avenue, leading directly to the pyramid.
What had first appeared to be shapeless mounds of sand now assumed regular, evenly spaced forms-the remains of old buildings. Palaces, perhaps, or great temples.
“Look at this one,” Daggrande indicated as they passed a wide, flat plaza, like the porch of some great structure. Square, blocky columns stood in long rows, like silent sentinels guarding a ghostly abode. Behind the columns, dark doorways, framed by partially collapsed stone mantels, gaped like dead, silent eyes.
Shadows lengthened among the many stone columns, and the companions shuddered, sensing the lingering presence of ancient lives.
“This place must be centuries old,” Halloran whispered, as if he worried that the gods could hear.
“Many centuries,” Erixitl agreed. “I can feel the age in the dust under my feet. It’s been more than a thousand years
since these buildings were abandoned. And how long before that were they built?”
“And all ruined,” said Daggrande. “All except that one!” He gestured toward the great pyramid.
“It might have been painted yesterday” Jhatli whispered. “The colors are so bright, the pattern so vivid.”
They reached the foot of the massive structure. The shadows lengthened around them as the fading sunlight slowly climbed the western face of the pyramid.
The steep stone stairway extended up the side of the pyramid before them, though from directly below, it was visible only as far as the first terrace.
“Look!” Halloran, gasping in surprise, looked at the dirt around the pyramid’s base. He indicated a clear outline of hoof-prints-the prints of an iron-shod horse!
“Could one of Cordell’s scouts have found this place?” Daggrande asked.
“Not likely. He’d have to cross the same ground we teleported over. Can’t see any horseman coming across that if he didn’t have to.” Halloran followed the prints along the base of the pyramid.
“They’re fresh,” Jhatli explained, looking at the dust swirling into the faint depressions. “Less than an hour old.”
Further questions died on their lips as they rounded the corner of the pyramid. Two men stood there, before a black mare that nickered tentatively as Halloran came into sight. “Storm!” he cried, astounded but absolutely certain that this was his faithful war-horse. He had given the steed up for lost, since Storm had been in the very heart of Nexal on the Night of Wailing.
Then he turned to the men, aware that Erix had already rushed into the arms of… her father! The blind featherworker was here, in the desert! Halloran identified the other man by his garb as a priest of Qotal, more wrinkled and stooped than others he had seen.
“My daughter! My son!” Lotil embraced Erixitl and reached out a hand to clasp Halloran. The old man displayed joy but not a great deal of surprise, Hal noted with interest. “This is Coton, patriarch of Qotal,” added Lotil, indicating the priest. “Now we must hurry.”
Erixitl looked at her father in surprise. “Hurry? For what? Why are you here? What should we do?”
“Why, to welcome the Plumed One, of course! Why do you think that we are here?”
Harak blinked his deep-sunk, bloodshot eyes as he scanned the horizon for signs of the quarry. The huge troll was grateful that the brightness of the midday sun had begun to fade, yet he was irritated that he seemed unable to find the trail of the humans and the dwarf.
He led a portion of his creatures across the broken ground between the two ridges. The trolls, fearing for their lives should Hoxitl learn of their failure, had hastened to the east, propelled in that direction by some instinctive awareness that their quarry fled somewhere before them.
As dusk settled around him, Harak quickened his pace, at last leading the band of trolls up the steep ridge that followed their rough crossing. His heart pounded, and he felt as though he approached a place of great power. It awakened some dim, primordial feeling within him, a feeling that mixed loathing and terror with the most joyous exultation.
Before the Night of Wailing had showered its god-sent change upon Harak, he-like most of the other trolls- had been a priest of Zaltec. The transformation had left his mind shriveled and weak, yet some of his learnings remained with him.
The former priest remained devout, for was not the power of Zaltec manifest in Harak himself? In his long arms and legs, the green and wart-covered skin a thin disguise for the strands of ropelike sinew beneath? In his hooked talons, or his long, curving fangs?
These thoughts propelled the great troll forward. The others of his kind, three hundred strong, lumbered after their leader. They had pressed through the barren wasteland in a long, straggling file, scrambling up steep slopes of dusty red rock or picking their way through chaotic,
boulder-strewn expanses. Now finally they all quickened their pace. The sense of anticipation permeated the band until a frantic eagerness marked their scramble up the last, steepest portion of the ridge.
At last the beasts crested the summit and stood there, outlined by the last rays of the dying sun, staring in dumbfounded awe into the valley before them. The massive pyramid dominated the scene, but the ruins stood out clearly before the trolls, framed by lengthening shadows. The specks of the companions were invisible in the distance, for they had reached the base of the pyramid. Yet Harak knew that they were there-especially the woman who wore the pluma.
He thought again of this woman. In the dim memory of his brain, he knew she was called the Chosen Daughter of Qotal. He knew that she carried the blessing of the Plumed Serpent. Vet why would she come here?
And why would she draw him after her?
Then he felt another presence, an imminent sense of great power and great menace. He sensed its nearness and knew of its impending arrival. From the north it came, a growing and dominant power that shrank every Other feeling into nothingness. Finally Hanak trembled in the glory and awe of his bloodthirsty god.
And at last he understood.
“The warriors are ready, my chieftain,” reported Tokol. The leader of the Kultakans was the first to report to Corded, but this fact did not surprise the commander. Despite the disaster in Nexal and the long flight with his Nexalan enemies, Tokol had remained fiercely loyal to the general who had conquered his nation.
Cordell tried to shake off a grim feeling of unease as darkness settled over the vast camp. The Nexalans had reached the valley Gultec had discovered, and in truth it offered a lush bounty-not only water, grain, and berries, but an abundance of fish and fowl as well.
Also to its credit, the valley had a high, sleep rim separating it from the natural pathway by which they had entered. Knowing that the beasts still pursued them, Cordell and the chiefs had deployed their fighting men along this crest.
At least, that was the plan. Tokol’s warriors, some five thousand strong, promised a good hold on the right flank. Cordell’s legionnaires would stand in the center. The left flank, which was the longest, had been entrusted to the Nexalans, who could muster some twenty thousand warriors. But now Cordell waited to hear back from Chical or any of the other war chiefs responsible for positioning that line.
He stiffened as he heard a sentry cry a challenge, but then the clatter of hoofbeats told him that one of his own men approached. Cordell turned to face Grimes as the rider dismounted and raised his hand in casual salute.
“They’re out there, but still a couple miles back,” he reported. “A big camp of em. They seem to be settling in for the night”
“Did any follow the decoys?” Cordell asked.
“You mean Daggrande, with Halloran and his woman?” asked the captain.
“Yes, dammit! Did they draw any of the beasts away?”
“One of my men saw a large company of big ones-trolls, the whole lot-heading for the east ridge. It seems likely that’s who they were after.”
“Well, that’s something, anyway.” Cordell turned as another shape emerged from the darkness. He recognized the tall, haughty figure of Chical, captain of the Eagle Knights.
