Suddenly they heard a sound, a shuffling of footsteps in the distance. "Look," Hal whispered, discerning the flickering glow of torchlight emerging from a side corridor.
He put his sword behind him to mask its light, noticing that the torch and its bearer came closer. Orange light suddenly flared before them as a man emerged from the side corridor, unaware of their presence.
"Who are you?" challenged Poshtli. They recognized the man as a bloody-scalped priest of Zaltec. The thin figure had a stone dagger. His arms and legs, dirty and scarred, seemed to be mere skin covering the bones of his limbs.
"The priest stopped and turned toward them, surprised but apparently not frightened. "I seek my sister. I fear she is lost in here."
"Are you mad?" demanded Poshtli.
"What's her name — your sister?" Halloran added.
"She is Erixitl of Palul."
"And you are Shatil, then." The young man nodded at Hal's statement. Erix had told Hal much of her brother, whom she had given up for dead atop the pyramid at Palul. The altar and statue had burned with such a conflagration that the identification of bodies had been impossible.
"Where is she?" asked Shatil suddenly. "Is she in danger?"
Halloran studied the priest. Everything about the man brought back memories of Marline's sacrifice and all the other rites of the brutal worship of Zaltec, routines of murder. He couldn't entirely suppress the revulsion he felt for everything this man stood for.
Yet Erix had spoken of Shatil kindly, and Halloran knew she had truly loved her brother. The man must certainly reciprocate the feeling.
"Yes, she is," he replied finally. "We're trying to rescue her. She's been taken by the legion."
Shatil's face twisted with a look of genuine shock and dismay.
"What are you doing down here?" Poshtli demanded. "Why do you seek her?"
Shatil's eyes met the warrior's squarely. Their dark eyes flashed in the torchlight. "Because I feared for her. Because Zaltec has warned me that she is in danger and told me where to look, that I could help her!" The priest held his voice level but urgent.
"Please, let me help you!" he urged. All the while, the Talon of Zaltec lay smooth and deadly in his hand.
"You must believe me! The danger is terrible, and it is tonight!" Erixitl stared into the black eyes of the man before her and he, not unsympathetically, looked back.
"But because you've had a dream?" Cordell replied, exhaling sharply in frustration. Some vague feeling made him want to trust this woman, yet all his years of caution warned him against such madness.
"Under the full moon," Erixitl explained again. "Naltecona will be slain by one who is of your legion. And when he dies, the True World dies soon afterward."
She and the captain-general had waged this discussion for nearly an hour. He stalked about the room where they had imprisoned her, clearly agitated. He didn't want to believe her, but he couldn't think of a good reason for her to make up such a story.
Erixitl looked around impatiently. They had placed her in some sort of storage room. She saw jugs of octal, baskets of mayz, and a large, locked door. High up on the wall, sunlight streamed into the room, and she could see flashes of clear blue sky, now streaming in from the west.
"How long before sunset — before the full moon rises?" she asked. "Do you really think you can protect the Revered Counselor if the gods have decreed his death?"
"Isn't that what you tried to do?" Cordell shot back. "If his death is ordained, how could your rescue have changed that fate?"
"Perhaps it couldn't," Erixitl murmured, grim defeat staring her in the face.
A sudden knock on the door pulled their attention from each other. "General, you'd better get out here!" The guard's voice, from beyond the portal, carried notes of urgency.
"What is it?" Cordell demanded irritably.
"Warriors, sir. They keep pouring into the plaza. They've got the Kultakans outnumbered already. They haven't attacked yet, but more of 'em keep coming."
Without another word to her, Cordell darted through the door. It slammed again, leaving Erix alone with her thoughts. She looked upward and saw that the sunlight still streamed into the room, but now the beams were black, as if the sun cast nothing but shadows.
Lost in her despair, she didn't hear the door open again. A cool whisper of air against her cheek was her first warning, and she spun to face the leering visage of Captain Alvarro.
The expression of animal hunger in his eyes sent chills coursing through her body.
"What do you want?" she demanded.
He opened his mouth and appeared to speak, but no sound came to her. Then Alvarro stepped closer to her, and as if he had passed an unseen barrier of silence, his voice became audible.
"… think you know what I desire," he said, his thin smile displaying his gap-toothed gums.
Erix saw the sharp dagger in his hand. "Did Cordell order you to do this?" she asked calmly.
Alvarro sneered. "He doesn't know. But you won't be able to warn him, either. Nothing that happens in here will be heard outside."
Her mind whirling, Erixitl tried to think of a plan, a counter to this beast's approach. He advanced smugly. "Hal's wench — and a mighty proud thing you are," he chuckled. He swaggered closer, confident.
No sounds, he had told her. Erix didn't understand how, but she suspected this meant that he had help from the elf wizard. Her mind flashed back to her immediate problem, Alvarro. She remembered the man from the feast at Palul. The man had swilled octal as if the drink was the nectar of life itself.
"Why should I make a sound?" she inquired, trying to keep the terror from her voice. Her eyes falling on the jugs along the wall, she lifted one. "Here. First you want a drink, I know."
The captain blinked, surprised at her lack of fear. He snatched the jug and sniffed it suspiciously. "Sure, I'll drink," he grunted, raising the flask and guzzling the fiery stuff. It ran from his lips, soaking his red beard and dripping to the floor.
Overhead, the sunlight on the wall began to fade. Erixitl turned her back on the man, sickened by the sight of him, desperate for escape. She had so little time, but what could she do?
She still had her token, inside of her dress, but while it might stop Darien's mightiest magics, it offered little protection against a crude approach such as Alvarro's. The pouch on her belt chafed her hip as she turned back. Her only other possession, it held only the little glass vial of potion.
The potion she had feared to allow Halloran to drink. She still remembered the shadowy explosion of black terror she had seen when he raised it to his mouth.
Alvarro smacked his lips, lowering the empty jug. "You're a pretty one, d'you know that? I bet you do things for Halloran!"
Her stomach churned as he looked her up and down. He took a step closer.
"Y'know, if you do those things for me, I just might not kill you," he lied. He reached a burly paw to her shoulder, and Erix turned slowly away, forcing herself not to strike him. She knew the stocky horseman could easily overpower her if she gave him cause to attack.
Her hand fell on the pouch, and she slipped the bottle out. She sensed it burning against her hand — a vile and dangerous thing, it was. Roughly he spun her around to face him, his mouth a few inches from her own.
"I–I give him octal" she said, trying to be calm through her terror. "He can drink very much. It — it gives him great pleasure!"
With false lightness, she turned away, snatching up another jug. A quick gesture dumped the contents of the vial into the octal before she whirled back to Alvarro. "Here — I can do the same for you!"
Her heart pounded as the man brushed the jug aside. "I can have that anytime," he grunted. "I want something a little more special."
Until she felt the wall at her back, Erix was unaware that she had been backing slowly away. Now she stood, trapped by one of Alvarro's arms on either side of her. She still held the jug in her hand and smelted the sweet reek of octal on his breath.
&n
bsp; "Come. Can we sit?" she said, slowly and carefully. She must not arouse his suspicions!
Scowling, Alvarro nevertheless allowed her to step aside and sink to the floor. Obviously her reaction wasn't the one he had expected. He sat roughly beside her, a curious expression on his face. "Aren't you frightened?" he asked bluntly.
"Yes — I am," she admitted, "terrified, actually. "But we are a fatalistic people. Our gods teach us not to fight the inevitable. You are here, we're alone. I know that I am in your power."
Every muscle in her body screamed for her to strike out at this brute, to punch and pummel him. But a violent contest with Alvarro would certainly be futile, so she continued to use her wits. She raised the flask, not offering it to him but insuring that he saw it.
"Give me that," he grunted, snatching it from her hands. He raised the neck to his mouth and once again took a long swallow. Erixitl watched, trembling with fear. Would the potion, diluted by octal, have any effect at all? If it did, what would that effect be?
Alvarro set the half-empty container aside, smacking his lips. Suddenly, with shocking violence, he turned on her, pressing her to the floor and climbing on top of her. A mad fire gleamed in his eyes.
Then the man grunted once. His eyes widened and his tongue protruded. His fingers clutched for her neck, and his body shook with convulsions.
Finally he stiffened, gasping inarticulately, and died…
Groaning weakly, Erixitl crawled from beneath him, rolling away from the repulsive form. For long moments, she gasped for breath, nearly gagging. She looked at the little bottle, still in her hand. Reflexively she hurled it against the wall, watching it shatter.
She saw her hopes reflected in the shards of glass that scattered all over the floor, disappearing in the fading light of the sun.
Then she sensed movement beside her, and whirled in shock. Another figure had entered the room, not through any aperture — not through any means she could see. This one looked at her with a trace of humor in his slitted, unblinking eyes. Great feathery wings bent slowly, suspending a twisting, serpentine body in the air. His voice, when he spoke, was a sibilant whisper.
"Greetings," said the feathered snake. "I am Chitikas Couatl, and I have returned."
From the chronicles of Colon:
To the chronicler is given the sight, that afterward the tale of the Waning may be told.
The gods gather in the gallery of their immortal cosmos now to watch the arena floor below. Each is sublime and confident in his, or her, own presence. Each takes little note of the other gods, watching instead the play of the humans below.
This may be their undoing. Helm licks his lips as his men count their gold, an ever-growing pile within the palace of Axalt. The Bishou makes loud thanks, and the god basks in the praise.
Zaltec feasts upon the hearts that are offered, but the massive feeding does not slake his hunger. If anything, it inflames him. Now his sacred cult seethes and strains with warlike fervor. They crave the release of an attack, a chance to feed their god as he has never eaten before.
Neither of them shows awareness of the third immortal presence, the spidery essence of Lolth, slowly taking shape in the cosmic gallery beside them. She has eyes — vengeful eyes — for her wayward children. The drow, committed passionately now to the cause of their adopted god, have forsaken her completely.
And her patience wears thin.
THE LAST SUNSET
"No, by Helm — we cant be lost!" Halloran shouted, bashing his fist against the wall of the tunnel. Frustration threatened to tear him apart. His mind burned with countless pictures of Erixitl's fate at the hands of his former comrades-in-arms.
For hours, the three men had pushed themselves frantically through the network of tunnels, backtracking, exploring, desperately seeking a way out. All around them extended connecting passages — apparently identical tunnels, with new intersections, changes in elevation, secret corridors, and hidden chambers every hundred paces. The priest, Erixitl's brother, threw himself into the hunt as diligently as did Poshtli and Hal.
"We'll get out," Poshtli said grimly, pushing himself to his feet following a brief rest. They had paused only for at moment, but he, too, felt the urgency that would not allow them to remain idle.
"I'm sure we've been going down," Hal guessed, frantic at the thought that they had left Erixitl far behind them. "We're underground by now."
"You might be right. Let's look around for some way to climb." Poshtli gestured to the stone ceiling. They had seen several rotting wooden ladders leading upward in various places.
Shatil remained silent, watching Hal and Poshtli growl and bluster. A part of him — the man — admired the passion with which they wanted to rescue his sister; another part — the servant of Zaltec — hoped with equal passion for success, so that he could perform his god-appointed task and slay her.
The priest lit another of his reed torches from the tump of the last one. "I have only two left," he reported softly. "We will soon find ourselves in darkness."
Halloran whirled on the priest, ready to snarl his anger with this last announcement. Shatil met his gaze coolly, and suddenly Hal felt very foolish. "All the more reason to keep moving," he grunted.
Once again they started along a narrow corridor — a corridor that looked just like a hundred other such passages. "How long have we been down here?" Hal asked, trying to bite back his despair.
"Most of the day, I think," Poshtli replied. "It must be approaching sunset." He didn't elaborate. Both of them fully understood the significance of Erix's premonition. With sunset would come the rising of the full moon, and — if she had seen the truth — shortly afterward would follow the death of Naltecona.
As they plodded along, Halloran turned and saw Shatil studying him, an expression of puzzlement across his features. "What is it?" asked the former legionnaire.
"I am wondering," replied the priest, pointing to Hal's waist, "how it is that you come to carry a band of hishna. Talonmagic, so I believed, is used only by the priests of my order. Or are you a master of hishna as well?"
"No," Hal replied. He looked at the snakeskin strap wound around him. "This was used to imprison me once, long ago in Payit. When I was freed, I kept it."
"It is a potent token," the priest declared.
"So I learned." Halloran vividly remembered the difficulty he had had with the snakeskin. It had grown into a long, flexible thong that had wrapped around him tightly. When Daggrande tried to cut it with his dagger, the steel edge had dulled without making a mark on the strap.
"Look!" Shatil cried suddenly as the other two marched quickly before him. He pointed to a small alcove beside the corridor that Poshtli and Hal, in their haste, had somehow missed.
"What is it?" grunted Hal, peering into the shadows.
"A ladder" replied Shatil. "Leading up."
"Look at them, Captain. They just sit there, watching. What do you make of it?" Cordell turned to Daggrande, waiting for an answer. The dwarf stood beside him on the roof of the palace of Axalt. The broad expanse of planks stretched flat around them, surrounded by a low parapet at the edge of the roof. In the center of the palace, several great peaks of thatch extended high into the sky, marking the throne room and the larger halls. Except for these peaks, the top of the palace consisted of a broad, open platform.
"Makes me damned uneasy, General." The dwarf squinted across the sacred plaza, through the long shadows cast by the lowering sun.
He saw tens of thousands of Nexalan warriors gathered all around the fringes of the plaza and spilling forward in great groups around their temples and pyramids. They wore feathers and carried clubs, macas, and spears. Occasionally one group would mutter some kind of chant, not loud enough to be a battle cry but nevertheless a sinister and unsettling sound. All day long the warriors had gathered, their numbers swelling from the apparently inexhaustible populace of the great city.
Below them, arrayed in camps around the palace of Axalt, the ranks of Kultakan and
Payit warriors watched nervously, weapons close at hand. The twenty-five thousand-men of their allies, appearing so numerous when they marched into the city, now seemed badly outnumbered by the Nexalans. The five hundred men of the Golden Legion, garrisoned within the walls of the palace itself, looked across this formidable array and prayed for peace.
"There's that priest again," grunted Daggrande.
Cordell looked to the highest pyramid, and he saw the black-robed patriarch of Zaltec. Many of the Nexalans gathered around that edifice, and they could see him gesticulating. The harsh bark of his voice carried across the plaza, though even had they known his language, the words would have remained indistinguishable because of the distance.
"It looks ugly," Cordell muttered. "You can feel the hatred and the anger"
"Can't really blame them for that," Daggrande noted. "They have to know Naltecona's not here of his own will."
"And the gold?" challenged the captain-general angrily. "They've stopped bringing it to us." Indeed, the steady deliveries of golden objects and dust had abruptly ceased earlier in the day.
Daggrande looked at his commander with a trace of alarm. The pile of gold they had already collected would be a challenge to transport from Nexal. More importantly, one look at the obviously hostile assemblage around the legionnaires should have warned them all that they had more pressing concerns.
Cordell looked at the sun, about to set over the shoulder of Mount Zatal. A plume of steam marked the summit of the massif, casting a shadow across much of the city. He looked back at the Nexalans, worried.
"Send for Naltecona," he ordered abruptly. "He will speak to his people. He must convince them of the folly of an attack!"
Daggrande nodded and turned away. As he went to the ladder that led down into the palace, he cast a last look at the vast and growing horde around them.
Folly for whom? he wondered.
***
"Chitikas!" Erixitl gasped in shock, and then delight. "You have returned!"
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