Douglas Niles - Circle at center

The next warrior climbed to the Warstone, no doubt deeply honored by the exalted observer, and charged at the waiting Natac. A heartbeat later, larynx crushed by the wooden club that had long since lost its feathered totems, the Aztec tumbled away to a slow death by strangulation.

“Enough!”

The cry came from the Eagle Knight, Takanatl. The veteran stared at the purple-faced corpse, then looked to Natac, his expression tortured. Finally the helmed warrior turned toward Moctezuma, kneeling and bending his face to the ground with a graceful sweep of plumage.

“My lord-I beg leave to battle this captive myself! I offer his blood, and my own, in the name of Huitzilopochtli!”

“This is the man Natac, captured by you in the recent battle?” Moctezuma, still scowling, regarded the Tlaxcalan. As Natac returned the Aztec ruler’s gaze, he realized that he was the only person in the plaza who was looking upon that face-the tens and tens of thousands of Mexicans in view all had their eyes turned respectfully downward or away.

“Aye, lord.” Takanatl spoke from the depths of his bow, addressing the ground at his feet.

“And he has been your foe, and ours, for these last three tens of years?”

“Aye, lord. Always Natac was at the forefront of the attack. He has killed and captured many of our warriors. In the battle of seven days past, it was he who led the pursuit that turned our withdrawal into a disgraceful rout.”

“A shameful outcome,” Moctezuma declared, addressing Takanatl sternly. “This Tlaxcalan’s capture was the only moment of good news in a valley full of disasters. I should hate to have it be the cause of your own loss, as well.”

“My lord-I beg you! He is the greatest foe I have ever known. Behold today: Even in capture, in defeat, he decimates my company and slays my best men!”

“Very well.” Moctezuma turned to Natac. “You have heard my Eagle Knight. I shall grant his request, an honor I bestow graciously. But know, Tlaxcalan, that he shall be your last opponent. If the gods so decree, he will give your heart to the gods-but should you defeat him, the honor of the Mexica will compel me to set you free.

“Now”-the Eloquent One turned to Takanatl again-“commence the fight.”

The Eagle Knight leapt up the steep stairway in three giant strides. His dark eyes, warm with relief, pride and martial fervor, met Natac’s, and the Tlaxcalan felt a profound wave of joy.

“I regret the rules of the ritual-it would be better if you had a real weapon,” the Eagle Knight said.

“I know. But the club serves well enough.” Natac allowed himself a tight smile, seeing his dark humor reflected as chagrin in the Aztec’s eyes.

Natac met Takanatl warily, deflecting a dazzling series of slashing blows-attacks that steadily whittled away at the battered stick that was the Tlaxcalan’s only weapon. Yet despite the onslaught, his wounds, and the strain of the previous duels, he had no sensation of fatigue. Indeed, he felt as if he was only now gaining true understanding of his deepest skills. He ducked and weaved and dodged, supple as a gust of wind swirling around a great bird of prey in flight.

The Eagle Knight’s shield deflected each smashing blow. Several times the obsidian teeth of his maquahuitl sliced Natac’s skin and flesh, and for the first time that day Tlaxcalan blood spattered onto the Warstone. Quickly following each advantage, the Aztec veteran pressed his enemy hard, and now Natac was forced to evade the whistling slashes with ever-increasing desperation.

He lunged right, desperately skipped left as the jagged sword slashed. Only then did he see that the attack had been a feint-now Takanatl used his shield as a weapon, smashing the hardened wood against Natac’s injured, swollen hand. Pain shrieked through the warrior’s nerves, staggering him, dropping him for a brief instant onto one knee. For the first time he saw defeat, certain death, awaiting him at the end of this fight.

But not yet. His mind still clouded by agony, Natac lunged to the side, dodging a nearly fatal swipe. Forcing his thoughts into focus, the Tlaxcalan groaned and slumped in apparent weakness.

And then Takanatl made his mistake. A vicious blow curled past Natac, gouging the Tlaxcalan’s bicep, but this time the xochimilche dived past the shield of his lifelong foe. Springing to his feet in a lightning attack, Natac swung the wooden club past the bottom of the Aztec’s wooden helmet, smashing the Eagle Knight where his neck merged with his shoulders.

Bone snapped as Takanatl grunted in surprise, then collapsed onto his face. He lay motionless, making a strangled, choking sound.

Quickly Natac knelt and turned the Eagle Knight over. The Aztec’s eyes were open and focused, shaded by an intense fear that was very disturbing to see in this battle-hardened veteran. His head lolled to the side, drool trickling from his mouth until the Tlaxcalan wiped his lips and gently turned him to face toward the sky.

“I am already dying… my body is gone from me… my legs… my arms… like smoke…” Takanatl’s words were weak, forced out by lungs that strained just to sustain his life.

“I am grateful that we journey to Mictlan together, my enemy,” declared Natac sincerely. He took one of the Aztec’s hands, surprised at the utter flaccidity of the limp fingers.

“Yes, my life-enemy. It seems that the gods have conspired to keep us… together… even beyond…”

Takanatl coughed again, a violent spasm that flecked his lips with foam, and then the Eagle Knight was still. His eyes, sightless to views in this world, stared in the direction of that pure blue sky.

“Enough of killing my warriors!” cried Moctezuma, his rage a scythe that shivered through the Mexican crowd. “Go back to Tlaxcala and be done with my city!”

For a moment Natac blinked, startled, even tempted, by the prospect of walking away from this place. But then he remembered the peace he had made with his gods, the destiny that had stood before him with this dawn, and he was disappointed in his own momentary weakness.

“My lord, you do me high honor… as I have intended high honor to the gods. Please allow me to bestow that honor with my heart and my life.” Only then did a pragmatic and decisive thought occur to Natac. He held up the swollen hand, and the black lines of blood poisoning were clearly visible to the ruler of the Aztecs.

“And in any event, it seems that the wound inflicted by Takanatl’s ambush will see to the end of my life. My time as a warrior is finished.”

The Eloquent One, no doubt considering the recent toll upon his own fighting men, looked skeptical at Natac’s words. Yet he continued to listen as the Tlaxcalan pointed to a nearby temple, the lone edifice atop its pyramid. The site was conspicuously silent, empty of activity amid the panoply of festivities.

“I ask that my heart be offered to the Smoking Mirror. Doubtless you know that Tezcatlipoca is the patron god of my people. It is in his honor that I have waged a lifetime of war, and to his honor that I would dedicate my death.”

Moctezuma laughed a sharp, bitter bark of sound. “You choose sacrifice on the altar of the Enemy on Every Side? Somehow, that seems a fitting end to this ceremony.”

Priests flanked Natac as he descended from the Warstone to continue his journey toward the realm of death. The crowd parted, allowing the xochimilche and his clerical escort to cross the plaza, circling the great pyramid close enough to see the blood pooling at the base of the stairs. Finally they approached the pyramid of Tezcatlipoca. A surge of anticipation filled Natac as he thought of the black mountains of Mictlan and the dangerous and exciting journey he would soon undertake. So it was with firm steps that he started up the steep stairway of stone.