Viperhand

HOPE AND DESPAIR

"I am ready to see Chical now," Poshtli told the courtier who stood at the door of the throne room. With a deep sigh, he collapsed into the feather litter, having just dismissed the leaders of Nexal's merchant consortium. He did not look forward to this next meeting.

The traders had objected vehemently to his orders to provide their gold to the strangers, but Poshtli had convinced them with a combination of threats and pleas. After all, the merchants — a small group of individuals who controlled, from Nexal, trade across all the realms of the True World — depended on the Revered Counselor and the army for their influence. They couldn't very well dispute those sources of power without risking their station in the society of Nexal.

The Lord of Eagles, Poshtli knew, would be a different matter.

Chical stalked through the door. Unseen hands closed it behind him, leaving the warrior and the nobleman alone in the great chamber. Poshtli saw from the look in his old comrade's eyes that Chical already knew of the orders concerning the nation's gold.

"Thank you for coming to see me," began the nobleman. Despite his break with the order, he found that his affection for this crusty veteran remained undimmed.

Chical, however, seemed anything but affectionate. "How can you order our possessions given to the strangers?" he demanded. "Have you lost your senses? Your pride?"

Poshtli held up a weary hand. A day earlier, such an array of questions would have sent him flying toward Chical, hands clutching for the man's throat. Now, he reflected sadly, it had to be expected.

"My uncle has ordered it. He feels that there is a hope of making peace with the invaders, that if we fulfill their demands, they may leave us."

Chical scowled. "Why does he so desire this peace? Are we not a nation that has always gained our ends through war? And have we not emerged victorious from those wars? Why, now, this talk like an old woman?"

Poshtli rose to his feet and stepped toward the unflinching Chical. "You must remember your manners, my old friend. I will bear your insults so long, and no longer. And you shall not degrade my uncle's name!"

The venerable warrior's eyes widened slightly in surprise and perhaps a little pleasure at his former student's show of spirit, "Tell me," Chical repeated, trying to keep his voice reasonable, why has peace become so important?"

"Have you remained unaware of the portents, the signs?" asked Poshtli. Now it was his voice that took on an edge of hardness. "Naltecona has had dreams, visions that showed him the war that would result from a clash with these strangers. I, too, have seen these visions."

"The result, looming before us, is a world gone mad! This is no war such as you and I have known all our lives. This is a war that would wrack the land and leave only death in its wake — a war that cannot be allowed to happen."

Chical glared at Poshtli, and the younger man met his glare with a challenging stare of his own. Finally the Lord of the Eagles sighed.

"The Eagles will obey the wishes of the Revered Counselor and his nephew. But you must know that the priests of Zaltec will resist," Chical said. "Their cult thrives in the city now. It is rumored they have twenty thousand members. Do you think Hoxitl can keep them in check for long?"

"I don't know, my friend," said Poshtli, with another rush of affection for his old teacher. "But knowing that the fate of the world is at stake, we can only try."

Crimson coals flared in their braziers, casting their blood-colored light throughout the darkened temple. Heavy incense fogged the air, adding an unearthly touch to the scene, while the great statue of Zaltec leered, barely visible in the dim glow.

Shatil was profoundly moved by the pervasive atmosphere of the long room as he advanced to greet his high priest. "Praises to Zaltec," he whispered, bowing before Hoxitl.

"Master of night and war," concluded the patriarch. "And I thank you for answering my call."

Shatil bowed, modestly deferring the high priest's gratitude. "It is I who should thank you for the summons, for all the kindnesses you have shown me."

Indeed, the week that Shatil had spent in Nexal had been an enlightening and invigorating time for him, despite the invasive presence of the strangers within the same sacred compound as this temple. He had worked with Hoxitl and other venerable priests, performing rites on the Great Pyramid of Nexal, the living center of worship for Zaltec's faithful across the True World.

The brand of the Viperhand on his chest burned constantly, but it was a spiritual flame, not a physical hurt. The fire grew slowly inside of him, and he lived for the day when it would come bursting forth, a conflagration devoted to the glory of Zaltec!

And all around him were others, kindred souls who also knew the glory of Zaltec and prepared to work his everlasting vengeance. Yet of all these countless members, the thousands who had joined the cult of the Viperhand, Hoxitl had showed great favoritism to this youthful priest from an outlying village.

Shatil had learned some of the reasons for this with the shocking announcement that his sister was considered a great threat to the cult. At first, he had tried to deny this to himself, feeling certain that some mistake had been made.

But as he thought about it, certain things began to suggest otherwise. There was the matter of the stranger, Halloran, of whom Erixitl had spoken so warmly. Then, of course, she had encountered the couatl, and had been granted the gift of the strangers' language. This bespoke of some sort of destiny far beyond her fate as a slave girl or featherworker's daughter.

Most pressing was the fact that Shatil had no choice but to accept the decree of the Ancient Ones, since they formed the bedrock of his faith. He could not renounce that, nor did he want to. The matter of Erixitl was a sadness, but a necessity. Raised to respect the wishes of his bloodthirsty god, Shatil knew that he was thoroughly capable of carrying out the killing himself.

Now Shatil cautiously moved toward the altar, watching the crimson radiance of the coals wash over the great statue. Zaltec appeared, in the dim glow, to be a living presence.

"Do you understand that your sister is an enemy of Zaltec and a danger to the faith?" began Hoxitl quietly. Shatil nodded and listened, entranced by the cruel beauty of the statue behind the high priest. He saw movement in the shadowy corners of the room, taking little note of the jaguars slinking there.

"I have asked you to come here this morning because of the matter of Erixitl," Hoxitl continued. "She will return to the city soon, if she has not already. I have this task for you: "Naltecona has given the man, Halloran, a house. We have learned that this man and Lord Poshtli journeyed to Palul before the battle in order to find Erixitl. We suspect that when she returns, she will go to this house, or will enter the palace to see Poshtli.

"I myself am watching the young lord, which I can do easily. But your task is to go to this house and seek her, or await her, there."

"I have heard her talk of this man," said Shatil grimly.

"You must be careful," cautioned Hoxitl. "He is a very dangerous opponent. But you must not let him prevent you from performing your task." Hoxitl reached into a pouch at his waist, pulling forth a large, curved claw. The thing was shiny black in color and tapered from a wide, blunt end through a long hook, ending in a needle-sharp point. The talon seemed to have come from a very large jaguar.

"This is to aid you in your task," explained the patriarch. "But treat it with care. The slightest scratch from the tip will cause instant death." Shatil leaned closer, seeing that the claw had been hollowed out. A cork sealed the wide end.

"I shall use it well."

"You must," replied the patriarch. "It is called the Talon of Zaltec."

"Now tell me where to find this house," said Shatil, "and I will see that Erixitl never leaves it alive."

"Here, take my hand," urged Halloran.

"Where is your hand?" Erix asked. Their fingers touched finally, and they linked grips. "That's better," she admitted. "At least I know where you are now." She reached out a hand and touched his invisible body, as if to convince herself of the fact.

"If you can't see me, we can hope that the guards can't either" he told her, touching the side of her face in order to reassure himself as to Erixitl's location. The two of them stood in the shade of several trees, very close to the gate of the sacred plaza. It was nearly noon, they guessed, though the sun had remained masked by hazy overcast all morning.

"I don't know which I like less, not being able to see you, or not even being able to see myself." Her voice, unusually tentative, underlined her anxiety.

"We'll be in the palace in no time. Are you ready?" asked Hal, and felt Erix squeeze his hand in response. Several slaves hurried along the street beside them, but the avenue was otherwise empty. Moving quietly, they started toward the gate.

Halloran felt a smooth sense of confidence, though he understood full well the risks of their ultimate mission to free Naltecona. Finding Poshtli represented only the first step. Still, he felt excitement and anticipation such as he hadn't known for a long time. Perhaps it was the aura of invisibility. Or maybe he felt simple relief to again know a cause and a challenge. His doubts, the sense of alienness he had felt so strongly, all these things seemed to be behind him now.

Hal had swathed his boots in cotton, and he wore a cloth tunic over his steel plate armor. With his sword drawn and his scabbard lashed to his back, he could move with almost complete silence. The spellbook he carried in his backpack. Wrapped around his waist he brought the hishna-magic snakeskin that had bound him, long ago in Payit. The enchanted thing had power, he knew, and though he didn't know how to use it, he saw no purpose in leaving it behind. He knew they would need all of their resources to give their rescue plan a chance of success.

He remembered, too, the other potion bottle. Erixitl had panicked when he tried, once again, to sample it. In fact, she had insisted on carrying it, since he wouldn't leave it behind.

Erixitl, with her moccasins and loose dress, could also move quietly. Yet she currently felt none of Hal's self-assurance. The experience of invisibility she found decidedly unsettling. Her Cloak of One Plume encircled her shoulders, she knew, yet the fact that she could not see it disturbed her too, her sight had been full of darkness and shadows. She hadn't told Halloran, but a black sense of futility threatened to claim her, to drive her to despair.

Her dream seemed so real — Naltecona, perishing among the legionnaires atop the palace, the newly risen full moon illuminating the scene — that she wondered if there could be any hope of changing it. But she forced her hopelessness away, if only for Halloran's sake.

A pair of brawny legionnaires, armed with long-hafted weapons with the heads of axes, stood at one side of the single entrance to the sacred plaza. A pair of Jaguar Warriors stood opposite them, on the other side of the gates. This shared duty brought sharply home to Halloran the precarious balance that now existed in the city.

A light breeze circled around them, and one of the Jaguar Warriors sniffed and raised his head. Hal felt a moment of panic, but then the eddy settled and the guard turned back to his task, unalarmed. In another minute, a long file of slaves came down the street, carrying baskets of mayz and gourds of octal, the latter having proved quite popular among the strangers. Erix and Hal had no difficulty slipping through the opened gates beside the slaves.

They stopped in astonishment after they passed the long wall. Thousands of warriors, encamped in the sacred plaza, nearly filled the massive square. They clustered in camps around the great temples and palaces, Kultakans and Payits near one great palace, and Nexalan legions gathered around them.

"That must be the palace of Axalt," said Hal. He pointed to the huge, low building before remembering that Erix couldn't see his arm. She, too, had identified the place Cordell had made his headquarters — and Naltecona's prison. The high stone walls, with several balconies along the top edges, formed a solid barrier protecting the legion and its precious hostage.

Erix gasped and shrank backward suddenly as black gouts of smoke seemed to explode from the building, spreading an inky blackness across the plaza. Hal clutched her to him, not knowing the reason for her fear but sensing the terror coursing through her trembling body. Suddenly she shook her head and started forward. They crossed toward the palace of Naltecona, where Gankak had told them that Poshtli now dwelled, taking care to skirt the camps of warriors that lay in their path.

"How long until they can see us again?" asked Erixitl uncertainly.

"I don't know," Hal admitted. "But we have enough time to get inside." I hope, he added silently.

The entrance to Naltecona's palace passed through a pair of wide wooden doors, closed and guarded by Eagle Knights. Fortunately they opened frequently for groups of warriors, priests, or slaves. Hal and Erix slipped through behind a file of Maztican women who carried baskets of peppers and beans for the palace kitchens.

Once inside, they saw the familiar grand hallway proceeding straight before them, toward the great doors to Naltecona's — now Poshtli's — throne room. A lone nobleman stood outside. The man wore high sandals, a clean cotton tunic, and a small, shoulder-covering cape of green and red feathers.

Halloran and Erix moved slowly and carefully down the corridor until they stood within a few feet of the great doors. Making no sound, they observed the doors and the listlessly waiting courtier. Was Poshtli inside? They didn't know for certain, but Hal felt that the presence of a nobleman waiting at the door seemed like a good omen.

Abruptly the great portals opened, and a tall Eagle Knight stepped through. The man's posture was rigid, his eyes hard. As he emerged, Halloran was startled to see that the warrior was an old man, though he moved with the fluid ease of a young veteran.

Pulling Erixitl along, Hal darted through the opened door. The courtier followed, after bowing to the departing knight, and the invisible pair barely dodged to the side in time. Indeed, the man turned at the scuffing sound of their feet but faced the great throne when he saw nothing there.

Halloran and Erix saw Poshtli seated on the floating pluma throne of his uncle. The first thing striking them both was that their friend looked much older than when they had last seen him, in Palul.

"Shall I summon Hoxitl yet, my Lord Poshtli?" asked the nobleman.

"No!" Poshtli's voice was a harsh chop. Then he sighed, and his tone softened. "Not yet. I will talk to the priests later in the day. Now leave me, please."

With a deep bow, the man turned and departed, closing the great doors behind him. Erixitl and Halloran stood, silent and unseen, in the great throne room of Nexal.

They started forward awkwardly, and as they did, they saw Poshtli lean back in the throne. Tears wet his eyes, though they didn't flow down his cheeks.

Then his face twisted with an expression of utter, soul-wrenching grief.

Shatil found the house of Halloran easily. From the outside, the long, two-story structure seemed to be deserted. Since full daylight would last for several hours yet, he decided to watch the residence for a while. If necessary, he would enter after dark.

Entering a nearby garden, he found a low stone bench and seated himself — a priest at his meditations, a common enough sight in the city. For long hours, he surreptitiously observed the house. Once he saw a plump young slave depart from the front doors, returning an hour later with a basket of fruit. But there was no other sign of life in the place.

Finally dusk, then darkness, settled around Shatil, and he resolved to have a look inside. He left the garden and crossed the street. Silently he slipped into the open antechamber and looked around. He wore a stone knife in his belt and kept the Talon of Zaltec comfortably ready in his right hand.

The central courtyard of the house was empty, but he heard voices coming from the kitchen area near the back. Stealthily he moved through the garden, approaching the open door of the cooking area.

The small room was cheerily lit by a hearthfire and a pair of reed torches. Within, he saw two young women at work. One ground beans in a large clay bowl, while the other patted a paste into circular mayzcakes, using a broad, flat rock as her work surface. He paused for a moment, listening and watching.

"Horo?" asked one of the slaves, the one who had left to get the fruit earlier.

"Yes, Chantil?" replied Horo. She was a very tall and strikingly beautiful slave who appeared to be slightly older than her companion.

"Are the master and mistress in danger, do you believe? Will we see them again?" inquired Chantil, a tremor in her voice.

"Of course! Gankak says so, and he is far wiser than you or I. Surely you do not question his judgment." Horo spoke with an airy sense of confidence. Before they continued, Shatil grew impatient with his eavesdropping. He also felt certain that Erixitl would not be found in the house.

Both slaves looked up with gasps of surprise as the scarred priest of Zaltec stepped into the light. "Who is your master? Who is your mistress?" Shatil demanded.

The two women looked at each other, their eyes widening in terror. Then the tall one, Horo, summoned her courage. "Who are you?" she asked. "What do you want?"

Shatil struck quickly, slapping the slave across the face. In his hand, he held the Talon of Zaltec, and he scraped the tip of the claw across the slave's cheek.

Horo screamed and recoiled, clasping her hand to her face. The tiny wound showed as a thin line of pink. Then her eyes grew even wider, and her mouth worked soundlessly. In seconds, Horo sprawled to her back, her eyes open, staring at the ceiling, but seeing nothing more.

Chantil whimpered and tried to crawl away from the emaciated priest. Shatil raised his hand again but held his blow. "Is your mistress called Erixitl?"

Chantil nodded dumbly.

"And where is she now? Speak or die!"

The slave struggled to overcome her terror enough to speak. "Th — the palace — she has gone to — to see Poshtli!"

"Why?" demanded Shatil, threatening.

"They go — they go to rescue Naltecona!" cried the slave.

Shatil lowered his hand and turned toward the door. "You have done well, slave. Zaltec is pleased to leave you with your life."

But Chantil was not listening. Weeping, she crawled to the body of her friend as the priest of Zaltec disappeared into the darkness.

Gultec learned to fly, in the bodies of hawk and parrot and hummingbird. He swam as a fish. He climbed trees in the form of the howling monkey that commanded the jungle heights of Far Payit. And still he learned from Zochimaloc, studying the ways of the past and future course of the stars.

But now, too, he began to teach. Knowing of the coming of war, he tried to train the men of Tulom-Itzi as warriors. This task he immediately found to be impossible, for these folk were raised with none of the military traditions that played so strong a role in most of the nations of the True World.

The men of Tulom-Itzi thought it foolish to dress in gaudy colors to terrify their foe, and they lacked the individual skill with the maca that would allow them to stand and face even one rank of an enemy's army.

The one weapon they had mastered was the bow, and here Gultec found that the men of Tulom-Itzi excelled. Their weapons, made from hard jungle limbs, stretched taut only under a very powerful pull. Their arrows flew swift and true, and the heads — of sharks' teeth or clamshell — were every bit as hard as, and even sharper than, tips of obudian.

So Gultec adapted his tactics of war to the warriors of Tulom-Itzi. He taught them to skulk through the jungle, to strike from a distance, to retire at the approach of the enemy. In this way, he hoped that they might survive an engagement with an army of Payits or, perhaps, Nexalans. He knew that they could never stand against the foreigners of the Golden Legion. Zochimaloc, unfortunately, could provide him no information on the type of enemy they would have to fight.

As the moon crept toward fullness, Gultec drove himself and his warriors with savage intensity. Tulom-Itzi, with its vast area sprawling through many miles of jungle and clearing, he decided, was indefensible. He formed a plan: If attackers came against the city, the people would melt into the jungle, living there and harassing the enemy.

But all the while he felt a sense of wasted effort. He grew more and more certain that Far Payit, on the distant fringe of the True World, would not be the scene of a cataclysmic war. Finally this certainty led him to decision, and he sought Zochimaloc in the observatory, under the growing light of the moon.

"Teacher," he began, speaking boldly to his wizened mentor, "you have given me knowledge of things I never imagined, provided me judgment I have never possessed. You have told me that this is because Tulom-Itzi needs me to ready your city and land for war."

Zochimaloc nodded, unsmiling. His eyes were soft.

"In using this judgment, I have decided that I must leave Far Payit, leave these lands and learn more about the nature of the threat you perceive."

Now the teacher's head bobbed in a slow, sympathetic nod.

"I will endeavor to return when I am needed, for the learning you have given me is a debt that I can only begin to repay. But until then, I must travel elsewhere to seek the future."

"Where will you go?" asked Zochimaloc finally. Gultec noticed that his teacher showed not the slightest bit of surprise.

"You have given me the powers to fly across the land. I shall go everywhere, until I find that which I need to know."

Zochimaloc smiled gently. "I have given you precious little, my proud jaguar. All I have done is to help you open doors to powers you have always possessed. But let me give you one last thing before you depart: advice."

The old man chuckled grimly. "Do not try to go everywhere, for that will lead you nowhere. Instead, know that, if you wish to save a life, you must save the heart." Zochimaloc sighed and pressed a hand to the warrior's shoulder.

"And the Heart of the True World is Nexal."

From the chronicles of Colon:

In amusement for the massive vanities of men.

And even the Ancient Ones, the drow elves who live for centuries and consider themselves as gods, even they are caught up in the disaster of their own arrogance.

They believe that the cult of the Viperhand is their tool, used to subvert the humans of Maztica to their own path. Even Zaltec, in the minds of the drow, has been reduced to a plaything and servant.

They forget their own god, Lolth; and the spider queen does not take such neglect kindly. They insult Zaltec with their disdain for his might, while all the while they feed his hunger by pouring hearts into the Darkfyre.

One day, and it will come soon, the gods will grow tired of their pompous vanity. Then they — we all — will have to pay.