Viperhand

FLIGHT AND SANCTUARY

Halloran didn't need to ask Poshtli; he knew the plume of black smoke billowing into the air before them marked the town of Palul. Still miles from the community, they began to meet haggard Mazticans fleeing down the road to Nexal. These refugees invariably scrambled into the brush or mayzfields beside the road at the approach of the two riders on the roan mare.

Sickened with apprehension, Hal felt acute shame at his own appearance, dressed as he was in the uniform of their enemy. Children saw him and shrieked with horror. He saw an old woman with badly injured legs crawling from the roadway, trying pathetically to reach the shelter of the undergrowth.

But Hal's overwhelming fear for Erixitl compelled him to forge ahead.

"We'll never find her!" Hal groaned as they closed to within a mile of the town. They could see the village pyramid, a small, bright blaze marking the temple and its bloody altar. The conflagration had blackened whole rows of houses. They saw few Mazticans this close to Palul. Those they did encounter were badly wounded or numb with shock.

"Do you think she would have recognized us?" asked Poshtli, wondering if they had already passed Erix among the fleeing villagers.

"I don't know," Hal groaned. "I wouldn't blame her if she ran and hid as soon as she saw the horse."

"Perhaps we should separate," said Poshtli. "We can circle Palul in opposite directions and meet beyond the village. If we don't find her, then we can slip into town and see if she's still there."

"Her father's house," said Hal, remembering Erixitl's description. "She said it was on the ridge above Palul, near the top. She might have gone there."

They both saw the looming green slope on the far side of the town.

"Let's meet at the foot of the slope." Poshtli squinted into the distance as he dismounted. "There, near that waterfall." He indicated a bright cascade where a small stream plummeted from a gorge in the side of the ridge.

"All right," Hal agreed. He clasped the warrior's hand. "Keep your eyes open. There'll be legionnaires about."

Poshtli nodded brusquely, then turned and slipped from the right side of the road into a tangle of low trees. Hal reined Storm to the left, starting into a field of mayz. Anxiously he looked around, hoping desperately to catch some sight of Erixitl.

He rode for several minutes, trying to avoid the Mazticans he found — pathetic family groups hiding among the mayz, old couples, speechless and stunned by the events of the day. The most horrifying to Halloran were the lone children, crying waifs, some of whom didn't even know enough to hide at his hoof-pounding approach.

He tried to look past them, to seek Erixitl beyond, on some clean, windswept slope above the fields, but he couldn't. Halloran sensed that, with this battle, something deep and irrevocable had fallen between himself and his former comrades. No longer did he feel like a fugitive, wanting only to avoid the soldiers of the legion. Now he began to feel like their enemy.

Suddenly he squinted, distracted by something he glimpsed through a tree line — a flash of color, nothing more, that reminded him of Erixitl's cloak. Spurring Storm to a gallop, he raced toward the row of greenery. As he suspected, it marked the course of a shallow stream. The mare plowed through the water, throwing a curtain of spray before bounding easily up the far bank.

His eyes flared as he saw Alvarro some distance away, straddling someone on the ground. Another legionnaire, dismounted and held two horses nearby. The latter looked up at Hal with a wicked grin, expecting one of his comrades.

Halloran recognized him as Vane, an unscrupulous bully, one of Alvarro's regular companions.

"Hal!" Erix cried, struggling beneath the red-bearded brute. Alvarro looked up and stared at Halloran in shock, while Vane sneered and leaped into his saddle. Drawing his sword, he thundered toward Hal.

Grimly Halloran turned Storm into Vane's charge, drawing and raising Helmstooth at the same time. He thrust instinctively with the steel blade as the two horses smashed shoulders. The collision threw Hal from the saddle even as the mare moved nimbly to the side.

Vane's horse stumbled and fell, but its rider paid no heed, for Halloran had stabbed him through the heart.

Alvarro, meanwhile, leaped up, leaving Erix gasping on the ground. Blindly Hal sprang to his feet and attacked. His ankle throbbed from his fall, but his limp didn't slow down his hatred or determination.

"I see your treachery is complete!" sneered Alvarro, driving Halloran back with a two-handed blow. "Now you even kill for the savages!"

The blades clashed together, and Hal felt pain shoot through his right arm. Tumbling back, he couldn't twist away from Alvarro's thrust. The man's blade slipped behind his breastplate, slicing into the flesh between his ribs.

Red daggers of pain lanced through Hal's body as he recoiled from the wound. Blood spurted onto his arm and down his flank as he staggered to keep his balance. Grimly he focused his gaze on the beastlike man before him.

Desperately Halloran swung his blade, fighting for his own life because that was the only way he could insure Erix's safety from this madman. Back and forth they stumbled, slashing mightily, each seeking a fatal opening. Sheer agony slowed Hal's arm, but by the force of his will, he kept fighting. Hatred fueled him, and he attacked with renewed strength.

Steel rang as the two blades met, and Hal used every ounce of his strength to drive his weapon toward Alvarro's face. The man's grin twisted in fear at the brutal onslaught. Alvarro's wrist twisted back as he tried to deflect the blow.

With a dull grunt of pain, the horseman suddenly dropped his sword. Hal stumbled forward, nearly collapsing as Alvarro leaped toward his horse. Sharp tongues of pain lashed across Halloran's eyes, and he couldn't pursue. His enemy got into the saddle and spun his mount away, in seconds disappearing in the direction of Palul.

Climbing weakly from his knees to his feet, Halloran turned to sweep Erixitl into his arms. Finally the dam of shock containing the tumult of her emotions broke. Uncontrolled sobs wracked her body as, for a long while, she finally gave vent to her grief.

"Halloran belongs to the enemy now, without a doubt," said Cordell softly. Beside him, in the bloody plaza of Palul, Alvarro grinned broadly.

"And, my general, he is very near! We can seize him now if we hurry! Give me thirty horsemen, and I will have him in chains by morning!" Alvarro's eyes flashed as he pleaded.

Cordell looked at his captain, and his smile was not pleasant. "It's too bad you and Vane couldn't bring him in. With this much warning and a fast horse, Hal is sure to be gone by now. Besides, the men have fought a battle and will be marching again sooner than they know. I will not tire them out with a fruitless chase by night."

Alvarro scowled. He couldn't miss the rebuke in his commander's words. "I tell you, sir, he was aided by a hundred savages! I was lucky to escape with my life!"

"Nevertheless, I see that you managed to do so," said Cordell wryly. Even Alvarro had sense enough to make no further argument. Still, he seethed inwardly. It almost seemed as if the captain-general didn't desire Halloran's capture or death.

Daggrande clumped up to them, his armor freshly polished. His blade, cleaned and sharpened, hung from his belt. Though the dwarf had shown no stomach for the day's battle, he had commanded his crossbowmen resolutely, following Cordell's command. His disgust he kept, with difficulty, to himself.

"The men have assembled, General. Can I send them to rest now?"

"One moment, Captain." Cordell dismissed Alvarro with a tilt of his head. "I wish to speak to them."

Beyond the pyramid, the legionnaires awaited their commander. Cordell approached the formation, assembled in its trim, neat rows. Then he turned and walked along the rank of swordsmen standing at rigid attention, his heart ready to burst with pride. These brave soldiers had turned a potentially disastrous ambush into a crushing victory, following his orders with speed and resolute determination. He felt certain that the Mazticans would think long and hard before they planned similar treachery.

Part of his mind reflected on the turnabout. Cordell realized that this victory could become a powerful and dramatic asset.

The Golden Legion must strike quickly now, while their enemies were demoralized and confused.

Many of his legionnaires had been wounded, though even most of these now stood at attention, hastily wrapped bandages on heads, arms, or legs. The captain-general knew that at least two of his men had died in the battle, and several more were too badly wounded to move. Bishou Domincus attended to them, however, and Cordell had great faith in the cleric's healing powers.

Normally he would have granted the men several days to rest after a fight such as this. Repairing weapons, refitting equipment, healing minor wounds — all these things would contribute to the welfare and fitness of his troops.

Yet Cordell knew that now, scarce hours after the battle, the Golden Legion stood ready to march. The swordsmen and the crossbowmen, the cavalry, all of them would fight another battle right now if he but gave the command. By Helm, how he loved these men! And knowing this, he understood a little more about the mind-set of his enemies. The great Naltecona would doubtless be shocked and dismayed at the stories from Palul. That advantage would only last for a little while.

The captain-general stopped and faced the trim ranks. For a moment, he couldn't speak, so intense was his emotion. Finally he cleared his throat and began in a clear, strong, voice.

"We have won a great victory today — a victory against treachery and betrayal! The vigilance of almighty Helm gave us warning, and you stood ready to act. By Helm, you are the finest fighters on the face of the world! Together, we are invincible!

"This town, Palul, has gained an everlasting place in the annals of the Golden Legion for the battle that was fought here today. But aside from that historical footnote, this place is nothing! It means nothing, it is worth nothing, and we have nothing more to do here!"

He paused again, drawing a deep breath and trying to control his surging pride. Several moments passed before he could speak again.

"The real objective of this long march lies within our grasp now. Two more days of marching will take us to Nexal! There, amid mountains of silver and gold — there, in Nexal, will we find the true measure of our worth!"

Shatil awoke suddenly, terrified by the darkness all around him. He bolted upward and cracked his head on the low stone ceiling. Cursing, he sat back down and held his throbbing skull.

At least, with the blow, he remembered that he was still in the secret tunnel below the temple of Zaltec. As soon as Zilti had closed the door behind him, Shatil had followed the steep stairway, in total darkness, to the bottom. There he had felt the outline of a small doorway. While waiting for nightfall, overcome by his tension, forced inactivity, and fear, he had fallen asleep.

Now his mind reeled with horror as he recalled the events that had led him to this place. Palul! Did anything remain of his village? Did any of his neighbors escape the fearful slaughter? It didn't seem possible. Wringing his hands, Shatil felt the wrinkled sheet of parchment given to him by Zilti. With that sensation, his mind returned to his mission: the message. He had to get that message to Hoxitl.

Reasoning that it must be well after dark by now, he pushed at the stone door. Slowly, grudgingly, it slid open.

Shatil emerged from the doorway and crouched beside the base of the pyramid, looking around the square in shock. A whole row of houses now smoldered, mere heaps of ash and shells of charred adobe. Bodies lay everywhere. At first, in the darkness, he thought that some of them were moving. At closer look, he realized that the moving creatures were vultures and crows that waddled about the square, feasting.

His nerves froze suddenly as he heard a monstrous, rumbling growl. Shatil gasped as one of the strangers' war creatures crept into sight, its hackles raised. The thing growled again, showing its long fangs. It reminded the Maztican of a huge, shaggy coyote.

Then it sprang, and its jaws closed toward his face. The young priest reacted instinctively, drawing his obsidian dagger from his belt. Twisting away, he grunted as the huge body slammed him against the stone wall of the pyramid. The creature's maw clamped shut, barely missing his throat. Shatil desperately flailed with his dagger, scoring a cut in the animal's side as its momentum carried it past.

But the animal turned with startling quickness, attacking once again. Shatil raised a hand and then gasped in agony as the creature's steel jaws clamped onto his wrist. But at the same time, he drove the knife forward, plunging it through the animal's chest. With a shudder, it died.

Shatil fell backward against the pyramid, wrenching his arm from the vicelike jaws. He gasped in pain, struggling to remain conscious as a red haze drifted across his vision. He felt blood flowing into his lap, but only slowly came to realize the danger of his wound.

Shaking his head to ward off the grogginess, Shatil climbed to his feet. Tearing a strip of cloth from his robe, he wrapped it around the bloody flesh of his wrist. Though the bandage quickly became sodden, he hoped it would stem the bleeding enough to allow him to move. He stumbled when he tried to walk, but slowly he managed to stagger out of the square.

He saw that perhaps half the buildings in town had burned. Around him, in the remaining houses, slept the victors of the day's battle.

If you could call it a battle, thought Shatil bitterly. His step grew stronger as he passed the last houses, striking out on the road to Nexal. Thousands of Mazticans had already fled this way, and doubtless Naltecona had been told of the battle. But Shatil had a mission of his own. He had the scroll that he needed to give to Hoxitl, patriarch of Zaltec in the city of Nexal.

His step quickened. As his wrist throbbed, he held it to his chest and fought back the bile of his pain. He began to trot, and somehow he held this pace through the rest of the night.

At dawn, he stopped to drink, but he felt no need for food. Acutely conscious of the parchment he had pledged to carry to Hoxitl, Shatil once again trotted down the road.

His god, he knew, would sustain him.

Poshtli slipped through the darkness, appalled at the extent of the disaster. His route took him past the ruined section of Palul, and he came upon many badly burned survivors. These groaned and pleaded for water; he helped as many as he could, until his own waterskin was empty.

He found no sign of Erixitl, and he began to wonder if he had embarked upon a fool's task. She could have lain, delirious, ten feet away from him and he might have missed her in the gathering darkness.

It was with little hope that Poshtli started toward the rendezvous with Halloran at the base of the ridge. He approached the meeting with a strange sense of revulsion for his friend, simply because Hal was of the people who had done this. Yet he also knew shame for the treacherous ambush, all the more pathetic now for its obvious lack of success.

He heard Storm whinny quietly up ahead, and Poshtli moved toward Hal. He kept his face carefully neutral, so as not to reveal any of his inner emotional torment.

But then he saw Erixitl, and he couldn't hold back the tears of joy. She leaped toward him, then held the warrior tightly as he looked over her shoulder at Halloran. The expression of relief and joy on Hal's face banished Poshtli's earlier pain.

"You are safe!" said Poshtli earnestly. "That is what I feared I would never see."

"Hal's hurt," Erix said, returning to the ex-legionnaire. She had removed his breastplate, revealing a narrow puncture below his left armpit.

"I'll be fine," he grunted, trying to ignore the pain. "It's not serious."

"So many are dead," Erix said quietly, turning back to Poshtli. The warrior could only nod numbly; he had seen the proof. "Such mad butchery!" she blurted, turning back to Hal. "Why? What makes these men go mad with killing?"

Hal lowered his eyes, unable to meet her pain-filled, accusing stare. "The one who seized you is a born killer. His soul is dark and mad. As to the rest…" His voice trailed off, shameful.

"The ambush" Poshtli said to Erix. "Who attacked first?"

"The strangers. We presented them with a feast, and the leader, Cordell, murdered Kalnak with one blow. He said things about treachery, and then he killed him."

"He learned about a planned attack, ordered by Naltecona. The feast was a charade," Poshtli said softly, "to lure the invaders into a trap. But the ruse ensnared the trappers, instead."

Erix looked at him in shock. She recalled the weapons, close at hand, used by the warriors in the plaza, and she slowly realized that he spoke the truth. But it was a truth that soothed none of the bitterness of the slaughter.

"Darien, the Bishou — either of them could have learned about the trap through sorcery of one kind or another," Hal explained.

"My father," Erix said finally. "I must go see that he is out of danger."

"I'll go with you, if you'll let me," offered Hal." Now that it's dark, we can move safely."

"You have to come with me," she said calmly. "Your wound must be tended, and you will need rest before you can travel anywhere."

Poshtli stood up, then looked away from the pair for a moment. When he turned back to them his face was set, though lined with regret.

"There is certain, now, to be war," he said. "And my duty to my nation becomes clear. I must return to Nexal and offer my services to my uncle."

Halloran nodded, understanding. "Take Storm. You'll need to travel fast to reach the city before Cordell. He's certain to march soon."

"But…" Poshtli hesitated, looking questioningly from Erix to Halloran.

"Hal needs to rest. His wound runs deep," said Erix. "He will stay in my father's house. He will be easy to hide if you take the horse."

"Very well. I shall leave you together" said Poshtli," and hope that you may avoid the coming ravages. May… Qotal watch over you."

"Good-bye, my friend," said Halloran, ignoring his pain to rise and embrace the warrior. Erix, too, held the Nexalan tightly, but at last broke away to look at him through misty eyes.

"Take good care," she whispered, "that we may see you again."

Poshtli bowed, smiling slightly. Then he turned and mounted the mare. Storm pranced for a moment before wheeling to gallop into the night.

"The house is not far… up there," Erix explained, pointing.

Hal nodded, grimacing against the sudden spasm of pain in his chest. She led him onto the lower slope of the great ridge that sheltered Palul. The woman pushed through thickets, slowly working her way higher.

"We're staying off the trail," she explained when they stopped to rest after several minutes. "Can you make it?"

"I'll be all right." Hal managed a weak smile, and she took his hand. The feel of her skin against his gave him strength to rise and start upward again.

"Up here — we're close now," urged Erix, holding back thorny branches as Hal scrambled after her. The inky cloak of night completely surrounded them.

Finally she stopped at a small level shelf in the side of the ridge. "This is my father's house."

Gasping for air after the climb, Halloran raised his eyes to stare at the little structure. "Your home," he said, with unusual gentleness. She looked at him in the darkness, and he wondered if she understood his feelings.

He wanted to take her and hold her close, never to let her out of his sight again. Below, in the village, men of his race and culture made camp. Yet they had become as foreign to him as the scarred priests who practiced their nightly butchery in Nexal. This woman before him had become the only anchor in his life, his only source of purpose and meaning. He wanted to tell her all of this, but the look of pain in her eyes compelled him to silence.

"My daughter! You live!" The voice from the darkened doorway was full of strength and joy. An old man stepped into the yard, and Halloran saw him in the light of the half-moon that had just risen. The fellow shuffled like the blind man he was, yet he looked up with an alertness that made Hal think he saw more than any of them.

"And Shatil? He is with you?" Lotil's inflection showed that he already knew the answer.

"No, Father. I fear he perished in the temple. The soldiers overran the pyramid, destroying everything there."

The featherworker slumped slightly, stepping back into the hut before turning to face them again. "And who is this who accompanies you?" he asked.

"This is Halloran, the man I told you about, from across the sea. He came from Nexal to — to see if I was safe." Briefly Erix told her father about the events of that bloody afternoon.

"And the shadows, child — are they still there?" asked the old man.

"I… I don't know, Father," Erix replied, shaking her head miserably. "I can't see them at night, and I didn't look back at the town before sunset."

"I myself can see very little," said Lotil. Nevertheless he reached out with unerring aim and took one of each of their hands. "But some things it is given me to see, and this I see for the two of you."

Halloran felt the old man's surprisingly strong grip. Lotil's strength was a comfort to him, and he returned the pressure, feeling a deep bond of friendship form between himself and the old man. It was more than the pressure of a handshake, but that clasp seemed to symbolize and define it for him.

"My blind eyes can see that the two of you are linked," Lotil continued. "And part of this link is formed of shadow — a darkness that was not dissipated by the events of this day.

"But another part of the link, and, we can hope, the stronger part, is formed of light. Together the two of you may yet bring light to a darkening world. I know, at least, that you must try."

"Light? Bring it to the world? Father, what do you mean?" asked Erix, looking at Halloran in wonder. He looked back, warmed by the expression in her eyes and by her father's words. Meanwhile, Lotil answered.

"I do not know, child. I wish that I did." The old man turned to Hal. "Now, you are wounded! Come, lie here."

Halloran stared at the blind man in surprise, suddenly sensing again the sharp pain in his chest. Erixitl took his arm and led him toward a straw mat in a corner of the hut.

Before Hal reached it, the world began to spin around him. He groaned, his legs collapsing as he barely sensed Lotil and Erix supporting him. Looking around, he blinked, but everything before his eyes slowly faded to black.

Chical, lord of the Eagle Knights, entered Naltecona's presence for once without donning the rude garments normally required of visitors to the great throne room.

This time there was no need to affect a bedraggled appearance. The scars of battle marked the legs, arms, and face of the warrior. His once proud Eagle cloak was a tattered rag. As he advanced toward the throne, he looked so battered that it seemed a miracle he could even walk. Even so, he had flown, in avian form, from Palul to Nexal.

Now his pride sustained him, holding his head high until he knelt before the great pluma litter that was Naltecona's throne.

"Rise and speak!" demanded the Revered Counselor.

"Most Revered One, it is disaster! A thousand times worse than we could have feared!"

"Tell me, man!" Naltecona leaped to his feet. His feathered cloak whirled around him as he stalked toward the groveling warrior. "Where is Kalnak?"

"Dead — slain by the first blow of the battle. My lord, they knew of the ambush. They were prepared for it and unleashed their own attack before we could act." Weeping, Chical told the tale of the massacre, and Naltecona sank back into his litter. His face grew slack, his eyes vacant, to the point that it seemed he no longer listened.

"Then they summoned killing smoke, a fog that reached its fingers into the hiding places of our men, slaying them even as they breathed. Revered One, we must make immediate preparations if we hope to stand against men like this — if indeed they are men!"

"No, they are not," said Naltecona with a sigh. "It is clear now that they are not men at all."

He stood and paced slowly along his raised dais. The row of courtiers and attendants behind him stared in universal terror and awe at the tear-streaked face of Chical.

"My lord," said the Eagle Knight, standing at last, "allow me to gather all of our warriors. We can hold them at the causeways. We can keep them out of the city."

Naltecona sighed, a portentous sound in the vast throne room. Evening's shadows drew long across the floor while the ruler paced and thought. Finally he stopped and faced Chical.

"No," he said. "There will be no battle at Nexal. I asked the gods to favor us with a victory at Palul, to show that the invaders are indeed mortal men. That sign was not forthcoming.

"The proof is clear," Naltecona concluded. "The strangers are not men but gods. When they reach Nexal, we must greet them with the respect due their station."

"But, my lord" Chical stepped forward boldly to object. He stopped suddenly, frozen by the look in the Revered Counsellor's eyes.

"This is my decision. Now leave me to my prayers."

From the chronicle of Coton:

Painted in the last bleak weeks of the Waning, as the end draws upon us.

I stand mute as I hear the words of Chical, a tale of grim terror about the slaying in Palul. Again Naltecona orders his courtiers from the throne room, asking only me to remain.

Then, tonight, he rants and paces around me. He accuses me of deceit, and he grovels before the looming presence of these strangers. Thoroughly cowed now, he knows no recourse but abject surrender.

For the first time do I curse my vow. How I want to grasp his shoulders, to shout my knowledge into his face, to awaken him from his blind stupor. Curse him! I want to tell him that he opens the gates of the city to disaster, that he paves the road to make way for his own, and his people's, destruction.

But I can say nothing, and at last he slumbers. It is a fitful dozing, for as he sleeps, he dreams and he cries.