Viperhand

DEATHSBLOOD

The crimson heat of the Darkfyre lit the cavern in a hellish glow. A dozen black-robed figures stood about the vast caldron, watching the seething mass of the blood-drenched blaze.

"More!" commanded the Ancestor, his voice a rasping hiss.

Another one of the Harvesters stepped forward, carrying the basketful! of his night's reaping. Reaching a bloodstained hand into the basket, the Harvester drew forth a lump of flesh that had, hours earlier, pumped life through the veins of a Nexalan captive.

But that heart had been ripped forth by Hoxitl, a bloody tribute to his brutal god. Then, when the priest and his attendants had left the pyramid, the Harvester had arrived. Each Harvester traveled the secret ways of the Ancient Ones, teleporting nightly from the Darkfyre to the sacrificial pyramids throughout the True World.

This one had claimed the hearts left atop the Great Pyramid of Nexal. It had taken him but moments to pull the still-warm hearts from the gaping mouth of the statue where Hoxitl had thrown them. Placing the grisly tributes in his basket, the Harvester had returned them to the Highcave in the space of a blink.

"More — make it burn!" hissed the black-robed Ancestor again, and the Harvester hurled the rest of his basket into the caldron. The Darkfyre hissed upward in greedy acceptance of the nourishment.

"We face a great challenge," the Ancestor finally said, speaking very slowly. "I do not need to remind you that we stand alone, forsaken by our kin, even by Lolth herself. Since the time of the Rockfire, we have been isolated, and yet we persevere.

"And so we must nurture our new god, feed the fires of our own power, and show our will to these savage humans. This is our task.

"Spirali set out to do this task, to work our will in the form of the girl's death. Though he was granted even the aid of the hellhounds, he failed. His death is just recompense for that failure."

"The girl has come here, to Nexal," said one of the robed drow after more than an hour had passed. The great city sprawled in the valley below them, for the Highcave was set high in the flank of the great volcano, Zatal, that overlooked the city.

"Indeed," replied the Ancestor. "Finally she comes to us, that she may be slain."

"It will not be easy," cautioned the drow. "It is said that she has the protection of Naltecona's nephew. Lord Poshtli."

There was no reply as the Ancient Ones absorbed this news. Poshtli was well known throughout Nexal as an intelligent, capable, and utterly fearless warrior-noble.

"Poshtli helped them to kill Spirali," said the Ancestor. "For this, he should be made to suffer. The girl's death may be just the beginning."

"Did they learn our nature when Spirali died?" asked another drow. The Ancient Ones took great pains to conceal their racial identity from the humans of Maztica.

"Who knows? And I do not care." The Ancestor wheezed as he continued. "Great events have occurred, and others are about to begin. A chain of destiny is unfolding, and the secret of our race will become insignificant as this chain advances."

"The cult of the Viperhand gains strength daily," offered another drow after further long pause.

"Good. Let the cult of violence grow like a weed, that it will be ready when we call upon it" The Ancestor nodded his satisfaction.

The ancient elf drew himself to his full height before continuing. "Remember the prophecy! Our destiny will be realized when we defeat the last obstacle, the one who is chosen by Qotal to be his champion. The chosen one is not a warrior or priest, as we had once supposed. No, it is this young woman!

"When she has been removed from our path, the death of Naltecona will open the way for us! When the Revered Counselor perishes, the cult of the Viperhand will see that we gain mastery over the True World!"

The Ancestor looked at the robed drow around him, his expression challenging each to dispute his words. Satisfied, he concluded with a voice grown suddenly firm.

"Nor does it matter whether or not she or her companions know who we are. What does matter is that she gives her heart to Zaltec soon! She must die!"

With a soft hiss, the Darkfyre rose and sparked in its caldron, then settled back with a rumble, as if it chuckled in gleeful agreement.

The inside of the lodge filled with smoke, steam, and sweat. The red glow of the low-banked fires cast the slick, bronze skin of the building's naked occupants in a crimson sheen. One of the warriors threw more water on the coals, and another cloud of steam hissed into the air.

This was the sweatlodge of the Order of Eagles, and the highest-ranking warriors of that avian banner had gathered to welcome Poshtli home in the cleansing ritual of the elite fraternity.

The returned warrior sat at the head of the lodge, between Chical and Atzil, two old veterans of the Eagle Knights. For the first time since their arrival in Nexal that day, Poshtli felt as though he had really come home.

After he arranged for quarters for Hal and Erix, he had spent a frustrating hour trying to arrange a meeting with his uncle, the great Naltecona. Finally, at sunset, he learned that the counselor had left the palace to attend the sacrifices on the Great Pyramid. Surprised and slightly worried, Poshtli, too, had departed the royal grounds to enter the city. He had come to this sturdy lodge, the headquarters of the Order of the Eagle Knighthood.

For a long time, the two dozen or so men who occupied the lodge sat in silence, letting the perspiration drip from their bodies, driving confusion and doubt from their minds. As the sweat trickled from their pores, they felt a purification that extended deep into their bodies, reaching even to their warrior souls. With the stoicism of their military fraternity, they sat uncomplaining as the heat intensified and the steam grew thicker and thicker, penetrating deep into their lungs with each deep, rhythmic breath.

"It is good to cleanse myself again," said Poshtli after a long silence.

"You have been gone a long time," Chical answered. "In the wilds, they tell me."

"Yes. I have not entered a lodge of Eagles since I left Nexal. But on this journey, I have seen many other things."

"They tell me you have met one of the strangers, a white man," said Chical.

Chical was old and bent at the waist, with a face covered with wrinkles. His long hair was pure white, and he kept it tied in a braid that reached his waist. Like most Mazticans, his body was virtually devoid of hair except for that on his head. He was the Honored Grandfather, the leader of the Eagle Knights — a proud warrior in his prime, whose wisdom and intelligence allowed him to lead the Eagles even though his physical peak was long past.

"Indeed I did, Father," replied Poshtli, using the honorary term for his teacher and mentor. He described Halloran to the others. "The invaders are strange men, and the monsters that they call 'horses' are fast and fearsome," he concluded. "But they are not gods or demons — they are undeniably men. Halloran is a courageous warrior, and his sword is sharper than any maca in Maztica."

He related what he had heard about the battle of Ulatos, where a small force of the strangers had routed a huge army of Maztican warriors.

"Pah!" uttered Atzil, the venerable warrior on Poshtli's other side. "How can you compare Payit warriors to the Nexal? Perhaps these white men did defeat the Payit, but it is inconceivable that their small numbers represent any threat to the Heart of the True World!"

Poshtli shook his head. "I mean no disrespect, but counsel you to observe and study these strangers before taking action."

"Wise words, my son," said Chical, nodding. "An Eagle flies always with the army of the strangers. Our latest word is that they are preparing to march again. We do not know where they will go, however."

"They will come to Nexal," said Poshtli without a moment's hesitation.

"How can you be so sure?" demanded Atzil, the sudden tension in his voice belying his previous assertion of confidence.

"They are shrewd, and they hunger for gold. These are two things I have learned about the strangers. They will learn as much as they can about Maztica before they act. They are certain to discover that nowhere in the True World will they find as much gold as we have here."

"Certainly they would not think they could march to Nexal and take our gold," demanded Atzil indignantly.

"I do not know," replied Poshtli, shaking his head. "But I would not be surprised to see them try."

"My son, there has been much talk of these strangers during your absence," broke in Chical gently. Poshtli noticed, with surprise, that the other warriors had silently slipped from the lodge. Now just the three of them sat in the long, dark room. A slave entered quietly and threw more water on the heated rocks, sending another cloud of steam into the air. The mist hung heavy in the air of the lodge.

"This man who came with you, the one you call Halloran, has been expected," Chical explained. "There are some who wish to speak with him. But there are others who wish to see his heart given to Zaltec at the earliest possible time."

Poshtli sat up straight. "Is this the way we treat the guests of Naltecona?" he demanded.

"Silence!" Chical's voice grew momentarily harsh, then it softened. "It is not certain, but the cries for his heart come from the very highest authority! And, as yet, he is not Naltecona's guest — he is yours."

"But my uncle will welcome him!" protested the young Eagle. In truth, Poshtli grew suddenly concerned. He had been surprised when his uncle, the Revered Counselor, had been too busy to see him this afternoon, following his return to the city. Now he began to wonder if Naltecona had avoided him for a different reason.

"That is not certain," interjected Atzil, "for other voices may carry more weight."

"More weight? What higher authority can there be than the Revered Counselor?"

"Zaltec himself," said Chical simply. "Zaltec may desire his heart."

"Through the words of his Ancient Ones?" asked Poshtli, unable to keep the scorn from his voice. He remembered the death of the Ancient One called Spirali, slain by himself and Halloran. Hal had referred to the creature as a drow and had explained that there was nothing supernatural about them, though there was a great deal that was evil. The warrior knew that his comrades weren't ready for that tale yet.

"Do not underestimate the powers of Zaltec," warned Chical — "You are young and strong. We know of your bravery, and your recent accomplishment even suggests a capacity for wisdom." The venerable Eagle smiled slightly, taking the sting from his words. "But you are no match for the cult of Zaltec."

"The man comes to Nexal under my protection! Anyone who tries to take him will first have to deal with me!"

"You are a proud Eagle, my son." Chical met Poshtli's gaze squarely. "The order is also proud of you. Never has one so young proven himself of such worth. You have commanded the army on campaigns to gather many prisoners; you have fought and bested the bravest warriors of Kultaka and Pezelac. Now you have embarked on a quest for a vision and have gained that vision to return with this stranger.

"You are a great Eagle Warrior, Poshtli," Chical continued, his voice stern. "And you have sworn your obedience to the order. If you are told to leave the stranger in the hands of others, you will obey."

Chical rose suddenly, with the fluid motion of a much younger man. Atzil, too, stood.

"You have no choice," concluded Chical softly. He and Atzil turned and left the lodge.

Poshtli sat alone, dumbfounded. He stared into the air, seeking an answer. But all he saw was the smoke and the ash and the steam.

The white-skinned hand held the quill lightly, carefully scribing the symbols from the scroll into the leather-bound tome. As each symbol was copied, it flared briefly into bluish light before disappearing from the scroll. Finally the spell was reproduced in the book, and Darien tossed the now-useless parchment of the scroll aside.

Many blank pages remained in that volume, yet this was the last of the wizard's scrolls. The rest of her incantations would remain lost to her…

Until she recovered her spellbook.

Darien's tight lips curled into a sneer of hatred as she thought of the treacherous Halloran. His betrayal of the legion, his escape from imprisonment, these were only minor matters to the elfmage. But, she vowed as she had vowed many times before, for the theft of her spellbook, he would die.

Shaking her head, she saw with irritation that sunrise had begun to color the sky beyond the window of her room. Outside, she heard Cordell and his officers barking commands, preparing the legion for the march.

Unconsciously tightening her hood around her face, though the hateful sun would not crest the horizon for several more minutes, she pondered her own goals. Her hatred for Halloran simmered low as she considered more immediate concerns.

The march on Nexal would begin today. She sensed Cordell's passion for the mission and knew that she could do nothing to alter his aims. For a moment, she felt as though she was losing control of things, that events had started to move forward without her. Grimly she shook off the notion, standing and gathering her own possessions to herself. She couldn't allow that to happen, couldn't let the future plot its own course.

Control — her control — meant everything.

"Poshtli didn't return here last night, did he?" asked Halloran. He had slept late and now wandered sleepily into the enclosed garden, where he found Erix.

"Nor this morning," she replied. She sat quietly, looking thoughtfully into the garden's fountain. Idly she picked up a peach and took a bite of the juicy fruit. Halloran noticed his own hunger and took a half melon from the bowl of fruit that had been delivered to their quarters.

He carried the leather-bound spellbook with him. At first he had intended to sit out here in the garden and study it. His early training as an apprentice magic-user lingered in his mind, at least enough so that he could understand some of the simpler portions of Darien's book.

But now such a pursuit seemed a dull way to start the day, and so he returned the tome to his knapsack. There he found the two potion bottles. One, he knew, caused invisibility, but the effects of the second were unknown. He picked up the second bottle, looking at the clear glass vial curiously.

"No!" Erixitl's scream almost caused him to drop the vial. Instead he set it back in the pack and looked at her in surprise. Her face had paled with fear.

"That one — it frightens me!" she said softly. "Throw it away!"

"That doesn't make any sense!" he argued. He resolved to sample the vial and learn its contents sometime when Erix wasn't watching.

"So there has been no word from Poshtli?" Hal ventured.

Erix seemed relieved at the new topic of discussion. "I wonder what he told his uncle," she mused. "How much do you think Naltecona has heard about your legion?"

"It's not 'my' legion anymore."

Hal vividly remembered his last view of his former comrades, the elite company of lancers. Under the command of the brutal Captain Alvarro, they had ridden amok, stampeding like animals among the Mazticans who had gathered to watch the battle at Ulatos. Uncounted hundreds had died simply to slake the man's thirst for blood. Indeed, it had been Alvarro's charge toward Erix that had forced Hal to take up arms against the legion.

"I'm certain Naltecona has heard enough to make him concerned." Halloran spoke, as did she, in Nexalan, now feeling quite comfortable with the tongue.

"Poshtli will make him understand!" exclaimed Erix enthusiastically. "I know he will. He seems terribly wise for one so young."

Halloran turned away, suddenly tense. He looked at the beauty around them, but all he could see was a strange, foreign world. What did Maztica know of wisdom? Of understanding? These people marched complacently up the steep pyramids, offering their lives and their hearts to a god!

What kind of god would ask such a price? And what kind of people would obey? Maztica remained a dark puzzle to Hal, a place that made him feel very much lost and alone.

Yet, despite his loneliness, there was Erix. Hal couldn't help but contrast the frightening aspect of Maztica with her. Even if he had another place to go, Hal wasn't certain that he could leave her.

"Do you remember that night, back in Payit, when we thought we had escaped?" he asked her. The warmth of that night, which they had spent sleeping — albeit chastely — in each other's arms was a memory that seemed to grow warmer with each reminiscence. It had been a time before their enemies surrounded them, when the land had seemed to beckon them with opportunity.

Also, it had been a night of closeness they had not repeated since. He studied her face as he asked the question.

"Yes — yes, of course," she said quickly. A flush crept over her features, and she looked away from him.

"I wish, somehow, that we could go back to that feeling of…"

Of… what? Simple love? He couldn't define even for himself what he was trying to say. He gritted his teeth in frustration. Why couldn't he tell her how he felt?

Erix stood and looked at him with understanding. "We can't go back to that. We have enemies now… the priests of Zaltec and the Ancient Ones certainly still seek us, though perhaps we have avoided them for a while. And the Golden Legion — will your old comrades leave us in peace?"

As if to emphasize her remarks, at that moment they heard a call from beyond the reed curtain doorway to their apartments.

"Enter," called Erix.

A tall Maztican man entered and bowed stiffly. He wore a headdress of red feathers and a cape of feathers, golden, green, and white. Two large pendants of solid gold hung from his ears, and his lower lip bore a golden ornament. He was followed by two slaves dressed in clean white tunics.

The visitor's eyes met Halloran's. "The Revered Counselor, Naltecona, requires your presence in his throne room."

"Allow me a few minutes to prepare," replied Halloran after a moment's pause. The invitation wasn't a surprise, but it had caught him off guard. He wanted to polish his breastplate and carefully don his armor for this meeting. "We will be ready soon."

"You are to come alone," said the courtier. "Without the woman." His eyes never wavered from Halloran.

Out of the corner of his eye, Hal saw Erix clench her jaw. "I need her to translate" he objected.

"The counselor was most specific. Females are never allowed into his sight during the day, unless he specifically requests their presence."

Hal searched for another objection, feeling very vulnerable about the prospects of going on his own. He was surprised when Erix gestured, and he turned to look at her.

"Go!" she told him, in the common tongue. "You must not dispute the will of Naltecona."

"Very well," he agreed, watching as she stalked from the garden into her own sleeping chamber. Switching back to Nexalan, he told the richly garbed messenger that he wished to dress. The man stood silently as Hal donned his breastplate and boots and set his helmet on his brow. Girding his sword to his belt, he followed the man from the apartment, cursing the haste that had given him no time for spit and polish.

They marched silently down several long corridors, then stopped before a pair of massive doors. Here, to Hal's surprise, the courtier doffed his feathered accoutrements, handing them to an attendant who gave him in return a tattered leather shawl. The nobleman placed this shawl over his shoulders.

The attendant lifted another of these ragged cloaks, looking meaningfully at Halloran. But the noblemen shook his head slightly, leading the former legionnaire into the throne room as the slave looked after them in surprise.

Halloran's steps slowed as awe overwhelmed him. The inside of the chamber was huge, with a high ceiling of thatched leaves supported by heavy beams. Gaps between the ceiling and the top of the wall allowed natural light into the room.

Perhaps two dozen people stood in the chamber, Hal saw. With one exception, they wore the tattered leather cloaks and torn rags such as the messenger had just donned.

The exception, Halloran knew, was Naltecona.

The Revered Counselor of Nexal reclined on a floating litter of brilliant feathers. The litter hovered over a platform several feet above the floor of the room. The attendants, Hal noted, all stood on the floor.

He was surprised when Naltecona rose to his feet as Hal approached the throne. The ruler wore a headdress of emerald feathers, long plumes of iridescent green that waved regally high over his head. Gold chains encircled his neck, and golden ornaments weighted his wrists, ankles, ears, and lip.

As the counselor rose, a great cape of feathers spread behind him, floating weightlessly in the air and trailing after Naltecona as he moved forward.

"Greetings, stranger," said the Revered Counselor, approaching Hal and then stopping two paces away to look him up and down.

"Thank you. Your… Reverence," replied Halloran, uncertain of the correct title. His Nexalan, which had begun to flow so smoothly with Erixitl, all of a sudden felt like a clunky foreign tongue, something he would never master.

Naltecona clapped his hands, and several slaves brought forward bundles to lay at Halloran's feet. "Please accept these presents as a token of welcome to our land," offered the ruler.

Halloran looked down at the array, suddenly dizzy. He glanced quickly past the feathered cloak and thick bolts of cloth, instead focusing on two bowls that had been placed with the treasure. He wanted to kneel down and scoop up those bowls, one of which contained a pile of metallic yellow dust and the other a pile of smooth, cream-colored pebbles, but he managed to marshal his restraint. Instead, he bowed formally, studying the treasures surreptitiously as he bent over them. Gold! And pearls! His heart leaped in excitement.

"Your generosity overwhelms me, Excellency," he said haltingly. "I regret that my poor traveler's lot does not allow me to repay you in kind."

Naltecona held up a hand, dismissing the apology. He obviously relished the role of the beneficent one. "Are you an emissary — a speaker — for your people?" inquired the ruler.

Halloran phrased his answer carefully. "No. I am a solitary warrior, one who travels the land such as your nephew, Poshtli. I seek a destiny that is mine alone."

He didn't want to admit that he was a fugitive from the legion, a man who undoubtedly had a price on his head by now. But neither could he misrepresent himself as Cordell's agent.

Naltecona nodded thoughtfully at the explanation, scrutinizing Hal as he spoke of a search for destiny. Obviously the ruler was a man who believed in destiny.

"Hoxitl, Colon… come here," ordered Naltecona. Hal saw two elderly men — one filthy, scarred, and emacialed, wearing a robe of stained dark clolh, the other clean and well fed, dressed in a white tunic — step forward from the crowd of attendants behind the counselor. The clean one, Colon, reminded Halloran of Kachin, a cleric of the god Qotal who had died defending Erix from the drow elf Spirali. Naltecona confirmed this connection with his next words.

"These are my high priests, Hoxitl of bloody Zaltec, Colon of the Butterfly God, Qotal. I wish for them to hear your answers to my questions. Now, tell me… who is your god?"

Halloran looked up, startled by the question. Gods had never played much of a role in his life. Still, it seemed to be a question that required an answer.

"Almighty Helm, the Eternally Vigilanl" he said. That warlike god, patron deity of the Golden Legion, was as much of a spiritual light as Hal could claim.

"We have many gods in Maztica," explained Naltecona. "Zaltec and Qotal, of course, but there are also Azul, who brings us rain, and Tezca, god of the sun, and many more."

"Many, and enough," added Hoxitl quietly. That cleric, his face smeared with dirt, ashes, and dried blood, regarded Halloran with hate-filled, burning eyes. "We have no room for a new god in Maztica!"

Halloran met Hoxitl's gaze with a challenge of his own. Though no great devotee of Helm, he would not yield to the cleric's implicit assertion of Zaltec's sovereignty.

"You must learn more of our gods," continued Naltecona. "Tonight it will please me to have you attend our rituals. You may accompany me to the Great Pyramid, for the sunset rites of Zaltec."

Hoxitl leered at him as Hal's heart pounded and his mind reeled with horror. He recalled the rituals of Zaltec, the hearts torn from captives and offered to sate the hunger of the bloodthirsty god. Halloran did not fear for himself, but his revulsion was so strong that the thought of the rite almost sent him lunging for the depraved Hoxitl, his hands clawing for the priest's throat.

He called upon all of his restraint, keeping his voice dispassionate as he addressed Naltecona.

"I am grateful for your invitation," he said quietly. "But I cannot attend your ritual. My god will not permit it"

Naltecona took a sudden step backward, almost as if he had been struck. His eyes narrowed. Over his shoulder, Hal saw Hoxitl's smoldering gaze break into a raging fire of hatred. Colon, on the other hand, looked mildly amused. Time seemed to come to a halt as Naltecona stared at Halloran.

"Very well," said the counselor abruptly, whirling around and stalking back to his throne, the feathered cape floating dreamily through the air behind him. For a moment, Hal stood still, wondering if he should leave. Then Naltecona stopped and turned back to his guest. The Revered Counselor's eyes gleamed like cold, black ice.

"Take his gifts to his apartments," he barked at the two slaves who had brought the parcels forward. Then he turned back to Hal. "You are dismissed," he said shortly.

Erixitl paced around the luxurious apartment. The lush garden, the splashing pool, the fabulous ornaments, everything seemed suddenly like a metal cage that imprisoned her spirit and sealed away her future.

Something about the pool reminded her of a stream she remembered from her childhood — a crystalline brook that splashed through the town of Palul, her native village.

Palul. The town that she knew was a bare two days' journey away, now that she had reached Nexal. She had been stolen from her home ten years ago by a Kultakan Jaguar Knight who had sold her into slavery. From there, she had been traded to a priest from distant Payit, where she had been taken just before the strangers' arrival.

But now she had come back to the land of Nexala, to the city of Nexal. She wondered if her father still lived, if he still worked his colorful pluma. Unconsciously she touched the amulet at her throat, her father's gift to her. The feathered token had power, she knew — power that had saved her life more than once.

Lotil the featherworker had been a good father, a simple man who worked with his hands and loved color. Indeed, he used varieties of hues and shades in ways Erixitl had never seen elsewhere.

She remembered, too, her brother, Shatil, who was just beginning his apprenticeship to the priesthood of Zaltec at the time of her capture. Had he been accepted into the order? Or had his heart been given to that bloody god in ultimate atonement, a common end for apprentices who failed?

She had always assumed that she would return to visit her village once the journey to Nexal had been accomplished. Now they were here, and Palul seemed to beckon. Halloran, who had once been so lost in Maztica, now seemed self-assured and at least moderately fluent in the Nexalan tongue. Still, she knew that she didn't want to leave him. Indeed, her thoughts about Halloran had grown increasingly, disturbingly warm. She wanted him to need her.

And Poshtli — what had happened to Poshtli, anyway? The Eagle Knight certainly didn't require her presence. Let both of those men get along without her, she decided suddenly. Turning toward the door, she momentarily considered marching straight out of the city and striking out on the road to Palul.

But she stopped when she saw the tall figure at the door. Poshtli nodded once and stepped into the apartment. Though he didn't wear his helmet, his cloak of black and white feathers made his shoulders broad, and his eagle-claw boots seemed to add authority to his step.

The knight looked around, apparently to see if Hal was present. Then he stepped toward her.

For a moment, she saw him as a magnificent man. He was such a grand warrior, so tall, so proud, so handsome! He reached his hands out to her shoulders, and the look in his dark brown eyes was warm with smoldering heat. Not fully understanding why, she shyly removed his hands and turned away from him.

"Has anyone bothered you here?" he asked, his voice strangely intense.

"Bothered us?" She turned back to him in surprise. "No, of course not. What do you mean?"

Again he fixed her eyes with that look of intensity, and she squirmed under his gaze, "There may be danger," he said, suddenly looking away, as if distracted. "More than I anticipated." He looked back at her, and she heard the deadly seriousness of his voice. "Erixitl, please call me if you see anything that frightens you — anything at all!"

Erix suddenly felt alarmed. "What is it? Why should we worry?"

"It's nothing," the warrior scoffed, abruptly casual. "I want to make sure the palace slaves are treating you well. And Halloran? He… is well?"

"Of course he's well!" Erix detected a strain in Poshtli's voice as he mentioned the other man's name, and she felt a little thrill. "He's gone to speak with your uncle. Naltecona didn't desire to see me, however. I suppose I… What is it?" She noted, with annoyance and then alarm, that Poshtli had ceased to listen to her.

"Remember, I shall be nearby," said the knight. "Do not hesitate!" Once again that smoldering heat flushed his eyes.

"If you need help, call me." Then, with a swirl of black and white feathers, Poshtli was gone.

The long road inland twisted back and forth across the face of the mountain. Like a long snake, part feathered and part armored, the column wound along the turns of the trail, slowly creeping away from the coast.

The Golden Legion marched at the head of the column, the mercenaries setting a brisk pace even over the rough ground. The companies of footmen marched two or three abreast on the winding trail, armor-plated swordsmen leading the way. Helmeted crossbowmen, led by the redoubtable Daggrande, followed, and then marched the spearmen, the cavalry — resplendent in shiny breastplates on their prancing, eager mounts — and the ranks of lightly armored swordsmen.

Several dozen large, shaggy greyhounds bounded beside the column, obviously delighted in the return to the march. Cordell watched the dogs with mild amusement, remembering the shocking effect they had had upon the Payit, who had never seen a dog bigger than a rabbit before.

Behind the Golden Legion trailed the colorful spectacle of five of the huge regiments, called "thousandmen," of the Payit. That nation, conquered by these strangers from across the sea, had now thrown its military weight behind that of the metal-shelled invaders.

The azure waters of the Ocean of the East, known to the legion as the Trackless Sea, slowly slipped from sight, now barely visible through a notch in the hills behind them. The trail they followed worked its way up to a high, saddle-shaped pass between two snow-capped summits. This, their Payit scouts had told them, marked the border to the lands of the warlike Kultaka.

Cordell, at the head of the column, dismounted when he reached the pass. He tethered his horse beside the trail as his troops marched past. Climbing several dozen feet to one side of the pass, the captain-general looked from the ocean to the east, past the column of his troops, into the green bowl of the Kultakan farmland to the west.

For a time, his eyes lingered on the ocean. He remembered the turquoise purity of those coastal shallows, a deeper, richer blue — or so it had seemed — than any shore along the Sword Coast. He blinked, momentarily melancholy, for he knew that he would not see his homeland again for a long time. Some of his men, he suspected, had laid eyes upon it for the last time. Shaking his head, he quickly banished the morbid thought.

"They're watching us, you know."

Cordell turned to regard Captain Daggrande. The dwarven crossbowman had clumped to his side and now stood looking over Kultaka.

"Of course they are," agreed the commander. "I want them to see us, and wonder."

Daggrande nodded approvingly. Payit informants had told them that the Kultakan army was large and fierce, second only to Nexal in the military heirarchy of Maztica. Still, none of the legion's officers shrank from the inevitable clash that their march was certain to provoke.

"Darien is observing Kultaka even as we march," explained Cordell as Bishou Domincus joined them.

"May the vigilance of Helm open her eyes wide." The tall, dour cleric scowled at the green valley, willing the enemies of the legion into view.

"She will find them," assured the general.

"Yeah," said Daggrande, with a spit to the side. "That she will." The elven mage Darien, with her white skin and albino's bleached hair, had always unsettled the dwarf. Her abilities would inarguably prove useful, perhaps even decisive. By now, she no doubt flew over the Kultakan cities, invisible. Nevertheless, something about her never failed to arouse Daggrande's ire. He buried his feelings forcibly, knowing that his commander loved the elven woman with a passion as consuming as it was mysterious.

"Helm curse all these devils!" snarled the Bishou, though there was still no sign of movement in the Kultakan valley. Since the death of his daughter on a sacrificial altar in Payit, the Bishou had sworn a grim vendetta against all of Maztica.

A red-haired horseman rode up to them, reining in his steed but not dismounting. He flashed a grin at the others, displaying many gaps in the teeth that showed through his thick, orange beard. "I hoped they'd be here to meet us," he laughed, with a contemptuous look at the valley before them. Still laughing, he kicked the flanks of his horse and galloped on, riding beside the column that twisted its way down the far side of the pass.

Cordell shook his head, trying to conceal his concern. "Captain Alvarro has always been a little too eager to fight," he said so that only Daggrande could hear. "I hope he's ready when the time comes."

Now their allies, the Payit warriors, passed before them. These tall spearmen wore headdresses of multicolored feathers. They marched proudly, brandishing their weapons for their new commander's benefit.

"They've recovered well from their defeat," observed Cordell. Barely a month had passed since the legion had dealt these warriors the stunning battlefield defeat at Ulatos.

"They're looking forward to giving some of the same to their neighbors," remarked the dwarf. "They've never cared much for the Kultakans." Daggrande had helped to train the Payit, and had come to understand a little about the Maztican mind — not a great deal, but certainly more than any of his comrades.

One more man came to join them as the warriors filed past. This one dismounted awkwardly and wheezed as he took the few steps upward to join them. The others ignored his arrival until he spoke.

"This is crazy!" exclaimed Kardann. The High Assessor of Amn, he accompanied the expedition in order to tally the treasure they gained. He had never imagined himself marching with a small column of soldiers into the heart of an enemy-held continent. "We'll all be killed!"

"Thanks for sparing my men from the insight of your prescience," said Cordell wryly. "In the future, I expect you to keep such outbursts to yourself."

Kardann bit his lip, scowling at the general. He feared Cordell, but it was not the fear of the soldier for the harsh commander. Kardann feared Cordell the way the sane man fears the mad. The accountant suppressed a shudder as he recalled the outcome of their last disagreement. Cordell had ordered his entire fleet of ships sunk, simply to convince his men that they were here to stay.

Now Kardann wanted to point out the folly of their venture, but he was afraid to speak. He hated the thought of this expedition into the unknown, but he hated even more the thought of being left behind. Besides, he knew that Cordell didn't take his warnings seriously.

The captain-general slapped his gloved hand against his thigh, reinvigorated by the sight of his troops. The land before them looked smooth, rich, and inviting.

"Come, my good men!" he commanded, including Kardann in his expansive gesture. "On to Kultaka — the first step on the road to Nexal!"

Far from Maztica, deep in the nether regions, dwelled Lolth, spider goddess of the drow. Her presence on the continent of Faerun lay far to the east, and far beneath the lands washed by the sun. Those of her dark elves who lived to the west, beneath the place called the True World, formed a small tribe, insignificant among the vibrant, savage nations of the drow.

Yet Lolth was a jealous goddess — a deity who would brook no faithlessness. Now she heard the words of the Ancestor. She heard them and seethed.

Forsaken by their god? So they claimed now. They worshiped Zaltec, they fed him and used his priests like puppets. Now they worked his people into a frenzy, using their power — seated in the Darkfyre — to form this cult called the Viperhand.

So the Ancient Ones despaired of Lolth? Indeed.

Before she finished with them, the black spider goddess vowed, they would learn the true depths of despair.