boulder-strewn expanses. Now finally they all quickened their pace. The sense of anticipation permeated the band until a frantic eagerness marked their scramble up the last, steepest portion of the ridge.
At last the beasts crested the summit and stood there, outlined by the last rays of the dying sun, staring in dumbfounded awe into the valley before them. The massive pyramid dominated the scene, but the ruins stood out clearly before the trolls, framed by lengthening shadows. The specks of the companions were invisible in the distance, for they had reached the base of the pyramid. Yet Harak knew that they were there-especially the woman who wore the pluma.
He thought again of this woman. In the dim memory of his brain, he knew she was called the Chosen Daughter of Qotal. He knew that she carried the blessing of the Plumed Serpent. Vet why would she come here?
And why would she draw him after her?
Then he felt another presence, an imminent sense of great power and great menace. He sensed its nearness and knew of its impending arrival. From the north it came, a growing and dominant power that shrank every Other feeling into nothingness. Finally Hanak trembled in the glory and awe of his bloodthirsty god.
And at last he understood.
“The warriors are ready, my chieftain,” reported Tokol. The leader of the Kultakans was the first to report to Corded, but this fact did not surprise the commander. Despite the disaster in Nexal and the long flight with his Nexalan enemies, Tokol had remained fiercely loyal to the general who had conquered his nation.
Cordell tried to shake off a grim feeling of unease as darkness settled over the vast camp. The Nexalans had reached the valley Gultec had discovered, and in truth it offered a lush bounty-not only water, grain, and berries, but an abundance of fish and fowl as well.
Also to its credit, the valley had a high, sleep rim separating it from the natural pathway by which they had entered. Knowing that the beasts still pursued them, Cordell and the chiefs had deployed their fighting men along this crest.
At least, that was the plan. Tokol’s warriors, some five thousand strong, promised a good hold on the right flank. Cordell’s legionnaires would stand in the center. The left flank, which was the longest, had been entrusted to the Nexalans, who could muster some twenty thousand warriors. But now Cordell waited to hear back from Chical or any of the other war chiefs responsible for positioning that line.
He stiffened as he heard a sentry cry a challenge, but then the clatter of hoofbeats told him that one of his own men approached. Cordell turned to face Grimes as the rider dismounted and raised his hand in casual salute.
“They’re out there, but still a couple miles back,” he reported. “A big camp of em. They seem to be settling in for the night”
“Did any follow the decoys?” Cordell asked.
“You mean Daggrande, with Halloran and his woman?” asked the captain.
“Yes, dammit! Did they draw any of the beasts away?”
“One of my men saw a large company of big ones-trolls, the whole lot-heading for the east ridge. It seems likely that’s who they were after.”
“Well, that’s something, anyway.” Cordell turned as another shape emerged from the darkness. He recognized the tall, haughty figure of Chical, captain of the Eagle Knights.
“My warriors are emplaced upon the ridge. If they come, we will meet them. With the favor of the gods, we will throw them back.” Chical reported to the captain-general, but he did not bow.
“Good,” Cordell replied. The line of defenders was ready, straddling the route between the monsters and the Nexalans in the valley At night they were most vulnerable, and this was when he most feared an attack. They could only wait for an attack, or dawn, whichever came first.
“With the favor of the gods…” he repeated after Chical and Grimes had left. Could they ask for that much anymore?
The eagle perched on the platform atop the pyramid. His bright eyes glittered as he looked at the humans and the dwarf who climbed to meet him. The companions gasped for air under the strain of the long climb, while the drop to the highest terrace of the pyramid fell dizzyingly away below. Each flight of stairs was successively steeper than the last until here, near the summit, they placed their hands on steps that seemed mere inches from their faces as they carefully scaled the last stone stairway.
“We have come, Lord Poshtli,” said Erix quietly as they finally reached the summit. “You have called us and we have come.”
The eagle cocked its head to the side, and it seemed to Halloran as ii” the bird understood her words perfectly. He remembered the noble warrior who had been his friend, and he wondered how this bird could be that man. Yet he never questioned the fact that this was Poshtli.
The top of the pyramid formed a broad square plaza, perhaps fifty paces on a side. The temple building itself occupied most of the square, though a wide shelf passed around the building on all four sides. Though the wall had appeared featureless from the distance, now they could see that intricate carvings of snakes, birds, and jaguars covered the sides of the temple building. The creatures, carved in detailed relief, had been left unpainted.
The huge door yawned before them, larger now even than it had seemed from the ground below. It loomed a good thirty feet high and nearly that wide.
But their sense of proportion vanished entirely as they stepped through the door. They entered a monstrously huge chamber, with floor and walls of stone and a roof of thatch supported by the longest tree trunks they had ever seen. A dim glow lighted the temple interior, though no source of light was visible.
It took only an instant to realize that the building, on the inside, was a far larger structure than it was on the outside.
“This is truly a place of the gods!” whispered Jhatli, staling around in open-mouthed awe. The cleric Coton stepped lightly past them and turned to the companions. His face bore an impish, almost childlike smile.
The carvings on the outer walls continued within, extending across the high walls. A pattern of inlaid stones, depicting butterflies, fish, and hummingbirds in square relief covered the entire floor.
The eagle stepped through the door behind them and then, with a beat of powerful wings, took flight. Poshtli soared into the air and then coasted in gentle circles, high above the floor.
At the center of the vast chamber stood a clean white block of stone. No one had to tell Halloran that this was an altar dedicated to Maztican gods, though he felt a sense of relief at its pristine cleanliness. It was unmarred by the sinister, rust-colored stains that so often designated these sacred altars as the feeding plates of the bloodthirsty deities.
“What do we do now?” asked Hal, with a look at his wife.
“I know,” she said. “I don’t know how, but 1 know!’
Erixitl, with Hal at her side, advanced slowly toward the center of the huge chamber, reaching it after a hundred steps. There she removed her cloak and placed it on the altar. Then the pair hurried back to join the others just inside the door.
“What was that all about?” Daggrande wondered aloud, but he lapsed into silence when Erix ignored him. Instead, he, like the others, focused on the center of the room.
The shade of sunset spread across the entire valley floor around them, but the top of the pyramid towered high enough to linger in the last rays of daylight. Straight to the west now, the sun’s illumination spilled directly through the western door, spreading across the temple floor and flickering across the Cloak-of-One-Plume.
For a few seconds, nothing happened. Then the cloak, laid carefully across the altar, started to shimmer. Us colors whirled and shifted, spreading like a rainbow across the
room-many rainbows, actually spreading outward from the altar of the gods.
Slowly majestically a dim outline took shape there. They saw its huge size first, then the serpentine shape of a sinuous body. Next they saw dimly a pair of monstrously massive wings, beating slowly but not stirring the air.
Coton and Lotil threw themselves face-f
irst on the floor. After a second, Jhatli did the same. Halloran and Daggrande stared, awestruck, while Erixitl slowly stepped forward. After a second, Halloran stumbled to her side, taking her arm. He could feel her trembling, but her advance did not slow.
Gradually over a period of many minutes, a massive? shape appeared, squatting above the Cloak-of-One-Plume. The serpentine image was clear yet insubstantial, as if a stone thrown at it would pass right through. A mane of bright feathers encircled its neck, brighter than a hundred rainbows. Deep, glistening eyes, golden and wise, looked down upon them. Its legs curved beneath it, tipped by swordlike talons. Even through the faintness of the image, the brilliant hues of the creature’s feathered coal shone with unearthly brilliance.
Halloran had no doubt that they stood now in the presence of the Plumed One, the god Qotal himself. Yet it was a presence that was not fully there.
When the spoke, his voice was surprisingly gentle, yet it possessed a deep resonance that belied his vaporous appearance.
“You have done well, Daughter of the Plume,” he said.
“I have done what I had no choice but to do,” Erixitl replied simply.
“Yours is a faith that is all the stronger for its doubts. It is proper that you were chosen. And even now, I know, you have questions. You wonder why I come now, after disaster has swept the land? Why have I delayed so long?”
Erixitl, mute, nodded. She stood facing the huge image, her body tense but her courage unwavering. Hal remained at her side, trying to overcome his own sense of awe.
“Centuries ago I turned my back on my people in anger as they took up the cult of blood and killing.” The dragon’s
voice was soothing and laced with sadness. His body remained insubstantial, yet it seemed to grow more solid with each minute. The rays of the setting sun shone full upon the cloak now, and it created a dazzling nest of colors below the great serpent.
“As years passed-decades and centuries of years-my anger faded, and I saw the foolishness with which I had acted. I resolved to return to Maztica, to right the wrongs that now scarred my land.
“ But when 1 tried to enter the True World, 1 found that the cult of killing held me at bay. My brother Zaltec had grown so powerful, and his followers sated his gory appetite so well, that I lacked the power to overcome him.
“Then came this event you humans call the Night of Wailing. This cataclysm smote the followers of Zaltec as well as my own, In that chaos, his own power was weakened- weakened just enough that, with the aid of a human of strong faith, I might be able to return to the world that is my
true home.
“You opened that passage for me by your act of faith, when you placed the Cloak-of-One-Plume in this sacred place-a place so holy it is one of but two such in all Maztica. Now I am coming.”
Qotal’s voice grew strong, a ringing challenge. “And when I am here, I will face the evil one and again I will smite him atop my pyramid.”
“He comes here?” Erixitl asked in shock. “Zaltec comes here?”
As she completed the words, a great shadow fell across the doorway blocking out the sunset. They turned in shock to see two massive pillars of stone, where before had been open sky The great monoliths moved, then bent to reveal the torso of a looming giant of stone. It stepped quickly through the huge door. Once inside the temple, it stood upright again. Its rock-hard eyes fixed the with their impassive glance, even as the giant’s legs cast the Cloak-of-One-Plume into shadow. The thing’s face was a grotesque caricature of humanity corrupted by an insatiable hunger for blood, for living hearts.
Halloran heard Erixitl moan in fear beside him. Jhatli dropped his bow in shock, while even the stalwart Daggrande gasped. Only Coton and Lotil remained apparently unaffected, the old men standing impassively while the shade from the giant’s body darkened the entire vast temple.
And in that shadow, the image of Qotal began to fade.
From the chronicles of Coton:
Struck down and raised again in the face of war between the gods.
Qotal and Zaltec clash in the vast arena of the temple, a twilit battle that the cannot possibly win. The stone monstrosity of Zaltec looms over us, the power of its hate blazing like ruby pupils from its gray, granite eyes. And the vaporous form of Qotal, interrupted in its arrival, grows faint, slowly disappearing from our view.
We humans cower in the corner of the room, terrified by the anger of the gods. They take no note of us, intent instead upon their wrath. It is an eerie, silent battle-a clash of wills and might without violence, yet with an outcome that creates massive danger for the loser and for the True World. Zaltec raises his arms slowly. His stone fingers, each larger than a man, unfold and spread from his hands, and a nightmare wind springs up, summoned by his supernatural command.
Qotal bellows his anger as he fades, and the wind howls loudly. It spirals about, raising the fine grit of stone and hurtling it through the air with stinging power.
And then die dust surrounds us and we see nothing more, though still we hear the violence and the fury of the gods.
8
THE SPIRIT WARDENS
The wind rose to a screaming crescendo, until it seemed that the rock walls of the temple itself must splinter around the companions. Shards of dust stung their skin. The howling noise of the whirlwind drowned any attempts at communication, even shouts.
Halloran caught a glimpse of white feathers high above them. He saw the eagle, Poshtli, diving through the dust toward the great stone statue. The massive shape of Qotal seemed to lurch forward, though it was difficult to see.
The magnificent bird disappeared into the cloud with an angry shriek, and the former legionnaire groaned inwardly at the courageous but futile act. He knew that Poshtli could be smashed by a casual, even accidental blow from one of
Zaltec’s fingers.
Erixitl moaned as the Cloak-of-One-Plume floated into the air, borne across the temple by the chaotic gusts of battle. The wind tore at the colorful garment with a maddened intensity, tearing brilliant plumage away, rendering it into minute tufts of rubbish. In a moment of awful violence, the cloak disappeared, and at the same time it grew darker still in the huge temple.
They heard a sharp squawk, and once again the eagle came into sight, wheeling high in the air, Tucking his wings, talons extended, Poshtli dove toward the mountainous block that was Zaltec’s head.
The little party huddled together in a corner of die temple, paralyzed by fear and awe. Shaking his head and wiping the dust from his eyes, Halloran tried to peer through the dust. It was then he realized that others had entered the temple.
Dimly through the haze in the air, he saw a lumbering figure move through The door. Others followed, and the brilliance of the setting sun outlined their forms clearly — trolls, the minions of Zaltec. More and more of the grotesque creatures crowded through, filling the space behind the stone! monolith’s feet.
Halloran groaned inwardly Still, it seemed to him that he and his companions, crouched in the shadows and concealed by the raging dust cloud, had not yet been seen. But how much longer could they remain concealed?
Slapping Daggrande’s arm to get his attention, Halloran indicated the monsters as still more of the beasts pressed into the temple to watch their master’s battle-their master’s victory.
For indeed it seemed that Qotal had faded from sight in the face of Zaltec’s relentless might. Poshtli, too, had vanished. The huge stone figure began to lower its arms, and slowly the wind began to fade.
Halloran remembered the other door, in the east wall. “Come on!” he shouted, prodding the others ahead of him. With gestures, he urged them toward the door.
They crept along the base of the wall, desperately hoping to avoid the notice of the monsters. Halloran stayed in the rear, his hand near Helmstooth’s hilt. He didn’t want to draw the weapon prematurely, for its gleaming blade would certainly draw the attention of the trolls still stumbling into the temple. Daggrande, he noticed, carried his axe, t
he now useless crossbow slung across his shoulder beside his empty quiver.
Finally they reached the towering opening, as big as the one on the west, where they had entered. Behind them, Qotal shrieked in fading frustration. The contest obviously was nearly over.
“Run!” Halloran shouted. “Get down while there’s* still time!”
The little party burst from the temple, starting toward the steep stairway that lay only a few steps away. They had crossed half the distance when bellows of rage sounded on either side of them.
A pair of monstrous trolls, drool spraying from their curving fangs, sprang at them from beside the doorway. With startling quickness, Jhatli raised his bow and sent a stone-tipped shaft driving into the troll’s belly.
Helmstooth seemed to leap into Hal’s hand of the sword’s own will. He lunged forward with liquid smoothness, driving the steel tip deep into the other troll’s gullet. The pluma strength of his hand backed the blow, and then tore the blade free with a gory rip to the side. Daggrande, meanwhile, hacked at the beast that had been wounded by Jhatli. Fury and fear tightened his muscles, and the keen axe blade bit deeply into the troll’s thigh.
Both beasts, painfully wounded, bellowed their agony as they fell. The surface of the pyramid shook to the heavy steps of their brethren, charging around the temple. In moments, more of the monsters burst into sight, charging from both sides.
The companions stood trapped on the strip between the temple and the edge of the pyramid. The stairway dropped steeply away, far too sheer a drop to allow for a fighting withdrawal. Any blow from an attacker above would send one tumbling down the stone steps hundreds of feet to the
ground below.
“Your token, Daughter! Use it now!” Lotil spoke urgently. The blind man sensed, as clearly as any of them, their mortal danger.
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