Feathered Dragon

5

Sea-birds wheeled above the great white sails, cawing and diving at the foaming wake. Don Vaez left Murann at the head of a proud fleet of twenty-five heavy carracks and more than fifteen hundred armed men, all of them thirsting for gold.

The young captain, his silver-blond locks flowing freely in the wind, stood in the bow of the lead ship. Scribes, sorcerers, and clerics had briefed him well on Cordell’s voyage, and though he sailed toward a land of mystery, he at least knew that land lay before him.

“And by Helm, it will be mine!”

Like many men of action, Don Vaez had little use for gods, except as they could help him in his endeavors. As such, he had casually adopted Helm as his patron deity, for a god of eternal vigilance is of obvious worth to a soldier.

Don Vaez struck a determined pose, well aware that his men watched him. A great believer in leadership by appearance, he constantly took pains to see that his troops saw him in the best possible light. To this end, he had no less than four wardrobe trunks stored in his cabin, so that he could insure a fashionable and well-groomed presence at all times.

The captain allowed himself to reminisce as the sea wind tugged at his hair. He had followed a long and convoluted road to reach this point, but now every audacious step of that dangerous path would be made worthwhile.

The fleet progressed steadily, under the guidance of a veteran navigator named Rodolfo. Indeed, the man had been hailed as one of the most fearless sailors on the Trackless Sea. Years before, he had served Cordell when the captaingeneral had needed a fleet. Since then, the navigator had returned to land, though he had been willing enough to accept the fee offered by the princes to induce him to join this expedition.

“A fresh wind moves us. We make good time,” remarked Rodolfo, coming to join Don Vaez at the rail. The commander nodded disinterestedly, content to leave such details to his navigator. With a thin grimace, Rodolfo stalked away, but Don Vaez was still lost in his own thoughts.

He chuckled wryly as he thought of his earliest training, at the Academy of Stealth in Calimshan. What a terrible thief he had made! Why sneak through the night to snatch something surreptitiously, he had wondered, when he could walk up to the owner, bash him over the head with his sword, and take it in broad daylight?

The masters of the academy had reached the same conclusion, and Don Vaez and Calimshan had parted ways — for the most part amicably, since the masters had not taken a thorough inventory until their ex-student was a good distance away Aided by the disguises of a guileless servant girl, he had escaped from the city and journeyed north along the coast. The girl, he assumed, had paid for her complicity with her life, though he had never bothered to find out for sure.

Following these experiences, Don Vaez had served in one of the mercenary companies aiding Amn in its two-decade war against the pirates of the Sword Coast. After the unfortunate and mysterious demise of the company captain-no one had ever been able to identify the archer that had slain him from behind while he led his troops into battle-Don Vaez had risen to command the company. In this capacity, he had first attracted the attention of the merchant princes.

And in the same capacity, he had been forced to compete with the soldiering of Captain-General Cordell and his Golden Legion. When Cordell had won the ultimate victory against the scimitar-waving horde of the pirate lord, Akbet Khrul, Don Vaez’s rival had been assured the place of highest honor before the Council of Amn.

For the suddenly unemployed Don Vaez, there had been a lady-a very wealthy, albeit very married, lady Vet somehow her favor had carried him to the council again, now that Cordell had apparently disappeared and, the don hoped, betrayed his employers. Don Vaez had even wondered if the lady might be one of the merchant princes herself, though of course that fact would remain secret.

Nevertheless, her influence must have been significant, for he had been selected to command this glorious endeavor.

The merchant princes of Amn had given him a great force and a strong charter. Somewhere out there, he felt, his old rival Cordell was still alive. The gods would not, could not be cruel enough to deprive Don Vaez of the confrontation he so rightly deserved.

“You know that he lives out there, do you not?” The question came from Pryat Devane. The cleric, wearing a close-fitting cloth cap and a woolen cape, joined him at the rail of the ship.

“Cordell?” Don Vaez turned to the cleric, surprised at the man’s accurate guess. He smiled thinly. “Yes, I believe that we will… encounter him.”

“Good!” The pryat spoke sharply. “His reckless behavior has no doubt cost my mentor his life!”

“Bishou Domincus? You feel that he has been slain?”

“I’m certain of it,” announced the cleric. “But he will be avenged!”

“Indeed,” agreed the captain, turning back to the sea. It seemed that he had an ally, a spiritual brother, in this dour priest of Helm. And, remembering the flying carpet the princes had told him about, he felt that Pryat Devane could prove to be a very useful ally indeed.

In his mind, Don Vaez pictured the encounter with the defeated Cordell. The man would beg for mercy, and Don Vaez would make him wriggle and plead for his life. Of course, all the while he knew he would grant that life, for his moment of true triumph would not arrive until he returned with Cordell to Amn and marched the traitorous mercenary through the streets of Murann in chains.

Or in a cage, perhaps. Suddenly Don Vaez had an inspiration! He would take the gold of this new world-some of the gold, anyway-and he would have a cage made. The cage would be mounted on gilded wheels, and within it would ride the grand prisoner of his expedition.

Yes, thought Don Vaez. That would be a fitting return home for the leader of the Golden Legion. With this idea, and a thin smile on his too-handsome lips, Don Vaez went to his cabin below decks to sleep.

And, of course, to dream.

“How many were there? Did you have a chance to count?” asked Halloran.

The youth, Jhatli, looked at him suspiciously. Intelligence gleamed in the lad’s eyes, but so too did anger and hatred. I can’t blame him for that, Hal thought.

Along with Daggrande and Gultec, Hal tried to coax description from the youth. Erixitl slept nearby, exhausted finally by the day’s march. Somewhere overhead, Hal knew, the eagle waited for them. In the morning, they would need to face a difficult decision: head for water, or follow the path of this great bird of prey.

For now, they sat around a small campfire, using some of their precious firewood to light this council. Some of the Maztican scouts had told them Jhatli’s tale, and his heart broke for the pain the young man had suffered. At the same time, anything he could tell them about the nature and tactics of the pursuing horde could prove very useful.

Not as many as my band… less than a thousand. They burst from the rocks as we passed, attacking by surprise. I don’t know of anyone else who escaped,” Jhatli said after a brief pause. “I got away only because I was just returning from my hunt. I was separated from the main group, but I could see them.”

His dark eyes flashed. “We could return and kill them. with your warriors and their silver weapons! They can all be killed!”

“No,” Hal sighed, with a shake of his head. “By now they’ve certainly grown in number. You saw just a small portion of the mob that pursues us.”

The youth’s eyes darkened and his body tensed. Then he settled back, though his voice carried a hint of a sneer. “Very well, but I will kill many of them when 1 get the chance!”

“A warrior, eh?” said Daggrande, the dwarf’s voice uncharacteristically gentle.

“Yes… one who is not afraid to seek a battle!”

“Careful, young man,” Gultec growled, his face grim between the fanged jaws of his jaguar-skull helmet. Jhatli’s eyes widened, then fell to the ground.

“I–I’m sorry,” the young man sighed, his breath ragged.

“I know the fury that compels you to battle,” Halloran told Jhatli, “but that rage must be tempered by wisdom, or it will only destroy you.”

The youth looked at him, anger still flashing in his black eyes. But then he lowered his gaze back to the fire, a weakness suddenly collapsing his posture.

“Come on, lad.” The dwarf, speaking his awkward Nexalan, clapped Jhatli on the shoulder. “Let’s go find something for you to eat.”

Gultec and Halloran sat in silence for a time, the desert growing dark around them. Finally the Jaguar Knight spoke. “It galls me, this constant flight from an enemy we cannot see.”

“And me,” Halloran agreed. “Yet what choice do we have- to stand and die, along with all these people, before a horde of unnatural beasthood?”

“How long must we fly?” Gultec persisted. “Is it right to move farther into the desert? Could not the gods have laid for us a cruel trap, and we will reach the end of this chain of food and water only to starve and perish of thirst?”

“This new valley you found… it sounds as though there is food there, enough to last a long time,” Halloran observed.

“ Indeed there is, and enough land to cultivate. If the water remains, a city could be built there that would rival Nexal.”

“Provided we’re not driven away like a herd of goats,” Hal said bitterly.

“I do not know what goats’ are,” Gultec said, “but I share

your feeling.” The warrior paused a moment before raising a question that had obviously occupied his mind for some time.

“You and your people have used powers in the battles against us-sorcery, you call this. Is there not some sorcery that could defend us against the Viperhand?”

Halloran shook his head in resignation. “Sorcery is a skill known only to a few. Among the legion, there was the wizard Darien, the albino elf. She had great powers of wizardry, but she used them in the service of the drow. She died-she must have-when the top of the volcano exploded.”

“She was the only one?” asked the Eagle Knight.

“The cleric, Domincus, had powers of clerical sorcery. He perished on the altar of Zaltec. Otherwise, there are a few men among the legion who practiced low levels of magic- not many, and their skills are not very great.” Halloran chuckled.

“I am one of them, as a matter of fact. I once studied as an apprentice to a great sorcerer, and I still know a few spells. An enchantment of light, for example, or a magic arrow. I can increase the size of an object with an enlargement spell.”

Gultec looked at him in amazement, but could see that Halloran spoke the truth. They both remembered the great fireballs or the blasts of killing frost or the poisonous smoke with which Darien had made her presence known. “As you can see,” Hal concluded, “there is little I could do to change the course of a battle.”

For a while longer the men lapsed into silence. Then Halloran looked back toward the sky

“There’s the matter of Poshtli,” he ventured. “He flew east late today, over land we know is dry desert. How can we take all these people on such a path, simply because of a bird, despite what he used to be?” Halloran understood that the folk of the Realms he came from would never have made such a choice; about Mazticans, he was not so sure.

“Perhaps he does not mean for all of the people to follow him.” mused Gultec. “Just those who can make a difference.”

Halloran looked at the Jaguar Knight in surprise. He had never considered that possibility, but the notion seemed to make a lot of sense. Before he could reply, a shape materialized from the darkness, and they saw the priest, Xatli, approach.

“May 1 join you?” asked the cleric of Qotal.

“Please sit with us,” Hal replied as Gultec nodded.

Xatli looked toward Erix, her cloak dimly visible even in the darkness. “It is good she sleeps. Her burdens weigh heavily upon her, and slumber is the greatest healer of all.”

“It seems that she only knows peace when she is asleep now,” Hal agreed softly.

“1 have heard that a lush valley awaits us,” ventured the cleric after a short while.

“Gultec has seen it. There’s food and water aplenty.”

“Yes,” the Jaguar Knight said, nodding. “The first of our people will reach it late tomorrow; by the morning after, everyone should be there.”

“A good place to camp,” Xatli said, squatting on the ground, “A thing to look forward to.”

“A good place to camp, perhaps,” agreed the warrior. “But a bad place for war.”

“You know,” the cleric announced, sitting upright again and fixing his two companions with his gaze, “there is a place in this desert that was made for war.”

“What do you mean?” asked Hal.

“It is called Tewahca, the City of the Gods. I have never seen it, but the tale of its making is known to all priests. It was the scene of Qotal’s last victory over his brother Zaltec.”

“Zaltec, Qotal… brothers?” Hal was genuinely surprised. “I didn’t know this.”

“Brothers indeed, though very different from each other. The one desired only killing and blood; the other could not bear to hurt a living soul.”

“That must have been a liability if he had to fight a war,” Hal observed dryly, and Xatli chuckled.

“lb the point,” the priest continued. “The gods commanded the humans of the world to build them a great edifice for this war, a pyramid greater than any in the True

World. They made the desert fertile so that the people could build this place.

“Of course, the details are as old as legend, but all the tales point to a place somewhere here, in the House of Tezca. No man has seen it, certainly not in a dozen lifetimes or more. Perhaps the desert has swallowed it.

“But I am certain Tewahca is out there somewhere, long abandoned by man. Could not the gods again desire a confrontation there? And the tales of the desert made fertile… is this not what sustains us, what sustains all these thousands now?”

“Do you think we are being led to Tewahca?” Gultec asked, his tone telling Hal that the tale of the great ceremonial center was familiar to him.

“I doubt it,” said Xatli. “The gods created a wasteland around the place to keep humans away. It seems unlikely they would desire to bring us back in great numbers.

“Still, the building of such a place makes one think that it could be done again,” mused Xatli. “It gives me faith that the Nexala will again have a home.”

Hal nodded, for a moment almost relaxing in the vision of the cleric’s hopes for the future. In the next second, he remembered Jhatli and the cruel and violent presence that loomed close in the desert night.

The beasts of the Viperhand remained a great cudgel hanging over them, prepared to smash any hopes into a hundred thousand bleeding shards.

Steam hissed from wide cracks in the ground, forming a dense fog, a funeral shroud for the valley of Nexal. Now the beasts had departed, and except for the rats that picked their way through the ruins, the rubble on the flat island lay still and lifeless.

From the center of the dead city, the pillar of stone towered like a great monolith, a hundred feet tall. Only by the most careful inspection could one make out the details of arms and legs, the snarling, tooth-filled maw, that caused this rock to be regarded as the image of Zaltec.

But its strength did not lie in its visual power, but rather within the essence of the pillar itself, Hundreds of years ago, this same rock-at that time, not much larger than a man-had been discovered by a faithful cleric of a primitive, warlike tribe. The pillar had spoken to the cleric, commanding him to lead his tribe on a great pilgrimage through desert and mountain, until they came at last to the great valley with its cool, clear lakes.

Others dwelled here already, in cities around the shores of the lakes. The newcomers chose for their own rude village a low, marshy island. Still bearing the pillar that had come to symbolize their god, the people placed the stone monolith at the site of their first small pyramid.

Centuries passed. The village grew to a town, and the people formed shrewd alliances. Layer upon layer was added to the pyramid, and the town became a city. The people of the crude tribe practiced diplomacy and war, and at last came to be masters of the beautiful valley. Never did they forget that they owed their success to Zaltec, god of war.

Now that god claimed his reward, and the people who had praised him fled in terror across the fertile desert. The pillar grew, bursting out of its confines, looming far above the rubble strewn around it.

Then, in the dead city, even the rats fell still. A tremor rippled through the earth. Mount Zatal, lost in the gray fog above the valley, rumbled.

And the statue began to move.

The swath of death cut through the jungle like a cosmic scythe, leaving behind torn tree trunks, shredded brush, and the skeletons of any creatures foolish enough to stand before the inevitable advance of the ants. Whole meadows became festering swamps of brown mud, while great tracks of forest were reduced to bare, twisted trunks and a decaying wasteland of rot and waste.

The track followed an apparently random route, twisting and turning at whim, fording the occasional streams of the Payit jungle or easily cresting the steep limestone ridges that sometimes jutted from the land. It followed a northerly course, then twisted east and south, even turning around and crossing itself as it again swung to the north.

The track may have seemed random, but it was not.

In fact, the giant ants followed the commands of an intelligence every bit as keen as it was evil. Darien used the march to gain absolute control over the ants, directing them to follow her commands. She narrowed the column to a file of five or six ants abreast when she wished it to move quickly, for she found that she could turn it more easily this way and avoid obstacles such as marshes or thick brambles. When she desired a wide swath of destruction, she broadened the column; though it moved more slowly, with a hundred or more ants marching at its head, it left nothing living through its broad path.

Each of the ants was a mindless monster in its own right: bigger than a huge jaguar, with a mechanical intensity that knew neither fear nor dismay, each ant marched and attacked and devoured wherever and whatever its mistress commanded.

All the while Darien’s mind seethed with hatred. She grimaced at the pictures in her mind of humankind, its miserable failings and faithlessness. She spat her venom upward at the thought of the arrogant gods, wreaking havoc among the mortals at no risk to themselves.

And she drove her ants, the thousands of massive insects that spewed from the bowels of the earth, ready to obey her every command. Finally she felt ready to begin her revenge.

This region of Payit, though sparsely populated, hosted several small villages. It was toward one of these that, at last, she marched her ant army. Soon she reached the fringe of jungle around her goal, and she looked across several small fields of mayz toward a cluster of thatch huts.

Wait, my soldiers.

Her command, silently compelling, reached all of her subjects. The leading ants held at the edge of the jungle while their brethren marched up to join them from behind. Gradually the marching file expanded into a broad front of twitching antennae and slowly flexing mandibles. Black and hulking, the ants trembled with energy, yet remained in place. As more and more of the army reached them, Darien smiled thinly.

Forward-kill!

Now the rank of massive insects broke from the jungle, sweeping through the fields of mayz. Great jaws snatched the grain from its stalks, devouring ears, leaves, and all. Jerking forward with steady momentum, the ants quickly scuttled toward the village.

First to see the horrifying attackers were several women who were gathering corn when the nightmare horde suddenly burst around them. They screamed only for a second, dragged down even before they could turn to run.

Their screams brought men running from the huts, and they met the ants at the fringe of the village. The powerful forelegs of the soldiers knocked their weapons aside and cracked the bones of these warriors. Then the insects’ mandibles seized them with bone-crushing force.

The first rank of the ants ripped through the line of spearmen, whose missiles merely bounced off the hard insectoid carapaces. They tore and crushed, ripping limbs away and leaving bleeding, helpless victims still alive to face the hunger of the second rank.

Screams rang through the air, sending flocks of noisy parrots and macaws squawking from the trees. All the villagers not caught in the first wave of disaster turned to flee. The ants scuttled awkwardly after these morsels and quickly overtook most of them. The smallest humans, the ants snatched up and carried back to their new queen. The larger ones, they cut dawn where they caught them, tearing them to pieces so that each ant could carry a portion.

With the swiftness, if not the grace, of deer, they raced among the buildings and through the small village square. Without pause, the ants overran the tiny cluster of huts, probing inside each building, emotionlessly gobbling those too infirm or young to flee. Soon they started on the thatch itself, tearing and ripping until the buildings fell in ruins.

The center of the village sheltered a small pyramid, topped by a typical Maztican temple. The ants swarmed up all sides of the structure, brushing aside the few warriors who stood in their path. At the top, the village priest stood in the temple door, brandishing his stone dagger. An ant sliced his arm off at the elbow before he could strike a blow. Another seized his foot and dragged him, screaming, down the pyramid steps, while still more ants plunged into the temple building itself, tearing at the wooden walls with their steel-hard mandibles. Soon the entire building collapsed, crashing around the stone altar “in a heap of rubble.

Somewhere within, a brazier must have contained hot coals, for shortly after the collapse, a wisp of smoke erupted from the wreckage, In moments, orange flames licked upward, and soon the ruined temple crackled into a hot blaze. Sparks, wafted by the gentle wind, floated tantalizingly over the dying village. Some of these nestled among the heaps of torn thatch, and soon the ruined huts began to burn.

In a few minutes, there was little sign of any human habitation here, save for the squat stone pyramid amid the glowing piles of crackling ashes and coals.

At the edge of the clearing, the driders watched the destruction with grim satisfaction.

“You have found us our army,” hissed one of Darien’s driders, a sleek male with a powerful longbow. He, like the rest of her kin, had looked quietly on while the ants attacked.

“My soldiers kill very well,” agreed Darien.

Lolth, too, was well pleased by the carnage, though of course her driders could not know it.