“Indeed.” The Eagle Knight’s expression became rueful. “Moctezuma was less than happy with the other details of the battle.” Takanatl’s eyes flickered to the great pyramid, and Natac was reminded that not all xochimilche went willingly to the realm of death.
Only then did the Tlaxcalan note a file of other warriors behind Takanatl, less grandly dressed than the Eagle Knight, but capable and sturdy-looking men nonetheless. There were a dozen or more, waiting impatiently for the ceremonies to be concluded, encircling the platform and congregating at the bases of the four stairways leading to the Warstone. Natac wondered which of them would kill him-and he hoped, for the honor of the Smoking Mirror and Tlaxcala, that it would not be the first man to try.
The closest, a hard-eyed young man of great size and scowling features, stared at Natac unblinkingly. He bore a sharp-edged maquahuitl and wore padded quilting to protect his chest, belly, and shoulders. Obviously this young warrior would commence the battle with the Tlaxcalan xochimilche, and as Natac admired the man’s sinewy limbs and the deadly weapon in his hand, he admitted to himself that the Aztec had a good chance of winning.
Four priests climbed the stairways to the top of the Warstone. Three prayed loudly, wafting incense while the fourth offered Natac his ritual weapons: a slender pole of wood, which was merely a spear without the customary head of sharp stone; and a parody of a lethal maquahuitl. Instead of the razor-edged shards of obsidian characteristic of the bladed club, the edges of this weapon were marked only by colorful tufts of feathers.
Once again Natac was reminded of his useless left hand, knowing that the injury rendered the pole an ineffective tool.
“I choose only the ritual sword,” he said, taking the blunt maquahuitl from the priest’s outstretched hand. Natac watched impassively as the smelly, filth-encrusted cleric hastily withdrew, apparently fearful even of this ludicrously armed enemy.
The four holy men raised their voices in long, ululating cries, a summons intended to draw the attention of the god of war. The file of sacrificial victims on the great pyramid came to a temporary halt as the eyes of seemingly all the populace turned to the ceremony on the Warstone. Natac was awed by a fresh appreciation of the crowd’s size, which must have numbered a hundred times a thousand and more.
The hard-eyed young Aztec bounded up the seven steps on the east side of the platform, sharp-toothed weapon held ready for a slash to right or left. Natac waited in the middle of the circle, the feathered club held casually at his side. The young man stood a hand-span taller than the Tlaxcalan, and he all but sneered at the wounded, underarmed xochimilche-a broken warrior who was apparently resigned to a quick death.
It was in that arrogance that Natac foresaw the Mexican’s doom. Predictably, the man charged with a sudden sprint, raising his maquahuitl high above his head. Those stony eyes never wavered from Natac’s face as the weapon came down in a swooping rush, a blow deadly enough to cleave a man from crown to sternum-if the attack could but strike such a mortal target.
Calmly meeting his attacker’s cold glare, Natac feinted to the right with a drop of his shoulder. The move turned the Aztec slightly in his onrush-and then the Tlaxcalan dodged left with whiplike quickness, bringing his club through a bone-crushing smash into the wrist of his enemy’s weapon-hand. The lethal maquahuitl clattered to the stone as the man staggered to a stop at the far edge of the platform. With a quick rush Natac charged and kicked the Aztec in the chest, sending him toppling backward off the Warstone.
The stunned Mexican clutched his broken wrist and groaned weakly on the ground below as two priests closed in, but Natac didn’t watch as the clerics hoisted the vanquished warrior to his feet and started him toward the great pyramid. Instead, the Tlaxcalan turned to the south stairway, where another determined warrior-a scarred and stocky veteran armed with a javelin as well as a maquahuitl-ascended to do glory for his god and his nation.
His predecessor’s fate apparently gave this warrior little pause, for he, too, charged with headlong speed. Natac started to retreat, but then sprang forward to stab his club, head forward, between the careless guard of the Aztec’s javelin and sword. The blow smashed into the padded quilt with enough force to crack the man’s ribs, and he collapsed soundlessly. Looking at his enemy’s lips, which were already blue, Natac knew he had died from a bruise to his heart.
The Tlaxcalan crossed to the other side of the platform while more priests dragged the warrior and his weapons away. Since the man was already dead, they wasted no time in slicing open his chest and raising that stilled heart toward the sun. The slick red muscle was then placed in a wicker basket and borne toward a nearby temple by a swiftly trotting apprentice.
Before the end of that brief ceremony, an Aztec warrior had climbed the west stairway to the Warstone. This man bore only a maquahuitl, and he moved with feline grace, balancing on the balls of his feet and weaving back and forth unpredictably. He might have the quickness to become a Jaguar Knight someday, Natac suspected-if he had tenacity and strength, as well.
It was at that moment that the Tlaxcalan was struck by an odd thought: His own death at the hands of one of these young Mexicans would greatly exalt that aspiring warrior’s status. The victor might be granted command of a hundred warriors, or even that exalted knighthood in the orders of the Jaguars or Eagles. The notion gave rise to a strangely calming sense of tranquillity.
The graceful Aztec approached with caution, circling warily. Natac allowed him to hold a respectful distance as the two combatants faced each other like dancers, slowly pivoting around the stage. They sparred with quick slashes, the clash of their weapons harsh in the still plaza until, as if by mutual plan, they separated.
Over three sharp exchanges the young man revealed quick reflexes in defense, but also displayed a predilection for a high, slashing attack. The fourth time that catlike swipe whipped past his face, Natac was ready with his own counter. He ducked into a full squat and struck from his crouch, a vicious sideswipe that shattered the Aztec’s knee. Sobbing in disbelief, the promising young warrior was borne toward the temple of the war god as a fourth fighter, this one climbing up the north stairway, took up the challenge.
And he was followed by a fifth, and then a sixth.
When the seventh man fell, knocked senseless by a blow to the head, several heartbeats passed without the next challenger appearing. A freshening breeze cooled the sheen of sweat that glistened on Natac’s nearly hairless skin. He was vaguely aware of a stillness, a sense of awe that had quieted the once boisterous crowd.
When he looked around curiously, he saw the reason: Sternly upright amid the framing plumage of slave-borne fans, Moctezuma himself had come to observe the duel.
The Eloquent One, most powerful ruler in the known world, was resplendent in his bright feathered mantle and the brilliant headdress of long, emerald-colored plumes lofting half again above his own height. A large plug of turquoise and gold graced his lower lip, which was now curled downward in a pout of displeasure. In Moctezuma’s wake crowded a retinue of nobles anxious for a look at the Tlaxcalan xochimilche. Yet all left space around the Eloquent One, and hastened to back away from the ruler’s every gesture or move.
The next warrior climbed to the Warstone, no doubt deeply honored by the exalted observer, and charged at the waiting Natac. A heartbeat later, larynx crushed by the wooden club that had long since lost its feathered totems, the Aztec tumbled away to a slow death by strangulation.
“Enough!”
The cry came from the Eagle Knight, Takanatl. The veteran stared at the purple-faced corpse, then looked to Natac, his expression tortured. Finally the helmed warrior turned toward Moctezuma, kneeling and bending his face to the ground with a graceful sweep of plumage.