this fact.'
'Indeed,' said Hoxitl, concealing his skepticism with another bow.
'Is that all?' asked the counselor, boredom creeping into his voice.
'There is another matter,' replied the priest. 'Should my lord counselor deem it his pleasure to attend, I inform you that we will consecrate more warriors into the cult of the Viperhand tonight, at the setting of the sun.'
Viperhand. Naltecona felt a chill with the word. The cult of the Viperhand seemed to grow daily since the arrival in Maztica of the strangers from across the sea. It had always been the cult of Zaltec's faithful followers, but now warriors, priests, even common workers flocked to the temples to swear eternal allegiance to the god of war and to wear his bloody brand.
The mark was wielded by the high priest alone. Tonight that brand would be pressed forever into the flesh of more young Nexalans.
Naltecona sighed, ignoring the high priest's request. 'Colon, come here,' he called, turning to the rest of his retinue.
A white-robed priest bowed and stepped forward from the group. This one, in stark contrast to Hoxitl, appeared well fed, even to the point of a slight plumpness. His shock of white hair and his wrinkled brown skin were clean, unmarked by scars, blood, or dirt. Colon, high priest of Qotal, approached the counselor silently. Indeed, he did everything silently, in deference to a vow he had made to his immortal master, the Butterfly God.
'Leave us for a moment,' Naltecona ordered Hoxitl. That priest scowled at Colon but stepped obediently away.
'One of the strangers comes to Nexal,' explained the counselor. As always, he felt comfortable speaking to the un-answering Colon. 'Hoxitl wishes to place his heart upon the altar of Zaltec.
'We know of the prowess of these strangers. Perhaps it would be good to have this one dead, no longer a threat. But I am curious about them, and how much of a threat can one man be to our city, our nation?'
Also in Naltecona's mind were the legends predicting the return of Qotal, the Butterfly God, to Maztica. He would return from the eastern ocean, it was said, in a great winged canoe. Some legends had even predicted that he would be pale of skin and bearded of face, just like most of these strangers!
These rumors lay heavy in the ruler's mind, but so, too, did the hunger of Zaltec. And now his cult, the cult of the Viperhand, spread more rapidly than ever before. With the coming of the strangers, the young warriors of Nexal seemed more eager than ever to make that sacred vow to Zaltec.
Colon, of course, made no reply, but the voicing of his doubts propelled Naltecona into decision.
'I will not allow his death… not immediately,' he explained to Colon. 'I must allow him to live, even protect him, that I may learn more about him and his people.' His mind made up, Naltecona lurned back to Hoxitl.
'The stranger will be spared,' he told the priest. Then he added, in deference to a vengeful god, 'But I shall attend the consecration of the Viperhand at sunset.'
Darien stretched languorously and arose from the bed, naked, crossing to the candlestick beside the door. Cordell held his breath, entranced by the pure whiteness of her form, the graceful curve of her albino skin. Squinting her tender eyes against the candle's brightness, Darien extinguished the flame with a quick puff of breath, plunging the cabin into darkness.
She returned to the bed, something Cordell smelled and felt but could not see. He silently cursed his lack of night-vision, so desperately did he want to look upon her. Whatever the nature of this burning feeling — was it need, desire, perhaps love? — he had felt it grow into a fire that consumed his heart. Now it burned as he welcomed her into his arms.
Finally she lay sleeping beside him. The gentle sounds of the city of Ulatos around them should have soothed Cordell into slumber as well. But instead he focused on the upcoming day, and on the march he would order his men to undertake at first light.
He prepared to lead the Golden Legion on a mission of unmatched audacity, and Cordell himself confessed to slight doubts as to the rationality of the plan. His force, five hundred steady veterans, would be augmented by perhaps five thousand warriors of the conquered Payit, whose capital city of Ulatos his legion now occupied.
From here, he would lead them to Nexal. Tales of that city's wealth, of the gold and power that lay there, drew him inexorably. These were the fruits of the expedition, the gold that had drawn them across the Trackless Sea. They would march to the heart of this savage continent!
He understood that the army awaiting him in Nexal was greater — many times greater — than the force he had defeated here in Payit. His informant had also told him that another warlike nation, Kultaka, lay across his route of march to Nexal. They could be expected to resist the passage of Cordells force.
Of course, there was no finer band of men than the iron-hard troops of the Golden Legion. Their accomplishments since the start of this voyage already guaranteed success. They had conquered a nation of warriors numbering more than a hundred thousand souls. They had gathered enough treasure to pay for the expedition ten times over.
Yet Cordell was prepared to risk it all for this audacious gamble. Indeed, he had made the stakes plain for all his men by sinking the fifteen ships that had carried them from the Sword Coast to this distant shore. The hulks of those vessels lay on the bottom of the shallow lagoon, beside the fortress called Helmsport just outside this city. The fleet gone, there could be no backing away from this challenge.
The captain-general rose and paced his sleeping chamber as the night hours ticked away. He thought of his captains — the steady Daggrande, the hot-tempered Alvarro, Garrant, all the others — men he could trust and rely upon, once he himself provided them with leadership.
The spiritual guidance of his men he trusted to the grim Bishou Domincus, now propelled by an implacable hatred for these savage people who had sacrificed his daughter Marline on their gruesome altar. And, too, he had the wizard Darien at his side. The albino elf was a force equal to a whole army.
Of the native warriors, he was not so certain. He would allow them to accompany him as guides, and also because their numbers would increase the impressiveness of his force. But he suspected that most of the fighting before them would be borne by his legionnaires.
'Can we do it?' he asked, half aloud, addressing the god Helm, lord protector of the legion. His mortal advisors, most of them, had counseled that his plan was madness — the legion would be cut off and surrounded halfway to their goal. Only Daggrande and Alvarro, perhaps because of the warlike challenge, had shown enthusiasm about the march. But that didn't alter the loyalty of the rest, he knew.
The Golden Legion would follow Cordell to Nexal. This he knew without a doubt. The question then became simple: Would they ever come out again?
Their view of the city grew before the trio with each step of the long descent from the garden and the spring. They passed through many villages of small straw huts, or buildings of shining whitewashed adobe, always drawing stares. Some of these villagers, intrigued by the tall stranger, or perhaps by his great black horse — a creature unique in their experience — followed the little party at a respectful distance as they drew ever closer to the shore of the gleaming blue lake.
Late afternoon brought no break to the summer's heat as they finally approached the water and the white stone causeway that led like an arrow to the colorful island city.
The Jaguar Warriors at the end of the causeway stared in astonishment as Halloran, Erix, and Poshtli approached. The guards' faces, framed by the open jaws of their jaguar-skull helmets, showed eyes widened in amazement. Spotted hides of tough Hishna-enchanted catskin cloaked their bodies, and they half-raised their obsidian-studded clubs, called macas, as the strange party approached.
They stared not so much at the humans, as at the great black beast that ambled placidly behind them.
'Greetings, Jaguar Knights!' cried Poshtli in delight. He strode proudly ahead of his companions. The rivalry between the orders of Jaguar and Eagle Warriors was well known, and now the plumed warrior, resplendent in his cape of black and white eagle feathers, took great pleasure in the astonishment of the guards. Poshtli was also the easily recognized nephew of the great Naltecona himself, and thus was not casually challenged.
The Jaguars stared, mute, as the three humans and the horse marched up to the terminus of the causeway. Behind them, many villagers followed tentatively. The latter waited in anxious curiosity to see how the guards
