Feathered Dragon

10

Halloran thought that it must be the strangest victory celebration ever. The companions sat beneath the desert sky,] its immaculate dome of stars arcing from horizon to horizon, among a throng of a thousand dwarves. No fire blazed, even though the night was chill, and their newfound allies spoke in subdued, almost awestruck, tones.

From somewhere, Luskag, the chief of the desert! dwarves, had produced a number of jars of a bitter draft, more powerfully intoxicating than anything Hal had yet sampled in Maztica. Now they sat in groups, gathered along a wide, flat bluff, drinking the liquor and basking in the glow of victory.

Jhatli amused the dwarves by whooping and dancing about, describing to anyone who would listen the deadly rain of arrows with which he had showered the trolls. The youth spun wildly and leaped into the air, and the gruff dwarves chuckled at the spectacle.

Daggrande and.Luskag, meanwhile, talked earnestly in the dwarven tongue that linked them, They passed one era the gourds of drink between them, and Hal wondered] blearily whether the two of them would be able to finish the thing. After all, he himself had had only a few swigs, yet already he found a strange nonchalance flowing gently through his limbs.

“Sure,” he said to the grinning desert dwarf who squatted beside him. “I’ll have another taste.” The stuff coated hid tongue like pungent ink and cut a swath of fire down his throat, but then in his belly it became a flame of gentle warmth.

Daggrande clumped over to him, walking with a steady-gait. Vet when Hal looked at his friend’s face, he saw that the dwarf’s eyes blazed and his cheeks were flushed with a

ruddy glow.

“This was their first battle ever!” exclaimed the dwarf, collapsing beside Hal.

The man shook his head in amazement. “Dint do too bad, did they?”

Daggrande smiled, his eyes glowing brighter, “That’s dwarves for ya. You can take the dwarves out of the fight, but you can’t take the dwarves out of the fight… no, that’s out of the war… something like that.” He shook his head, suddenly morose at the lapse in his memory,

“I know what you mean.” Hal chuckled.

Suddenly the dwarf looked up. “Where’s yer wife?” he asked.

“Isn’t she right over…” Hal’s head whirled around 1 dunno,” he admitted. He climbed awkwardly to his feet, surprised when the ground seemed to shift under him. Odd the way the stars whirled around, too… “1 better go find her,” he mumbled.

A cool wind blew across the desert, cresting the bluff of their camp briskly, with freshening force. The air seemed to clear his head slightly, but Hal still found it difficult to maintain his footing. Not knowing why he did it, he headed toward the edge of the crest, away from the dwarves and his companions.

In a few minutes, he saw, or imagined, a brightness ahead of him. He was not surprised when he found Erixitl sitting quietly and looking upward at the stars.

He sat-fell, actually-beside her, and she laughed gently. When he tried to explain, she placed a hand to his lips to silence him.

For a long time, they sat together, watching the stars wheel gracefully across the heavens. A feeling of well-being encircled them in hope and promise, and they did nothing to break the spell.

“Our lives have changed these last few days,” Erixitl said softly, “We start on anew path-a long journey across the face of the True World.”

Halloran held her tightly He wanted to remind her that they had new allies now, and new prospects for success. They were together, they would have a child… A million thoughts raced through his mind.

For now, he remained silent, sensing that she knew these things and shared his contentment. Challenges and hardships awaited them, they both knew, and the success of their mission was far from guaranteed.

But for now, for tonight at least, all would be well with the world.

Hoxitl groaned in weariness, a bleak sense of exhaustion he had never before suffered. The fight against the humans had been savage, so close to victory! But ultimately so futile.

How he had missed the trolls! If only he had kept those savage creatures alongside him, instead of sending them after the woman! The monsters had returned to his camp now, with their own tale of failure, and a great lethargy settled over all the beasts of the Viperhand.

Somehow, although the flush of victory fed him and his creatures with energy, the frustrations of defeat sapped their strength in equal measure.

He considered the effort needed to make another attack against the position defended by legionnaires, Kultakans, and Nexalans. He could plainly see the breastworks on the ridge above him, and once again weariness coursed through his body.

Instead, Hoxitl squatted on the ground and tried to focus on a plan. His army remained strong, still savage and bloodthirsty.

Then, deep within Hoxitl’s awareness, Zaltec called to him again. The god of war had but one true enemy, and that enemy had been deflected but not destroyed. The Plumed One could not return to Tewahca. The altar had been destroyed, and this was the scene of his defeat.

But where else could he go? Nexal? That ruined metropolis, heartland of Zaltec’s power, certainly could not beckon

one such as the! Yet, still, Nexal had hosted temples to Qotal and the other gods as well as to Zaltec. A great fear began to grow in Hoxitl, a fear that even as he stood here, wasting his time in battle with these humans, his true enemy could be taking shape behind him, sneaking his way into Nexal itself.

Zaltec’s summons finally stirred Hoxitl’s beast body, and the cleric felt the threat foreseen by his god. Roughly the monster rose to his full height, still stiff and battered from his epic struggle. Zaltec, he knew, would gather his strength for the battle with Qotal that was still to come. Hoxitl, meanwhile, mustered his force. They would turn from the humans before them.

Instead, they would return to Nexal, and there they would await the command of Zaltec.

“My master! I come in answer to your summons!” Gultec bowed deeply before Zochimaloc, relieved to let the peace and serenity of Tulom-Itzi once again wash over him.

“Ah, my brave warrior; said the teacher affectionately. “I wish it were not so, but now we have need of your skill. You must lead our people in war.”

“With the scourge that mars the jungle?” Gultec asked. “I have seen its spoor, but I do not understand its nature.”

“Yes, this is the enemy, arisen from the bowels of the earth and now spreading its stain across all the lands of Far Payit.”

As always, Zochimaloc was a mountain of solidity in the world. Gultec felt a peculiar joy in his heart just to be with the old teacher again. His words, the warrior thought, offered the wisdom of the ages.

The pair spoke in one of the gardens of Tulom-Itzi, beside a fountain that sent shimmering rainbows of light dancing in the sun. Yet that beauty fell away, forgotten in the horrors that the teacher described to his student. Zochimaloc told Gultec of the ants he had seen in his vision, of the villages that had been reduced to decaying compost, and of the inexorable march of the great insect army.

“You saw its path, swinging to the east,” he concluded. Hut now our people hear that the army has turned back. No I longer does its path wind like a snake across the land. Now the ants march true, cutting a straight swath toward their target.”

“They come here, do they not?” Gultec already knew the’ answer, though Zochimaloc nodded his assent. “How far away are they now? And how fast do they march?”

“It seems that they will reach Tulom-Itzi in four or five days, unless we stop them first. Gultec, can we stop them?”

The warrior growled, oddly discomfited at being asked a question by one he had always assumed knew everything. “We can only try,” he admitted.

For the next three days, he gathered together the men of Tulom-Itzi. Though the people had no tradition of warriorhood, they were skilled hunters, and during his studies under Zochimaloc, Gultec had trained them to put these skills to battle use. Now the women made arrows while he sent parties of men into the jungle to observe the approaching army and to learn how to harass its seemingly inexorable approach.

These parties came back with tales, not only of the monstrous ants that seemed almost impervious to arrows and spears, but also of the horrible creatures that led the insects toward war. These dark, bloated figures, scuttling upon insect bodies with the heads and torsos of men, seemed to Gultec an even greater and more unnatural menace than the ants themselves.

He listened to a tale of a large village, well prepared for the attack and even surrounded by a thorny wall of wood, that had lain in the path of destruction. The ants had swarmed over the wall, tearing it down in the process, then scurried through the huts and buildings, even crawling over the village pyramid. Wherever warriors had tried to stand against them, they had perished to the last man. Only a few ants had died in the entire battle.

He tried to plan a firetrap to ensnare the insects in a forest blaze before they reached Tulom-Itzi. But here the rain god, Azul, schemed against them, for daily showers drenched

the jungle, and the foliage remained constantly wet and steaming. Despite their most vigorous efforts with oil and tinder, it could not be made to burn.

Finally he went to his teacher again, knowing that the ants would reach the city on the following day. His heart broke as he looked into Zochilmaloc’s eyes, so wise and now so sad in the twilight of his life.

“My teacher,” Gultec said haltingly, “it grieves me to speak thus to you, to give you this message that tears the heart from my body. But I fear I have no other choice.”

“Speak, my son, and fear not,” counseled Zochimaloc.

“We cannot stand against these ants,” Gultec said finally. “As a Jaguar Knight, I am not afraid of a hopeless fight. Indeed, a year ago I should have rejoiced at the thought of giving my life in such a worthy battle, though the outcome be preordained.”

Gultec paused, and Zochimaloc waited, sensing the warrior’s deep resistance to his own conclusion. “Yet in the time I have studied with you, I have learned some things-things which have made me question the basic principles I have held throughout my adult life.” Gultec spoke more quickly now, growing sure of himself.

“You have made me question the glory of war, and even to see the hurt it can cause. You have shown me a people of courage and grace and learning-people who do not practice war and have not known it during their lives.

“If people such as this can be happy and prosperous, I must doubt that war is a necessity-at least, war for the sake of warfare. Warfare has its place, for there are threats that must be countered. This too, you have taught me, and you have shown me as much by bringing me here to teach your people how to fight.

“But a battle here, before Tulom-Itzi, would merely be a fight for the sake of pride and courage. It would not be war for victory. We cannot hope to win a victory over this army, at least not now. I know, teacher, that you will not question my courage when I offer you this counsel:

“Our only hope of survival is to abandon Tulom-Itzi and seek shelter in the jungle.”

“It shall be as you command,” said the master, with a deep bow.

Poshtli clung to the feathered mane with both hands, desperately trying to retain his hold. He didn’t know where he was or what he was doing, but he sensed that to let go was to die. So he held tight to the plumage and ignored the pitching and bucking that threatened to tear him free.

It was not until later-much later-that he understood the transformation that had come over him. Finally, though, he realized that he was holding on with hands-human hands, with fingers and thumbs! Making a sensory inspection of his body, he realized that the eagle’s shape no longer cloaked him. Once again he was human, But where was he? All around him, he sensed movement, though no wind whipped at him. Bright, soft feathers cushioned and surrounded him, and he realized that he held on to a huge living form.

Qotal! The carried him in flight, away from the scene of the terrible fight. But why, then, was! there no wind?

Hesitantly Poshtli turned his head away from the great’ neck. He saw only gray nothingness, a thick, swirling vapor, that surrounded them both and masked any sense of up or down. He stared away from the dragon, in die direction he guessed must be up. but he could see no sign of the sun through the mist.

Slowly, carefully, the Maztican changed his grip on the flowing plumage of the huge serpent’s mane. He crept up ward, until his head emerged from the plumage. Now he looked over Qotal’s head and saw that more of the gray emptiness yawned before them.

He could see that the serpent’s massive wings beat J strongly to either side of its great body. The bright plumage on those wings seemed even more colorful now, in contrast to… well, to nothing. Try as he might, he could discern no

color or shape, no irregular feature within the encloaking

Qotal’s wings still beat steadily as the carried him swiftly toward an unknown destination. Poshtli could only thank the mercy of the god for saving his life and be grateful that he now rode in relative security, wherever it was that they went.

But still, he wondered, why was there no wind?

The great eagle soared slowly to earth, settling to the ridgetop where the line of warriors still stood watch against the threat offered by the horde of the Viperhand. The earthworks, abandoned for the most part, still stood like proud, steep sentinels along the heights overlooking the dusty wasteland to the north.

In the valley to the south, around the lake the Nexalans had named Tukan, a small community slowly grew. Many grass huts lined the shores, while a few dugout canoes probed the deeper waters, where great schools of fish swam. Already stones had been gathered and a low pyramid built-a pyramid dedicated to Qotal, sanctified with offerings of flowers and a multitude of butterflies.

The eagle dropped to the ridge, and then his form shifted, shimmering briefly in the bright sun. The shimmer faded and revealed Chical, Lord of the Eagle Knights. He approached Cordell, and as he did, the Maztican warrior’s face broke into a faint, reluctant smile.

“Good news, man?” asked the captain-general. He spoke a rough mixture of Nexalan and common-speech, understood by the Eagle Knight.

“It would seem so,” Chical responded in the same bastardized tongue. “The beasts march northward, back toward Nexal!”

“Hah!” Cordell exclaimed his joy, throwing his hands skyward at the news. He restrained an impulse to embrace his ally, knowing such an approach would offend the proud, aloof warrior.

Bui even Chical’s face split into a grin then, as did Tokol’s when the chief of the Kultakans arrived and heard the] news.

“So we have turned them back?” he asked incredulously. “They will not attack again?”

“For now, anyway,” Cordell conceded.

“But why?” Tokol seemed reluctant to accept their good fortune.

“My former enemy is right to question,” added Chical, with a respectful look at the Kultakan. “What could have drawn the enemy away from us? We certainly did not rout them from the field!”

“True,” Cordell admitted. “The best guess is that they have some other pressing concern, perhaps another war to wage. They know we are no threat to them here. Perhaps they feel they can come back and deal with us later.”

“That is a great waste of marching, when they stood at the brink of our position but one day ago,” said Chical skeptically. “Still, we need not question our good fortune too heavily”.

“Indeed,” Cordell agreed, clapping both warriors on their shoulders. “And we have time now-time to make sure that when and if they do return, we will be more than ready to meet them!”

The three allies, feeling a sense of great relief, turned from the north and started toward the slowly growing community below.

The people of Tulom-Itzi left their city swiftly and silently, disappearing into the jungle from which, legend had it, they had once emerged. They took only those possessions they could carry, and the strong men aided the young and the old alike.

They could not help but weep, knowing that they were abandoning the city that had been theirs for more generations than any living person could hope to count. Now they gave it over to a horde of ravenous insects, and even then

they had no guarantee that their escape from the ants would be successful.

Many there were who muttered that they should stand and die in Tulom-Itzi rather than run like rabbits into the jungle. But the people worshiped Zochimaloc as the divine descendant of the gods themselves, and so they could only

obey his command.

The wizened master and teacher remained in his observatory as his people left. He watched Gultec commanding great companies of archers as they went forth to observe the approach of their enemy and try to harass the ants as much as possible. Such tactics were costly, for the ants moved swiftly through the brush, and many an archer fell to a horrible fate between grinding mandibles or to the black arrows of the half-men, half-insect creatures.

But they sent volleys of well-aimed missiles at the ants before melting back into the jungle. They had tried shooting at the human-torsoed beasts that commanded the ants but had found their black metal armor impervious to the sharks-tooth arrows. Through costly experimentation, they learned that an arrow that struck an ant in the eye confused and disoriented it. An ant struck in both eyes was quickly dispatched and devoured by its fellows.

The harassment claimed the lives of many brave archers, for always the ants rushed ahead to try to overtake the humans. One stumble in the dense underbrush was enough to cost a man his life, as the giant insects gave him no time to regain his feet. A side effect of the tactic, unnoticed at the time, was that the man-bugs accompanying the ants took to following toward the rear of their column. Though none had been slain by the missile fire, they valued their lives enough to take such precautionary measures.

Finally the archers fell back to Tulom-Itzi itself. They rapidly crossed the gardens and avenues, passing the pools and the fountains, the great pyramids and palaces, to melt into the jungle beyond.

Only when the last of his people, accompanied by Gultec himself, passed through the city did Zochimaloc leave his domed place of solitude. It was with a feeling of heartbreaking sorrow that he joined his pupil in flight, turning to the jungle as the ants claimed Tulom-Itzi.

“Where are the humans?” demanded Darien. spitting venomously in the height of her rage.

“Fled,” replied the faithful drider, Hittok. That creature had scuttled among the great edifices while the ants had ransacked the wooden houses and thatch huts. They had found much to eat, but nothing to kill.

“Filthy cowards! How can they leave us this treasure, offering it up without a fight?”

“Perhaps they fear us too much,” suggested the male.

“Indeed,” mused the white drider, her rage gradually matched by her curiosity.

Darien strode among the pyramids and great stone palaces, looking in wonder at this city in the jungle. Her eight legs carried her smoothly up the steep stairways, until at last she stood upon the platform of a high pyramid. She saw that the forest pressed close around this great open plaza of stone buildings. The wooden structures stood within the forest, and these were currently and systematically destroyed by her army.

The ants spread like a scourge from the city center, tearing the leaves from trees, trampling and devouring the mayz in the fields, and tearing the lush gardens into rubbish and rot. The stone buildings the ants plundered for food, but they left the structures intact.

“That domed place-what is it?” Darien wondered, pointing to the observatory on the low hill in the center of the city

“It was empty,” replied Hittok. “It has gaps in the roof-holes to let light in, 1 think, though they are oddly placed.”

“And the humans? You say that they have fled into the jungle?”

“Yes, mistress.”

For the first time since entering Tulom-Itzi, Darien smiled. She nodded her slender, milky-white head. “Very well.

When we have finished with their city, we shall pursue them. They cannot hope to long avoid my army.” “Indeed. We shall quickly overtake them.” And then-“ Darien concluded, her thin smile growing light and menacing, “then we shall kill them all.”

“The faces, Captain! The faces on the cliff!”

Don Vaez emerged from his cabin, trying to conceal his excitement from the crewmen who clamored for his attention. The leader of the expedition, always conscious of appearances, was determined to display no untoward sign of agitation.

Yet internally his heart pounded with the news. They had almost reached their goal! Pryat Devane had given him a good account of Cordell’s route, and he knew that this massive edifice had been his rival’s first landfall on the shores of Maztica itself.

Despite these preliminary reports, however, Don Vaez was not prepared for the awesome impact of the scene before him.

The cliff at the headlands of the Payit country loomed some five hundred feet in the air. The clear blue waters of a sheltered lagoon lay placid, protected by a coral reef encircling the shore. Beyond the water, a slim belt of white sand fringed the base of the cliff, backed by a strip of jungled greenery.

But over all, the two faces-Twin Visages, he had heard them called-stared ominously eastward. A male and a female, the faces were similar in aspect: oval-shaped, with thick lips, broad noses, and keen eyes that belied their sculpted origins as they seemed to stare into Don Vaez’s soul itself.

He shook his head, trying to break the thrall. “Pilot! Fetch me the charts!”

“Here they are, Captain.” Rodolfo, the grizzled navigator who had plotted their course across the Trackless Sea, offered several rolled sheets of parchment to Don Vaez.

The captain took them without a word but looked up as he unrolled them. He would need the navigator’s help in de-ciphering the rough charts, since map-reading had never been one of his strengths- And besides, these crude guides had only been prepared through distant and brief communication with the late Bishou Domincus. They were altogether lacking in crucial detail.

“Cordell sailed along this coastline,” offered Rodolfo, indicating the course with a blunt finger. “Until he discovered this city-the natives called it Ulatos.’”

“And that’s where he erected his fort?”

“Yes… at the anchorage near the city. It’s likely just an earthen redoubt, but the harbor there is supposed to be well protected. He called it Helmsport.’”

“Helmsport.” Don Vaez let the name roll off his tongue. “I like that. The name will stay. The fort, however,” he added with a grim chuckle, “is about to gain a new master.”

Barely pausing before the huge carvings in the cliff, the. twenty-five carracks of Don Vaez’s fleet set a new course due westward along the coast. All lookouts kept their eyes peeled for the first sign of Helmsport.

Erixitl grows in the fullness of her motherhood, as if her vitality increases in challenge to the bleakness that surrounds her. Halloran and Daggrande march like the soldiers that they are, while Jhatli struggles to emulate them. Lotil rides, and as he rides, his fingers work their pluma, his mesh showing a steadily growing splash of color.

And then one glorious morning we crest a low, rocky ridge and see the strip of blue beckoning us on the horizon. The Sea of Azul!

By nightfall of that day, we reach the shore. The desert dwarves shun the water, staying well back from the soft breakers. We humans, however, and the horse, and even the dwarf Daggrande enter the brine, soaking and splashing and playing like children. We relish the cool wash of the waves, though we take care not to drink.

But this is a splendid landmark. We have our bearings, and we know that the desert will soon fall behind us. Now our path will turn north, to follow the shore, and soon we will enter the lush realm of Far Pay it. Payit, and our goal of Twin Visages, lies beyond.