Douglas Niles - Feathered Dragon

Hal’s heart twisted in pain, a hurt that showed clearly in his face, and his wife’s expression grew concerned. “What is it?” she asked. “Has something happened?”

“Don’t you remember?” he asked softly. “The volcano… the Night of Wailing? Poshtli was with us when the explosion occurred, but he didn’t have the protection of your cloak. He’s… gone.” The man couldn’t force himself to say that the noble warrior was dead.

“But he’s not gone,” Erixitl countered, still strangely calm. “I remember all that-how could I forget? — but Poshtli did not die there, He’s nearby… he comes to us!” She smiled gently, as if Hal were the one having flights of fancy. Even against the beauty of her face, Halloran nearly wept to see how pale she was, how distant was the look in her eyes.

A shadow flickered off to the side, and Hal looked up to see Xatli, a priest of Qotal, approaching.

Like the others of his order, Xatli prided himself on personal cleanliness, but now his once-white robe was tattered and stained from the rigors of the flight. His cheeks, plump and rosy two months earlier, now formed sagging jowls on either side of his face. The eldest of the priests among the refugees, he had become the unofficial spokesman for his sect, which had become once again the dominant faith of the people.

Ironically he had been about to take the vow of silence that was the highest badge of honor known to his order

when the disaster that the Nexalans called the Night of Wailing had disrupted his plans. Now he employed his skills as an eloquent speaker often, to raise the spirits of the refugees during their long marches through the desert.

”Can I do anything to help?” the cleric inquired hesitantly. The blessings of the Plumed One have given me some small measure of healing.” ‘

“No. No thank you,” Erixitl said, tensing.

“If not for you, think of the other life that grows within you,” said the priest quietly, kneeling beside her.

Erix looked at him in surprise as Xatli smiled gently and continued. “The god who has chosen you has placed a heavy burden upon you. This I understand. But he would not have chosen you if you were not strong enough to bear the load”

He placed a hand on her shoulder, and she did not try to evade his touch. For a second, she felt a brief warmth, and a renewed sense of energy filled her. And then she couldn’t help but pull away.

Xatli rose and bowed to Halloran. He turned once again toward Erixitl before he departed. “Know this, Chosen Sister. Our god is not unmerciful”

Hal feared for a moment that Erix would erupt in anger, for such had often been her response to talk of the Plumed Serpent. But instead she turned to him and nestled in the shelter of his embrace.

The moment was broken by a call from a nearby warrior. Worriedly Hal saw Erix start to climb to her feet. Knowing the futility of ordering her to rest, he helped her up.

“What is it?” she asked as several warriors, their tall emerald plumes swaying above their painted faces, trotted closer.

“We don’t know what it means, sister?’ one announced, “but a great eagle has landed in the midst of the people. It stands and stares at us, as if in challenge.”

“An eagle?” Erix’s voice sang, once again vibrant. She hurried ahead of Hal, pulling away from his supporting arm until he had to trot to keep up with her.

The crowd of men, women, and children parted for Erixitl and Hal and soon they saw the bird, resting upon a large rock in the center of a vast and growing circle of humanity.

The eagle stood nearly as tall as a man. Its feathers, clean and smooth, etched its form in pristine black and white. From its vantage point on the rock, the bird’s glittering yellow eyes looked down on the assemblage. Proud and noble of bearing, the eagle turned its head this way and that, until f inally those keen eyes came to rest upon Erixitl.

For a moment, the great creature shimmered before them, as if the bright sunlight reflected from a rippled surface of water. Then the image grew larger, manlike.

The Mazticans around them gasped, many falling to the ground and pressing their faces in the earth. Others fell back, staring in awe as the shape of the bird changed.

“By Helm!” growled a burly legionnaire in die crowd, awestruck.

The shape of the bird remained visible, like a shade in the background, but overlaying it stood the image of a tall, brown-skinned man.

“Poshtli” Erixitl whispered, scarcely daring to breathe the word aloud.

The noble stood tall and silent. A cloak of black and white feathers, faint but visible, swung from his shoulders. Gold plugs ornamented his lip, his nose, and his ears. The great beaked helmet of an Eagle Knight he carried under his arm, so that his long black hair flowed freely in the breeze. His other hand he raised, pointing southward and holding it there for several beats, then suddenly wheeling and pointing to the east before he lowered his hand.

For a long time, the image of the warrior stared at Erixitl, while the watchers remained breathless. Finally he bowed, a deep and honorable genuflection conferred to one of great power. A sudden gust of wind whirled a funnel of blowing sand through the crowd, and for a moment the image was obscured. When the wind and sand passed, there remained only the great eagle, still staring at Erixitl with those sharp black eyes.

Then the eagle raised its huge wings, driving powerful strokes toward the ground. With serene grace, the bird rose from the rock and glided over the heads of the assembled humanity. Slowly climbing, it soared in a vast circle around them before turning toward the southern horizon. The bird remained visible for many minutes, steadily climbing, always flying south.

“Lord Poshtli did not die in the volcano,” Erix announced confidently as the Mazticans around them looked at her in wonder. The noble Eagle Warrior of Nexal, nephew of the city’s late ruler, had been widely respected through his life and widely mourned after the Night of Wailing.

“Now he comes to us, with hope and promise,” she continued. Though she spoke softly, everyone heard. “This is not an idle preaching of blind faith. This was a clear omen that stood here before us. We must follow him now-follow him to the south, and to our future.”

Borne by the steed of the strangers, I ride toward the destiny of my own world.

The presence of the One Plumed God is nearby, imminent. / can feel his breath on my shoulders, propelling me. All the signs of the prophecy have been met; the pathway for his return lies open.

Yet I sense that a new obstacle has arisen from the chaos of the Night of Wailing. The acts of the bloody clerics and the fury of the Viperhand Cult have combined to bring a great presence into the world-a presence no longer content to be worshiped and fed from afar.

He is Zaltec, god of night and war, and he is here.

I sense his power in the darkness all around me. I see it in the vile corruption that has claimed his followers. What power it must be, to take tens of thousands of humans and pervert them into the beastlike forms we now see! He looms more mighty, more dangerous than ever, for now his legions of followers are not restrained by even the thin veneer of humanity.

Qotal is our hope, our only hope. Yet, witnessing the coming of Zaltec, I see that Qotal cannot enter this world unaided. He will require the help of humans, of people who will open the path for him and guard it until he has returned to the True World. Then his power will meet Zaltec’s, and the two gods-the two brothers-will wage war for the mastery of the land.

So now J ride, and 1 care not where the horse takes me. I will be one of those humans who opens that path and guards it; I will leave it to my destiny to guide me to the place.