Douglas Niles: Viperhand

The other, more vexing, matter was that of the girl, Erixitl. She still, somehow, eluded them.

Recalling the vision that had chilled him decades ago, the Ancestor faced his grim knowledge. Zaltec had sent him a warning, in the form of a white, gleaming star. In the draw's vision, that star touched upon them just as Zaltec's mastery came to fruition. The resulting cataclysm wracked the dark elves, bringing the tribe to ruin. As an insignificant side effect, the continent of Maztica suffered horrible ravages from the force of the same convulsions.

After years of study, meditation, and sacrifice, the nature of the white star had become clear. A human girl held the seed of potential disaster. Not until much later had this girl been identified, again through the flaming picture of the Darkfyre, as Erixitl of Palul. She had been a mere decade old at the time, but orders for her death had instantly gone forth. Somehow she had escaped all his agents of murder-priests. Jaguar Knights, and finally even the drow Spirali, who had been slain by Poshtli and Halloran. Erixitl still lived, and while she lived the Ancient Ones' machinations remained in peril. She must die!

Then the mastery of Maztica would be assured.

Erixitl had never tasted anything sweeter than the water from the lonely desert pool. The macaw squawked, approvingly she thought, from one of the palm trees as the three humans and the horse slaked their thirst in the shallow, clear pond.

They collapsed in the shade of the palm trees and said nothing for a time as the sun sank toward the horizon and long shadows stretched across the little vale. The clear sky offered no sheltering cloud, and the desert heat still baked them. For now, it was enough to live, to know that their throats would not crack from lack of moisture, or their lungs parch from the dry air.

"We'll head north from here," Poshtli said after a while. "That should bring us into the south of Nexal, away from the surrounding cities. I'm sure we can carry enough water to make it that far."

"What then?" asked Halloran. Erix noted that his command of the Nexalan tongue grew with each passing day. Though she had learned his language — aided by magic — the trio conversed in Nexalan, which they all understood.

"We will see my uncle, Naltecona," explained the warrior.

"I expect that he will grant his protection, though there is no way to be certain of that. Some of his advisors will surely urge your harm. After Ulatos, bad blood will flow hot among the warriors."

The defeat of the nation of Payit by the forces of the Golden Legion had included a bloody rampage by the invading forces. The legion had attacked the Payit at their capital city of Ulatos. It had been the first, but probably not the last, violent conflict between the legion and the warriors from a nation of Maztica.

"But Halloran didn't aid his comrades at Ulatos!" objected Erix. "He saved me from them!"

"The great Nattecona will hear this, and we must have faith in his wisdom," answered Poshtli.

"I'll take that chance," said Hal. "For one thing, it seems we have few other choices — save constant flight. It runs against my nature to flee my enemies rather than to face them."

"Well said," Poshtli agreed. "Though we do well to choose a battle on our own terms."

"Agreed." Halloran nodded. "When it comes, it can't be any worse than some of the other fixes I've gotten myself into over the years. I've had battles against pirates and desert nomads, been surrounded by ogres…"

"Ogres?" asked Poshtli. "What are these 'ogres'?"

Halloran looked at him in surprise. "Well, they're fierce and huge — kind of like humans, but bigger and dumber, and very savage. They're monsters, of a type similar to ores and trolls. Dont you have creatures like that in Maztica?"

Poshtli shook his head. "These monsters, manlike but savage, do not exist here. We have the hakuna, the fire lizard, and other dangers. But for a lack of ogres and ores, it seems we should be grateful."

Erixitl listened to the men talk of monsters and warfare, feeling the weariness creeping over her even before the sky had completely darkened. She wished that these minutes of peace might last into hours, or days, though she feared this was impossible. Nevertheless, the prospects of future dangers could not overcome her present contentment.

In minutes, she slept. But sleep offered no peace on this night.

Erixitl became a bird, soaring above the expanse of Maztica. Or perhaps she was the wind itself, the warm embodiment of life-giving air, sweeping across the True World with a cleansing caress. She swirled above snowy peaks, whisked among green forests and heavy jungles. She knew a sense of freedom and power that had never been hers before.

Across Maztica she soared, over the lands of the Payit and the Kultakans, and finally, at the center of the continent, the realm of mighty Nexal. The twin volcanoes of Zatal and Popol barred her way, but the wind broke up and over the massif unchecked. She swept into the streets of the city of Nexal, and though she had never seen the great city, she recognized it — indeed, she knew it well. Beneath the cool wash of a full moon, hanging low against the eastern horizon, she darted around towering pyramids, along myriad canals, until finally she soared into the palace of Naltecona himself.

But here something was wrong.

Growing chill, she glided up the walls, onto the roof of the palace. There she saw the Revered Counselor, resplendent in a feathered headdress and his cape of many colors. Men of the Golden Legion surrounded Naltecona. In alarm, Erixitl coursed closer, noting the sharp shadows cast by the moon. The figures stood in a circle, a tableau for her inspection.

She saw a metal-helmed figure with steely hard black eyes, and she knew this was Cordell. With vague surprise, she noticed that Halloran, too, stood among them, though his former comrades did not desire his presence. She understood these things, even as she witnessed the frozen scene.

And around the palace, across the floor of a broad, enclosed plaza, glowered thousands of warriors. Upon the chests of many, Erix saw, was the pulsating crimson head of a living snake. The forked tongues of these vipers flickered forth, sensing blood in the air.

Then the stillness on the palace roof broke as, with slow but deliberate movements, the players came to life.

Under the glaring moon, slowly rising in the east, Naltecona fell dead. Erix swept forward, too late for aught but a final circle around the bleeding figure of the great ruler.

The men of the legion staggered back in consternation at the killing. The world turned dark, and chaos fell from the skies. The looming volcano rumbled.

And then black shadows spread across the face of Maztica. The land became a great, gaping sore, and poison poured forth. It spread in a growing circle, to the horizons of her vision, and it kept growing.

Erix knew that she was seeing the end of the world.

"It's called steel" Halloran explained, showing Poshtli the gleaming edge of his sword, Helmstooth. "It comes from a mixture of metals, combined under great heat. Mostly iron."

He enjoyed talking to the warrior, and during their journey had come to realize that he and Poshtli had much in common. At times, he almost forgot that this man was the product of a savage, bloodthirsty society.

"Iron? Steel?" Poshtli repeated the foreign words, lisping them off his tongue. He had seen Hal's weapons in action, had held and examined them before, but now he took advantage of Hal's growing command of the language to ask about them. "These must be metals of great power."

"Perhaps. They are strong materials, and hold a keen edge. You've seen them splinter wooden weapons and stone blades."

"These are metals that do not dwell in the True World," explained the warrior, a trifle wistfully.