Circle at center

Prologue

Dawn swelled on the horizon beyond the volcano, and Natac was glad that he would see this place once before he died. The celestial unveiling was utterly serene, lavender merging into rose and pale turquoise, all advancing with a majesty that tightened his throat and brought tears to his eyes. The swath of soft blue expanded skyward from the conical mountain, and he dared to imagine that the eternally smoldering summit gave birth to this day. Scarcely breathing, he wondered at the perfection of the dark cloud that twisted upward from the massif to hang like a serpentine banner over the Valley of the Mexica.

It seemed fitting that his life would end here, today-that Natac, who had provided so much blood, so many lives, to the hungry gods, would at last offer his own heart on an occasion of high honor to the fearsome immortals who ruled over every aspect of the world. He would give his life on the altar of his enemies, the Aztecs-or Mexica, as they arrogantly styled themselves. Yet Natac was content to know that his heart would sustain the gods and allow life here and in his own homeland of Tlaxcala to continue to flourish.

On this day Tlaloc and Tonatiuh, voracious gods of rain and sun, would be feted with many hearts. Deities of wind and nightfall, of motherhood and spring, of maiz and catfish and herons, would gain strength from grand ritual. And of course, here in the city of the Mexica the Aztec god of war, Huitzilopochtli, would be offered the greatest number of hearts-Natac had been told that a river of blood would flow from his temple during the ritual.

For a moment he felt a small glimmer of regret, knowing that Tezcatlipoca, the Smoking Mirror, would receive little acknowledgment from the Mexicans, who were far more concerned with the needs of their insatiable war god. Silently, Natac extended a prayer into the cloudless dawn. He thanked Tezcatlipoca, who was also called the Enemy on Every Side, for his warrior’s life, and for the many enemies he had been allowed to take in battle. Every one of them had been sanctified to the glory of the gods, had died knowing that his lifeblood would sustain the world, and Natac had no doubt but that the immortals had been mightily pleased by these blood offerings. As he prayed, preparing for his journey to black Mictlan, the realm of death, he realized that never in his life had he seen a finer sunrise.

And he knew that there was no better way to die.

A guard, a respectful young stripling apprenticed to an Aztec Eagle Knight, stood uneasily several paces away. He was a big fellow bearing an obsidian-tipped spear, garbed in practical armor of padded quilting that protected him from groin to shoulders. Still, he had certainly heard of Natac’s reputation-doubtless he believed that the prisoner could have broken his neck at any moment.

But perhaps he perceived another truth as well: The Tlaxcalan Natac had no thoughts of escape. Since the moment he had been fairly captured in war, he had known that his life was ended. He was satisfied to be playing his final part in tasks laid out by godly scheme.

By the time the eastern sky was blue, people moved around the temples, pyramids, and other ritual sites that came into Natac’s view. Priests lit torches and beacon fires, while slaves swept the flagstone surface that would soon be the host of a great gathering. A servant approached with a copper plate, offering maiz and beans to the honored captive. Natac, his eyes still fixed to the brightening eastern sky, made no acknowledgment of the offer-he had purged his body over the previous days, and would leave no unseemly waste on the sacrificial altar.

Soon Mexicans by tens, and then by hundreds, began to filter through the constricting entries into the plaza. Some were richly dressed nobles trailed by courtiers and slaves as they sought good vantages for the day’s rites. Others were families, fathers bearing little girls on their shoulders, boys playing warrior, darting about with make-believe bows, spears, and maquahuitls. Already the square grew crowded as people filled the broad swaths of space between palaces and pyramids.

Finally bright light flamed along the western ridge crest, a swath of brilliance creeping slowly downward, driving back the lingering shadows of night. The great pyramid, whitewashed stone steps flanked by bright, serpentine images painted red, blue, and green, gleamed with supernatural brightness. Atop the steep structure stood two altars, sacred sites dedicated to the rain god, Tlaloc, and martial Huitzilopochtli. Viewing the lofty temples, rising so far above the great city of the Mexica, Natac couldn’t help but feel awe.

Closer by he saw the flat simplicity of the Warstone, a circular platform only a few paces in diameter. Four stairways, perfectly oriented to the earthly directions, led to the top of the ceremonial stage, which was just over a tall man’s height above the ground. On that stone surface, later this morning, Natac would die.

Like countless others today, his blood and heart would be given to sustain the fierce and immortal gods. But of all those who would perish, only Natac was being granted the high honor of sacrifice by combat. As any priest could affirm, this ritual killing of a well-known and esteemed war leader of Tlaxcala would be highly pleasing to the god of war.

By the time the line of sunlight had marched well down the western ridges, the great plaza of the Aztecs teemed with people. Intrigued by his first peaceful encounter with his lifelong enemies, Natac unabashedly looked around. He easily identified the nobles, each trailed by a slave who bore aloft an ornately decorative banner proclaiming his master’s exalted status. The feathery pennants floated like kites over the crowd, in colors of yellow and sapphire, crimson and violet, brighter than any hues Natac had ever seen.

In fact, everything was more colorful, here-from the plumage of heraldry and headdress to the splendid mantles worn by so many, and the twisting mosaics of bright paint that framed the ceremonial centers and palaces in this vast square. For the first time Natac’s warrior’s mind perceived how the Aztecs, by controlling all the realms around intransigent Tlaxcala, had strangled his homeland, blocking trade for the brilliant plumage of the Maya country, or the pure, vivid dyes from the coast.

The young guard blinked in surprise, but made no objection when Natac walked toward the Warstone and, with measured paces, ascended to the raised platform. From here he could see over the heads of the gathered throng of Mexica commoners, and even above the feathered heraldry of the nobles. A hundred paces away the great skull rack, with its many thousands of fleshless, bony heads, was a shadow-encased trophy of Aztec might. Other structures rose above the people, too-every one of them grand and imperial, many with ornate facades or columned porticos, pristine whitewash accented by brightly colored paint.

He found himself facing the Smoking Mirror, the temple of Tezcatlipoca atop its own angular, terraced pyramid, of a size eclipsed only by the great pyramid itself. From this great edifice the jaguar image of the Enemy on Every Side looked from his temple over this corner of the world. Natac shivered, touched by an uncanny sense that he looked into that Smoking Mirror and saw his own death reflected in all of the men he had killed.

Turning his gaze to the purpled slopes, he admired the distant borders of the valley. Closer, the ridges surrounding the great island city and its lake were green with forests, verdant woodlands now brightening in spreading day. To the southeast, the warrior beheld the lofty magnificence of that great volcano. North, and still farther east of the conical summit lay Tlaxcala.

For a moment he let himself remember his wife and sons. His devoted bride had, somehow and almost unnoticed by him, become an old woman, but he knew that her comfort would be assured by his estate. He was also confident that his boys, young men now, would prosper, and he was content that his people would be free of Aztec domination for a long time.

And they would know that he died well.

As to the gods, Natac suspected that they cared little whether the hearts were offered in Tlaxcala or here in the city of the Mexica. Regardless, they should continue to favor the peoples of the world with good fortune, plentiful sustenance, and benign climate.

His mind summoned another memory, the image of a pretty little girl. Her name was Yellow Hummingbird, and she had been the only sister in a house of rambunctious boys. She was his daughter, and she had been gone for many years now-she had been given to the rain god as a virginal twelve-year old. Now he wondered if he would see her in Mictlan. The thought gave him a pang of anticipation, a sense of hope for a mysterious future.

There was a ripple of excitement and murmuring as black-clad priests-hair, garments and skin matted with crusted blood and other filth-moved ostentatiously through the crowd. People shrank back, frightened by the fierce aspect and profound stench of these holy men, many of whom carried smoking braziers, while others trilled upon flutes or brayed loud prayers. Some made their way with deliberate haste up the steps of the great pyramid, and soon colored smoke billowed into view from before those lofty altars. Conch horns blared exultantly from all corners and heights of the plaza, while the music of the flutes swelled into a shrill cacophony.

Huitzilopochtli, naturally, would receive the first sacrificial victims in this place that was by its very existence a testament to the Aztec war god’s might. A file of men, dressed like Natac in plain, clean loincloths, began ascending the steep steps of the great pyramid. Those who would die today, the xochimilche, were mostly captives taken by the Aztecs in their battle with Tlaxcala. Additional victims were slaves, purchased and then given for sacrifice by a master who had reasons to seek the favor of this god or that.

Natac knew that the xochimilche leading the serpentine queue were Aztec warriors who had been crippled, maimed, blinded, or otherwise injured in the recent battle. Their days of combat ended, they offered themselves willingly to the ravenous god of war. The sight of their struggles moved Natac as he watched the first, a man whose left leg had been cruelly split by an obsidian-bladed maquahuitl. A priest climbed to his side, but the warrior brusquely waved away any suggestion of assistance. Instead he bore his weight on the good leg, using his hands to lift himself higher in a series of careful hops.

Finally the crippled Aztec stood at the top of the pyramid. Now more horns moaned, long and deep and quavering, as a ring of priests closed in. Though he couldn’t see inside the alcove of the temple, Natac knew that the fanged and bestial image of Huitzilopochtli, maw gaping hungrily, crouched beside the flat altar where the xochimilche would be stretched backward.

With startling brilliance, the rays of the rising sun struck the roof of the temple, and a patina of gold shimmered downward, creeping toward the sanctified altar. Suddenly the priests stepped back and the crowd buzzed with excitement as a blaze of viridescent color flashed amid the dark clerics. The brilliant plumage cloaked a man, a regal figure in a rich mantle of aquamarine hummingbird feathers, head crowned by the emerald-green tail feathers of the quetzal bird. With sudden recognition and awe, Natac knew this was Moctezuma himself, the Eloquent One-ruler of the Aztec empire.

The noble figure raised a hand and sunlight flickered momentarily off a blade of sharpened, fire-orange jade. The knife dropped, and in another moment Moctezuma’s other hand came up. At the same time the advancing sunlight engulfed the company before the temple, dazzlingly bright and magical. In the clutching fingers, tiny with distance but crimson and bright as a ruby, a human heart pulsed in the first rays of the sun.

The golden sheen continued down the face of the pyramid as, one by one, more xochimilche advanced into the temple. Moctezuma himself performed several more sacrifices, then stepped back to allow the priests to assume the ritual butchery. Natac knew that each heart was placed into the maw of the god of war, no doubt reverently at first, although inevitably the grotesque jaws would soon overflow. Additional hearts would ultimately fall in a heap upon the floor while the gory work cast a layer of blood over the priests, the temple, and the entire top of the pyramid.

While the original file of xochimilche still marched forward, a second column now ascended the pyramid steps. This group was led by priests to the altar of Tlaloc, the other temple commanding a site on the city’s most sacrosanct vantage. The neighboring altar, too, was soon drenched in blood as heart after heart was ripped forth, here in the name of the goggle-eyed deity of rain.

For a moment, Natac’s eyes wandered to the farther pyramid, where the altar of Tezcatlipoca was currently unattended. His enemies would extend this ancient god a token feast of hearts, he was certain, but not in sufficiency deserved by the patron deity of Tlaxcala. He reminded himself that in his homeland many Aztec hearts would fill the jaguar-maw of the Enemy on Every Side, but he remained aggrieved by the sight of this Mexican temple’s neglect.

Before the war god’s temple on the great pyramid, the drained corpses were hauled away by burly priests and unceremoniously tumbled down the side of the blocky structure. A streak of bright red appeared at the lip of the sacred platform, quickly centering in the gutter beside the wide stairway. Oozing thickly, blood began to trickle down the chute, drawing a murmured reaction from the gathered throng. Natac watched the precious liquid intently, knowing that its appearance signaled the commencement of his own part in the festivities.

Several priests approached, magically parting the crowd that had closed around the Warstone, and Natac was pleased to see a familiar figure beside them. The Eagle Knight Takanatl was resplendent in his ceremonial costume, wooden helmet forming the beak of a great hunting bird-which was in turn an opening that framed the warrior’s stern face. Takanatl’s arms and calves were bare, but a rich mantle of white cotton and green parrot feathers framed the black and white of his eagle plumage and distinguished him as a man of great status. Now he came to stand at the base of the Warstone, gray eyes meeting those of the man he had captured.

“Greetings, Natac,” said the Aztec, in the Nahuatl tongue that was a common link between their intractable nations. “I am pleased to anticipate your final battle.”

“It is my honor to die before you-and to offer my heart to the gods,” Natac replied. He felt a strong rush of affection for the proud Eagle Knight, his foe in countless battles over the last thirty years, and a momentary regret that he could not have the honor of slaying this man today, then journeying with him to Mictlan.

“Does your hand cause you pain?” asked Takanatl.

For a moment Natac was surprised. Then he looked down at the swollen purpled lump at the terminus of his left arm, remembered the rockslide ambush, crushing boulders trapping him, leading to his capture. The infection had become severe, swelling through his wrist and into his forearm.

“No-I have given it no thought,” he replied truthfully.

“I am glad.” Takanatl smiled broadly, relishing his memories. “It was my good fortune that you were coming through the pass as my men released the rockslide. The Eloquent One himself took notice!”

“Ah, but the pursuit that led me into that pass was a fine thing!” Natac declared. “To see tens of thousands of Aztecs fleeing the battle, leaving hundreds behind as offerings for Tlaxcalan temples. It was a victory worth dying for.”

“Indeed.” The Eagle Knight’s expression became rueful. “Moctezuma was less than happy with the other details of the battle.” Takanatl’s eyes flickered to the great pyramid, and Natac was reminded that not all xochimilche went willingly to the realm of death.

Only then did the Tlaxcalan note a file of other warriors behind Takanatl, less grandly dressed than the Eagle Knight, but capable and sturdy-looking men nonetheless. There were a dozen or more, waiting impatiently for the ceremonies to be concluded, encircling the platform and congregating at the bases of the four stairways leading to the Warstone. Natac wondered which of them would kill him-and he hoped, for the honor of the Smoking Mirror and Tlaxcala, that it would not be the first man to try.

The closest, a hard-eyed young man of great size and scowling features, stared at Natac unblinkingly. He bore a sharp-edged maquahuitl and wore padded quilting to protect his chest, belly, and shoulders. Obviously this young warrior would commence the battle with the Tlaxcalan xochimilche, and as Natac admired the man’s sinewy limbs and the deadly weapon in his hand, he admitted to himself that the Aztec had a good chance of winning.

Four priests climbed the stairways to the top of the Warstone. Three prayed loudly, wafting incense while the fourth offered Natac his ritual weapons: a slender pole of wood, which was merely a spear without the customary head of sharp stone; and a parody of a lethal maquahuitl. Instead of the razor-edged shards of obsidian characteristic of the bladed club, the edges of this weapon were marked only by colorful tufts of feathers.

Once again Natac was reminded of his useless left hand, knowing that the injury rendered the pole an ineffective tool.

“I choose only the ritual sword,” he said, taking the blunt maquahuitl from the priest’s outstretched hand. Natac watched impassively as the smelly, filth-encrusted cleric hastily withdrew, apparently fearful even of this ludicrously armed enemy.

The four holy men raised their voices in long, ululating cries, a summons intended to draw the attention of the god of war. The file of sacrificial victims on the great pyramid came to a temporary halt as the eyes of seemingly all the populace turned to the ceremony on the Warstone. Natac was awed by a fresh appreciation of the crowd’s size, which must have numbered a hundred times a thousand and more.

The hard-eyed young Aztec bounded up the seven steps on the east side of the platform, sharp-toothed weapon held ready for a slash to right or left. Natac waited in the middle of the circle, the feathered club held casually at his side. The young man stood a hand-span taller than the Tlaxcalan, and he all but sneered at the wounded, underarmed xochimilche-a broken warrior who was apparently resigned to a quick death.

It was in that arrogance that Natac foresaw the Mexican’s doom. Predictably, the man charged with a sudden sprint, raising his maquahuitl high above his head. Those stony eyes never wavered from Natac’s face as the weapon came down in a swooping rush, a blow deadly enough to cleave a man from crown to sternum-if the attack could but strike such a mortal target.

Calmly meeting his attacker’s cold glare, Natac feinted to the right with a drop of his shoulder. The move turned the Aztec slightly in his onrush-and then the Tlaxcalan dodged left with whiplike quickness, bringing his club through a bone-crushing smash into the wrist of his enemy’s weapon-hand. The lethal maquahuitl clattered to the stone as the man staggered to a stop at the far edge of the platform. With a quick rush Natac charged and kicked the Aztec in the chest, sending him toppling backward off the Warstone.

The stunned Mexican clutched his broken wrist and groaned weakly on the ground below as two priests closed in, but Natac didn’t watch as the clerics hoisted the vanquished warrior to his feet and started him toward the great pyramid. Instead, the Tlaxcalan turned to the south stairway, where another determined warrior-a scarred and stocky veteran armed with a javelin as well as a maquahuitl-ascended to do glory for his god and his nation.

His predecessor’s fate apparently gave this warrior little pause, for he, too, charged with headlong speed. Natac started to retreat, but then sprang forward to stab his club, head forward, between the careless guard of the Aztec’s javelin and sword. The blow smashed into the padded quilt with enough force to crack the man’s ribs, and he collapsed soundlessly. Looking at his enemy’s lips, which were already blue, Natac knew he had died from a bruise to his heart.

The Tlaxcalan crossed to the other side of the platform while more priests dragged the warrior and his weapons away. Since the man was already dead, they wasted no time in slicing open his chest and raising that stilled heart toward the sun. The slick red muscle was then placed in a wicker basket and borne toward a nearby temple by a swiftly trotting apprentice.

Before the end of that brief ceremony, an Aztec warrior had climbed the west stairway to the Warstone. This man bore only a maquahuitl, and he moved with feline grace, balancing on the balls of his feet and weaving back and forth unpredictably. He might have the quickness to become a Jaguar Knight someday, Natac suspected-if he had tenacity and strength, as well.

It was at that moment that the Tlaxcalan was struck by an odd thought: His own death at the hands of one of these young Mexicans would greatly exalt that aspiring warrior’s status. The victor might be granted command of a hundred warriors, or even that exalted knighthood in the orders of the Jaguars or Eagles. The notion gave rise to a strangely calming sense of tranquillity.

The graceful Aztec approached with caution, circling warily. Natac allowed him to hold a respectful distance as the two combatants faced each other like dancers, slowly pivoting around the stage. They sparred with quick slashes, the clash of their weapons harsh in the still plaza until, as if by mutual plan, they separated.

Over three sharp exchanges the young man revealed quick reflexes in defense, but also displayed a predilection for a high, slashing attack. The fourth time that catlike swipe whipped past his face, Natac was ready with his own counter. He ducked into a full squat and struck from his crouch, a vicious sideswipe that shattered the Aztec’s knee. Sobbing in disbelief, the promising young warrior was borne toward the temple of the war god as a fourth fighter, this one climbing up the north stairway, took up the challenge.

And he was followed by a fifth, and then a sixth.

When the seventh man fell, knocked senseless by a blow to the head, several heartbeats passed without the next challenger appearing. A freshening breeze cooled the sheen of sweat that glistened on Natac’s nearly hairless skin. He was vaguely aware of a stillness, a sense of awe that had quieted the once boisterous crowd.

When he looked around curiously, he saw the reason: Sternly upright amid the framing plumage of slave-borne fans, Moctezuma himself had come to observe the duel.

The Eloquent One, most powerful ruler in the known world, was resplendent in his bright feathered mantle and the brilliant headdress of long, emerald-colored plumes lofting half again above his own height. A large plug of turquoise and gold graced his lower lip, which was now curled downward in a pout of displeasure. In Moctezuma’s wake crowded a retinue of nobles anxious for a look at the Tlaxcalan xochimilche. Yet all left space around the Eloquent One, and hastened to back away from the ruler’s every gesture or move.

The next warrior climbed to the Warstone, no doubt deeply honored by the exalted observer, and charged at the waiting Natac. A heartbeat later, larynx crushed by the wooden club that had long since lost its feathered totems, the Aztec tumbled away to a slow death by strangulation.

“Enough!”

The cry came from the Eagle Knight, Takanatl. The veteran stared at the purple-faced corpse, then looked to Natac, his expression tortured. Finally the helmed warrior turned toward Moctezuma, kneeling and bending his face to the ground with a graceful sweep of plumage.

“My lord-I beg leave to battle this captive myself! I offer his blood, and my own, in the name of Huitzilopochtli!”

“This is the man Natac, captured by you in the recent battle?” Moctezuma, still scowling, regarded the Tlaxcalan. As Natac returned the Aztec ruler’s gaze, he realized that he was the only person in the plaza who was looking upon that face-the tens and tens of thousands of Mexicans in view all had their eyes turned respectfully downward or away.

“Aye, lord.” Takanatl spoke from the depths of his bow, addressing the ground at his feet.

“And he has been your foe, and ours, for these last three tens of years?”

“Aye, lord. Always Natac was at the forefront of the attack. He has killed and captured many of our warriors. In the battle of seven days past, it was he who led the pursuit that turned our withdrawal into a disgraceful rout.”

“A shameful outcome,” Moctezuma declared, addressing Takanatl sternly. “This Tlaxcalan’s capture was the only moment of good news in a valley full of disasters. I should hate to have it be the cause of your own loss, as well.”

“My lord-I beg you! He is the greatest foe I have ever known. Behold today: Even in capture, in defeat, he decimates my company and slays my best men!”

“Very well.” Moctezuma turned to Natac. “You have heard my Eagle Knight. I shall grant his request, an honor I bestow graciously. But know, Tlaxcalan, that he shall be your last opponent. If the gods so decree, he will give your heart to the gods-but should you defeat him, the honor of the Mexica will compel me to set you free.

“Now”-the Eloquent One turned to Takanatl again-“commence the fight.”

The Eagle Knight leapt up the steep stairway in three giant strides. His dark eyes, warm with relief, pride and martial fervor, met Natac’s, and the Tlaxcalan felt a profound wave of joy.

“I regret the rules of the ritual-it would be better if you had a real weapon,” the Eagle Knight said.

“I know. But the club serves well enough.” Natac allowed himself a tight smile, seeing his dark humor reflected as chagrin in the Aztec’s eyes.

Natac met Takanatl warily, deflecting a dazzling series of slashing blows-attacks that steadily whittled away at the battered stick that was the Tlaxcalan’s only weapon. Yet despite the onslaught, his wounds, and the strain of the previous duels, he had no sensation of fatigue. Indeed, he felt as if he was only now gaining true understanding of his deepest skills. He ducked and weaved and dodged, supple as a gust of wind swirling around a great bird of prey in flight.

The Eagle Knight’s shield deflected each smashing blow. Several times the obsidian teeth of his maquahuitl sliced Natac’s skin and flesh, and for the first time that day Tlaxcalan blood spattered onto the Warstone. Quickly following each advantage, the Aztec veteran pressed his enemy hard, and now Natac was forced to evade the whistling slashes with ever-increasing desperation.

He lunged right, desperately skipped left as the jagged sword slashed. Only then did he see that the attack had been a feint-now Takanatl used his shield as a weapon, smashing the hardened wood against Natac’s injured, swollen hand. Pain shrieked through the warrior’s nerves, staggering him, dropping him for a brief instant onto one knee. For the first time he saw defeat, certain death, awaiting him at the end of this fight.

But not yet. His mind still clouded by agony, Natac lunged to the side, dodging a nearly fatal swipe. Forcing his thoughts into focus, the Tlaxcalan groaned and slumped in apparent weakness.

And then Takanatl made his mistake. A vicious blow curled past Natac, gouging the Tlaxcalan’s bicep, but this time the xochimilche dived past the shield of his lifelong foe. Springing to his feet in a lightning attack, Natac swung the wooden club past the bottom of the Aztec’s wooden helmet, smashing the Eagle Knight where his neck merged with his shoulders.

Bone snapped as Takanatl grunted in surprise, then collapsed onto his face. He lay motionless, making a strangled, choking sound.

Quickly Natac knelt and turned the Eagle Knight over. The Aztec’s eyes were open and focused, shaded by an intense fear that was very disturbing to see in this battle-hardened veteran. His head lolled to the side, drool trickling from his mouth until the Tlaxcalan wiped his lips and gently turned him to face toward the sky.

“I am already dying… my body is gone from me… my legs… my arms… like smoke…” Takanatl’s words were weak, forced out by lungs that strained just to sustain his life.

“I am grateful that we journey to Mictlan together, my enemy,” declared Natac sincerely. He took one of the Aztec’s hands, surprised at the utter flaccidity of the limp fingers.

“Yes, my life-enemy. It seems that the gods have conspired to keep us… together… even beyond…”

Takanatl coughed again, a violent spasm that flecked his lips with foam, and then the Eagle Knight was still. His eyes, sightless to views in this world, stared in the direction of that pure blue sky.

“Enough of killing my warriors!” cried Moctezuma, his rage a scythe that shivered through the Mexican crowd. “Go back to Tlaxcala and be done with my city!”

For a moment Natac blinked, startled, even tempted, by the prospect of walking away from this place. But then he remembered the peace he had made with his gods, the destiny that had stood before him with this dawn, and he was disappointed in his own momentary weakness.

“My lord, you do me high honor… as I have intended high honor to the gods. Please allow me to bestow that honor with my heart and my life.” Only then did a pragmatic and decisive thought occur to Natac. He held up the swollen hand, and the black lines of blood poisoning were clearly visible to the ruler of the Aztecs.

“And in any event, it seems that the wound inflicted by Takanatl’s ambush will see to the end of my life. My time as a warrior is finished.”

The Eloquent One, no doubt considering the recent toll upon his own fighting men, looked skeptical at Natac’s words. Yet he continued to listen as the Tlaxcalan pointed to a nearby temple, the lone edifice atop its pyramid. The site was conspicuously silent, empty of activity amid the panoply of festivities.

“I ask that my heart be offered to the Smoking Mirror. Doubtless you know that Tezcatlipoca is the patron god of my people. It is in his honor that I have waged a lifetime of war, and to his honor that I would dedicate my death.”

Moctezuma laughed a sharp, bitter bark of sound. “You choose sacrifice on the altar of the Enemy on Every Side? Somehow, that seems a fitting end to this ceremony.”

Priests flanked Natac as he descended from the Warstone to continue his journey toward the realm of death. The crowd parted, allowing the xochimilche and his clerical escort to cross the plaza, circling the great pyramid close enough to see the blood pooling at the base of the stairs. Finally they approached the pyramid of Tezcatlipoca. A surge of anticipation filled Natac as he thought of the black mountains of Mictlan and the dangerous and exciting journey he would soon undertake. So it was with firm steps that he started up the steep stairway of stone.

Atop the pyramid, Natac could at last see the dazzling lakes that surrounded the island city of the Mexica. Sunlight sparkled in broad swaths, liquid silver shimmering to the verdant horizon. Closer, he saw the vast plaza and surrounding streets, all thronged by crowds, while the canals beyond were thick with canoes. Banners floated and lofty headdresses danced above the people like magically enchanted snakes and birds. It was a wondrous scene, a perfect vision of man’s crowning achievement as allowed by the benevolence of the gods.

Finally the priests closed in and Natac laid himself across the altar without any assistance. Now his eyes turned upward, to the sky of that perfect blue. He felt a fleeting moment of sadness as he beheld the surreal hue, knowing that in the blackness of Mictlan he would miss such beauty.

He smelled shit on the nearest priest, and that made him sad, too.

Then the knife was there, blocking his view of the sky, plunging, cutting his chest with a shocking rip of pain. In a brief moment the agony was gone, and Natac felt only numbness as he stared into the grime-smeared face of the leering holy man. A filthy hand came forward, and he was vaguely aware of fingers penetrating, pushing into his flesh.

He strained for breath, but there was no air.

Blackness fringed his vision, a circle swiftly drawing tight. Then Natac saw his own heart, red and bright and dripping, pulsing with the last vestiges of vitality.

Finally, the darkness was everywhere.

And in the black infinity he sensed a woman. Her musk surrounded him, a tangible spoor that teased and cajoled, moving him with a raw and sexual summons. The feeling intoxicated Natac, drew him with a promise of unprecedented delight.

Even so, he was rather startled to find himself utterly, tumescently, aroused.