Ironhelm

ENEMIES AND FRIENDS

Alvarro soared with the momentum of the charge, the invincible feeling of power that surged through him as he led the lancers through the tattered ranks of the enemy. He had killed many of these natives already, more than he could count.

The horses rumbled on, unstoppable, the sleek, fierce greyhounds running beside them. Alvarro delighted in the effect of the war dogs, for the natives seemed to fear the hounds nearly as much as the lancers.

But still targets abounded for his lance, victims awaited the cut of his sword. The killing became a ritual for him, a process he could continue indefinitely.

He took no note of the fact that they had ridden beyond the enemy warriors. Still he hacked and slayed. The twelve horses of his wing thundered among the old people, the women and children who had come to watch the battle. Now the horsemen rode them down, far faster than they could flee.

Alvarro sensed, dimly, that he should turn, but the momentum of his attack had taken on a life of its own. Instead, he flew forward in his orgy with death, and still he killed.

Something caught the captain's eye, and he wheeled his mare sharply as his wing thundered on. He saw an extraordinary young woman standing on the field, staring at him. She was slender and very beautiful, but her arresting feature was her eyes. They found Alvarro and accused him, baring his soul to himself in all its ugliness.

The sight enraged him, and he lowered his lance, spurring his steed on toward the lone woman as bloodlust contorted his soul.

Halloran watched the battle with keen interest, balanced in his tree, concealed by its leafy branches. He feared for Daggrande's company as those ranks charged forward. He cheered the valiant stand of Garrant's men, and finally breathed again when they were relieved by the charging cavalry.

He watched the lancers with a twinge of envy, knowing that he should be riding at their head. He felt a grudging admiration for Alvarro's audacity as the riders circled among the mass of Payit warriors. The colorful banners trailing from the lances, the smooth precision of the horses and riders, all characterized the riders of the legion he had helped to train.

But his admiration turned to puzzlement as he saw the lancers ride beyond the native army and keep riding. And his puzzlement turned to shock, and then to horror, as he saw the butchery perpetrated by his — no, not his, he knew for certain they followed Alvarro now — horsemen.

The savage riders cut along the fringe of delta, and several thundered past a hundred feet from Halloran's lookout. He slid quickly to the ground as they passed. Hal forgot all thought of heroic intervention on the part of his comrades, for he felt no kinship to these brutal assassins.

The lancers killed without regard to the nature of their victims, whether warrior or bystander. The horses trampled those Payit who did not get out of the way, and the dogs growled and snarled and snapped, causing more consternation by their savage appearance than from any actual damage they inflicted.

Halloran saw the black charger wheel away from the others, recognizing Storm. He saw the black streamers trailing from the rider's helmet, knowing this was Alvarro's banner. His enemy had even claimed Hal's mount! A greyhound followed Alvarro and Storm as the lancer looked to his next victim. Halloran watched Alvarro's lance drop. I should have killed him when I had the chance, he thought ruefully. Murderous hatred burned in Hal's heart.

Then, for the first time, he saw Erix on the battlefield and recognized her as the horseman's intended victim.

Not Erixitl! "You bastard!" he croaked, scrambling forward. "By Helm, no!" The thought of her death on this field seemed like a final nightmare to his life — a nightmare he could not allow.

Alvarro rumbled forward, taking no note of Hal as the young legionnaire stepped out from the trees. Halloran desperately felt the inadequacy of his only weapon, the slender dagger. Even had the blade been weighted for throwing, it stood no chance of stopping or even distracting the racing lancer.

Magic! Now was the time when arcane powers could aid the swordsman's arm. But Halloran knew no magic, had known none for ten years.

Kreeshah… What was that phrase? Damn! The words tickled his brain with a long-buried memory. Alvarro's foaming charger galloped past as Hal desperately tried to think.

Kreeshah… barool… hottaisk! That was it!

"Kreeshah… barool…" Halloran pronounced, very loudly. He pointed his finger at Alvarro and his black charger as the lancer rushed toward Erix. "Hottaisk!"

A tiny flash of light sparkled from his finger, hissing like an arrow through the air and trailing sparks behind it as it flew. The magic missile surprised Halloran with its vigor. It struck Alvarro squarely in the back as the horseman loomed over the strangely motionless girl.

Alvarro shouted in pain and surprise as his horse bucked sharply. His cavalry lance fell to the ground as he forcibly brought the charger under control, cursing the burning wound in his back.

"Run! Head for the trees!" Halloran rushed toward Erix, puzzled by the girl's apathy.

She regarded him with a passive expression, vaguely sad. Her eyes instantly wrapped him in their luminous web.

"A deserter and a traitor!" Alvarro's hoarse voice came as a cruel taunt. Hal reached Erix as the rider turned and drew his razor-edged longsword.

"But not a butcher!" Halloran's voice carried to Alvarro's ears. The man's red beard split into a grin as he kicked the horse forward. The greyhound, too, raced forward, but now Halloran recognized Corporal. Surely, he hoped, that dog would remember him.

Hal seized the heavy lance, ponderously lifting the tip to face the rushing rider. The weapon was lethal when backed by the momentum of a charging horse and well-seated rider, it was little more than a heavy pole in the hands of a footman.

The horse thundered closer, and Hal suddenly knelt, resting the hilt of the lance on the ground behind him. Steadying the weapon carefully, he sighted upon Alvarro's armored chest.

The captain hacked with his longsword as he closed, attempting to knock the lance out of the way. But Halloran held firm against the stroke, and in the same second, the wooden tip crashed into Alvarro's chest, splintering the lance even as it drove the rider from his saddle.

The greyhound snarled toward him, and Hal stared into the dog's eyes. "Corporal, no!" he shouted. The dog halted in astonishment, looking at the two men in confusion.

The red-haired lancer lay on his back, moaning. Halloran sprang forward and snatched the man's longsword off the ground. For a moment, he considered thrusting it into Alvarro's body, fair payment for the man's orgy of slaughter. But he could not bring himself to do it, especially with Alvarro's taunt of "traitor" still ringing in his ears. Instead, he tore Alvarro's belt and scabbard away, girding the man's longsword on his own belt.

Then Hal looked around. The black charger, Storm, stood placidly some hundred paces away. The other horsemen of the captain's wing had separated, each pursuing his own victims. They ranged about the field around them, and it would only be seconds before one of them noticed their leader had fallen.

Erixitl slowly realized that she was not about to die, though the nature of her deliverance escaped her. Something had angered the monster just before it killed her, and the beast had leaped and snorted and bellowed its rage from both its mouths.

Then she had recognized the stranger, Halloran, and it slowly occurred to her that he was saving her. But why? Wasn't he the servant of these monsters, like all of his companions? She looked at him wistfully, numbed by the brutality of his kind.

She had felt a thrill of admiration for him as he lifted the spear, desperately fighting the monster. It seemed sad that he would die here, now, with her. Surely no man could stand before the rush of the hellish two-headed monster.

But he broke the monster's body!

Erix gasped in astonishment as Hal's blow tore the top half of the creature away, smashing it to earth. The beast's torso twitched on the ground, but her blood chilled at the sight of its great body lumbering on. The beast looked even more like a deer now that its human part had been ripped away.

Too, it seemed to lose some of its terrible nature. She saw it pause to nibble on the trampled grass among the bloody bodies it had, moments earlier, slain.

Her astonishment was compounded when Halloran barked a command at the small monster and the creature obeyed! It, too, did not look nearly so fierce when it responded to the man's command.

Halloran still dashed around in agitation, followed by the small monster. Now she saw him seize the long knife and start toward the lower half of the greater monster. She understood now: Each half must be killed separately.

But the man did not strike the beast. Instead, he seemed to speak to it. Nor did the monster attack or flee the man, instead standing docilely while Halloran stroked it.

Then Halloran joined the beast! She watched him replace the torso he had torn away. The recreated monster wheeled toward Erix and lumbered in her direction again. But the sensations came too quickly now, and her lively mind was overwhelmed.

By the time Halloran reached her she had collapsed, unconscious, to the ground.

I see a coyote, speaking to me very slowly. I cannot understand him, but he stands over the body of a man. A buzzard, dark with dried blood, lands before me and greets me very politely. He calls me "Most Excellent and Enlightened Lord Poshtli," and I am pleased.

The body between coyote and vulture stirs, struggling to speak. The man is dead, has been long dead, yet he sits up and talks to me. I see that it is my uncle, the Revered Counselor Naltecona.

The coyote, hungry, plucks at an arm of the corpse. It is always hungry. The buzzard pecks at a cheek. My uncle helps them; he pulls pieces of his body away and feeds the scavengers, an arm to the coyote, an ear and an eye to the buzzard.

Then the body of my uncle changes.

Poshtli blinked at the short, bald figure that squatted before him. Slowly the Eagle Knight looked around from the stone bed where he lay, seeing that he was in a cave of some kind. Yellow sandstone walls reflected in golden hues the light of a small fire.

"You speak with the gods. Feathered Man," said the fellow sitting beside him. "Will you speak with me now?"

Poshtli studied the strange speaker, for he had never seen anyone like him. Short and powerful, with bowed legs and broad shoulders, he was a misshapen man. His head was bald, but his face was covered with a whiskered profusion of hair that descended across his belly. The fellow's skin was sun-bronzed, dried like old leather but not as dark as Poshtli's. The stranger stood, and the Eagle Knight saw that he was perhaps four feet tail.

"Who are you?" asked Poshtli, discovering that his tongue felt like an old sandal.

"Eh? I'm Luskag, chief of Sunhome. Funny you should ask that. I've been wondering the same thing about you."

Poshtli's mind cleared. He remembered tales, dismissed as fantastic legend, of the Hairy Men of the Desert, dwarflike people who lived far from any human settlement, past a supposedly uncrossable waste of desert.

"I am Poshtli, of Nexal," he explained, sitting up with difficulty. "I owe you my life."

Luskag nodded. "You came farther than any man I've seen, but no one can live for long in the House of Tezca. Though that's not why I saved you." The dwarf handed Poshtli a flask of water, and the warrior sipped a few drops as Luskag continued.

"Sometimes humans come into the desert and die there. Other times, we desert dwarves save those humans and bring them here, to Sunhome. When we save someone, we must have a reason.

"I saved you because of my dream. I dreamed of a great buzzard, and he circled you, alone in the House of Tezca. And I came to you, gave you water and life, and the buzzard was pleased.

"I don't know why I should want to please a buzzard, but this was somehow important to me." The dwarf looked at Poshtli as if he hoped the lord would have an explanation.

"I dreamed of a buzzard, too… just now, before I woke up," explained the Eagle Knight. "But I don't know what it means."

"Why did you come into the desert?" asked Luskag.

"I seek a vision of the future, some way to bring meaning to the events of the True World. Strangers, powerful men, have flown to our shores. Naltecona, the Revered Counselor of Nexal, has been beset by omens and visions. One night, I had a dream. The Plumed One, Qotal himself, spoke to me, telling me that I might find the truth my uncle seeks. But I could never find it in Nexal.

"The vision showed me an image of heat, sand, and sun, that I took to be the House of Tezca. And within that desert, I must find a great silver wheel. This is why I came here, seeking this knowledge." Luskag sighed, shaking his head in resignation. "It is as I feared."

"What did you fear? Please explain!"

"There is a place near here. One may go there for knowledge or truth, but often at terrible cost — perhaps even a man's life, or his sanity. But this is why men venture into the House of Tezca, and why, sometimes, we bring them here."

Luskag fixed Poshtli with a cold stare. "And that is where your answer lies. I must take you to the Sunstone."

Erix recovered her senses slowly, first realizing that her nostrils ached from a gagging, putrid odor. Next she felt an ache in her abdomen, and finally she sensed motion — but not the gentle rocking motion of the canoe. Abruptly she understood, and the knowledge filled her with profound fear.

She lay across the back of the monster!

The pain came from a protruding shell on the beast's back, for she lay straddled across it, behind the monstrous head but in front of the human torso. She did not look, but felt certain the man was Halloran.

Looking down, she saw that they moved quickly over sand. The nearby sound of waves told her they raced along the beach.

Abruptly she twisted around and sprang away from the creature. She heard Halloran shout as she landed on the sand and sprawled full length. The pounding of the creature's heavy feet ceased instantly, and before she could scramble to her feet, the huge stranger had broken free of the beast and stood on his own feet before her.

"Why did you do that?" he asked. "I won't hurt you!"

"What — what are you?" she cried. "What kind of beings are you that kills with such abandon, such joy? And what are these monsters that…" She gestured angrily at the beast that now stood placidly on the shore. As if sensing her interest, the monster raised its head and made a soft nickering sound. Suddenly the nature of the horses became clear to her. They were animals, great creatures to be sure, but mere animals that carried these men about and were subject to their will.

She saw with her penetrating eyes that her words caused Halloran pain, and she remembered that he had fought against those of his people who would have killed her. The memory brought her anger back afresh.

"Why did you not let me die?" she demanded.

Now anger flashed in Hal's eyes. "Why? Because it was wrong, what they were doing. It was wrong for you to die there!"

"You are strange, even for a stranger, Halloran. You come here on a great journey with these people, and then when they fight, you turn against them."

Once again she caused him pain, she saw, and this time she regretted the hurt. "My people have turned against me," he explained. "They would have killed me, and so I fled." And they blamed me for the death of Martine, he added silently. He suddenly wanted to accuse her with this fact, but he held his tongue.

"When I saw you on the battlefield, there was but one thing I could do. I did it. We rode away from the field, and ever since we have been following the coast to the west."

"Am I your captive?" she asked boldly.

"What? No! Of course not! I wanted to right a wrong done before my eyes, to help you. That's all! And I thought you would be safer here with me than on the field with the legion."

"Then I am free to go?"

Suddenly Halloran felt a terrible fear, an unreasoning sense of loneliness that threatened to dwarf his earlier feelings of despair. He did not want this girl to leave him. She offered his only hope of communication, his only knowledge of this land. But he could not, would not hold her against her will.

"Yes, you can leave. You can go anywhere you want. But I hope you'll stay with me and help me. I'm alone here. I can't go back to my people." The sight and sound and smell of him filled Erixitl with amazement. But she was already growing accustomed to his bizarre appearance. He had proven himself a man of bravery and honor. She knew his companionship would be interesting. As for the smell…

"Very well. But first," she said to him pointedly, "you must take a hath."

He looked at her in puzzlement and saw that she was serious. "Then," she added, "well have to find shelter. It will be night soon."

"The treasure must be counted and assembled quickly!" Kardann urged Cordell. The captain-general noted wryly that the assessor had disappeared before the battle, presumably by returning to the fleet. Now that victory had been secured, however, he showed up with quill and parchment in hand. Nevertheless, he proposed a course of action exactly in line with Cordell's own wishes.

"We will march into this city — I understand it is called 'Ulatos' — tonight," Cordell said. "Darien has informed the chiefs, and they will be prepared to meet us." Once again, the elf's language spell had speeded understanding. Afterward, she had returned to the ship to study the spell, so that she would have it ready for the evening, in case more than one tongue was needed in subjugating Ulatos.

"And the gold?" Kardann asked anxiously.

"We will be rich men by dawn, I assure you," Cordell said as Kardann turned toward the battlefield.

"What about the bodies?" asked the assessor of Amn. "Have they been checked for ornaments, bracelets, that sort of thing?"

"Of course!" snapped Cordell. The necessity of the task did not make it any more palatable to him. "There was considerable gold. It's been gathered at the tower." He pointed to the observation tower on the battlefield, and Kardann hurried away. Cordell felt a vague sense of relief, amplified when he saw Darien coming toward him.

"Greetings, my dear!" Cordell was surprised. He had assumed she would be gone for hours, studying her spell.

Now, in the orange light of the bonfires, her pale white skin reflected the red haze of her anger. "What's the matter?" asked the captain-general.

"Your plan for Halloran backfired," she said, too softly for anyone else to hear. She took great pains to speak when the Bishou's attention, in particular, was directed elsewhere.

"You mean he didn't escape?" Cordell pursed his lips. "I'm disappointed in him. I thought I made it easy enough."

"Oh, you did that," Darien agreed, her tone biting. "He escaped… and more." Cordell raised his eyebrows, and she continued. "He stole my spellbook — perhaps not intentionally, but it was concealed in my backpack, and he took it along with him!"

Cordell winced and looked away from the elf's pale and angry eyes. They both knew the seriousness of the theft, for a wizard needed to consult her book after each spell in order to relearn the enchantment. Without her book, Darien could use each of her spells but once, then would be unable to relearn them until either the book was recovered or an alternate form of the spell was found and copied.

"There is a rumor among some of the men," Darien continued unmercifully, "that he attacked and unhorsed Alvarro, stealing his charger and fleeing the field."

"Helm curse him!" Cordell hissed his anger. "I give him a chance to redeem himself and he betrays me! I cannot allow this!"

"Obviously," agreed the wizard dryly. "But what do you propose to do about it?"

"Did he get all of your spells?"

"He got a copy of each, but I have some sheaves of notes and scrolls about that will help me relearn most of them. It will take time to copy the scrolls into a new book, though. He also stole some potions from the crate."

Cordell blinked his black eyes, his expression cold. "Very well. We can spare no effort. Halloran must be found and killed. Quickly."

"That might be accomplished more easily than you think," noted the wizard with a slow, cruel smile.

"How is that?"

"One of the potions he stole is the decoy… the poison. If he touches it to his lips, he'll be dead before he can lower the bottle."

Spirali walked among the bloody bodies on the field in amazement. As an old member of a very old race, his training had prepared him for many things. But the evidence on this battlefield left him cold and frightened, for the first time wondering if there were forces that even the Ancient Ones could not control.

Nightfall made the battlefield a hellish place. The grass had disappeared, everywhere trampled to mud. Great fans of feathers, once-brilliant banners, and countless plumed headdresses lay in the mud, a fit epitaph to the fortunes of the Payit army.

Silently women and children moved through the dark, seeking a familiar face among the multitude of dead and wounded. Slaves carried bodies to a great trench and laid them carefully, but anonymously, within. Several thousand Payit had been slain and the normally important ritual of individual burial was of necessity forsaken.

Priests of Qotal and Azul passed among the wounded, tending those they could, but their limited healing magic was overwhelmed by the extent of the disaster. For the most part, the warriors bore their wounds stoically, though an occasional cry — usually from a man in delirium — echoed across the field.

But these trivial human concerns meant less than nothing to Spirali.

The Ancient One looked toward the city, where great fires commemorated the victory of the foreigners. By all rights, by a plan laid through centuries, the foriegners should have met complete disaster on this day. But now they danced about the plaza, with its mound of gold, in a way that added to Spirali's sense of foreboding. Indeed, it seemed that these humans were as dedicated to the pursuit of their goals as the Ancient Ones were to theirs. And they were so much more passionate!

His alarm left him but one alternative. Thus Spirali disappeared from the field at Ulatos, flashing himself with the power of teleportation to the Highcave.

He arrived beside the bubbling caldron of Darkfyre as it was being nourished by the Harvesters. The latter, black-robed like Spirali but smaller of form, bowed respectfully.

The Harvesters stood around the caldron of the Darkfyre as they did every night, tending the immortal blaze, feeding it with the fruit of their harvests, garnered from across the lands of Maztica. And thriving on its food, the Darkfyre twisted and flared.

Indeed, Zaltec was happy, for once again he ate well.

The Harvesters labored diligently, and soon the feeding was done. Silently each slipped away into the darkness. The task of the Harvesters was finished until the following night.

Spirali rustled his cape, the sound harsh and jarring through the vast, echoing chambers of the cave. In moments, the Ancient Ones gathered around the Darkfyre. Spirali remained silent, as did all of them, until the frail, shrouded form of the Ancestor emerged to claim his seat above the caldron.

"The strangers have vanquished the Payit in battle. In one day, they have conquered Ulatos and destroyed the army."

Capes rustled in mute statements of surprise, even astonishment.

"Impossible!" hissed one voice, the harshness of her tone offending the sensibilities of the other Ancient Ones. Her cape swished softly, a careful apology for the outburst.

"It is indeed disappointing that the Payit performed so poorly. Nevertheless, the roots of our power have always lain in Nexal. We can be sure that the strangers will not fare so well when they face the warriors of Naltecona!" The Ancestor looked about the chamber before continuing.

"The connection of these strangers with the lands of the Old Realms makes it imperative that we do our work quickly and secretly. Were these strangers to learn of our nature, our plans for Maztica might suffer disastrously.

"They will doubtless learn of Nexal," he mused, his voice like dry reeds rustling in a breeze. "What of the girl?"

Spirali's head fell. "The cleric failed. He is dead. I attempted to slay her, but also failed." It would, of course, be inappropriate to explain the circumstances, such as the arrival of dawn, that contributed to his defeat. He awaited the verdict of the Ancestor, fully expecting death for his own failure. No slightest whisper of silk disturbed the chamber for countless minutes.

"You must return and seek the girl. Her death is more important now than ever. If she is allowed to fulfill the terms of the prophecy, the effect could be catastrophic. But it is essential that your identity remain a secret. Do you understand?"

"Very well." Spirali bowed, the clasp of his black-skinned hands before his body conveying his gratitude for the second chance. "I respectfully report that I shall need help on this task."

"What sort of help do you require?" asked the Ancestor.

Spirali answered, and a soft rustle of astonishment circled the chamber. Such a step had not been taken for centuries! But the Ancestor considered the request very seriously, and finally the venerable leader nodded.

"Very well. You may call out the hell hounds."

Spirali nodded, pleased with the aid and relieved that no punishment had been declared. He knew that he would not get another chance. After warming his hands and his body beside the Darkfyre, Spirali worked his way deep into the vast cavern.

He followed a winding, narrow tunnel until he reached an opening, where this passage joined the wide vertical shaft in the heart of the volcano. Heat pressed against his face from deep, liquid fires flickering far below.

The Ancient One bent over the plummeting shaft and raised his voice in a long, ululating wail. Twice more he repeated the sound, and then he waited.

Far below, a bubble of hot gas burst from the burbling lava. Fiery red, seething with contained energy, it rolled and rumbled up the shaft, straining against its contained pressure. Higher and higher it climbed, growing in speed and force. It twisted and bubbled with contained energy, finally slowing as it approached the level where Spirali waited.

When the gas bubble reached the Ancient One's level, it paused for a second. Inside, Spirali saw a seething mass of long, pointed teeth, of blazing red eyes and smooth, shadowy shapes. A dark creature sprang from the bubble into the corridor beside Spirali. More and more of the great wolflike animals joined him, until the entire pack had collected around him.

Each of the animals was dark in color, ranging from a dirty brown to rust, like dried blood. Great black tongues flopped from their mouths, and their fangs were long, sharply pointed, and as black as midnight. Only their eyes gave the creatures color, for these wicked orbs gleamed and flickered with a light indistinguishable from the bubbling fire below.

As soon as the great dogs had all sprung free, the bubble resumed its ascent. Quickly it burst from the mouth of the volcano, spreading into a great fireball in the sky. Far below, the citizens of Nexal watched in awe as the orange globe blossomed against the star-speckled void and then disappeared.

"Welcome!" hissed Spirali, stroking and scratching the slavering beasts. "Are you ready to hunt, my hell hounds?"

Darien sought a shady clearing in the garden before Caxal's palace. Here she could work without exposing her pale skin and sensitive eyes to the murderous sunlight. Sitting upon the grass, she laid her components around her with extra care, for without her spellbook, she had but one chance to perform this spell.

She placed a small bowl upright on the ground, crushing several dry leaves into it. Next to this, she placed a silver longsword — Helmstooth, Halloran's sword, taken from him when he was arrested — and a small box of glowing embers. She found a dry twig and placed its tip in the tinderbox, blowing on it until it flickered with flame. Then she touched the twig to the crushed leaves.

The powdery stuff immediately puffed into flame, filling the bower with a sweet aroma. Darien now pulled a small piece of horn from a pouch on her robe. Stroking it with her long, slender fingers, she concentrated on her casting, whispering words of deep and arcane power, searching across surrounding planes for the one she sought.

Her mind drifted across the plane of fire, where heat of all types blazed eternally. Rocks flowed in liquid eruption, and the air itself crackled and hissed. Only the arcane power of her enchantment preserved her, and even the unemotional elf felt a sense of relief as she left the fiery realms behind.

Next came water, not so threatening but also not her objective. She quickly moved into the plane of air, and here she would find the aid she needed. Resting now in an intangible space of cloud and wind, she let the magic do her work. The spell of summoning thrummed louder than ever, and soon she felt it meet resistance.

Come to me. I demand you to obey! Slowly at first, but inevitably, the creature answered her call. Instantly Darien returned her full attention to her body, which had never left the garden.

For a long minute, she sat alone among the encircling leaves. Then she felt another presence. With a final sense of release, she exhaled, for the spell had been successful. Darien suppressed an almost giddy sense of relief as leaves parted and the grass beside her flattened from an unseen weight.

The invisible stalker had arrived.

"You are to find a man named Halloran," Darien said softly, her eyes once again shut. The invisible form made no reply, for it could not speak.

"Here is a sword he once carried. It will give you his spoor. We do not know which way he has gone.

"When you find him, you are to kill him instantly. Do not delay his death, for he is a resourceful man." The invisible stalker remained beside her. She could sense the creature's resentment of her commands, but it would do her bidding, for it was bound by the power of her spell.

"Now go!" she said, opening her eyes and watching the leaves rustle as the creature departed.

From the chronicle of Colon:

Painted in the certain knowledge that the Waning of Maztica is upon us.

A lone eagle arrives in Nexala. He brings a tale of tragedy and disaster too extraordinary to be believed. The strangers, he tells us, are the servants of great monsters. These beasts ride upon clouds of smoke and make thunder with the crashing of their feet.

They are powerful and swift, stronger than many men. But they are also cunning, for they have the minds of men. They fight with weapons, and also with their invincible flesh.

The Eagle Knight tells us all he has seen as tears flow from his eyes. His heart breaks from the weight of his tale, and he dies upon the floor before Naltecona as he completes the story.

Naltecona's eyes widen. His skin grows pale until he resembles the description of the foreigners' white, bloodless complexion. His mouth hangs open, working at words that will not come forth.

"More sacrifices!" he finally cries. "We must consult the gods!"

And the priests and their captives form a procession. Naltecona wields the knife himself. He seeks the wisdom to decide, asking the gods to provide him with the knowledge and will he himself lacks.

Of course, they do not answer.