A Magic of Dawn

The Storm’s Passing

“Well?” Tototl asked Niente as he poured the water from the scrying bowl onto the cobbles of the boulevard. Niente cleaned the bowl with the sleeve of his shirt and looked solemnly at the High Warrior.

“Do you remember, Tototl, that we talked about how something that appeared to be a victory might not be so?”

Tototl’s painted visage remained impassive. “I remember you saying that,” he said. “And I remember that I told you that I believed you saw more in the bowl than you were telling Tecuhtli Citlali. So tell me now, Uchben Nahual, what did you see? Tell me the truth.”

Niente placed the scrying bowl back in its pouch, feeling the texture of the incised patterns along its rims. He took up his spell-staff; he could feel the energy of the X’in Ka throbbing within the wood, captured and ready to be loosed. The smells filled his nostrils: burning wood, the scent of water, the odor of clothing worn too long. He swallowed, and he tasted the lingering tang of the green mist he had inhaled. His senses seemed too full and too sharp. He glanced up at the leering skull on the wall above him, and he could imagine the thing alive once more-teeth like ivory knives slicing open a victim caught in its powerful jaws.

“Listen to me, Tototl,” he said. “I said nothing to Tecuhtli Citlali because he couldn’t see beyond now and beyond his own ambitions. You have the imagination to do that. You could become a great Tecuhtli. One whose name would ring for generations.”

Tototl couldn’t entirely conceal the eagerness those words brought to him: Niente saw it in the the faint movement of the warrior’s mouth, in the slight widening of his eyes in their pools of red paint. There was ambition in the warrior. “You saw that?” he asked.

A nod. “It’s one of the futures. A possibility.” Niente paused. He looked at the catapult, nearly finished now. He looked at the bridge arching near them at the end of the boulevard, at the great building that loomed just beyond it, at the golden dome rising above the other rooftops in the middle of the island. “Tototl, victory right now hinges on a thread. You are that thread, Tototl. Without you, there is no victory at all. I’ve seen that.”

“What must I do?”

“You must win through to the island and to the other side, as you said earlier. You must bring your warriors to attack the Easterners from their rear. If you want victory, that’s what you have to accomplish.”

“Why would I not? That’s why we came here: to take the city, to avenge our loss with Tecuhtli Zolin, to rule this land.”

Niente wondered if he should tell him. Certainly Citlali would have heard none of it; he would have stopped Niente already, and Niente-he had to admit-would have bowed to the Tecuhtli. I will have victory here… That was all Citlali wanted to hear. He would scoff at the Long Path; he wouldn’t care what happened years afterward. But then, Tototl might feel the same. Niente took a breath. He watched the nahualli place the first of the black sand charges in the carrier of the catapult as the warriors winched down the arm.

“Citlali’s victory here will be too costly for us in the end,” Niente said. “He might yet take the city, but he won’t be able to hold it for long. Other Easterner armies will come from the far corners of their empire. This land is huge, and we have too few warriors here and not enough time to send for more from across the sea. And when the Easterners have killed all of us who are left, they will look toward our homeland and they will return there with an even greater army than the one they brought before. They will hunt us down until they’re certain we can never trouble them again.”

“You know this?”

Niente shook his head. “No,” he admitted. “But it’s a future I see; the likely one.”

“Has the new Nahual seen this also?”

Niente shook his head. “No. But Atl’s still learning. He sees only the near future, not the Long Path.”

“Before, you saw an easy victory. You said that before we ever left our own land.”

“I did,” Niente admitted. “At the time, that was the truth. But that has changed. There are forces here that were hidden from me, situations that have changed from what they were when I first consulted Axat. Nothing in the future is ever solid and fixed.”

“Then this future you see might also change. Will also change.”

“It might. Still… Tototl, I would tell you to take the warriors here and leave. Find our ships-by now, they should be nearly to the city. Take them and return home. I would tell you to become the Tecuhtli so that when the Easterners come back to our land-and they will come back-we will still be strong enough to resist them. They’ll understand that as we couldn’t conquer them, also they can’t conquer us, and our empires will have to deal with each other as equals.”

Tototl was already shaking his head. “I won’t run,” he said. “I won’t abandon Citlali. Not without knowing that I have no other choice.”

“Then here are the signs, Tototl. When the magic is snatched away from all the nahualli, when you see me fall to a weapon that shouldn’t kill-those are the signs that what I tell you is true. Will you retreat then, Tototl? Will you listen to my advice, as Tecuhtli Citlali would not.”

Tototl seemed to laugh. “You’re like a length of smoked beef, Uchben Nahual,” he said, “too old and tough to die. And who could snatch away the power of the nahualli?”

“If it happens,” Niente pleaded, “if you see those signs, will you go?”

“If it happens,” Tototl told him, “I will remember what you said, and I’ll do what I think I must.”

As he said the words, the catapult sang its deadly song, and a fireball went hissing across the river toward the island. They both watched it fall and explode in a roar of orange flame.

Jan wondered if this would be his final day.

Smoke smudged the southeastern sky from fires burning unchecked on the South Bank of the city. Runners had come from his matarh during the night with a message-the Tehuantin were on the South Bank; they would try to push them back in the morning; send a company of your gardai if you can spare them.

But he couldn’t spare them. They were already too few for the task before them. The night before had been hideous, with the ground shaking as both sides pounded at each other with black sand. Now the eastern sky was pink and orange, and the Tehuantin would be renewing the ground attack. He was certain of that; it was what he would have done himself.

One of the pages was assisting him with his armor, and Jan winced as the boy tightened the lacings of his cuirass-an armorer having pounded out the indentation from the brick the night before. “Go on,” he told the page. “Make them tight. Can’t have it falling off in the middle of battle.”

Any movement hurt. It hurt to breathe. He’d coughed up blood last night after he’d recovered consciousness, though that, thankfully, had stopped. Binding his chest in the armor actually felt good, but he wondered if he could take a sword blow to the ribs without collapsing. He wondered if he could lead his men the way a Hirzg should: at the head of the charge into the enemy. “Bring my horse to me,” Jan said, and the page saluted and scurried away.

He had spent the night in a tent beyond the second wall of earthworks. Most of the black sand had fallen well short of that encampment, but there were still craters of dark earth here and there, and smoke from grass fires that had to be extinguished. The offiziers had reported the losses to him a half-turn earlier after calling the rolls. Jan had been appalled. He had brought over 4,000 gardai and some 300 chevarittai to Nessantico. He and Starkkapitan ca’Damont had split them nearly equally. Jan now had less than 1,000 gardai and five double hands of chevarittai; ca’Damont had less.

No, he could not send a company to the Kraljica. He would be lucky to return to Nessantico with a full company himself. He’d read the message from ca’Talin: Outlook grim. Recommend holding as long as possible, then falling back to the city itself. Under it, in his spidery handwriting, ca’Damont had added a brief I concur. Jan had sent his own message in return to the two:

Agreed. Make them pay for crossing the river, then fall back to the River Market. We’ll regroup there and consult with the Kraljica.

The page came back leading a warhorse that had once borne one of the dead chevarittai. The boy placed a step next to the horse, then helped hoist Jan into the saddle. He managed to get himself seated without groaning aloud. “Thank you,” he told the boy, saluting. He cantered away, wincing as every step jarred his body. He rode up the short slope to the top of the second embankment. He waited there for several breaths, looking out over the landscape.

Most of his troops were gathered below, in the wide trough between the earthworks, snaking away far to the south and the Starkkapitan ca’Damont’s command, and past there to Commandant ca’Talin, and extending north for a half-mile or so to the Avi a’ Nostrosei. Beyond the slope of the first embankment across from Jan, there was a quarter mile or less of flat ground between the earthworks and the River Infante-the field was torn by horses and the boots of the soldiers, and pockmarked with craters from the black sand bombardment. On the other side of the Infante, Jan could see the army of the Tehuantin. Their offiziers were already setting the formations, and Jan could see small flags planted here and there along the far riverbank-he assumed their scouts had marked the shallows where the river could be forded.

There were far too many flags. The Infante was neither deep nor wide like the A’Sele; there were too many places where the Tehuantin could cross. Last night, Jan had asked one of the local gardai to map the spots where footmen could wade across; he had archers placed across from the potential fords.

Make them pay for crossing the river… He might not be able to stop them, but he could charge them a steep toll.

A few Westlander archers sent futile arrows in his direction; they fell short, and Jan gestured obscenely at them. “Come on!” he shouted at them, his chest burning with the effort. “Come on; we’re waiting for you, bastardos! We ready to make your wives widows and your children orphans!” He said it for the benefit of the gardai in the trench between the embankments, who looked up at him and cheered; he doubted that any of the Westlanders understood his words at all, even if they understood the tone. He wanted to double over from the stabbing pain in his chest as he roared his defiance, but instead he smiled and gestured again at the Tehuantin. A few hundred strides away, he saw his banners, and he saluted the men and went to where his offiziers had gathered.

“Another sunrise,” he told them. “That’s always a good sight. The sun is at our backs and in their eyes. Let’s make this day the last they see.”

Allesandra paraded on her warhorse before those gathered in the courtyard of the palais. In the false dawn, her armor gleamed, yesterday’s gore scrubbed and polished away. Brie, Talbot, and that damned fool Sergei were behind her on their own horses, watching as she stalked the line. She let her anger and frustration ride freely in her words.

“We have no choice,” she told them. “It is my duty-it is our duty-to protect this city, and I will not let us betray that trust. Right now, the Westlanders hold the South Bank. They walk streets that should be safe for our citizens, plundering our houses and our temples, killing and raping those who have remained behind. The Hirzg’s forces and our own Garde Civile are facing their main army on the North Bank; they have tasked us with protecting their rear flank, and with keeping the city a safe place for their return. We must hold the South Bank. I will hold the South Bank.”

She paused as another fireball screamed through the brightening sky-they all watched it. Her horse trembled underneath her, and she patted its muscular neck, calming it as the fireball fell to earth behind them across the Avi. “You see?” she said. “The Tehuantin mean nothing less than the destruction of the Holdings and Nessantico. Stay here, and all of you will die anyway. If I’m to die, I would rather die with my sword in my hand and my enemy bleeding at my feet.”

The cheer that came from them was loud but ragged. Even some of those shouting looked unsure. The sparkwheelers, to one side, shuffled uneasily; she noticed Brie glaring at them. “We march today to glory,” she told them, pulling her sword from its sheath and holding it aloft. “We march for the Holdings. We march for Nessantico. And I will march with you, at your head.”

An open-top, teni-driven carriage rattled down the streets through the smoke, moving slowly around the rubble in the street; Allesandra could see the symbol of Cenzi’s cracked globe on the doors of the vehicle. “Today, the Archigos himself will march with us,” she added. “Make yourselves ready. We will begin the attack in two marks of the glass, and we’ll show these Westlanders how the Holdings responds to those who threaten it.”

They cheered again, because-Allesandra knew-it was expected of them, because they wanted to believe her even as fear made their bowels want to turn to water. She rode toward the Archigos’ carriage with Brie, Talbot, and Sergei trailing her. Archigos Karrol’s balding head peered over the side of the carriage; he did not look pleased to be here. Two pale, younger faces were visible behind him. “Archigos, I’m glad to see you,” Allesandra said. “However belatedly.”

“Let’s not pretend that you or the Hirzg left me any choice, Kraljica,” he answered. “But I’m here.”

“And the war-teni?”

“There are four more who have arrived from the east today. I sent two to the Hirzg; the other two are with me. They understand the consequences if they fail to serve.” He gestured to the other two teni in the carriage.

“Good,” she told him. “I hope they’re well-rested. We need them now. Talbot, if you’d take charge of the war-teni and the archers. Brie, you have the sparkwheelers.” She scowled at Sergei, still feeling anger at the man’s insolence in disregarding her orders. “Sergei, you’ll be with me and the Archigos.”

They assembled quickly. While Allesandra remained furious with Sergei for having destroyed the eastern bridge, she had to admit that a two-pronged attack across both bridges would have divided and thinned their forces too much. Still, the difficulty was that they would all need to cross the Pontica a’Brezi Veste. The fact that the Tehuantin had left the bridge standing and not destroyed it from their end told Allesandra that they wanted the bridge intact as much as she did-so they could meet up with their army on the North Bank. Sergei’s urging to retreat to the Isle and the North Bank, destroying all the southern bridges across the A’Sele to isolate this arm of the Tehuantin, made tactical sense.

Allesandra knew that intellectually, yet emotionally…

This was her city, the seat of the Holdings. She would not allow it to be taken from her. She’d already had to rebuild this city once; she didn’t want to do that yet again. She would rather fall here and leave it to her successor-whomever that might be-to do that.

Their attack began with a barrage of spells from Talbot and the few Numetodo, as well as the new war-teni and the Archigos. Nearly all the spells were neutralized or deflected by the Tehuantin spellcasters, but those that went through sent the Tehuantin scrambling back from the Bastida and the area immediately around the South Bank end of the bridge. “Now!” Allesandra shouted, and she led the Garde Kralji in a charge across the bridge while Talbot directed their archers to provide a cover of arrows ahead of them. Sergei was behind her, and the Archigos’ carriage, rattling over the timbers. The Tehuantin sent their own shower of arrows toward them as they started across, but the Archigos chanted and gestured from his carriage seat; the arrows were swept wide with a spell-wind to fall harmlessly in the A’Sele.

In a few breaths, they were across. The warriors came shrieking and shouting toward them. “To the Bastida!” she shouted to the gardai; they pushed forward, riding and shoving through the open gates of the prison, not caring that they were leaving the Avi full of Tehuantin behind them, that they were surrounded.

Behind the Garde Kralji, Brie led the sparkwheelers across the pontica. At the foot of the bridge, they formed their lines and their weapons bellowed a rhythmic call of death. The warriors in the Avi began to fall, and none of them could reach the sparkwheelers to stop them. From the gates of the Bastida, Allesandra could see Brie, dismounted, prowling behind the sparkwheelers, her voice exhorting them to stay, to keep the lines moving, to move faster. Her strong voice called out the commands; the stuttered roar of the sparkwheels echoing around the Avi. The Tehuantin fell back. Allesandra and the gardai were no longer pressed on all sides.

“Follow me!” Allesandra shouted, and led the Garde Kralji in a furious charge from the Bastida gates.

The night had been horrible; the dawn was simply brutal. As the sun hauled itself over the trees and the roofs of Nessantico, the Westlanders came: with a roar and a shout, with their swords and spears waving, with volleys of black sand and shrieking, violent spells. They plunged into the waters of the Infante. Water splashed high and white around them while arrows from the Garde Civile rained down on them. At first, it was slaughter and the gardai shouted in exultation and relief, but there were more and more of them, and they just kept coming, and now their nahualli were casting enchantments that sent the arrows to ash in the air.

They were across, more warriors coming with every passing breath. The war-teni and the Numetodo poured fire on them; it did not stop the advance. The Tehuantin left hands upon hands of warriors dead on the ground, but they still came, relentless.

“Pull back!” the offiziers and the cornets called, and the Garde Civile scrambled out from between the double wall of embankments, retreating to the higher crest of the second wall. As they retreated, they tipped over barrels of oil that had been brought up from the city, soaking the ground with it and leaving black pools behind. As the Tehuantin crested the first wall, they were again greeted by arrow fire. Bodies tumbled into the slick trench before them, but now their companions, unhurt, were with them.

The prepared spells pounded in Varina’s head, in the minds of all the Numetodo along the earthworks. “Wait!” Varina heard ca’Damont order the war-teni and Numetodo. “Not yet! Wait!”

The Tehuantin warriors had reached the trench and were beginning to ascend the second embankment, where the Garde Civil troops waited. “Now!” ca’Damont shouted; Varina gestured and spoke the release word, as did the two Numetodo alongside her, Leovic and Niels, as did the war-teni farther up the line. Fire arced out from between their hands. The oil-soaked ground between the earthworks erupted into a pit of hissing, smoky flame. Those caught in the inferno screamed-Varina saw them writhing among the flames. The heat beat on her skin as the horrible stench of blistered flesh wafted over them. Just below her, a warrior staggered out of the flames, his body horribly charred, flames still licking about his armor and clothing. She saw his face, terribly young, the mouth open as he screamed in his own language. Varina didn’t know if he called for help or for his god or simply from the pain. She could imagine him at home, embracing his wife or holding his children, laughing at something one of them might have said. She hardly noticed the sword he held, or the fact that he raised it above her.

Arrows sprouted along the man’s front, and he collapsed, forever silent. Varina gagged and vomited on the ground, falling to her knees next to the dead warrior. As she spat out the bile, she wondered: so strange; I’ve seen hundred of people die in the last few days, and this one face has affected me the most…

“You must come with us, A’Morce!” Leovic and Niels closed around her, pulling her up and half-dragging her down the far side of the slope. The Tehuantin had momentarily pulled back as the fires roared in the trench, but the flames were dying quickly as the oil was consumed. The Tehuantin pushed forward again, spilling over the earthwork and up the other side. The waiting Garde Civile drew their swords, and Varina, along with the other Numetodo and war-teni, retreated as hand-to-hand combat flared all along the ridge. She could hear the cornets blaring and see the flags waving, but they meant little to her now as Leovic and Niels continued to help her retreat, one on each arm. She simply moved with the flow of people in blue-and-gold uniforms: back toward the city, always back. The retreat was slow at first, but gained momentum, and suddenly they were not walking but running, giving their spines to the Tehuantin as they fled. She could hear the pounding of the hooves of warriors’ horses, saw people fall around her, struck by arrows or felled by spells.

Leovic and Niels were half-carrying her as they ran. She didn’t dare stop to look back. She didn’t want to.

“Move, move, move!” Brie screamed at the sparkwheelers as she saw the Kraljica, with Sergei on their horses, the Archigos in his carriage, and the Garde Kralji, pour out from the brief shelter of the Bastida. “Let’s go! Keep up!”

They had made an abattoir of the Avi at the bridgehead. The sparkwheelers ran over cobbles slick with blood, around bodies that still moaned and writhed. The faces of the sparkwheelers looked alternately horrified and pleased with the carnage they’d caused, but Brie gave them no time to ponder or exult. She pushed them forward toward the Bastida’s gates.

In the open, the sparkwheelers were most vulnerable; they were best at defending a confined space. And if their lines were broken, they would be overwhelmed quickly. She shepherded them, not letting them separate, screaming at them.

Allesandra’s people charged into a clot of warriors at the end of the Bastida walls. More of the Westlanders hurried from the side streets, led by a mounted warrior whose face was painted red and his skull shaved clean. Brie could see a spellcaster with him: an old man whose face was ravaged as if by some disease, his left eye white and blind. As Brie lined up the sparkwheelers near the Bastida gate to deal with the renewed assault, she saw the Archigos chanting and moving his withered hands in a new spell with his green-and-gold robes swaying. The Westlander spellcaster raised a wooden staff, shouting a single word in his strange tongue.

His spell came immediately.

The Archigos and his carriage were enveloped in flame. The teni-driver fell from his seat, shrieking and flailing at his burning robes with his hands. She heard the old man shrilling in surprise and agony. He pushed open the door and fell from the carriage to the street, his robes seeming to drip liquid flame. He rolled on the pavement, a long, thin wail coming from him that ended suddenly, but Brie could no longer see the Archigos, not in the swirl of the battle. As she shouted at the sparkwheelers, trying to get them into their proper lines, she glimpsed the red-skulled warrior with a spear in his hand urging his horse into a gallop toward Allesandra. The Kraljica brought up her sword, but the red-painted warrior’s spear thrust was quicker; with horror, Brie saw the tip of his spear drive hard into and through the Kraljica’s armor. The warrior leaped from his horse, still holding the spear that impaled Allesandra, dragging her down. Brie, shouting at the sparkwheelers desperately, saw Sergei jump from his horse as if he were a young man.

They, too, vanished in the melee.

The spellcasters on both sides were hurling spells, and yet more warriors were arriving, filling the streets. She could feel the chill of the Ilmodo all around them. “Fire!” she screamed at the sparkwheelers, who were staring in confusion. “Fire!”

But then it all changed.

Nico was abandoned. Bereft. Even Rochelle had left him sometime during the night. He had felt her departure, even if he hadn’t responded to her.

He had been praying for over a full day now without eating, drinking, or sleeping, and Cenzi remained silent. Or perhaps He was saying too much. Nico was afflicted by visions, but he couldn’t tell whether they emananted from Cenzi or from the sounds he was hearing outside or from his own fevered imagination. He was cold and shivering, as if wrapped in an impossible winter as cold as the Ilmodo itself. Behind his closed eyes, he felt that he watched the battle to the west as the sun touched him through the window of the hovel in Oldtown. He could see the troops running from the Westlanders, could see the mounted chevarittai vainly trying to protect the rear of the retreating men from the mounted High Warriors with their painted faces and strange armor. Those in black and silver, those in blue and gold were failing; too many of them taken by arrows or by the warrior riders.

Nico witnessed it as if he drifted above the battlefield in the cold arms of his prayers, staring down at the scene. He was a bird, a falcon, drifting on the cold wind. He could see the banner of Commandant ca’Talin, and farther north, those of the Starkkapitan and the Hirzg. They were all flying back toward the city, the foremost of them already in the streets near the Avi a’Certendi, the westernmost limb of the sprawling city.

He drifted above it all, watching…

… and he saw her: Varina. She was exhausted, being pulled along by two other Numetodo heretics; the three of them dangerously separated from the main mass of the Garde Civile. The mounted warriors were close by, only a few strides away and the grim foot-soldiers of the Tehuantin weren’t far behind them. They were going to be overrun and killed. All too soon.

Why do you show me this, Cenzi? Why do you show me the heretic so clearly?

As he watched Varina, he felt the cold wrap its arms even tighter around him. He was falling, tumbling down toward Varina as he saw the warriors on the warhorses rushing at her, as her companions turned to hurl futile spells toward the attackers, as they surrounded her.

Then he was there, on the ground and standing not far from Varina. He heard her gasp and call his name-“Nico?”-but there was so much energy here that he could barely hear for the buzzing of it. The Second World seemed to gape open in the sky above him, a cold fire, the frigid power of the Ilmodo pouring down. He could feel them all pulling at the energy above him: the war-teni, the heretics, the spellcasters of the Tehuantin, even those across the A’Sele in the city. He could feel the power stored in the spell-sticks of the Tehuantin, in the minds of the Numetodo.

All of them channeled the Ilmodo from the Second World where Cenzi still lived.

Nico felt vast. He could stretch out his fingers and touch the threads of all of their connections to the Ilmodo; he could pull on them, take them for himself…

So he did.

It wasn’t a conscious movement. He acted as if someone else had control of his body, without volition. He heard himself saying words he couldn’t comprehend, felt his hands moving in patterns he had never used before. Cenzi? But if it was Cenzi, there was no answer.

He shouted the final words, made the final gesture. He snatched the cords of power that tied the Westlanders to the Second World, but he left that of the teni and even the Numetodo alone. He stood on the battlefield with his arms wide, and the Second World took him as it never had before.

He had never felt so full of the power of the Ilmodo. It filled him, burning and too dangerous to handle for more than a breath. He took it all in, breathed in the gift of Cenzi, and exhaled it again, shouting.

What do I do with this? he asked Cenzi, and he heard the answer:

Do what you should do…

The wave of energy pulsed out from him, radiating westward and north along the line of battle. Where it touched, the Tehuantin were thrown back, flung wildly backward into their own ranks. They toppled like game pieces swept aside by an angry hand.

The warrior riders about to slay Varina and her companions were taken in the storm, both steeds and riders hurled away. “Go!” Nico told them. “This is Cenzi’s Gift!” His voice was that of Cenzi; it roared, a thunder that could be heard all along the lines. “Go!”

And it was over. The threads of power snapped; the Second World shut with a deep thunder. A terrible exhaustion filled him, so overpowering that he couldn’t stand. His legs gave way, and he collapsed into cold darkness.

“Let them come across,” Tototl said. “Once they’re in the boulevard, they’ll be easy targets and we’ll hit them from all sides at once.”

The tactic had worked initially. The Easterners used their spells as the sun rose; Niente told the nahualli to let them waste their energy even though they could have easily countered them all with the spells in their spell-staffs. The warriors drew back, abandoning the catapult. Niente waited on his horse next to Tototl, just down the first major cross street of the great boulevard. Their archers sent volleys into the sky; an ancient nahualli Easterner riding in a carriage showed his strength and sent the arrows flying harmlessly away. The Tecuhtli of the Easterners-the woman clad in steel-escorted her warriors across.

They heard the rush of warriors who were hidden near the river and in the courtyard of where the monster’s skull was set, but Tototl raised his hand as the warriors behind them pressed forward, eager to join the battle. “Wait,” he said. “Not yet.”

Through the gaps between the buildings, Niente glimpsed the Easterners pressing farther up the street, the woman, strangely, leading them into the courtyard from which the warriors had come. He wondered at that for a moment, then the answer came: the terrible shrill chatter of the black sand weapons, sounding eerily like the eagle claws used in the sacrifice of captives. They heard the screams that followed, and saw the warriors falling like maize being harvested. The warriors grumbled now behind Tototl, wanting revenge for the fallen, and still he held them back. The Easterner Tecuhtli called out, and their warriors poured back into the boulevard, pushing back the remnants of the warriors in the boulevard.

“Now!” Tototl cried, and they surged out into the fray. Tototl charged directly toward the woman, snatching the riding spear from its holder on his saddle, his sword still sheathed. Niente tried to follow him. The Easterner spellcaster in the carriage, clad in green and gold and older than Niente, was chanting, his hands moving in familiar patterns. Niente could feel the power gathering around him, and so Niente raised his spell-staff, shouting a release word. The X’in Ka shot from the staff, a sun-blast that enveloped the spellcaster in blue flame. The man screamed, the blast covering carriage and rider.

So slow. The Easterner way of magic was so slow.

Niente saw Tototl’s spear skewer the Easterner Tecuhtli like a haunch of meat. The High Warrior leaped down from his horse with the spear still grasped in his hands, wrenching the helpless woman down from her horse to the cobblestones. Tototl shouted in triumph. Niente heard the impact as the woman’s body hit the ground.

He could feel their spellcasters readying spells, could hear the woman commanding the terrible eagle claws shouting orders to her people, a long brown braid swaying from underneath her helm. Niente raised his spell-staff ready to take down the braided woman-to his mind, she was the most dangerous of their enemies.

He shouted the release word, but in that same moment, a terrible force pulled at him, at all the nahualli. The frigid air of the X’in Ka swirled over them, above them, and it swept away his spell-and he knew: he had seen this, though he had not believed it possible.

The misted man, the hidden one-he had made his decision. He had acted.

The Long Path was open.

Niente gasped. This was a raw force he had never felt before.

An invisible vortex sat over them, like the hungry mouth of a fierce tornado, and it sucked at the energy locked in Niente’s staff, in all of their spell-staffs, ripping away the power stored there and leaving their staffs as empty as if they’d cast all the spells they’d so laboriously placed within them the previous night. It was not only the nahualli that felt it: he could see everyone pause and look about, glancing upward, searching for something they could not see. Tototl had ripped the spear from the body of the Tecuhtli; he stood over her, the spear poised to strike again, and he, too, hesitated.

Then the vortex was gone, vanished, and Niente was holding only an empty length of wood. He could see the other nahualli staring or dropping their staffs in alarm. “Niente!” Tototl shouted from the cobble, his spear still raised. Niente showed him his staff.

“I have nothing,” he said in amazement. “The magic has been taken from all the nahualli. Tototl, I saw this… I told you…”

“You’re still alive,” Tototl grunted. “We stay. We fight!”

He lifted the spear again. Niente saw the strangest sight then: an old man with a silver nose, rushing toward Tototl. He brandished not a sword but a cane as he shouted at the High Warior, and yet…

Niente felt the threat of that stick. Tototl saw the man also, but he did nothing, only smiled. Niente shouted as the man thrust the tip of his cane toward Tototl, and he leaped between them, trying to knock away the cane with his staff, but he wasn’t strong enough. The cane touched Niente’s own body.

The impact was like the fist of Axat. He thought he saw Her face above him, nodding as he fell. Niente saw a carved bird flying away in front of Her.

A last gift…

Sergei saw the warrior’s vicious spear thrust pierce Allesandra’s armor. He saw her mouth open in silent surprise and shock, saw the warrior use the spear’s shaft to pull Allesandra down from her horse. He stood over her, yanking the spear from the Kraljica’s body with blood spattering as he prepared to thrust down again at her prone figure. He shouted something toward an ancient Westlander spellcaster standing near him.

Sergei had stopped himself. Something felt strange: a furious cold wind swirled in the Avi, and the fury of the spells all around seemed to have stopped.

Sergei shook himself. He limped toward Allesandra, cane in one hand, his rapier in the other. Another Westlander sprang from his left side, and he thrust underneath the man’s cut, the thin blade of the rapier finding a gap between the bamboo slats of his armor and sliding into his abdomen. The Westlander doubled over, falling, the motion taking the sword from Sergei’s grasp. He left it there; he had no strength to hold it. “No!” he shouted at the warrior standing over Allesandra. He brandished his cane at the man, who looked at him and seemed to nearly laugh.

Sergei prayed that he remembered the word that Varina had taught him, that he would pronounce it correctly, that the spell she said she’d placed within the cane would actually work. “Scaoil!” he cried, and he plunged the brass ferrule of his cane toward the warrior.

But as he did so, the ancient spellcaster moved with surprising speed for his evident age, interposing himself between Sergei and the warrior, waving his spell-staff. The cane struck the spellcaster instead. In the instant the cane touched him, the ferrule seemed to explode. A loud, percussive sound nearly deafened Sergei. The blast sent splinters of his cane flying, it sent the old spellcaster flying backward in a spray of blood and gore, dying if not already dead. A red carved bird flew up from the spellcaster’s ripped pouch and landed again on the old man’s chest. He grasped the bird, seemed to whisper to it, then his head fell to one side.

The red-painted warrior dropped his spear from his hand as he stared at the body of the spellcaster, lying in the Avi near the wounded Allesandra.

Time stopped then for Sergei. The warrior stood, the cool rictus of battle fury still on his face. Sergei thought that the man would reach to his side and draw his sword, that he would cut Sergei down in the next instant. There were no gardai who would save him, no sparkwheelers close enough.

He wondered what death would feel like.

But the warrior stared at the spellcaster’s body and he shook his head. He shouted something that Sergei did not understand: a prayer, a curse, a query. He stepped back and away from Sergei: one step, another, then another. Then he turned completely, and he roared a command that echoed in the street. The warriors in the Avi began to give ground, slowly at first, then more quickly. Sergei saw Brie and Talbot pursuing them with the sparkwheelers, but he called to them. “Wait! The Kraljica…”

He bent down to her. “Sergei,” she said. “It hurts…”

“I know,” he told her. A few gardai had gathered around-bloody and battered and appearing dazed. They stared at the Kraljica, at the shattered body of the spellcaster.

“Help me,” Sergei told them. “Help me get her back to the palais. ..”

Jan, with the chevarittai and a few of the war-teni, fought a rear action to protect their retreat, engaging the mounted warriors and keeping the Westlander foot troops away from the the stragglers. In his role in command of the Firenzcian army, Jan had rarely needed to coordinate a full-scale retreat, but he’d been on the other side of one many times, and he knew a retreat was often the most dangerous time for the troops as the advancing force could pick off the stragglers, sending arrows and spells to decimate and even obliterate the rearmost companies. Too often, the advancing army could often overtake their demoralized and exhausted foe and inflict terrible casualties.

Retreat might allow the commander to fight another day, but it also might lead to a total and ignominious defeat. They were not even falling back to fortifications, but to an open and unprotected city.

The Westlander spellcasters hurled spells at them that their war-teni had little time and little energy to deflect. Their archers barbed the very sky with arrows. Their mounted troops-thankfully few-dashed toward the back of the running gardai, picking them off. The front ranks of their army pushed forward at a full charge. Jan could glimpse, through the smoke and confusion of the battlefield, the banners of the Tehuantin commander: a winged serpent flying on rippling, bright green cloth. Most of the spells seemed to come from the group around that banner.

Jan was exhausted and in terrible pain. His fingers longed to release the weight of heavy Firenzcian steel, the hilt of his sword already slippery with blood. He swayed in his saddle, nearly falling from the horse as spell-lightning hissed and boomed directly in front of him, causing his warhorse to rear. He settled the animal.

“Hirzg!” he heard someone call, and a chevaritt to his right pointed to a quartet of mounted warriors about to run down a group of gardai.

Jan sighed. He forced his fingerss to tighten on his sword. He ignored the pain searing his chest. He kicked his horse into a gallop toward the warriors.

You aren’t going to survive this. This is going to be your last battle.

The thought came to him as a certainty. A prophecy. He shivered even as he shouted encouragement to the chevarittai, even as they pounded toward the warriors.

Then…

A wave of intense cold washed over him, as if winter had come early; as it passed, even with the fury of their charge, he realized that the constant rain of spells from the Tehuantin forces had stopped. The warriors ahead of them had realized it as well. They’d pulled up their horses, looking back toward their own lines. Jan worried that the spellcasters were preparing another mass spell like the war-storm. But instead, a visible wave rushed across the land from east to west, one that caused Jan to pull back on the reins in amazement. They could all see it: in the shimmering air, in the dust it raised from the ground as it moved. Where the pulse touched the advancing front line of the Westlanders, the warriors were tossed and thrown back even though it left their own people untouched. Jan heard screams and wails, then a greater single voice.

“Go! This is Cenzi’s Gift. Go!”

The shout seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere.

Jan felt a sudden faint hope. A war-teni’s fireball went screaming overhead toward the Tehuantin. There was no response to the spell: no deflection, no impotent explosion far above. The fireball shrieked death and plowed into the Westlanders ranks, exploding untouched. Another followed, and another-all of them went through. The hope within him surged, and his injuries no longer mattered. “Turn!” he shouted to the troops, to the offiziers. “Turn! Follow me!”

He raised his sword as the chevarittai took up his shout. He heard it echoing faintly down the the lines, and the retreat halted, then slowly turned. Jan was already riding hard toward the Tehuantin. All along the battlefield, as far to the south as Jan could see, the retreat was turning. Black and silver began to flow westward.

With the chevarittai around him, Jan plowed into the stunned line of the Westlanders, driving toward the banner of the winged snake. The first warriors he passed were strewn on the ground; whether dead or rendered unconscious by the massive unknown spell, he didn’t know. Then he hit resistance, and he pushed through a sea of flashing blades, his pains forgotten in the fury of battle. The chevarittai shouted as they hewed through the Westlanders toward their commander, all of them pushing forward. They could hear the roar of the onrushing gardai behind them.

There was no answer from the Tehuantin spellcasters. Whatever had happened had stolen their magic. But the Tehuantin warriors-at least those away from the initial pulse, were unaffected. They fought as fiercely as ever, and now that the initial euphoria had passed, the exhaustion and the pain were making themselves felt again. The assault slowed, though now the banners of the winged snake were agonizingly close. Every strike of his sword into the press of warriors sent a shock streaking up Jan’s sword arm. His legs ached, and he could barely hold his seat on the warhorse. His ribs stabbed him with ivory knives at every breath.

He wondered where Brie was. He wondered who would tell his children, and what they would say.

You must at least make the story worth the telling.

Groaning, he brought his sword up to protect his side against a sword thrust, his blade cleaving down past the attack into the warrior’s neck. He saw the man’s mouth open, his eyes go wide. Something stabbed hard at his thigh on the left, and he swung around to face the warrior with a spear, the point embedded in his leg just above the cuisse. Jan yanked the reins hard to the left and the warhorse lifted its hooves, striking the attacker and trampling him as the spear’s tip was torn from Jan’s thigh. He could feel blood soaking the padding under the cuisse.

He was closer. He could hear the snake banner flapping. “To me!” he called the chevarittai, but he heard no reply. He didn’t know where they were, had no time to search for them. Scowling, he plunged forward, letting the horse run over the warriors between. He broke into a small opening:, he could see the Tehuantin leader, his shaved skull adorned with a red eagle that spread its wings over his cheeks. The man was older than Jan, bulky in the Westlander armor and astride his own horse, a magnificent piebald. Next to him was one of the Westlander spellcasters, a young one, with his spell-staff in his hand and a golden band on his arm.

Jan gathered what strength he still had. He raised his sword and shouted challenge. He kicked the warhorse forward.

From her hiding place behind the tapestries along the rear wall, Rochelle watched them carry the Kraljica into the hall. Allesandra’s armor was spattered with red, and there was a hole punched through the chest plate from which blood still flowed. Her face was pale and drawn, her graying hair disheveled and as stiff as straw around her face. “Put me on the throne,” she heard Allesandra husk. The woman’s voice was an exhausted, skeletal croak. The gardai bearing her obeyed, placing the woman on the Sun Throne. Rochelle expected the throne to blaze into light as the Kraljica sat in its crystalline embrace, as all the tales said, but the throne responded with only the palest of glows, barely visible in the sunlight.

She wondered if that was because the Kraljica was close to death.

“Someone find the Kraljica’s healers,” she heard Sergei say. “The rest of you, go to the Hirzgin for orders; she is in command. Go!”

They scattered. Rochelle watched as Sergei crouched beside the throne. “What can I do for you, Kraljica?” he said.

“Water, Sergei,” she whispered. “I’m so thirsty.”

He limped toward a stand near the servants’ door; he was missing his cane and moved slowly. Rochelle slipped out from behind the tapestry. With a few bounding steps, she was on the dais, the knife in her hand. Sergei heard her, and he cried out her name-“Rochelle! ”-but he was too far away and too slow to stop her. The pale stone-laced in its pouch around Rochelle’s neck-seemed to pulse whitehot against her skin.

“You will kill her, and as she dies, you will tell her why so she goes to Cenzi knowing it…”

Allesandra looked at Rochelle with confusion in her pained eyes. “Hello, Great-Matarh,” Rochelle said. “I’m Rochelle.”

“Rochelle? Great-Matarh?” The confusion deepened on the woman’s face. She glanced at the knife and her eyes narrowed. “I know that weapon,” she said, licking her dry lips. She coughed, and bubbles of red froth flecked the corners of her mouth. “I killed Mahri with that. Where did you…?”

“From your son,” Rochelle said. “From my vatarh.”

Her eyes widened again. “Your vatarh? Jan?”

“Rochelle, don’t do this.” That was Sergei. He took a few faltering steps toward the dais, his hand stretching out toward her. She ignored him. A swipe of the blade, and she could be through any of the doors and away before he could do anything to stop her.

“Yes, Jan is my vatarh,” Rochelle told Allesandra. Her free hand clutched at the tiny leather bag that held the flat, nearly white pebble that contained her matarh and all their victims. “And my matarh

… She was the White Stone. Elissa, you called her at the time, though that wasn’t her real name.”

“Elissa…” Allesandra’s eyes closed for a moment. Her breath rattled; the eyes opened again. “Jan…”

“She loved him,” Rochelle told Allesandra, leaning close to her. She placed the blade against her great-matarh’s neck. Allesandra put her hand over Rochelle’s, but there was no power in her grasp. Her skin felt like wrinkled parchment.

“Rochelle, the woman’s dead already,” Sergei said. “You don’t need to do this. The White Stone’s dead. Leave her that way.”

Rochelle glanced at him. “Why do you care, Ambassador? Your hands are far bloodier than mine.”

“I said it to you in the carriage: it’s not too late for you, Rochelle. You’re not your matarh. You don’t have to become what she became.”

The knife trembed in her hand. “Promise me…”

“Do this,” Sergei said, “and you are forever the White Stone, the hated assassin who murdered the Kraljica. You’ll be hunted for the rest of your short and miserable life. You’ll never feel safe, never feel comfortable. Eventually you’ll make a mistake and be caught, and you’ll be dragged back here in chains and executed. That’s your fate, Rochelle, the only fate you have if you do this.”

“And if I don’t? Aren’t I still the White Stone, who killed Rance and others?”

Sergei shrugged. “I don’t know,” he said. “Your life will be your book to write. If the White Stone vanishes, there’s no one to chase.”

Rochelle’s mind was in torment. The blade pressed into Allesandra’s skin, the keen edge drawing blood. All she had to do was press a little harder. Just lean into the woman slightly; the knife would do the rest. Allesandra’s fingers pressed against her own, almost as if the woman were willing her to do this. “My matarh loved Jan,” Rochelle said to her. Her voice trembled more than her hands.

“I know,” Allesandra said. Her lips were slick with blood, and a long thick line drooled down one side of her mouth. “And Jan loved her. I know that too.” Her breath gurgled, and the smell of it was vile. “I’m sorry.”

“Sorry?” Rochelle nearly shouted the word. She almost plunged the knife into her neck with the violence of the word. “You should have said that to her. ”

Allesandra gave no answer. Her breathing had gone thin and slow, and her body jerked once spasmodically. She stared at Rochelle, blinking heavily.

“Rochelle…”

Rochelle lifted the knife away from Allesandra’s neck and sheathed it. Kill her… She heard her matarh’s voice whisper, but the sound was faint, and Rochelle found that she had no will to do it. Not anymore. All the rage had left her, all the certainty.

She didn’t have to do this. She didn’t have to be the White Stone. Matarh had been insane; that didn’t have to be her fate as well.

“I want to watch you die,” she told the Kraljica. She glanced at Sergei. “I need to see it.”

“All right,” Sergei told her. He came ponderously up the steps of the dais to stand next to her. “We’ll watch together.”

Allesandra’s mouth opened, as if she were about to protest, but she said nothing. They heard her breath go out. The Kraljica was looking at Sergei. “Nessantico…” Her voice was hardly more than a zephyr. He eyes were fixed somewhere between the two of them, staring blindly. “Sergei, is she safe?”

“Yes,” Sergei told her. “She’s safe.”

There was no reaction from Allesandra. After a time, they realized that she had not taken in another breath. Her eyes were still open. Rochelle took the white stone from the pouch. She placed it over Allesandra’s right eye. “There, Matarh,” she said. “She’s yours…”

She started down the dais. “Wait,” Sergei called after her. “The stone…”

“Leave it there,” Rochelle told him. “Take it for a memento. Throw it away. I don’t care. I don’t need it.”

She left the hall as the healers-too late-came in.

The wave of cold, then the surge that passed over them harmlessly but slammed into the Westlanders…

Nico’s presence and his voice, impossibly loud…

The silence that seemed to last several breaths, as they realized that none of the Westlanders were casting spells toward them…

What had happened?

Varina could still feel the Scath Cumhacht within herself. She had felt something-someone?-tug at the spells she had stored in her mind as if it wanted to steal them, but the presence had passed by her untouched. Well to the north, she saw a war-teni’s fireball sizzling across the horizon, streaking toward the enemy, then another and yet another, this one from a teni near her. None of them were touched.

She could hear the offiziers shouting, turning the gardai, facing them westward once more. The tide which had pulled them along slowed, stopped, then began to flow the other way. They stood motionless against the current. Leovic and Niels were still holding her arms, but she could see them watching. “Go,” she told them. “They need you. I’ll follow as best I can.”

“A’Morce,” Niels protested.

“Go,” she repeated.

They left her, running toward one of the chevarittai offiziers. She watched them be gathered up in the rush. Then, far more slowly, limping, she followed. Gardai swarmed past her, shouting. She heard the din of the battle renewed ahead of her, but all the spells seemed to be coming from the Faith’s war-teni and the Numetodo, not from the Westlanders.

She was standing among the bodies of those who had fallen in the retreat, most in blue and gold. It was difficult to ignore them. The worst were the ones who were not dead but too wounded to walk, who reached out toward her for succor as she passed or were still crawling toward the city. To them, she could only say that help would be coming soon to rescue them-and hope that she was telling them the truth.

But she was looking for one person in particular.

She saw a body off to her left and ahead of her-dressed in a green teni’s robes. She thought it might be one of the war-teni, then she saw the face.

Nico’s face.

Ignoring her aching legs, she ran to him, sinking down to her knees alongside him. He seemed unharmed: no blood on his robes, his face dirty and dark with old bruises and cuts, but he looked otherwise untouched. “Nico?” she said, rolling him on his back, looking desperately at the robes for a sign of what had hurt him.

He opened his eyes. He smiled. “Hi, Varina. I guess I was sleeping. Have you seen my matarh?” It was a boy’s voice. A child’s voice. He sat up and glanced around, his eyes widening as he took in the gardai running past shouting and waving their swords; the bodies lying nearby; the fumes and smoke of the battlefield; the trampled earth that had once been a farmer’s field. He pushed himself to a sitting position. “Varina,” he said, his voice trembling with obvious fear. He clutched at her arms. “I’m scared, Varina. Take me home. Please. I don’t want to be here.”

“Nico, what did you do?”

He looked frightened at the question, shrinking away from her. “I didn’t do nothing, honest. I just want to go home. I want to see Matarh. I want to see Talis.”

Varina hugged him. “Nico, Talis and Serafina are… gone.”

“Where did they go?” he asked. In his eyes there was no mockery, only the innocent question.

“Nico…” She couldn’t answer him. Varina hugged him again. Whatever Nico had done, however he’d done it, the effort had obviously taken his mind with it. This was no longer the Absolute of the Morellis. This was no longer Nico the great teni. He clung to her like a child to his matarh, and she could feel him shivering with panic and dismay.

Gardai were still flowing past them; the din of battle and the thundering of war-teni spells was deafening. “Nico, come on,” she said. “Let’s get you out of here. It’s not safe. You can come to my house. Would you like that?”

He nodded urgently, clinging to her. She pulled him to his feet.

Together, they stumbled eastward toward the city.

Atl felt naked and unprotected, his spell-staff impossibly emptied in a few breaths by that terrible spell from the east, and now the battle was suddenly renewed when it was supposed to have ended.

In victory. In the victory he’d seen. In the victory he’d told the Tecuhtli would be his. He remembered his taat’s vision, the one Niente claimed to have glimpsed, the path that Atl had been unable to see, the one he’d believed to be his taat’s lie. This was not possible.

Citlali raged at him as fireballs from the Easterner nahualli fell near them. “Stop them!” the Tecuhtli shouted. “Damn you, Nahual! Stop them!”

But all Atl could do was shake his head. “I have no power, Tecuhtli. None of the nahualli have. It’s been taken from us.” The spells were gone, and there was no time now to craft new ones to place in the spell-sticks.

“You promised me victory, Nahual! You promised me the city!” Citlali wailed like a child deprived of his favorite toy, but there was no answer at all to that. His face was so flushed with his anger that the red eagle seemed to blend into his flesh.

There will be no victory, Atl wanted to tell him. Or if there is to be one, it’s not one that I’ve glimpsed in the bowl. The paths in the scrying bowl had been wiped away. Everything had changed. I have never seen this path at all. I don’t know where it leads.

As his taat had warned. His hand felt for his pouch, where the carved bird his taat had given him was nestled. If one of us sees the way, then we can tell the other that the Long Path is open… Could Niente have been right: could this Long Path exist, the one Atl could never see?

He wished Niente were here.

Citlali was still raving, but Atl’s attention was on the carved bird in his pouch. It seemed to rustle, as if it were alive and flapping its wings in panic. He opened the leather flap, reached in. Yes, the thing was moving. It went still in his hand as he took it out, and as he did, he heard, unmistakably, Niente’s voice.

“Tototl is returning to the ships. You must go too! The Long Path is here.”

“Taat?”

There was no answer. Atl dropped the bird from fingers that had lost their strength. He watched it tumble to the ground, to be lost among the stalks of grain that the armies had crushed into the dirt. His taat’s voice had sounded so weak, so lost, and there came to him a certainty that he would never hear it again.

“Tecuhtli,” Atl called. “We must retreat and find the ships. We have no magic. We’ll have none until we can rest again.”

“No!” Citlali spat. “I will have the city today.”

“It’s not possible now,” Atl said.

“How would you know?” Citlali scoffed. “Nothing you have told me has been true. You are no longer Nahual. I’ll find another. I’ll make Niente Nahual again.”

Citlali raised his sword against Atl as if he were about to strike, and Atl lifted his spell-stick uselessly.

Someone called toward them in the tongue of the Easterners, and a warhorse broke through the ring about Citlali and Atl, bearing a warrior covered in blood and dirt, his helm lost, a notched sword clutched in his hand. He bore down directly toward Citlali, and the Tecuhtli turned from Atl to parry the the man’s stroke. Steel rang against steel, and Atl saw a shard of Citlali’s blade fly away, spinning. As their warhorses came close, Citlali pushed hard at the Easterner, and the man fell from his saddle. Citlali laughed. “You see?” he said. “You see how easily they fall? And you tell me to retreat?”

The Easterner was struggling groggily to his feet, favoring one leg. He seemed barely able to lift his weapon. All around them, Atl could see the black-and-silver and blue-and-gold uniforms of the Easterners, though the three of them stood alone in a quiet nexus of the chaos. Warriors were falling under the press, and their spellcasters hurled their magic with the nahualli unable to respond. Citlali jumped from his horse; Atl saw his boot crush the carved red bird into the muddy, torn ground. The Tecuhtli lifted his sword again. The strike, Atl saw, would take the Easterner’s head.

Atl lifted back his empty spell stick. He brought it down hard on Citlali’s skull. The sound was strangely quiet, like a stick thumping a ripe melon, but Citlali fell senseless at the Easterner’s stunned feet. The Easterner looked at Atl, who stared back. For a breath, neither of them moved, then-as Atl watched from his horse, the Easterner lifted his sword. He brought it down through Citlali’s neck. “The Tecuhtli is lost!” Atl called out loudly so that the warriors nearest him could hear. “The Tecuhtli is lost. Retreat! Back to the ships!”

As the warriors began to respond, as they began to disengage and fall back, as the Easterners shouted in triumph, Atl stared down at the Easterner. The man leaned on his sword, still buried in Citlali’s neck. Atl nodded to him.

Then he jerked the reins of his horse and began the long flight westward.