“What in the name of the gods is that?” demanded Pullog, blanching beneath his sunburned skin.
“A sign,” Luskag answered, “lb show that there are more changes in Maztica than a newly fertile desert.” Briefly he told the tale of the ogre’s size and ferocity. “As 1 fought with it, a killing frenzy consumed me. The abominable creature awakened some deep and abiding hatred within me.” Luskag shuddered at the memory of that uncontrollable rage, and the other dwarves looked from the monstrous skull to the small, sturdy dwarf, with something resembling awe.
“Now I have sent my sons northward,” he explained. “They have learned that Nexal is full of such beasts-or, to
be more accurate, was full of such beasts. Now they have formed armies and marched into the desert.”
He told them of the humans, a hundred thousand or more of them, fleeing southward, making their way from one water hole to the next, fleeing the monstrous legions.
“It is clear that our world faces a serious challenge’ observed Traj, chief of the village nearest Sunhome. “Can we not fall back to our villages and wait for the threat to pass?”
“This is why I have called the council,” replied Luskag. “It is true that since the Rockfire sundered the underdark, separating us from the known world, we have dwelled in peaceful isolation. We have known no enemies, and the land has given us what we need to live.”
“Aye,” grunted several chiefs, for the history of their people was only a few centuries old, and most had heard the tale from older dwarves who had actually experienced the great war with the drow that had led to the Rockfire. Though that schism, terrifying in its magnitude and violence, had forever separated the desert dwarves from their kin in other parts of the Realms, it had also eliminated their most hated enemies, the drow. Through the centuries, the people of Luskag’s tribe had come to accept, if not praise, this exchange.
“And good years we have had, too,” observed Harl, the most venerable of the chiefs. Though his hair and beard were snow-white, the grizzled dwarf still marched proudly at the head of his tribesmen.
“So they should remain,” Pullog added, “lest we act foolishly and, in our rashness, ruin that which is our blessing. Rashness, such as the idea that we can make war on such monsters! Far better to remain in our villages, secure and hidden, until the scourge passes.”
“Would the years pass in peace, so be it,” Luskag spoke forcefully, and all the dwarves looked to him. “But it will not be so.”
He paused, mildly relieved that none argued with his point. In a moment, he continued. “You all know of the City of the Gods-greater, even, than splendid Nexal. Now it is too dry even to support a family of desert dwarves, yet still it lies in the desert and continues to taunt us with its mysteries and wonders.”
“Aye,” Traj assented readily. “Oft I have journeyed to its rim, only to sit and gaze in wonder on the pyramid that rises from the desert, lifeless.”
“The gods have given us a blessing, even in that desolate place.” Luskag reached behind himself to pull forth a heavy lump of sandstone. With a grunt, he dropped it to the stone floor before him. Then he slowly removed his axe, so that the others could clearly see its gleaming stone blade, shiny black and as smooth as a mirror. Tufts of red, yellow, and green feathers encircled the haft just below the head.
“I have discovered obsidian in the city of the gods-great blocks of stone that we can craft into weapons.” He raised the axe and brought it down sharply on the block of sandstone. The rock burst apart, showering the dwarves with shards.
The blade, however, stuck clean and unshattered into a newly made crack across the floor.
“It seems that now our time of sanctuary draws to a close. The desert dwarves are once again drawn into the conflicts of the world, and we must be prepared to face this threat together.”
“Do not be hasty,” countered Pullog. “True, your demonstration of weaponry is impressive. Perhaps, armed thus, we could field a strong force. But how do we face this threat?”
“It is for that reason that I have called you here,” answered Luskag. “I ask, nay beg, that you all accompany me in the morning.
“I propose that we climb the great mountain and seek the wisdom of the Sunstone.”
“Don’t try to get up. Just rest.” Halloran tried to keep his voice level, but his concern for his wife emerged as taut fear. Erixitl lay on the soft ground beneath a canopy of cedars. The others, out of respect and worry, gave them space
to be alone. Around them, dawn had given way to full and already scorching daylight
‘I’m all right,” she replied, smiling gently. She reached for him, her fingers feeling cold and weak to Hal.
He clenched her hand as his eyes instinctively dropped to her belly. A slight swelling, unnoticeable to any but him, remained the only outward sign of the life that developed there. When he looked back to her face, his fear for that life as well as hers tightened his voice even further.
“We’ll stay here for a few days. Then, when we leave, you’ll ride a horse. Nothing but harm can come from these long marches, and I will not let that happen!”
Erixitl sighed, squeezing her husband’s hand, for this was an old argument. “I’ll be fine. You cant expect me to ride, when old men and women, even little children, all walk on their own feet.”
Among the throng of refugees were some fifteen horses, all that were left of the forty brought to Maztica by the Golden Legion. The others had almost certainly perished in battle or in the convulsions of the Night of Wailing. If a few had escaped to freedom, which was possible, they were of no use to them now.
“But…” Hal groped for new reasons. “You’re too important-to everyone! The people look to you for leadership, for comfort!”
“Why?” Erix’s tone became sharp. “Because I wear the Cloak-of-One-Plume?” She sat up abruptly and gestured toward the colorful mantle hanging from a tree branch beside her. “I’ll gladly give it to anyone who wants it’”
Halloran sat back, deeply disturbed. He wanted to offer comfort, but Erixitl’s tension held him at bay. Finally she relaxed slightly, turning back to him. He could see that she was thinking about something else,
“I hope my father’s all right,” she said softly. “I’m afraid for him, though. Palul is so close to Nexal, and he’s so helpless. If the creatures of the Viperhand come there, he wouldn’t have a chance!”
Halloran thought of the blind featherworker, Lotil. His wife’s father had seemed to be a very wise man, very keenin his understanding of the world despite his lack of sight. He worked the magic of feathers-pluma-and his gifts were with them now, in the amulet that Erix wore and in his own wristbands, jokingly termed Erixitl’s “dowry” by the old man.
The powers of Erixitl’s amulet had offered them protection against a variety of threats. Conversely, the bands that he wore had increased the strength of his arms to that of ten men when Hal’s energies focused on battle. Surely a man with such potent skills could save himself from the chaos sweeping the land. At least, so Hal hoped.
Erix turned back to Hal, her expression once again peaceful. “Can you send for Poshtli? I’d like to talk to him.”
Hal’s heart twisted in pain, a hurt that showed clearly in his face, and his wife’s expression grew concerned. “What is it?” she asked. “Has something happened?”
“Don’t you remember?” he asked softly. “The volcano… the Night of Wailing? Poshtli was with us when the explosion occurred, but he didn’t have the protection of your cloak. He’s… gone.” The man couldn’t force himself to say that the noble warrior was dead.
“But he’s not gone,” Erixitl countered, still strangely calm. “I remember all that-how could I forget? — but Poshtli did not die there, He’s nearby… he comes to us!” She smiled gently, as if Hal were the one having flights of fancy. Even against the beauty of her face, Halloran nearly wept to see how pale she was, how distant was the look in her eyes.