Viperhand

KULTAKA

Takamal, war chief and Revered Counselor of Kultaka, was widely known as the wisest man in the Time World. Had he not defended his homeland against Nexalan depredations throughout his lifetime of more than seven decades? True, the Kultakans were a fierce and warlike people with a fine warrior tradition, but their numbers were only a quarter or less of the equally warlike Nexalans.

Only once, when the forces of Nexal had been commanded by the young but highly accomplished Eagle Warrior, Lord Poshtli, had the two sides exchanged equal numbers of prisoners. Always before and since, the Kultakan forces left the field with two or three Nexalan captives for every one they lost.

But now Takamal confronted a problem for which his long rivalry with his inland neighbor had not prepared him. He was an old man, but still spry, and so he stalked about his throne room in Kultaka, loudly demanding answers from the empty room. For this was the way Takamal pondered.

"Are they truly mighty? They defeated the Payit in a great battle at Ulatos — so? Does this mean they can defeat the Kultaka? Can they beat me?"

Takamal pounded his fist into his palm, seething. Just this once, he wished that the gods would answer! He heard the clatter of javelins in the courtyard outside as young tribesmen trained under the strict eyes of older warriors.

Perhaps that was his answer. In truth, he knew that it was. He would face this problem as he faced every other threat to his domain.

"My observers say they bring five thousandmen of the Payit — bah! They do not concern me. And the tale of their battle against the strangers, fighting them in an open field!

This is foolish, when the gods have provided them with ground to conceal them!"

Now, Takamal sensed, the gods listened. One god, in particular, he wanted to take heed.

"Zaltec, your shining spear shall precede us to war! I will meet these strangers and their fawning Payit slaves — but I will choose my ground with care."

He scowled, nodding his head so that his feathered headdress bobbed in the air. He stood tall and crossed his arms across his breast, addressing the image of Zaltec, god of war, in his mind. Takamal reached a decision, and as always the deciding lightened his spiritual burden.

"The entire might of Kultaka shall gather, a league of thirty thousandmen! Our Jaguars will rend, our Eagles pursue, and we will send these foreigners back to the sea!"

The coals lay cold in the firepit. Dank humidity lingered in the air of the lodge, a reminder of the steam that had permeated the low house many hours earlier. Poshtli sat alone, as he had sat throughout the long hours of the night, long since the other Eagles had departed for their homes and beds and women.

Faint outlines of sunlight cracked through the door, telling him that the new day had dawned. But still he could not bring himself to leave.

What was there for him, beyond the sanctuary of this hallowed lodge? Though his face remained an expressionless mask, Poshtli's soul writhed in an agony of torment. Never had he felt so powerless.

Once again, on the previous night, Chical had warned him against interfering in the fate of the two he had brought to Nexal. Poshtli regretted their decision to come here, for he felt he had done nothing but lead his friends into a great trap.

True, Halloran seemed safe enough for the time being. Naltecona had seemed to take a liking to the soldier, spending many hours each day talking to Hal about the world across the Eastern Sea. Certainly his uncle would not order harm to his guest.

But other, darker forces seethed below the surface, and these were the powers against which Chical had warned him. The priests of Zaltec clamored softly, but with increasing agitation, for the heart of the intruder. Of the woman, Erixitl, they said nothing, but the Eagle Warrior had seen the glint in Hoxitl's eye as the high priest had observed her in the sacred plaza. It was a look he imagined upon the face of a great hunting cat before it sank its fangs into the flesh of its gentle, unsuspecting prey.

And so the agony of his own helplessness tore at him, aggravated by the sense that it was he who had brought his companions into this danger. For Hal, he could do little — indeed, he could do nothing, without renouncing the sacred vow he had taken to his order.

Finally Poshtli rose to his feet with liquid smoothness, despite the long hours of immobility. Perhaps, for Hal, he could do nothing.

But he decided upon a plan to protect Erixitl.

The days in Nexal passed quickly for Halloran, but not so for Erixitl. Every day the soldier was summoned to another audience with Naltecona. The Revered Counselor pressed him for details about Hal's world, about the lands of Faerun, the gods that were worshiped there, the magic that was practiced there.

Hal grew more and more torn between fascination with this beautiful, ornate culture, and horror at the underlying butchery required by these peoples' gods. He felt a genuine respect for Naltecona, perceiving the counselor as a man of wisdom and pride, not afraid to admit that he didn't understand everything about the world.

And the wonders of Nexal! He saw little of the city beyond the walls of the sacred plaza, yet even within that small area, there towered structures of dazzling height. Around him, painted on the sides of the pyramids, a myriad of bright patterns and colorful murals caught his eyes. The gardens and fountains were clean and fresh, more serene than any he had known in his homeland.

But atop the pyramids, he knew that a steady, routine slaughter occurred night after night. The priests of Zaltec were everywhere, with their blood-caked hair and filthy, scarred bodies. They looked at him hungrily, and he met their gazes with a harsh, disdaining stare of his own. So far, neither he nor the priests had blinked.

Never after that first day did Naltecona again suggest that Hal accompany him to a sacrifice. Often he asked him about Helm, and Naltecona seemed interested to note that Cordell, the leader of the strangers, also worshiped this god.

Meanwhile, for Erix, there were hours of solitude in the peaceful garden, which felt every bit as much a cage as ever. She wanted to see the city with Halloran, or Poshtli, but instead she found herself walking about with an escort of palace slaves. Somehow the sights that she had always expected to dazzle her seemed disappointingly mundane.

At other times, the strange shadows surrounded her, threatening to block out the sun, even the world itself. They became so dark, occasionally, that she couldn't see the ground beneath her feet — though full, cloudless daylight reigned overhead. She grew hesitant to raise her eyes upward, for always she saw the looming presence of Mount Zatal. It seemed, to her suddenly keen vision, that the mountain swelled like a festering sore, ready to explode its putrescence across the True World. Often she felt the earth rumbling beneath her feet, though others around her seemed to take little note of the tremors.

She began to wonder if she was losing her mind.

She found occasional moments of pleasure in the great marketplace. Among the presents that had been placed in their room were sacks of cocoa beans, and feathered quills filled with gold dust — the two principal forms of currency in the great city. For the first time in her life, Erixitl had her own money to spend. She also had the most elaborate marketplace in the True World to spend it in.

There, vendors from all the lands of Maztica — except, of course, for Kultaka — offered their goods for sale or barter. The most common means of exchange was the cocoa bean, which she had seen in the abundance of its harvest in Payit. It amused her now to see peddlers counting the brown nuggets, one by one, in order to conclude a sale.

They traded for fine bolts of cloth, for bright shells and long quills filled with gold dust. Carvers offered tiny replicas, in wood or stone, of the gods. Stonechippers presented sharp-edged macas and knives, and obsidian-tipped javelins and arrows. Bowyers sold their weapons, hewn from the most resilient willow or the hardy cedar.

She stopped once, momentarily enthralled by the pluma offered by a humble featherworker. The craftsman, a wrinkled old man whose nimble fingers belied his otherwise arthritic appearance, held up a cape for her inspection. The garment was a fine mesh, interwoven with tiny tufts of the most brilliant feathers she had ever seen.

Almost ever seen, she reminded herself, unconsciously touching the token at her throat. That gift from her father was more than a decade old, yet though its feathered fringes were single, delicate strands of color, the amulet hadn't lost a single plume over the years.

"I see you know of pluma" said the old man sagely. He let go of the cape, and it hung motionless in the air. The man made a curt gesture, and the cape swirled around Erix to settle softly about her shoulders.

"Take the mantle," offered the featherworker. "May it protect your skin as the amulet protects your spirit."

Erix was about to protest, to offer the man some payment for the cape. Indeed, it was the first thing she had seen in the market that really attracted her attention. Yet the featherworker was suddenly engaged in an earnest sales talk with a tall Eagle Knight. Though Erix came past this spot a little later, she saw no sign of the old man nor his blanket of goods. Strangely, none of the other vendors nearby seemed to remember him.

But the cloak was soft and warm on her shoulders and seemed to lighten her spirits somewhat as she returned to the palace, to the apartments around the garden. And as she expected, there was no one there.

This time her solitude was short-lived, however. The rattle of the doorway curtains told her that someone stood without, and she looked up to see Poshtli, silently awaiting her permission to enter.

"Come in," she said, delighted to see the warrior. His face, which had been unusually taut since they had arrived in Nexal, seemed once again smooth and untroubled.

Erix spun, allowing the feathered cloak to rise from her shoulders and circle her in the air, a brilliantly colorful frame for her own brown skin and swirling black hair. "Do you like it?"

"It's beautiful," he said, and he meant it. "But not as beautiful as the woman it warms."

Erix stopped suddenly, looking at Poshtli in surprise. Suddenly she blushed and looked down, pleased but taken aback by his remark. He stepped to her side, and she looked up at him again.

"Erixitl… I've wanted to speak to you for weeks, since the day we met, to tell you what's been in my heart. Always something seemed to stop me. We haven't been alone, or my tongue would become tied into a knot in my mouth and I could not speak.

"But no more!" He held her shoulders and looked into her eyes, noting the flecks of green there. "You are the most entrancing woman I have ever known. Your beauty leaves me without words. No other woman has done this to me!"

"My lord!" she blurted, stunned by his words. A turbulent flash of excitement grew in her stomach, but it was a tense, nerve-wracking feeling.

"Erixitl of Palul, will you become my wife?"

For a moment, she froze. Her excitement turned into fright, or at least a certain breathless nervousness.

But then suddenly his lips were pressed to hers. His kiss was hot, and she welcomed it with warmth of her own. She felt him holding her, and she wasn't at all sure she wanted it to end.

Halloran's step was light as he hurried back to the apartment. Naltecona had just offered him a house of his own, as repayment for Hal's teaching the Revered Counselor more of the ways of the strangers.

The soldier had made it clear, and the ruler had accepted, that these lessons did not include teaching Maztican warriors how to fight against the legionnaires. A fugitive from the legion he might be, but he couldn't bring himself to help prepare for the deaths of his former comrades-in-arms.

But it was not the men of the Golden Legion that Hal thought of right now. The one who mattered awaited him in the quarters around the garden.

For a moment, he winced inwardly as he thought of how little time he had spent with Erixitl since they had reached Nexal. Appointments with Naltecona, visits to the lodges of the Eagle and Jaguar Knights, long discussions with Maztican alchemists and sorcerers — all of these had kept him busy. He had allowed his fascination for the newness of Nexal to deprive him of the company of the one with whom he most wanted to share his life.

But no more. Now, with the secure offer of a house, he was no longer a wandering fugitive. He had grown to love this magnificent city. More importantly, he realized that he loved the woman who had brought him safely here.

His step increased in urgency as he turned the last corner. He reached for the beaded curtains, his heart singing. Then he heard voices from inside, and unconsciously he froze.

"…become my wife?" The words were Poshtli's, Halloran sensed with a cold stone sinking into his stomach. What would she say?

Then, through the beads of the doorway, he saw Poshtli scoop Erix into his arms. Her own arms went around his shoulders, pulling him closer.

Stunned as if he had been struck on the head, Halloran lowered his hand from the doorway. Stumbling slightly, he turned and walked away.

Fire surged upward, illuminating the inside of the long building. Apprentices threw more wood on the flames, and now bright, yellow light surrounded the great statue of leering, bloodthirsty Zaltec.

Hoxitl entered the room, shedding his dirty robe and approaching the statue naked but for his breechclout. His hands were red, caked with the blood of the Viperhand ceremony. Tonight, as upon so many nights since the strangers had come to the True World, he had branded many of the faithful with the sign of the hand.

Like all the others, they took the vow, pledging hearts and minds, bodies and souls — their lives themselves — to Zaltec. In this age when strangers from across the sea marched in their land, they found their only comfort in this cult of hatred, and only Zaltec offered hope of successful resistance. The cult flourished, and this pleased Hoxitl. He suspected that the cult of the Viperhand would be the only force that could truly stem the tide when war swept the land as it inevitably must.

But now he had other, more immediate concerns.

"What is the word?" he inquired of a priest who emerged from the shadows to stand beside him, looking up at the statue.

"It will have to be done in the palace," said the newcomer, Kallict. A young, vigorous priest, Kallict had shown great skill with the sacrificial blade and possessed a keen wisdom for one of his age. Many priests thought he might one day succeed Hoxitl to the rank of patriarch.

The current high priest scowled at the news. "Does she not venture into the city?" he demanded.

"Rarely," replied Kallict. "She has gone to the market several times, but always with an escort of palace slaves — and always during the day."

"Taking her from the palace will be difficult," said the high priest.

Kallict removed a stone knife from his belt. Facing the older priest squarely, he extended his arm, which was covered with long, straight scars. Laying the blade against his own skin, Kallict drew the knife sharply toward himself. Red blood welled from the wound and dripped, unheeded, to the floor as the young priest looked at his patriarch.

"By Zaltec, I will find a way to do it." They both knew that his vow was as good as the blood that now collected into a small pool on the floor.

"They await us on the slopes," reported Darien. "Beyond the next pass lies their city, so I am certain they will fight us here."

Cordell took the elfwoman's hand in gratitude for the warning. Without it, his legion would almost certainly have marched into ambush.

"Deploy to meet them," barked the captain-general to his assembled officers. The legion's march had taken it westward down a wide valley. Now they neared the higher ground, where the valley rose to this saddle-like pass, many miles inland from the border of Kultaka.

"Daggrande, deploy your crossbows across the front. Garrand, advance up the slope in a diversion. See if you can lure them into a charge. Alvarro, keep the lancers hidden, in reserve."

With the efficiency of long practice, the Golden Legion deployed for battle. The light foot soldiers of Garrand's company spread into a skirmish line. The heavy crossbowmen of Daggrande's units took station behind them, while Alvarro held his horsemen out of sight. The warriors of the Payit Cordell sent in two great wings to the right and left, using his Maztican allies to insure that his legion wasn't caught in a flank attack.

An overcast sky hung heavily over the valley, almost touching the highest of the surrounding peaks. All morning long the gray blanket had pressed close, darkening the landscape, threatening and rumbling, but yielding no moisture.

A shower of arrows, as thick as a summer downpour, soared outward from the slopes, arcing down to spray the assembled footmen of Cordell's legion.

"Shields up!" shouted Daggrande, nervously eyeing the heights.

With a clatter of stone against steel, the arrows shattered against the metal bucklers and helmets of the legionnaires. One or two found a chink, driving into a bicep or painfully pricking a shoulder, but most of the missiles bounced harmlessly from the protected troops. '

Again and again the arrows flew into the air, like a streaking cloud of locusts, but always the metal shields of the legionnaires saved them from catastrophe.

"Move up, now — look lively!" Daggrande raised his steel crossbow, searching the brushy slope before them for some sign of the enemy. He saw the Kultakan archers backing up the hill, away from his slowly marching company. The temptation to charge them was great, but the dwarven veteran shrugged it away. The nimble warriors would have no difficulty slipping away from his heavily encumbered troops.

Instead, the company marched to the measured cadence of the drummer, maintaining a straight line even as a portion scrambled through a ditch or another section forced its way through a dense thicket.

"Halt!" he cried, as they reached a steeper, rockier portion of the slope. "Shields!"

Again arrows showered them, as thick as a cloud of stinging insects, but fortunately with not much greater damaging effect. The dwarf saw with satisfaction that, though several of his men bled from fresh and obviously painful wounds, not one of them had broken ranks or fallen.

Now a shrieking din of whistles, horns, and shrill yells suddenly broke from the ground above them. Where Daggrande had seen a broken slope with occasional flashes of movement, now he beheld a horde of many thousands of feathered, painted Kultakans. The natives leaped to their feet from countless holes in the earth, as if they had appeared by magic.

Another shower of arrows erupted, and even before the missiles fell to earth, the Mazticans broke into a howling downhill charge.

"Fly, my feathered ones! Fly to victory!"

Just beneath the top of the ridge, Takamal sprang to his feet. The war chief of Kultaka turned his face to the sun, raising his voice in a long, ululating howl, letting the exultation of his own spirit lift the hearts of his charging warriors.

Behind him, a rank of warriors stood, each holding a long pole. Atop each shaft fluttered a different banner of brilliant feathers. When raised alone or in combination, they served to communicate orders to the Kultakan army.

Along the ridgetop, the Eagle Knights stood above a steep embankment. The black-and-white-cloaked warriors hurled themselves into space, changing to the forms of diving birds and soaring free before they crashed to the rocks below.

"See the strangers recoil!" cried Naloc, high priest of Zaltec and Takamal's lifelong advisor.

Indeed, the feathered swarm of the Kultakan charge had swept fully around the silver figures of the enemy. Virtually immobile in comparison to the fleet Kultakans, the strangers could only tighten their ranks and form a rough circle against the all-around assault.

"Still, they fight well," admitted Takamal as his flash of joy settled back to grim determination. "Very few of them have been slain."

Below them, the Eagles settled to earth. Quickly they became humans again, raising the wooden macas and whooping as they hurled themselves into the attack. Against them stood a single line of the strangers, wielding their silver shields and those long, metal knives. As the two lines clashed, dozens of Eagles fell, but only one or two of the enemy.

The chief knew that his encirclement would have meant the annihilation of any Maztican foe. Many of his warriors had fallen to the silver knives and metal-tipped arrows of the soldiers, and he knew there would be much grieving after this fight.

"Even the Payit serve them well," observed Naloc. Takamal had ordered small, sharp attacks against each side of the enemy position. The strangers' Maztican allies held both flanks of the position without faltering.

"Bah! We send only a diversion against them." Takamal barely took notice of the natives among the enemy. "It is the foreigners we must beat — and look, we press them back!"

"And still no sign of their monsters." Naloc looked anxiously about the field. Neither of them knew fully what to make of the tale of the half-man, half-deer creatures that reputedly helped the strangers to rout the Payit. The stories had seemed fantastic, yet the defeat of the Payit couldn't be questioned.

"If they appear, so be it. We are ready."

As if in reply to Takamal's challenge, they saw the objects of their curiosity erupt from a narrow draw with shocking speed.

"By Zaltec, it's true!" whispered Naloc in awe.

Takamal did not answer. He stared in amazement, but without fear, at the thundering creatures. The man-forms grew right out of their backs, he could see. They came in four waves, about ten of the monsters in each. Around them dashed shaggy, slavering beasts with long white fangs and bristling spiked collars. They reminded Takamal of coyotes, but they were much larger and more savage of aspect. Also, these beasts fought with every bit as much bravery as the soldiers, leaping against the warriors and tearing with their savage jaws.

The great beasts and their smaller companions raced forward, up the smoothest ground in the center of the pass. Each of the monsters carried a long spear — the longest spears Takamal had ever seen — and the force of their charge carried them like a landslide into the first ranks of the Kultakan warriors.

The warriors didn't even slow them down. Takamal saw with grudging admiration how the beasts tore a swath of death through his beautiful feathered ranks. Later, he knew, he would suffer for the broken bodies left in the wake of the attack, but now his mind worked rapidly, searching for the proper counter stroke.

"There!" he said, pointing along the route of the charge. "They come as we had hoped."

"Your wisdom once again shows the blessings of Zaltec," marveled Naloc, with an awestruck look at his chief. It had been Takamal who had guessed that the monsters, if they appeared, would attack along the stretch of smooth ground.

And it was here that the Kultakan leader had laid his trap.

Alvarro grinned as his lance tore through the feathered shield of a Kultakan warrior. His horse thundered forward, eagerly trampling the panicking spearmen before them. Beside him, the ranks of the lancers spread apart. Now they advanced in a line that meant death for any native warrior unfortunate enough to stand in its path.

The captain rode at the fore, urging his charger to keep just a neck ahead of the rest of the line. His black armor distinguished him, but his helmet also trailed a black streamer, insuring that his men could see him anywhere on the field — his men, and the enemy, too, Alvarro thought with a look at the fleeing natives before him.

The savages were breaking! His heart pounded with excitement as he saw that his riders would carry the battle. He struck again, and this time the lance was torn from his hand, stuck in the body of its victim. The rider pulled his long-sword, as most of the horsemen around him had also done.

The charge carried the riders onto the lower slopes of the ridge. Soon they would reach the warriors surrounding Daggrande's company, relieving the encircled legionnaires.

The horseman didn't see the tall pole, with its banners of bright feathers, dip and wave atop the ridge. He wouldn't have understood the command that the gesture issued, in any event — But he saw its results.

The charge continued, though the smooth ground gave way to rougher terrain. Sheer momentum carried them onward, until suddenly Alvarro found himself among rocks and brush instead of the open field. From behind this cover swarmed a nightmare attack that stopped the cavalry charge cold.

Alvarro gaped in astonishment as a huge spotted cat, bigger than any leopard, leaped onto a rock. With a shrill cry of rage, the beast exposed long fangs and curved, wicked claws. Still snarling, the cat leaped.

Instinctively Alvarro brought his sword up, but it was the equally instinctive reaction of his horse that saved him. The steed reared backward in panic, and with its front hooves, it struck the feline to earth. The cat crouched, snarling, and Alvarro saw to his horror that more and more of the creatures were emerging from cover to spring on his unsuspecting riders.

"Back!" Captain Alvarro howled, his voice shrill. "Away from these devils!" He struck one of the creatures on its skull, killing it. At the same time, he saw a horse stumble and fall to the earth under the weight of several cats. The rider, screaming in terror, was torn from the saddle and quickly disappeared beneath a nightmarish tangle of claws and fangs.

The horsemen desperately pulled away, and in moments, the line thundered backward in full retreat. Not a steed escaped without raked, bleeding flanks and legs.

Once again Alvarro led his riders, this time in terrified flight. Flecks of spit drooled from his lips as he choked back the inarticulate fear. But he could not pull his reins.

"Helm curse him!" snarled Cordell, his stomach turning to a knot as Alvarro turned away from the jaguars. "The worthless dog!"

"Who could stand against those devils?" challenged Bishou Domincus. "They are clearly the work of their foul gods!"

"Did either of you see that?" asked Darien coldly. Her voice got the men's attention abruptly.

The trio stood on a small rise, below the slope where the battle raged. Cordell, knowing that the survival of Daggrande's company itself was at stake, turned to her in annoyance.

"See what? What are you talking about?"

"Up there," the wizard said, pointing coolly. Darien's shocking white skin showed as she raised her hand to point toward the ridgetop. Normally she disliked exposing any patch of her skin to the sun, but the heavy overcast of the day spared her discomfort.

"That feathered pole?" asked Cordell, his mind quickly grasping Darien's meaning, if not her intent. "That must be the war chief. The Payit did the same thing."

"A great chief," mused the wizard. "That was a clever trap, and it was his pole that signaled the attack."

Cordell looked skyward again, his black eyes flashing. "I see what you mean," he breathed softly.

"Of course!" Takamal, carefully watching the battle, saw the horseman fall and instantly understood the monsters. "They are only beasts that carry men into battle!"

His heart surged, full of pride at the noble attack of his Jaguar Knights. Dozens had been slain beneath the feet of the lumbering beasts, but still they pressed their attack. And now the riders had been pushed back!

"Magnificent!" whispered Naloc. "Zaltec has smiled upon us this day."

"Perhaps he will smile upon us," cautioned the chief. "But the attack isn't broken yet. Witness how the silver soldiers resist, even when surrounded." He gestured toward the field below, where the circle of swordsmen still stood amid the howling mass of Kultakan warriors. For many minutes, they had been cut off from the rest of the legion, yet no more than a dozen had fallen — and at the cost of many hundreds of Kultakan dead.

"Now! Signal the advance!" barked Takamal.

Two of his signalmen raised banners, each of which glowed bright crimson under the heavy gray sky. The pennants streamed in the slight wind, stretching weightlessly into the air. For a moment, the battle paused as the Mazticans took note of the command fluttering from the knoll atop the ridge.

But then they saw something else up there. Naloc, and Takamal himself, whirled in astonishment as a figure suddenly appeared on the ridgetop, barely thirty feet away.

The newcomer was a woman, Takamal saw — a woman with shockingly pale skin, and hair the color of snow. She wore a dark robe, but now the wind whipped that robe away from her body and he saw the bleached skin on her arms, her legs, her torso.

He saw, too, that she was very beautiful, in an icy sort of way. A golden circlet surrounded her brow, and her high cheekbones suggested nobility. Her eyes were wide, pale… and empty.

"By Zaltec!" gasped Naloc. The cleric seized his sacrificial dagger and held the stone blade over his head, lunging toward the woman. She seemed to be unarmed, though Takamal noticed a slender stick thrust through her belt.

She raised a hand and spat a word at Naloc — a word — and the cleric grasped his chest with a dull moan and collapsed to the ground. He kicked his feet reflexively, as does a sacrifice sometimes even when his heart has been torn away. Takamal knew that Naloc was dead.

The war chief of Kultaka stood tall, unbent even after his seventy years. He looked up at this slender female, who now turned those icy eyes on him. Takamal stood and watched. So, too, did the warriors of Kultaka, gathered on the field below.

A bolt of yellow energy, like a shot of lightning from the clouds, exploded from the woman's hand. She pointed her finger, and the power surged forth with a hiss and a crackle, faster than the eye could follow.

The magic drove into Takamal, for a moment outlining his body in sizzling blue flame. The smell of burned flesh wafted through the air. Still the great chief of the Kultakans made no sound, no movement. The energy of the lightning bolt exploded past, striking two of his flag-bearers dead behind him.

Then Takamal toppled, his life burned away by sorcery. Rigid and scarred in death, the war chiefs body fell forward, tumbling from the ridge to spill down the long slope, finally crashing to a halt among the still, stunned members of his army.

A few feathers from his singed headdress floated through the air, coming to rest on the ground atop the ridge, far above the Revered Counselor's shattered corpse. Those feathers, and two footprints outlined in black soot, were all that remained to show where Takamal had been.

From the chronicles of Colon:

The legend of the Plumed One's departure includes the promise of his return.

Qotal journeyed to Payit and climbed aboard a great feathered canoe, to sail onto the Eastern Ocean. He turned his back upon Maztica, for everywhere the people followed gods of lust and blood. Zaltec smiled, to see the Feathered Serpent sail away.

But Qotal promised that one day he would return. He told of three signs that would preface his arrival and bade the folk of Maztica to watch and to wait.

First would come the couatl, messenger of Qotal and harbinger of his return.

Second would be granted the Cloak of One Plume, to be worn by Qotal's chosen one, offering protection and beauty so that all may learn the glory of his name.

Third, and most mysterious, would come the Summer Ice.

But for now, these tales are mere legends. Even the couatl, who tantalizes me, I see only in my dreams.