Coton, patriarch of Qotal, looked up as he followed Lotil and Jhatli. With a sudden twist, he reached out and seized Daggrande’s elbow. The dwarf cursed as his swing passed wide of its mark.
But then he, too, followed the others off the precipice. The dwarf clenched his eyes shut, preparing to die.
A soft swirl of wind arose underneath them, pressing upward like a cushion of down. They struggled awkwardly, twisting under a feeling of weightlessness. Erixitl’s feathered token floated out from her neck, as if raised by the gentle breeze. And slowly, easily, like a leaf that falls from a tree, the companions drifted toward the earth below.
Howling madly, several trolls hurled themselves into the air-, trying to reach the slowly settling party. Their leaps fell short and the creatures plummeted earthward, striking the stairway about halfway down and tumbling to the bottom, shapeless jumbles of shattered bone and torn skin.
The wind gusted, and the cushion drifted away from the pyramid, circling northward and then curving toward the west, still drifting earthward. In their haste to pursue, the beasts of the Viperhand raced down the steep stairs, several more of them stumbling and falling to their deaths. And always the steady wind carried the companions farther and farther away.
Too terrified to speak, they clutched each other’s hands and prayed the spell supporting them would not break. Nothing visible or tangible supported them, and they couldn’t escape a horrifying sense of falling.
“Don’t look down,” Halloran gasped, suddenly queasy when he made that mistake.
Settling slowly, drifting with the faintest breezes, the cushion of pluma supported them safely. They saw that it carried them toward the ruined avenue they had first walked along when they approached the pyramid.
Finally, with a parting swirl, the wind set them gently on the earth and gusted away. Half a mile away, the monsters howled with glee and charged, while the temple atop the pyramid had grown suddenly, ominously quiet. Nearby gaped the black doorways of the ruined building they had passed on their approach to the pyramid. The many columns on its porch still stood, so many mute sentries barring passage to an unimagined interior.
“Storm!” cried Halloran as he saw movement around the corner of the ruin. The black mare galloped toward him. She had fled at the approach of the monsters, but now she kicked up her heels in delight.
Coton silently raised his hand and pointed toward the black doorways. They all sensed his suggestion: They should take refuge there. “That could be a dead-end trap!” growled Daggrande. “We cant outrun them,” grunted Hal. “We might as well fight them where we can put our backs to the wall.”
Without further hesitation, they started through the forest of stone columns toward the black doors. Even in the darkening twilight, Hal could see that each column was carved elaborately into the standing shape of an Eagle or Jaguar Knight, with the customary helmet, beaked or fanged, capping the structure at perhaps ten feet tall.
Then they reached the first of the doorways, a ruined aperture with a capstone atop an almost fully arched entry. Beyond, a smell of must and decay, odd for its dampness in this harsh clime, wafted forth.
Coton led the way, with Daggrande and Jhatli close behind. Erixitl took her father’s arm and followed, while Halloran, with Storm beside him, brought up the rear. He held Helmstooth high, ready for the pursuit he knew must eventually follow. Around them, he saw walls and dim, rubblestrewn chambers. They turned a corner and the doorway disappeared from sight.
Very quickly full darkness closed over them, broken only by the pale light from Helmstooth. A damp and oppressive sense of age seemed to linger here, along with a dim presence that Halloran could not identify. It was not his sense of smell or hearing-or any sense, really-that alarmed him, but the swordsman felt a vague menace that raised the hackles at the base of his neck.
Coton, however, seemed to see a path before them, for he led them deeper into the structure, turning his wad through a maze of twisting corridors with uncanny accuracy.
“Wait,” said Daggrande, suddenly bringing them to a halt.
“Do you see them?” asked Erixitl.
Around them, dark shadows pressed, and Hal raised the] sword. Puzzled, he saw that the light did not penetrate! these shadows.
Then his blood chilled. He saw that the shadows them-! selves came closer.
Poshtli shuddered under the impact of a blow of incredible violence. For a moment, he felt certain that he had bee killed, but slowly his senses returned. His talons clung lightly to something, some long trailing thing that he vaguely identified as the feathered mane of the Plumed Dragon.
Rage coursed through the eagle’s proud body, fury directed at the bestial god who tried to drive Qotal from the True World. He shrieked his anger and tried to break free. to once again dive at that despised foe.
But the plumage of the dragon’s body seemed to take on a life of its own, seizing and grasping the eagle’s claws, holding it fast. Poshtli beat his wings in frustration, wondering why the god refused his aid, but he couldn’t break free.
The battle passed its climax, and he could sense the Feathered Dragon’s might failing. Knowing his mortal blows could help but little, Poshtli nonetheless craved the chance to flail against the hated figure of Zaltec.
Still he could not break free. Finally, vaguely, he became aware that the battle had faded to silence around him.
The monsters of the Viperhand attacked the Nexalan refugees before dawn, hurling themselves in a vast wave up the shallow ridge that separated them from the humans and their lush valley Atop the ridge stood a thin line of Kultakan and Nexalan warriors and legionnaires.
The Mazticans showered the attacking horde with arrows. Cordell’s soldiers, those with crossbows, waited until the squinting, pig-eyed forms materialized from the darkness. Then the weapons chunked loudly, delivering a devastating volley into the attacking ranks.
In another moment, the two forces clashed with sudden, brutal violence. Spears set to meet the charge, the native warriors stood firm, driving their stone-tipped weapons home. But the bulk of the attackers pressed on heavily and many of the spearshafts snapped and splintered from the force of the collision.
Obsidian-edged macas in the hands of both sides chopped and hacked furiously The line twisted and bent, collapsing in places only to reform as the human warriors counterattacked and drove the monstrous foes back. The Mazticans fought with an unaccustomed fury, striking to kill instead of to capture.
And the monsters knew only to kill, for each death on the field was a sacrifice rendered directly to Zaltec
The few horsemen remaining to Cordell charged into the line of ores, and the humanoids proved as helpless as had the Maztican warriors to resist the plunging lancers.
“The ogres! Slay the ogres first!” The captain-general howled the command, and his riders turned their lances toward the hulking brutes, few in number, that loomed among the ores.
A small band of ores burst through the line. Howling, they
turned upon the flank of the defenders. Cordell’s only reserve, several companies of Kultakan archers, fired volley after volley against the breakthrough, cutting down most of the ores before The line could collapse. Finally the remainder of the ores turned back toward the breach, only to find that it had closed behind them. The reserve company moved forward, cutting down the last of them with macas and daggers.
On the right. Tokol roared and shouted among his warriors, leaping into each breach with a shrill howl of combat! lust, laying about with the bloody blade of his sword, singled handedly driving the ores before his blows. The Kultakan leader fought like a wild man. driving his men to equal heights of frenzy. As his father, Takamal, bad done for seven decades, Tokol elicited the greatest levels of courage and dedication from his warriors.
To the left, Chical, Captain of Eagles, stabbed with his 1 lance, standing firm and, l› example, holding the long line! of Nexalan warriors. The tip of his weapon, formed from*8 sharp steel knife, drove into the bellies of the largest ogres and the mighty strength of the Eagle Knight drove the weapon home, killing the beasts whenever they lumbered toward him. His example, like Tokol’s, steadied and inspired his warriors to emulate him.
In the middle, Cordell himself fought like a maniac from! the saddle of his prancing stallion, driving home his own I lance until the weapon snapped in two Then the shaft of his* sword grew bloody at the cost of the orcan horde, while his steed bucked and kicked, crushing skulls and breaking! limbs among the howling attackers.
In the end, these three men would carry the burden of victory or defeat.
Hoxitl watched the battle from the rear of his army, at] first exulting in the momentum of the charge. But as the fight stabilized along the defenders’ line, he sensed that the monstrous forces, without the trolls to form a spearhead, lacked the iron-fisted punch necessary to shatter the humans’ line. The beastlord knew that he had to
