Feathered Dragon

2

“We’d better get back to the camp. It’s dark already.” Erixitl slowly rose to her feet as Hal followed. They had only to turn, to look down the other side of the ridge, to see the scene they had escaped for these few precious moments.

The vast, straggling camp lay like a muddy blotch on the land, barely visible in the light of its thousand campfires. Still, that mud was a sign of good fortune-the blessings of gods, or of providential nature. A year earlier, there could have been no mud, for there would have been no water.

Now water was reasonably plentiful in the desert, and the humans who churned its neighborhood to mud lived where they would have died. The nature of the life, it must be said, gave these miserable folk little thought of thanksgiving.

Halloran and Erix did not know how many people fled in this great procession, moving gradually southward, away from ruined Nexal and the beasts that now claimed the city as their home. Like a swarm of locusts, the humans scoured each water hole, quickly baring the surrounding fields of mayz and berries. No single location provided a long rest; in a matter of days, the great march southward would commence again, for this was the only way the people could eat.

For now, this new water hole promised a brief respite. Even in the darkness, women moved through the fields, gathering mayz, while children splashed around the fringes of the once-blue pool, washing away the dust and weariness from the long day of marching. The water occupied the center of a shallow, bowl-shaped valley. The desert stretched for miles beyond the rim of the vale, an expanse of brown, windswept dunes and even harsher patches of rocky plain.

Within the bowl, a miraculous transformation had shown itself. Green fields of sweet, waving mayz formed a belt around the valley, below the crest of the hill but some ways above the water. Around the water’s edge grew a lush circle of wild rice, while plump berries sprang from bushes that ringed the marshy fringe.

The spaces in the valley that had not grown food, or where such food had already been harvested, now served as living space for the population of a massive city. Nexalans, the citizens of vanished Nexal, formed most of this group, but a small fraction of the humans showed different origins. The latter were bushy of face and wore breastplates and carried weapons of steel. The Mazticans, of course, carried obsidian-edged clubs, called macas, as well as arrows and spears and knives of stone, and they wore armor of padded cotton.

Now these folk lived in uneasy truce, bonded by a mutual fear of the greater, and common, enemy lurking in the nightmare of Nexal. The truce did not approach camaraderie, but it was eased by the fact that the spokesmen for the deep religious schisms between these two diverse peoples were no longer with them.

Indeed, the fleeing Mazticans had even abandoned their practices of human sacrifice. The priests of Zaltec, universally transformed into trolls on the Night of Wailing, no longer hounded them for victims. The devastation, commencing at the height of a sacrificial orgy, had caused many to question doctrine they had always accepted at face value. Who were they to question the hunger of the gods?

But now, in the face of the potential starvation of their children, the hunger of the gods did not seem so tragic a thing to the people of Maztica.

Erixitl and Halloran slowly descended from the ridgetop, through a fringe of the camp in a clean-plucked field that had yesterday grown lush with mayz.

“Sister! Sister of the Plume!” A voice called out, and more of them joined in as several women recognized Erixitl. They quickly gathered around her, eagerly thrusting their children forward so that Erix could touch them. Gently she brushed her hands across their tousled, black-haired heads.

“And see? See her cloak,” said a round-faced mother, looking at Erixitl’s garment with an expression approaching rapture. “The sign! Soon Qotal will be here, and then all will be well again!”

Abruptly Erix’s throat tightened and she turned away, led by Halloran farther into the camp.

A small stand of stunted cedars, a rare grove in the House of Tezca, proved that this vale had once retained some minimal moisture, enough to grow these hardy desert trees. Now the grove, newly green and lush from the suddenly increased water supply, sheltered a group of people from the growing night. Here gathered those who led the procession and protected it.

A fractious group, formed by disaster and held together by necessity, they nevertheless strived for cooperation, for they knew this was the only way they would survive. Their numbers included Eagle and Jaguar Warriors, priests of Qotal, Azul, and Calor, and even several steel-helmed officers of the Golden Legion.

As Erixitl approached, her cloak puffed outward from her shoulders and colors seemed to rise in the silky plume. Like an aura, bright hues surrounded the woman, and all the others in the group stood back a small distance from her. The blessing of Qotal lay upon her, and it was to Erixitl of Palul that the people turned for leadership, hope, and comfort.

She looked at them now, despairing. What did she know about leading people? Why did they look to her? Because, she knew, of the cloak she wore-the brilliant, scintillating Cloak-of-One-Plume that signified the blessing of Qotal, the Plumed Serpent. Erixitl silently cursed the blessing of that god, for this was her feeling now toward all gods. What kind of deities could wrack their people with a cataclysm like the Night of Wailing?

“Greetings, Gultec,” she said quietly to a dark, smooth-chinned warrior wearing the spotted tunic of a Jaguar Knight. Gultec was the warrior who had told them of food in the desert on the morning after the destruction of Nexal, thus insuring their survival.

He, together with Halloran, formed Erixitl’s strength and her shield on this hellish journey. Gultec had come to represent to her the same kind of friendship, she realized with a twinge of pain, as had the Eagle Knight, Lord Poshtli. He had aided Halloran and her on their desperate attempt to avert the catastrophe.

Now, as she despaired of leading these people, her heart ached for Poshtli’ The great lord and warrior had been a true friend to her and Halloran, and he had been with them atop the volcano at its moment of eruption. Though her cloak had protected her husband and herself, there had been no immortal shield for Poshtli. Rationally, as Halloran had tenderly tried to convince her, there could be no hope that Poshtli had survived. Yet still somehow, in her heart, she believed that he had to be alive.

White-robed priests of Qotal who had escaped the chaos in Nexal stood anxiously behind the pair, eager to counsel Erix. The Plumed Serpent would now return, for all the prophecies had been fulfilled, and they now preached a newly vitalized faith. The preaching was done by the younger priests, those who had not yet taken their vows of silence. But only the younger priests had escaped Qotal. The patriarch, Colon, was assumed to have perished in the chaos.

A warrior sprinted toward them from his guard post at the edge of the camp. He reached the group among the cedars and threw himself flat upon the sand before Erixitl.

“My lady, the foreigners return!”

Moments later, a trio of horses appeared behind him, cantering through the encampment. One, the leader, dismounted, while the other two held back some distance from the proud figure of Erixitl.

“What have you learned. General?” she asked, as the black-bearded rider bowed before her.

“The monsters move out from Nexal,” Cordell reported. “My scouts have observed long columns of ores, commanded by ogres and flanked by trolls, moving into the desert. They come southward, following our trail.”

The commander spoke in the common tongue of the

Realms but Halloran smoothly translated his speech into Nexalan. A rumble of concern rippled through the gathering until Erixitl raised her hand.

“How far away?” she asked.

“Still four or five days,” replied the captain-general. “But they march swiftly. Their columns extend to the east and west, barring our flight in those directions.”

“Stand and fight them here, then!” growled Totoq, a grizzled Jaguar Knight. A chorus of assenting voices joined him.

“Wait.” Gultec, also dressed in the spotted skin of a veteran Jaguar Knight, lifted his hand. Though not a man of the Nexala, his steadiness on the long flight had earned him the respect of the others.

“What is it? Have we not waited too much already?” demanded Kilti, a young Eagle Warrior.

“Gultec counsels wisdom,” Halloran added. “We have already exhausted most of the food here. True, we could establish a strong defense with a four-day delay, but what will we eat before and after the battle?”

“We must move south,” Erix stated with finality.

“It is the will of Qotal,” added Caknol, one of the white-robed priests of the Plumed God.

Erixitl, still surrounded by the glowing cloak, surprised them all by whirling on the priest.

“The will of Qotal?” she spat. “Why should we take note of his will now, after his complete abandonment of us, his people? He sent his signs-the couatl, who died bravely in the battle with the Ancient Ones, and the Cloak-of-One-Plume, which covers my shoulders, but for what purpose? And even the Summer Ice, which enabled us to flee Nexal at the moment of the city’s destruction, has but prolonged our misery!”

“But his mercy-“ the cleric stammered, surprised by the woman’s anger.

“His mercy!” Erixitl practically sneered the words. “What kind of mercy is this?” She gestured to the ragged collection humanity around them, angrily turning her back on the

Then, with no warning, she collapsed onto the ground.

Lava seethed in great seas, surging against rocky shores with hellish force, crashing upward to coat scorched boulders with fresh layers of molten stone. Cavern roofs pressed overhead, rocked by convulsions, reflecting back the infernal heat. Massive chunks of rock broke from the ceilings of vast caverns, tumbling into the flaming, blood-red liquid and shattering convulsively from the pressure and the heat and the violence.

Everywhere this world lay wracked by flame and fire, yet overhung by leaden darkness as well, for it was a world beneath the earth, where the torturous wracking of the underdark emerged as mere tremors on the surface.

It was a world without life, without sun or water or sky. The only illumination came from the crackling, seething lava, hissing upward with crimson explosions of flame. Each burst of violence consumed precious oxygen, and the air in the huge caves hung heavy and thick with poisonous vapors and choking smoke.

It was through this world that a file of repulsive, spider like beasts made its way. Led by the one of purest white, these, the several dozen corrupted monsters of the spider goddess Lolth, passed slowly and carefully along the seething shores, in search of escape from the wrath of their angry god.

The driders were beasts of hideous aspect and foul, unnatural desires. Each walked upon eight spider legs, covered with coarse fur and bristling with venomous spines. Their bodies, bloated and distended like the abdomens of spiders, swung beneath the legs.

Only their torsos and heads showed signs of their former existence. Sleek black skin covered wretched faces that had once been proud and handsome. Long dexterous fingers held black-bladed swords or long, dark bows.

But these features, formerly noble if cruel, were now scarred by flame and distorted by corruption. Great patches of skin had burned from them, and their pale eyes

no longer held the gleam of power. Instead, they stared in terror at the hellfires around them, wildly, desperately seeking escape. Even the one who led them, the one that was pale white where all the others were dark, thought of nothing other than refuge.

Escape! For now, release from this nightmare mattered more than anything. The vengeance of Lolth had scarred and terrified them, and they scuttled, as mortal creatures will, in search of refuge against the further wrath of their god. They could not know that Lolth was finished with her vengeance and now looked toward further, evil employment of her servants.

Yet the nature of the driders was too hateful, too vile, to long remain content with an existence of flight. Here again the pale one showed her leadership, for she looked upward and shook a scarred, raw fist at the fires looming overhead. She cursed the name of her god, of all the gods, and hatred grew in her like a poisonous flame.

Ultimately her thoughts, and soon those of her kin as well, began to turn toward vengeance.

Small-mouthed caves ringed the base of the narrow box canyon. Above these dwellings, others-structures of adobe, with round doors and tiny, latticed windows-extended across the face of the yellow, wind-bitten cliff face itself. The latter perched precariously, reachable only by ladders and forming an easily defensible barrier against attack from below.

Yet never in its three centuries of existence had Sunhome known attackers. Indeed, the desert dwarf village suffered no threats other than the implacable sun and parched air that provided security even as they challenged its residents to survive.

But now Luskag wondered if it were indeed impregnable. He stood at the mouth of the canyon, greeting the headmen and chiefs of other desert dwarf communities as they arrived at Sunhome for the conference, and he no longer thought of his village as an island immune to the storms of war.

“It’s a long trek you call us to,” grunted one named Pullog, whose village lay far to the south, at the fringe of the House of Tezca. As Sunhome was the northernmost of the dwarven settlements, Pullog’s trek had indeed been arduous.

“But no less important for that,” answered Luskag. “I am glad your journey passed safely, my cousin. Come, sup with us, and then the council will begin.”

The other chiefs, a full score in all, had already arrived. They gathered in Luskag’s cave, served by his daughters and warmed by the light of a mesquite fire. They talked idly during a meal of snake meat, cactus, and water, but the conversation revealed that all of them had observed the changes that had come over the desert during the past summer and the current autumn. Finally they concluded the repast, and Pullog, always impatient, turned to Luskag.

“Now, cousin, tell us why your children come to our villages, out of breath and wild-eyed, to compel us to leave our wives and make the journey to Sunhome? Is it to tell us that there is water in the desert? Or food?”

Luskag chuckled wryly, but then his expression turned grim. In answer, he reached beneath a blanket and tossed forth a large white object. The skull of the ogre rolled forward to rest before Pullog, its eyeless sockets gaping upward at the southern chief.

“What in the name of the gods is that?” demanded Pullog, blanching beneath his sunburned skin.

“A sign,” Luskag answered, “lb show that there are more changes in Maztica than a newly fertile desert.” Briefly he told the tale of the ogre’s size and ferocity. “As 1 fought with it, a killing frenzy consumed me. The abominable creature awakened some deep and abiding hatred within me.” Luskag shuddered at the memory of that uncontrollable rage, and the other dwarves looked from the monstrous skull to the small, sturdy dwarf, with something resembling awe.

“Now I have sent my sons northward,” he explained. “They have learned that Nexal is full of such beasts-or, to

be more accurate, was full of such beasts. Now they have formed armies and marched into the desert.”

He told them of the humans, a hundred thousand or more of them, fleeing southward, making their way from one water hole to the next, fleeing the monstrous legions.

“It is clear that our world faces a serious challenge’ observed Traj, chief of the village nearest Sunhome. “Can we not fall back to our villages and wait for the threat to pass?”

“This is why I have called the council,” replied Luskag. “It is true that since the Rockfire sundered the underdark, separating us from the known world, we have dwelled in peaceful isolation. We have known no enemies, and the land has given us what we need to live.”

“Aye,” grunted several chiefs, for the history of their people was only a few centuries old, and most had heard the tale from older dwarves who had actually experienced the great war with the drow that had led to the Rockfire. Though that schism, terrifying in its magnitude and violence, had forever separated the desert dwarves from their kin in other parts of the Realms, it had also eliminated their most hated enemies, the drow. Through the centuries, the people of Luskag’s tribe had come to accept, if not praise, this exchange.

“And good years we have had, too,” observed Harl, the most venerable of the chiefs. Though his hair and beard were snow-white, the grizzled dwarf still marched proudly at the head of his tribesmen.

“So they should remain,” Pullog added, “lest we act foolishly and, in our rashness, ruin that which is our blessing. Rashness, such as the idea that we can make war on such monsters! Far better to remain in our villages, secure and hidden, until the scourge passes.”

“Would the years pass in peace, so be it,” Luskag spoke forcefully, and all the dwarves looked to him. “But it will not be so.”

He paused, mildly relieved that none argued with his point. In a moment, he continued. “You all know of the City of the Gods-greater, even, than splendid Nexal. Now it is too dry even to support a family of desert dwarves, yet still it lies in the desert and continues to taunt us with its mysteries and wonders.”

“Aye,” Traj assented readily. “Oft I have journeyed to its rim, only to sit and gaze in wonder on the pyramid that rises from the desert, lifeless.”

“The gods have given us a blessing, even in that desolate place.” Luskag reached behind himself to pull forth a heavy lump of sandstone. With a grunt, he dropped it to the stone floor before him. Then he slowly removed his axe, so that the others could clearly see its gleaming stone blade, shiny black and as smooth as a mirror. Tufts of red, yellow, and green feathers encircled the haft just below the head.

“I have discovered obsidian in the city of the gods-great blocks of stone that we can craft into weapons.” He raised the axe and brought it down sharply on the block of sandstone. The rock burst apart, showering the dwarves with shards.

The blade, however, stuck clean and unshattered into a newly made crack across the floor.

“It seems that now our time of sanctuary draws to a close. The desert dwarves are once again drawn into the conflicts of the world, and we must be prepared to face this threat together.”

“Do not be hasty,” countered Pullog. “True, your demonstration of weaponry is impressive. Perhaps, armed thus, we could field a strong force. But how do we face this threat?”

“It is for that reason that I have called you here,” answered Luskag. “I ask, nay beg, that you all accompany me in the morning.

“I propose that we climb the great mountain and seek the wisdom of the Sunstone.”

“Don’t try to get up. Just rest.” Halloran tried to keep his voice level, but his concern for his wife emerged as taut fear. Erixitl lay on the soft ground beneath a canopy of cedars. The others, out of respect and worry, gave them space

to be alone. Around them, dawn had given way to full and already scorching daylight

‘I’m all right,” she replied, smiling gently. She reached for him, her fingers feeling cold and weak to Hal.

He clenched her hand as his eyes instinctively dropped to her belly. A slight swelling, unnoticeable to any but him, remained the only outward sign of the life that developed there. When he looked back to her face, his fear for that life as well as hers tightened his voice even further.

“We’ll stay here for a few days. Then, when we leave, you’ll ride a horse. Nothing but harm can come from these long marches, and I will not let that happen!”

Erixitl sighed, squeezing her husband’s hand, for this was an old argument. “I’ll be fine. You cant expect me to ride, when old men and women, even little children, all walk on their own feet.”

Among the throng of refugees were some fifteen horses, all that were left of the forty brought to Maztica by the Golden Legion. The others had almost certainly perished in battle or in the convulsions of the Night of Wailing. If a few had escaped to freedom, which was possible, they were of no use to them now.

“But…” Hal groped for new reasons. “You’re too important-to everyone! The people look to you for leadership, for comfort!”

“Why?” Erix’s tone became sharp. “Because I wear the Cloak-of-One-Plume?” She sat up abruptly and gestured toward the colorful mantle hanging from a tree branch beside her. “I’ll gladly give it to anyone who wants it’”

Halloran sat back, deeply disturbed. He wanted to offer comfort, but Erixitl’s tension held him at bay. Finally she relaxed slightly, turning back to him. He could see that she was thinking about something else,

“I hope my father’s all right,” she said softly. “I’m afraid for him, though. Palul is so close to Nexal, and he’s so helpless. If the creatures of the Viperhand come there, he wouldn’t have a chance!”

Halloran thought of the blind featherworker, Lotil. His wife’s father had seemed to be a very wise man, very keenin his understanding of the world despite his lack of sight. He worked the magic of feathers-pluma-and his gifts were with them now, in the amulet that Erix wore and in his own wristbands, jokingly termed Erixitl’s “dowry” by the old man.

The powers of Erixitl’s amulet had offered them protection against a variety of threats. Conversely, the bands that he wore had increased the strength of his arms to that of ten men when Hal’s energies focused on battle. Surely a man with such potent skills could save himself from the chaos sweeping the land. At least, so Hal hoped.

Erix turned back to Hal, her expression once again peaceful. “Can you send for Poshtli? I’d like to talk to him.”

Hal’s heart twisted in pain, a hurt that showed clearly in his face, and his wife’s expression grew concerned. “What is it?” she asked. “Has something happened?”

“Don’t you remember?” he asked softly. “The volcano… the Night of Wailing? Poshtli was with us when the explosion occurred, but he didn’t have the protection of your cloak. He’s… gone.” The man couldn’t force himself to say that the noble warrior was dead.

“But he’s not gone,” Erixitl countered, still strangely calm. “I remember all that-how could I forget? — but Poshtli did not die there, He’s nearby… he comes to us!” She smiled gently, as if Hal were the one having flights of fancy. Even against the beauty of her face, Halloran nearly wept to see how pale she was, how distant was the look in her eyes.

A shadow flickered off to the side, and Hal looked up to see Xatli, a priest of Qotal, approaching.

Like the others of his order, Xatli prided himself on personal cleanliness, but now his once-white robe was tattered and stained from the rigors of the flight. His cheeks, plump and rosy two months earlier, now formed sagging jowls on either side of his face. The eldest of the priests among the refugees, he had become the unofficial spokesman for his sect, which had become once again the dominant faith of the people.

Ironically he had been about to take the vow of silence that was the highest badge of honor known to his order

when the disaster that the Nexalans called the Night of Wailing had disrupted his plans. Now he employed his skills as an eloquent speaker often, to raise the spirits of the refugees during their long marches through the desert.

”Can I do anything to help?” the cleric inquired hesitantly. The blessings of the Plumed One have given me some small measure of healing.” ‘

“No. No thank you,” Erixitl said, tensing.

“If not for you, think of the other life that grows within you,” said the priest quietly, kneeling beside her.

Erix looked at him in surprise as Xatli smiled gently and continued. “The god who has chosen you has placed a heavy burden upon you. This I understand. But he would not have chosen you if you were not strong enough to bear the load”

He placed a hand on her shoulder, and she did not try to evade his touch. For a second, she felt a brief warmth, and a renewed sense of energy filled her. And then she couldn’t help but pull away.

Xatli rose and bowed to Halloran. He turned once again toward Erixitl before he departed. “Know this, Chosen Sister. Our god is not unmerciful”

Hal feared for a moment that Erix would erupt in anger, for such had often been her response to talk of the Plumed Serpent. But instead she turned to him and nestled in the shelter of his embrace.

The moment was broken by a call from a nearby warrior. Worriedly Hal saw Erix start to climb to her feet. Knowing the futility of ordering her to rest, he helped her up.

“What is it?” she asked as several warriors, their tall emerald plumes swaying above their painted faces, trotted closer.

“We don’t know what it means, sister?’ one announced, “but a great eagle has landed in the midst of the people. It stands and stares at us, as if in challenge.”

“An eagle?” Erix’s voice sang, once again vibrant. She hurried ahead of Hal, pulling away from his supporting arm until he had to trot to keep up with her.

The crowd of men, women, and children parted for Erixitl and Hal and soon they saw the bird, resting upon a large rock in the center of a vast and growing circle of humanity.

The eagle stood nearly as tall as a man. Its feathers, clean and smooth, etched its form in pristine black and white. From its vantage point on the rock, the bird’s glittering yellow eyes looked down on the assemblage. Proud and noble of bearing, the eagle turned its head this way and that, until f inally those keen eyes came to rest upon Erixitl.

For a moment, the great creature shimmered before them, as if the bright sunlight reflected from a rippled surface of water. Then the image grew larger, manlike.

The Mazticans around them gasped, many falling to the ground and pressing their faces in the earth. Others fell back, staring in awe as the shape of the bird changed.

“By Helm!” growled a burly legionnaire in die crowd, awestruck.

The shape of the bird remained visible, like a shade in the background, but overlaying it stood the image of a tall, brown-skinned man.

“Poshtli” Erixitl whispered, scarcely daring to breathe the word aloud.

The noble stood tall and silent. A cloak of black and white feathers, faint but visible, swung from his shoulders. Gold plugs ornamented his lip, his nose, and his ears. The great beaked helmet of an Eagle Knight he carried under his arm, so that his long black hair flowed freely in the breeze. His other hand he raised, pointing southward and holding it there for several beats, then suddenly wheeling and pointing to the east before he lowered his hand.

For a long time, the image of the warrior stared at Erixitl, while the watchers remained breathless. Finally he bowed, a deep and honorable genuflection conferred to one of great power. A sudden gust of wind whirled a funnel of blowing sand through the crowd, and for a moment the image was obscured. When the wind and sand passed, there remained only the great eagle, still staring at Erixitl with those sharp black eyes.

Then the eagle raised its huge wings, driving powerful strokes toward the ground. With serene grace, the bird rose from the rock and glided over the heads of the assembled humanity. Slowly climbing, it soared in a vast circle around them before turning toward the southern horizon. The bird remained visible for many minutes, steadily climbing, always flying south.

“Lord Poshtli did not die in the volcano,” Erix announced confidently as the Mazticans around them looked at her in wonder. The noble Eagle Warrior of Nexal, nephew of the city’s late ruler, had been widely respected through his life and widely mourned after the Night of Wailing.

“Now he comes to us, with hope and promise,” she continued. Though she spoke softly, everyone heard. “This is not an idle preaching of blind faith. This was a clear omen that stood here before us. We must follow him now-follow him to the south, and to our future.”