Viperhand

THE LAST SUNSET

"No, by Helm — we cant be lost!" Halloran shouted, bashing his fist against the wall of the tunnel. Frustration threatened to tear him apart. His mind burned with countless pictures of Erixitl's fate at the hands of his former comrades-in-arms.

For hours, the three men had pushed themselves frantically through the network of tunnels, backtracking, exploring, desperately seeking a way out. All around them extended connecting passages — apparently identical tunnels, with new intersections, changes in elevation, secret corridors, and hidden chambers every hundred paces. The priest, Erixitl's brother, threw himself into the hunt as diligently as did Poshtli and Hal.

"We'll get out," Poshtli said grimly, pushing himself to his feet following a brief rest. They had paused only for at moment, but he, too, felt the urgency that would not allow them to remain idle.

"I'm sure we've been going down," Hal guessed, frantic at the thought that they had left Erixitl far behind them. "We're underground by now."

"You might be right. Let's look around for some way to climb." Poshtli gestured to the stone ceiling. They had seen several rotting wooden ladders leading upward in various places.

Shatil remained silent, watching Hal and Poshtli growl and bluster. A part of him — the man — admired the passion with which they wanted to rescue his sister; another part — the servant of Zaltec — hoped with equal passion for success, so that he could perform his god-appointed task and slay her.

The priest lit another of his reed torches from the tump of the last one. "I have only two left," he reported softly. "We will soon find ourselves in darkness."

Halloran whirled on the priest, ready to snarl his anger with this last announcement. Shatil met his gaze coolly, and suddenly Hal felt very foolish. "All the more reason to keep moving," he grunted.

Once again they started along a narrow corridor — a corridor that looked just like a hundred other such passages. "How long have we been down here?" Hal asked, trying to bite back his despair.

"Most of the day, I think," Poshtli replied. "It must be approaching sunset." He didn't elaborate. Both of them fully understood the significance of Erix's premonition. With sunset would come the rising of the full moon, and — if she had seen the truth — shortly afterward would follow the death of Naltecona.

As they plodded along, Halloran turned and saw Shatil studying him, an expression of puzzlement across his features. "What is it?" asked the former legionnaire.

"I am wondering," replied the priest, pointing to Hal's waist, "how it is that you come to carry a band of hishna. Talonmagic, so I believed, is used only by the priests of my order. Or are you a master of hishna as well?"

"No," Hal replied. He looked at the snakeskin strap wound around him. "This was used to imprison me once, long ago in Payit. When I was freed, I kept it."

"It is a potent token," the priest declared.

"So I learned." Halloran vividly remembered the difficulty he had had with the snakeskin. It had grown into a long, flexible thong that had wrapped around him tightly. When Daggrande tried to cut it with his dagger, the steel edge had dulled without making a mark on the strap.

"Look!" Shatil cried suddenly as the other two marched quickly before him. He pointed to a small alcove beside the corridor that Poshtli and Hal, in their haste, had somehow missed.

"What is it?" grunted Hal, peering into the shadows.

"A ladder" replied Shatil. "Leading up."

"Look at them, Captain. They just sit there, watching. What do you make of it?" Cordell turned to Daggrande, waiting for an answer. The dwarf stood beside him on the roof of the palace of Axalt. The broad expanse of planks stretched flat around them, surrounded by a low parapet at the edge of the roof. In the center of the palace, several great peaks of thatch extended high into the sky, marking the throne room and the larger halls. Except for these peaks, the top of the palace consisted of a broad, open platform.

"Makes me damned uneasy, General." The dwarf squinted across the sacred plaza, through the long shadows cast by the lowering sun.

He saw tens of thousands of Nexalan warriors gathered all around the fringes of the plaza and spilling forward in great groups around their temples and pyramids. They wore feathers and carried clubs, macas, and spears. Occasionally one group would mutter some kind of chant, not loud enough to be a battle cry but nevertheless a sinister and unsettling sound. All day long the warriors had gathered, their numbers swelling from the apparently inexhaustible populace of the great city.

Below them, arrayed in camps around the palace of Axalt, the ranks of Kultakan and Payit warriors watched nervously, weapons close at hand. The twenty-five thousand-men of their allies, appearing so numerous when they marched into the city, now seemed badly outnumbered by the Nexalans. The five hundred men of the Golden Legion, garrisoned within the walls of the palace itself, looked across this formidable array and prayed for peace.

"There's that priest again," grunted Daggrande.

Cordell looked to the highest pyramid, and he saw the black-robed patriarch of Zaltec. Many of the Nexalans gathered around that edifice, and they could see him gesticulating. The harsh bark of his voice carried across the plaza, though even had they known his language, the words would have remained indistinguishable because of the distance.

"It looks ugly," Cordell muttered. "You can feel the hatred and the anger"

"Can't really blame them for that," Daggrande noted. "They have to know Naltecona's not here of his own will."

"And the gold?" challenged the captain-general angrily. "They've stopped bringing it to us." Indeed, the steady deliveries of golden objects and dust had abruptly ceased earlier in the day.

Daggrande looked at his commander with a trace of alarm. The pile of gold they had already collected would be a challenge to transport from Nexal. More importantly, one look at the obviously hostile assemblage around the legionnaires should have warned them all that they had more pressing concerns.

Cordell looked at the sun, about to set over the shoulder of Mount Zatal. A plume of steam marked the summit of the massif, casting a shadow across much of the city. He looked back at the Nexalans, worried.

"Send for Naltecona," he ordered abruptly. "He will speak to his people. He must convince them of the folly of an attack!"

Daggrande nodded and turned away. As he went to the ladder that led down into the palace, he cast a last look at the vast and growing horde around them.

Folly for whom? he wondered.

"Chitikas!" Erixitl gasped in shock, and then delight. "You have returned!"

The couatl hovered in a loose coil, the brilliant down that covered his brightly colored body gleaming in the last rays of the sun. His long, slender form remained airborne, with only the tip of his plumed tail trailing on the floor. His huge golden wings beat very gently, their trailing plumes floating up and down with each leisurely movement.

Flicking his forked tongue in and out of his mouth, the couatl fixed Erixitl with a level stare. His yellow eyes, vertically slitted, did not blink.

"I have returned — that is what I said," hissed the feathered snake with more than a hint of impatience. "When mortals fail to understand and act upon their circumstances, one such as I — "

"Fail to act!" Erix held her voice low, but her delight became sudden fury that struck the smug couatl like a blow in the face." Who has failed to act? Where have you been since you disappeared in Payit? What do you mean coming here now, on the very night portrayed in my dream, and telling me I have failed to act?" She gestured at Alvarro's corpse, still warm beside her. "Why couldn't you have come an hour ago? Or a tenday ago?"

"That is enough," said Chitikas, with a trace of his old haughtiness. "Let us act now."

"What do you propose?" Erix, her anger not forgotten, regarded the feathered serpent suspiciously.

The sunlight, streaming in from the west, began to fade. Erixitl pictured the full moon, cresting the horizon to the east.

"Perhaps we should go to the roof." The way Chitikas phrased the words, it sounded almost like a question.

"You must tell them to disperse!" Cordell barked. Darien immediately translated, and Naltecona looked at the general with an expression of utmost fatigue.

"You ask the impossible. Can you not see that they have been summoned by a higher command than my own? You yourselves have robbed my voice of the authority it once had. They will not listen to me."

"Do you want to avoid a war?" demanded Cordell, his voice dropping to a menacing snarl. "Or do you want us to unleash our powers against your city?"

Naltecona sighed, a heartbreaking sound. "The unleashing of power is something neither I nor you can any longer control. No, I do not wish to see this war. My dreams have shown me the inevitable result — a disaster for all."

"Then speak to them, Helm curse you!" Cordell snapped the words and then whirled away, struggling to regain his self-control. The Revered Counselor was a proud man, he knew, and one could push a proud man just so far.

Surprisingly, however, Naltecona started for the edge of the roof overlooking the plaza below. He stopped, clearly visible to all the warriors on this, the eastern side of the palace. Though the sun had set, the full moon before him rose into a sky still blue with the fading light of dusk. Naltecona's voice, when he spoke, thrummed with the vibrant power of rulership.

"Hear me, my people!" A dull silence settled over the assembled masses of warriors, extending slowly, like a ripple across a pond, to the far limits of the plaza.

My heart knows the pain you feel, and my soul understands the needs of honor! But this is a time when we must swallow our pain. As for honor, my own allows me to dwell here, as the guest of the foreigners. Does that not prove that we are not dishonored?"

A rumble of displeasure rose from the Nexalans. Below them, next to the palace wall, the Kultakans nervously fingered their weapons.

"I must ask you to to show patience — more patience even than you have shown already. I understand the difficulty of restraint."

Howls of indignation, shrieks, and whistles of anger, all these sounds erupted from the multitude of warriors and priests gathered below. Upon many, Naltecona saw the gleaming red scar of the Viperhand. The cult seemed to lead the way, but the counselor knew that all Nexal stood prepared to follow.

"I have seen the future! If we follow the path of war, only disaster can follow — disaster such as our fathers could not have imagined!" Naltecona's voice grew strident as he strived to make himself understood. "My people, listen to me!"

But by now it was already too late.

Full darkness settled over the room before the sinuous body of Chitikas Couatl encircled Erixitl. The feathered snake drove his wings with that same leisurely beat. Yet somehow, without visible effort, he propelled himself faster and faster, his rainbow-hued form blurring into a ring of color around her. Sudden light flashed, very bright, in the room.

In the next instant, Erix stood upon the roof of the palace, still encircled by the whirling Chitikas. The Cloak of One Plume billowed outward. The snake quickly floated to a stop, coiled in the air beside her, but she had already forgotten him.

Instead, her eyes locked onto the scene before her — the exact image of her dream!

Nahecona stood at the edge of the flat roof, against the rim of wall, perhaps two feet high, that encircled this portion of the palace. The peak of thatch towered behind her, sheltering Chitikas and Erixitl in its shadow.

The rest of the area, of course, stood clearly illuminated in the pale wash of the just-risen full moon. Cordell, Darien, the Bishou, and the dwarven captain, Daggrande, stood around the Revered Counselor in a loose semicircle. Beyond them, filling the plaza like a thick carpet of humanity, seethed the warrior mass of the Nexala.

Erixitl stared as cold, inexorable fear gripped her soul. She felt as though she was observing a play on a stage, a performance aloof and detached from her involvement. She could do nothing as events unfolded.

Then she shook her head, her black hair floating tike a cloud around her. She had been brought here for a purpose, she knew. In her determination to act, she had overlooked a thing she had learned before.

The purposes of Chitikas Couatl were not given easily to understand.

"Push! The cursed thing has to open!" urged Halloran, below Poshtli on the narrow ladder.

"I–I can't move it" gasped the warrior, slumping away from the tightly shut trap door above them.

"Let me try!" Hal squeezed to the side as Poshtli dropped several rungs to allow his companion to reach the top.

Hal feared for the destruction of this land, for he believed implicitly in Erixitl's premonition. But mostly he drove himself forward because of fear for her and bitter hatred for those who imprisoned her and threatened all his hopes. He had to reach her!

Feathermagic pulsed around his wrist. His fist crashed upward, and the trap door cracked in two, each piece flying back from the opening. He sprang through the opening, drawing Helmstooth in the same motion, not knowing whether they had reached a palace chamber, courtyard, or garden.

Or roof. He looked around at a broad, flat expanse. He saw a group of legionnaires some distance away and heard a vague rumbling from the vast square around them. The sound had apparently masked the noise of his emergence from the soldiers, for none of the men-at-arms turned toward him. Swiftly Poshtli, and then Shatil, climbed from the trap door.

They were on the roof of a palace, Hal saw the palace of Nahecona's father, Axalt. They hadn't wandered as far as Hal had feared during their subterranean explorations. He saw the Revered Counselor, apparently addressing the unruly gathering below. Slowly, with shocking awareness, he took in the huge numbers of warriors gathered across the plaza.

"There must be a hundred thousand of them!" he breathed in awe.

"More," Poshtli said quietly, his trained warrior's eye assessing the throng.

"Where is my sister?" Shatil wondered, looking quickly around.

Crouching where they stood, the moon casting their shadows long across the roof, they searched the area with their eyes. They saw dozens of legionnaires and their captains, together with the wizard and the Bishou. All stared at the drama before them, sensing Naltecona's failure to appease the crowd. Most of the roof lay exposed to the cool moonlight, though the thatched peaks left a few areas of deep shadow.

"She's not here," Halloran said nearing despair.

"Look!" Poshtli whispered, pointing to the crowd below. They saw the Nexalans surging angrily toward the palace, a stormy sea of humanity around their perilous island. Yet the warriors did not attack. "Erixitl's dream — the death of Naltecona among the legion! It could happen now!"

Hal shook his head. "I can't believe Cordell would have him killed. Not now, not like this. Naltecona is the only thing holding them at bay."

"Hey! You over there!"

The harsh bark of a sentry told them that they had been discovered. Halloran whirled to see several crossbowmen, their heavy weapons menacing, advancing from the opposite portion of the roof.

"It's Halloran!" shouted one of the sentries. Instantly the attention of the captains turned toward the trio, clearly illuminated in the bright moonlight. For a moment, Hal thought of diving through the dark trap door beside them. The three of them could easily disappear into those narrow tunnels.

But that course was an admission of failure, and he wasn't ready to admit that they had failed. He saw Darien, her pale face studying them coolly, and he remembered her spellbook in his pack. He seized upon a desperate hope.

"I want to talk to you," he called, meeting Cordell's eyes.

"Come forward," said the captain-general cautiously. "Keep your hands in plain sight." He watched them approach for several moments. "That's close enough."

Hal, flanked by Poshtli and Shatil, stopped about ten paces short of his old commander. Beside Cordell, he saw the albino elfmage, still regarding him with a gaze so devoid of emotion it reminded Halloran of a reptile's.

The crowd beyond the palace surged noisily. Naltecona turned away from them, regarding the confrontation curiously.

"I want to make a trade," Halloran said, looking at Darien. "I have your spellbook — and you have a person who means very much to me… to us. I offer you the book in return for the woman."

Cordell looked at Darien, an expression of cool interest on his face. The wizard, to the surprise of all of them, began to laugh. The sound had a cruel, harsh ring to it.

"We must go to them!" whispered Erixitl, her voice straining with urgency. "There is little time!"

"Wait," said Chitikas calmly. They remained in the dark shadow below a peak of the roof, unseen by the others before them.

Erix looked at the couatl in surprise, then shook her head vehemently. "I'm going!"

She started forward, sensing the snake sigh heavily beside her. After one step, however, her foot stuck to the planks below her. She tried to turn on Chitikas and found her other foot equally immobilized. She couldn't move.

Twisting her body, she angrily opened her mouth to demand that he free her. But no words came forth. He held her spellbound.

"Wait" ordered the couatl again. "We cannot be seen yet."

And Erix could only turn to watch, as dull horror rose within her soul.

"What is the humor?" the captain-general asked his mistress. "I should think it a sensible exchange — your spellbook for Halloran's woman."

"The humor is in this man's foolish naivete!" Darien barked, her mouth still twisted in grim amusement. Her eyes, however, remained cold and lifeless.

Halloran felt a chill of fear.

"He is in my power now," Darien continued. "Without the wench to protect his body, my magic can tear the secret of the spellbook from his mind!

"But before your soul becomes mine," she added, "there is another thing you should know."

Now Halloran's blood froze in his veins, and he imagined her words before she spoke.

"Your woman is already dead!"

"What?" demanded Cordell. "She was under my protection. How dare you-"

"Your protection?" Darien scoffed. "Like the legion is under your protection — the safety of your wisdom, your keen planning?"

"What do you mean? Explain yourself!" Cordell growled. The legionnaires edged nervously back, never having witnessed such an exchange between the general and his elven mistress.

"You have been a useful tool," she sneered, "but that use is finished. The girl is dead…"

The pause that followed seemed to leave room for the sun to rise and set, yet still that bright, full moon hung suspended in the sky.

"And know this," Darien continued, almost conversationally. "There will be war."

Suddenly she raised her finger and barked a sharp, magical command. A bolt of hot magic burst like an arrow from her finger, slashing forward to explode in her victim's chest. Another, and a third, and still more magic missiles darted forth. Each struck deep into her target's blistered skin, crackling and sizzling with arcane power, ripping his body apart, driving him backward. Blue sparks hissed while the others stood, shocked and speechless.

As the spell finally waned, Naltecona's torn and bleeding form tottered on the edge of the roof. A sudden hush fell across the mob below. Then, already dead, the mangled figure of the Revered Counselor toppled from the roof to crash to the paving stones of the plaza below.

Magic still sparked across the roof, a residue of the killing power that had slain Naltecona. This power sizzled as light, flaring upward and then falling back, casting everything alternately in brightness and shadows.

As the light pulsed, Halloran stared at Darien, watching her in stunned, disbelieving shock. In the brightness, her skin gleamed with the alabaster whiteness caused by her albinism.

Yet in the shadows, it seemed to be dark, as black as any drow's.

From the chronicles of Colon:

Now the True Wbrld stands poised at the brink of chaos. My fingers tremble, and my brushes move unsteadily across the page. I must put them down, and I hold my breath as the fate of the land takes shape.