream-colored pebbles, but he managed to marshal his restraint. Instead, he bowed formally, studying the treasures surreptitiously as he bent over them. Gold! And pearls! His heart leaped in excitement.

  "Your generosity overwhelms me, Excellency," he said haltingly. "I regret that my poor traveler's lot does not allow me to repay you in kind."

  Naltecona held up a hand, dismissing the apology. He obviously relished the role of the beneficent one. "Are you an emissary — a speaker — for your people?" inquired the ruler.

  Halloran phrased his answer carefully. "No. I am a solitary warrior, one who travels the land such as your nephew, Poshtli. I seek a destiny that is mine alone."

  He didn't want to admit that he was a fugitive from the legion, a man who undoubtedly had a price on his head by now. But neither could he misrepresent himself as Cordell's agent.

  Naltecona nodded thoughtfully at the explanation, scrutinizing Hal as he spoke of a search for destiny. Obviously the ruler was a man who believed in destiny.

  "Hoxitl, Colon… come here," ordered Naltecona. Hal saw two elderly men — one filthy, scarred, and emacialed, wearing a robe of stained dark clolh, the other clean and well fed, dressed in a white tunic — step forward from the crowd of attendants behind the counselor. The clean one, Colon, reminded Halloran of Kachin, a cleric of the god Qotal who had died defending Erix from the drow elf Spirali. Naltecona confirmed this connection with his next words.