Viperhand mt-2

by Douglas Niles

  "What is it?" snapped the Bishou irritably. "You pulled me away from a good meal, dragged me halfway across the palace — "

  "Me, too," grumbled Alvarro. "And now we hear that you don't even know what you've found! Couldn't it wait till after dinner?"

  But now Bishou Domincus leaned close to the wall, intrigued. Alvarro ceased complaining long enough to investigate whatever it was that had captured the cleric's attention.

  "There's definitely some kind of a doorway here," said Domincus, stepping closer to the wall. "Look, here's a crack where you can see the top of it — and here, these are the sides. It's a secret door!"

  The Bishou turned to Kardann. "Let's see if we can get it open. There's got to be a catch, a release or something, around here somewhere."

  "Look." Alvarro had his dagger out and probed along the base of the concealed door. He found a slot in the floor, less than a half-inch wide, and the horseman inserted the tip of his weapon there.

  They heard a sharp click as Alvarro pressed down with the sword. "Push" he impatiently told the others.

  Kardann and the Bishou leaned against the outline of the door and felt the portal swing easily inward. "Quick — get the lamp!" urged the assessor.

  As the yellow beams of light spread across the large secret chamber, all three men gasped in astonishment. Alvarro raised the lamp high and stepped into the room, closely followed by the other two.

  "It's unbelievable!" whispered the Bishou, staring around in shock.

  The others, awestruck, didn't answer. They advanced slowly, stumbling over objects on the floor, stunned. Staring across the expanse of the large room, fully lit by Kardann's lantern, they saw mounds of gold around them. Golden shields, plates and bowls of the metal, box after box filled with dust of purest gold, all of these things scattered across the floor, piled high, and extending from wall to wall.

  Around them they saw a fortune in gold, one that put all of their previous treasures to shame.

  "You are man and wife, now, in the presence of the god," said Lotil as Halloran and Erix entered the house after daybreak.

  The pair stopped in surprise. The old man chuckled and urged them to continue inside.

  "If that is the custom of your people, so be it," said Halloran, placing his arms around Erixitl. His reaction surprised even himself with its total conviction, but he realized that a lifetime with Erixitl was the natural extension of the love they shared. "I want you to be my wife — are you?"

  "Do you make this pledge for our lifetimes?" she asked.

  "Yes."

  "And I do, as well," replied Erix. "But it is not the custom of our people. Why do you say that we are already married, Father?"

  "This is not a matter of custom, not the custom of our people nor of any people. It is a matter of destiny. It is in the light and the dark that you see, the light and dark that you are.

  "Don't you see what has come together in the two of you?" asked Lotil. "Even I, blind as a stone, can tell. This man comes across the great ocean, and then departs his comrades. You are taken from your home into slavery, and led across the True World so that you will be there when he lands!

  "Then — " Lotil paused to laugh, ready to lay the clinching seal on his arguments "- then comes the couatl, harbinger of Qotal, and he gives you the gift of the strangers' tongue. Now you come here, to Nexal, where you see not only the shadows of impending disaster, but also the light of potential hope. It is right that the two of you face this light and darkness together, for that is how you can both be truly strong."

  "You are right," Erix said softly, taking Hal's hand.

  "Now come inside. We must talk." Lotil ushered them to the mats by the kitchen hearth. They sat, and he presented them each with cups of hot, spicy cocoa and mayzcakes wrapped around cooked eggs.

  "Man and wife in the presence of the god, you said." Halloran raised one eyebrow in question as Lotil sat beside them. "You mean Qotal?"

  "Yes, the Plumed One, of course," replied the old man. "The one true god who offers any hope of survival in this age of chaos and doom."

  "Yes, I've heard of Qotal. But Erixitl tells me that he left Maztica centuries ago. Even his clerics are bound to silence."

  "But do not forget that Qotal promised to return. There were to be several harbingers of his return, and one of them has already occurred."

  Erixitl nodded. "True. We saw a couatl. I know that the feathered snake is supposed to be the first sign."

  "No one knows about the others, of course," Lotil explained to both of them. "Something about a Cloak of One Plume and the Ice of Summer. Imagine! A feather large enough to make a cloak. Or water, frozen beneath the hot summer sun… or moon. But the couatl, that is indeed something.

  "And as to you, my son" Lotil continued with true affection, turning to Halloran. "There is, of course, the matter of the dowry."

  Hal watched curiously as Lotil got up and went to a box in the corner of his house. He reached inside and began to rummage about.

  Halloran looked back at Erixitl and caught her smiling at him. His wife! It began to dawn on him that his wish was coming true. He remembered the promise he had made to himself — that he would never again allow her to be apart from him, and felt only joy at the prospect of its fulfillment.

  Erixitl reached out and took his hand, and in the glow of her face, he saw all the hope he needed. The questions of their future, he resolved, would be answered as they were asked.

  "Here," said Lotil, returning to the hearthside at last. In his hand he held a pair of small feathered rings. "Hold out your hands."

  Halloran did as he was told, and Lotil slid the rings over his hands. They fit, snugly and comfortably, on his wrists. The feathers were tiny tufts of plumage, and the surface of the rings lay smooth against his skin.

  "Use them well. They may not look like much, but I think that you will… appreciate them." Lotil patted Hal's shoulder affectionately.

  "Thank you — thank you very much," he replied sincerely. "But use them how? What do they do?"

  "In good time, my son, in good time. But now we must celebrate!"

  They feasted on one of the ducks that had lived — to no purpose, Hal had thought until now — around the house. Lotil even produced a jug of octal he had been saving for some such occasion. As they ate and drank, Halloran and Erix felt a warm sense of well-being. It permeated the air in the room, their conversation, even their bodies themselves.

  The armies of Nexal and the legion remained far away. That city, with its sacrifices, its cult of violence, its strident tensions, didn't enter their minds.

  Only once, when Erixitl looked at the door, outlined in clear daylight, did she see the shadows lingering.

  "It's every bit as fabulous as you claimed," admitted Cordell, clapping Kardann on the shoulder. "This, my good assessor, is a very important discovery!"

  Several legionnaires sorted and stacked objects of gold or other treasures in neat piles as the assessor busily inspected the contents of the room. "Millions of pieces, equivalent," he murmured in awe. "The only question is how many millions!"

  Cordell watched in amazement as tiny golden figurines were added to a steadily growing pile. Each was no more than the size of a man's hand. They depicted a variety of objects, including male and female humans and grotesque figures that seemed to represent some form of bestial deity.

  "And look at this!" exclaimed Kardann. He gestured to a row of large golden bowls. Each of them held a mound of gold dust that reached nearly to the rim. There were a dozen or more of these bowls assembled already, and much of the room remained to be explored.

  Cordell, the Bishou, and the assessor supervised the half-dozen legionnaires working to sort the treasures in the room. Several oil lamps illuminated the chamber thoroughly. Another pair of legionnaires stood on guard at the door to the treasure room.

  A shrill scream suddenly turned them all toward the door. There they saw a flash of spotted hide and the sharp chop of a weapon — a stone-edge
d maca. One of the guards cried out in pain, and then the orange and black figure sprang through the door into the room.

  Kardann shrieked in panic and darted away from the door. Cordell stood firm, drawing his sword and confronting the onrushing Jaguar Knight. The man's face, visible through his gaping-jawed helmet, contorted with hatred.

  But then Cordell struck, at the same time as the remaining guard followed the attacker through the door. Transfixed by two thrusts, the Jaguar Knight gasped and fell. Kicking reflexively, he rolled onto his back, fixing them with a hate-filled stare for a few long moments before he died. The experience left them all shaken and not a little alarmed.

  "Wh — where did he come from?" babbled Kardann.

  "Must be some kind of renegade, hiding out in the palace," the Bishou suggested. "I've warned you, these treacherous savages cannot be trusted!"

  Cordell barely heard them. Instead, he knelt down and examined the knight. He felt a vague discomfort, stirred by the expression on the man's face. Never had he seen such fanatical hatred, such an unreasoning bloodlust, in a human face before.

  As he pulled the corpse around, the jaguar-skin armor peeled off its chest. "What's this?" he asked, feeling a dull horror.

  The man bore a brand on his chest. Scarlet red, angular in shape, it resembled the head of a deadly viper.

  Cordell stood and looked at the men around him. "This kind of thing cannot be tolerated. We must teach Naltecona that we are truly a force to be reckoned with." He clapped his fist into his palm, lowering his voice to a whisper.

  "It is time for stronger measures!" he growled.

  From the chronicles of Colon:

  Amid visions of enclosing darkness…

  The couatl returns to haunt my dreams. The feathered serpent wings about my world, hut only where no one else can see. Perhaps the harbinger of hope is a mere delusion, teasing me with anticipation promised, fulfillment denied.

  But I must seize that hope, for otherwise all is despair around me. The growing image of the spider goddess, Lolth, draws near. Zaltec, in his arrogance, pays no heed. Indeed, he grows mightier each day.

  His priests, spreading the cult of the Viperhand, now provide a mountainous feast of hearts each night as more and more initiates are branded. Zaltec slakes his hunger, while his faithful plot the release of his power against the strangers.

  And these men of the Golden Legion — now they dwell within the walls of the sacred plaza itself. Somehow the priests have held the cult away, but the seething hatred of the branded ones builds in pressure, and soon it will burst.

  The power of that eruption, coupled with the might of the invaders — as they have shown against Kultaka and Palul — will lead to an explosion from which the city cannot survive.

  EMPIRE IN CHAINS

  Naltecona awakened suddenly, blinking in the alien light of a brightly glowing oil lamp. "What is the meaning of this intrusion?" he demanded loudly, sitting up in outrage and surprise.

  Squinting into the hot glare, he saw Cordell, Darien, the Bishou, and a half-dozen legionnaires. The men-at-arms brandished longswords, several of the blades bloody. In the room beyond his sleeping chamber, Naltecona saw the still, bleeding figures of his personal slaves.

  "We have been attacked in the rooms you gave us!" accused Cordell. "By one of your Jaguar Warriors."

  "He acted in disobedience of my orders," objected Naltecona, rising to confront the captain-general.

  "That may be, and it may not be. In any event, we must take steps to insure our security. This type of occurrence cannot be tolerated!"

  "Your presence in our city is difficult for some of my people to tolerate!"

  "We are here as your guests, and our safety is your responsibility. Since you have failed to provide that safety, we shall takes steps of our own!"

  "Wait!" The Revered Counselor held up his hand. He was more puzzled than frightened, he even forgot his outrage against this intrusion in his efforts to analyze the problem. "This warrior… did you happen to note if he bore the brand of the Viperhand on his chest?"

  "So that's what that red… Yes, he did," Cordell replied. "What does that mean?"

  "They are a legion of priests and warriors," explained the counselor. "They have all taken a vow to defend the name of Zaltec to the last. They seem to interpret that as resisting your forces. I have forbidden this resistance, but there must still be uncontrolled fanatics. I apologize for the breach of faith."

  "This will take more than an apology," said Cordell softly, almost with regret.

  "What do you mean?" Naltecona drew himself to his full height, showing no trace of fear. "Have you decided to slay me?"

  "No," said Cordell. "That would do neither of us any good. Instead, you will gather your personal belongings and move in with us, into the palace of Axalt." Cordell kept his voice level, staring Naltecona in the eyes, as he concluded. "There you will remain as our prisoner."

  "What's going on?" demanded Poshtli, trotting through the open doors to the throne room several hours after dawn. The dais was vacant, but he saw a number of spearmen arguing in a small group across the room. Striding over to the warriors, Poshtli commanded their attention with his presence.

  "Naltecona has gone to the palace of Axalt to stay with the strangers," said one tall spearman.

  "Of his own will?" asked Poshtli, astounded.

  "It would seem not," continued the warrior. "His chamber slaves were slain."

  "We must rescue him — or die trying!" growled Poshtli. Another thought occurred to him. "The strangers have signed their own death warrants with this outrage!"

  "Perhaps, but perhaps not," said the warrior, shaking his head. "Chical was ready to lead a group of warriors after him when Naltecona himself appeared on the roof of Axalt's palace, commanding Chical and his warriors to return to their lodge."

  Poshtli stared in disbelief for a moment, then spun on his heel. He raced from the throne room, through the long corridors of the palace of Naltecona, and out into the morning sunlight of the sacred plaza. Slowing his pace to a steady trot, he crossed the courtyard and came to the gates of Axalt's palace.

  A scowling, mustachioed man stood guard at the gate, holding a long spear with the blade of an axe at its end. Beside him stood one of the short men the strangers called "dwarves," also scowling.

  Halting before them, Poshtli tried to remember some of the phrases of common speech he had learned from Halloran and Erixitl.

  "I… must speak to Naltecona," he said, looking from one to the other.

  "No one sneaks to 'im without the captain-general's say-so," said the human.

  Poshtli stepped forward, and the guard raised his weapon menacingly.

  "He is… in there?" asked the Maztican.

  "Sure. 'Cause he wants to be," said the soldier, with a sly smile.

  "If you're lying" Poshtli said.

  The haft of the man's weapon struck swiftly toward the warrior's chin, but Poshtli stepped backward, out of the way of the blow. The guard swung his weapon around to confront Poshtli with the blade, while the dwarf edged nervously backward, looking into the courtyard behind him, as if he hoped for reinforcements.

  Poshtli and the guard stared at each other, neither showing a trace of fear. If anything, the legionnaire's gaze showed a slight measure of respect for Poshtli's quickness and courage. The warrior deeply regretted coming unarmed, though rationally he understood that the presence of a weapon in his hands could do little more than get him killed.

  "Wait," came a soft voice that nonetheless had the strength to carry across the palace courtyard. Naltecona emerged from the doors and crossed to the gate, accompanied by several of his courtiers, and also by a half-dozen armed legionnaires. The counselor wore his full regalia — the towering headdress of emerald feathers, a rich, pluma cape, and gold plugs in his ears and lip.

  "My nephew, you must listen to me" Naltecona urged when he reached the gate. "I am here of my own will. It was the only way!"

  "How c
an you say this," objected the young warrior, "when you are surrounded by armed men? When they won't admit the members of your own court to see you?"

  "Poshtli, listen!" Naltecona spoke with more harshness than Poshtli had ever heard him use. "This is the only way. You must go back to the warriors and the priests. Tell them that I came here of my own free will. They must not attack the strangers! Such a battle would be disastrous beyond imagination.

  "And now it is up to you to prevent it."

  Halloran relaxed easily in the sun-drenched yard outside Lotil's house, the wound in his ribs almost fully healed. Below, he could see the slow recovery of Palul as villagers demolished blackened buildings and cleaned away the debris of disaster.

  Up on the mountainside, he felt a growing unease about his detachment from the brutal scene in the valley. The lack of activity had begun to grate on him, especially during hours like these when Erixitl labored down in Palul with her neighbors.

  He wondered about the legion's fate in Nexal. Word of Cordell's entrance into the city had returned to Palul several days earlier, but no further news had followed.

  A woman moved through a field where the Nexalans and Kultakans had clashed. She selected the ears of a mayz that had survived, loading them into a basket on her hip. Men wove new roofs of thatch over some of the lesser-damaged buildings.

  Behind him, Lotil hummed in the house. Hal pictured him at his featherloom, dextrously tucking bits of plumage into a mesh of fine cotton, creating pictures of brilliance and splendor. Blind though he was, the old man somehow observed the labor of his craft with keen precision. Apparently he could feel the difference between feathers of different hues.

  In the past days, he had seen, from his vantage on the ridge, the pastoral strength of these people. The pyramid stood in disuse. The priests had all been slain in the battle, and without clerical exhortations to faith, people had turned to more pressing concerns.

  Hal shuddered as he thought of the dark side of this culture, at the placid resolution with which the folk accepted the bloody hunger of their gods. But he knew of Qotal, too. He knew that these people had not always practiced their gory rituals. Perhaps the day would come when they would no longer do so.