Viperhand

THE CITY AT THE HEART OF THE TRUE WORLD

A small deer slipped between two encloaking ferns, silently pressing through the deep jungles of Far Payit. The creature hesitated a moment, then darted forward, sensing danger but unable to pinpoint the threat.

Suddenly a huge jaguar landed silently on the ground before it, fixing the deer with a sharp, penetrating gaze. The smaller creature froze in terror, staring into those unblinking yellow eyes. The only movement was the trembling of the deer's thin legs, the quivering of its heaving flanks.

For long moments, the jaguar held the deer spellbound. Then, with a slow, deliberate blink, the great cat dropped its lids over those bright eyes. Instantly the deer leaped away, springing through the brush in a desperate flight. So fast, so terrified was its escape that it failed to notice that the cat offered no pursuit.

"Well done, Gultec." The speaker, an old man with long white hair and brown, wrinkled skin, emerged from the brush and spoke to the jaguar.

Or to what had been the jaguar. Now, in the cat's place, stood a tall, muscular man. Both men were clad in spotted loincloths and otherwise were naked and unarmed.

"Thank you, Zochimaloc," said the younger man, bowing deeply to his companion. When Gultec looked up, his handsome face wrinkled slightly in confusion. "But tell me, Master, why do you bid me hunt thus, with no killing and no food?"

Zochimaloc sighed, sitting lightly on a moss-covered log. As he waited for a reply, Gultec pondered his own ease with this strange, wizened man. Weeks earlier, the concept of a "master" would have been one that the Jaguar Knight could never have accepted. Indeed, death would have been preferable to his own servitude and devotion. But now the old man who had become his teacher seemed the most important thing in the world to Gultec, and every day seemed to bring more evidence of how very little the warrior actually understood.

"Soon you will be ready to learn more," said the old man finally. "But not yet."

Gultec accepted the statement with a nod, not questioning his teacher's wisdom.

"Now let us return to Tulom-Itzi," said Zochimaloc. In a flash, the old man's form changed as he became a brilliant parrot. With a quick thrust of his wings, he took to the air, vanishing among the tree trunks and leaving Gultec to follow on foot.

The Jaguar Warrior pushed his way through the jungle patiently, though he couldn't help reflecting on the changes in his life that had brought him here. He remembered his despair when the metal-skinned strangers had destroyed his army and conquered the Payit — his nation. Then he recalled the freedom of his flight into the jungle as a wild, hunting jaguar.

His flight had ended with the humiliation of capture by men who served Zochimaloc, almost immediately his captivity gave way to the discipline of his teacher's long hours of training.

Never before had Gultec learned so much or asked so many questions. He had dwelled in the jungle lands all his life, yet Zochimaloc showed him how little he really knew about those jungles. Gultec studied animals and plants, he observed the patterns of the weather and the stars. Indeed, the pride of Tulom-Itzi was a building erected for no other purpose than the study of the heavens!

All of his studies, all the strength of his renewed discipline, his teacher often hinted, would soon focus in a great purpose — the reason Gultec had been brought to Tulom-Itzi. That purpose remained a mystery, but another trait the warrior had developed was patience.

And soon enough, Gultec knew, this purpose would be made clear.

They came around the shoulder of the great mountain and then stopped suddenly, all three of them frozen in awe. The blue waters of the lakes beneath them, far below on the valley floor, glittered like turquoise in the sunlight. On a flat island in the center of the largest lake lay the valley's gem: Nexal, the magnificent city at the Heart of the True World.

"See the four lakes?" said Poshtli, pride thrumming in his voice. "Named for the gods. Here before us, on the south, is broad Lake Tezca, for it lies along the tracks to the sun god's desert."

He pointed to the right. "To the east, the largest — Lake Zaltec, named for the war god. Largest, because war is man's grandest purpose, and no men are better at war than the Nexal!" The warrior suddenly cast a sideways glance at Halloran. He had recited, by rote, the lessons he had learned as a youth. Now he thought of Hal's countrymen in the Golden Legion and no longer felt so certain.

Quickly he pointed into the distance. "Lake Azul, deep and cold, named for the god of rain. And here, to the west, is Lake Qotal"

The latter was a brackish brown in color, obviously shallow, since tufts of grass and reeds extended far into the lake from its marshy shore. "The small stagnant one," Poshtli said, a hint of sadness in his voice. "Named for the absent god Qotal, who turned his back on his people and left them to the hunger of the younger gods."

Halloran tried to absorb the vista before him. His exhaustion vanished in the first moments of that stupendous view. The days of marching northward, finally leaving the desert behind, the fatigue of the long climb up this mountain, all disappeared in a sensation of reverent awe.

"Nothing you've said has prepared me for this," he noted haltingly, not looking at Poshtli as he spoke.

"It is the place I have dreamed about," Erix added quietly.

Hal looked at the three blue lakes, a rich deep blue, remembering that each was named for a bloodthirsty god of sacrifice. The fourth, the ugly brown one, they dedicated to the "Plumed God," the one who had disappeared. Still, he had learned that many Mazticans, including Erixitl, believed the tales that Qotal would one day return.

They lapsed into silence again, Halloran still staggered by the wonders below them: the city of white buildings and colorful plazas, covering many miles in breadth, the tall, terraced pyramids, gathered around and dwarfed by the mountainous massif the Nexalans called the Great Pyramid. He looked upon Nexal's sprawling palaces. He wondered at Nexal's great size, at the green fringes surrounding the buildings, extending into the lakes themselves. These floating gardens spread like a blanket of moss on the surface of the water, encircling the city in a belt of abundance.

The scope and scale of the city astounded him. He had seen Waterdeep, had lived in Calimshan and Amn, had traveled the length of the Sword Coast in the Realms. Yet none of those civilized lands could boast a city that compared to Nexal in size or grandeur. He estimated that a thousand or more canoes plied the waters of the lakes, while countless more maneuvered through the city's canals.

Erixitl of Palul saw the city for its beauty. She saw the profusion of flowers and their brilliant gardens, the glimmering blankets of feathers floating gracefully in the air above the markets. Fountains and pools reflected sunlight from a thousand large arboretums.

"My uncle is lord of it all," said Poshtli, his voice proud but surprisingly subdued. He had led them from the desert, into the high mountain pass, and now he seemed oddly overcome himself, though he had spent most of his life in the great metropolis below.

"It surpasses anything I have ever seen — the colors, the setting, the sheer size of the place! With no wall for defense, no bastions…" Hal's voice trailed away. For a moment, he even forgot about the savage rites that were the centerpiece of religion in this amazing place below them. The colors seemed to wink at them in the undying sunlight, beckoning them to descend, to enter.

"Did I not tell you it was truly the grandest place beneath the sight of the gods?" boasted Poshtli, beginning to lead them down the trail. "As for defense, no nation in Maztica would dare strike at Nexal. Even if they did, the lakes provide barrier enough. Now, come. We will reach my uncle's palace before dark!"

The path twisted down the mountainside, between looming Mount Zatal to the left, and another great peak, called Mount Popol, to the right. As they descended, the brush around them became thicker, soon towering into lush green trees that blocked for a time their view of the valley floor.

Soft breezes ruffled the trees, which reminded Hal of the tall cedars found along the Sword Coast. The steep descent passed easily, and they encountered no people along the forest trail.

After an hour, they reached a lush garden that surrounded a rock-walled spring. The trail circled the pool, and Halloran saw a stone-lined trench, filled with rapidly flowing clear water, leading away from the spring.

"An aqueduct!" he marveled, seeing the long span of stonework that carried water into the city.

"We have plenty of water in Nexal," explained Poshtli. "But this from the Cicada Spring is the sweetest to drink. It runs into the center of the city, where it can be sampled by all."

He led them from the garden, and the trail again emerged onto a cleared mountainside. Vast, terraced fields of mayz, the plump grain that, in Hal's experience, seemed to feed all of Maztica, surrounded them, and they could look over the softly waving fields to the city again. With Nexal noticeably closer now, Hal saw clearly the wide stone causeways that led from the shore to the city on its bright, lush island.

Erixitl looked over the city as Poshtli described to Halloran the construction of the aqueduct, which had occurred when the Nexalan warrior had been a boy. She saw an abrupt shadow fall across the sun, though no cloud appeared in the sky.

Suddenly Nexal looked to her as it had in her dream: a cool, barren city illuminated by white moonlight. She felt a flash of terror and, with a short gasp of fright, she tried to turn away.

But she could not. She saw the darkness linger over the plazas and the great market. It centered around the Great Pyramid, with its bloodstained altars. As she looked upon the place of those scenes of sacrifice, the shadows grew darker still, until finally she forced herself to look away. For a moment, she closed her eyes, shuddering.

Finally she turned back, and the city, with its intense, fragile beauty, glowed again with a sense of vibrant vitality. She saw it as it was now and relished its grandeur. But still the memory of the shadows remained, and as they neared Nexal, the frightening darkness lay heavy on her mind.

All too soon, she feared, the brightness and vitality before her could be gone.

Naltecona rested, dozing lightly in the soft pluma of his great feathered throne. The cushion of luxurious feather-magic held his body effortlessly, floating easily above the dais in the center of the great ceremonial chamber. The Revered Counselor, comfortable in a soft gown, bedecked with bright feathers on his head, at his shoulders, and knees, enjoyed a rare moment of peace.

Around him the priests, warriors, and sorcerers who made up his court stood in awkward silence. Their attendance was not required while the ruler napped, but none possessed the courage to leave and risk awakening the great man by his departure.

Stirring slightly, Naltecona felt his surroundings and even sensed the awkwardness of his courtiers. Let them stand, he told himself. Let them learn some of the discipline that must guide my every move. He felt a vague sense of scorn for these old men who fawned over him and followed him, yet seemed to offer no help in those matters where the counselor most desired advice and wisdom. Matters such as the puzzling strangers who had landed on the shores of the True World and conquered the Payit in a single, brutal battle.

Dozing again, Naltecona dreamed of the presence of his nephew, Poshtli. There was a true man! A warrior of courage, a man of wisdom and restraint. Too bad he could not replace a dozen of these fools around him with one more like Poshtli.

The doors to the throne room opened softly, yet the movement was enough to waken the Revered Counselor. He looked up in annoyance.

A priest hurried forward, pausing to bow obsequiously three times before he approached the feathered throne. The emaciated cleric, his frail limbs and face covered with the scars of self-inflicted penance, finally stood before his ruler. His hair stood tall above his head, a series of stiff spikes caked with the blood of the priest's sacrificial victims. He waited silently, his eyes downcast, as Naltecona blinked and stretched.

"Yes, Hoxitl?" inquired the ruler, recognizing the high priest of Zaltec before him. Zaltec was the patron god of the Nexala, and his patriarch, Hoxitl, claimed powerful rights of counsel.

"Most Revered One, we have word out of the desert of your nephew, Lord Poshtli. It is said that he returns with one of the strangers as his prisoner. This news is pleasing to Zaltec and the Ancient Ones."

"I have no doubt of that," said Naltecona ironically. He understood that any new prospect of sacrifice was pleasing to the god of Hoxitl. He looked at his other courtiers. "This is the proof for those who doubted Poshtli's eventual return. He left in search of a vision. I have no doubts that his visions have shown him more than most of you will ever know."

"Indeed," said Hoxitl, with another humble bow. "The wisdom of Zaltec has blessed him."

Naltecona's gaze penetrated the priest, though the still-bowing cleric seemed unaware of his ruler's stare. "There is more than one source of wisdom in the True World," he said sharply. "Do not let your faith blind you to this fact."

"Indeed," said Hoxitl, concealing his skepticism with another bow.

"Is that all?" asked the counselor, boredom creeping into his voice.

"There is another matter," replied the priest. "Should my lord counselor deem it his pleasure to attend, I inform you that we will consecrate more warriors into the cult of the Viperhand tonight, at the setting of the sun."

Viperhand. Naltecona felt a chill with the word. The cult of the Viperhand seemed to grow daily since the arrival in Maztica of the strangers from across the sea. It had always been the cult of Zaltec's faithful followers, but now warriors, priests, even common workers flocked to the temples to swear eternal allegiance to the god of war and to wear his bloody brand.

The mark was wielded by the high priest alone. Tonight that brand would be pressed forever into the flesh of more young Nexalans.

Naltecona sighed, ignoring the high priest's request. "Colon, come here," he called, turning to the rest of his retinue.

A white-robed priest bowed and stepped forward from the group. This one, in stark contrast to Hoxitl, appeared well fed, even to the point of a slight plumpness. His shock of white hair and his wrinkled brown skin were clean, unmarked by scars, blood, or dirt. Colon, high priest of Qotal, approached the counselor silently. Indeed, he did everything silently, in deference to a vow he had made to his immortal master, the Butterfly God.

"Leave us for a moment," Naltecona ordered Hoxitl. That priest scowled at Colon but stepped obediently away.

"One of the strangers comes to Nexal," explained the counselor. As always, he felt comfortable speaking to the un-answering Colon. "Hoxitl wishes to place his heart upon the altar of Zaltec.

"We know of the prowess of these strangers. Perhaps it would be good to have this one dead, no longer a threat. But I am curious about them, and how much of a threat can one man be to our city, our nation?"

Also in Naltecona's mind were the legends predicting the return of Qotal, the Butterfly God, to Maztica. He would return from the eastern ocean, it was said, in a great winged canoe. Some legends had even predicted that he would be pale of skin and bearded of face, just like most of these strangers!

These rumors lay heavy in the ruler's mind, but so, too, did the hunger of Zaltec. And now his cult, the cult of the Viperhand, spread more rapidly than ever before. With the coming of the strangers, the young warriors of Nexal seemed more eager than ever to make that sacred vow to Zaltec.

Colon, of course, made no reply, but the voicing of his doubts propelled Naltecona into decision.

"I will not allow his death… not immediately," he explained to Colon. "I must allow him to live, even protect him, that I may learn more about him and his people." His mind made up, Naltecona lurned back to Hoxitl.

"The stranger will be spared," he told the priest. Then he added, in deference to a vengeful god, "But I shall attend the consecration of the Viperhand at sunset."

Darien stretched languorously and arose from the bed, naked, crossing to the candlestick beside the door. Cordell held his breath, entranced by the pure whiteness of her form, the graceful curve of her albino skin. Squinting her tender eyes against the candle's brightness, Darien extinguished the flame with a quick puff of breath, plunging the cabin into darkness.

She returned to the bed, something Cordell smelled and felt but could not see. He silently cursed his lack of night-vision, so desperately did he want to look upon her. Whatever the nature of this burning feeling — was it need, desire, perhaps love? — he had felt it grow into a fire that consumed his heart. Now it burned as he welcomed her into his arms.

Finally she lay sleeping beside him. The gentle sounds of the city of Ulatos around them should have soothed Cordell into slumber as well. But instead he focused on the upcoming day, and on the march he would order his men to undertake at first light.

He prepared to lead the Golden Legion on a mission of unmatched audacity, and Cordell himself confessed to slight doubts as to the rationality of the plan. His force, five hundred steady veterans, would be augmented by perhaps five thousand warriors of the conquered Payit, whose capital city of Ulatos his legion now occupied.

From here, he would lead them to Nexal. Tales of that city's wealth, of the gold and power that lay there, drew him inexorably. These were the fruits of the expedition, the gold that had drawn them across the Trackless Sea. They would march to the heart of this savage continent!

He understood that the army awaiting him in Nexal was greater — many times greater — than the force he had defeated here in Payit. His informant had also told him that another warlike nation, Kultaka, lay across his route of march to Nexal. They could be expected to resist the passage of Cordells force.

Of course, there was no finer band of men than the iron-hard troops of the Golden Legion. Their accomplishments since the start of this voyage already guaranteed success. They had conquered a nation of warriors numbering more than a hundred thousand souls. They had gathered enough treasure to pay for the expedition ten times over.

Yet Cordell was prepared to risk it all for this audacious gamble. Indeed, he had made the stakes plain for all his men by sinking the fifteen ships that had carried them from the Sword Coast to this distant shore. The hulks of those vessels lay on the bottom of the shallow lagoon, beside the fortress called Helmsport just outside this city. The fleet gone, there could be no backing away from this challenge.

The captain-general rose and paced his sleeping chamber as the night hours ticked away. He thought of his captains — the steady Daggrande, the hot-tempered Alvarro, Garrant, all the others — men he could trust and rely upon, once he himself provided them with leadership.

The spiritual guidance of his men he trusted to the grim Bishou Domincus, now propelled by an implacable hatred for these savage people who had sacrificed his daughter Marline on their gruesome altar. And, too, he had the wizard Darien at his side. The albino elf was a force equal to a whole army.

Of the native warriors, he was not so certain. He would allow them to accompany him as guides, and also because their numbers would increase the impressiveness of his force. But he suspected that most of the fighting before them would be borne by his legionnaires.

"Can we do it?" he asked, half aloud, addressing the god Helm, lord protector of the legion. His mortal advisors, most of them, had counseled that his plan was madness — the legion would be cut off and surrounded halfway to their goal. Only Daggrande and Alvarro, perhaps because of the warlike challenge, had shown enthusiasm about the march. But that didn't alter the loyalty of the rest, he knew.

The Golden Legion would follow Cordell to Nexal. This he knew without a doubt. The question then became simple: Would they ever come out again?

Their view of the city grew before the trio with each step of the long descent from the garden and the spring. They passed through many villages of small straw huts, or buildings of shining whitewashed adobe, always drawing stares. Some of these villagers, intrigued by the tall stranger, or perhaps by his great black horse — a creature unique in their experience — followed the little party at a respectful distance as they drew ever closer to the shore of the gleaming blue lake.

Late afternoon brought no break to the summer's heat as they finally approached the water and the white stone causeway that led like an arrow to the colorful island city.

The Jaguar Warriors at the end of the causeway stared in astonishment as Halloran, Erix, and Poshtli approached. The guards' faces, framed by the open jaws of their jaguar-skull helmets, showed eyes widened in amazement. Spotted hides of tough Hishna-enchanted catskin cloaked their bodies, and they half-raised their obsidian-studded clubs, called macas, as the strange party approached.

They stared not so much at the humans, as at the great black beast that ambled placidly behind them.

"Greetings, Jaguar Knights!" cried Poshtli in delight. He strode proudly ahead of his companions. The rivalry between the orders of Jaguar and Eagle Warriors was well known, and now the plumed warrior, resplendent in his cape of black and white eagle feathers, took great pleasure in the astonishment of the guards. Poshtli was also the easily recognized nephew of the great Naltecona himself, and thus was not casually challenged.

The Jaguars stared, mute, as the three humans and the horse marched up to the terminus of the causeway. Behind them, many villagers followed tentatively. The latter waited in anxious curiosity to see how the guards would react to the unusual trio.

"Have you lost your manners?" Poshtli demanded in mock indignation as the Jaguar Knights stared in silent awe. "A beautiful woman arrives at the causeway to Nexal, and you give her no welcome?"

Finally one Jaguar recovered his voice. "Wha-what is that creature?" he demanded.

Poshtli threw back his head and laughed, in what Hal judged to be a command performance. The guards stared at the horse, then at Hal, who again wore his steel breastplate and shiny helm.

"Storm?" Halloran asked Erix, trying to follow the conversation. He sensed Poshtli's joking manner but did not understand the complete exchange.

"Enough!" proclaimed Poshtli, gesturing the warriors aside. "We will explain everything to my uncle! Come, my friends — the palace awaits!" He gestured to Halloran and Erix to follow him onto the long causeway. The smoothly paved roadway, a full thirty feet wide, ran perfectly straight from the shore to the city, perhaps a mile and a half away, that beckoned them on the central island.

Hal saw the Jaguar Knights falling into file behind them, and as he looked backward, he saw that they had begun to lead quite a procession. Apparently every farmer, wife, curious child, or patrolling warrior had noticed their passage. More than a hundred Mazticans followed them toward the great city.

Halloran quickly forgot the growing crowd behind them as they neared the dazzling metropolis itself. The pyramids, brightly painted, decorated with feather plumes, almost alive in their brilliance, dominated the city and the entire valley with bright hues of green, red, blue, and purple. But colors dominated every structure, not just the pyramids. Bushes of bright crimson blossoms glowed on every street corner; the canals were lined with a profusion of hanging, flowery vines; bright feathers outlined many houses, while colored tapestries decorated balconies, walls, and doorways.

The causeway itself, Halloran saw, was guarded in several places by removable wooden planks that extended across gaps in the stonework. His soldier's eye took note of that defensive capability.

The lakes on either side were blue and crystalline, deep enough that he could barely make out the bottom, even through the clear water. He saw fish probing the weedy rocks that supported the causeway. Dozens of canoes drew near, carrying curious Maztican fishermen. Ahead, the pyramids and palaces loomed higher, even more magnificent in proximity than they had been in the distance.

Surrounded by this growing retinue, they passed from the end of the causeway onto the wide avenue leading to the heart of Nexal. Here young girls greeted them, spreading flower petals on the roadway in their path and leading them toward the palace. Now the white houses of the city surrounded them, though frequent canals, passing under stone bridges, reminded them that the lake could never be far away.

Poshtli strode proudly at the head of the procession, un-noticing of Erix and Hal. The latter walked slowly behind the Eagle Knight, looking to right and left, up and down, in complete, speechless awe. The wonders of Nexal overwhelmed them both, and they could only stumble along, mutely absorbing the spectacle. Halloran couldn't begin to estimate the number of Mazticans who gathered at the roadsides as word of their arrival spread. He was sure, very early on, that the crowds numbered in the thousands.

"Look — there's one of those priests!" barked Hal, warning Erix as he spotted a scarred, emaciated cleric in the crowd. The sight of the man's black hair, bristling in the blood-caked spikes he had seen before, sent a tingle of apprehension down Hal's spine.

"A priest of Zaltec," said Erix warily. "There will be many of them here."

The black-robed cleric stared at them as they marched past, but he made no attempt to interfere with their progress. Indeed, his scarred face split into a smile as be saw them advance toward the temples that loomed at the heart of the city.

"It's hard to imagine such magnificence coupled with such savagery," Hal mumbled, half to himself.

Erix, however, heard him. "That is part of the wonder of Maztica, and of Nexal," she replied in a matter-of-fact tone. "We can only stay close to Poshtli and hope for the best."

Hal decided not to admit that he already felt lost. He knew that he could never have made it this far without Erixitl's help, to translate and guide and explain things to him. Instead, he held his tongue, though he took her hand in his own. The cool, responsive grip of her fingers made him feel a little better. His tongue was tied by the emotion he felt, for it was more than just gratitude that drew him to Erixitl of Palul.

Finally they reached a closed gate in a wall no higher than Hal's head. The stone barrier ran for hundreds of yards to the right and left. Beyond it towered the grandest of the pyramids and palaces.

"This is the sacred plaza — the heart of the city" Poshtli explained. "All of the greatest pyramids are here, also the palaces and ceremonial centers. We will enter and I will find you quarters. Then I will see my uncle. I know he will wish to speak with you as soon as possible."

The gate swung open at some unseen command, and Halloran and Erixitl followed Poshtli into the sacred plaza of Nexal. There was no crowd here, just a smattering of curious warriors. Halloran nodded noncommittally as Poshtli led him toward a long, low building of whitewashed stone.

Behind them, with a dull thud, the gate in the wall slammed shut. None of them paid attention. Poshtli unconsciously accelerated his pace, pausing to greet some of the tall warriors who approached curiously at their entrance. He embraced a pair who wore the black and white feathered regalia of the order of Eagles.

Halloran and Erix lagged behind, overwhelmed by the grandeur of the sacred center. The huge area was mostly open plaza. It was surrounded by the long, low wall, and dominated by half a dozen pyramids — of which the most massive was the Great Pyramid itself, rising from the city's heart.

Several massive, low buildings sprawled across large areas here. In contrast to the brilliantly painted pyramids and the bright tile mosaics on the wall, these low structures gleamed brightly, their walls immaculate with fresh whitewash.

"That is the palace of Naltecona," said Poshtli, pointing to the largest of the white buildings. It stood on the far side of the plaza. "There is the palace of his father, Axalt, who died many years ago." Poshtli pointed out other buildings, each named for a previous counselor.

"Why does each ruler build a new palace?" asked Hal, stunned by the vast works of architecture. None of them was tall, but the smooth stone walls, wide doorways, roofs alternating between peaked thatch and flat, walled platforms, seemed to stretch for miles.

"The power of Nexal has grown with each, and so each must express that power with a dwelling more grand than his predecessor. Besides, the buildings have secrets. Each counselor constructs concealed passages known only to himself and his Lord Architect. The palaces are more than just grand houses, they are symbols of the growing might of the Nexala!"

Poshtli turned to Hal with a smile. "And you will see that the plaza allows room for even more."

Erixitl stopped in shock, suddenly recognizing the palace of Axalt. Her dream! It had been atop that palace that Naltecona had been slain! Her eyes fixed upon the building as she numbly followed the men across the plaza.

"Now, come. First we will find you quarters — a place where you can keep your horse, as well!" boomed Poshtli, gesturing them toward the large palace just beyond the Great Pyramid.

"Storm should stay outside," Hal countered. "Though I would like him nearby." He had forgotten that the Mazticans would have no familiarity with the quartering and tending of horses.

About then, Halloran noticed with surprise that long shadows, betokening the arrival of evening, stretched across the plaza. He hadn't noticed the day slip away, so distracted was he by their entrance into the city.

Hal's head involuntarily swiveled this way and that as he followed his friend. They passed a small pyramid that he thought was made of crumbling stone. But as they reached it, he saw with a chill of horror that the entire structure-perhaps sixty feet high-was made of human skulls, carefully arranged so that their unseeing eyesockets were all directed outward.

Erix, he saw, also stared at the grim monument.

Chilled, Halloran once again felt a sense of bleak despair. What am I doing here? he asked himself. He felt like a twig, swept along in the current of a raging river he could not dam or divert. Stealing a glance a Erix — his only anchor in this turbulence — he wondered if the evidence of Nexal's cruelty disturbed her in the slightest. She showed no reaction, after all, he thought, she had been raised among these people. Perhaps she was used to such architecture.

He looked up at the Great Pyramid as they passed in its shadow. The structure was too steep for him to see the platform at the top, but he could well imagine the regular scenes of murderous sacrifice that occurred up there. The shadow seemed to linger over him as they pressed forward, once again under the sun.

They were greeted at the wide doors by bowing warriors and several emaciated, scarred priests. The latter looked intently at Halloran and Erix, and the former legionnaire grew distinctly uncomfortable under the probing gaze.

"We must find them quarters — large, airy apartments where the stranger can keep his monster nearby!" Poshtli explained earnestly, with a subtle wink at Halloran.

Hal ignored the incongruity of the horse following them through the wide, palatial corridors. Other attendants and warriors joined them, keeping a respectful distance.

"Here," said Poshtli, sweeping aside a curtain of hanging beads with a flourish. "You will stay here as my guests. I go to find my uncle, but I will soon return."

Erix and Halloran stepped through the curtain to find themselves in a small, sun-drenched courtyard. A fountain spurted in the center of the area, which was filled with blooming flower bushes and small trees.

"Look at these rooms," breathed Erix, gesturing toward the shady chambers surrounding the garden.

Halloran stood mute with astonishment. He saw golden objects, depicting beasts, birds, and humans, hanging from the walls. One wall of a large room was decorated in a detailed tile mural, obviously depicting the valley of Ifexal before it had been dominated by human settlements. Others held thick piles of sleeping mats, a small pool for bathing, and a barren room that Erix guessed was to provide guests with the proper setting for meditation.

Meanwhile, Halloran unloaded his pack, removing some of his valued possessions. There was the silver sword, Helmstooth, of course, which remained girded at his side. He also had an extra steel sword and a dagger — weapons of unique worth in this city of flint and obsidian blades.

Next he pulled out a heavy, leather-bound volume. He couldn't suppress a shudder of apprehension at the sight of the speUbook. It belonged to the wizard Darien, the albino elf who was lieutenant and lover to Captain-General Cordell, himself commander of the Golden Legion. Though Halloran had stolen the book inadvertently, he knew that the wizard's vengeance wouldn't stop short of his death should their paths ever cross again.

Still, he hadn't cast the book away. For one thing, he had been studying parts of it — simple, low-power spells such as he had once learned, when he had spent his youth in apprenticeship to a powerful wizard. Also, he felt that the book would be a powerful bargaining chip should a confrontation with the albino wizard ever arise.

Next he came upon the tightly wrapped bundle of leathery snakeskin that had given him his first experience with Maztican magic. This, Erixitl had explained, was hishna — the magic of talon and claw, not the pluma-magic of feathers and air. The snakeskin had bound him tightly upon the command of a cleric of Zaltec, and only the pluma of Erix's feathered token had released him. Neither of them knew how to use the snakeskin, but knowing its value, they had carried it with them.

Finally he found the two bottles of magical potions. One, he knew, contained the elixir of invisibility. The other one he had never examined. Erixitl deeply distrusted the magical liquids, and some of her nervousness had rubbed off on him. Thus he had never taken the sample sip that might have allowed him to identify the stuff.

"Come over here!" Erix cried, suddenly taking his hand and pulling him through the garden. "Look!" she cried, pointing to a small tree where several brilliant birds sat. They had small, hooked beaks, and glowed in shades of red and green.

Halloran saw the birds dimly, thrilling to the touch of her hand, breaking the contact reluctantly when they were interrupted by servants bearing plates of beans, mayzcakes, and venison. These were set upon a low table in the garden. Storm drank deeply from the pool and then began eating leaves from some of the flower bushes.

Erix and Hal sat on the ground beside the table and began to eat. Their eyes met and remained together. Halloran felt a whirlwind of emotions now that their journey was completed. He knew that he couldn't have made it without Erix, but that was only a small part of his internal turmoil.

Their entrance into the city, when they were surrounded by the people of Maztica, brought sharply home to Hal the extent of his aloneness. He couldn't forget that these barbarous folk might place him, without notice, on the evening's sacrificial altar. He had only the friendship of the Eagle Knight Poshtli to protect him — that, and his own wits, skill, and strength. It seemed a slim margin of safety when cast against the presence of tens of thousands of savage Mazticans.

Still, there was Erixitl. The beautiful woman sitting across from him had come to represent life and purpose to the former legionnaire. Now that they had reached this, their goal, he wanted to hold her at his side, to somehow make certain that she would never leave. But he didn't know how to articulate those feelings.

Erix looked at him, and he wondered if she understood his feelings. Perhaps she did, for at length she finally spoke.

"I feel," she admitted with a soft smile, "as though I have finally come home."

Naltecona reclined in the featherlift that slowly raised him to the top of the Great Pyramid. The setting sun cast a rosy glow across Nexal, filtered between the giant mountains that bordered the lush valley that was the Heart of the True World. One, Zatal, rumbled ominously. A cloud of steam hung above the summit, though the counselor took little note. The volcano had loomed overhead throughout the history of Nexal, often it had grumbled, but never had it roared.

Soon the lift reached the top of the structure, pausing as Naltecona slowly rose to his feet and stepped onto the stone platform that loomed high above his city. Hoxitl awaited him here, together with a group of his priests, the evening's sacrifices, and the new initiates to the Viperhand.

The temple of Zaltec was a large square building atop the pyramid. Here stood that hungry god's blood-caked altar, and beside it squatted the statue carved in Zaltec's image — a giant warrior armed with maca and javelins, with a beast-like, leering face. The statue's mouth gaped open, waiting for its imminent feast. Hoxitl went to the altar and turned to Naltecona.

"Zaltec's pleasure will be great now that the Revered Counselor again attends his rites," murmured Hoxitl. He gestured to his priests, and they hauled the first victim — a young Kultakan warrior — to the altar. The warrior's eyes were blank and he made no sound, though he fully understood his fate.

The priests drew him backward across the altar block, and Hoxitl raised his jagged obsidian blade. With one sharp cut, he slashed the warrior's chest and reached in to pull forth the still-beating heart.

Immediately one of the initiates rushed forward, stumbling to kneel before the high priest. Hoxitl raised the heart toward the now-vanished sun, then threw it into the mouth of the statue of Zaltec beside the altar.

The man kneeling before Hoxitl was a Jaguar Knight, who now tore his spotted breast cloak aside. Hoxitil lifted his voice in a shrill, angry chant. His face distorted into a mask of passion, twisted by the intensity of his prayer. Then the priest pressed his hand, still crimson with the blood of the sacrifice, against the warrior's chest.

A hiss of smoke and steam erupted from the Jaguar's brown skin, and the stench of burning flesh wafted through the air. Hoxitl's palm, flat against the man's chest, seared his skin in the diamond-shaped head of a viper. Aided by the arcane power of Zaltec himself, the brand scarred his skin and grasped his soul in a viselike grip. The scarring caused the warrior to grimace with pain, but the man made no sound. Finally Hoxitl pulled his hand away.

There, seared permanently into his chest, the warrior now wore the crimson brand, in the shape of the deadly snake's head. The wound glistened like an evil sore, seeming to give the snake a life of its own.

"Welcome," said Hoxitl, his voice a low hiss. "Welcome to the cult of the Viperhand."

From the chronicles of Colon:

At the bidding of the Plumed One, I continue the tale of Maztica's waning.

The True World cries for the presence of Qotal, but the Plumed One pays no heed — or at least he gives no sign. Perhaps, like his priests, he is bound by a vow of silence. He, too, feels the torment known to us.

To feel the need to speak, to correct wrongs, to teach and guide — that is the curse of our order. But to be bound by the vow, to only watch and wait and wonder — that is our discipline and our command.

And now I see in my dreams that the strangers come toward Nexal. They bring the shining light of their silver swords, their knowledge and magic. But behind them, and even, I sense, unknown to them, follow the shadows and the looming darkness.