But the priest heard the soft rustle of silk. He lifted his head to behold the Ancient One striding toward him, feet moving silently over the paving stones. Dimly Mixtal saw a pair of wide, pale eyes gleaming at him from the depths of a black cowl.
"So, cleric, you have made your sacrifice?" The voice came softly to Mixtal's ears.
"I did," he said, nodding. "You saw."
Spirali looked back at the pale corpse before turning scornfully back to the priest. "You have failed!" he spat. "Failed Zaltec!"
Spirali reached a black hand forward, seizing the cleric by the throat, squeezing. But the attack ran deeper than a mere physical clasp.
Mixtal's eyes widened in a gape of unparalleled horror. His tongue protruded, his cheeks sucked futilely for air. And as he suffocated, he felt his soul drawn from him by the unspeakable might of the Ancient One. Mixtal knew as he died that his death would bring annihilation, a complete consumption by a vengeful force of unspeakable evil.
Spirali threw the husk of the man, a dried, stiff remnant, to the stones. The Ancient One looked at the now-mummified face, sneered at its terror-stricken features.
"Failed Zaltec, perhaps," he whispered. "But more importantly – far more importantly – you have failed the Ancient Ones."
From the chronicle of Colon:
May these tales be preserved to shine in the light of the Plumed Serpent's glory.
Naltecona, greatest and most omnipotent ruler of the True World, mighty Naltecona, Revered Counselor of the Nexala and holder of the Seat of Flowers, who governs the lives and deaths of men with a wave of his hand, supreme Naltecona, blessed with the wisdom of his ancestors…
Naltecona has decided.
After months of fasting, after long consultations with his wisest clerics and magicians, he has decided. After the dozens of sacrifices consecrated to the younger gods, captive warriors slain, that the Revered Counselor may gain the insight he needs, Naltecona has decided.
He has heard the counsel of his war chiefs, who have urged him to muster his army and meet these invaders on the shore with a full display of the might of Nexal.
He has listened to gibbering sorcerers and soothsayers, who tell him the strangers are the incarnate forms of the Feathered Father, Qotal, returned to Maztica at last.
He has heard the fears, conveyed through Eagle flight, of the Payit warriors, who even now stand and face these strangers, perhaps in battle, perhaps in counsel.
All this has Naltecona heard, that his decision can be made with the wisest counsel, the greatest knowledge possible. All this he has heard, and he has decided.
He has decided to do nothing. The mighty Nexala, masters of Maztica, will sit and wait.
THE SHRINE OF QOTAL
Cordell looked up quickly, disturbed by the undisciplined shouts suddenly drifting in from the beach pickets. He knew his guards, posted along the fringe of jungle at the base of the bluff, would not yield themselves to such an outburst without cause.
"Domincus, Darien!" He called his chief lieutenants to his side, and the trio trotted rapidly through the grassy sand. Darkness hid the nearby bluff and its gigantic stone faces, but Cordell knew the voices came from the base of the precipice, near the main trail toward the pyramid at the top.
The Bishou rushed ahead of Cordell, his face drawn and haggard. "Almighty Helm, I depend upon your mercy!" chanted the cleric. The captain-general, too, feared the news from the scouts, though for more pragmatic reasons than the Bishou. Had he lost the use of Halloran as a captain? It was a possibility that needed to be faced.
A single word caught his ear as he approached: "attacked."
Cordell reached the picket to find two swordsmen supporting a third. The latter gasped for breath. His skin" was torn in many places, and blood covered his body. Cordell recognized him as Grabert, a reliable veteran.
"Martine!" roared the Bishou before Cordell could speak. "What happened to my daughter – tell me, man!"
"Where's Daggrande!" demanded Cordell, ignoring the Bishou's glower. The bleeding man stiffened at his commander's voice, doing his best to stand like a legionnaire as he reported.
"Daggrande and Halloran are gone, sir. It was sorcery! A bright circle, a ring that floated in the air, settled down around them. Then they disappeared, together with a couple of the savages."
The man dropped his eyes, avoiding the Bishou's gaze. "I'm afraid, sir… that is, I heard Halloran say that the savages killed Martine. On top of that pyramid, I think."
The Bishou bellowed his grief until his voice faded to a strangled gasp. He slumped to his knees, turning his face to the heavens. Shaking his fists at the sky, he roared his rage so savagely that the men around him stepped back several paces. "The curses of Helm fall upon your heads! May your ignorance be obliterated by the strike of his almighty hand!" For a moment, the cleric paused, and then he rose to his feet, his wild gaze meeting Cordells.
"You must send the legion against them! We will wipe them from the face of the earth!"
The captain-general's eyes flashed darkly, but the Bishou was too blind to see the warning there. "The legion performs at my command," Cordell said softly. "But you should know that we always destroy our enemies. I will not let this attack go unavenged."
By this time, perhaps ten legionnaires had stumbled down the stairway from the top of the bluff. Many of the troops on the beach had also gathered as Grabert finished his report. The Bishou moaned as Grabert told of Hal and Martine's capture, and Daggrande's pursuit.
"Then hundreds of 'em attacked, sir, coming out of the jungle with spears and clubs. We were completely surrounded. Daggrande got us into square, but too many men had fallen."
"And how did you escape – you and these other men?" The question came from a black-robed figure beside Cordell. Darien had remained unnoticed until now.
Grabert stiffened at the question, but he did not meet the wizard's eyes. "When that ring appeared, the one that snatched Daggrande and Halloran, the savages fell on their faces, like they were frightened or maybe awestruck. And we ran for the bluff, those of us lucky enough to still be alive." Cordell looked at the elf woman at his side, and she nodded in understanding.
"I will return soon," Darien said softly. No one saw her gesture or heard the words to any spell. But all of those gathered saw her disappear from sight, instantly invisible. They knew she went to observe the legion's newest enemies.
Halforan felt the ground drop away, and then a ring of swirling color surrounded him. His hands flailed madly, seeking a handhold as he fell. He felt the squirming body of the young woman beside him. A tugging at his waist told him that Daggrande, too, held on.
Dimly he realized that he wasn't really falling. He felt weightless, but there was no rush of wind, no sense of motion. He tried to look around, but all he saw was the ring of color, expanding into an all-encompassing kaleidoscope.
And then solid ground once again materialized under his feet. The colors faded to a milky glow, and he saw that he had somehow arrived inside a stone building. The native girl had clung to his arm during the mystifying journey, but now she pushed away from him and stared, panic-stricken, around the chamber.
They occupied a circular room, perhaps ten paces across, with walls made of carved stone blocks. An opening on one side displayed a series of stone stairs leading upward into darkness. Above and beyond the opening, the faint twinkling of starlight illuminated the night sky.