Cloak-of-One-Plume into shadow. The thing’s face was a grotesque caricature of humanity corrupted by an insatiable hunger for blood, for living hearts.
Halloran heard Erixitl moan in fear beside him. Jhatli dropped his bow in shock, while even the stalwart Daggrande gasped. Only Coton and Lotil remained apparently unaffected, the old men standing impassively while the shade from the giant’s body darkened the entire vast temple.
And in that shadow, the image of Qotal began to fade.
From the chronicles of Coton:
Struck down and raised again in the face of war between the gods.
Qotal and Zaltec clash in the vast arena of the temple, a twilit battle that the cannot possibly win. The stone monstrosity of Zaltec looms over us, the power of its hate blazing like ruby pupils from its gray, granite eyes. And the vaporous form of Qotal, interrupted in its arrival, grows faint, slowly disappearing from our view.
We humans cower in the corner of the room, terrified by the anger of the gods. They take no note of us, intent instead upon their wrath. It is an eerie, silent battle-a clash of wills and might without violence, yet with an outcome that creates massive danger for the loser and for the True World. Zaltec raises his arms slowly. His stone fingers, each larger than a man, unfold and spread from his hands, and a nightmare wind springs up, summoned by his supernatural command.
Qotal bellows his anger as he fades, and the wind howls loudly. It spirals about, raising the fine grit of stone and hurtling it through the air with stinging power.
And then die dust surrounds us and we see nothing more, though still we hear the violence and the fury of the gods.
8
THE SPIRIT WARDENS
The wind rose to a screaming crescendo, until it seemed that the rock walls of the temple itself must splinter around the companions. Shards of dust stung their skin. The howling noise of the whirlwind drowned any attempts at communication, even shouts.
Halloran caught a glimpse of white feathers high above them. He saw the eagle, Poshtli, diving through the dust toward the great stone statue. The massive shape of Qotal seemed to lurch forward, though it was difficult to see.
The magnificent bird disappeared into the cloud with an angry shriek, and the former legionnaire groaned inwardly at the courageous but futile act. He knew that Poshtli could be smashed by a casual, even accidental blow from one of
Zaltec’s fingers.
Erixitl moaned as the Cloak-of-One-Plume floated into the air, borne across the temple by the chaotic gusts of battle. The wind tore at the colorful garment with a maddened intensity, tearing brilliant plumage away, rendering it into minute tufts of rubbish. In a moment of awful violence, the cloak disappeared, and at the same time it grew darker still in the huge temple.
They heard a sharp squawk, and once again the eagle came into sight, wheeling high in the air, Tucking his wings, talons extended, Poshtli dove toward the mountainous block that was Zaltec’s head.
The little party huddled together in a corner of die temple, paralyzed by fear and awe. Shaking his head and wiping the dust from his eyes, Halloran tried to peer through the dust. It was then he realized that others had entered the temple.
Dimly through the haze in the air, he saw a lumbering figure move through The door. Others followed, and the brilliance of the setting sun outlined their forms clearly – trolls, the minions of Zaltec. More and more of the grotesque creatures crowded through, filling the space behind the stone! monolith’s feet.
Halloran groaned inwardly Still, it seemed to him that he and his companions, crouched in the shadows and concealed by the raging dust cloud, had not yet been seen. But how much longer could they remain concealed?
Slapping Daggrande’s arm to get his attention, Halloran indicated the monsters as still more of the beasts pressed into the temple to watch their master’s battle-their master’s victory.
For indeed it seemed that Qotal had faded from sight in the face of Zaltec’s relentless might. Poshtli, too, had vanished. The huge stone figure began to lower its arms, and slowly the wind began to fade.
Halloran remembered the other door, in the east wall. “Come on!” he shouted, prodding the others ahead of him. With gestures, he urged them toward the door.
They crept along the base of the wall, desperately hoping to avoid the notice of the monsters. Halloran stayed in the rear, his hand near Helmstooth’s hilt. He didn’t want to draw the weapon prematurely, for its gleaming blade would certainly draw the attention of the trolls still stumbling into the temple. Daggrande, he noticed, carried his axe, the now useless crossbow slung across his shoulder beside his empty quiver.
Finally they reached the towering opening, as big as the one on the west, where they had entered. Behind them, Qotal shrieked in fading frustration. The contest obviously was nearly over.
“Run!” Halloran shouted. “Get down while there’s* still time!”
The little party burst from the temple, starting toward the steep stairway that lay only a few steps away. They had crossed half the distance when bellows of rage sounded on either side of them.
A pair of monstrous trolls, drool spraying from their curving fangs, sprang at them from beside the doorway. With startling quickness, Jhatli raised his bow and sent a stone-tipped shaft driving into the troll’s belly.
Helmstooth seemed to leap into Hal’s hand of the sword’s own will. He lunged forward with liquid smoothness, driving the steel tip deep into the other troll’s gullet. The pluma strength of his hand backed the blow, and then tore the blade free with a gory rip to the side. Daggrande, meanwhile, hacked at the beast that had been wounded by Jhatli. Fury and fear tightened his muscles, and the keen axe blade bit deeply into the troll’s thigh.
Both beasts, painfully wounded, bellowed their agony as they fell. The surface of the pyramid shook to the heavy steps of their brethren, charging around the temple. In moments, more of the monsters burst into sight, charging from both sides.
The companions stood trapped on the strip between the temple and the edge of the pyramid. The stairway dropped steeply away, far too sheer a drop to allow for a fighting withdrawal. Any blow from an attacker above would send one tumbling down the stone steps hundreds of feet to the
ground below.
“Your token, Daughter! Use it now!” Lotil spoke urgently. The blind man sensed, as clearly as any of them, their mortal danger.
“Use it? How?” demanded Erixitl. At her throat, the green-plumed jadestone medallion seemed to float in the air, but she was unaware of what power it possessed to stop the rampaging attackers.
“No time now. Take my hand. All of you, link hands!” Lotil barked the words like a warrior, startling Erixitl, Coton, and Jhatli into compliance.
But Hal and Daggrande stood to either side of the party, facing the onrushing monsters. The dwarf chopped savagely knocking another troll off the side of the pyramid, while Halloran held his sword ready to meet the first crush, mere seconds away. “My hand! Take it!” Erixitl shouted, sensing her father’s intentions. Desperately Halloran reached behind him, feeling her firm clasp on his left hand. With his right he stabbed at the leading troll.
Daggrande, busily recovering his balance, focused on the charging horde. The dwarf didn’t see Colon’s hand extended toward him.
”Jump!” cried Lotil, urging them off the edge. Halloran heard, stumbling to the side as Erixitl pulled him. He hesitated at the lip of the steep drop, and then felt a tug as his wife hurled herself out into space. Groaning, he leaped after her.
