Viperhand mt-2

by Douglas Niles

  They rode at an easy canter. Alvarro laughed every time he flushed panicked villagers from the brush before him, but he no longer cared to ride them down. Now he had specific game in mind.

  He saw a flash of movement across a field, a wave of long dark hair above the mayz, and something compelled him to stop. A woman fled the battle, but oddly, unlike the rest of her folk, she seemed to be circling back toward the village. Then he saw the flash of color — that cloak! Still staring, Alvarro saw the girl turn to look at him before she dropped out of sight.

  And he recognized his quarry.

  Bands of Kultakan warriors roamed the countryside, seizing stragglers as captives. Still, Erixitl knew she couldn't flee with the rest of the villagers, most of whom seemed intent on racing all the way to Nexal. She had to go back and find her father. Surely the invaders would discover his home atop the ridge on the opposite side of the village. She, assumed that her brother, trapped atop the pyramid, had fallen during the massacre. Still numb with shock, she began to ache with a foretaste of her pain, for she hadn't yet grasped the full extent of the disaster. Her village had died today.

  Erix left the road that ran through the mayzfields lining the valley bottom. She circled to the north of Palul, finally reaching the stream that ran past the town. Here she stopped for a quick look around.

  She spotted two silver-plated riders on the road, about a mile away. From the black atop the helm of one of the riders, she recognized him as the captain of the savage horsemen. For a long, hateful moment, she wished she was a warrior, with a powerful bow, so intensely did she want to strike him from his saddle. Then she saw his face turn toward her, and she dropped into the shallow streambed, knowing such a thought for the utterly futile desire that it was.

  She splashed through the shallow water, staying low, and started to move along the stream bank on the opposite side. For half a mile, she worked her way back toward the town.

  Finally Erix reached a bend in the stream, near the base of the ridge below her father's house. Here she broke from cover, darting up the bank and through another field of mayz toward the security of the brushy slope before her.

  Sudden hoofbeats pounded behind her, and she knew she had been spotted. Without looking back, she guessed the identity of her pursuers, and that knowledge spurred her to deerlike swiftness.

  But the horses were swift, too. Before she reached the undergrowth, Erix felt a charger thunder close, and suddenly a brutal weight smashed into her body, sending her crashing to the ground.

  With a savage scream, she sprang to her feet and whirled, only to see the red-bearded legionnaire leap from his saddle and crash into her with the full force of his metal-armored frame. Again she smashed into the ground, this time driving the air from her lungs.

  The legionnaire's companion pulled up beside him, casting a hungry glance at her. He dismounted, then stood to the side, looking around them.

  Erix scratched blindly, hatred driving her fingers, but the horseman only laughed. With one brawny hand, he pinned both of her arms to the ground. She smelled the octal on his breath, saw the mad flush in his eyes. His laughter dropped to a menacing chortle.

  "You're a pretty one, aren't you!"

  She spat at his face, and he sneered.

  "Spirited, too! I can see what Halloran liked about you."

  At the name, she stiffened reflexively, then cursed to herself as she saw the pleased smile crease his gap-toothed mouth.

  "Now," he said, reaching a bloody paw to the bodice of her dress. "Let's have a look at you!"

  Lolth tasted the blood, felt the heat of the battle, and began to take a great interest in the faraway realm of Maztica. Her attentions, originally fixed upon the rebellious drow who dared worship another god, began to grow.

  Perhaps her vengeance should not be hasty. Measuring in the time scale of godhood, she felt no hurry to punish her wayward children. They would feel the lash of her anger soon enough.

  But perhaps, before then, she could enjoy the show of slaughter and butchery presented by the humans.

  And in the near future, this land called the True World seemed likely to yield a plentiful harvest of blood.

  FLIGHT AND SANCTUARY

  Halloran didn't need to ask Poshtli; he knew the plume of black smoke billowing into the air before them marked the town of Palul. Still miles from the community, they began to meet haggard Mazticans fleeing down the road to Nexal. These refugees invariably scrambled into the brush or mayzfields beside the road at the approach of the two riders on the roan mare.

  Sickened with apprehension, Hal felt acute shame at his own appearance, dressed as he was in the uniform of their enemy. Children saw him and shrieked with horror. He saw an old woman with badly injured legs crawling from the roadway, trying pathetically to reach the shelter of the undergrowth.

  But Hal's overwhelming fear for Erixitl compelled him to forge ahead.

  "We'll never find her!" Hal groaned as they closed to within a mile of the town. They could see the village pyramid, a small, bright blaze marking the temple and its bloody altar. The conflagration had blackened whole rows of houses. They saw few Mazticans this close to Palul. Those they did encounter were badly wounded or numb with shock.

  "Do you think she would have recognized us?" asked Poshtli, wondering if they had already passed Erix among the fleeing villagers.

  "I don't know," Hal groaned. "I wouldn't blame her if she ran and hid as soon as she saw the horse."

  "Perhaps we should separate," said Poshtli. "We can circle Palul in opposite directions and meet beyond the village. If we don't find her, then we can slip into town and see if she's still there."

  "Her father's house," said Hal, remembering Erixitl's description. "She said it was on the ridge above Palul, near the top. She might have gone there."

  They both saw the looming green slope on the far side of the town.

  "Let's meet at the foot of the slope." Poshtli squinted into the distance as he dismounted. "There, near that waterfall." He indicated a bright cascade where a small stream plummeted from a gorge in the side of the ridge.

  "All right," Hal agreed. He clasped the warrior's hand. "Keep your eyes open. There'll be legionnaires about."

  Poshtli nodded brusquely, then turned and slipped from the right side of the road into a tangle of low trees. Hal reined Storm to the left, starting into a field of mayz. Anxiously he looked around, hoping desperately to catch some sight of Erixitl.

  He rode for several minutes, trying to avoid the Mazticans he found — pathetic family groups hiding among the mayz, old couples, speechless and stunned by the events of the day. The most horrifying to Halloran were the lone children, crying waifs, some of whom didn't even know enough to hide at his hoof-pounding approach.

  He tried to look past them, to seek Erixitl beyond, on some clean, windswept slope above the fields, but he couldn't. Halloran sensed that, with this battle, something deep and irrevocable had fallen between himself and his former comrades. No longer did he feel like a fugitive, wanting only to avoid the soldiers of the legion. Now he began to feel like their enemy.

  Suddenly he squinted, distracted by something he glimpsed through a tree line — a flash of color, nothing more, that reminded him of Erixitl's cloak. Spurring Storm to a gallop, he raced toward the row of greenery. As he suspected, it marked the course of a shallow stream. The mare plowed through the water, throwing a curtain of spray before bounding easily up the far bank.

  His eyes flared as he saw Alvarro some distance away, straddling someone on the ground. Another legionnaire, dismounted and held two horses nearby. The latter looked up at Hal with a wicked grin, expecting one of his comrades.

  Halloran recognized him as Vane, an unscrupulous bully, one of Alvarro's regular companions.

  "Hal!" Erix cried, struggling beneath the red-bearded brute. Alvarro looked up and stared at Halloran in shock, while Vane sneered and leaped into his saddle. Drawing his sword, he thundered toward Hal.

  Grimly
Halloran turned Storm into Vane's charge, drawing and raising Helmstooth at the same time. He thrust instinctively with the steel blade as the two horses smashed shoulders. The collision threw Hal from the saddle even as the mare moved nimbly to the side.

  Vane's horse stumbled and fell, but its rider paid no heed, for Halloran had stabbed him through the heart.

  Alvarro, meanwhile, leaped up, leaving Erix gasping on the ground. Blindly Hal sprang to his feet and attacked. His ankle throbbed from his fall, but his limp didn't slow down his hatred or determination.

  "I see your treachery is complete!" sneered Alvarro, driving Halloran back with a two-handed blow. "Now you even kill for the savages!"

  The blades clashed together, and Hal felt pain shoot through his right arm. Tumbling back, he couldn't twist away from Alvarro's thrust. The man's blade slipped behind his breastplate, slicing into the flesh between his ribs.

  Red daggers of pain lanced through Hal's body as he recoiled from the wound. Blood spurted onto his arm and down his flank as he staggered to keep his balance. Grimly he focused his gaze on the beastlike man before him.

  Desperately Halloran swung his blade, fighting for his own life because that was the only way he could insure Erix's safety from this madman. Back and forth they stumbled, slashing mightily, each seeking a fatal opening. Sheer agony slowed Hal's arm, but by the force of his will, he kept fighting. Hatred fueled him, and he attacked with renewed strength.

  Steel rang as the two blades met, and Hal used every ounce of his strength to drive his weapon toward Alvarro's face. The man's grin twisted in fear at the brutal onslaught. Alvarro's wrist twisted back as he tried to deflect the blow.

  With a dull grunt of pain, the horseman suddenly dropped his sword. Hal stumbled forward, nearly collapsing as Alvarro leaped toward his horse. Sharp tongues of pain lashed across Halloran's eyes, and he couldn't pursue. His enemy got into the saddle and spun his mount away, in seconds disappearing in the direction of Palul.

  Climbing weakly from his knees to his feet, Halloran turned to sweep Erixitl into his arms. Finally the dam of shock containing the tumult of her emotions broke. Uncontrolled sobs wracked her body as, for a long while, she finally gave vent to her grief.

  "Halloran belongs to the enemy now, without a doubt," said Cordell softly. Beside him, in the bloody plaza of Palul, Alvarro grinned broadly.

  "And, my general, he is very near! We can seize him now if we hurry! Give me thirty horsemen, and I will have him in chains by morning!" Alvarro's eyes flashed as he pleaded.

  Cordell looked at his captain, and his smile was not pleasant. "It's too bad you and Vane couldn't bring him in. With this much warning and a fast horse, Hal is sure to be gone by now. Besides, the men have fought a battle and will be marching again sooner than they know. I will not tire them out with a fruitless chase by night."

  Alvarro scowled. He couldn't miss the rebuke in his commander's words. "I tell you, sir, he was aided by a hundred savages! I was lucky to escape with my life!"

  "Nevertheless, I see that you managed to do so," said Cordell wryly. Even Alvarro had sense enough to make no further argument. Still, he seethed inwardly. It almost seemed as if the captain-general didn't desire Halloran's capture or death.

  Daggrande clumped up to them, his armor freshly polished. His blade, cleaned and sharpened, hung from his belt. Though the dwarf had shown no stomach for the day's battle, he had commanded his crossbowmen resolutely, following Cordell's command. His disgust he kept, with difficulty, to himself.

  "The men have assembled, General. Can I send them to rest now?"

  "One moment, Captain." Cordell dismissed Alvarro with a tilt of his head. "I wish to speak to them."

  Beyond the pyramid, the legionnaires awaited their commander. Cordell approached the formation, assembled in its trim, neat rows. Then he turned and walked along the rank of swordsmen standing at rigid attention, his heart ready to burst with pride. These brave soldiers had turned a potentially disastrous ambush into a crushing victory, following his orders with speed and resolute determination. He felt certain that the Mazticans would think long and hard before they planned similar treachery.

  Part of his mind reflected on the turnabout. Cordell realized that this victory could become a powerful and dramatic asset.

  The Golden Legion must strike quickly now, while their enemies were demoralized and confused.

  Many of his legionnaires had been wounded, though even most of these now stood at attention, hastily wrapped bandages on heads, arms, or legs. The captain-general knew that at least two of his men had died in the battle, and several more were too badly wounded to move. Bishou Domincus attended to them, however, and Cordell had great faith in the cleric's healing powers.

  Normally he would have granted the men several days to rest after a fight such as this. Repairing weapons, refitting equipment, healing minor wounds — all these things would contribute to the welfare and fitness of his troops.

  Yet Cordell knew that now, scarce hours after the battle, the Golden Legion stood ready to march. The swordsmen and the crossbowmen, the cavalry, all of them would fight another battle right now if he but gave the command. By Helm, how he loved these men! And knowing this, he understood a little more about the mind-set of his enemies. The great Naltecona would doubtless be shocked and dismayed at the stories from Palul. That advantage would only last for a little while.

  The captain-general stopped and faced the trim ranks. For a moment, he couldn't speak, so intense was his emotion. Finally he cleared his throat and began in a clear, strong, voice.

  "We have won a great victory today — a victory against treachery and betrayal! The vigilance of almighty Helm gave us warning, and you stood ready to act. By Helm, you are the finest fighters on the face of the world! Together, we are invincible!

  "This town, Palul, has gained an everlasting place in the annals of the Golden Legion for the battle that was fought here today. But aside from that historical footnote, this place is nothing! It means nothing, it is worth nothing, and we have nothing more to do here!"

  He paused again, drawing a deep breath and trying to control his surging pride. Several moments passed before he could speak again.

  "The real objective of this long march lies within our grasp now. Two more days of marching will take us to Nexal! There, amid mountains of silver and gold — there, in Nexal, will we find the true measure of our worth!"

  Shatil awoke suddenly, terrified by the darkness all around him. He bolted upward and cracked his head on the low stone ceiling. Cursing, he sat back down and held his throbbing skull.

  At least, with the blow, he remembered that he was still in the secret tunnel below the temple of Zaltec. As soon as Zilti had closed the door behind him, Shatil had followed the steep stairway, in total darkness, to the bottom. There he had felt the outline of a small doorway. While waiting for nightfall, overcome by his tension, forced inactivity, and fear, he had fallen asleep.

  Now his mind reeled with horror as he recalled the events that had led him to this place. Palul! Did anything remain of his village? Did any of his neighbors escape the fearful slaughter? It didn't seem possible. Wringing his hands, Shatil felt the wrinkled sheet of parchment given to him by Zilti. With that sensation, his mind returned to his mission: the message. He had to get that message to Hoxitl.

  Reasoning that it must be well after dark by now, he pushed at the stone door. Slowly, grudgingly, it slid open.

  Shatil emerged from the doorway and crouched beside the base of the pyramid, looking around the square in shock. A whole row of houses now smoldered, mere heaps of ash and shells of charred adobe. Bodies lay everywhere. At first, in the darkness, he thought that some of them were moving. At closer look, he realized that the moving creatures were vultures and crows that waddled about the square, feasting.

  His nerves froze suddenly as he heard a monstrous, rumbling growl. Shatil gasped as one of the strangers' war creatures crept into sight, its hackles raised. The thing g
rowled again, showing its long fangs. It reminded the Maztican of a huge, shaggy coyote.

  Then it sprang, and its jaws closed toward his face. The young priest reacted instinctively, drawing his obsidian dagger from his belt. Twisting away, he grunted as the huge body slammed him against the stone wall of the pyramid. The creature's maw clamped shut, barely missing his throat. Shatil desperately flailed with his dagger, scoring a cut in the animal's side as its momentum carried it past.

  But the animal turned with startling quickness, attacking once again. Shatil raised a hand and then gasped in agony as the creature's steel jaws clamped onto his wrist. But at the same time, he drove the knife forward, plunging it through the animal's chest. With a shudder, it died.

  Shatil fell backward against the pyramid, wrenching his arm from the vicelike jaws. He gasped in pain, struggling to remain conscious as a red haze drifted across his vision. He felt blood flowing into his lap, but only slowly came to realize the danger of his wound.

  Shaking his head to ward off the grogginess, Shatil climbed to his feet. Tearing a strip of cloth from his robe, he wrapped it around the bloody flesh of his wrist. Though the bandage quickly became sodden, he hoped it would stem the bleeding enough to allow him to move. He stumbled when he tried to walk, but slowly he managed to stagger out of the square.

  He saw that perhaps half the buildings in town had burned. Around him, in the remaining houses, slept the victors of the day's battle.

  If you could call it a battle, thought Shatil bitterly. His step grew stronger as he passed the last houses, striking out on the road to Nexal. Thousands of Mazticans had already fled this way, and doubtless Naltecona had been told of the battle. But Shatil had a mission of his own. He had the scroll that he needed to give to Hoxitl, patriarch of Zaltec in the city of Nexal.