Ironhelm

SACRIFICE

Butterflies of every size and color fluttered in a wicker cage of the finest reeds. Coton, Silent Patriarch of Qotal, carried the cage up the steps of the pyramid. His other hand held a colorful array of blossoms, still smelling of moist earth. Although a litter of pluma rested beside the base of the pyramid of Qotal, Coton preferred to climb the stairs on his own.

Besides, this structure was not nearly as lofty as the Great Pyramid, which supported the temples of Zaltec, Calor, and Tezca. Coton soon reached the top, and here he set the cage on the white quartz block that was his altar. The stone gleamed in the light of the noon sun.

The pyramid raised the lone cleric high above the houses of Nexal, and he allowed his gaze to linger in each of the four directions. Toward each side of the table-sized altar he laid an assortment of colorful blossoms. Then he raised the door on the cage.

One after another, the butterflies fluttered from the cage, bouncing erratically through the air, climbing away from the pyramid. Butterflies of every bright hue imaginable took to the air. One by one they climbed into the sky, like a dazzling thread of color reaching from the altar to the heavens.

And then they were gone. Coton, his spirit tingling after the ceremony, quickly descended from the pyramid. He was not surprised to see Lord Poshtli waiting in the courtyard below.

Naltecona's nephew wore the full regalia entitled to him as an Eagle Warrior. His lower lip, drilled long ago, now held a plug of pure gold. His mantle and headdress blazed with a riotous array of plumage. New sandals covered his feet, bound all the way to his knees. A fan of pluma swirled over his head, shading him and ruffling his finery with a faint breeze.

"Coton of Qotal, I wish to speak to you. You know many things about the True World, and I know little. Perhaps all I know is that I need to learn."

The mute cleric paused for several seconds, studying the young lord. Poshtli had studied under Coton years ago, before the cleric had become a patriarch and taken his vow. The lad had been the brightest of Colon's students and a natural leader of the other, even bigger and stronger, boys. The priest of Qotal had been pleased to watch him grow to manhood.

Poshtli had shown the same sentiments for the cleric. Whereas most youths who aspired to warriorhood soon slashed their arms in penance and sought captives for the altar of Zaltec, Poshtli had turned instead to the path of the Plumed God. He sought the Eagle Knighthood, highest and most exalted military order of all Maztica.

The Jaguar Knights all followed Zaltec because the hishna magic of the claw required blood sacrifice, and without this power the Jaguar Knight was nothing. Warriors of the Eagle creed, however, could worship the god of their choice, and many chose Qotal. But the many years of study, the harsh tests — both mental and physical — and the rigorous discipline caused nine of ten aspiring Eagles to fall short of their lofty goal.

Even among such as these, Poshtli shone as a man of exceptional skill, valor, and intelligence. He had captured many prisoners in battle, prisoners who gave their hearts to the altars of Zaltec or were sold into slavery in the great plaza. Recently he had commanded the army of Nexal on a mission of reconquest: the subject state of Pezelac — a valuable source of obsidian, salt, and gold — had shown signs of rebellion. Poshtli's army had done a prompt job of punishing the rebellious elements while swiftly resuming the tribute paid by Pezelac to Nexal.

Now Colon sensed that the lord faced a crucial choice. Though the cleric could not speak to him, he could still listen.

"My uncle, the great Naltecona, has become the greatest of the great." Poshtli spoke softly. "He is mightier than any counselor in the long history of Nexal. Never have our people collected such tribute, held sway over such vast regions."

Cotton nodded. He knew Poshtli to be a brave warrior, but also unusually perceptive. He displayed a sense of thoughtful deliberation that Colon found exceedingly rare in the younger warriors. The cleric waited for the warrior to continue.

"Our city grows daily, claiming more and more land from the waters as the floating gardens extend their reach. More treasure, more cocoa and mayz and feathers — and more gold — all flow into mighly Nexal, Heart of the True World. More hearts are offered in sacrifice to Zallec than ever before.

"Yet you, Colon, you come here and you release your butterflies. You place your blossoms and say nolhing." Poshtli's eyes did not waver from the cleric's steady gaze.

"You say nothing because you show us much, and yet we fail lo understand." Something — could it be assent? — colored Colon's eyes. "You show us, I think, what we once were and what we might be again. You show us, and we fail to see.

"Now, Coton, I have had a dream. I believe this dream is a vision from Qotal, and so I go to seek the will of the god." Poshtli paced slowly, carefully remembering the details he related to the mute cleric.

"I dreamed of a vast desert, a desert that included Nexal! I crossed the desert on foot, suffering from heat and sun, lacking water. Then suddenly I was surrounded by little men, and these men had a great wheel of silver." Poshtli noticed that Colon's eyebrows raised slightly at his description.

"In the wheel, I saw the reflection of a feathered snake, a long, sinuous thing of brilliant plumage and great wisdom. And this snake was the voice of Qotal! I am certain of it!"

Poshtli remained silent for many minutes, patiently regarded by Coton. Finally he looked up and spoke.

"I will leave Nexal in search of this truth. Perhaps it lies with the strangers. I have seen them, flown above them, as they come to shore in Payit. Perhaps it lies somewhere in between our ways and theirs, or perhaps I may not find it at all." Poshtli stared straight into Colon's eyes. "But I must find this silver wheel!"

Colon's eyes flickered upward, to the clear blue sky. The cleric's gaze flickered once to the south, then again focused vacantly in the distance. Poshtli saw the guidance in the gesture.

"I will walk. My feet, not my wings, will carry me through the True World — perhaps to this knowledge that still eludes me, perhaps not.

"But I will find it, or die in the attempt."

Daggrande imagined the salt spray eating at the steel, corroding the gleaming sheen of his helmet, pocking the flawless metal of his breastplate, even gnawing at the blade of his short sword. He led a troop of two dozen legionnaires, a mixed band armed with crossbows and swords, toward the top of the stone stairway. Halloran and Martine had disappeared somewhere above some few minutes earlier.

"Damn that woman anyway!" he grumbled to himself. "Now Cordell tells me to follow Martine, to 'keep an eye on her'!.What am I, a nursemaid?" Daggrande suspected, of course, that the Bishou had a hand in the order. The dwarf had seen Domincus glowering after his daughter and Halloran when the two had started up the bluff.

"I thought the kid had more brains than that," he complained. "Course, he's only a human, but I expected more from him."

Abruptly Daggrande ceased his musings, becoming every inch the warrior. He could not define what aroused him, whether it was the scent of blood, the faint sound of combat, or something more primeval, but he instantly signaled his crossbowmen to raise their deadly weapons.

The dwarven veteran stepped carefully up the last few stairs. He saw the top of the bluff, a brushy strip along the escarpment backed by dense rain forest perhaps a hundred paces beyond.

Daggrande moved carefully onto the brushy plain, crouching, with his crossbow held ready. With the same care, he ordered his men off the stairway, deploying them in a semicircle as they reached the top.

Daggrande could see no sign of human presence save the squat pyramid a mile or so down the coast. He spent no time wondering where Martine, Hal, and the swordsmen had gone. Instead, he quickly turned the formation to the right, toward the pyramid, forming a skirmish line a hundred paces long. The legionnaires started to march, probing the brush as they advanced.

In another minute, they found the bodies.

Erixitl watched breathlessly, frozen in the minimal safety of a clump of bushy ferns. She saw the high priest who would have slain her leading the way, his gaunt and bony form plunging recklessly forward. He was followed by his apprentices and a company of warriors. Erix saw the prisoners, including the young woman tied just as Erix herself had been, with blindfold and gag and hands bound before her.

Most curious of all was the shining warrior who stumbled along behind the woman, neither gagged nor blindfolded. His silver shirt, she saw, was a solid piece of metal, and she knew it must be unbelievably heavy.

"Him you must rescue," came the supple voice at her ear, and she barely suppressed a scream of shock.

"Chitikas!" she gasped as the downy serpent slithered from the undergrowth to gather in a soft coil beside her. Though this was only the second time she had seen the creature, she felt a sense of joy at his arrival, as if she had just found her oldest, wisest friend. Suddenly she questioned her reaction. She gazed frankly at the winged snake. "Tell me, what's happening? Why has the priest taken that strange woman and the warrior?"

"He takes the woman, thinking she is you, to the altar of Zaltec for sacrifice."

She turned to the procession in disbelief. "How can he think she is me? We have different skins, our hair is not alike, nothing — "

"The power of plurrta hazes his eyes." Chitikas fluttered his great wings easily, and it seemed to Erix that the gesture resembled a human chuckle. "Seeing you, the cleric moves to obey his god."

Erix remembered the greeting Chitikas had given her. "You said I must rescue him. Why? And how? What do you mean?"

The snake dipped his head, flickering his tongue back and forth before him. "This I command you, to rescue him, in return for which I save your life, for the priest thinks it is you he slays. He will seek you no more."

"No!" Erix whispered fiercely, straining to control her disbelief. "I'm not your slave, and I will not do your bidding! I escaped by myself, with no help from you! So you can change her back into herself if you want and let the priest come after me! You cannot order me to obey!"

"I cannot." Chitakas swayed his head slowly, almost mournfully. "It is the will of the gods."

"Gods? What gods? Zaltec, perhaps? Or his children, Azul or Red Tezca?" Erix's voice rose in pitch, but fortunately the procession had moved past them and disappeared into the jungle. She could not avoid a tone of scorn. "What have those gods ever done for me besides crave my heart on a stone altar?"

"There are more gods than you name. You have been the beneficiary of great attention." Chitikas now looked at her sternly, but she met his snaky stare with a proud glare of her own.

"Perhaps Qotal, the Silent Counselor himself, now deigns to speak to me, a slave girl and fugitive! Everyone knows he only talks to his highest priests, and only after they vow not to talk to anyone else!"

Chitikas lowered his head, and for the first time, Erix saw a hint of menace in the long creature's posture. His yellow eyes stared upward without blinking. "Believe as you will," he hissed softly, "but you must pay heed."

"I will leave you now!" Erix stood angrily, challenging the feathered snake to stop her.

"Very well," whispered Chitikas. With a single beat of his wings, the snake darted into the air, swirling among the dense tree trunks and almost instantly disappearing from sight.

Still glaring, Erix watched the flying serpent vanish. Then she whirled and started to move through the jungle on her own. She did not notice that she again followed the path of the priest and his prisoners.

Halloran stumbled down the jungle trail in a daze. Martine lurched ahead, beyond his reach or ability to comfort. He knew four brave men lay dead behind them. The prisoners now marched in the middle of the procession of warriors and priests, with two brawny spearmen flanking each of the captives.

Martine! How could this happen? He groaned inwardly, racked with despair. A small part of him wanted to rail angrily at her, for it had been her stubbornness that had gotten them captured. But mostly he remembered the look of stark terror on her face as the priests had seized and bound her. That part of him remained torn by guilt and inadequacy. He had failed!

The time before their capture, bare minutes ago, seemed as if it were another lifetime. He remembered the leering faces of the natives. The trio in the leopardskin cloaks, their faces framed by the widespread jaws of their helms, had looked the most bizarre, but the ash-streaked priest, with his twisted, fanatical grin, had been the most frightening.

The natives had been very curious about them. Immediately after their capture, Hal's steel breastplate in particular had received a great deal of attention, since many a spear or stone-bladed sword had smashed against it during the fight. The huge, scowling warrior wearing the spotted skin and skull scrutinized him with particular interest, poking the armor with his fingers, taking and keeping Hal's keen longsword. The breastplate and his steel cap with its upturned brim remained with him, however.

They had left the bodies of the swordsmen and natives on the field where they had fallen. Two of the three spotted warriors, as well as several dozen spearmen, had perished in the fight. Halloran deduced that the spotted warrior and the priest had disagreed about leaving the bodies behind, for the pair had spoken with great animation before leaving. Apparently the priest had prevailed.

Hal's mind whirled with images of disaster, and he still could not fully comprehend how quickly catastrophe had overtaken them. For what terrible purpose had they been taken captive? Of the pair, only Martine had been gagged and blindfolded. Hal thus suspected that the woman was earmarked for some special purpose, a thought that made his blood run cold.

"Martine!" he ventured to call out once, his voice a probing whisper. He saw the woman's back stiffen before him, and then his skull shuddered under the impact of a heavy cuff.

The warrior behind him growled, grabbing Hal's arm and pushing him along roughly. The spearman pressed his hand over Halloran's mouth, and the captain understood the meaning clearly.

The stifling heat of late afternoon finally began to break as a slight breeze stirred the foliage. A solid blanket of limbs and leaves blocked out any view of the sky, and Halloran had no idea as to the direction they traveled. The jungle trail twisted and turned so chaotically that he was certain they must have backtracked over their own path several times. However, something about the leopardskin-clad warrior — the man who obviously commanded the column, though he deferred slightly to the black-robed priest — made Hal certain that they were not lost.

Slowly the captain's mind started to work again as he reminded himself that inaction meant certain disaster. What can I do? His brain recoiled from the prospects of extended captivity, or worse, among these…

He didn't know what to make of his captors. They exhibited a higher level of military skill than the legion had encountered in any of the natives the expedition had met thus far. Indeed, Hal noted as he strained against the constricting snakeskin thong that still held his arms, these people used magic and fought in large, disciplined formations. Furthermore, the twin faces carved on the cliff and the pyramid atop the bluff bespoke of greater building skills than previously seen.

Still, the black-robed madman had attacked with a primitive savagery that chilled Halloran. His blood-caked hair, cadaverous features, and filthy aspect were unspeakably grotesque — Were all of these people so bloodthirsty, so fanatical?

This is worse than the foul beast that devoured Arquiuius, he told himself, as his thoughts leaped unbidden to that previously darkest day of his life. That disaster had motivated him to abandon his former life of arcane study and depend upon the strength of his arm and the keen steel of his sword.

Now his arms were bound behind him, and his sword was carried by another man, an enemy. For a fleeting moment, he regretted the completeness with which he had abandoned his studies. Even a swordsman could possibly use the help of a subtle magic spell now and then. Even so, he was hard-pressed to imagine how his limited assortment of spells might have aided him here.

A sharp tug on the rope brought his attention back to reality. He felt a cool breeze against his face, and the smell of the sea told him they had turned back toward the coast. The verdant canopy overhead blocked out direct sunlight, but he realized that it was nearing sunset. Somehow that fact struck him as significant.

Halloran thought again of his magic studies. He had mastered several spells, but those incantations were simply a blur of vague images now. He shook his head, wondering why he so suddenly dwelled on a time of his life that he had buried for more than ten years.

Suddenly the procession halted as they broke into a clearing in the jungle. Rough hands threw Hal to the ground. From his awkward position, Halloran saw the spearmen dispersing through the jungle. He observed several casting their javelins and then rushing quickly and silently forward.

In moments, the two prisoners were hustled into the clearing, and Hal saw the small pyramid they had first observed from the ship. Three legionnaires lay dead at the base of the structure. Obviously Cordell's first scouts had reached the pyramid only to die in this surprise attack.

The priests quickly herded Halloran and Martine toward the pyramid. The leading cleric started up the steep steps, and the warriors and apprentices prodded the captives along behind.

To the west, the sun touched the treetops. With an unconscious shudder, Hal realized that it would set in minutes.

"Tell Cordell there's been an attack… four scouts killed. Can't see Hal or the Bishou's daughter," Daggrande barked at the swordsman, who nodded quickly. "We'll try to pick up the trail."

The man started down the stairway toward the beach far below, shouting for attention, but the dwarf had already turned his men toward the jungle.

"Grabert, you worked with the rangers, right?" Daggrande asked one of the swordsmen in his detachment. When the man nodded, the dwarf continued. "Take the lead. See if you can pick up their trail."

Even as the ranger turned to follow the tracks that had battered the ground in the clearing, Daggrande shouted orders to the rest of his legionnaires.

"Here it is, Captain. They headed into the jungle," Grabert quickly announced. Immediately the troops fell into column.

Daggrande placed two crossbowmen immediately behind Grabert, followed by himself and then staggered pairs of crossbow and sword to the final swordsman bringing up the rear. The native war party had left a wide trail, and the ranger had no difficulty following the spoor. Thus the column marched quickly through the dense jungle.

Daggrande stepped quickly but quietly, ignoring the heavy, humid heat. His breastplate rested comfortably on his shoulders, and his heavy boots tromped through the brush, impervious to thorn and thistle.

The dwarf cast a quick look to the rear and saw that his legionnaires marched at full alert. The group included a half-dozen dwarves, and Daggrande knew that humans and dwarves alike were all steady veterans, brave and skilled fighters.

But he wondered what they marched against. And a small, reluctant part of him wondered what had become of Halloran.

Daggrande worked hard to keep that part of him quiet, for he considered such overwrought concern for a companion to be dangerous to his objectivity as a commander. Nevertheless, he could not deny the fear that threatened to become panic whenever he thought of his young protege in the hands of savage tribesmen.

Idly he noticed that it was almost twilight.

"Come on, by Zaltec, move!" Gultec roared at the column of spearmen that slowly worked its way along the jungle trail. The Payit army, a hundred hundredmen strong, had started from Ulatos shortly before dusk. The serpentine columns marched slowly by Gultec's standards, but still the thousands of warriors maintained a steady trot along the network of winding jungle trails converging at Twin Visages.

Now the Jaguar Knight stood in the shadows beside the path, watching the warriors jog past. Each group of hundredmen wore its own distinctive feather headdress, each group's a different color. The natives carried javelins and spear casters that enabled the warrior to throw the weapon much farther than a bare-handed toss. Some wielded heavy wooden clubs, and many — the veteran warriors — carried heavy, obsidian-edged macas.

The Payit army moved smoothly, two abreast, but Gultec still felt a vague unease. Certainly they would outnumber the strangers, but the appearance of these newcomers was so unusual and their equipment seemed so mighty that Gultec could not feel utterly confident about fighting them. Then again, perhaps the encounter would not come to battle.

Suddenly a figure joined Gultec beside the trail, and he turned to see the rotund cleric Kachin studying him. The man's gray hair, still tied in a single knot, hung over his shoulder and down to his belt. The Jaguar Knight felt a momentary urge to turn into the jungle, to vanish in his feline form. Instead, he met the gaze of the cleric squarely.

"There is hesitation all around," remarked Kachin casually. "No one, not even the Revered Counselor of Ulatos, Caxal himself, knows what to make of these visitors. Do they invade us, Gultec?" The Jaguar Knight studied the cleric as the man spoke, puzzling over his simple white mantle, protruding belly, and round face. He looked so unusual, not at all like the filthy, emaciated clerics of the younger gods. Gultec found it hard to believe that this man could truly be religious.

"They are very strange in appearance, and they move as warriors." The Jaguar Knight thought carefully as he answered. "I suspect they do not come in friendship."

"Caxal is worried that these strangers are the harbingers of Qotal himself, that the Feathered One returns to Maztica at Twin Visages, even as was prophesied." Kachin spoke ironically, and Gultec regarded the cleric of Qotal curiously. It was not at all like a priest to speak in such tones about his own god.

Kachin chuckled wryly. "I surprise you. I will tell you a thing, Jaguar Knight, and you should believe it. These men are not the servants of Qotal. Their vessels do not carry the Silent Counselor back to our shores."

"How can you know this?" Gultec demanded. "Have you seen them?"

"Do you think a priest of Qotal would not know if his True Master were even now awaiting a proper welcome?" Kachin looked harshly at Gultec, his stare making the warrior feel like a worm twisting on a dangling hook.

"Listen to me, Gultec! These are men, and they are dangerous men. It will be up to Payits such as you and me to make sure that their menace does not become our catastrophe!"

The knight regarded the cleric with growing respect. This man was very different from the weakling Mixtal. For a brief moment, Gultec regretted the training that had planted him among the Jaguar Knights, the worshipers of warlike Zaltec.

The cleric seemed to read his thoughts, for he said, not unkindly, "The glory of a god does not need to be measured by the pile of bodies heaped in his honor. This is the error of the younger gods, and their bloodlust may well cause the disaster that will destroy the True World."

Kachin's tone suddenly grew harsh — "I meant what I told you in Ulatos. If you or that knife-wielding 'priest' has slain the girl, Erixitl, I will exact retribution… in blood."

"Then why do you offer me counsel now?" snarled the knight.

"We face a more urgent challenge than our own quarrel," replied the cleric, and Gultec could sense the deep sincerity in Kachin's voice. "I fear that the future of the world we know is at stake." Kachin's voice hushed slightly, betraying his profound concern.

Gultec growled inaudibly. He did not seek the counsel of clerics, did not like it when it was offered. Yet there was something ultimately believable in this cleric that forced Gultec to respect him. He was clearly very wise, and his bravery could not be questioned either. Never had a cleric dared to speak to Gultec as this one had — and twice in one day! And if this cleric was frightened by the strangers, Gultec thought that they must be very dangerous indeed.

"Do not let her get away!" Mixtal admonished the four apprentices, each of whom held one of Martine's limbs. "She shall not escape us again!" The priest did not see the puzzled looks on the young clerics' faces, and they had given up trying to point out that the captive was other than the girl, Erix.

"Bring the man, too!" Mixtal gestured at Hal, and several warriors prodded the pair up the steep steps to the top of the pyramid. They swayed dangerously on the narrow ledges that served as stairs. Halloran wondered briefly if a fast, fatal fall might be preferable to whatever awaited them above.

Mixtal finally reached the top, where he threw his head back and laughed, delighted at last. He faced the setting sun, letting its rays fall over him as it touched the treetops. She will not escape me now! The Ancient Ones will be pleased!

He looked back at the assemblage, again cursing the haze that seemed to float eternally across his eyes. He looked to the sea. The strange winged objects seemed to be very far away, their shapes becoming shadows in the sunset.

Closer, his apprentices and the warriors gathered around the top of the pyramid. Why are they so somber? Mixtal squinted, but he could not quite see their faces… that accursed haze!

The apprentices pulled the blindfold from the girl's eyes and severed her bonds, jerking her toward the altar. She twitched and kicked, her eyes widening in terror, but the young men easily held her. Mixtal stared at the girl, at her coppery skin, her inky black tresses, all the details he saw and knew.

Everything became perfectly clear. Halloran's blood chilled at the sight of the grisly altar. The stone block was the size of a small table, and the red-black stains smearing its sides clearly indicated its function. The squatting beast statue, with its gaping maw, crouched beside the altar. Martine screamed, the sound barely stifled by the gag, as the priests seized her.

"No!" Hal screamed, twisting desperately in the grip of the two warriors. "By Helm, no!"

The high priest, his face distorted madly, turned toward the legionnaire. The man's matted hair hung in a ragged mane around his head as he held his right hand forward and slowly clenched it into a fist.

Halloran gasped as he felt the magical thong around him tighten, threatening to crush his ribs with the pressing force of his breastplate. His head throbbed and his vision grew red. His mouth worked reflexively, gasping for air that could find no space in his lungs.

The last of his breath emerged in a ragged groan as Hal slumped to his knees, struggling to remain conscious. The pressure on his body was about to crush him, and then suddenly it eased.

Halloran collapsed facefirst, paralyzed as his lungs sucked desperately needed air. Slowly he lifted himself to his hands and knees, and then the two warriors lifted him to his feet. They easily held him as he tried to lunge toward the altar.

He could not prevent the priests from stretching Martine backward across the altar. Her eyes turned toward him, widely staring, shocked.

"No!" He roared his rage again as two more warriors restrained him. Martine lay absolutely helpless. Halloran twisted, but he was powerless to intervene, powerless to do anything.

The high priest raised his hand, raised the stone dagger. For a moment, the dark gloss of obsidian caught the last rays of the sun, a glowing reflection of the rage and murderous hate burning in Halloran's eyes.

Then the blade dropped as the priest performed the act he had performed so many times before. Martine released one shocked, final gasp, while the apprentices held her firmly, allowing no twitch of movement. Mixtal's hand moved quickly and steadily, his cut swift and deep and sure.

And then the high priest held her heart in the air. It seemed to pulse in dying cadence to the fading light of the sun.