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.
Atop the pyramid, Natac could at last see the dazzling lakes that surrounded the island city of the Mexica. Sunlight sparkled in broad swaths, liquid silver shimmering to the verdant horizon. Closer, he saw the vast plaza and surrounding streets, all thronged by crowds, while the canals beyond were thick with canoes. Banners floated and lofty headdresses danced above the people like magically enchanted snakes and birds. It was a wondrous scene, a perfect vision of man’s crowning achievement as allowed by the benevolence of the gods.
Finally the priests closed in and Natac laid himself across the altar without any assistance. Now his eyes turned upward, to the sky of that perfect blue. He felt a fleeting moment of sadness as he beheld the surreal hue, knowing that in the blackness of Mictlan he would miss such beauty.
He smelled shit on the nearest priest, and that made him sad, too.
Then the knife was there, blocking his view of the sky, plunging, cutting his chest with a shocking rip of pain. In a brief moment the agony was gone, and Natac felt only numbness as he stared into the grime-smeared face of the leering holy man. A filthy hand came forward, and he was vaguely aware of fingers penetrating, pushing into his flesh.
He strained for breath, but there was no air.
Blackness fringed his vision, a circle swiftly drawing tight. Then Natac saw his own heart, red and bright and dripping, pulsing with the last vestiges of vitality.
Finally, the darkness was everywhere.
And in the black infinity he sensed a woman. Her musk surrounded him, a tangible spoor that teased and cajoled, moving him with a raw and sexual summons. The feeling intoxicated Natac, drew him with a promise of unprecedented delight.
Even so, he was rather startled to find himself utterly, tumescently, aroused.
PART ONE
1
A Sage-Ambassador
Know that it is carved in the Tablets of Inception:
The Seven Circles remain, and in their balance stands the hope of all futures.
The First Circle, called Underworld, is the realm of rock; it lies below.
The Second Circle, called Dissona, is the realm of metal; it lies across the Worldsea, in the direction of metal.
The Third Circle, called Lignia, is the realm of wood; it lies across the Worldsea, in the direction of wood.
The Fourth Circle is Nayve, sacred realm of flesh. It is the center of the Worldsea, the center of all.
The Fifth Circle is Loamar, realm of dirt; it lies beyond the Worldsea, in the direction that is neither metal nor wood.
The Sixth Circle is Overworld, and it is the realm of air; it lies above.
The Seventh Circle is the universe called Earth, realm of water; it lies in the directions of everywhere and nowhere.
Belynda read the words again. She knew them by heart, but there was always comfort to be gained from the calm repetition, the silent mouthing of text reciting the fundamental order of the cosmos. Yet, for some reason, today even the massive, gold-bound tome-her personal copy of the Tablets of Inception-was not enough to calm a vague sense of disquiet. An edge of tension thrummed in the back of her mind, a sensation she was unable to banish.
