Feathered Dragon

8

The wind rose to a screaming crescendo, until it seemed that the rock walls of the temple itself must splinter around the companions. Shards of dust stung their skin. The howling noise of the whirlwind drowned any attempts at communication, even shouts.

Halloran caught a glimpse of white feathers high above them. He saw the eagle, Poshtli, diving through the dust toward the great stone statue. The massive shape of Qotal seemed to lurch forward, though it was difficult to see.

The magnificent bird disappeared into the cloud with an angry shriek, and the former legionnaire groaned inwardly at the courageous but futile act. He knew that Poshtli could be smashed by a casual, even accidental blow from one of

Zaltec’s fingers.

Erixitl moaned as the Cloak-of-One-Plume floated into the air, borne across the temple by the chaotic gusts of battle. The wind tore at the colorful garment with a maddened intensity, tearing brilliant plumage away, rendering it into minute tufts of rubbish. In a moment of awful violence, the cloak disappeared, and at the same time it grew darker still in the huge temple.

They heard a sharp squawk, and once again the eagle came into sight, wheeling high in the air, Tucking his wings, talons extended, Poshtli dove toward the mountainous block that was Zaltec’s head.

The little party huddled together in a corner of die temple, paralyzed by fear and awe. Shaking his head and wiping the dust from his eyes, Halloran tried to peer through the dust. It was then he realized that others had entered the temple.

Dimly through the haze in the air, he saw a lumbering figure move through The door. Others followed, and the brilliance of the setting sun outlined their forms clearly — trolls, the minions of Zaltec. More and more of the grotesque creatures crowded through, filling the space behind the stone! monolith’s feet.

Halloran groaned inwardly Still, it seemed to him that he and his companions, crouched in the shadows and concealed by the raging dust cloud, had not yet been seen. But how much longer could they remain concealed?

Slapping Daggrande’s arm to get his attention, Halloran indicated the monsters as still more of the beasts pressed into the temple to watch their master’s battle-their master’s victory.

For indeed it seemed that Qotal had faded from sight in the face of Zaltec’s relentless might. Poshtli, too, had vanished. The huge stone figure began to lower its arms, and slowly the wind began to fade.

Halloran remembered the other door, in the east wall. “Come on!” he shouted, prodding the others ahead of him. With gestures, he urged them toward the door.

They crept along the base of the wall, desperately hoping to avoid the notice of the monsters. Halloran stayed in the rear, his hand near Helmstooth’s hilt. He didn’t want to draw the weapon prematurely, for its gleaming blade would certainly draw the attention of the trolls still stumbling into the temple. Daggrande, he noticed, carried his axe, the now useless crossbow slung across his shoulder beside his empty quiver.

Finally they reached the towering opening, as big as the one on the west, where they had entered. Behind them, Qotal shrieked in fading frustration. The contest obviously was nearly over.

“Run!” Halloran shouted. “Get down while there’s* still time!”

The little party burst from the temple, starting toward the steep stairway that lay only a few steps away. They had crossed half the distance when bellows of rage sounded on either side of them.

A pair of monstrous trolls, drool spraying from their curving fangs, sprang at them from beside the doorway. With startling quickness, Jhatli raised his bow and sent a stone-tipped shaft driving into the troll’s belly.

Helmstooth seemed to leap into Hal’s hand of the sword’s own will. He lunged forward with liquid smoothness, driving the steel tip deep into the other troll’s gullet. The pluma strength of his hand backed the blow, and then tore the blade free with a gory rip to the side. Daggrande, meanwhile, hacked at the beast that had been wounded by Jhatli. Fury and fear tightened his muscles, and the keen axe blade bit deeply into the troll’s thigh.

Both beasts, painfully wounded, bellowed their agony as they fell. The surface of the pyramid shook to the heavy steps of their brethren, charging around the temple. In moments, more of the monsters burst into sight, charging from both sides.

The companions stood trapped on the strip between the temple and the edge of the pyramid. The stairway dropped steeply away, far too sheer a drop to allow for a fighting withdrawal. Any blow from an attacker above would send one tumbling down the stone steps hundreds of feet to the

ground below.

“Your token, Daughter! Use it now!” Lotil spoke urgently. The blind man sensed, as clearly as any of them, their mortal danger.

“Use it? How?” demanded Erixitl. At her throat, the green-plumed jadestone medallion seemed to float in the air, but she was unaware of what power it possessed to stop the rampaging attackers.

“No time now. Take my hand. All of you, link hands!” Lotil barked the words like a warrior, startling Erixitl, Coton, and Jhatli into compliance.

But Hal and Daggrande stood to either side of the party, facing the onrushing monsters. The dwarf chopped savagely knocking another troll off the side of the pyramid, while Halloran held his sword ready to meet the first crush, mere seconds away. “My hand! Take it!” Erixitl shouted, sensing her father’s intentions. Desperately Halloran reached behind him, feeling her firm clasp on his left hand. With his right he stabbed at the leading troll.

Daggrande, busily recovering his balance, focused on the charging horde. The dwarf didn’t see Colon’s hand extended toward him.

”Jump!” cried Lotil, urging them off the edge. Halloran heard, stumbling to the side as Erixitl pulled him. He hesitated at the lip of the steep drop, and then felt a tug as his wife hurled herself out into space. Groaning, he leaped after her.

Coton, patriarch of Qotal, looked up as he followed Lotil and Jhatli. With a sudden twist, he reached out and seized Daggrande’s elbow. The dwarf cursed as his swing passed wide of its mark.

But then he, too, followed the others off the precipice. The dwarf clenched his eyes shut, preparing to die.

A soft swirl of wind arose underneath them, pressing upward like a cushion of down. They struggled awkwardly, twisting under a feeling of weightlessness. Erixitl’s feathered token floated out from her neck, as if raised by the gentle breeze. And slowly, easily, like a leaf that falls from a tree, the companions drifted toward the earth below.

Howling madly, several trolls hurled themselves into the air-, trying to reach the slowly settling party. Their leaps fell short and the creatures plummeted earthward, striking the stairway about halfway down and tumbling to the bottom, shapeless jumbles of shattered bone and torn skin.

The wind gusted, and the cushion drifted away from the pyramid, circling northward and then curving toward the west, still drifting earthward. In their haste to pursue, the beasts of the Viperhand raced down the steep stairs, several more of them stumbling and falling to their deaths. And always the steady wind carried the companions farther and farther away.

Too terrified to speak, they clutched each other’s hands and prayed the spell supporting them would not break. Nothing visible or tangible supported them, and they couldn’t escape a horrifying sense of falling.

“Don’t look down,” Halloran gasped, suddenly queasy when he made that mistake.

Settling slowly, drifting with the faintest breezes, the cushion of pluma supported them safely. They saw that it carried them toward the ruined avenue they had first walked along when they approached the pyramid.

Finally, with a parting swirl, the wind set them gently on the earth and gusted away. Half a mile away, the monsters howled with glee and charged, while the temple atop the pyramid had grown suddenly, ominously quiet. Nearby gaped the black doorways of the ruined building they had passed on their approach to the pyramid. The many columns on its porch still stood, so many mute sentries barring passage to an unimagined interior.

“Storm!” cried Halloran as he saw movement around the corner of the ruin. The black mare galloped toward him. She had fled at the approach of the monsters, but now she kicked up her heels in delight.

Coton silently raised his hand and pointed toward the black doorways. They all sensed his suggestion: They should take refuge there. “That could be a dead-end trap!” growled Daggrande. “We cant outrun them,” grunted Hal. “We might as well fight them where we can put our backs to the wall.”

Without further hesitation, they started through the forest of stone columns toward the black doors. Even in the darkening twilight, Hal could see that each column was carved elaborately into the standing shape of an Eagle or Jaguar Knight, with the customary helmet, beaked or fanged, capping the structure at perhaps ten feet tall.

Then they reached the first of the doorways, a ruined aperture with a capstone atop an almost fully arched entry. Beyond, a smell of must and decay, odd for its dampness in this harsh clime, wafted forth.

Coton led the way, with Daggrande and Jhatli close behind. Erixitl took her father’s arm and followed, while Halloran, with Storm beside him, brought up the rear. He held Helmstooth high, ready for the pursuit he knew must eventually follow. Around them, he saw walls and dim, rubblestrewn chambers. They turned a corner and the doorway disappeared from sight.

Very quickly full darkness closed over them, broken only by the pale light from Helmstooth. A damp and oppressive sense of age seemed to linger here, along with a dim presence that Halloran could not identify. It was not his sense of smell or hearing-or any sense, really-that alarmed him, but the swordsman felt a vague menace that raised the hackles at the base of his neck.

Coton, however, seemed to see a path before them, for he led them deeper into the structure, turning his wad through a maze of twisting corridors with uncanny accuracy.

“Wait,” said Daggrande, suddenly bringing them to a halt.

“Do you see them?” asked Erixitl.

Around them, dark shadows pressed, and Hal raised the] sword. Puzzled, he saw that the light did not penetrate! these shadows.

Then his blood chilled. He saw that the shadows them-! selves came closer.

Poshtli shuddered under the impact of a blow of incredible violence. For a moment, he felt certain that he had bee killed, but slowly his senses returned. His talons clung lightly to something, some long trailing thing that he vaguely identified as the feathered mane of the Plumed Dragon.

Rage coursed through the eagle’s proud body, fury directed at the bestial god who tried to drive Qotal from the True World. He shrieked his anger and tried to break free. to once again dive at that despised foe.

But the plumage of the dragon’s body seemed to take on a life of its own, seizing and grasping the eagle’s claws, holding it fast. Poshtli beat his wings in frustration, wondering why the god refused his aid, but he couldn’t break free.

The battle passed its climax, and he could sense the Feathered Dragon’s might failing. Knowing his mortal blows could help but little, Poshtli nonetheless craved the chance to flail against the hated figure of Zaltec.

Still he could not break free. Finally, vaguely, he became aware that the battle had faded to silence around him.

The monsters of the Viperhand attacked the Nexalan refugees before dawn, hurling themselves in a vast wave up the shallow ridge that separated them from the humans and their lush valley Atop the ridge stood a thin line of Kultakan and Nexalan warriors and legionnaires.

The Mazticans showered the attacking horde with arrows. Cordell’s soldiers, those with crossbows, waited until the squinting, pig-eyed forms materialized from the darkness. Then the weapons chunked loudly, delivering a devastating volley into the attacking ranks.

In another moment, the two forces clashed with sudden, brutal violence. Spears set to meet the charge, the native warriors stood firm, driving their stone-tipped weapons home. But the bulk of the attackers pressed on heavily and many of the spearshafts snapped and splintered from the force of the collision.

Obsidian-edged macas in the hands of both sides chopped and hacked furiously The line twisted and bent, collapsing in places only to reform as the human warriors counterattacked and drove the monstrous foes back. The Mazticans fought with an unaccustomed fury, striking to kill instead of to capture.

And the monsters knew only to kill, for each death on the field was a sacrifice rendered directly to Zaltec

The few horsemen remaining to Cordell charged into the line of ores, and the humanoids proved as helpless as had the Maztican warriors to resist the plunging lancers.

“The ogres! Slay the ogres first!” The captain-general howled the command, and his riders turned their lances toward the hulking brutes, few in number, that loomed among the ores.

A small band of ores burst through the line. Howling, they

turned upon the flank of the defenders. Cordell’s only reserve, several companies of Kultakan archers, fired volley after volley against the breakthrough, cutting down most of the ores before The line could collapse. Finally the remainder of the ores turned back toward the breach, only to find that it had closed behind them. The reserve company moved forward, cutting down the last of them with macas and daggers.

On the right. Tokol roared and shouted among his warriors, leaping into each breach with a shrill howl of combat! lust, laying about with the bloody blade of his sword, singled handedly driving the ores before his blows. The Kultakan leader fought like a wild man. driving his men to equal heights of frenzy. As his father, Takamal, bad done for seven decades, Tokol elicited the greatest levels of courage and dedication from his warriors.

To the left, Chical, Captain of Eagles, stabbed with his 1 lance, standing firm and, l›\ example, holding the long line! of Nexalan warriors. The tip of his weapon, formed from*8 sharp steel knife, drove into the bellies of the largest ogres and the mighty strength of the Eagle Knight drove the weapon home, killing the beasts whenever they lumbered toward him. His example, like Tokol’s, steadied and inspired his warriors to emulate him.

In the middle, Cordell himself fought like a maniac from! the saddle of his prancing stallion, driving home his own I lance until the weapon snapped in two Then the shaft of his* sword grew bloody at the cost of the orcan horde, while his steed bucked and kicked, crushing skulls and breaking! limbs among the howling attackers.

In the end, these three men would carry the burden of victory or defeat.

Hoxitl watched the battle from the rear of his army, at] first exulting in the momentum of the charge. But as the fight stabilized along the defenders’ line, he sensed that the monstrous forces, without the trolls to form a spearhead, lacked the iron-fisted punch necessary to shatter the humans’ line. The beastlord knew that he had to act, and with a great howl, he lumbered forward, cuffing his way through the ranks of his troops toward the hated enemy. The soft light of dawn fell incongruously on the harsh spectacle of pain and death, and the humans stared in horror at the monstrous apparition that now materialized in the dim light.

“There!” cried Cordell, sensing the faltering courage of the men at the appearance of the looming monster. Indeed, Hoxitl towered more than twice as high as a man on horseback.

Nevertheless the captain-general spurred his stallion forward, and the steed raced past the beastlord, Cordell’s sword cut a deep wound in Hoxitl’s thigh, and then the horse danced away, just beyond the monster’s near-deadly return blow.

Tokol and Chical, too, saw the menace of the monster’s attack and rushed forward to the aid of their ally. The Eagle Knight hurled his lance, and the weapon drove deep into Hoxitl’s flank. With a howl, the monster tore the weapon free and hurled it to the ground, but at the same time Tokol stabbed him in the back of his knee. Before he could face this new threat, Cordell’s stallion sprang forward, and the captain-general’s sword struck a new gash across the beast’s belly.

Howling madly, beset by painful wounds, the cleric’s nature took over the monster’s body. Fighting was a thing left to men of war, not their religious leaders. Still shrieking, Hoxitl stumbled away, driven by the painful blows of the human leaders.

Without the savage exhortations of Hoxitl, the ores lost heart as more and more of their number fell before the arrows, swords, and horses of the humans.

“Charge them!” urged Cordell. “Attack!”

His words were heard only along a short portion of the line, but here the legionnaires and Kultakans surged forward. The sudden shock of the advance broke the stalemate of the battle, and sent several hundred ores streaming away from the fight in panic. The ores’ retreat, sensed along the line, provided the weight to break the fighting morale of the rest of the monsters, at least temporarily.

Finally the wave fell back to the protection of the battle line, battered and eroded but still firm. Yet the beasts did not rout in terror, but rather withdrew in surly admission of their temporary failure.

Even as they slowly backed away, into the dusty v where they had made their previous camp, the humans the ridge sensed that their enemies would return.

Black shapes pressed forward, darker shadows among the impenetrable black of the ruin. They seethed and danced among the rubble, pressing like smoke against the circle of light formed by the companions.

“It’s a tomb,” hissed Daggrande. “These are the ghosts!” The dwarf’s voice carried an uncharacteristic tremor.

“They are indeed the spirits of the dead,” said Lotil. The blind man seemed to sniff the air, as aware of the presence! as any of them. “But they are not ghosts-not in the way that you think.”

The shades did indeed appear vaguely manlike, for they raised shadowy arms and extended black, smoking fingers toward the companions. Jhatli shivered, backing away from an apparition that reared up beside him, while Daggrande whirled this way and that, his axe held ready-for what, he didn’t know.

Halloran swallowed hard. He couldn’t fathom the raging horror evoked within him by these shapeless denizens. He only knew that they twisted his stomach with fear and almost compelled his steps to turn back toward the monsters that pursued them,

He saw a black, sack-like form rise up before him, and net lifted Helmstooth high. Something held his hand from striking-perhaps the fear that his steel could not affect anything so intangible-but in the face of the gleaming blade, the shade did not waver.

“Flee! They come to us!” Jhatli’s panic rang shrill in the cry of his voice as the youth turned and sprinted, piling into Erixitl and nearly knocking her off her feet. Beside Hal,

Storm reared back, neighing, her eyes rolled high into their sockets.

“Wait!” said the woman quickly, steadying Jhatli with a hand on his arm. “See? They do not attack.”

Indeed the shades seemed to linger at the very fringe of their vision, dancing in a somber cadence as they slowly circled the companions. They could have been human in shape, Hal thought, or nearly anything else about the size of

a man.

They closed in then, waving and swirling. Halloran saw tendrils of darkness reaching out toward them, and he felt cold terror grip his soul. Beside him, Jhatli whimpered, and he felt that the youth would have fled if not for the presence of his companions. Hal, too, considered flight as a serious alternative.

But some deeper calling bade him stay. He knew that the creatures outside this temple offered nothing but cold, sudden death. He had to trust the instincts of those who had led him here.

Coton started forward toward the ring of encircling darkness. Dimly Halloran saw something dark and intangible rise before the priest, and then Coton stopped, restrained by an invisible barrier. Hal’s flesh crawled at the sight of dim fingers of darkness plucking at the cleric’s robe, tugging him back toward the other humans.

If the cleric felt the same revulsion, he didn’t display it. Instead, he slowly yielded to the insistent force, stepping back until he again stood among his companions.

“Ah, these are the spirit wardens,” said Lotil softly, as if announcing a pleasant revelation. “They stand astride the paths of the gods, barring the paths to all.”

Before the blind feather-worker, Coton nodded gently, as if agreeing with Lotil’s assessment.

“To all?” Halloran, his fear rapidly fading, growled in frustration.

“So it is said,” Lotil replied with a shrug. “Though gods are fickle. Perhaps the right sacrifice may open the path.”

Coton turned to regard Erixitl. The priest’s eyes were soft and understanding. Behind them, they heard heavy footfalls and growling, snapping commands as the beasts of the Viperhand followed them into the ruin. Several guttural barks sounded close, and it seemed that the monsters followed the same path into the tangled ruin as the companions had.

Erix hesitated for a moment. She cast a pain-filled look at her father, and though the blind man could not see her, Lotil nodded slightly. Raising her hands to her shoulders, Erix lifted the leather thong suspending her amulet over her head. Holding it gently, allowing its dazzling presence to swing lightly in her hands for the last time, she stepped past the priest and laid it on the ground, at the very feet of that dancing shades.

Then the way lay open before them, though they couldn’t see the darkness recede. Instead, it was a sense of lightness. that propelled them forward, and they sensed no barrier to their flight.

The pale light of Hal’s sword lit their path as he stepped into the lead. Coton led the horse, while the keen-eyed Daggrande brought up the rear. They followed a winding corridor, sensing its descent under their feet.

Behind them, the howls of their pursuers echoed from the stone walls, a cacophony of chaos hastening them along. Then the snarls turned to yelps of terror, and soon the sounds of pursuit turned to flight as the monsters fled the nightmare wardens of the tomb.