Natac watched impassively as the smelly, filth-encrusted cleric hastily withdrew, apparently fearful even of this ludicrously armed enemy.
The four holy men raised their voices in long, ululating cries, a summons intended to draw the attention of the god of war. The file of sacrificial victims on the great pyramid came to a temporary halt as the eyes of seemingly all the populace turned to the ceremony on the Warstone. Natac was awed by a fresh appreciation of the crowd’s size, which must have numbered a hundred times a thousand and more.
The hard-eyed young Aztec bounded up the seven steps on the east side of the platform, sharp-toothed weapon held ready for a slash to right or left. Natac waited in the middle of the circle, the feathered club held casually at his side. The young man stood a hand-span taller than the Tlaxcalan, and he all but sneered at the wounded, underarmed xochimilche-a broken warrior who was apparently resigned to a quick death.
It was in that arrogance that Natac foresaw the Mexican’s doom. Predictably, the man charged with a sudden sprint, raising his maquahuitl high above his head. Those stony eyes never wavered from Natac’s face as the weapon came down in a swooping rush, a blow deadly enough to cleave a man from crown to sternum-if the attack could but strike such a mortal target.
Calmly meeting his attacker’s cold glare, Natac feinted to the right with a drop of his shoulder. The move turned the Aztec slightly in his onrush-and then the Tlaxcalan dodged left with whiplike quickness, bringing his club through a bone-crushing smash into the wrist of his enemy’s weapon-hand. The lethal maquahuitl clattered to the stone as the man staggered to a stop at the far edge of the platform. With a quick rush Natac charged and kicked the Aztec in the chest, sending him toppling backward off the Warstone.
The stunned Mexican clutched his broken wrist and groaned weakly on the ground below as two priests closed in, but Natac didn’t watch as the clerics hoisted the vanquished warrior to his feet and started him toward the great pyramid. Instead, the Tlaxcalan turned to the south stairway, where another determined warrior-a scarred and stocky veteran armed with a javelin as well as a maquahuitl-ascended to do glory for his god and his nation.
His predecessor’s fate apparently gave this warrior little pause, for he, too, charged with headlong speed. Natac started to retreat, but then sprang forward to stab his club, head forward, between the careless guard of the Aztec’s javelin and sword. The blow smashed into the padded quilt with enough force to crack the man’s ribs, and he collapsed soundlessly. Looking at his enemy’s lips, which were already blue, Natac knew he had died from a bruise to his heart.
The Tlaxcalan crossed to the other side of the platform while more priests dragged the warrior and his weapons away. Since the man was already dead, they wasted no time in slicing open his chest and raising that stilled heart toward the sun. The slick red muscle was then placed in a wicker basket and borne toward a nearby temple by a swiftly trotting apprentice.
Before the end of that brief ceremony, an Aztec warrior had climbed the west stairway to the Warstone. This man bore only a maquahuitl, and he moved with feline grace, balancing on the balls of his feet and weaving back and forth unpredictably. He might have the quickness to become a Jaguar Knight someday, Natac suspected-if he had tenacity and strength, as well.
It was at that moment that the Tlaxcalan was struck by an odd thought: His own death at the hands of one of these young Mexicans would greatly exalt that aspiring warrior’s status. The victor might be granted command of a hundred warriors, or even that exalted knighthood in the orders of the Jaguars or Eagles. The notion gave rise to a strangely calming sense of tranquillity.
The graceful Aztec approached with caution, circling warily. Natac allowed him to hold a respectful distance as the two combatants faced each other like dancers, slowly pivoting around the stage. They sparred with quick slashes, the clash of their weapons harsh in the still plaza until, as if by mutual plan, they separated.
Over three sharp exchanges the young man revealed quick reflexes in defense, but also displayed a predilection for a high, slashing attack. The fourth time that catlike swipe whipped past his face, Natac was ready with his own counter. He ducked into a full squat and struck from his crouch, a vicious sideswipe that shattered the Aztec’s knee. Sobbing in disbelief, the promising young warrior was borne toward the temple of the war god as a fourth fighter, this one climbing up the north stairway, took up the challenge.
And he was followed by a fifth, and then a sixth.
When the seventh man fell, knocked senseless by a blow to the head, several heartbeats passed without the next challenger appearing. A freshening breeze cooled the sheen of sweat that glistened on Natac’s nearly hairless skin. He was vaguely aware of a stillness, a sense of awe that had quieted the once boisterous crowd.
When he looked around curiously, he saw the reason: Sternly upright amid the framing plumage of slave- borne fans, Moctezuma himself had come to observe the duel.
The Eloquent One, most powerful ruler in the known world, was resplendent in his bright feathered mantle and the brilliant headdress of long, emerald-colored plumes lofting half again above his own height. A large plug of turquoise and gold graced his lower lip, which was now curled downward in a pout of displeasure. In Moctezuma’s wake crowded a retinue of nobles anxious for a look at the Tlaxcalan xochimilche. Yet all left space around the Eloquent One, and hastened to back away from the ruler’s every gesture or move.
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
