Viperhand

plunging it through the animal's chest. With a shudder, it died.

Shatil fell backward against the pyramid, wrenching his arm from the vicelike jaws. He gasped in pain, struggling to remain conscious as a red haze drifted across his vision. He felt blood flowing into his lap, but only slowly came to realize the danger of his wound.

Shaking his head to ward off the grogginess, Shatil climbed to his feet. Tearing a strip of cloth from his robe, he wrapped it around the bloody flesh of his wrist. Though the bandage quickly became sodden, he hoped it would stem the bleeding enough to allow him to move. He stumbled when he tried to walk, but slowly he managed to stagger out of the square.

He saw that perhaps half the buildings in town had burned. Around him, in the remaining houses, slept the victors of the day's battle.

If you could call it a battle, thought Shatil bitterly. His step grew stronger as he passed the last houses, striking out on the road to Nexal. Thousands of Mazticans had already fled this way, and doubtless Naltecona had been told of the battle. But Shatil had a mission of his own. He had the scroll that he needed to give to Hoxitl, patriarch of Zaltec in the city of Nexal.

His step quickened. As his wrist throbbed, he held it to his chest and fought back the bile of his pain. He began to trot, and somehow he held this pace through the rest of the night.

At dawn, he stopped to drink, but he felt no need for food. Acutely conscious of the parchment he had pledged to carry to Hoxitl, Shatil once again trotted down the road.

His god, he knew, would sustain him.

Poshtli slipped through the darkness, appalled at the extent of the disaster. His route took him past the ruined section of Palul, and he came upon many badly burned survivors. These groaned and pleaded for water; he helped as many as he could, until his own waterskin was empty.

He found no sign of Erixitl, and he began to wonder if he had embarked upon a fool's task. She could have lain, delirious, ten feet away from him and he might have missed her in the gathering darkness.

It was with little hope that Poshtli started toward the rendezvous with Halloran at the base of the ridge. He approached the meeting with a strange sense of revulsion for his friend, simply because Hal was of the people who had done this. Yet he also knew shame for the treacherous ambush, all the more pathetic now for its obvious lack of success.

He heard Storm whinny quietly up ahead, and Poshtli moved toward Hal. He kept his face carefully neutral, so as not to reveal any of his inner emotional torment.

But then he saw Erixitl, and he couldn't hold back the tears of joy. She leaped toward him, then held the warrior tightly as he looked over her shoulder at Halloran. The expression of relief and joy on Hal's face banished Poshtli's earlier pain.

'You are safe!' said Poshtli earnestly. 'That is what I feared I would never see.'

'Hal's hurt,' Erix said, returning to the ex-legionnaire. She had removed his breastplate, revealing a narrow puncture below his left armpit.

'I'll be fine,' he grunted, trying to ignore the pain. 'It's not serious.'

'So many are dead,' Erix said quietly, turning back to Poshtli. The warrior could only nod numbly; he had seen the proof. 'Such mad butchery!' she blurted, turning back to Hal. 'Why? What makes these men go mad with killing?'

Hal lowered his eyes, unable to meet her pain-filled, accusing stare. 'The one who seized you is a born killer. His soul is dark and mad. As to the rest…' His voice trailed off, shameful.

'The ambush' Poshtli said to Erix. 'Who attacked first?'

'The strangers. We presented them with a feast, and the leader, Cordell, murdered Kalnak with one blow. He said things about treachery, and then he killed him.'

'He learned about a planned attack, ordered by Naltecona. The feast was a charade,' Poshtli said softly, 'to lure the invaders into a trap. But the ruse ensnared the trappers, instead.'

Erix looked at him in shock. She recalled the weapons, close at hand, used by the warriors in the plaza, and she slowly realized that he spoke the truth. But it was a truth that soothed none of the bitterness of the slaughter.

'Darien, the Bishou — either of them could have learned about the trap through sorcery of one kind or another,' Hal explained.

'My father,' Erix said finally. 'I must go see that he is out of danger.'

'I'll go with you, if you'll let me,' offered Hal.' Now that it's dark, we can move safely.'

'You have to come with me,' she said calmly. 'Your wound must be tended, and you will need rest before you can travel anywhere.'

Poshtli stood up, then looked away from the pair for a moment. When he turned back to them his face was set, though lined with regret.

'There is certain, now, to be war,' he said. 'And my duty to my nation becomes clear. I must return to Nexal and offer my services to my uncle.'

Halloran nodded, understanding. 'Take Storm. You'll need to travel fast to reach the city before Cordell. He's certain to march soon.'

'But…' Poshtli hesitated, looking questioningly from Erix to Halloran.

'Hal needs to rest. His wound runs deep,' said Erix. 'He will stay in my father's house. He will be easy to hide if you take the horse.'

'Very well. I shall leave you together' said Poshtli,' and hope that you may avoid the coming ravages. May… Qotal watch over you.'

'Good-bye, my friend,' said Halloran, ignoring his pain to rise and embrace the warrior. Erix, too, held the Nexalan tightly, but at last broke away to look at him through misty eyes.

'Take good care,' she whispered, 'that we may see you again.'

Poshtli bowed, smiling slightly. Then he turned and mounted the mare. Storm pranced for a moment before wheeling to gallop into the night.

'The house is not far… up there,' Erix explained, pointing.

Hal nodded, grimacing against the sudden spasm of pain in his chest. She led him onto the lower slope of the great ridge that sheltered Palul. The woman pushed through thickets, slowly working her way higher.

'We're staying off the trail,' she explained when they stopped to rest after several minutes. 'Can you make it?'

'I'll be all right.' Hal managed a weak smile, and she took his hand. The feel of her skin against his gave him strength to rise and start upward again.

'Up here — we're close now,' urged Erix, holding back thorny branches as Hal scrambled after her. The inky cloak of night completely surrounded them.

Finally she stopped at a small level shelf in the side of the ridge. 'This is my father's house.'

Gasping for air after the climb, Halloran raised his eyes to stare at the little structure. 'Your home,' he said, with unusual gentleness. She looked at him in the darkness, and he wondered if she understood his feelings.

He wanted to take her and hold her close, never to let her out of his sight again. Below, in the village, men of his race and culture made camp. Yet they had become as foreign to him as the scarred priests who practiced their nightly butchery in Nexal. This woman before him had become the only anchor in his life, his only source of purpose and meaning. He wanted to tell her all of this, but the look of pain in her eyes compelled him to silence.

'My daughter! You live!' The voice from the darkened doorway was full of strength and joy. An old man stepped into the yard, and Halloran saw him in the light of the half-moon that had just risen. The fellow shuffled like the blind man he was, yet he looked up with an alertness that made Hal think he saw more than any of them.

'And Shatil? He is with you?' Lotil's inflection showed that he already knew the answer.

'No, Father. I fear he perished in the temple. The soldiers overran the pyramid, destroying everything there.'

The featherworker slumped slightly, stepping back into the hut before turning to face them again. 'And who is this who accompanies you?' he asked.