'Acatl-tzin!' Teomitl called out. He stood in a circle of emptiness. The Jade Skirt's light spilled around him, creating a barrier the Storm Lord's creatures prowled around, but were unwilling to bypass.
When I approached, they turned their attention to me, hissing with an eerie joy.
I did the only thing that made sense: I ran, and threw myself at Teomitl's feet, into the water.
I rose, coughing up algae, to peer into Teomitl's amused gaze. 'Some reinforcements,' he said.
I turned around, to survey the battlefield. On the water, Ixtli's men were engaging the priests of Tlaloc, trying to bring their boats close enough to strike at their exposed enemy. Meanwhile, the priests were also trying to get within range, though their spells did not require contact to be cast.
One priest in particular seemed to be their leader: a tall, lean man with green paint smeared across his face, standing at the back of one of the largest barges. It wasn't Acamapichtli. No matter how hard the High Priest of Tlaloc had worked to indict Neutemoc, it appeared he was quite blameless in the matter of the Storm Lord's child. I wasn't sure whether I ought to have been disappointed.
On the island, Ichtaca had a cage with two hummingbirds at his feet. He was busy drawing a circle in the mud, whispering the words of a prayer to the Southern Hummingbird. I recognised a much stronger version of Mihmatini's warding spell, directed not only at Ichtaca, but at every human being in the vicinity.
It might possibly dispel the creatures, but that spell would take time to cast, time we were running out of.
Next to Ichtaca, two offering priests swiped at the creatures – failing to do any damage, but still keeping them at bay. As I watched, one of them slipped in the mud, and one of the creatures' claws opened up a wound on his arm. He fell, a vacant smile stretching across his face.
An ahuizotl welled up from the water, and leapt to take the priest's place. Neither Ichtaca nor the other priest did anything more than nod tiredly. Any help was better than none.
Palli was down on one knee, but otherwise unharmed, and Ezamahual was busy protecting two of his fallen comrades, his harsh face transfigured by battle frenzy.
The least that could be said was that the battle was not going in our favour.
'Where is–' I started; and saw Neutemoc. He had somehow managed to evade the creatures, and was steadily fighting his way towards the top of the rise – no, not fighting, more weaving his way between claw-swipes, each of which could mean his death.
'He's insane,' I said, though not without a touch of jealousy.
Teomitl shrugged. 'Don't you recognise it? He has nothing to lose any more.'
An image of Huei rose in my mind: of her standing in the reception room, bitter and sad, and I, refusing to understand her until it was too late. I quelled it. It wasn't the time. 'Are you wounded?' I panted.
Teomitl shrugged, although every feature of his face was drawn and wan, like a man drained of blood. 'I'll go on.'
I stared at Neutemoc, and at the child Mazatl, still standing before the altar. 'We have to help him to reach the altar,' I said. 'Close enough to strike.'
Teomitl grimaced. 'Will the child die?'
I shrugged. My experience of god-children was, thank the Duality, fairly limited. 'He's human. If he wasn't, he couldn't wield so much magic. He'll die.'
Teomitl didn't look convinced; and I wasn't completely, either. But it was a fair chance. 'Worth a try,' he said. 'Distract the creatures, then?'
I nodded. At least until we found a way to kill them. I hefted an obsidian knife with my left hand, feeling the slight twinge from old wounds, and stared at the creatures, bracing myself to leave the circle of Teomitl's protection.
Over the water, some of Ixtli's men had managed to get close enough to the priests: they were hacking and slashing, their boats swaying under them. The priests, though, were casting spells: darts of green light that wounded as much as if they had been metal. As I watched, one of Ixtli's men, struck in the chest by three darts at the same time, stood shock-still at the prow of his boat – and keeled into the lake. He did not move. Blood stained the water, lazily spreading over the fluid shapes of the ahuizotls.
With a sigh, I lifted my knife to strike; and felt the emptiness of Mictlan fill me, a hundred, a thousand times stronger than it had ever been. The wind in my ears was the lament of the dead, and the water lapping at my ankles cold and unforgiving, like a drowned man's kiss – and even Teomitl's voice was the rattle of a dying man.
I had felt this, once before, when fighting the beast of shadows. But it had never been this strong, never altered the shape of the Fifth World.
Those were not my knives.
Within me, Chalchiutlicue was laughing.
Gasping, I stepped away from Teomitl, straight into the path of one of the creatures.
Its clawed hands snaked, lazily, to strike me. One of the ahuizotls leapt up from the water, snarling, but it was too late – the claws sank into my skin – and numbness spread from the wound, that terrible numbness that marked the end of the fight.
I was dimly aware of sinking to one knee; of someone – Teomitl? Palli? – screaming in a faraway land; of the creature rushing in to gorge on my blood. With sluggish hands, I raised my knife – held it against my chest to defend against the claws – and the creature, too eager to exploit my weakness, impaled itself on the blade.
Within me, the numbness of Tlaloc's wounds met the growing emptiness of Mictlan: two huge waves clashing against each other and breaking, sending their aftershocks into the depths of my soul. Visions of Eleuia's empty orbits mingled with the image of Father's body – and Mother's face, contorted in anger, held the fervent gaze of Commander Quiyahuayo. My limbs would not stop shaking.
Chalchiutlicue laughed and laughed in the empty rooms of my mind.
Far, far beyond me, the Storm Lord's creature screamed: a thin, reedy cry like a strangled new-born. As the
