Viperhand

THE HOUSE OF TEZCA

Halloran felt certain they would die here in this miserable, waterless waste. The sun assaulted them from all sides, searing their skin, parching their dusty mouths, blinding their eyes with an unceasing glare.

His tongue swelling in his throat, Hal looked about, only dimly aware of the infernal surroundings. He and his two companions trudged wearily across the House of Tezca, the great desert named for Maztica's god of the sun. Harsh yellow shards of rock jutted from the sandy ground, and low, windswept ridges marked the horizon on all sides. In the far distance, purple mountains, capped with blinding snowfields, loomed against the skyline, taunting them with their unattainable promise of cool heights and rapid, icy streams.

Long since discarded, Halloran's steel helmet and breastplate were now lashed to the saddlebags of Storm, his once-proud war-horse. The sturdy charger plodded listlessly, sometimes tripping or stumbling. A few more hours without water, Halloran knew, and the steed would collapse.

Reluctantly, blinking against the pain, he looked to the man and the woman who were his companions. They, too, could last but a matter of hours unless they found water.

Poshtli, the Eagle Knight, seemed least affected. The proud warrior led the way, maintaining his steady stride across the rocky, undulating terrain of the desert. For days, Poshtli's strength had guided and propelled them. He had brought them to the desert — for good reasons, Hal understood — but now the torched landscape had become a trap. Burdened by this responsibility, the warrior drove himself mercilessly, leading the way without a backward look.

Erixitl, the beautiful young woman who had showed him so many wonders of her land, seemed but a distant memory to Hal now. It broke his heart to see her in this wasteland that must soon claim them all.

She looked at him now, her eyelids swollen by sun and dust. Her lips, cracked, sunburned, and bleeding, could no longer smile. She had not spoken since the merciless sun had risen uncounted hours earlier. If even her exuberant spirit had been broken, Halloran knew, their doom must be imminent.

For more countless hours, they marched, seeking shelter that could not be found. Their last water gone, consumed at the end of the previous day's march, they all understood that their only hope lay in continuous, desperate search.

"I have failed," Poshtli croaked finally as they crested yet another sharp, parched ridge. "It was a mistake to seek the desert dwarves. We would have done better to brave the lands of Pezelac and Nexal. There, at least, we would have found food and drink to sustain us."

Hal shook his head weakly. "But enemies, too. They would kill us before we could ever reach the city."

Erixitl stumbled past, as if she did not hear. But she did. She knew that she was the cause of their ill-chosen path, selected to avoid human habitation and the bloodthirsty priests who strived to place her litle body across a gruesome sacrificial altar. Every tiny village had a temple devoted to this god of war, and any one of the priests to be found there would strive mightily for the chance to offer this girl's heart to Zaltec. She did not know why the priests of Zaltec sought her death so unceasingly, but she understood that their hatred was implacable.

Before entering the desert, they had slain one of these agents of death — not a priest, but rather one of the black-robed leaders of the cult of Zaltec known as the Ancient Ones. Even the priests of Zaltec looked to the Ancient Ones for leadership and direction. Halloran had told her that these beings were known as drow, or dark elves, in other parts of the world. Everywhere — on the Sword Coast, in Maztica, or beneath the surface of the land — they were hateful and malicious.

But the drow represented only one of the enemy's tentacles. The savage priests of Zaltec, the god of war, sought Erix's heart for their bloodstained altars. And unlike the dark elves, the priests of Zaltec would be encountered in every town, every small village, that lay in their path.

Another cause of their flight lay in Hal's former comrades, now his enemies, who fought under the golden banner of Captain-General Cordell. The mercenaries of the Golden Legion had sailed from the Sword Coast, the most populous shore on the continent of Faerun, in search of the gold and spices of Kara-Tur. They had found, instead, this land called Maztica, where gold aplenty awaited their depredations.

But his former swordmates now sought Hal as a fugitive and traitor. Betrayed by Bishou Domincus, the dour cleric who spoke for the legion's warlike god, Hal had fled into the interior of this strange land. Pursued by the frightening elf-wizard Darien, Halloran knew that either the wizard or the cleric would slay him at the first opportunity. He had only the company of these two loyal companions to keep him from a plight of complete solitude.

Their only hope of sanctuary, the trio had decided, lay in the great city of Nexal, the Heart of the True World. There they would seek the protection of the great Naltecona, Revered Counselor and ruler of all Nexal, and, perhaps more to the point, the uncle of the Eagle Knight Poshtli.

Hal and Poshtli looked across the bleak landscape from the crest of the low ridge. No trace of greenery gave the promise of water. The war-horse, Storm, hung his head listlessly. The faithful steed's eyes were glassy, his flanks covered with dust.

A sense of despair dropped over them like a black cloth. What could they hope for, besides a slow, parched death? Earlier, Poshtli's goal — to reach the desert dwarves that he knew dwelled somewhere in this rocky wasteland — had seemed like a hopeful alternative to death by magic or sacrifice. But now that hope faded, for they had seen no sign of any living creature for many days.

Suddenly Erix turned toward them, her face brightening with faint vitality. "Listen!" she croaked through her parched lips.

"What?" asked Poshtli, tensing.

"I dont hear anything" Hal said numbly.

"You must" she snapped. "There! There it is again!"

"A cry… it sounds human," Poshtli whispered, his black eyes darting around the horizon. Halloran had still heard nothing.

"This way!" Erix declared, her voice full of sudden hope. She hastened down the sandy ridge, the men stumbling hurriedly behind her. Hal felt beyond hope, past depair, only noting dimly that they moved again. Erixitl's trail swung to the right, and they came around a rough shoulder of rock. "There!"

The woman pointed to a green splash of color against the brown rocks. At first, Hal thought she had found some succulent plant, but then the greenery took to the air with a beat of powerful wings, trailing its bright-plumed tail behind it.

"A macaw," breathed Poshtli. "A bird of the jungle! But here, in the desert?"

"He must have water nearby," Erix replied.

The bird flew upward and circled them for a moment. Then it dove away, coming to light on another ridge that lay beyond the low rise they had just traversed. Eagerly, with a desperate sense of hope, they started toward the bird.

It sat still, regarding them with bright, unblinking eyes as they shuffled forward as quickly as total exhaustion allowed. It squawked once, chopping its hooked beak. The macaw's large yellow claws shifted awkwardly on its stony perch, but still it stared at them.

Erix led the way. Suddenly she was no longer stumbling. Scrambling up the shallow slope, she almost reached the bird before, with a sudden flip of its wings, it again took to the air.

The macaw darted up and over the top of the slope, diving out of sight down the far side. Halloran shook off an irrational fear that Erix would fly away with the bird, disappearing from his life.

"Hurry!" Erix called excitedly, nearly sprinting to the top.

The others joined her at the rocky crest, gasping for breath. Even Storm lumbered along, almost trotting, — until they all stopped and stared in amazement.

Before them lay a shallow valley, rocky, not as sand-covered as the surrounding desert. Steep shelves of crumbling stone plummeted to the floor of the depression, which resembled a great yellow bowl, perhaps half a mile across. It was so deep that they could not have seen inside it unless they were standing upon its rim as they now did.

At the bottom of the valley, a small blue pool, surrounded by green ferns, grass, and a few stunted palm trees, reflected the suddenly softened rays of the sun. A gentle wisp of wind formed ripples across its smooth surface, and from them, the sunlight glinted like cool diamond.

Shrouded in dark cloth, the Ancestor approached the caldron of the Darkfyre. The slender figure moved slowly, but with none of the stiffness common to an elderly human. In a sudden gesture, he threw back his hood, allowing the crimson light of that infernal blaze to wash over his stark, pinched face.

His dark features stretched taut over his narrow skull, and his white hair clung to his scalp, too thin to conceal the shiny black skin below. The Ancestor's nostrils flared with his breathing, and his thin lips parted slightly to reveal white teeth in red, clearly visible gums. His arms and legs seemed nothing more than bone, covered with tight skin. He was an image of death, a gaunt, skeletal figure propped up by some unseen force.

Except for his eyes. All of his energy seemed to focus in those wide, white orbs, reflecting the dim glow of the Darkfyre and amplifying it with heat of their own. He stared in relish at the unnatural blaze.

"The fire of true power!" hissed the ancient drow, his voice rasping like wind through dry leaves.

He watched the Harvesters now, as they fed hearts to the blaze. The Harvesters were young drow, not yet ready for the exalted order of the Ancient Ones, but dedicated to the attainment of that rank. Now they worked diligently, teleporting nightly across the land of Maztica to the sacrificial altars of bloody Zaltec, reaping the hearts torn from human victims in the sunset rites.

These grisly tokens of Zaltec's faith were brought here to feed the infernal appetite of the Darkfyre. The god's hunger, dictated to the priests by the Ancient Ones, brought an endless stream of captives, slaves, failed warriors — even faithful volunteers — to the altars. And as the hearts fed the fire, so did the power of Zaltec grow.

The caldron and the cavern itself, the central meeting chamber of the drow, actually lay far above the surface of most of Maztica, excavated and eroded into the towering summit of Mount Zatal. The volcanic peak dominated the valley of Nexal, overlooking that great city. Now the volcano rumbled, as if a giant belch signified Zaltec's pleasure with his meal. The sensation of power as the rock trembled beneath his feet pleased the Ancestor.

Finally the Harvesters finished, and the Ancestor took his seat, alone in the cavern. From his great throne, he studied the circular stone depression before him. Some twenty feet across, its lip even with the cavern floor, the caldron glowed with a crimson, evil flame. The fresh hearts gleamed like red coals, though they shed little heat. Most of their power seethed downward, into the heart of the mountain and the soul of Zaltec himself.

This is might, the Ancestor realized. Zaltec is might! The worship of the god of war is a faith of true vibrancy and great power! Known to the Mazticans even before the coming of the drow, Zaltec had not achieved his current influence until the Ancient Ones arrived. Spreading his cult of sacrifice, they had fed the war god as never before. Soon Zaltec's power would be supreme, unstoppable.

The Ancestor thought for a moment of Lolth, the spider goddess of the drow, deified by others of his folk, in other parts of the world. The personification of evil, Lolth was a cruel mistress, promising power to those who followed her faithfully.

Once the Ancient Ones had numbered among those faithful, devoting their strength and their lives to the spider goddess.

"Bah!" he exclaimed, sneering. The other drow were fools. Lolth had forsaken the drow of Maztica, had turned her back upon them when the Rockfire wracked the land. Splitting the very earth, tearing the bedrock itself asunder, that convulsion had cut off the Ancestors' tribe from the rest of the dark elf race. Now that tribe had become the Ancient Ones, spokesmen for the cult of Zaltec, revered by the peoples of Maztica. Lolth and her pathetic minions, separated from Maztica by vast stretches of land, counted for less than nothing here.

Zaltec alone became their life and their future.

The Ancestor stared again at the hot, crimson hearts, glowing like coals in their vast hollow. Zaltec would rule the land! The priests of that dark god, following the teachings of the Ancient Ones, worked to convert warriors to their cause, marking them with the snake's-head brand. The cult of the Viperhand had begun to flourish, and this was the perfect instrument for the drows' work.

Another perfect tool sat on the throne of Nexal itself, the venerable drow reflected. The great Naltecona, Revered Counselor of the Nexala and virtual emperor of Maztica, served nicely as a figure to be held in awe. The ruler himself didn't see how willingly he forwarded the cause of the Ancient Ones.

Yet Naltecona's death had long been foretold, and in his passing, he would create a void of power across the land. Maztica would require new masters. And the Ancient Ones, through the cult of the Viperhand, would be ready.

Two matters still caused the Ancestor some concern. One was the landing of the Golden Legion in Maztica. These warlike strangers threatened to destroy all the preparations of the Ancient Ones. With their steel and their magic, the invaders were a formidable foe. Still, the Ancestor had anticipated the invasion and had taken a precautionary step, some ten years ago, to counter it. That step had come to fruition, and it might be that it would turn the Golden Legion into a powerful, if unwitting, ally.

The other, more vexing, matter was that of the girl, Erixitl. She still, somehow, eluded them.

Recalling the vision that had chilled him decades ago, the Ancestor faced his grim knowledge. Zaltec had sent him a warning, in the form of a white, gleaming star. In the draw's vision, that star touched upon them just as Zaltec's mastery came to fruition. The resulting cataclysm wracked the dark elves, bringing the tribe to ruin. As an insignificant side effect, the continent of Maztica suffered horrible ravages from the force of the same convulsions.

After years of study, meditation, and sacrifice, the nature of the white star had become clear. A human girl held the seed of potential disaster. Not until much later had this girl been identified, again through the flaming picture of the Darkfyre, as Erixitl of Palul. She had been a mere decade old at the time, but orders for her death had instantly gone forth. Somehow she had escaped all his agents of murder-priests. Jaguar Knights, and finally even the drow Spirali, who had been slain by Poshtli and Halloran. Erixitl still lived, and while she lived the Ancient Ones' machinations remained in peril. She must die!

Then the mastery of Maztica would be assured.

Erixitl had never tasted anything sweeter than the water from the lonely desert pool. The macaw squawked, approvingly she thought, from one of the palm trees as the three humans and the horse slaked their thirst in the shallow, clear pond.

They collapsed in the shade of the palm trees and said nothing for a time as the sun sank toward the horizon and long shadows stretched across the little vale. The clear sky offered no sheltering cloud, and the desert heat still baked them. For now, it was enough to live, to know that their throats would not crack from lack of moisture, or their lungs parch from the dry air.

"We'll head north from here," Poshtli said after a while. "That should bring us into the south of Nexal, away from the surrounding cities. I'm sure we can carry enough water to make it that far."

"What then?" asked Halloran. Erix noted that his command of the Nexalan tongue grew with each passing day. Though she had learned his language — aided by magic — the trio conversed in Nexalan, which they all understood.

"We will see my uncle, Naltecona," explained the warrior.

"I expect that he will grant his protection, though there is no way to be certain of that. Some of his advisors will surely urge your harm. After Ulatos, bad blood will flow hot among the warriors."

The defeat of the nation of Payit by the forces of the Golden Legion had included a bloody rampage by the invading forces. The legion had attacked the Payit at their capital city of Ulatos. It had been the first, but probably not the last, violent conflict between the legion and the warriors from a nation of Maztica.

"But Halloran didn't aid his comrades at Ulatos!" objected Erix. "He saved me from them!"

"The great Nattecona will hear this, and we must have faith in his wisdom," answered Poshtli.

"I'll take that chance," said Hal. "For one thing, it seems we have few other choices — save constant flight. It runs against my nature to flee my enemies rather than to face them."

"Well said," Poshtli agreed. "Though we do well to choose a battle on our own terms."

"Agreed." Halloran nodded. "When it comes, it can't be any worse than some of the other fixes I've gotten myself into over the years. I've had battles against pirates and desert nomads, been surrounded by ogres…"

"Ogres?" asked Poshtli. "What are these 'ogres'?"

Halloran looked at him in surprise. "Well, they're fierce and huge — kind of like humans, but bigger and dumber, and very savage. They're monsters, of a type similar to ores and trolls. Dont you have creatures like that in Maztica?"

Poshtli shook his head. "These monsters, manlike but savage, do not exist here. We have the hakuna, the fire lizard, and other dangers. But for a lack of ogres and ores, it seems we should be grateful."

Erixitl listened to the men talk of monsters and warfare, feeling the weariness creeping over her even before the sky had completely darkened. She wished that these minutes of peace might last into hours, or days, though she feared this was impossible. Nevertheless, the prospects of future dangers could not overcome her present contentment.

In minutes, she slept. But sleep offered no peace on this night.

Erixitl became a bird, soaring above the expanse of Maztica. Or perhaps she was the wind itself, the warm embodiment of life-giving air, sweeping across the True World with a cleansing caress. She swirled above snowy peaks, whisked among green forests and heavy jungles. She knew a sense of freedom and power that had never been hers before.

Across Maztica she soared, over the lands of the Payit and the Kultakans, and finally, at the center of the continent, the realm of mighty Nexal. The twin volcanoes of Zatal and Popol barred her way, but the wind broke up and over the massif unchecked. She swept into the streets of the city of Nexal, and though she had never seen the great city, she recognized it — indeed, she knew it well. Beneath the cool wash of a full moon, hanging low against the eastern horizon, she darted around towering pyramids, along myriad canals, until finally she soared into the palace of Naltecona himself.

But here something was wrong.

Growing chill, she glided up the walls, onto the roof of the palace. There she saw the Revered Counselor, resplendent in a feathered headdress and his cape of many colors. Men of the Golden Legion surrounded Naltecona. In alarm, Erixitl coursed closer, noting the sharp shadows cast by the moon. The figures stood in a circle, a tableau for her inspection.

She saw a metal-helmed figure with steely hard black eyes, and she knew this was Cordell. With vague surprise, she noticed that Halloran, too, stood among them, though his former comrades did not desire his presence. She understood these things, even as she witnessed the frozen scene.

And around the palace, across the floor of a broad, enclosed plaza, glowered thousands of warriors. Upon the chests of many, Erix saw, was the pulsating crimson head of a living snake. The forked tongues of these vipers flickered forth, sensing blood in the air.

Then the stillness on the palace roof broke as, with slow but deliberate movements, the players came to life.

Under the glaring moon, slowly rising in the east, Naltecona fell dead. Erix swept forward, too late for aught but a final circle around the bleeding figure of the great ruler.

The men of the legion staggered back in consternation at the killing. The world turned dark, and chaos fell from the skies. The looming volcano rumbled.

And then black shadows spread across the face of Maztica. The land became a great, gaping sore, and poison poured forth. It spread in a growing circle, to the horizons of her vision, and it kept growing.

Erix knew that she was seeing the end of the world.

"It's called steel" Halloran explained, showing Poshtli the gleaming edge of his sword, Helmstooth. "It comes from a mixture of metals, combined under great heat. Mostly iron."

He enjoyed talking to the warrior, and during their journey had come to realize that he and Poshtli had much in common. At times, he almost forgot that this man was the product of a savage, bloodthirsty society.

"Iron? Steel?" Poshtli repeated the foreign words, lisping them off his tongue. He had seen Hal's weapons in action, had held and examined them before, but now he took advantage of Hal's growing command of the language to ask about them. "These must be metals of great power."

"Perhaps. They are strong materials, and hold a keen edge. You've seen them splinter wooden weapons and stone blades."

"These are metals that do not dwell in the True World," explained the warrior, a trifle wistfully.

"I think they do," Hal countered. "But you lack the tools — the 'powers' — to pull them from the earth."

"Metals. Silver and gold, these are the metals known to us. They are beautiful, even desirable. They have many uses — for art, for ornamentation. Lords wear lip plugs and earplugs of these metals, and the dust of gold is used for barter. It is easier to transport than a similar value of cocoa beans. Yet these metals do not cause a hunger in us such as they seem to among your own people. Tell me, Halloran, do you devour such metals?"

Hal laughed grimly. "No. We covet them, some of us, for they have come to represent wealth. And wealth represents power in our lands."

"We are of different worlds, different peoples," said Poshtli, with a slow shake of his head. He looked up, staring frankly at Hal. "Yet I am glad that our paths have crossed."

Hal nodded in agreement, surprised at the warmth of friendship he felt for this warrior. "Without you, Erix and I would surely have perished by now," he said sincerely. "I can only thank whatever gods watch over us that we have, the three of us, been brought together."

They both looked at Erixitl, who rolled restlessly in her sleep. Tossing her head, as if in sudden dismay, she threw a hand upward. Her long brown fingers rested across her forehead, and Halloran was struck, as he had been struck so many times before, by her serene beauty. The ravages of their march, soothed now by rest and water, seemed to melt away from her.

Soon the men, too, settled back quietly. Poshtli quickly slumbered, but Hal couldnt keep his eyes closed.

His mind was tormented by the confusing pictures of this land. He looked at Erix and Poshtli, recognizing their nobility of character, the depths of their friendship and loyahy. Each could certainly have fared better alone, rather than to remain with him, a giant, white-skinned stranger from another world. They showed him the strength, the fineness of Maztica.

Yet he also remembered the brutality of a cleric in Payit, a worshiper of Zaltec who had torn the heart from a helpless woman held prostrate across his vile altar while Halloran was restrained, helpless, scant feet away. He saw images of that grim, warlike god, and thought with a shudder of this culture that tolerated such a bestial religion. He wondered in amazement about such people, that they could accept as a god's due the gruesome sacrifice of so many of their own.

Now he journeyed to the city at the very heart of this world. Why? He asked himself the question that tore at him, but he couldnt be satisfied with the answer. True, he saw no other alternative. But he didn't belong here! Everything around him brought home the alien nature of this land. The barbarism of Maztican religion shocked and appalled him.

But where could he turn? Sitting up and shaking his head in frustration, he thought of his former companions, the Golden Legion. Doubtless they all wanted him dead by now — certainly that was the desire of the dour Bishou Domincus and the quiet, menacing elven mage, Darien.

He thought of his escape from the legion's brig, where he had been sent by the Bishou in the man's grieving rage over his daughter's death. Hal escaped, seeking the chance to redeem himself on the field. There he had found Alvarro, ready to trample Erix into dust, consumed by bloodlust.

The choice then, as now, had been clear. He saved her and they fled, though the act must surely now have branded him a traitor.

So he remained with these true companions, accompanying them to Nexal, to this great city about which they both talked so reverently. He had, in truth, nowhere else to go. But there was more, much more, to it than that.

He remembered the Bishou's daughter, Marline, slain by the sacrificial knife. At one time, he had thought he loved her. Now he knew that her beauty, her smile, her pleasant attentions had been food for his vanity, nothing more. She had been a shallow, selfish girl and he a foolish knave. Though that thought relieved none of the pain of her death, it gave Halloran disturbing notions about his own life.

Once again his eyes fell upon Erixitl. She still tossed restlessly, and he longed to take her into his arms, to hold her. Yet he feared her reaction, and so he only watched, feeling more helpless than ever.

But he knew now that he loved her.

From the chronicles of Colon:

In silent worship of Qotal, the Plumed Father, I remain a faithful observer of doom.

Like the venom of a snakebite on the leg or on the hand or arm, the various seeds of catastrophe gather in the outlying realms of Maztica.

Already the Payit have been conquered, subjugated by the invading men and their brutal warrior god called Helm. The venom gathers in Payit, and of course it will flow through the blood of Maztica.

And the Ancient Ones work their wrack, leading the blind priests of Zaltec closer and closer to their own bleak destiny. The brand of the Viperhand becomes their symbol, and like the spreading inflammation of poison, it infiltrates and festers in the body of the True World.

Everywhere fractious differences divide the land. Kultakans strive against Nexal, Nexal strives to conquer all Maztica. This divisiveness, too, is toxic.

So grows the power of destruction, venom in the muscle and bloodstream of Maztica. And as is the way of such poison, it flows through the body of the land, until soon it will gather in the Heart of the True World.