Douglas Niles - Ironhelm

"Your plan for Halloran backfired," she said, too softly for anyone else to hear. She took great pains to speak when the Bishou's attention, in particular, was directed elsewhere.

"You mean he didn't escape?" Cordell pursed his lips. "I'm disappointed in him. I thought I made it easy enough."

"Oh, you did that," Darien agreed, her tone biting. "He escaped… and more." Cordell raised his eyebrows, and she continued. "He stole my spellbook — perhaps not intentionally, but it was concealed in my backpack, and he took it along with him!"

Cordell winced and looked away from the elf's pale and angry eyes. They both knew the seriousness of the theft, for a wizard needed to consult her book after each spell in order to relearn the enchantment. Without her book, Darien could use each of her spells but once, then would be unable to relearn them until either the book was recovered or an alternate form of the spell was found and copied.

"There is a rumor among some of the men," Darien continued unmercifully, "that he attacked and unhorsed Alvarro, stealing his charger and fleeing the field."

"Helm curse him!" Cordell hissed his anger. "I give him a chance to redeem himself and he betrays me! I cannot allow this!"

"Obviously," agreed the wizard dryly. "But what do you propose to do about it?"

"Did he get all of your spells?"

"He got a copy of each, but I have some sheaves of notes and scrolls about that will help me relearn most of them. It will take time to copy the scrolls into a new book, though. He also stole some potions from the crate."

Cordell blinked his black eyes, his expression cold. "Very well. We can spare no effort. Halloran must be found and killed. Quickly."

"That might be accomplished more easily than you think," noted the wizard with a slow, cruel smile.

"How is that?"

"One of the potions he stole is the decoy… the poison. If he touches it to his lips, he'll be dead before he can lower the bottle."

Spirali walked among the bloody bodies on the field in amazement. As an old member of a very old race, his training had prepared him for many things. But the evidence on this battlefield left him cold and frightened, for the first time wondering if there were forces that even the Ancient Ones could not control.

Nightfall made the battlefield a hellish place. The grass had disappeared, everywhere trampled to mud. Great fans of feathers, once-brilliant banners, and countless plumed headdresses lay in the mud, a fit epitaph to the fortunes of the Payit army.

Silently women and children moved through the dark, seeking a familiar face among the multitude of dead and wounded. Slaves carried bodies to a great trench and laid them carefully, but anonymously, within. Several thousand Payit had been slain and the normally important ritual of individual burial was of necessity forsaken.

Priests of Qotal and Azul passed among the wounded, tending those they could, but their limited healing magic was overwhelmed by the extent of the disaster. For the most part, the warriors bore their wounds stoically, though an occasional cry — usually from a man in delirium — echoed across the field.

But these trivial human concerns meant less than nothing to Spirali.

The Ancient One looked toward the city, where great fires commemorated the victory of the foreigners. By all rights, by a plan laid through centuries, the foriegners should have met complete disaster on this day. But now they danced about the plaza, with its mound of gold, in a way that added to Spirali's sense of foreboding. Indeed, it seemed that these humans were as dedicated to the pursuit of their goals as the Ancient Ones were to theirs. And they were so much more passionate!

His alarm left him but one alternative. Thus Spirali disappeared from the field at Ulatos, flashing himself with the power of teleportation to the Highcave.

He arrived beside the bubbling caldron of Darkfyre as it was being nourished by the Harvesters. The latter, black-robed like Spirali but smaller of form, bowed respectfully.

The Harvesters stood around the caldron of the Darkfyre as they did every night, tending the immortal blaze, feeding it with the fruit of their harvests, garnered from across the lands of Maztica. And thriving on its food, the Darkfyre twisted and flared.

Indeed, Zaltec was happy, for once again he ate well.

The Harvesters labored diligently, and soon the feeding was done. Silently each slipped away into the darkness. The task of the Harvesters was finished until the following night.

Spirali rustled his cape, the sound harsh and jarring through the vast, echoing chambers of the cave. In moments, the Ancient Ones gathered around the Darkfyre. Spirali remained silent, as did all of them, until the frail, shrouded form of the Ancestor emerged to claim his seat above the caldron.

"The strangers have vanquished the Payit in battle. In one day, they have conquered Ulatos and destroyed the army."

Capes rustled in mute statements of surprise, even astonishment.

"Impossible!" hissed one voice, the harshness of her tone offending the sensibilities of the other Ancient Ones. Her cape swished softly, a careful apology for the outburst.

"It is indeed disappointing that the Payit performed so poorly. Nevertheless, the roots of our power have always lain in Nexal. We can be sure that the strangers will not fare so well when they face the warriors of Naltecona!" The Ancestor looked about the chamber before continuing.

"The connection of these strangers with the lands of the Old Realms makes it imperative that we do our work quickly and secretly. Were these strangers to learn of our nature, our plans for Maztica might suffer disastrously.

"They will doubtless learn of Nexal," he mused, his voice like dry reeds rustling in a breeze. "What of the girl?"

Spirali's head fell. "The cleric failed. He is dead. I attempted to slay her, but also failed." It would, of course, be inappropriate to explain the circumstances, such as the arrival of dawn, that contributed to his defeat. He awaited the verdict of the Ancestor, fully expecting death for his own failure. No slightest whisper of silk disturbed the chamber for countless minutes.

"You must return and seek the girl. Her death is more important now than ever. If she is allowed to fulfill the terms of the prophecy, the effect could be catastrophic. But it is essential that your identity remain a secret. Do you understand?"

"Very well." Spirali bowed, the clasp of his black-skinned hands before his body conveying his gratitude for the second chance. "I respectfully report that I shall need help on this task."

"What sort of help do you require?" asked the Ancestor.

Spirali answered, and a soft rustle of astonishment circled the chamber. Such a step had not been taken for centuries! But the Ancestor considered the request very seriously, and finally the venerable leader nodded.

"Very well. You may call out the hell hounds."

Spirali nodded, pleased with the aid and relieved that no punishment had been declared. He knew that he would not get another chance. After warming his hands and his body beside the Darkfyre, Spirali worked his way deep into the vast cavern.

He followed a winding, narrow tunnel until he reached an opening, where this passage joined the wide vertical shaft in the heart of the volcano. Heat pressed against his face from deep, liquid fires flickering far below.

The Ancient One bent over the plummeting shaft and raised his voice in a long, ululating wail. Twice more he repeated the sound, and then he waited.

Far below, a bubble of hot gas burst from the burbling lava. Fiery red, seething with contained energy, it rolled and rumbled up the shaft, straining against its contained pressure. Higher and higher it climbed, growing in speed and force. It twisted and bubbled with contained energy, finally slowing as it approached the level where Spirali waited.