Then it emerged onto the lake’s south shore, its heavy footfalls crunching into the ground. It passed the smoldering remains of Mount Zatal without a sideways glance. Instead, the glowering eyes, gray orbs of granite in a stark, stone face, remained fixed upon the desert, in answer to some distant and unknown compulsion.
And Zaltec marched on, until a watcher on the rim of the valley could have seen only a huge, monolithic form, moving into the remote wastes of the desert, like a towering, sheer-sloped mountain.
A mountain that walked.
“Forward, beasts of the crimson hand’”
Hoxitl urged his minions into a lumbering advance. Earlier, while darkness still shrouded the desert, the ogres bad stalked through the camp, kicking and cursing their charges awake. Now the ranks of ores stood armed and restless, ready to move.
The route lay plain before them: the wide, flat-bottomed valley that curved gently through the desert, lb each side, ridges of windswept rock, red and brown in color, provided a jagged outline to the track of their quarry.
“Today we will find more humans, and there will be more killing!” promised the beastlord.
The assembled creatures snorted and stomped at the pledge, pounding spear-shafts against the ground or clashing macas and clubs together. The throbbing noise rolled across the desert, all the way to the camp of his hated enemies, Hoxitl hoped.
HOW he hated the humans’. The anger that had spurred him from the ruins to lead his army on this great march seemed a pale flame compared to the fiery loathing that now consumed him. With each slain body, with each life claimed for Zaltec, his fury had grown.
With an explosion of howls and roars, the beasts lumbered after Hoxitl as the great monster started to advance. They spread into a vast wave, moving down the same valley the humans had followed the day before, advancing at a steady trot. For an hour, the horde rushed forward, covering distances it had taken the humans four times as long to march.
The first clue was an odor on the dry wind, the sweet scent of prey. Hoxitl howled, and the cry arose from the ranks behind him until a horrid shriek of bloodlust filled the air, reverberating across the desert like a killing gust from the north.
Hoxitl searched the dry valley floor before them, but no sign of movement caught his eye. The humans had probably moved on early in the day, but his nostrils told him that they had been here, and very recently.
Then he saw them.
Atop one of the low ridges that bordered this desert valley, Hoxitl saw a flash of color. Squinting, he picked out several shapes-human, no doubt, though one seemed somewhat short and stocky.
And then a hot, hissing spear of light lanced into his eyes. The colors! The brightness! Screaming in pain and rage, Hoxitl tumbled backward. His clawed hands scratched at his eyes in agony.
Very slowly the pain faded away, and the beast, with a low growl, sneaked another look at the ridge. He blinked in confusion and fear, and red spots swam before his eyes, but no further blaze assaulted his vision. Yet he recognized it for what it was: pluma. Only the power of feathermagic could cause such pain to his powerful senses.
Dimly he realized that the attack had come from the ridgetop, from that point of color up there. And with this awareness, all of his hatred, all of his rage, focused against that distant, slowly moving spot of color.
Hoxitl’s heavy eyelids drooped over his wicked, gleaming eyes as he pondered this mysterious development. The great mass of humans, he knew, continued to flee along the valley floor. Yet the one who now climbed the desolate ridge must be one of special significance. Certainly the power of the pluma he had just witnessed indicated this.
He could not ignore the mass of victims awaiting his army. No, the taste of blood on the previous day had been too sweet, too tempting. Yet neither could he ignore the spoor leading to the east, into the desert.
He gestured to his trolls, long-limbed creatures who were very fleet of foot. “Pursue those who slip away to the east,” Hoxitl ordered.
The green-skinned creatures lumbered away, in groups of three and four, from the rest of Hoxitl’s army. Finally several hundred of the monsters-all of the trolls-broke away, heading for the sheer ridge. They lumbered forward in the rolling gait typical of the long-limbed creatures. The beastlord knew that they would move quickly and inexorably after the pathetic humans.
Hoxitl turned back to the rest of his beasts, the crowded mass of ores and ogres. These he led toward the south, in the direction taken by the warm bodies that would make food for his hungry god.
Jhatli sat beside the trail, watching the long columns of his countrymen march past. They followed the unobstructed route of the valley, toward the water and food that they knew lay before them. The sight of yet another sullen youth, apparently without friend or family, was no longer enough to stir their hearts, so the Nexalans passed Jhatli with neither a look nor a word.
Running… fleeing! Jhatli looked at his countrymen in scorn. Was that all they could do? Why didn’t they stand and fight? This was no life for a warrior… or one who would be a warrior.
Still, it was the life led by the Nexala now. The youth shook his head angrily, looking to the north, imagining the lumbering horde over the distant horizon. How long until they reached these people, until they forced them into a battle for which they were not prepared?
Finally Jhatli cast a look back over his shoulder. The first thing he noticed was the great eagle, soaring high in the sky to the east. Looking down, he spotted the trio: Erixitl, the Lady of the Plume; and the two soldiers, Halloran and Daggrande.
He didn’t know where they went, but he suspected that it involved the hideous beasts that pursued them all. His own promise for revenge still burned in Jhatli’s heart, and so he watched them carefully.
He had heard the story that the eagle was in fact Lord Poshtli. Jhatli well remembered that noble warrior, proud and aloof in his feathered cloak and his great, beaked helmet. Such a warrior, in the guise of this bird, would be a powerful ally and a wise leader.
Now Erixitl and her companions had broken away from the great bulk of the people to follow that eagle. It was only natural that Jhatli resolved to follow the eagle, too.
He waited until the three had begun to climb the rugged ridge that bordered the valley. Then he turned away from the column and trotted toward the same ridge, but some distance to the left of where Erix and her companions climbed it. Again the people took no notice-another youth trotting off to a fruitless hunt in the desert. Too bad his parents didn’t keep him under control. Didn’t they know that danger lurked out there?
Jhatli held his pace easily, quickly scrambling into a narrow, boulder-strewn ravine that seemed to lead up the ridge. For long minutes he climbed, sweat pouring from his wiry brown body. His footsteps fell sure, though, and his strong hands and arms pulled him through several narrow spots.
Finally he reached a small gap in the ravine that allowed him to step out onto a small shoulder of the ridge. He had climbed most of the way to the top, he saw. Perhaps half a mile away, he saw the flaming colors of Erixitl’s cloak, already at the crest.
Suddenly Jhatli felt very dizzy. He looked at the cloak again, and the colors began to spin, weaving an incredibly beautiful pattern, images of birds and flowers and butterflies of every hue, before his eyes. Shaking his head in confusion, Jhatli sat down and looked away.
It was then that he saw the massive horde of monsters gathered on the valley floor, stretching to the far limits of his vision until they vanished into the rising cloud of dust made by their march. Unconsciously the youth recoiled against the rock, appalled at the extent of the horde.
Then he noticed movement closer to where he crouched. He saw a small group of creatures-huge, gangly beasts with green skin and gaping, fang-studded jaws-moving steadily away from the mass. They came forward in long strides, toward the ridge he watched from. In fact, they came toward the very ravine he had followed in his climb.