The crowd of men, women, and children parted for Erixitl and Hal and soon they saw the bird, resting upon a large rock in the center of a vast and growing circle of humanity.
The eagle stood nearly as tall as a man. Its feathers, clean and smooth, etched its form in pristine black and white. From its vantage point on the rock, the bird’s glittering yellow eyes looked down on the assemblage. Proud and noble of bearing, the eagle turned its head this way and that, until f inally those keen eyes came to rest upon Erixitl.
For a moment, the great creature shimmered before them, as if the bright sunlight reflected from a rippled surface of water. Then the image grew larger, manlike.
The Mazticans around them gasped, many falling to the ground and pressing their faces in the earth. Others fell back, staring in awe as the shape of the bird changed.
“By Helm!” growled a burly legionnaire in die crowd, awestruck.
The shape of the bird remained visible, like a shade in the background, but overlaying it stood the image of a tall, brown-skinned man.
“Poshtli” Erixitl whispered, scarcely daring to breathe the word aloud.
The noble stood tall and silent. A cloak of black and white feathers, faint but visible, swung from his shoulders. Gold plugs ornamented his lip, his nose, and his ears. The great beaked helmet of an Eagle Knight he carried under his arm, so that his long black hair flowed freely in the breeze. His other hand he raised, pointing southward and holding it there for several beats, then suddenly wheeling and pointing to the east before he lowered his hand.
For a long time, the image of the warrior stared at Erixitl, while the watchers remained breathless. Finally he bowed, a deep and honorable genuflection conferred to one of great power. A sudden gust of wind whirled a funnel of blowing sand through the crowd, and for a moment the image was obscured. When the wind and sand passed, there remained only the great eagle, still staring at Erixitl with those sharp black eyes.
Then the eagle raised its huge wings, driving powerful strokes toward the ground. With serene grace, the bird rose from the rock and glided over the heads of the assembled humanity. Slowly climbing, it soared in a vast circle around them before turning toward the southern horizon. The bird remained visible for many minutes, steadily climbing, always flying south.
“Lord Poshtli did not die in the volcano,” Erix announced confidently as the Mazticans around them looked at her in wonder. The noble Eagle Warrior of Nexal, nephew of the city’s late ruler, had been widely respected through his life and widely mourned after the Night of Wailing.
“Now he comes to us, with hope and promise,” she continued. Though she spoke softly, everyone heard. “This is not an idle preaching of blind faith. This was a clear omen that stood here before us. We must follow him now-follow him to the south, and to our future.”
From the chronicles of Coton:
Borne by the steed of the strangers, I ride toward the destiny of my own world.
The presence of the One Plumed God is nearby, imminent. / can feel his breath on my shoulders, propelling me. All the signs of the prophecy have been met; the pathway for his return lies open.
Yet I sense that a new obstacle has arisen from the chaos of the Night of Wailing. The acts of the bloody clerics and the fury of the Viperhand Cult have combined to bring a great presence into the world-a presence no longer content to be worshiped and fed from afar.
He is Zaltec, god of night and war, and he is here.
I sense his power in the darkness all around me. I see it in the vile corruption that has claimed his followers. What power it must be, to take tens of thousands of humans and pervert them into the beastlike forms we now see! He looms more mighty, more dangerous than ever, for now his legions of followers are not restrained by even the thin veneer of humanity.
Qotal is our hope, our only hope. Yet, witnessing the coming of Zaltec, I see that Qotal cannot enter this world unaided. He will require the help of humans, of people who will open the path for him and guard it until he has returned to the True World. Then his power will meet Zaltec’s, and the two gods-the two brothers-will wage war for the mastery of the land.
So now J ride, and 1 care not where the horse takes me. I will be one of those humans who opens that path and guards it; I will leave it to my destiny to guide me to the place.
3
CONVERGING PATHS
The tortuous trail twisted across the sun-baked face of the mountain, climbing ever higher, forcing the monsters of the Viperhand to narrow their column to a single file for the ascent. The barren ridge above them marked the far southern extremity of the Valley of Nexal. Behind the beasts, to the north, the ruins of Nexal lay like a dark stain among the murky pools of the valley’s four lakes.
Thousands of snarling, misshapen humanoids formed Hoxitl’s army, now a column several miles long confined to the trail over the steep pass.
Other bands of monsters, smaller but just as fierce, had followed Hoxitl’s orders to spread through the lands and villages around the city, scouring it for human prisoners and destroying any remaining evidence of its original inhabitants.
But this trail held the greatest number, the beasts that marched with Hoxitl at their head. Along the valley floor, they had marched in a shapeless mass, flowing across smooth ground like water sweeps across a beach. Here, however, the narrow path forced them to alter the form of their advance.
Hoxitl, the will of Zaltec burning in his breast, lumbered forward at the head of the column. He lunged up the ridge, pausing only for a few seconds at the jagged, windy crest. The trail behind him, crowded now with the troops of his army, clung precariously to the steep slide of the ridge. Any misstep could tumble one helplessly toward the sharp rocks below. Nevertheless, the monsters hastened to follow their master toward the desert.
Inevitably conflict arose among the chaotic mass. Near the top of the ridge, two brute-faced ogres jostled and pushed, eager to be first through the narrow pass. The file came to a stop behind them as they pounded each other with ham-like fists. Finally they closed in savage, snapping combat, each tearing chunks from the other’s skin with sharp rips of their savage tusks.
For several seconds, the beasts teetered on the brink of the sheer drop, growling and snarling. Ores, in a long column behind the huge ogres, cringed backward, away from the larger brutes’ crushing blows.
Then a rumble of panic spread through the ranks as a huge presence loomed before them. Hoxitl, disturbed by the delay, reared upward, lashing out with his tail and striking several ores from the cliff side.
The cleric beast shrieked his rage, pushing his way roughly through the column until he reached the battling ogres. The two monsters, suddenly distracted by the shadowy form looming over them, gaped stupidly upward.
“Fools! Imbeciles!” Hoxitl’s shrieks of rage terrified them, yet, perversely, rooted their feet to the trail.
With one savage blow, he sent an ogre tumbling off the cliff, the beast’s dying scream shattered by the jagged rocks below.
“This is the fate of the weak and the foolish among you! Let all pay heed!” he howled. “Save your warfare for the enemies-humans who still escape our vengeance!”
In the next instant, his paw, tipped by wicked talons, reached forward. The claws sliced into the other ogre’s belly, tearing the creature’s flesh and bowels in a spray of gore.
With a grunt of astonishment, the beast looked down as its insides gushed out onto the stony trail. Hoxitl’s other paw lashed forward, tearing into the creature’s neck and ripping the heavy skull away from the dying beast’s body. Contemptuously he kicked the gory corpse off the edge, where it tumbled like a bundle of wet rags onto the
