It would be dark soon, he knew. Shatil had a feeling that it would be a long night.
"Bring the first captive forward!" Hoxitl barked the command, the cruel glee plainly audible in his voice. Priests half-dragged, half-carried the hysterically sobbing figure of one of the captured legionnaires to their patriarch, stretching him backward across the altar.
"Praises to Zaltec!" cried the priest, raising the knife over the captive's chest. The man's eyes grew wide, and he babbled something incoherent as the cleric observed him with scorn. These foreigners certainly didnt know how to die! Hoxitl prolonged the moment, enjoying the spectacle, so long desired, of the pale foreigner awaiting the strike of his blade.
Swiftly the stone knife dropped, and with one brutal gesture Hoxitl sliced open his chest and reached inside the man's dying body to tear out his heart.
A great cheer arose from the warriors of the Viperhand, all the surviving members of which were gathered below the pyramid. The cheering continued as the rest of the dozen prisoners were dragged, one at a time, to the altar. There each gave the essence of his life to Zaltec. By the end of the gruesome ceremony, dark night surrounded the pyramid, and a steady rain soaked the city.
After the last of the sacrifices, the shouting, whistling, and stomping in the plaza created a pounding drumbeat of noise throughout the city. The celebration went on and on, and Hoxitl encouraged them. He knew that the enemy, trapped within the palace in the midst of the joyous mass of warriors, would understand what had occurred.
"I told you coming here was a terrible idea!" moaned Kardann, wringing his hands. "Now we'll never get out of here alive!"
"Shut up!" barked Cordell. "Or I'll send you to join those brave men on the pyramid!"
A grim silence descended over the assembled officers. The scene at sunset had left not one of them untouched, and this, more than their commander's rage cowed them. They met now in one of the rooms that they had used to dine so luxuriously.
"Now," said the captain-general, pacing back and forth before his officers. "We've got to make a plan. I need suggestions!"
Before him sat Daggrande, Garrant, Bishou Domincus, and Kardann. The four squirmed awkwardly, understanding as well as Cordell that their situation was indeed dire.
"Let the horsemen charge them again," declared Daggrande finally. "But back them up with the footmen. We can fight our way out of here!"
"Through that gate? Down these streets? You're mad!" objected Garrant, the Golden Legion's resolute commander of swordsmen.
"What else can we do?" asked Kardann. "You've got to try something!"
Bickering swept through the ranks as Cordell shook his head in dismay. Indeed, what else could they do? Yet without spells, without the magic of Icetongue, without Darien…
With a groan, Cordell sat down at the table, placing his head in his hands. How could she have betrayed him? He wallowed in his self-pity for a moment before forcing himself free of the mire, to once again stand and pace before his men.
"They seem to have withdrawn at nightfall, at least to some extent," observed the Bishou. "Perhaps that's our chance, to break out of here in the middle of the night."
"The clouds have moved in," added the dwarf. "It's a dark night — and still raining."
"I have some spells that might prove of some use to us," interjected Bishou Domincus. "An insect plague, perhaps, to clear them from our path. Or wind and water, such as Helm grants me to use."
"Perhaps you're onto something," said Cordell, desperate for any hope. "One thing's for sure — to remain here is death, death for all of us." He made his decision quickly.
"Tonight, then!" said the captain-general, a trace of his old commanding presence returning to his posture and his voice.
"But how many lives will we lose?" squeaked Kardann.
"We know which life you are concerned with, my good assessor," said Cordell dryly. "And rest assured that we shall do our best to get it to safety.
"You, on the other hand," he continued, "must complete the plans to move several tons of gold. You have two hours."
From the chronicles of Coton:
A note before I retire, while the city dies around me.
Now at last Qotal sends his sign, as the couatl again strives in his name. Forgive me, Great Wise Master of my faith, that I do not record my gratitude at this event. All my pleas and prayers to this end notwithstanding, hoping — nay, begging — for you to take some action.
But now I must ask why? Why has the couatl come? What purpose is there to any struggles at this hour, in this dark night?
Now, when it is too late for all but the dying?
THE CRESTING FLOOD
Are you ready to go?" Cordell asked Sergeant-Major Grimes the question, knowing that there could be only one answer. Grimes, a bluff, profane veteran, had been his choice to replace Alvarro. The sergeant-major was no intellectual giant, but Cordell at least felt he could trust the hearty lancer to follow orders.
The blond horseman stood at the head of the lancers, who were formed in a column of twos in the great corridor of the palace. Never, thought Cordell, had he seen such a collection of wounded, tired men. But he knew they stood ready to march.
Before them, the wooden doors, reconstructed by the legionnaires after the day's battle — remained closed, concealing the escape attempt from the Nexalans. Lookouts on the roof reported that there were only a few dozen warriors pacing restlessly about in the vicinity of the doors.
"Give me the sign," grunted the horseman.
"Another hour. We want to let things settle down out there as much as possible. Remember, when you do go, charge all the way to the gate of the plaza. You have to hold that gate until the rest of the legion gets there." Grimes nodded, scowling in concentration.
"Captain-General?"
"Yes?" Cordell turned in irritation. "What is it, Kardann?"
"It's the gold. We've loaded what we can in saddlebags. But there's still a great pile of it. What do you think we should do?"
The captain-general sighed heavily, regretting the necessity that forced them to abandon much hard-earned treasure. "Let the men have as much as they want to carry. The rest we'll leave behind."
In moments, word spread through the ranks of the legionnaires. The soldiers clustered around the mound of gold, filling pockets, backpacks, pouches, even boots and gloves, with the precious metal, many taking so much they could barely walk. Others such as Daggrande, mindful of the hard fight and long flight ahead, took only a few items of purest gold.
At last darkness and quiet spread through the sacred plaza around the palace. The rain drummed heavily on the roof, splattering on the stone surface of the huge courtyard, deadening sound and restricting vision.
"All right," Cordell hissed to Grimes, after a last reconnaisance. "When the doors open, ride,"
Behind the three dozen riders, the other companies of the Golden Legion — swordsmen, crossbowmen, and spears — pressed toward the door. They all understood the necessity for speed if they were to have any chance of escaping this city that had suddenly become their deathtrap.
"Go!" barked Cordell. Two legionnaires immediately pushed the palace doors open, and the horsemen rumbled forth, trampling the few surprised Nexalans in their path. The chargers galloped across the plaza, making it halfway to the gate before any kind of alarm was raised.
But then a volley of whistles and shouts broke from the night. Grimes kicked his trotting lancers into a headlong rush, and they reached the gate to the sacred plaza in a lumbering stampede. Here a hundred warriors stood to bar their way, but the horsemen cut through them like a scythe through straw.