Ironhelm

IMPRISONED

The desert stretched in all directions, bleak, dry, and hot. Where once Poshtli had seen a myriad of wondrous colors, hues of gold and red and brown in a million varieties of shadow and light, now he saw only emptiness, wasteland, and death.

His waterskin had been empty for days. No stranger to the desert, the Eagle Knight had survived by hacking the plump cactus known as the Sand Mother wherever he could find it. The sweet moisture within the plant had sustained him until the desert became so dry that even the Sand Mother could not live.

Poshtli's eagle-feather mantle spread around him as he slumped to the ground. He squeezed a handful of powdery rock, crushing it into sand as if he would force water from the stones. He began to wonder, for the first time, if the desert had defeated him.

The eagle feathers, black and white… now covered with dust, they could spread into wings and carry him from this place of death and despair. He shook his head weakly.

No! he thought determinedly. I have set out on foot, and on foot I will complete this journey. The god, the Plumed Father himself, had spoken to Poshtli in a dream, commending him to this quest. Somehow he would find the silver wheel, the artifact that might explain the meaning of the strangers' coming. If they did not herald the return of Qotal, their arrival still was a thing of great significance to the True World.

It was Poshtli's mission to find that truth, to learn the nature of that significance. How he would learn it, and if he would even survive his quest, were just now points of some doubt. Then the rocks began to talk.

The longboat slipped through the darkness to nestle against the seaward side of the Falcon. A dark figure grabbed a line and quickly pulled himself onto the deck. He nodded curtly at the legionnaires guarding the ship and went to the door of the forward cabin.

Bishou Domincus opened the door in a wash of candlelight. He admitted the visitor and then quickly closed the portal, darkening the deck.

"So good of you to come, Captain" greeted the Bishou, pouring two glasses of brandy.

"I got your message. What do you want?" grunted Alvarro.

The Bishou frowned, his long face creasing unpleasantly. He narrowed his eyes as he handed Alvarro a glass. "I fear that justice may not be served in a certain case of treason within the legion."

Alvarro's gapped teeth split into a sly grin of understanding. "Go on," he urged.

"You are in a position to benefit from swift justice in the case in question, and I desire such justice to be done. Believe me when I tell you that you owe command of the lancers to my intervention and strong recommendation."

Now Alvarro's red beard twisted into a frown. He did not like this turn in the conversation, and the Bishou immediately changed his tactics.

"If Halloran were to meet his end aboard ship, before his trial — while I am safely ashore, with Cordell — I can ensure that the investigation into the… execution would be minimal."

Alvarro turned and paced two steps in the small cabin, then turned back. "I want more than revenge. I want gold," he hissed.

"I'm certain that we can agree upon a price," replied the Bishou.

The featherbanners streamed in the air, lifted by pluma into a weightless colorful cloud over the army of Payit. The whole plain of Ulatos became a sea of shades and hues. Great fans swirled over the most important leaders, the chiefs of a thousand men. From all the lands of the Payit, from the depths of the jungles and the breadth of the wide coastal savannah, the warriors gathered on the field beside Ulatos Lagoon.

Gultec stood at the heart of the gathering with several other Jaguar Knights, on the flat roof of the large house they had claimed as their meeting place. The whistles and shell trumpets of different bands shrilled and honked in the growing twilight, and new arrivals often marched in under torchlight, advancing like slow, flaming serpents from the surrounding jungles.

It made the knight uneasy, this gathering of the entire army in the open, a mile from the camp of the strangers. Dense jungle and the mangaroo swamp of the delta surrounded them, and Gultec knew they could conceal ten thousand men or more close to the enemy route of advance. But Caxal, the Revered Counselor, flushed with his insulted pride, had ordered otherwise.

The enemy forces had quickly come ashore in their longboats, deploying into companies and advancing a hundred yards from shore. For some moments, it had seemed that they intended to attack at nightfall, a tactic unthinkable to Gultec and the other warriors of Maztica. But now it seemed as if the strangers, like normal men, would wait until sunrise to fight.

Fires marked the scope of his army's camp, and Gultec indeed felt a surge of pride as he saw the vast mass of warriors across the plain. Twenty-five thousandmen, each composed of ten companies of a hundred, had answered the alarm of invasion. They were all independent formations, each commanded by a highly ranked Jaguar or Eagle. Each hundredmen included an auxiliary force of perhaps a half-dozen Eagles or Jaguars, knights who had proven exceptional valor in many campaigns.

Some bands were armed with bows and arrows, others with slings. These they would position carefully to bombard the enemy. Then the many thousands with javelins or macas would close to complete the capture.

At least, that was the plan.

Erix walked quickly among the fields, passing the houses of farmers. She did not want to go to Ulatos, but neither did she want to sleep on the shore of some canal.

A plump woman patted mayzcakes before one of the residences she passed. It was a small house, adjacent to a narrow canal. But it was freshly whitewashed, and the green fronds of the roof shone with bright freshness. The woman waved cheerily, and Erix waved back and smiled. She hesitated, and the gray-haired matron called her over.

"I am Tzilla," she explained, nodding politely as Erix introduced herself. "Why is a pretty girl like you walking alone at such an hour?" Tzilla asked. Her tone was teasing, but Erix sensed real concern in her voice.

"I am alone here, and I seek a place to sleep."

"My house is your house, my daughter," said Tzilla formally. "Will you share my table?"

"I would be honored, mother" Erix replied gladly. In moments, Tzilla put her to work stirring the beans bubbling in a clay pot among the coals of a fire. The woman sliced peppers and tomatoes, and soon the pair sat comfortably on reed mats and ate a delicious meal.

Erix was surprised that they were joined by neither Tzilla's husband nor anyone else. "Forgive my impertinence, but you have a very large house. Are you here alone?"

Tzilla looked surprised. "My husband and sons gather with their hundredmen on the plain before Ulatos. Have you not heard?"

"Of the strangers? To be sure. I have seen them."

"But you do not know," said Tzilla with a sly look, "that the warriors of Payit have gathered on the plain, very near the strangers. Our army will destroy them tomorrow!"

Erix's face betrayed her shock even before she stammered a reply. "So… soon? There will be battle tomorrow?" The thought of the battle at Twin Visages, multiplied a hundredfold, chilled her.

Tzilla nodded sagely, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "These strangers are great savages! They attacked a group of priests on the shore. They kidnap our women! They fight like demons, but they are men and can be killed."

Erix sat stunned at the swift outburst of rumor. "All of the men of Ulatos, and those within a day's march in all directions, have gathered here! Never has the Payit nation put together such a force!" Tzilla talked on, detailing the pageantry and colors.

But Erixitl had trouble listening. She remembered the metal armor that shattered spears, the silver weapons that cleaved shield and bone like grass. She saw the savage faces of the legionnaires, their tight discipline. She remembered a bare two dozen slaying hundreds of Payit.

Suddenly Tzilla's description faltered as she described the pluma banner depicting a green parrot, the symbol of a nearby village.

"I'm sorry," Erix said, noticing the woman looking absently at the dough before her. Tzilla shook her head, and Erix saw tears in the woman's eyes.

"I babble like an old woman, and I'm far from an old woman yet!" Tzilla forced herself to laugh, but the sound was hollow and she quickly gave up. "I am so terribly frightened!"

"I am, too," Erix said. "I was hoping there could be peace. I wanted to make peace!"

"It is too late," sighed Tzilla. She looked at Erixitl with surprise as the younger woman climbed to her feet. "Where are you going?"

"I must go to the army!" Erix cried, suddenly infused with an idea. Perhaps it was not too late! Perhaps tomorrow does not have to be a day of war!

"Don't be a madwoman!" Tzilla seemed truly alarmed. "Caxal is determined to avenge the insult to his priests! And Gultec, who commands the men of Ulatos, is said to be eager for a fight. The armies will be in a frenzy of dancing tonight. The gods themselves couldn't stop that battle."

"I know of Gultec," admitted Erixitl, suddenly feeling foolish. "He is certainly the most fearsome warrior I have ever seen…"

She trailed off, guilty with the lie, remembering Halloran and his legion. Yet there was no need to terrify this woman with tales of the deadly enemy who faced her husband and sons. At the same time, she sensed the futility of her mission. Gultec would merely turn her over to the priests of Zaltec, and the battle would proceed.

"No matter, for tonight," soothed Tzilla. "We can only pray to our gods, and what the gods will, shall be."

The heavy door slammed. Halloran collapsed glumly against the wooden bulkhead in the bilge of the Falcon, his shoulders slumped to keep his head from knocking against the low ceiling beams. The chains around his wrists and ankles chafed, holding him upright, his arms shackled to the wall.

But he took no notice of his physical pain. Far more grievous was the spiritual hurt, the sense of betrayal that had numbed all other sensations and left his soul teetering beside a yawning black chasm of despair. The legion was his home, his family… even his life! And now it had turned upon him, condemned him for a falsehood that Cordell could not help but recognize.

My general! How could you do this to me? Then his emotions surged through his body, tearing tears from his eyes and sobs from his throat. Hanging limply from his chains, he wept until he could find no more tears.

The soft swaying of the carrack at anchor slowly soothed him. The stink of bilgewater thickened the air around him, and finally he began to take note of his surroundings.

It must be dark now, he guessed. Thin beams of light filtered into his cell through cracks in the floorboards above him, but it seemed more like lamplight than daylight. His tiny compartment offered no amenities, not even a wooden bench. The manacles had been screwed directly into the timber behind him.

The feeling of hopelessness left him exhausted. What good were his struggles when the capriciousness of fate could place him in circumstances like these?

"A curse upon Helm!" he hissed. The gods, he saw, were nothing more than man's excuses, his reasons for doing things terrible and inhuman. Vain, unpredictable and ever-changing, the gods were no source of comfort to him.

A man needed something more real, Hailoran saw. Something tangible, like the strength of his arm or the keen edge of his steel. Even the arcane power of magic was something real, something that could be counted on, even when things were blackest. A god might as soon turn his back upon a follower as listen to his troubles.

Hal thought again of his magic studies under Arquiuius, which seemed like a lifetime ago. What were those strange words he had drilled on so hard to learn, the words of the magic missile spell? He shook his head ruefully. Spells and weapons were as useless as the gods to him now. He was left with his wits, and his wits didn't seem to be functioning at the highest level.

Hesitantly he jerked his arm, wincing against the pain in his raw wrist. But the chain moved! Again and again he tugged, ignoring the blood that now spattered across his skin from the chafing. The bolt had been sunk into the wood between two beams, a very insecure arrangement! Now he finally pulled it free.

He looked at the metal cuff and saw that it closed with a simple latch, impossible to open with the cuffed hand but no obstacle to a man with one hand free. In seconds he unlocked both of his wrist irons, and his ankles followed shortly thereafter.

Dimly he heard the creaking of longboats, the gentle thump of wood against the Falcon's hull. He heard the soft nickering of horses, and he knew that the legion was debarking its lancers. The ache returned to his heart when he realized they would ride to battle without him on the morrow. He remembered Alvarro's gloating grin as the chains had been locked around Hal's limbs. What would be the fate of his beloved lancers under such brutal command?

The light filtering through the overhead beams suddenly disappeared. He heard a cabin door close above, and he noticed that the ship had become perceptibly quieter. Most of the legion must already be ashore.

But what could he do now? He was slightly more comfortable, to be sure, and the exertion of escaping from his irons had distracted him from his despair. Halloran slumped against the bulkhead and thought.

Could he betray the orders of his general? Wasn't it enough that he had been sentenced to this cell? If he escaped, then he truly would be a deserter, worthy of every epithet in the Bishou's vocabulary.

His reverie jerked to a halt as he heard a soft noise. There it was again — a subtle click of metal, coming from the door to his cell. Someone's turning a key in the lock… and he's doing it secretly.

For a moment, his heart lifted with the thought of escape. Then caution took over, and he quickly leaned against the wall, feigning his shackled position. The door swung open, and he caught the unmistakable odor of a horseman. The man stepped into the cell and then closed and locked the door behind him.

Alvarro unshuttered a lamp very slightly, but it was enough to fill the cabin with light. The man's red hair looked black in the shadows, but the dagger in his hand gleamed like true steel.

"You'll die unmourned, traitor!" he hissed, thrusting the dagger toward Hal's chest, knowing his victim was shackled to the wall.

Hal dodged the thrust and punched Alvarro, hard, on the nose. His left fist knocked a precious tooth from the man's already shrunken gums, and the attacker slumped, unconscious, to the deck.

Alvarro's gloved hand fell open, and Hal glimpsed a small key. He grabbed for it, but his aim was errant in the dim light, and the object fell to the floor, slipping between two planks into the bilge before he could catch it.

With a hushed groan, Halloran slumped against the bulkhead. The sudden tingle of victory in mortal combat quickly faded in light of the lost key. And even if he had the key, he wondered, could he bring himself to flee the legion? Where could he go?

But if he stayed, he became Domincus's prisoner, a sop thrown to the cleric by Cordell in compensation for the loss of his daughter. Now he knew the nature of that compensation, and though he had foiled one murderous attempt, how long would his luck last?

The answer was obvious. Perhaps if he could escape, he might even find some way of proving his worth to Cordell. To stay here meant certain death. He picked up Alvarro's knife and stuffed it into his belt. He found a pouch full of gold coins at the man's waist, taking it as just punishment.

Next he examined the door to his cell, finding it locked securely. He had no skill, and no tools to even attempt to pry open the lock.

He bumped his head and suddenly remembered the cracks in the overhead bulkhead. Perhaps the low ceiling might prove to be an asset. Stepping over Alvarro's unconscious body, he felt along the boards. There! What was that? With a careful examination with his fingertips, he recognized the shape of a latch, and soon he had traced the outline of a trapdoor beside it.

It took but a minute to release the catch. Halloran then pushed upward with all of his strength, but he could not make the wooden platform move. Collapsing against the bulkhead, he stared upward in mute frustration. He sensed freedom, if he could but push his way up and out of here.

Awkwardly he braced his feet against the hull and his back against the inside wall. Lifting himself off the floor, he pressed against the trapdoor again, but again it would not move. Angrily he punched the wood, bruising his knuckles. But that time he felt something move. Pushing again, he felt the trapdoor move heavily upward. It had been stuck, the wood moist and moldy with age, and his blow had broken it free. Grunting from the energy of his exertion, he pulled himself upward and squirmed from beneath the trapdoor.

He felt something smothering his face, but he quickly realized that he had emerged underneath a rug. Crawling forward a few feet, he at last felt cool air on his face. In an instant, he pulled free of the rug and stood up, looking about the small cabin.

He found the porthole and threw open the hatch. Harsh white moonlight instantly spilled through the opening, lighting the inside of the cabin. Halloran knew immediately that this was the cabin of the elf-wizard, Darien.

A crowded desk was covered with sheaves of parchment and scrolls. Many candles stood in holders around the room. A small chest on the floor stood open, and within it, he saw the tops of a dozen or more glass vials.

The most interesting feature of the room was the porthole. He estimated that he could squirm through the opening with little difficulty, dropping into the warm water eight or ten feet below. His plan developed quickly: He would swim to shore and find the legion, concealing himself until the battle. Then he would await the proper opportunity to enter the fight and redeem himself.

Of course, that opportunity might not be instantly forthcoming. He suddenly realized that he might be stranded ashore for some time before he would have a chance to confront Cordell under the right circumstances. He would have to prepare for that event.

A bundle of leather caught his eye, and he hefted it, finding a sturdy backpack with a heavy reinforced panel in the bottom. Suppressing a guilty twinge, he took several bottles from the chest of vials, hoping that he could decipher the labels in daylight. He knew enough of magic potions to know that those bottles, if his suspicions were correct, might save his life.

He searched for food but found nothing he could take as rations. He did not want to emerge from the cabin to search the rest of the ship, so he decided to make do with what food he could find ashore. He did find a length of rope and a blanket, both of which he stuffed into the backpack.

Finally he found a large leather bladder, designed to hold water or wine. But it would hold air just as well, and he hung it outside the porthole and inflated it.

Holding the backpack and bladder outside the porthole, he pushed himself forward, twisting slightly to get his broad shoulders through the opening. His legs followed easily, and he slid awkwardly down the hull, striking the water with a loud splash.

For several minutes, he bobbed in the shadow of the high stern, certain the noise of his fall would attract attention. But no sound disturbed the darkness above. In the distance, he could hear the sounds of the legion settling into camp — the barking of hounds, the shouts of officers, the curses of sergeants, and the crude laughter of the men.

Halloran turned away from that sound as he swam across the placid lagoon. Ahead of him beckoned the line of mangaroo trees that marked the edge of Ulatos Delta.

Erix slept lightly on the pallet Tzilla provided, not through any lack of comfort but because of a nagging restlessness that allowed her no peace. She arose before dawn, washing quietly in the clear canal beside the house. She wrapped her mantle around her shoulders and was starting past the house when she heard movement.

"Here, my daughter," Tzilla whispered, stepping out of the doorway to press a heavy bundle in Erixitl's hands. She felt the pliable softness of mayzcakes and smelled spicy beans.

"Thank you, my mother," she replied, drawing a warm pleasure from the ritual exchange between a young woman and a matron.

"Travel well and swiftly, girl. These are troubled days in the land of the Payit. May your god watch over you!"

Erix bowed deeply. "Your kindness is blessing enough. I hope your husband and sons return from the battle unwounded and with many prisoners."

She started down the trail in the first light of dawn. The mist still filtered among the palms lining the trail and the clumps of mangaroo trees to her right. She skirted the swamp of the delta, then turned westward before she reached Ulatos. She wanted to witness the plain, with its great and irresistible array of military splendor, before she returned again to the great city of the Payit.

Passing between the city and the mangaroos, she noticed that the mist had dispersed. Then she saw a haze of color before her, and she knew she had found the armies on the Ulatos Plain.

She could see little of the troops themselves, for the slowly undulating ground concealed them. But to her left, the air was aflutter with brilliant feather streamers, the whirling fans of pluma, and the great banners of the war chiefs. To her right, she saw the pennants and flags of the strangers, smaller in number and less colorful to be sure, but just as martial.

Then the sounds of trumpets and conch-shell horns, whistles and shouts, the clashing of spears against shields as the Payits thundered the challenge, all echoed across the clearing. Erix settled down to wait, noticing that the field was fringed with many other people, old folks, some women, and a few youths not quite old enough to serve as apprentice warriors. All had come in curiosity or fascination to see the strangers and watch the Payit army destroy them.

And then the pennants and flags began to move.

From the chronicles of Colon:

In the hope of the Plumed Father's return, may he know the depths of our need!

Now does Naltecona fast again. He makes many sacrifices at dusk and plans many more for the dawn. All of his sages hold their tongues, and none dares offer counsel.

The Revered Counselor awaits the decision before Ulatos, with a sense of calm that has previously eluded him. But he has convinced himself of his own truth with single-minded determination, and he will allow the battle to determine his mind.

His decision is based on two points. Each is simple, and each is so deeply ingrained in Naltecona's mind that none can offer the slightest voice of dissent, save upon penalty of his life.

If the strangers are destroyed, they cannot be gods.

If the strangers destroy the Payit, Naltecona will know their godhood. Then will he prepare to welcome Qotal back to his ancestral throne.

Ulatos and Helmsport