Ironhelm

THE CONQUEROR

Two dozen galleys surged through the narrow strait, oars beating the water in powerful cadence. Two dozen banners streamed in the air, representing an equal number of pirate captains. This fleet included the most savage buccaneers of the Pirate Isles.

Wicked battering rams — copper-tipped beams mounted in the bow of each galley — turned toward shore as Akbet-Khrul, Grand Vizier of the Pirate Isles and scourge of the Sword Coast, sent his fleet racing for the beach.

In moments, each brightly painted vessel struck the sandy bank, riding well above the surf on the force of its momentum. Instantly savage crews swarmed from their vessels, massing on the beach in a broad formation glittering with scimitars, spears, and axes.

The pirates of Akbet-Khrul were the most numerous, the most barbarous of the buccaneers inhabiting the Pirate Isles. Their unequalled and ferocious cruelty had earned them prominence among those isles. Now only a small group of mercenaries, hired by the desperate merchants of Amn, stood between Akbet-Khrul and complete domination of the waters off the central coast.

"Forward to the legion's destruction!" The pirate lord himself, Akbet-Khrul, gestured toward the line of defenders arrayed upon a low hilltop. "Let not one of them escape my wrath!"

The pirates surged forward, flushed with savage confidence. There were six of them for every one of the defenders on the distant hill, and the greatest worry in their captains' minds was that the mercenary legion before them would come to its senses and flee before the pirates could reach them.

Harsh voices barked through the morning air, and even the whirling gulls ceased their cries as the army began to advance. The flocks wheeled in graceful silence over the colorful phalanxes gradually moving inland from the rocky shore.

Banners fluttered in a breeze that slowly became a wind. The pirate army, three thousand strong, spread across a mile of frontage. Its wings spread hungrily, and its greedy jaws prepared to swallow the tiny group of defenders arrayed before it.

Then suddenly the whole mass of colorful, steel-bristling pirates halted and stood restlessly, waiting.

Ten figures dressed in shining crimson silks strutted forward from the pirate mass, each followed by a pair of retainers carrying a round iron pot. The black kettles contained heaps of glowing coals, frequently emitting sparks of hissing embers.

Ten pots were suspended from tripods, ten fires quickly kindled. Slowly, at first indistinct in the sunlight but soon glowing angrily, a fire thickened and brewed in each caldron.

Suddenly, one after another, the blazes surged upward until a tall column of fire erupted from each of the iron kettles.

These columns took shape, swirling and growing, sprouting limbs, leering with flame-scribed faces, until they became not columns of fire, but beings of fire. These beings remained in contact with their caldrons, but strained and reached in a crackling effort to break free.

Suddenly, as if in answer to a single command, each blazing figure twisted away from its pot and swept across the plain, a cyclone of fiery anger directed against the enemy beyond. Following in the scorched path of the fire things, the pirate army roared its lust for battle and surged forward.

"Perfect."

The remark, spoken with cool self-confidence, came from the midst of the company deployed on the hilltop. A golden pennant fluttered from a long pole beside him. As the wind snapped it taut, its emblem appeared: a shrieking golden eagle, wings spread and claws outstretched. Emblazoned in the bird's breast was the staring eye of all-seeing Helm, patron god of the Golden Legion. Outlined in black, the eagle shone vividly from a background of metallic, gleaming golden fabric.

"They come toward us quickly, with little thought of tactics. Matters will reach a head in good order — it will take them some time to reach us, and when they do, we hold the high ground."

The speaker turned, with the assurance of command, from the advancing army, addressing the small group of captains at his side. He was a small man, but he spoke and moved with a confidence so ironclad that other men could not help but listen. A black beard, too sparsely grown to hide his pockmarked skin, surrounded his tight mouth. Currently that mouth curved upward in an ingratiating, genuine smile.

"Almighty Helm has granted our enemies into your hands, captain-general Cordell." Another man, tall and bearded, his slender form cloaked in a brown robe, nodded to the leader. A shirt of chain mail showed through an opening in his robe. His hands were cloaked in metal gauntlets, and each gauntlet bore the realistic image of a wide — staring eye — the unblinking symbol of Helm the Vigilant. The man carried a tall staff and wore a mace suspended from his belt. Though he towered over the others, his movements showed the stiffness of age. His bearded face was weather-beaten and dour.

"And he has granted me the tools with which to break them, Bishou Domincus." Cordell nodded warmly at the cleric. "You have seen to the spiritual strength of the legion well, my friend. Now we shall test that strength."

"May Helm find us worthy," said the Bishou humbly, nodding his thanks at the praise.

The captain-general turned to another warrior, heartily thumping this steel-clad companion on the back. "Now, Captain Daggrande, is the ambush prepared?"

"My crossbowmen are ready, Captain-General." Captain Daggrande was shorter still than his commander, his broad shoulders and bowed legs marking him as a dwarf. He wore a shiny steel breastplate, and his skull was protected by a shiny helm with an encircling, uptilted brim. "I'll join my men now, sir."

"Indeed." Cordell nodded, dismissing the dwarf, utterly confident of the grizzled veteran's abilities. Daggrande and his hundred crossbowmen were in many ways the central weapon of the legion, for their deadly missiles allowed Cordell to engage an enemy before that enemy contacted his armored swordsmen or cavalry.

A more penetrating concern showed in his eyes as he looked around the group. "Where's Broker?"

"He sent us, General Cordell — Captain Alvarro and myself," Sergeant — Major Halloran answered. The young horseman wore a light chain shirt and bore a slender sword and small shield. A sleek black charger stood behind him, slowly tapping the earth with one hoof. Beside him stood Alvarro, a cavalryman with hair and beard of blazing red and teeth staggered in a gap-toothed grin. Alvarro was an older warrior who currently looked with unconcealed scorn at the young speaker. "His wounds," continued Halloran, "prevent Broker from fighting today."

Cordell nodded, studying the two men. Broker, his trusted captain of horse, was lost for the battle. Indeed, from what Cordell had seen of Broker's wounds, the captain might never fight again. So his current choice was obvious.

"Sergeant-Major — no make that Captain Halloran — you have command of the lancers in Broker's absence. Take tactical command of the Blue and Black companies."

The commander turned to regard Alvarro, staring frankly into the man's flashing eyes. Cordell made no attempt to justify his decision to promote the younger man. He had given an order and it would be obeyed. "You have tactical command of the Green and Yellow companies. Be certain you wait for the signal to charge!"

Again the brisk nod before continuing. "I want all four companies of lancers to charge together, in echelon from the right. Blue and Black companies take the lead, behind your banner. Captain Alvarro should follow with the Yellows and Greens."

"Yes, sir."

"But wait until the trumpet sounds your charge. I want no interference with Daggrande's volleys. Let the crossbows prepare them for your lances."

Halloran smiled grimly at the prospect, and suddenly his face looked much older. "We'll ride when the trumpets sound, and not a moment before."

Cordell eyed Halloran keenly, the commander's black eyes quickly taking the measure of the young warrior. Hold on to yourself and serve me well! he thought. Cordell had observed the courage and skill of these men for many years. Alvarro was the finer horseman, the more relentless and punishing fighter. But Halloran possessed a self-assurance that seemed to attract the confidence of other men. And Hal just might have the discipline to hold the high-spirited riders in check, something the impetuous Alvarro could never do.

The roar of the pirate charge grew louder as they swept into the last mile below the legion's hill. Quickly the captain-general turned to his other captains, admonishing his sword-and-buckler men to hold firm in the center, his reserve to remain in position until called forward. The other captains turned to their own companies, and soon Cordell stood alone on the low rise except for one other.

This one was not armored like the warriors, nor tall nor broad enough to seem at home with the company. Cordell's companion was not, in fact, a manly fighter. She had white hair and pearl-colored, translucent skin. A deep, cowled hood shaded her face, protecting every surface of that skin from harsh sunlight. If the hood had been thrown back, an observer would have noticed the pointed ears characteristic of the elves. Her flowing robe, with its many pockets, marked her as a magic-user.

"When the moment is right, you, my dear Darien, should begin the destruction." Cordell's voice was softer than it had been with his captains. He took the mage's hands in his and looked directly into her pale eyes, wondering as always at the hidden depths there. In the ten years since she had joined him on the bloodstained field of Cordell's only defeat, she had become a necessary fixture of his life and his legion. Indeed, the two of them had, together, recruited the captains who now formed the legion's core.

"Icetongue will give them pause." Darien's slender fingers gently pulled a short black stick from her robes. "But their numbers are many."

"We will take them today," Cordell replied. "All veteran captains, the best men I've ever commanded. The Golden Legion is the finest company along the Sword Coast, and they answer to me alone!" Darien smiled ironically at him, her lips faintly visible in the depths of her robe.

The pirate army, preceded by the smoking columns of its fiery cyclones, surged closed. The shrill cries of three thousand voices reached their ears, a dissonant backdrop to their speech.

"Be careful," Cordell warned earnestly. "But kill them!"

"I shall," whispered the hooded one, her voice ice cool. Cordell felt a slight chill. As always, he found her dispassion toward death faintly disquieting. But that dispassion was unquestionably a great military asset, and he forced the feeling away.

"By tonight, all of Amn will celebrate our victory," Cordell reminded her. "And by tomorrow, we shall have an appointment with the Council of Six itself!"

The general turned back to the pirate army. He paid no attention to the fire magic, studying instead the colorful buccaneers. The enemy moved in a shimmering wall of silken splendor, their crimson shirts, emerald tunics, and blue and golden sashes all giving the force a festive holiday appearance. And still they advanced in their broad formation.

Darien let go the general's hand, with a lingering caress. The tight smile still creased her tiny mouth.

"Come, my dear." Cordell doffed his helm, broad-brimmed like Daggrande's, and gestured gallantly toward the field below. "We have a battle to win."

Hoxitl, high priest of bloody Zaltec, picked his way into the cavern of the Ancient Ones. He came in darkness, leaving his attending band of young initiates to wait on the windswept slopes near the great volcano's summit. As always, his hair was blood-caked and pointed, and ashes thoroughly covered his skin.

He wondered, as he had wondered throughout the long climb, why his counselors had summoned him. It had been ten years since last he had spoken with the Ancient Ones. Then he had reported that the girl Erixitl of Palul had disappeared into the brush, presumably the victim of a jaguar. Though Zaltec had been robbed of his sacrifice, the Ancient One had seemed satisfied with the girl's disposal.

No jaguars guarded the entrance this time, but in the dim red glow of the cavern, he saw a pair of knights, dressed in their spotted hides, casually watching him through the open jaguar jaws of their helmets. The claw necklace of one jangled as he turned his head slightly, reminding the cleric of the potent talonmagic that armored the Jaguar Knight. These warriors did not carry the typical lances or javelins for guard duty in this confined space. Instead, they wielded clublike swords studded front and back with teeth of jagged obsidian.

Quickly Hoxitl passed deeper into the cave, leaving the guards behind. Bubbling mud pots chuckled softly, like thick red slime, and every now and then a gout of steam emerged from some fissure with a sharp hiss.

A column of green smoke suddenly erupted from the floor before Hoxitl, and the startled cleric almost leaped backward. Swiftly the smoke dispersed, and he saw the black-shrouded shape standing there. Hoxitl's astonishment grew as he saw several more figures cloaked all over in cloth and gauze.

"Praises to Zaltec!"

"High praises to the god of night and war!" The Ancient One completed the greeting, and the cleric stood nervously, wondering at the unprecedented number of shrouded figures surrounding him.

"The girl has been located," said the slight form, his whispered voice nonetheless strong and vaguely menacing. "She is in Kultaka and has been a slave there these past years."

"The girl?" Hoxitl's mind tripped for a minute, then leaped backward a full decade. "Erixitl of Palul?"

"Indeed. She is owned by a man who pays Zaltec no heed, a worshiper of Qotal and former Eagle Knight. It was only through the fortuitous travels of a young Jaguar Knight that we learned of her capture."

"What — what is to be done about her?" The cleric felt disturbed by the news, only because he sensed that the Ancient Ones were somehow afraid of this girl.

"That is why we have summoned you. Our talonmagic will go to Kultaka tonight, aided by your spell of sending. A vessel of reception already awaits the enchantment."

Hoxitf nodded. He understood that. Though the Ancient Ones could wield far mightier talonmagic than either the clerics or the Jaguar Knights, they still needed the help of a priest for such a long-range casting.

The priest knelt on the stone floor together with the dark-swathed Ancient Ones. The latter lowered themselves with a supple grace, not at all like elderly humans. Hoxitl, as always, dismissed any speculation as to his counselors' nature, for he felt certain such questions could only lead to trouble.

The temple guards stood aside, each pounding his wooden drum in steady cadence. The throng, citizens of Nexala numbering a hundred thousand or more, stood in awe about the great plaza. Finally the grand procession emerged from the palace!

A collective gasp rippled through the crowd as the woman came into view. Resplendent upon her gilded litter, supported by ten Eagle Knights, she rode in lordly luxury, casting her eyes across the multitude…

"Ouch!" Erixitl started as a drop of scalding water splashed onto her bare arm. Annoyed, she forced herself away from her daydreams to pay attention to her task, lest she burn herself more seriously.

"Young master needs his bath!" she chanted ironically. She carried the full jug of steaming water on her head, carefully following the footpath through the garden. The bathhouse of her owner's estate lay just before her.

Erix sighed as she sighed a hundred times a day, had sighed a million times over the last ten years. Truly she had been fortunate, for Huakal, her owner, was kind, gentle, and one of the wealthiest men in Kultaka. Once an Eagle Knight of great repute, he had commanded several hundred men in the wars with Nexal. He had used his influence to purchase her immediately following her arrival in Kultaka, offering the Jaguar Knight who had captured her an unusually high sum. She had been assigned tasks in his large home before the priests of Zaltec had even had a chance to see her. Since then, he had treated her more like a slightly bothersome niece than a slave.

Never had she feared from Huakal condemnation for sacrifice — a common fate for a Maztican slave who displeased a master. Huakal had even allowed her to retain her feather token, now the only memento she carried from her childhood in Palul. She usually kept the jade object concealed under her robe, so as not to call attention to it, but nevertheless Huakal knew of it. It would have been well within his prerogatives to claim it for himself.

For ten years, she had grown up in Kultaka. Only rarely had she even seen, and never had she spoken with, anyone of her own Nexalan people. Always a pretty girl, she had become a beautiful young woman. Unlike many slaves, however, she had not been touched by her master. He had even, somehow, managed to keep his unruly son away from her.

Erix had managed to learn a little of the True World, for Huakal was a worldy man who had seen Nexal, Pezelac, and even the distant jungle lands of the Payit. Perhaps because this slave girl was clearly more intelligent than his own son, Huakal had taken the time to share some of his knowledge with her.

Still, so much of her life had been taken from her that she did not want to give up the rest of it. Kultaka was a clean, active city, but it was a shabby substitute for the great capital of her own people. She spent her days imagining storied Nexal, now farther away than ever. Even the nearest lands of her people lay across desert and mountain.

Too, there was the matter of the "young master," her owner's only son. An arrogant boor of a young warrior, Callatl never let her pass without making a rude comment, gesture, or worse. The young man wasted his days pursuing his futile objective of becoming a Jaguar Knight. Even his father had admitted long ago that he lacked the elite qualifications to aspire toward Eagle Knighthood. Though Callatl's prowess as a warrior was far short of the ideal, Erix feared him nevertheless.

Erixitl carried the water carefully, balancing the heavy jug to prevent further spillage. The vessel, a rich emerald green, bore engravings upon two sides. Each portrayed, in crude relief, the fanged image of Qotal, the Plumed One. Like her father, Huakal paid homage to this ancient and nearly forgotten god. She held the jar by the jaws of the relief, ensuring a strong grip.

The liquid within was scalding hot, and she dared not move quickly. Finally she reached the square stone building, set among roses and trickling streams of clear water, where the members of the family enjoyed their daily baths. Pushing through a curtain of hanging reeds, she entered the steamy bath chamber.

"More water, Master Callatl," she said quietly.

A strapping youth sprawled in the deep tub, taking no notice of her except to move slightly, allowing her enough space to pour the water without burning him.

She lowered the jug, ignoring the steam rising into her eyes, and carefully poured. Even so, a few drops spattered onto the bather's coppery skin.

Erix felt a sudden chill in the room, despite the steaming bath. The reed torches around the walls seemed to flicker and fade, casting the bathhouse in darker shadows. The girl knew nothing of talonmagic, could not know that sorcery of sinister nature had just settled around her and Callatl, a spell sent by Hoxitl and the Ancient Ones, far away in the Highcave. Nevertheless she stepped cautiously backward, and her hand went unconsciously to the golden feather token, the gift from her father, that still hung from her neck.

"Stupid wench!" The young man sprang to his feet, uncaring of his nakedness. He raised his hand to cuff her, and she instinctively raised the jug to protect her face. The torches flared back to light as the talonmagic waned, but the damage had been done. Callatl's body twisted from the enormity of his wrath.

His fist crashed into the vessel, striking it from her hands. It shattered on the tile lip of the bathtub, and a jagged shard struck Callatl's knee, drawing blood.

The man stepped from the tub as Erix backed slowly away. She trembled in sudden fright, for she had never seen him so suddenly and irrationally enraged. His face might have been handsome, except for the close set of his eyes and his tight, cruel mouth. "You have teased me for too long, Temptling! Now it is your turn to pay!"

She spun and dashed for the door, but Callatl dove instantly after her. He seized her arm and twisted her to the floor.

"Stop!" she cried, crunching her fist into his already flat nose. Her struggles only served to amuse him. He seized her wrists easily and pressed her against the floor.

"Accept your slavery, Feather Princess!" He hissed the nickname in mockery. He had taunted her with it since noticing, years earlier, her fondness for her feathered token. "My father has been far too gentle with you!"

Real fear seized Erix, a panic that suffused her wiry frame with unnatural strength. She squirmed and jabbed, and suddenly her legs were free, the young man sprawled half across her.

"In the name of the gods, stop!" Her knee flew viciously upward. Callatl shrieked, mindless with agony, heedless of the sound echoing through the garden, around the courtyard and into the sprawling house.

"Beast!" she spat, punching him in the stomach as he rolled away from her. He tumbled through the shards of the pot, cutting his face and arms, but somehow he staggered to his feet. His face twisted with hatred, blood streaming from his forehead and nose, he sprang at the slave girl.

Erixitl picked up a large chunk of the broken jar. She did not notice the feathered god's image, Qotal's full visage, remaining uncracked on the piece of pottery in her hands. Callatl's fingers reached, clawlike, for her face as she slammed the shard into her attacker's throat.

The young noble gurgled helplessly as he dropped to his knees, then sprawled on his face. Dimly, Erix heard the musical tinkling of the curtain parting behind her. She turned to see the dignified face of Huakal, her owner. His patrician features grew pale as he took in the scene.

Erixitl dropped to her knees and kissed the floor as Huakal knelt beside his son. The nobleman swept his cloak of brilliant macaw feathers from his shoulders to cover Callatl. The young man coughed in agony, his breath bursting in gasps and gurgles.

Terrified, Erixiti looked into the face of the man who had treated her so kindly, who had never touched her, in anger or otherwise. His face was wrung with suffering, but his voice was steady.

"If he dies, your heart will be fed to Tezca on the following dawn."

Halloran made his way through a line of sword-and-buckler men. This company, commanded by Captain Garrant, stood in plain sight on the slope of the hill. The howling pirates swarmed closer, but the pace of their advance flagged slightly after nearly two miles of charging forward. The young captain suddenly realized that Cordell had selected defensive ground far from the beach for good reason.

He walked farther down the hill, toward Daggrande's company, which lay in ambush behind a low stone wall. A sense of excitement tingled through Halloran as he approached the crossbowmen and his own lancers, who waited beside Daggrande's men in a small olive grove.

This legion, these warriors, were his home. They had become the finest, most secure home he had ever known. When Cordell and Daggrande had discovered him nearly ten years ago, a gangly young tough wandering the streets of Mulsanter, Halloran could never have imagined himself feeling such a sense of belonging about anything. A hungry orphan, his magic-using days brutally ended by catastrophe in Arquiuius's tower, he had been suspicious of these silver-armored captains.

But he had served them, first as a page to the captain-general and then as a squire to Daggrande and then Broker. He had learned the ways of war, fighting and killing before his eighteenth year had begun. A natural horsemen, Halloran had found his true role as a lancer — much to Daggrande's disgust, since the dwarf had hoped to see him wield a heavy crossbow.

Now Broker was gone, terribly wounded by these pirates in the previous day's skirmish. Bishou Domincus had saved Broker's life with his healing magic, but the horseman had still lost the use of his legs. The memory of that loss gave Halloran's eagerness for battle a bitter edge. Today Broker would be avenged.

Halloran found Daggrande behind a low stone wall. The dwarf's unit of crossbowmen crouched behind the rocky barrier, patiently waiting for their captain's command. The motley collection of humans and dwarves wore an assortment of armor types, some clad in leather, others in chain. Many wore bloody bandages over wounds sustained in previous skirmishes with the pirates. All of the bowmen looked grizzled and disreputable, but Halloran well knew the lethal effectiveness of their heavy missiles.

"How much longer?" asked the young cavalryman. He tried to keep his voice steady, but anticipation of the coming battle filled him with nervous energy. His own unit of laneers waited restlessly in an olive grove behind the wall. Across the wall, still a half-mile distant but closing rapidly, came the charging wave of color, steel, and flame that was the pirate army.

The dwarf laughed, a sharp bark of sound. "Soon enough, I'll wager." Daggrande studied Halloran closely. "After all these campaigns, why are you acting like a young recruit facing his first foe?"

Hal returned his old companion's gaze with a sheepish grin. "Cordell gave me the standard of the lancers. I'll be leading all four companies."

Daggrande grinned. "You're ready for that. But what about Alvarro?" The impetuous redhead and his jealous nature were well known to the other captains.

"Second in command. He'll follow with the last two companies." I hope, he added silently.

The dwarf nodded. "Just don't lose your head. Wait till that trumpet tells you to go! Remember what Cordell and I have drilled into you, and you'll do all right."

"We hold the high ground," Hal said. "I won't give that advantage away!" Halloran's answer was deadly serious. "Cordell's right. If we time this properly, Akbet-Khrul will be broken once and for all!"

Daggrande laughed at his companion's earnestness. "And we'll be out of work!"

Halloran laughed, too, relaxing somewhat. "I expect the captain-general will find us something to fight." "Good luck. You'd best get to your men." "And to you. Try to shoot straight this time, will you?" Hal said, flashing a quick grin.

Daggrande huffed indignantly, but the cavalryman had already slipped into the grove. In moments, he reached his charger, Storm. The roan mare danced eagerly, anxious for battle.

"The standard, Sergeant-Major." A squire stood beside the mount, bearing the lance with the proud pennant of the Blue Lancers. The long banner, portraying a golden pegasus on a sea-blue background, snapped readily in the growing breeze.

"Captain, now." Halloran smiled as he slipped smoothly into the saddle and took the long staff. The squire grinned enthusiastically.

The olive grove screened their position from the advancing enemy, but the rows of trees provided good visibility to the right and left. He could see, within a few hundred feet to his right, the black, yellow, and green pennants of the other companies. At the far end of the line, Alvarro glowered at him from the back of a prancing stallion, his mouth split into a grimace that displayed his crooked, uneven teeth.

A full hundred sleek horses pranced anxiously as an equal number of steel-tipped lances came to rest at their riders' sides. Some of the steeds were black, others were brown or roan or gray. They were all impatient to charge. Be patient, Hal thought. Your time will come.

Halloran tried to suppress a giddy exhilaration. Helms-tooth, the longsword given to him by Cordell personally, hung lightly at his side. By Helm, what a glorious commander the captain-general was! Halloran's heart nearly burst with pride at the honor that had been accorded him.

But Cordell was the glue that truly held the legion together. His skill as a commander, his eloquence as a speaker, his courage in battle, all served to unite his men and propel them toward great deeds.

Through the olive trees, Halloran could see the pirates advancing as Cordell had predicted, still preceded by their twisting cyclones of fire. The horsemen had a splendid view of the developing battle.

The scrub brush withered beneath the fiery columns, many bushes bursting into flame as the cyclones passed. Hal still counted ten of the unnatural blazes, advancing in a long skirmish line ahead of the army.

Suddenly he saw a pale white flash, like a blast of moonlight potent enough to shine in the daylight. The cone-shaped whiteness exploded from a point ahead of the army, expanding to his left. In the same instant as the flash, three of the fiery columns hissed into vapors and disappeared.

Once again came the flash of light, from the same point but this time expanding to Hal's right, and four more of the cyclones vanished.

"Icetongue!" he murmured to himself, feeling relief mixed with a little horror. All the legion knew of Darien, the elf-mage. Aloof and distant toward all but Cordell, this made her affection toward the commander seem all that much more passionate to the men of the legion. And she was mysterious, always heavily robed during daylight, for her albino skin reputedly suffered acutely from the rays of the sun.

Yet her power! Of course she had her slender wand and its deadly blast of ice. But she also could call a searing wall of fire to burst from the ground, a lightning bolt to crackle into the midst of an enemy formation, or even a swarm of meteors to smash with crushing force to the ground. On more than one occasion, those powers had secured victory for the mercenaries during a heated, hard-contested battle.

He saw the black-robed figure of the wizard, standing alone ahead of the army, and then suddenly Darien vanished. Halloran guessed she teleported herself back to the safety of the legion's position.

The pirates continued to surge closer, not visibly demoralized by the damage to their fiery skirmishers. A pair of fire columns still swirled forward to Hal's left, and one lone blaze advanced off to the right. Then he heard the thunderous bark of a man's voice, carrying even over the roar of the enemy's approach, and Hal knew that Bishou Domincus had added the might of Helm to the battle.

The pair of fire columns advancing together separated slightly to pass on either side of a small, marshy pond. As the cleric's magic took hold, however, the waters of the pond surged from their banks and swept across the field in a small flood. They swirled around the bases of the flaming columns, which hissed and writhed in agony. Slowly the fiery forms sizzled into steam. Still the army surged forward, a hundred yards away, now and closing fast.

"Now, by Helm!" Daggrande's bark suddenly carried over the battlefield. The brimmed steel helmets of his crossbow-men suddenly popped over the stone wall, followed instantly by the sharp clatter of a hundred heavy crossbows casting their missiles.

Intent upon the line of sword-and-buckler men a hundred yards farther up the hill, the pirates faltered at the sudden onslaught from the missile troops. Smoothly, Daggrande's men began to recock their cumbersome weapons, while Akbet-Khrul and his lieutenants hysterically commanded their men to renew their charge. A savage yell rippled through the air, rasping from thousands of pirate throats.

"Shoot, and again!" The second volley of bolts took a savage toll, the powerful weapons driving through the bodies of unarmored defenders and penetrating the metal shields and chain shirts of the occasional armored pirates with lethal force.

A great blossom of fire exploded in the enemy's center, fire magic working for the legion now as Darien cast two great fireballs into the midst of the pirate army. The inferno created by each spell dealt instant death to anyone caught in the effect.

Halloran felt his mare easing forward. For a moment, his hold on the reins relaxed, but then he pulled in sharply. He cast a harsh glare down the line of eager lancers, even as he wondered at Daggrande's audacity. Does he have time to shoot again?

The howling mob of pirates came on with undiminished savagery. Halloran watched the bowmen laboriously crank their weapons, certain they could not fire before the scimitars of the pirates cut them to ribbons. The leading attacker — Akbet-Khrul himself, Hal felt certain — was less than fifteen yards away when the first crossbowman raised his weapon. The pirate's face was twisted beyond human recognition, a fanatical picture of battlefield savagery.

The shrieks of the attackers pounded in Halloran's ears. I can't wait any longer! We must charge now! But then another crossbow, a dozen more, were loaded and aimed, their foes a scant ten yards away. Why don't they shoot?

In another instant, the full rank of missile weapons stood armed and ready… five yards. "Shoot! And charge!" A brass trumpet from the hilltop brayed its exclamation point to the order as Daggrande's bark was lost in the din.

"Forward, lancers!" Hailoran's own bellow seemed monstrously loud, though still inaudible, but the tilt of his pennant gave his men the sign. A hundred horses sprang from the grove, some leaping the wall among Daggrande's archers while others swept through a meadow off to the side, riding obliquely into the heart of the pirate horde.

Even as his horse sprang over the stone barrier, Halloran saw the effects of the last volley, delivered at deadly short range. The powerful bolts of the crossbows sometimes ripped through two pirates in succession, and all across the route of their advance he could see broken and writhing bodies.

The shock of the charging lancers completely shattered the momentum of the pirate onslaught. Hal looked for Akbet-Khrul, thought he recognized his torn body among several crossbow shafts, and then thundered forward with the exhilarating momentum of the charge.

Naltecona rode the feather platform to the top of the great pyramid, unconsciously cursing the slow, graceful pace of the regal lift. The high priests and magicians of Nexal, together forming his closest advisers, climbed the steep stairs below as they all sought the vantage of the high temple.

For the gods once more surrounded Nexal with signs and omens. Where once they had incinerated the temple of Zaltec atop this very pyramid, this time they displayed their displeasure not with a fiery temple, nor indeed with any sign directly striking the huge city around him. The gods vented their wrath beyond the city, where it could be seen by all of Nexal.

The great city of Nexal, Heart of the True World, lay amid the crystalline splendor of four broad lakes. Each lake was crossed by a causeway, giving access to the city from all directions. Canoes harvested wetland crops and fish from the lakes, and massive floating gardens further extended the domain of Nexal every day.

The lakes were named after the four predominant gods.

The three largest, to the north, east, and south, contained the freshest water and supported all the commerce. They were called, respectively, Zaltec, Calor, and Tezca. The smallest, to the west, was brackish and salty. This was named for the Silent Counselor, Qotal.

Now great columns of steam rose into the air, hissing from three of the lakes, billowing skyward in massive clouds that threatened to block out the sun. Sharp, unnatural waves hurled tepid water into the many canals of the city, toppling canoes and threatening to inundate low buildings. Only the brackish Lake Qotal remained calm, the only waves on its surface caused by the normal kiss of a light breeze.

Naltecona avoided looking at the lakes, but the sight of the priests and magicians offered him no comfort. In the plaza below the temple stood his many courtiers and lords, but they seemed even less useful than the advisers on the pyramid with him.

Lately the one man whose counsel helped, whose presence gave Naltecona confidence, had been his nephew Poshtli. And now that proud Eagle Knight was commanding a military expedition to punish the vassal state of Pezelac, far from Nexal. Naltecona felt very lonely, and the gloriously colored lift, slowly raising him through the air beside the temple, seemed only to emphasize that loneliness.

Almost desperately, the Revered Counselor looked up. A great emerald fan swirled with regal grace, freely floating in the air above Naltecona's head. Around him spread the blue summer sky, a great cloudless dome. Soaring into that sky jutted the three massive volcanoes surrounding Nexal. Despite the summer heat, two of the mountains wore caps of gleaming snow. The third, Zatal, was the highest, but the heat of its internal fires kept the mountaintop clear of snow.

The featherlift reached the top, setting Naltecona on the platform with the airy smoothness of pluma. The ruler spun through an angry circle, confronted on all sides by the portentous omens of the gods.

"More signs! Why must you plague me with mysteries and dire portents?" He shook his fist at the lakes, as if challenging the gods for whom they were named. Ignoring the anxious looks of the priests and magicians, who gasped for breath as they joined him on the platform at the pyramid's summit, he shouted, "For once give me an answer instead of more questions!"

Naltecona raged, his anger divided between the assembled advisers before him and the invisible forms of the gods beyond. What does it mean? The great ruler forced himself to regain control, but the latest evidence of the gods' displeasure made it very difficult.

The Revered Counselor paced atop the great pyramid, the grandest structure in all Nexal. A dozen priests scuttled from his path and then scurried to remain close behind him. An equal number of magicians also hovered near. The latter possessed few real powers, but practiced spells that allowed them some knowledge of future events. For this reason, the counselor sometimes demanded their services.

Nearby on the platform stood the great temple of Zaltec, rebuilt after the mysterious fire a decade before. The statue of Zaltec himself, within the temple, was now caked with the dried blood of thousands of sacrifices. The hungry mouth of the god gaped open, and this was the receptacle into which the sacrificial hearts were thrown.

"Go from me, all of you!" the counselor suddenly roared. "Wait, Colon… I desire you to stay."

The other high priests glared at their colleague as they started down the long column of steps. In a mythos crowded with jealous and vengeful gods, the worshipers of each deity cast careful eyes upon their rivals. That Colon, the patriarch of a long-forgotten god, one who did not even expect the sacrifice of human victims, should receive special notice from the Revered Counselor seemed to the others a dire threat.

Hoxitl, high priest of Zaltec, lingered behind as if he in particular would challenge his ruler's wishes. The cleric suddenly thought better of the idea, starting down the long stairway to the plaza below, though not before he cast a vicious sidelong glare at Colon. The patriarch of Qotal did not acknowledge his colleague's look.

Naltecona ignored the discomfort of his clerics, waiting until all of them had descended beyond earshot. The pair stood alone, high above the city, on the flat summit of the pyramid. He fixed the white-haired Colon with an iron gaze, as if the force of his will could compel the patriarch to speak.

Then he whirled away, knowing that Colon was bound by his vow. "Why is it that the one cleric who might offer me comfort and wisdom has taken it upon himself not to speak?"

He turned back to the cleric. "All the others will instruct me for hours on end! They will all tell me that their gods are hungry, that they need more hearts, more bodies, to feed them! And we give them those hearts, and still they send these signs!" Naltecona's anguish twisted his voice as he looked skyward, earthward, anyplace away from those tormented, mocking lakes.

"What does this mean?" Naltecona's voice lost all control, ringing shrill and frantic. "You know, Colon. You see and understand! You must tell me!"

The cleric met the gaze of the Revered Counselor with his own eyes, compassionate and grim at the same time.

"The lake of Qotal shows no disturbance, while the olhers seem to boil away before our eyes!" Naltecona raged on. "How can I understand? I must know!"

Colon did not look away, but, of course, neither did he speak. In sudden frustralion, Ihe leader turned back to the unnatural vista surrounding his glorious cily.

"Is this the sign of Qotal's return?" Naltecona asked the question in a subdued tone, hoping and fearing at the same time. He continued, as if ultimately relieved to have a listener who would not speak in return.

"I remember your teaching, patriarch, before you assumed your grand office and look your bothersome vow! You told us of the god-king Qotal, the Plumed One, rightful ruler of the True World… how he sailed to the east in his grand canoe, promising to return when the people of Maztica had proven themselves worthy of his leadership!"

For the first time, the cleric moved his gaze from Naltecona, looking to the east as if he expected the image of the Plumed One to appear momentarily. Then Colon turned his age-wizened eyes back to Naltecona, and the counselor met his gaze with pathetic eagerness, seeking an answer in those eyes that was not to be found.

"This is the sign, I believe," said Naltecona, forcing himself to accept the evidence.

"Qotal returns to Maztica."