Douglas Niles: Viperhand

All too soon, she feared, the brightness and vitality before her could be gone.

Naltecona rested, dozing lightly in the soft pluma of his great feathered throne. The cushion of luxurious feather-magic held his body effortlessly, floating easily above the dais in the center of the great ceremonial chamber. The Revered Counselor, comfortable in a soft gown, bedecked with bright feathers on his head, at his shoulders, and knees, enjoyed a rare moment of peace.

Around him the priests, warriors, and sorcerers who made up his court stood in awkward silence. Their attendance was not required while the ruler napped, but none possessed the courage to leave and risk awakening the great man by his departure.

Stirring slightly, Naltecona felt his surroundings and even sensed the awkwardness of his courtiers. Let them stand, he told himself. Let them learn some of the discipline that must guide my every move. He felt a vague sense of scorn for these old men who fawned over him and followed him, yet seemed to offer no help in those matters where the counselor most desired advice and wisdom. Matters such as the puzzling strangers who had landed on the shores of the True World and conquered the Payit in a single, brutal battle.

Dozing again, Naltecona dreamed of the presence of his nephew, Poshtli. There was a true man! A warrior of courage, a man of wisdom and restraint. Too bad he could not replace a dozen of these fools around him with one more like Poshtli.

The doors to the throne room opened softly, yet the movement was enough to waken the Revered Counselor. He looked up in annoyance.

A priest hurried forward, pausing to bow obsequiously three times before he approached the feathered throne. The emaciated cleric, his frail limbs and face covered with the scars of self-inflicted penance, finally stood before his ruler. His hair stood tall above his head, a series of stiff spikes caked with the blood of the priest's sacrificial victims. He waited silently, his eyes downcast, as Naltecona blinked and stretched.

"Yes, Hoxitl?" inquired the ruler, recognizing the high priest of Zaltec before him. Zaltec was the patron god of the Nexala, and his patriarch, Hoxitl, claimed powerful rights of counsel.

"Most Revered One, we have word out of the desert of your nephew, Lord Poshtli. It is said that he returns with one of the strangers as his prisoner. This news is pleasing to Zaltec and the Ancient Ones."

"I have no doubt of that," said Naltecona ironically. He understood that any new prospect of sacrifice was pleasing to the god of Hoxitl. He looked at his other courtiers. "This is the proof for those who doubted Poshtli's eventual return. He left in search of a vision. I have no doubts that his visions have shown him more than most of you will ever know."

"Indeed," said Hoxitl, with another humble bow. "The wisdom of Zaltec has blessed him."

Naltecona's gaze penetrated the priest, though the still-bowing cleric seemed unaware of his ruler's stare. "There is more than one source of wisdom in the True World," he said sharply. "Do not let your faith blind you to this fact."

"Indeed," said Hoxitl, concealing his skepticism with another bow.

"Is that all?" asked the counselor, boredom creeping into his voice.

"There is another matter," replied the priest. "Should my lord counselor deem it his pleasure to attend, I inform you that we will consecrate more warriors into the cult of the Viperhand tonight, at the setting of the sun."

Viperhand. Naltecona felt a chill with the word. The cult of the Viperhand seemed to grow daily since the arrival in Maztica of the strangers from across the sea. It had always been the cult of Zaltec's faithful followers, but now warriors, priests, even common workers flocked to the temples to swear eternal allegiance to the god of war and to wear his bloody brand.

The mark was wielded by the high priest alone. Tonight that brand would be pressed forever into the flesh of more young Nexalans.

Naltecona sighed, ignoring the high priest's request. "Colon, come here," he called, turning to the rest of his retinue.

A white-robed priest bowed and stepped forward from the group. This one, in stark contrast to Hoxitl, appeared well fed, even to the point of a slight plumpness. His shock of white hair and his wrinkled brown skin were clean, unmarked by scars, blood, or dirt. Colon, high priest of Qotal, approached the counselor silently. Indeed, he did everything silently, in deference to a vow he had made to his immortal master, the Butterfly God.

"Leave us for a moment," Naltecona ordered Hoxitl. That priest scowled at Colon but stepped obediently away.

"One of the strangers comes to Nexal," explained the counselor. As always, he felt comfortable speaking to the un-answering Colon. "Hoxitl wishes to place his heart upon the altar of Zaltec.

"We know of the prowess of these strangers. Perhaps it would be good to have this one dead, no longer a threat. But I am curious about them, and how much of a threat can one man be to our city, our nation?"

Also in Naltecona's mind were the legends predicting the return of Qotal, the Butterfly God, to Maztica. He would return from the eastern ocean, it was said, in a great winged canoe. Some legends had even predicted that he would be pale of skin and bearded of face, just like most of these strangers!

These rumors lay heavy in the ruler's mind, but so, too, did the hunger of Zaltec. And now his cult, the cult of the Viperhand, spread more rapidly than ever before. With the coming of the strangers, the young warriors of Nexal seemed more eager than ever to make that sacred vow to Zaltec.

Colon, of course, made no reply, but the voicing of his doubts propelled Naltecona into decision.

"I will not allow his death… not immediately," he explained to Colon. "I must allow him to live, even protect him, that I may learn more about him and his people." His mind made up, Naltecona lurned back to Hoxitl.

"The stranger will be spared," he told the priest. Then he added, in deference to a vengeful god, "But I shall attend the consecration of the Viperhand at sunset."

Darien stretched languorously and arose from the bed, naked, crossing to the candlestick beside the door. Cordell held his breath, entranced by the pure whiteness of her form, the graceful curve of her albino skin. Squinting her tender eyes against the candle's brightness, Darien extinguished the flame with a quick puff of breath, plunging the cabin into darkness.

She returned to the bed, something Cordell smelled and felt but could not see. He silently cursed his lack of night-vision, so desperately did he want to look upon her. Whatever the nature of this burning feeling — was it need, desire, perhaps love? — he had felt it grow into a fire that consumed his heart. Now it burned as he welcomed her into his arms.

Finally she lay sleeping beside him. The gentle sounds of the city of Ulatos around them should have soothed Cordell into slumber as well. But instead he focused on the upcoming day, and on the march he would order his men to undertake at first light.

He prepared to lead the Golden Legion on a mission of unmatched audacity, and Cordell himself confessed to slight doubts as to the rationality of the plan. His force, five hundred steady veterans, would be augmented by perhaps five thousand warriors of the conquered Payit, whose capital city of Ulatos his legion now occupied.

From here, he would lead them to Nexal. Tales of that city's wealth, of the gold and power that lay there, drew him inexorably. These were the fruits of the expedition, the gold that had drawn them across the Trackless Sea. They would march to the heart of this savage continent!

He understood that the army awaiting him in Nexal was greater — many times greater — than the force he had defeated here in Payit. His informant had also told him that another warlike nation, Kultaka, lay across his route of march to Nexal. They could be expected to resist the passage of Cordells force.