But no more. Now, with the secure offer of a house, he was no longer a wandering fugitive. He had grown to love this magnificent city. More importantly, he realized that he loved the woman who had brought him safely here.
His step increased in urgency as he turned the last corner. He reached for the beaded curtains, his heart singing. Then he heard voices from inside, and unconsciously he froze.
'…become my wife?' The words were Poshtli's, Halloran sensed with a cold stone sinking into his stomach. What would she say?
Then, through the beads of the doorway, he saw Poshtli scoop Erix into his arms. Her own arms went around his shoulders, pulling him closer.
Stunned as if he had been struck on the head, Halloran lowered his hand from the doorway. Stumbling slightly, he turned and walked away.
Fire surged upward, illuminating the inside of the long building. Apprentices threw more wood on the flames, and now bright, yellow light surrounded the great statue of leering, bloodthirsty Zaltec.
Hoxitl entered the room, shedding his dirty robe and approaching the statue naked but for his breechclout. His hands were red, caked with the blood of the Viperhand ceremony. Tonight, as upon so many nights since the strangers had come to the True World, he had branded many of the faithful with the sign of the hand.
Like all the others, they took the vow, pledging hearts and minds, bodies and souls — their lives themselves — to Zaltec. In this age when strangers from across the sea marched in their land, they found their only comfort in this cult of hatred, and only Zaltec offered hope of successful resistance. The cult flourished, and this pleased Hoxitl. He suspected that the cult of the Viperhand would be the only force that could truly stem the tide when war swept the land as it inevitably must.
But now he had other, more immediate concerns.
'What is the word?' he inquired of a priest who emerged from the shadows to stand beside him, looking up at the statue.
'It will have to be done in the palace,' said the newcomer, Kallict. A young, vigorous priest, Kallict had shown great skill with the sacrificial blade and possessed a keen wisdom for one of his age. Many priests thought he might one day succeed Hoxitl to the rank of patriarch.
The current high priest scowled at the news. 'Does she not venture into the city?' he demanded.
'Rarely,' replied Kallict. 'She has gone to the market several times, but always with an escort of palace slaves — and always during the day.'
'Taking her from the palace will be difficult,' said the high priest.
Kallict removed a stone knife from his belt. Facing the older priest squarely, he extended his arm, which was covered with long, straight scars. Laying the blade against his own skin, Kallict drew the knife sharply toward himself. Red blood welled from the wound and dripped, unheeded, to the floor as the young priest looked at his patriarch.
'By Zaltec, I will find a way to do it.' They both knew that his vow was as good as the blood that now collected into a small pool on the floor.
'They await us on the slopes,' reported Darien. 'Beyond the next pass lies their city, so I am certain they will fight us here.'
Cordell took the elfwoman's hand in gratitude for the warning. Without it, his legion would almost certainly have marched into ambush.
'Deploy to meet them,' barked the captain-general to his assembled officers. The legion's march had taken it westward down a wide valley. Now they neared the higher ground, where the valley rose to this saddle-like pass, many miles inland from the border of Kultaka.
'Daggrande, deploy your crossbows across the front. Garrand, advance up the slope in a diversion. See if you can lure them into a charge. Alvarro, keep the lancers hidden, in reserve.'
With the efficiency of long practice, the Golden Legion deployed for battle. The light foot soldiers of Garrand's company spread into a skirmish line. The heavy crossbowmen of Daggrande's units took station behind them, while Alvarro held his horsemen out of sight. The warriors of the Payit Cordell sent in two great wings to the right and left, using his Maztican allies to insure that his legion wasn't caught in a flank attack.
An overcast sky hung heavily over the valley, almost touching the highest of the surrounding peaks. All morning long the gray blanket had pressed close, darkening the landscape, threatening and rumbling, but yielding no moisture.
A shower of arrows, as thick as a summer downpour, soared outward from the slopes, arcing down to spray the assembled footmen of Cordell's legion.
'Shields up!' shouted Daggrande, nervously eyeing the heights.
With a clatter of stone against steel, the arrows shattered against the metal bucklers and helmets of the legionnaires. One or two found a chink, driving into a bicep or painfully pricking a shoulder, but most of the missiles bounced harmlessly from the protected troops. '
Again and again the arrows flew into the air, like a streaking cloud of locusts, but always the metal shields of the legionnaires saved them from catastrophe.
'Move up, now — look lively!' Daggrande raised his steel crossbow, searching the brushy slope before them for some sign of the enemy. He saw the Kultakan archers backing up the hill, away from his slowly marching company. The temptation to charge them was great, but the dwarven veteran shrugged it away. The nimble warriors would have no difficulty slipping away from his heavily encumbered troops.
Instead, the company marched to the measured cadence of the drummer, maintaining a straight line even as a portion scrambled through a ditch or another section forced its way through a dense thicket.
'Halt!' he cried, as they reached a steeper, rockier portion of the slope. 'Shields!'
Again arrows showered them, as thick as a cloud of stinging insects, but fortunately with not much greater damaging effect. The dwarf saw with satisfaction that, though several of his men bled from fresh and obviously painful wounds, not one of them had broken ranks or fallen.
Now a shrieking din of whistles, horns, and shrill yells suddenly broke from the ground above them. Where Daggrande had seen a broken slope with occasional flashes of movement, now he beheld a horde of many thousands of feathered, painted Kultakans. The natives leaped to their feet from countless holes in the earth, as if they had appeared by magic.
Another shower of arrows erupted, and even before the missiles fell to earth, the Mazticans broke into a howling downhill charge.
'Fly, my feathered ones! Fly to victory!'
Just beneath the top of the ridge, Takamal sprang to his feet. The war chief of Kultaka turned his face to the sun, raising his voice in a long, ululating howl, letting the exultation of his own spirit lift the hearts of his charging warriors.
Behind him, a rank of warriors stood, each holding a long pole. Atop each shaft fluttered a different banner of brilliant feathers. When raised alone or in combination, they served to communicate orders to the Kultakan army.
Along the ridgetop, the Eagle Knights stood above a steep embankment. The black-and-white-cloaked warriors hurled themselves into space, changing to the forms of diving birds and soaring free before they crashed to the rocks below.
'See the strangers recoil!' cried Naloc, high priest of Zaltec and Takamal's lifelong advisor.
Indeed, the feathered swarm of the Kultakan charge had swept fully around the silver figures of the enemy. Virtually immobile in comparison to the fleet Kultakans, the strangers could only tighten their ranks and form a rough circle against the all-around assault.
'Still, they fight well,' admitted Takamal as his flash of joy settled back to grim determination. 'Very few of them have been slain.'
Below them, the Eagles settled to earth. Quickly they became humans again, raising the wooden macas and whooping as they hurled themselves into the attack. Against them stood a single line of the strangers, wielding their silver shields and those long, metal knives. As the two lines clashed, dozens of Eagles fell, but only one or two of the enemy.
