Ironhelm mt-1

by Douglas Niles

  "When the moment is right, you, my dear Darien, should begin the destruction." Cordell's voice was softer than it had been with his captains. He took the mage's hands in his and looked directly into her pale eyes, wondering as always at the hidden depths there. In the ten years since she had joined him on the bloodstained field of Cordell's only defeat, she had become a necessary fixture of his life and his legion. Indeed, the two of them had, together, recruited the captains who now formed the legion's core.

  "Icetongue will give them pause." Darien's slender fingers gently pulled a short black stick from her robes. "But their numbers are many."

  "We will take them today," Cordell replied. "All veteran captains, the best men I've ever commanded. The Golden Legion is the finest company along the Sword Coast, and they answer to me alone!" Darien smiled ironically at him, her lips faintly visible in the depths of her robe.

  The pirate army, preceded by the smoking columns of its fiery cyclones, surged closed. The shrill cries of three thousand voices reached their ears, a dissonant backdrop to their speech.

  "Be careful," Cordell warned earnestly. "But kill them!"

  "I shall," whispered the hooded one, her voice ice cool. Cordell felt a slight chill. As always, he found her dispassion toward death faintly disquieting. But that dispassion was unquestionably a great military asset, and he forced the feeling away.

  "By tonight, all of Amn will celebrate our victory," Cordell reminded her. "And by tomorrow, we shall have an appointment with the Council of Six itself!"

  The general turned back to the pirate army. He paid no attention to the fire magic, studying instead the colorful buccaneers. The enemy moved in a shimmering wall of silken splendor, their crimson shirts, emerald tunics, and blue and golden sashes all giving the force a festive holiday appearance. And still they advanced in their broad formation.

  Darien let go the general's hand, with a lingering caress. The tight smile still creased her tiny mouth.

  "Come, my dear." Cordell doffed his helm, broad-brimmed like Daggrande's, and gestured gallantly toward the field below. "We have a battle to win."

  Hoxitl, high priest of bloody Zaltec, picked his way into the cavern of the Ancient Ones. He came in darkness, leaving his attending band of young initiates to wait on the windswept slopes near the great volcano's summit. As always, his hair was blood-caked and pointed, and ashes thoroughly covered his skin.

  He wondered, as he had wondered throughout the long climb, why his counselors had summoned him. It had been ten years since last he had spoken with the Ancient Ones. Then he had reported that the girl Erixitl of Palul had disappeared into the brush, presumably the victim of a jaguar. Though Zaltec had been robbed of his sacrifice, the Ancient One had seemed satisfied with the girl's disposal.

  No jaguars guarded the entrance this time, but in the dim red glow of the cavern, he saw a pair of knights, dressed in their spotted hides, casually watching him through the open jaguar jaws of their helmets. The claw necklace of one jangled as he turned his head slightly, reminding the cleric of the potent talonmagic that armored the Jaguar Knight. These warriors did not carry the typical lances or javelins for guard duty in this confined space. Instead, they wielded clublike swords studded front and back with teeth of jagged obsidian.

  Quickly Hoxitl passed deeper into the cave, leaving the guards behind. Bubbling mud pots chuckled softly, like thick red slime, and every now and then a gout of steam emerged from some fissure with a sharp hiss.

  A column of green smoke suddenly erupted from the floor before Hoxitl, and the startled cleric almost leaped backward. Swiftly the smoke dispersed, and he saw the black-shrouded shape standing there. Hoxitl's astonishment grew as he saw several more figures cloaked all over in cloth and gauze.

  "Praises to Zaltec!"

  "High praises to the god of night and war!" The Ancient One completed the greeting, and the cleric stood nervously, wondering at the unprecedented number of shrouded figures surrounding him.

  "The girl has been located," said the slight form, his whispered voice nonetheless strong and vaguely menacing. "She is in Kultaka and has been a slave there these past years."

  "The girl?" Hoxitl's mind tripped for a minute, then leaped backward a full decade. "Erixitl of Palul?"

  "Indeed. She is owned by a man who pays Zaltec no heed, a worshiper of Qotal and former Eagle Knight. It was only through the fortuitous travels of a young Jaguar Knight that we learned of her capture."

  "What — what is to be done about her?" The cleric felt disturbed by the news, only because he sensed that the Ancient Ones were somehow afraid of this girl.

  "That is why we have summoned you. Our talonmagic will go to Kultaka tonight, aided by your spell of sending. A vessel of reception already awaits the enchantment."

  Hoxitf nodded. He understood that. Though the Ancient Ones could wield far mightier talonmagic than either the clerics or the Jaguar Knights, they still needed the help of a priest for such a long-range casting.

  The priest knelt on the stone floor together with the dark-swathed Ancient Ones. The latter lowered themselves with a supple grace, not at all like elderly humans. Hoxitl, as always, dismissed any speculation as to his counselors' nature, for he felt certain such questions could only lead to trouble.

  The temple guards stood aside, each pounding his wooden drum in steady cadence. The throng, citizens of Nexala numbering a hundred thousand or more, stood in awe about the great plaza. Finally the grand procession emerged from the palace!

  A collective gasp rippled through the crowd as the woman came into view. Resplendent upon her gilded litter, supported by ten Eagle Knights, she rode in lordly luxury, casting her eyes across the multitude…

  "Ouch!" Erixitl started as a drop of scalding water splashed onto her bare arm. Annoyed, she forced herself away from her daydreams to pay attention to her task, lest she burn herself more seriously.

  "Young master needs his bath!" she chanted ironically. She carried the full jug of steaming water on her head, carefully following the footpath through the garden. The bathhouse of her owner's estate lay just before her.

  Erix sighed as she sighed a hundred times a day, had sighed a million times over the last ten years. Truly she had been fortunate, for Huakal, her owner, was kind, gentle, and one of the wealthiest men in Kultaka. Once an Eagle Knight of great repute, he had commanded several hundred men in the wars with Nexal. He had used his influence to purchase her immediately following her arrival in Kultaka, offering the Jaguar Knight who had captured her an unusually high sum. She had been assigned tasks in his large home before the priests of Zaltec had even had a chance to see her. Since then, he had treated her more like a slightly bothersome niece than a slave.

  Never had she feared from Huakal condemnation for sacrifice — a common fate for a Maztican slave who displeased a master. Huakal had even allowed her to retain her feather token, now the only memento she carried from her childhood in Palul. She usually kept the jade object concealed under her robe, so as not to call attention to it, but nevertheless Huakal knew of it. It would have been well within his prerogatives to claim it for himself.

  For ten years, she had grown up in Kultaka. Only rarely had she even seen, and never had she spoken with, anyone of her own Nexalan people. Always a pretty girl, she had become a beautiful young woman. Unlike many slaves, however, she had not been touched by her master. He had even, somehow, managed to keep his unruly son away from her.

  Erix had managed to learn a little of the True World, for Huakal was a worldy man who had seen Nexal, Pezelac, and even the distant jungle lands of the Payit. Perhaps because this slave girl was clearly more intelligent than his own son, Huakal had taken the time to share some of his knowledge with her.

  Still, so much of her life had been taken from her that she did not want to give up the rest of it. Kultaka was a clean, active city, but it was a shabby substitute for the great capital of her own people. She spent her days imagining storied Nexal, now farther away than eve
r. Even the nearest lands of her people lay across desert and mountain.

  Too, there was the matter of the "young master," her owner's only son. An arrogant boor of a young warrior, Callatl never let her pass without making a rude comment, gesture, or worse. The young man wasted his days pursuing his futile objective of becoming a Jaguar Knight. Even his father had admitted long ago that he lacked the elite qualifications to aspire toward Eagle Knighthood. Though Callatl's prowess as a warrior was far short of the ideal, Erix feared him nevertheless.

  Erixitl carried the water carefully, balancing the heavy jug to prevent further spillage. The vessel, a rich emerald green, bore engravings upon two sides. Each portrayed, in crude relief, the fanged image of Qotal, the Plumed One. Like her father, Huakal paid homage to this ancient and nearly forgotten god. She held the jar by the jaws of the relief, ensuring a strong grip.

  The liquid within was scalding hot, and she dared not move quickly. Finally she reached the square stone building, set among roses and trickling streams of clear water, where the members of the family enjoyed their daily baths. Pushing through a curtain of hanging reeds, she entered the steamy bath chamber.

  "More water, Master Callatl," she said quietly.

  A strapping youth sprawled in the deep tub, taking no notice of her except to move slightly, allowing her enough space to pour the water without burning him.

  She lowered the jug, ignoring the steam rising into her eyes, and carefully poured. Even so, a few drops spattered onto the bather's coppery skin.

  Erix felt a sudden chill in the room, despite the steaming bath. The reed torches around the walls seemed to flicker and fade, casting the bathhouse in darker shadows. The girl knew nothing of talonmagic, could not know that sorcery of sinister nature had just settled around her and Callatl, a spell sent by Hoxitl and the Ancient Ones, far away in the Highcave. Nevertheless she stepped cautiously backward, and her hand went unconsciously to the golden feather token, the gift from her father, that still hung from her neck.

  "Stupid wench!" The young man sprang to his feet, uncaring of his nakedness. He raised his hand to cuff her, and she instinctively raised the jug to protect her face. The torches flared back to light as the talonmagic waned, but the damage had been done. Callatl's body twisted from the enormity of his wrath.

  His fist crashed into the vessel, striking it from her hands. It shattered on the tile lip of the bathtub, and a jagged shard struck Callatl's knee, drawing blood.

  The man stepped from the tub as Erix backed slowly away. She trembled in sudden fright, for she had never seen him so suddenly and irrationally enraged. His face might have been handsome, except for the close set of his eyes and his tight, cruel mouth. "You have teased me for too long, Temptling! Now it is your turn to pay!"

  She spun and dashed for the door, but Callatl dove instantly after her. He seized her arm and twisted her to the floor.

  "Stop!" she cried, crunching her fist into his already flat nose. Her struggles only served to amuse him. He seized her wrists easily and pressed her against the floor.

  "Accept your slavery, Feather Princess!" He hissed the nickname in mockery. He had taunted her with it since noticing, years earlier, her fondness for her feathered token. "My father has been far too gentle with you!"

  Real fear seized Erix, a panic that suffused her wiry frame with unnatural strength. She squirmed and jabbed, and suddenly her legs were free, the young man sprawled half across her.

  "In the name of the gods, stop!" Her knee flew viciously upward. Callatl shrieked, mindless with agony, heedless of the sound echoing through the garden, around the courtyard and into the sprawling house.

  "Beast!" she spat, punching him in the stomach as he rolled away from her. He tumbled through the shards of the pot, cutting his face and arms, but somehow he staggered to his feet. His face twisted with hatred, blood streaming from his forehead and nose, he sprang at the slave girl.

  Erixitl picked up a large chunk of the broken jar. She did not notice the feathered god's image, Qotal's full visage, remaining uncracked on the piece of pottery in her hands. Callatl's fingers reached, clawlike, for her face as she slammed the shard into her attacker's throat.

  The young noble gurgled helplessly as he dropped to his knees, then sprawled on his face. Dimly, Erix heard the musical tinkling of the curtain parting behind her. She turned to see the dignified face of Huakal, her owner. His patrician features grew pale as he took in the scene.

  Erixitl dropped to her knees and kissed the floor as Huakal knelt beside his son. The nobleman swept his cloak of brilliant macaw feathers from his shoulders to cover Callatl. The young man coughed in agony, his breath bursting in gasps and gurgles.

  Terrified, Erixiti looked into the face of the man who had treated her so kindly, who had never touched her, in anger or otherwise. His face was wrung with suffering, but his voice was steady.

  "If he dies, your heart will be fed to Tezca on the following dawn."

  Halloran made his way through a line of sword-and-buckler men. This company, commanded by Captain Garrant, stood in plain sight on the slope of the hill. The howling pirates swarmed closer, but the pace of their advance flagged slightly after nearly two miles of charging forward. The young captain suddenly realized that Cordell had selected defensive ground far from the beach for good reason.

  He walked farther down the hill, toward Daggrande's company, which lay in ambush behind a low stone wall. A sense of excitement tingled through Halloran as he approached the crossbowmen and his own lancers, who waited beside Daggrande's men in a small olive grove.

  This legion, these warriors, were his home. They had become the finest, most secure home he had ever known. When Cordell and Daggrande had discovered him nearly ten years ago, a gangly young tough wandering the streets of Mulsanter, Halloran could never have imagined himself feeling such a sense of belonging about anything. A hungry orphan, his magic-using days brutally ended by catastrophe in Arquiuius's tower, he had been suspicious of these silver-armored captains.

  But he had served them, first as a page to the captain-general and then as a squire to Daggrande and then Broker. He had learned the ways of war, fighting and killing before his eighteenth year had begun. A natural horsemen, Halloran had found his true role as a lancer — much to Daggrande's disgust, since the dwarf had hoped to see him wield a heavy crossbow.

  Now Broker was gone, terribly wounded by these pirates in the previous day's skirmish. Bishou Domincus had saved Broker's life with his healing magic, but the horseman had still lost the use of his legs. The memory of that loss gave Halloran's eagerness for battle a bitter edge. Today Broker would be avenged.

  Halloran found Daggrande behind a low stone wall. The dwarf's unit of crossbowmen crouched behind the rocky barrier, patiently waiting for their captain's command. The motley collection of humans and dwarves wore an assortment of armor types, some clad in leather, others in chain. Many wore bloody bandages over wounds sustained in previous skirmishes with the pirates. All of the bowmen looked grizzled and disreputable, but Halloran well knew the lethal effectiveness of their heavy missiles.

  "How much longer?" asked the young cavalryman. He tried to keep his voice steady, but anticipation of the coming battle filled him with nervous energy. His own unit of laneers waited restlessly in an olive grove behind the wall. Across the wall, still a half-mile distant but closing rapidly, came the charging wave of color, steel, and flame that was the pirate army.

  The dwarf laughed, a sharp bark of sound. "Soon enough, I'll wager." Daggrande studied Halloran closely. "After all these campaigns, why are you acting like a young recruit facing his first foe?"

  Hal returned his old companion's gaze with a sheepish grin. "Cordell gave me the standard of the lancers. I'll be leading all four companies."

  Daggrande grinned. "You're ready for that. But what about Alvarro?" The impetuous redhead and his jealous nature were well known to the other captains.

  "Second in command. He'll follow with the last two
companies." I hope, he added silently.

  The dwarf nodded. "Just don't lose your head. Wait till that trumpet tells you to go! Remember what Cordell and I have drilled into you, and you'll do all right."

  "We hold the high ground," Hal said. "I won't give that advantage away!" Halloran's answer was deadly serious. "Cordell's right. If we time this properly, Akbet-Khrul will be broken once and for all!"

  Daggrande laughed at his companion's earnestness. "And we'll be out of work!"

  Halloran laughed, too, relaxing somewhat. "I expect the captain-general will find us something to fight." "Good luck. You'd best get to your men." "And to you. Try to shoot straight this time, will you?" Hal said, flashing a quick grin.

  Daggrande huffed indignantly, but the cavalryman had already slipped into the grove. In moments, he reached his charger, Storm. The roan mare danced eagerly, anxious for battle.

  "The standard, Sergeant-Major." A squire stood beside the mount, bearing the lance with the proud pennant of the Blue Lancers. The long banner, portraying a golden pegasus on a sea-blue background, snapped readily in the growing breeze.

  "Captain, now." Halloran smiled as he slipped smoothly into the saddle and took the long staff. The squire grinned enthusiastically.

  The olive grove screened their position from the advancing enemy, but the rows of trees provided good visibility to the right and left. He could see, within a few hundred feet to his right, the black, yellow, and green pennants of the other companies. At the far end of the line, Alvarro glowered at him from the back of a prancing stallion, his mouth split into a grimace that displayed his crooked, uneven teeth.