Viperhand mt-2

by Douglas Niles

  His step quickened. As his wrist throbbed, he held it to his chest and fought back the bile of his pain. He began to trot, and somehow he held this pace through the rest of the night.

  At dawn, he stopped to drink, but he felt no need for food. Acutely conscious of the parchment he had pledged to carry to Hoxitl, Shatil once again trotted down the road.

  His god, he knew, would sustain him.

  Poshtli slipped through the darkness, appalled at the extent of the disaster. His route took him past the ruined section of Palul, and he came upon many badly burned survivors. These groaned and pleaded for water; he helped as many as he could, until his own waterskin was empty.

  He found no sign of Erixitl, and he began to wonder if he had embarked upon a fool's task. She could have lain, delirious, ten feet away from him and he might have missed her in the gathering darkness.

  It was with little hope that Poshtli started toward the rendezvous with Halloran at the base of the ridge. He approached the meeting with a strange sense of revulsion for his friend, simply because Hal was of the people who had done this. Yet he also knew shame for the treacherous ambush, all the more pathetic now for its obvious lack of success.

  He heard Storm whinny quietly up ahead, and Poshtli moved toward Hal. He kept his face carefully neutral, so as not to reveal any of his inner emotional torment.

  But then he saw Erixitl, and he couldn't hold back the tears of joy. She leaped toward him, then held the warrior tightly as he looked over her shoulder at Halloran. The expression of relief and joy on Hal's face banished Poshtli's earlier pain.

  "You are safe!" said Poshtli earnestly. "That is what I feared I would never see."

  "Hal's hurt," Erix said, returning to the ex-legionnaire. She had removed his breastplate, revealing a narrow puncture below his left armpit.

  "I'll be fine," he grunted, trying to ignore the pain. "It's not serious."

  "So many are dead," Erix said quietly, turning back to Poshtli. The warrior could only nod numbly; he had seen the proof. "Such mad butchery!" she blurted, turning back to Hal. "Why? What makes these men go mad with killing?"

  Hal lowered his eyes, unable to meet her pain-filled, accusing stare. "The one who seized you is a born killer. His soul is dark and mad. As to the rest…" His voice trailed off, shameful.

  "The ambush" Poshtli said to Erix. "Who attacked first?"

  "The strangers. We presented them with a feast, and the leader, Cordell, murdered Kalnak with one blow. He said things about treachery, and then he killed him."

  "He learned about a planned attack, ordered by Naltecona. The feast was a charade," Poshtli said softly, "to lure the invaders into a trap. But the ruse ensnared the trappers, instead."

  Erix looked at him in shock. She recalled the weapons, close at hand, used by the warriors in the plaza, and she slowly realized that he spoke the truth. But it was a truth that soothed none of the bitterness of the slaughter.

  "Darien, the Bishou — either of them could have learned about the trap through sorcery of one kind or another," Hal explained.

  "My father," Erix said finally. "I must go see that he is out of danger."

  "I'll go with you, if you'll let me," offered Hal." Now that it's dark, we can move safely."

  "You have to come with me," she said calmly. "Your wound must be tended, and you will need rest before you can travel anywhere."

  Poshtli stood up, then looked away from the pair for a moment. When he turned back to them his face was set, though lined with regret.

  "There is certain, now, to be war," he said. "And my duty to my nation becomes clear. I must return to Nexal and offer my services to my uncle."

  Halloran nodded, understanding. "Take Storm. You'll need to travel fast to reach the city before Cordell. He's certain to march soon."

  "But…" Poshtli hesitated, looking questioningly from Erix to Halloran.

  "Hal needs to rest. His wound runs deep," said Erix. "He will stay in my father's house. He will be easy to hide if you take the horse."

  "Very well. I shall leave you together" said Poshtli," and hope that you may avoid the coming ravages. May… Qotal watch over you."

  "Good-bye, my friend," said Halloran, ignoring his pain to rise and embrace the warrior. Erix, too, held the Nexalan tightly, but at last broke away to look at him through misty eyes.

  "Take good care," she whispered, "that we may see you again."

  Poshtli bowed, smiling slightly. Then he turned and mounted the mare. Storm pranced for a moment before wheeling to gallop into the night.

  "The house is not far… up there," Erix explained, pointing.

  Hal nodded, grimacing against the sudden spasm of pain in his chest. She led him onto the lower slope of the great ridge that sheltered Palul. The woman pushed through thickets, slowly working her way higher.

  "We're staying off the trail," she explained when they stopped to rest after several minutes. "Can you make it?"

  "I'll be all right." Hal managed a weak smile, and she took his hand. The feel of her skin against his gave him strength to rise and start upward again.

  "Up here — we're close now," urged Erix, holding back thorny branches as Hal scrambled after her. The inky cloak of night completely surrounded them.

  Finally she stopped at a small level shelf in the side of the ridge. "This is my father's house."

  Gasping for air after the climb, Halloran raised his eyes to stare at the little structure. "Your home," he said, with unusual gentleness. She looked at him in the darkness, and he wondered if she understood his feelings.

  He wanted to take her and hold her close, never to let her out of his sight again. Below, in the village, men of his race and culture made camp. Yet they had become as foreign to him as the scarred priests who practiced their nightly butchery in Nexal. This woman before him had become the only anchor in his life, his only source of purpose and meaning. He wanted to tell her all of this, but the look of pain in her eyes compelled him to silence.

  "My daughter! You live!" The voice from the darkened doorway was full of strength and joy. An old man stepped into the yard, and Halloran saw him in the light of the half-moon that had just risen. The fellow shuffled like the blind man he was, yet he looked up with an alertness that made Hal think he saw more than any of them.

  "And Shatil? He is with you?" Lotil's inflection showed that he already knew the answer.

  "No, Father. I fear he perished in the temple. The soldiers overran the pyramid, destroying everything there."

  The featherworker slumped slightly, stepping back into the hut before turning to face them again. "And who is this who accompanies you?" he asked.

  "This is Halloran, the man I told you about, from across the sea. He came from Nexal to — to see if I was safe." Briefly Erix told her father about the events of that bloody afternoon.

  "And the shadows, child — are they still there?" asked the old man.

  "I… I don't know, Father," Erix replied, shaking her head miserably. "I can't see them at night, and I didn't look back at the town before sunset."

  "I myself can see very little," said Lotil. Nevertheless he reached out with unerring aim and took one of each of their hands. "But some things it is given me to see, and this I see for the two of you."

  Halloran felt the old man's surprisingly strong grip. Lotil's strength was a comfort to him, and he returned the pressure, feeling a deep bond of friendship form between himself and the old man. It was more than the pressure of a handshake, but that clasp seemed to symbolize and define it for him.

  "My blind eyes can see that the two of you are linked," Lotil continued. "And part of this link is formed of shadow — a darkness that was not dissipated by the events of this day.

  "But another part of the link, and, we can hope, the stronger part, is formed of light. Together the two of you may yet bring light to a darkening world. I know, at least, that you must try."

  "Light? Bring it to the world? Father, what do you mean?" asked Erix, looking at Hallo
ran in wonder. He looked back, warmed by the expression in her eyes and by her father's words. Meanwhile, Lotil answered.

  "I do not know, child. I wish that I did." The old man turned to Hal. "Now, you are wounded! Come, lie here."

  Halloran stared at the blind man in surprise, suddenly sensing again the sharp pain in his chest. Erixitl took his arm and led him toward a straw mat in a corner of the hut.

  Before Hal reached it, the world began to spin around him. He groaned, his legs collapsing as he barely sensed Lotil and Erix supporting him. Looking around, he blinked, but everything before his eyes slowly faded to black.

  Chical, lord of the Eagle Knights, entered Naltecona's presence for once without donning the rude garments normally required of visitors to the great throne room.

  This time there was no need to affect a bedraggled appearance. The scars of battle marked the legs, arms, and face of the warrior. His once proud Eagle cloak was a tattered rag. As he advanced toward the throne, he looked so battered that it seemed a miracle he could even walk. Even so, he had flown, in avian form, from Palul to Nexal.

  Now his pride sustained him, holding his head high until he knelt before the great pluma litter that was Naltecona's throne.

  "Rise and speak!" demanded the Revered Counselor.

  "Most Revered One, it is disaster! A thousand times worse than we could have feared!"

  "Tell me, man!" Naltecona leaped to his feet. His feathered cloak whirled around him as he stalked toward the groveling warrior. "Where is Kalnak?"

  "Dead — slain by the first blow of the battle. My lord, they knew of the ambush. They were prepared for it and unleashed their own attack before we could act." Weeping, Chical told the tale of the massacre, and Naltecona sank back into his litter. His face grew slack, his eyes vacant, to the point that it seemed he no longer listened.

  "Then they summoned killing smoke, a fog that reached its fingers into the hiding places of our men, slaying them even as they breathed. Revered One, we must make immediate preparations if we hope to stand against men like this — if indeed they are men!"

  "No, they are not," said Naltecona with a sigh. "It is clear now that they are not men at all."

  He stood and paced slowly along his raised dais. The row of courtiers and attendants behind him stared in universal terror and awe at the tear-streaked face of Chical.

  "My lord," said the Eagle Knight, standing at last, "allow me to gather all of our warriors. We can hold them at the causeways. We can keep them out of the city."

  Naltecona sighed, a portentous sound in the vast throne room. Evening's shadows drew long across the floor while the ruler paced and thought. Finally he stopped and faced Chical.

  "No," he said. "There will be no battle at Nexal. I asked the gods to favor us with a victory at Palul, to show that the invaders are indeed mortal men. That sign was not forthcoming.

  "The proof is clear," Naltecona concluded. "The strangers are not men but gods. When they reach Nexal, we must greet them with the respect due their station."

  "But, my lord" Chical stepped forward boldly to object. He stopped suddenly, frozen by the look in the Revered Counsellor's eyes.

  "This is my decision. Now leave me to my prayers."

  From the chronicle of Coton:

  Painted in the last bleak weeks of the Waning, as the end draws upon us.

  I stand mute as I hear the words of Chical, a tale of grim terror about the slaying in Palul. Again Naltecona orders his courtiers from the throne room, asking only me to remain.

  Then, tonight, he rants and paces around me. He accuses me of deceit, and he grovels before the looming presence of these strangers. Thoroughly cowed now, he knows no recourse but abject surrender.

  For the first time do I curse my vow. How I want to grasp his shoulders, to shout my knowledge into his face, to awaken him from his blind stupor. Curse him! I want to tell him that he opens the gates of the city to disaster, that he paves the road to make way for his own, and his people's, destruction.

  But I can say nothing, and at last he slumbers. It is a fitful dozing, for as he sleeps, he dreams and he cries.

  THE BRAND OF ZALTEC

  The smooth-carved blocks of stone fit together with precision, all of them touching snugly, supported by the weight of their neighbors to enclose the dome of the observatory. Here, on the highest hill of Tulom-Itzi, Gultec sat with Zochimaloc and spent the long night staring at the stars.

  Holes in the dome of the observatory's ceiling allowed views into precisely selected quadrants of the sky. Now the black sky showed no moon, for this was the period of the black moon, when none could see it in the heavens. And consequently, his teacher had pointed out, this was a splendid night for viewing the stars.

  "But we know the moon will return. It waxes tomorrow," explained the teacher, stating the obvious fact. "In a week, it will be half of its self, and in the week following that, it will be full.

  "Two weeks from now," Zochimaloc continued with grim finality, "and the moon will be full."

  "This I know, my teacher," said Gultec, confused. Zochimaloc crossed the stone floor of the observatory, gesturing upward through several holes toward the west.

  "And these stars, these wanderers," the old man went on, as if he had not heard Gultec. "These bright stars hold special portents for the world."

  The Jaguar Knight felt it inappropriate to announce that this fact, too, was known to him. Instead, he listened as Zochimaloc explained further.

  "In fourteen days, when the full moon rises, it will mask the three wanderers. They will disappear behind it but remain unseen from the world."

  "What does this mean, Master?" asked Gultec, intrigued by the description.

  Zochimaloc shook his head with a wry chuckle. "What does it mean? I know not for certain. The full moon will shine over the world, as always, and great things will happen — things we cannot predict, or perhaps even explain.

  "But when next wanes the moon, the True World will not be the same."

  Riding quickly throughout the first night after the battle, Poshtli passed countless refugees. These Mazticans stared in awe at the warrior who galloped along the road atop the snorting monster.

  He paused to rest a few hours around dawn, but then he thundered back onto the road. He passed into the valley of Nexal by midmorning, and in a few hours, the lathered mare raced across the causeway, carrying him through the streets of the city, into the sacred plaza, to the doors of Naltecona's palace.

  Leaving Storm with a pair of terrified slaves, he ordered them to water and feed the horse. Then he quickly made his way through the palace corridors to the doors before the great throne room itself.

  Poshtli placed the ritual rags over his shoulders and entered the throne room. He saw his uncle pacing on the dais, his agitation visible in every abrupt gesture, every dark flash of his eyes.

  Naltecona gestured Poshtli forward quickly, before the warrior had performed the three floor-scraping bows normally required of visitors to the throne.

  "Where have you been?" demanded the Revered Counselor. "I have sent messengers to search for you over the last two days."

  "To Palul," the warrior replied. "I have seen the devastation there myself. Now I come to offer my services in the defense of the city. I will fight wherever you want me, though as you know, I no longer carry the rank of Eagle Knight."

  Naltecona brushed the explanation aside as if he had not heard. "You must remain by my side now," the counselor directed his nephew. "You, among all my court, have come to know something about these strangers. I will need you with me when they enter the city, which — according to the Eagles who watch their march — will be very soon!"

  "Enter the city?" Poshtli stood, stunned. "Don't you mean to fight them?"

  "What is the point?" asked Naltecona sadly. "They cannot be beaten, and perhaps they should not be. Perhaps they are destined to claim Nexal, to inherit the feathered throne of my ancestors."

  Poshtli couldn't believe what he he
ard. "Uncle, I advise you to fight them before they reach the city! Pull up the bridges, meet them with a thousand canoes full of warriors! True, the invaders are mighty, but they can be killed! They bleed and die as men!"

  Naltecona stared at Poshtli, a hint of the old command in his eyes. The younger man pressed his case. "We outnumber them a hundred to one! If we hold the causeways, they cannot reach us here!"

  But Naltecona shook his head slowly, looking at Poshtli as a parent regards a child who simply doesnt grasp the subtleties of adult life. He patted his nephew's shoulder, and the young man's spirit cried silently when he saw the look of dejection and defeat lurking deep within his uncle's eyes.

  "Please, Poshtli. You stay by my side," said Naltecona.

  His heart breaking, the warrior could only nod and obey.

  Shatil crept through the darkened streets of Nexal. He limped on raw and bleeding feet, still clutching his gored wrist to his chest. He had run for the full day following the massacre, but his steps had slowed to a walk by nightfall. Now, eight hours later, he shuffled toward the Great Pyramid in the hours between midnight and dawn.

  Still holding the parchment, though the rust-colored stain of his blood marred one edge of it, Shatil thought of the message he carried. He had looked at it earlier in the day and was unable to suppress a gasp of astonishment when he unrolled it. The sheet was blank!

  Too devoted a priest to question his patriarch's instructions, he had continued his mission. He knew that there were many mysteries of Zaltec he had yet to understand.

  His robe and the ritually inflicted scars on his face and, arms distinguished him as a priest of Zaltec, so the Jaguar Knights guarding the gate to the sacred plaza allowed him to enter with no questions. He stumbled toward the pyramid, stopping at the small temple building below the looming massif.

  This was a square, stone structure, sunk halfway into the ground. It had sleeping and eating quarters for the priests serving at the Great Pyramid, as well as holding cells for the victims of upcoming rituals.