Viperhand

THE BRAND OF ZALTEC

The smooth-carved blocks of stone fit together with precision, all of them touching snugly, supported by the weight of their neighbors to enclose the dome of the observatory. Here, on the highest hill of Tulom-Itzi, Gultec sat with Zochimaloc and spent the long night staring at the stars.

Holes in the dome of the observatory's ceiling allowed views into precisely selected quadrants of the sky. Now the black sky showed no moon, for this was the period of the black moon, when none could see it in the heavens. And consequently, his teacher had pointed out, this was a splendid night for viewing the stars.

"But we know the moon will return. It waxes tomorrow," explained the teacher, stating the obvious fact. "In a week, it will be half of its self, and in the week following that, it will be full.

"Two weeks from now," Zochimaloc continued with grim finality, "and the moon will be full."

"This I know, my teacher," said Gultec, confused. Zochimaloc crossed the stone floor of the observatory, gesturing upward through several holes toward the west.

"And these stars, these wanderers," the old man went on, as if he had not heard Gultec. "These bright stars hold special portents for the world."

The Jaguar Knight felt it inappropriate to announce that this fact, too, was known to him. Instead, he listened as Zochimaloc explained further.

"In fourteen days, when the full moon rises, it will mask the three wanderers. They will disappear behind it but remain unseen from the world."

"What does this mean, Master?" asked Gultec, intrigued by the description.

Zochimaloc shook his head with a wry chuckle. "What does it mean? I know not for certain. The full moon will shine over the world, as always, and great things will happen — things we cannot predict, or perhaps even explain.

"But when next wanes the moon, the True World will not be the same."

Riding quickly throughout the first night after the battle, Poshtli passed countless refugees. These Mazticans stared in awe at the warrior who galloped along the road atop the snorting monster.

He paused to rest a few hours around dawn, but then he thundered back onto the road. He passed into the valley of Nexal by midmorning, and in a few hours, the lathered mare raced across the causeway, carrying him through the streets of the city, into the sacred plaza, to the doors of Naltecona's palace.

Leaving Storm with a pair of terrified slaves, he ordered them to water and feed the horse. Then he quickly made his way through the palace corridors to the doors before the great throne room itself.

Poshtli placed the ritual rags over his shoulders and entered the throne room. He saw his uncle pacing on the dais, his agitation visible in every abrupt gesture, every dark flash of his eyes.

Naltecona gestured Poshtli forward quickly, before the warrior had performed the three floor-scraping bows normally required of visitors to the throne.

"Where have you been?" demanded the Revered Counselor. "I have sent messengers to search for you over the last two days."

"To Palul," the warrior replied. "I have seen the devastation there myself. Now I come to offer my services in the defense of the city. I will fight wherever you want me, though as you know, I no longer carry the rank of Eagle Knight."

Naltecona brushed the explanation aside as if he had not heard. "You must remain by my side now," the counselor directed his nephew. "You, among all my court, have come to know something about these strangers. I will need you with me when they enter the city, which — according to the Eagles who watch their march — will be very soon!"

"Enter the city?" Poshtli stood, stunned. "Don't you mean to fight them?"

"What is the point?" asked Naltecona sadly. "They cannot be beaten, and perhaps they should not be. Perhaps they are destined to claim Nexal, to inherit the feathered throne of my ancestors."

Poshtli couldn't believe what he heard. "Uncle, I advise you to fight them before they reach the city! Pull up the bridges, meet them with a thousand canoes full of warriors! True, the invaders are mighty, but they can be killed! They bleed and die as men!"

Naltecona stared at Poshtli, a hint of the old command in his eyes. The younger man pressed his case. "We outnumber them a hundred to one! If we hold the causeways, they cannot reach us here!"

But Naltecona shook his head slowly, looking at Poshtli as a parent regards a child who simply doesnt grasp the subtleties of adult life. He patted his nephew's shoulder, and the young man's spirit cried silently when he saw the look of dejection and defeat lurking deep within his uncle's eyes.

"Please, Poshtli. You stay by my side," said Naltecona.

His heart breaking, the warrior could only nod and obey.

Shatil crept through the darkened streets of Nexal. He limped on raw and bleeding feet, still clutching his gored wrist to his chest. He had run for the full day following the massacre, but his steps had slowed to a walk by nightfall. Now, eight hours later, he shuffled toward the Great Pyramid in the hours between midnight and dawn.

Still holding the parchment, though the rust-colored stain of his blood marred one edge of it, Shatil thought of the message he carried. He had looked at it earlier in the day and was unable to suppress a gasp of astonishment when he unrolled it. The sheet was blank!

Too devoted a priest to question his patriarch's instructions, he had continued his mission. He knew that there were many mysteries of Zaltec he had yet to understand.

His robe and the ritually inflicted scars on his face and, arms distinguished him as a priest of Zaltec, so the Jaguar Knights guarding the gate to the sacred plaza allowed him to enter with no questions. He stumbled toward the pyramid, stopping at the small temple building below the looming massif.

This was a square, stone structure, sunk halfway into the ground. It had sleeping and eating quarters for the priests serving at the Great Pyramid, as well as holding cells for the victims of upcoming rituals.

Shatil passed through the low doorway and staggered down the short stairway into the dark main room. In the darkness, he heard a low growl, and he froze. For a moment, he remembered the great war creature of the strangers, wondering if the beast had somehow risen from the dead and found him here. At the same time, he recognized the delusion for what it was, realizing that his wound and journey were taking a terrible toll. Then the tall figure of a Jaguar Knight stepped into the semidarkness near the door.

"What do you want, priest?" he inquired.

"I must see Hoxitl. It is very urgent!" Shatil gasped, slumping backward to lean against the cool stone wall.

"Urgent enough to wake the patriarch from his sleep?" asked the warrior skeptically.

"Yes!" spat Shatil, pushing himself upward to stand straight. He was the equal of the Jaguar in height.

"What is it? Do you bring word from Palul?" The question came from the darkness within the temple, but Shatil recognized the high priest's voice. "The Eagles have already reported that the battle was a disaster."

"Yes, Patriarch," Shatil said, his voice growing stronger. "The high priest Zilti perished in that fight, as did many of our people. So, too, would I have, but Zilti ordered me to flee that I could bring this to you." Shatil held out the parchment, and Hoxitl quickly took it.

"You have done well," said the patriarch. He unrolled the sheet and held it up so that Shatil and the Jaguar Knight could look over his shoulders at the page.

Shatil gasped as he saw a picture take shape there. That's the square!" he said, pointing to the feasting multitudes of Mazticans and legionnaires. "This is what it looked like before the battle."

The sheet resembled a fine painting in its detail and complexity and brightness of color. They looked first at the whole plaza, as it might be seen by a soaring bird. Then the images became more precise, and they saw Cordell speaking pleasantly with Chical and Kalnak.

"How can this happen?" Shatil inquired, amazed at the appearance of the picture at all, not to mention its clarity and accuracy.

"The magic of hishna" explained Hoxitl brusquely. "The power of the fang and the talon. The recreation of images is one of its greatest strengths. Now be silent."

As they observed the picture, Shatil's amazement turned to shock. The picture began to move. They saw the black-robed wizard speaking to the warrior behind the houses. The scroll made no sound, but the warrior's meaning was clear.

"The traitor!" spat the Jaguar. "He tells the enemy of our ambush!"

"Through sorcery," observed Hoxitl. "See?" They watched the mage and the warrior disappear behind the house, screened from view. Then the picture shifted, and they saw the scene from a different place, with a clear view of the woman and her victim.

The pale woman touched her cloaked hand to his throat in a gesture that seemed almost tender, but then the warrior's back arched and he fell like a log to the ground. He lay there, stiff, turning blue as his eyes nearly popped from his head. Without a backward look, the woman left as soon as it was clear that he was dead.

Then they watched numbly as the battle unfolded, until at last Shatil had to turn his eyes away. It had been enough to live through that horror once.

Hoxitl and the warrior stood for a long time, engrossed by the scene even as they were appalled. When Shatil looked again, the plaza was a smoking ruin, bodies and blood scattered everywhere.

"So it was in Palul," muttered the Jaguar Knight as Hoxitl finally rolled up the sheet. "But it will not be in Nexal! We can pull up the bridges on the causeways, mass the warriors on the shore. When the strangers come to the valley, we shall see that they never leave!"

"We shall indeed see that they never leave," agreed Hoxitl, "But not in the way you imagine."

"What do you mean?" asked the warrior.

"Naltecona has decreed that the strangers be welcomed to our city as gods. The causeways will not only remain in place, but they also will be decorated with flowers to honor our 'guests'"

"How can this be?" demanded Shatil, appalled. "They must be stopped before it is too late!"

"Would that our Revered Counselor was as wise as a young priest," said Hoxitl wryly. "But until that time, we must plan and prepare… and wait. The cult of the Viperhand grows daily and will be ready to strike when the time comes.

"But come, Shatil, you are injured. You must now have food and rest. Your message has proven most enlightening, and its delivery shall not go unrewarded."

Shatil bowed his head, warmed by the praise from this, the highest-ranking member of his order. "Patriarch, there is but one reward I could ask."

"Speak your wish," urged Hoxitl. Outside, dawn's purple glow had begun to color the sacred plaza.

"With this dawn's sacrifice, I wish to pledge my life and body to Zaltec — to serve him in war as well as in ritual. Please, Patriarch, grant me the brand of the Viperhand," asked Shatil levelly.

"It shall be as you desire — but not this morning. Tonight," came Hoxitl's reply. "You must rest now. Come here." The cleric took Shatil's wounded hand and led him to one of the sleeping cells. By the time they reached it, Shatil saw with amazement that the savage bite had healed.

"Column, forward!" Daggrande barked the command, and the first company of the legion, the crossbowmen, started on the road to Nexal. In moments, companies of sword and spear fell in after them.

Cordell remained behind, mounted on his prancing charger. Darien, riding a sleek black gelding, waited beside him.

Gradually, like a huge snake uncoiling itself from the confines of Palul, the army began to march. Great ranks of Kultakan warriors joined the procession, raising their spears to the captain-general as they passed. He had led them to a victory greater than any in their history against the hated Nexalans. Even Cordell's decree ordering that none of the captives be sacrificed had failed to dim their loyalty.

Dawn had barely purpled the sky when the first legionnaires set out, but the eastern horizon was pale blue by the time the last of the warriors, the Payit, marched out of the town. These men had played little role in the previous day's fighting, and Cordell sensed that their pride was stung a bit when they saw the great success of the Kultakans. The Payit would be doughty fighters, thought the captain-general — if he needed them.

"The city is well protected by its lakes," explained Darien as Cordell and the elfmage started out, riding through the fields beside the great marching file. "What is your plan of attack?"

Cordell smiled, a narrowing of his already thin mouth. "I don't think an attack will be necessary," he replied. He sensed Darien's surprise in the sudden tilt of her head, but she said nothing.

"I am making a guess about our prospective foe, the great Naltecona," Cordell explained. He was pleased with his deduction, and he thought it sound, but he desired Darien's confirmation of his judgment, so he continued. "I'm guessing that he is very much awed by us now. I shall not be surprised if we are welcomed into his city as guests."

Darien's smile was as tight as the man's. "I hope you're right. It is a gamble."

"So is this march today," countered Cordell. "I know the men need rest, but look at them."

He gestured at the troops, Maztican and legionnaire, that they passed. All the men held their heads high — and marched with a quick, firm step. Many saluted the captain-general as he rode by.

Indeed, the army marched swiftly. Before too many hours had passed, they saw the looming bulk of the twin volcanoes, Zatal and Popol, rising from the horizon ahead. Between them lay the pass leading to Nexal.

Cordell's pulse quickened as the road carried them to they cooler heights. He thrilled to a sense of epic momentum as the approached the pass.

He knew that his destiny lay beyond.

The wound began to fester on the first night, and the next morning Halloran did not awaken. Fever pressed its fiery clasp around him as he lay senseless, unable to eat or drink or speak. Throughout that long day, his temperature climbed and sweat burst from his every pore.

Occasionally, in cruel mockery of the fever, chills wracked Hal's body and convulsions threw him about the straw mat like a child's toy, shaken hard by its owner. Delirium claimed him by evening, and he grunted and cursed through the night.

Erixitl remained by his side, trying to keep him cool, trying to cleanse the infection that seeped from his wound. His mutterings recalled past battles as he spoke of blood and smoke without an apparent pattern.

Just once, when his back arched and his body grew rigid, he uttered a cry like a lost youth. "Erix! My love! Please!" His voice choked, spitting garbled syllables. Then he formed words again: "By Helm, I love you!"

His eyes flashed open, unseeing, and then he collapsed limply on the bed. He seemed to rest for a few minutes before the sickness wracked him again.

By the second dawn, his breath came in rasping bursts, sometimes seeming to cease altogether. His pulse became too faint for detection even by Lotil's sensitive touch.

As the sun climbed all that morning, so did the fever. At high noon, the hot sun blazed against the whitewashed house, though the loose thatch of the roof shielded some of the heat. Within, Hal writhed and Erix administered cool, sponging baths. The water all but sizzled, she thought, as she touched it to his skin.

But as the sun sank and the cool evening breezes arose, the heat wracking Hal's body slowly dissipated. By sunset of the second day, he slept comfortably, even waking once to smile faintly at Erix and gently squeeze her hand.

He was going to live, she knew.

He would live, and he loved her. Unimaginable relief flooded through her at his recovery, and a strange warmth gripped her at the knowledge of his love. Releasing her caged emotions at last, she held him as he slept, rejoicing in the steady, strong rise and fall of his chest beneath her head.

And she knew that she loved him in return.

Shatil joined the other initiates in climbing the steep stairs to the top of the Great Pyramid. A sense of deepest reverence gripped him as he looked below to see the priests leading the file of captives. Each would give his life and his heart for one of the initiates into the cult.

The captives were mostly Kultakans, among the few prisoners taken by the Nexalan warriors outside Palul. Not knowing of Cordell's edict, of course, Shatil assumed that the hundreds of Nexalans taken prisoners there faced a similar fate upon Kultakan altars.

At the top, he looked to the east. High up the slope of the valley, in the saddle between the two great volcanoes, he could see the glittering fires of the legion's camp. They would reach the city tomorrow — and Naltecona would admit them as his guests.

"Kneel!" Hoxitl barked the command as Shatil, first of the initiates, stepped forward.

Shatil knelt, anticipation tingling through his body as Hoxitl sliced open the chest of a captive and pulled forth the slick, bloody heart. The high priest held the flesh toward the setting sun, then tossed it into the heart of the statue.

Turning toward the kneeling figure of Shatil, Hoxitl extended his hand, then paused. Blood dripped unnoticed from his fingers as he fixed Shatil with a penetrating stare.

All the young priest's past failings, he felt, were bared to that gaze.

But so, too, was his passionate devotion to Zaltec, and this was the knowledge Hoxitl sought.

"With this brand, your life belongs to Zaltec, everlasting master of night and war. Your blood, your heart, your very soul itself are his, to be spent as he desires, in the furtherance of his almighty name!"

"I understand and accept," Shatil intoned. He lifted his head and bared his teeth, preparing for the touch of Hoxitl's hand.

"Through this sign, let the might of Zaltec protect you! May it harden your skin, proof against the silver weapons of the enemy. May it sharpen your eye and quicken your wit, that when the killing begins, you shall neither falter nor fail!"

Joy surged through Shatil's body. He was ready now for the brand.

But in truth, nothing could prepare him for the searing agony that hissed into his skin, crackling like lightning through every nerve and fiber of his body. He stiffened reflexively but didn't cry out. Clenching his teeth, Shatil felt sweat break out across his face, trickling unhindered across his skin and onto the ground. Still he kept silent, grimacing. The leering face of the high priest filled Shatil's vision as Hoxitl leaned over him.

The stench of burned flesh wafted upward from the wound, and finally the patriarch pulled his hand away. Shatil swayed drunkenly, but then he felt a new, tingling sense of might surge through his body. He sprang to his feet, the brand still smoking on his chest.

Energy thrummed through his body. A fire blazed hot in his heart, and Shatil knew that he was ready to kill or die for Zaltec. He felt invincible. Numbly, striving to contain his exultation, he stepped to the side and watched.

One by one, a file of a dozen aspirants went through the ritual after Shatil. Several of these were Jaguar Knights, and a pair were priests of Zaltec, but most were common spearmen.

One of the spearmen cried out when the brand was applied, and the apprentices immediately lifted him to the altar, where Hoxitl tore out his heart and offered it to the statue in penance for the man's lack of faith. The remaining initiates accepted the brand, like Shatil, with the silence and stoicism of true fanatics.

At last they all stood in a row before Hoxitl. The high priest addressed them while the apprentices tossed the bodies of the ritual's victims down the back of the pyramid.

"You are brave, true men, and members of a sacred order — the cult of the Viperhand. Our purpose is the destruction of the strangers from across the sea, who threaten not only our land, but also our very gods themselves!" The priest paused, fixing each of them with his passionate gaze.

"Now I must command you to do a very difficult thing, in the name of Zaltec. I must order you to wait! Our numbers grow nightly, and soon we will have the forces we need to overwhelm them. Tomorrow they enter the city, and soon you will receive the command to attack!

"Until then, you must avoid the strangers. If you go near them, the power of Zaltec may compel you to kill!

"But I promise you this: When the time for action arrives, we shall strike, and strike quickly. There will be killing aplenty for each of you.

"And Zaltec will eat well."

At dawn the legion marched, ready for war but hoping for peace. The horsemen, lances ready, trotted in the lead, riding forward and back through the fields to either side of the road. The companies of sword and crossbow marched in loose ranks, ready for speedy deployment. The Kultakans and Payit warriors extended in an elongated column that trailed into the distance behind Cordell's veterans.

Below them lay the great city in its green and fertile valley. The four lakes sparkled in the rising sun, and the lush fields bore crops approaching the fullness of harvest.

And they knew that, at least for now, it would be peace, not war. The road was clear all the way onto a wide causeway that crossed the lake, straight into the city.

Leading his column, Cordell caught his breath at the grandeur of Nexal. Its buildings, great and small, gleamed in the sunlight. Among the whiteness of these structures, he saw bedazzling flashes of color from gardens and markets.

"Will the wonders of Helm never cease," murmured the Bishou as he and Darien rode up beside the commander. "Who would have thought these pagan savages could have built a place like this?"

Cordell's awed silence served as ample answer.

"They prepare to welcome us," observed Darien.

Indeed, as the legion quickened its pace into the valley, they saw feathered emissaries waiting for them before the causeway. A cool breeze eased the heat of the march, and the wonders arrayed before them gave the march an eager air of anticipation.

Soon the advance guard of horsemen reached the lake-shore, and by that time, they discerned additional details: The causeway had been strewn with flowers; a great crowd lined the streets of the city; and the emissaries were accompanied by finely wrapped bundles, indicating that Naltecona had sent yet more presents.

When they had reached the shore, they recieved the final proof of welcome. Cordell halted before the emissaries, but didn't dismount. His black eyes locked in a hard stare down the length of the causeway.

He guessed, correctly, that Naltecona came to greet him.

The Revered Counselor of Nexal, lordly master of the Heart of the True World, rode upon a feathered litter that hovered several feet off the ground like a soft, plump mattress. A canopy of pluma swung gently over his head, suspended magically to provide Naltecona with shade.

Before him came a procession of richly robed courtiers, spreading additional flowers on the causeway so that that his litter floated over a solid surface of blossoms. Behind the litter came several beautiful maidens, waving great fans over the counselor's head.

The litter floated along the causeway toward Cordell. Behind Naltecona came still more feathered, caped, and colorfully dressed Mazticans, bearing additional bundles of gifts. Nexalans lined both edges of the causeway and prostrated themselves, pressing their faces to the stones as their ruler floated past.

Halting several dozen paces from Cordell, the litter lowered to the ground and adjusted its form so that Naltecona rose smoothly to his feet, through no apparent effort of his own. The ruler stood tall and walked with immense dignity. A towering crown of emerald feathers waved high over his head. A brilliant framework of plumage accentuated and exaggerated the breadth of his shoulders. His handsome face was split by a sharp, aquiline nose, and his eyes observed with intelligence and curiosity, and perhaps a little awe.

Now Cordell dismounted, carefully walking forward so that the two men met exactly halfway between their different conveyances. Several steps behind him, the petite figure of Darien, heavily cloaked against the bright sun, followed to translate.

"My great captain-general" began Naltecona, "I welcome you and your men to my city. I invite you into my father's palace, there to stay as my honored guests."

After Darien translated, Cordell smiled smoothly, offering a slight bow. "This is an invitation I am grateful to receive," he replied. "Our reception to other places in Maztica has not always been so pleasant."

"We greet you with open hands," said Naltecona guilelessly. "But I must ask that your allies — our ancient enemies, the Kultakans — remain encamped on the shore of the lake and do not cross to our island."

"They will accompany us to the city," said Cordell, leveling his black eyes on the Revered Counselor.

"But there is insufficient room in the city," continued the Maztican lord. "And it will be difficult to persuade my people to — "

"They can sleep in the streets if they have to," interrupted the commander, "but the Kultakans enter the city with us."

"Very well." Naltecona dipped his head slightly in involuntary aquiescence.

In another minute, the Golden Legion started across the causeway. Silent, staring crowds of Mazticans stood along the path but gave them plenty of room. Canoes filled the lakes to either side of the roadway. Ahead of the legion loomed the fabulous, exotic city of Nexal, the Heart of the True World.

From the chronicles of Colon:

Before a tangled array of godhood, man awaits his fate.

The followers of Helm enter Nexal, and with them comes their powerful god. Zaltec seethes in resentment, and between the two immortal beings are sown the seeds of terror and confusion.

I feel the presence of the strangers all through the city. Their great beasts have been tethered beyond my temple door. Their stench is everywhere, and their hunger for gold is a palpable thing, a kind of hunger I have never felt before.

But even as the strangers hunger for gold, so does the cult of the Viperhand hunger for war. They have been restrained by the will of Naltecona, though this is a tenuous bond.

It will require but little pressure for the invaders to snap them free.