To Kavita—writing for you is a joy and an inspiration.
IRONHELM
^Copyright 1990 TSH, Inc. All Bights Reserved.
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First Priming, March, 1990
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Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 89-51884
987654 3Z1
ISBN: 0-S8038-9O3-6
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These pages commence the Chronicle of the Waning, enscribed by Colon, Grandfather Patriarch of the Golden God, Qotal.
My labors, as always, are dedicated to the greater glory of Qotal, the Plumed One, Iridescent Ancestor of the Gods.
The Time of Waning comes upon us, arriving all but unnoticed by the masters ofMaztica. The nobles and warriors of the great city of Nexal care for naught but conquest and battle, gaining tribute and prisoners from the subjugation of each neighboring state.
The priests of the younger gods cannot see beyond their need for more sacrifices to feed their bloodthirsty masters. Crimson Tezca, god of the sun, requires blood every day to coax his flaming self into the skies at dawn. Blue Azul, rain god, prefers to claim the lives of little children in exchange for his body's life-giving moisture.
But none is so greedy for blood as Zaltec, patron deity of the Nexala. His crimson brand marks the chest of his most loyal followers, and long columns ascend the pyramids to offer him their hearts, in willing or unwilling sacrifice. Such is the glory of Zaltec!
No god of the True World is so mysterious, so secretive as bloody Zaltec. Zaltec, the great god of war! Vast ceremonies, these wars, ceremonies fought for the honor and glory of Zaltec. The armies of Nexal go forth and conquer Pezelac, that they may claim captives. They do battle with the forces of fierce Kultaka, and both sides come away with many captives for the altars of Zaltec.
In Nexal, warriors, priests, lords, sorcerers, all struggle
DOUGLAS NlLES
for their own ends, complacent in the eternity of Maztica, the True World. They compete, they gain victories and suffer defeats, all for their pathetic goals! All of them are blind! All of them, fools!
Only I, Coton, see the True World as it changes. I see the commencement of its decline, the Time of Waning that has long been foretold by us, the faithful priests of Qotal. Other priests speak only of more sacrifices, grander pyramids, brighter temples. I see a time when temples vanish altogether and pyramids become heaps of unrecognizable stone!
Qotal is the vessel of my vision. His faithful are few, for most of Maztica has turned toward worship of Zaltec and his bloodthirsty offspring. Once Qotal presided as the hero of our forefathers, esteemed by the True World. It is Qotal who brought mayz to the world, so that mankind would always have food. For centuries his benign vision watched over the peoples of Maztica.
But now Qotal is supplanted by Zaltec across the True World. People follow the god of war blindly, ignorant of the peaceful wisdom offered by Qotal. Especially here, in Nexal, has Zaltec of the Bloody Hand taken the place of honor once' reserved for the Plumed One.
I am sworn to silence by my station. I say nothing to the mighty of Nexal. Instead, my tale becomes the Chronicle of the Waning. As my immortal master, the Silent Counselor, so wills, I observe and record, a witness but not a participant to the unfolding of history.
The individual threads of chaos remain diverse, most of them unknown to me. My auguries show an emperor god, mightier than any ruler in the history ofMaetica, yet fatally weak and flawed. But they also tell the story of a little girl, dwelling in happy innocence near the Heart of the True World; and the tale ofayouth, countless day-runs distant. I know not how these strands will entwine in the course of the Waning. Only the passage of time, the swirling eddies of fate, can bring these threads together.
But when they bind, they shall form a knot of surpassing strength and cataclysmic import.
THREADS
He couldn't tell whether it was rain or blood running into his eyes, but his vision blurred to nothing. Night settled around him, but it was a night illuminated by hellish fires. The sharp crack of deadly magic—lightning bolts, he suspected—barked beyond the tree line, then bugles blared and he felt the pounding of heavy hooves through the ground.
Wiping his face, he found that only mud obscured his vision, and soon he could see again. Flames spouted from most of the town, and some trees had caught fire, but otherwise the night was dark. His ears to!d him that the battle had moved on.
He looked at the gashes in his steel breastplate and chuckled wryly. His helmet was gone, and around him lay the bodies of his men—his boys, really. They were young, cheerful; they were farmers gone to war, and they had been massacred by warriors. The bitter laugh died in his throat as he raised his eyes. Angrily he blinked at the tears that stung his eyes.
He flinched suddenly at the touch of a slender hand and turned to see an elfin face. A small woman stood before him, partially wrapped in a deep robe. Her skin was remarkably pale, almost milky white. It seemed to glow and fade in the reflected light of the flames. Suddenly a great fireball exploded not far away, and he saw her pale eyes, pupils dilated, studying him and soothing him.
"Captain, you are hurt," she said.
"The battle is lost." He sighed.
DOUGLAS MILES
"Lost by the fools who commanded! You and your men fought well."
"And died well." He was too exhausted to feel anything except a vague bitterness. He saw the banner, the crimson figurehead outlined in silver against the bright red field, now trampled in the mud, torn by sword and dyed almost black in the blood of the young soldiers who followed it.
Horses lumbered near, their black-helmeted riders on the prowl for stragglers. The pale woman raised her hand and said something very strange, and the horsemen rode past. Mud splattered onto the pair from the great hooves, but the knights took no notice of the two survivors. Instead, the riders paused some distance away, looking toward the fires, seeking targets silhouetted in the light.
The man felt the soft protection of magic, invisibility created by the woman and now cloaking them. In another minute, the knights charged off into the night, and the man and woman heard the screams of men caught by lance or mace or hoof.
"Red is a poor color for a banner," he decided absently, looking at the bloody spots on the tattered cloth. "It will have to be something else."
The woman took the man's arm and began to lead him away, though there was no way to tell which way to go. The battlefield surrounded them, fire and smoke and the clamor of battle in all directions as far as they could see and hear.
"Disaster," he realized. "The alliance is finished. The war is lost."
"But you. Captain Cordell, you will live to fight again. And I will fight beside you."
He nodded vaguely. How did this woman know his name? The question seemed quite unimportant, the confidence of her assertion instead focusing his attention and his agreement.
More and more shadowy forms appeared, fleeing in all directions, followed by the great waves of horsemen and their riders, so eager to slay and keep on slaying.
But always the riders passed the two figures without seeing them. Once a great leering beast, twice the height of a
8
man, sniffed suspiciously and turned toward them. The troll chomped its wicked fangs and crept closer.
The woman raised her hand and pointed, speaking a sharp, alien sound. A tiny globule of flame appeared, flickering from her fingertip and flying toward the troll. The monster blinked stupidly, and then the fireball erupted, engulfing the creature in a blossoming sphere of incredible heat and flame. It screeched piteously, falling to the ground and writhing in its death throes, as the woman once again urged the wounded captain into the night.
"Gold," he said, stopping suddenly. The battle had by now fallen behind them.
"What?" She, too, stopped, facing him. Her hood fell back, and he saw her snowy-white hair, her pale, almost bloodless skin. The tip of one ear protruded from her hair, and he saw its point, the characteristic mark of an elf. He was not surprised.
"Gold," he explained. "That will be the color of my banner. Gold."
Erixitl scampered up the steep trail, taking little note of the sheer drop to her left, nor of the bushy slope looming above to the right. Instead, her wide brown eyes held fast to the winding footpath. Her long hair trailed behind her, a black plume floating easily in the air, decorated with feathers of red and green.
Around her rolled a tumult of green hills, mostly covered with the same tangled brush that bordered the footpath. Occasional terraces, supporting narrow and winding fields of mayz, circled some of the lower slopes.
The brown-skinned girl darted around a sharp switchback, still climbing. Her bare feet pounded the earth in a more measured cadence now as the strain of the ascent began to tell. Still, her round face glowed with some secret happiness, and as a small, whitewashed building came into view, she broke into a sprint.
"Father! Father!" Her voice, despite the wind swirling through the yard, carried strongly. In seconds, a dark-
DOUGLAS NILES
skinned man appeared in the open door of the building.
"What is it, Erixitl? Is something wrong?" The man's dark eye's squinted along the mountainside to see if his daughter was being pursued.
"Oh, no, nothing is wrong!" The girl stumbled to the cottage and gasped for breath. The flush of exhaustion and excitement showed clearly, even through her dark, coppery skin. "Payatli, it's wonderful! Oh, please, Father, you must let me—you have to let me—"
A scowl came over the man's features, and the girl stopped in midsentence. He looked wearily into his daughter's eyes. Why did she not drop her gaze as was proper for a girl? This stubborn pride disconcerted her father almost as much as it annoyed the priests of Zaltec, whom Erix insisted upon studying every time her father took her down the mountain to the village of Palul.
Yet those same eyes were so undeniably beautiful, so keen and observant, that sometimes the father wondered if she did not share them with others as a gift for those blessed with her gaze. A gift from Qotal himself, shedding beauty on those he had left behind. Perhaps this was why the priests found her gaze unsettling. The worshipers of Zaltec could never enjoy such beauty.
Erixitl studied her father and noted the cloth of fine cotton in his hands. One corner of the cloth promised a look at the finished magic, for this small patch glowed with a brilliant profusion of colors—reds, greens, blues, violets, and many more hues, all bursting with a supernatural iridescence far brighter than any paint or dye could impart. As she looked at her father's work of plums, or feathermagic, Erix could anticipate his next words.
"Payatli, eh? You don't call me 'Most Honored Patriarch' unless you wish to get out of your chores! Is that it?"
"Please, Payatli!" Erix almost dropped to her knees, but some inner reserve of pride held her on her feet, meeting her father's steadily darkening gaze. "Terrazyl is going to CordotI with her brothers and her father to trade for salt! May I go with them? Look at the sky, Father! Today, for certain, I could see the temples and pyramids of Nexal! Please,
IHONHELM
Father! You promised I could see the city this year!"
The featherworker grimaced as if in pain, and then he sighed. "Indeed I did. But your brother is attending his class at our own temple—not as grand as the Temple of Zaltec in Nexal, to be sure, but an important duty. . . ."
Erix felt growing disappointment. Her knees trembled and her lower lip quivered, but she did not show her dismay. She had forgotten that her brother would not be here today. In truth, his apprenticeship was a high honor, for should he progress to the priesthood, he would hold great status in the village. Though her father was one of the few who preferred instead the gentle worship of Qotal, the Plumed One, he did not discourage his son's ambition toward the priesthood of Zaltec.
She knew that her request was hopeless, even as her father finished the explanation.
"Someone must tend the snares, and that must be your task today. You would not leave the birds to suffer longer than necessary, would you? Or allow the feathers to suffer damage?"
Erix knew the debate was over, but her emotions pushed forth words in a reckless torrent, a torrent she regretted even as it flowed.
"But you promised, Father! Three times we've gone to CordotI, and each time the haze or the rain comes so that I cannot see the city! This is my tenth summerrand I must see Nexal!" Finally she bit her tongue and stood still, awaiting the expected blow.
But no blow fell. Instead, her father replied softly, his voice regretful. "And so you will, my daughter. Now, desist in this unseemly pleading."
"Very well." Somehow she kept her voice from trembling. She turned and started for the twisting path leading past the house and sharply up the mountainside.
"Wait!" the featherworker called to his daughter, perhaps in guilt. Or, perhaps, because a frightening premonition showed him the life path awaiting this proud, strong girl. He pulled her to him in a firm hug.
"Soon, Erixitl, I will take you myself. On the sunniest, the
clearest of days! We will see the great pyramid, all the temples around the grand square, and the lakes themselves—a turquoise blue that will bring tears to your eyes!"
"And the Temple of Zaltec? Will we see that?"
The man's face clouded briefly at the thought of that bloodstained altar, but he masked his feelings. "Yes, my daughter, even the Temple of Zaltec. We shall see all of Nexal from the mountainside of Cordotl."
Erix sniffled quietly, feeling a little better. She returned her father's hug, and then turned toward the narrow path. "I will see to the snares."
"Erixitl." She turned in surprise as her father called again. He took something from his pouch. "I have been waiting to give you this. Perhaps this is a good time."
She stepped forward and saw that it was a small token, made from tufts of golden and emerald downfeathers around a smooth turquoise stone. The stone rested in a small ring of jade and dangled from a leather thong. The blue and green stones gleamed, but it was the feathers that gave the pendant its true beauty. Soft and fragile, they seemed to hold the token motionless, weightless, as if it floated easily in the air. Erix scarcely dared to breathe, it was so entrancingly beautiful.
"It carries the memory of our ancestors and an earlier time of greatness," explained the featherworker. "Gold and green are the sacred colors of Qotal. The turquoise shows you his eye, watchful and benign, the color of the sky."
"Thank you, Father! It's beautiful!" Erix's heart thrilled at the delicate workmanship, the brilliant colors. She did not understand his words about the god, Qotal, for to Erix, gods were gods. But she sensed a beauty and peace within the token that differed significantly from the colorful but violent rituals of Zaltec.
"I will cherish it forever!" She embraced her father impulsively, and his own arms held her tightly for several moments.
"I hope so," said the featherworker, a trifle wistfully. He was a man of considerable talent and skill. He had created magical fans for the High Counselor of Palul, and his goods
12
had been carried to the market in Nexal, where he had been told they commanded a fine price. Now he looked at the small medallion in his daughter's hands, and he concluded with conviction, "I hope you cherish it, for I can give you nothing greater."
Erix turned toward her chore with energy. The path she started up made the trail to her house seem like a broad avenue. Now she ascended a steep mountainside covered with verdant growth. She grasped vines and roots with her hands, climbing like a monkey, and soon gained five hundred feet. At last she reached the crest of the brush-covered ridge behind her family's home.
Here she paused, still breathing easily. She looked across the broad vista below her, green slopes falling thousands of feet to the bottom. Flat green fields of mayz lined the valley floor like a lush carpet, and indeed such it was: a carpet of food. The vale curved away to her right, and beyond it she could see another broad mountain, blue in the haze of distance.
Cordotl. The trading town that stood at the foot of that mountain, she knew, offered a clear vista of the broad valley of Nexal and its gleaming lakes. How clearly she imagined the jewel shining from the center of those lakes, the city of Nexal, the Heart of the True World. With a little sigh, she turned away, knowing that her first glimpse of that storied metropolis would have to wait.
She tried reminding herself of the importance of the feathers she now sought, of the greatness of her father's craft. Indeed, practitioners of pluma magic were the most important citizens of the Nexala! Of course, her father's feathermagic was of the simple, country sort. It consisted largely of feathered armor for the warriors of Palul and nearby towns, light yet sturdy vests that could shatter a flint spear tip or deflect the jagged obsidian blade of a sword; or the occasional floating litter for the speaker of the village or as a tribute to Nexal.
She had heard about, but never seen, the grand works crafted by the feathermasters of Nexal: huge litters that could bear a noble and his entire retinue; great, swirling
13
fans that cooled the palatial homes of great nobles and warriors; or vast lifts, soaring gracefully up the side of a great pyramid with their burdens of devout priests and weeping victims.
As Erix's thoughts drifted again toward those mystical sights of the city, she avoided her previous self-pity. Instead, she continued along the path, almost eagerly seeking the feathered quarry in her family's snares, confident that one day she would not only see but also be a part of the grandeur that was Nexal.
She looked off to the right as she took up the path. There, in the wilderness to the east, lay the lands of the dreaded Kultakans, fierce enemies of the Nexala. The Kultakans, too, were a nation of warriors, worshipers of Zaltec who eagerly fed the god's gory appetite on their sacrificial altars. A small nation compared to the mighty Nexala, the Kultakans were the only nearby tribe who had never been subjugated to Nexal.
Erix followed the trail along the narrow ridgeline. Tb her left sloped the familiar green slopes leading back to her home, and below that to the small town of Palul. Pausing at a curve in the trail, she could even see Palul's small pyramid, where her older brother studied the ways of the priests of Zaltec. She glared at the pyramid, but then turned away, sudden guilt overcoming her jealousy. In truth, to be a priest of the god of war was an honor any male Nexala would cherish!
Continuing on her way, she came to the first snare, where one brilliant parrot hung. The bird's struggles to escape had caused its strangulation, but Erix noted with detached pleasure that few of the bird's bright feathers had been damaged. Deftly she pulled the wiry noose, made of tough strands from the gut of a jaguar, over the bird's head, smoothing the green and red feathers in the process. Then she stuffed the bird in her leather pouch and moved farther along the trail.
Several other snares along the ridgetop were empty, but she found a bright macaw in the fifth. Now the trail dropped to the far side of the ridge. She cast a wistful look
behind her and started down the eastern slope. These were the far snares, usually her brother's territory, but Erix knew their locations well.
The dirt trail twisted past a spuming waterfall, and she stopped to kick her feet through the sparkling water at its foot. Raising her face to the sky, she let the cool mist wash over her. The dust ran from her skin, and she emerged into the shady brush across the stream feeling refreshed and happier.
A screech of avian rage told her that another macaw had found a snare, and she quickly reached it and wrung the bird's neck. Ducking under low branches, she worked her way through the thick greenery, bushes that towered high over her head, as she found more birds. Her father would be very pleased.
Suddenly a harsh call drew her attention to the deep brush. She saw a moving flash of shining brilliance, disappearing, then flashing again, farther away. With a gasp of astonishment, she parted branches and looked in amazement.
At first, she thought she glimpsed the form of a brilliant snake, entwined among the dense foliage. But then a pair of large, unmistakably feathered wings fluttered. It must be a bird, but a huge and brightly plumed specimen. The colorful shape slipped quickly out of sight, and again she got the impression of a serpentine form.
She did not pause to wonder at its appearance, however. Spellbound, she crept through the brush, barely glimpsing the long tailfeathers that distinguished the creature. Her thoughts were not of capture, though she well knew that these shining plumes must number among the most valuable treasures in all Maztica. Instead, she followed the creature with a sense of reverence, herself caught in the snare of its rare and unique beauty.
She darted under a flowery vine, slipping quietly through the shallow stream, in time to see the creature take wing. It came to rest in the top of a tall tree, and Erix hesitantly edged forward, gazing upward at the proud and wondrous fowl.
15
She did not see the orange figure slipping soundlessly between the concealing branches, its black spots moving through the shadows like oily liquid. Erix felt, rather than heard, the large body behind her, and immediately she forgot the feathered form, forgot everything but her imminent danger.
Whirling, she saw widespread jaws, leering eyes, and horrible curving claws reaching for her shoulders. ErixitI screamed as the jaguar rose onto its rear legs, and then the scream faded into a moan of terror. The great cat bore her to the earth, and she felt its breath hot upon her face. The girl lay prostrate upon the ground, her eyes squeezed shut, her body trembling in terror, as she awaited the kiss of the deadly fangs.
"Quiet, little one!" A man's voice hissed into her ear, speaking Nexala awkwardly. She opened her eyes in shock and looked between the jaguar jaws into a snarling but unmistakably human face.
The girl's heart pounded and her voice froze in her throat. The beast that had attacked her had seemed so feline, with its animal heat and deep growl. Yet she was now held by a man wearing the skin and skull of a jaguar!
ErixitI knew of the Jaguar Knights. She had even seen members of that mystical order in Palul. Fully draped in the skin of his feline namesake, painted for battle or ceremony, armed with his intricately feathered shield and brilliantly plumed lance, a Jaguar Knight was an impressive sight. But those Erix had seen were Nexala warriors, her own people!
She knew instinctively that the man who gripped her— with fingers, she saw, not the claws she had previously imagined—was not Nexala.
She understood then that her captor must come from Kultaka. With a detached sense of disbelief, she wondered whether she was intended for slavery or for the sacrificial altar. The latter seemed more likely. Trembling in terror, her brown eyes wide and staring, she watched her captor for some sign of his intentions. Would he kill her instantly? This seemed unlikely, but that knowledge only made thoughts of the future even more terrifying.
Other figures emerged from the brush, this knight's retinue. Several of the men wore quilted cotton armor, dyed a shade of green to match the undergrowth. A half-dozen were nearly naked, clad only in loincloths made from single strips of cloth. A pair of the latter took her from the knight and expertly and quickly gagged her. Then they bound her hands before her.
The knight whispered a command in a strange language, and one of the men pulled on the rope, tugging Erix into the brush, toward the east, toward Kultaka and the enemies of the Nexala.
Behind her fell the valley of Palul, and farther away than ever before was the mystical city of Nexal, Heart of the True World.
As the girl stumbled into the brush, the green plants closed behind her, behind the knight and his men. Soon the only trace of their passage was an occasional crimson spot on the leaves—blood dripping from the claw marks that scarred Erix's upper arms.
"How is it that none of my wisest priests can explain a portent of this magnitude?"
Naltecona rose from his bench and stalked back and forth across the dais. His wide cape, made of shimmering green feathers embroidered into the finest of cotton mesh, floated almost weightless in the air behind him.
The great ruler stopped, and pluma magic slowly lifted the great cape into a fan behind his collar, like the emerald splendor of a strutting peacock. Naltecona surveyed the priests before him with a mixture of contempt and desperation.
"You, Caracatl!" He fixed the trembling cleric with an icy gaze. "What does the Grand Patriarch of Ttezca have to say about this message from the gods?" Naltecona pointed at the man, whose face was smeared with pale ashes. He wore a robe of deep scarlet, and his body was thin from his many fasts.
"Most Revered Counselor," Caracatl began solemnly, just a trace of a tremor in his voice, "the fire that burns in the sky above Nexal is indeed a sign, obviously from crimson Tezca; god of the sun! Indeed, my enchantments tell me that we see the reflection of his great soul itself. It is a sign of the god's hunger, Most Excellent One. Tezca desires more blood at sunset to fuel his life-giving flame!"
Naltecona whirled from the priest, his cloak wheeling elegantly behind him. The ruler stalked past the timorous line of courtiers and attendants standing behind his throne. The brilliant plumes of his cape lashed across their faces as Naltecona passed. Though each of these was a wealthy individual, of noble rank in Nexal, to a man they wore garments of stained cotton, devoid of any ornament. Now each worthy noble trembled visibly in the presence of the counselor, and none dared raise his eyes from the floor when the great Naltecona passed.
The mighty ruler suddenly spun and faced another of the four priests standing upon the steps before him. "Atl-Ollin, perhaps you can cast some illumination on this matter. No doubt Calor wills the sacrifice of another child." A hint of irony played about the counselor's lips, but the cleric of Calor could take no note—his eyes were cast reverently downward.
This cleric, too, was a thin man. But while Caracatl's skin was lined with dirt and ash, Atl-Ollin's was scrubbed clean. Indeed, many abrasions covered his skin, where the cleric had injured himself as he vigorously applied the pumice stone that served as his ritual soap.
"I am afraid, Most Revered Counselor, that Calor has been distressingly silent in the matter of this omen." The blue-robed patriarch wrung his wrinkled hands. "None can doubt that this Star-That-Shines-By-Day, growing in brilliance as it has over the last tenday, is a portent of most cataclysmic import!"
"An honest answer, at the very least," mused the ruler as he spun once again to stride along the edge of the dais. Again the courtiers bowed nervously as the regal figure passed.
18
"And you, Hoxitl?" The Revered Counselor paused before a third cleric. "Pray share your tidings with us. What is the will of our First God?" Naltecona now addressed a gaunt skeleton of a man. This priest's skin stretched tightly over his emaciated frame, marred by the self-inflicted scars of penance required by Zaltec. His hands were blood-red, stained by the ritual dye used to distinguish the most loyal followers of Zaltec, those who wore the honored brand called Viperhand.
Most striking was the cleric's thick hair, for Hoxitl, like all clerics of Zaltec, used the dried blood of his victims to stiffen it into a mass of black, twisting spires.
"Zaltec seethes impatiently. Revered Counselor Naltecona. I must take the counsel of the Ancient Ones immediately. Indeed, I embark for the Highcave before dark. Only after I have spoken with them, when I have heard the wisdom of the Ancestors of Darkness, dare I speculate what means this sign."
The priest did not meet Naltecona's eyes, but neither did his voice waver. "Even so, I know that more than a year has passed without a victory feast. Perhaps our First God grows hungry."
Hoxitl, Patriarch of Zaltec, stood firmly before his ruler's gaze. Nonetheless, beads of sweat formed upon his brow. They trickled through the blood-caked peaks of his hair.
"We must have captives—many of them!—that we may claim their hearts for Zaltec!" Hoxitl dared to speak firmly, still keeping his eyes lowered. "Only thus may we drive the omen of ill from the skies!"
Naltecona did not turn in scorn from this cleric, though he shook his head in silent thought before looking to yet another priest. This one met the speaker's eyes with his own gaze of patient, silent thought.
"Andyou. Colon!" Naltecona spoke softly, his voice assuming a youthful wistfulness. "Would that you could speak, that I may hear you. What wisdom do you conceal behind that shield of silence?"
Colon, resplendent in a plain gown of purest cotlon, nodded respectfully but, of course, said nothing. Naltecona
whirled again, agitation forcing him into a restless pace. Finally he paused before his throne. In the far wall of his chamber, high above his head, was a long window. Even now he could see the winking insolence of the omen, gleaming brighter than the most brilliant of stars, though the hour was barely past noon.
"Could you be the sign of the Return? Do you warn us that Qotal comes again to the True World?" He spoke thoughtfully, then lapsed into silence.
After a moment, he turned to a courtier, his voice now firm with decision. "Prepare a dozen slaves for the ceremonies of Tezca this evening. Inform my generals to prepare an expedition against Kultaka. Their mission is the claiming of prisoners for the flowery altar of Zaltec!"
Many thousands of miles away, a tower slanted crazily into the sky. The narrow structure, with a conical, tiled roof, rose from a wasteland of red sand, but instead of standing proud and tall like a spire in the sky, it careened at an angle half between upright and horizontal. Defying the law of gravity, it proclaimed by its very existence the might of a greater power: magic.
Inside the tower, all seemed normal. The walls appeared to rise and fall straight up and down. A stairway curved around the inside of the tower, leading from a room at the bottom to another room at the top. The rest of the tower was a hollow cylinder. The hollow center of the place was empty, at rest, except for one careful, deliberate figure.
Kreeshah . . . barool . . . hottaisk. Over and over, the phrase rang through Halloran's head. He studied the words, the verbal component of the magic missile spell, until his brains felt like mush. But still his master made him concentrate.
Halloran climbed the stairs carefully, holding the foaming beaker before him with both hands. Two more circuits to the top of the tower, to the wizard's laboratory, to ...
Tb what? The lad did not want to find out.
2O
The wizard Arquiuius's current casting, a potent summoning spell, frightened Halloran as had none of his mentor's previous incantations. The creature within the mage's pattern had been taking shape for three days and nights now, and each hour it seemed to add another oozing pustule, bloated tentacle, or drooping moist orb. Presumably these were eyes, Hal guessed, though they numbered several dozen on the bloblike form that now occupied the entire center of the laboratory.
Kreeshah •. . . baroo!. .. hottaisk. He repeated the words again, but his mind threatened to wander. The hour was early, before the sunrise, and he had had scant hours of sleep during the course of his master's current incantation. Still, I should be more disciplined, Halloran reminded himself, thinking of all that he owed to the wizard. Arquiuius had found him as an orphan, a seasoned street urchin who had lost his family to war, and had brought him here. For the last years of his childhood, Halloran had worked at odd tasks for the wizard. Now, as he progressed through adolescence, he was beginning to learn the secrets of arcanery from Aquiuius. Perhaps, one day, Halloran would be a wizard as mighty as his master!
Placing each footstep carefully on the smooth, worn stone of the stairway, the young magic-user made another circuit. One more to go. ...
"What am I doing here?" He mouthed the question in genuine curiosity. Of course, he knew he possessed the aptitude that Arquiuius had recognized years ago. Now the youth could send an arrow of magic exploding from his finger, or cause an unsuspecting peasant to fall asleep at his plow. He could subtly charm an innkeeper into granting a free night's lodging, or cause a magical fight to blossom in a darkened room. Never, Arquiuius recently proclaimed, had an apprentice mastered so much while still years from growing his own beard!
The steps passed too quickly, though Halloran's deliberate pace slowed even further as he approached the landing and its great oaken door.
"Why didn't I take up sword and shield like my father?" he
lamented. But he had no time to answer that question.
The great door swung silently open, as if of its own accord, and Hal tried to still his trembling hands as he stepped into the lab. The acrid smoke spilled constantly from the beaker in his hands, causing his eyes to water. Nevertheless, he was able to see that the shape in the laboratory had sprouted more limbs. I...
Januszek66