They saw other forms blink into sight, then, one by one, until more than a dozen black-skinned elves appeared. They wore tight-fitting armor of fine black chain, and each was armed with a dark longbow. The bows were stretched taut, with arrows nocked and aimed at the small party of intruders.
Another one, a wrinkled, ancient drow, appeared beyond the caldron, seated in a great stone throne. Skeletal of visage, this one sat back, cool and aloof, obviously the leader.
"You will give it to me now," Darien commanded, starting to walk around the caldron toward Halloran.
Desperately seeking a delay, Hal reached into his pack and slowly withdrew the bound, heavy tome. "Wait," he said slowly. He knew that they had been caught in a trap of powerful, deadly cunning. He also understood that once Darien had her spellbook, they would all be killed.
Surprising even Erixitl, who had a hand on his shoulder, Halloran suddenly dove forward, lunging into a headlong slide along the floor. In a split second, he stopped before any of the archers could fire.
Halloran lay still on the floor, the book in his hands extended before him, just over the lip of the smoking crater. Below it flickered and flamed the depths of the Darkfyre. If his grip relaxed even slightly, the book would plunge into the inferno, gone forever.
"Now," Halloran continued, still speaking very slowly, "let's talk."
"Kill him!" urged the Ancestor, rising from his throne and gesturing toward Halloran.
"Wait!" hissed Darien. The pale wizard turned back to Hal. "Speak, then."
Think! Think of something, anything! his mind raced. "The betrayal of the legion — you must have prepared that for years."
Darien smiled again smugly. "For more than ten years, I have been seeking a way back to my people — a way that would bring us closer to our ancient goal. In the legion, I found the perfect vehicle — in Cordell, the perfect tool."
Hal stared at her in growing horror. "This whole expedition, the crossing of the Trackless Sea, conquering the Payit, marching on Nexal? This was all your plan?"
"Yes! For generations of human lives, we have strived to gain mastery of this land. With the league of the Viperhand, our numbers grew organized and controlled — humans, branded with the sign of Zaltec, and the priests of Zaltec controlled by us, the Ancient Ones!" She laughed aloud, but her laughter was a dry and empty sound, devoid of humor.
Halloran couldn't see his companions. He was unaware of Shatil, gaping in horror at the woman who had just explained away his life's order as a tool of these manipulative elves. The young priest swayed on his feet, woozy, as it seemed that the world came to pieces around him.
"But we needed an enemy," Darien continued," a force to give focus to that hatred, to bring Maztica together under the hands of the cult. The Golden Legion filled that role very well indeed."
Chitikas lay still, his shattered wings in pieces around him. The snake's feathered flanks rose and fell slowly, the only indication that he still lived.
"I am going to my husband" Erixitl announced, stepping forward to kneel at Halloran's side. The bowmen tensed with her movement, but Hal glared at Darien, who raised a hand to restrain them.
None of those before him saw Shatil slowly, carefully unwind the strap of hishna from around his wrist. The priest's eyes were locked upon the white-skinned wizard. Only Poshtli, bringing up the rear, saw the movement. The warrior started easing to the side, clenching his sword.
With a sudden gesture, Shatil flung the snakeskin at Darien. "By Zaltec, take her!" he shouted, springing after it.
The scaled strap stretched and twisted in the air, growing into a netlike web. Darien darted to the side, but the growing hishna form followed. It struck her arm and instantly, like the lash of enchanted tenctacles, wrapped itself around her, dragging her to the ground and holding her tight.
At the same time, Poshtli charged out of the shadows. The drow archers let fly their missiles, and many of the black-tipped arrows struck the priest of Zaltec, propelling him backward and driving him to the floor. One struck Poshtli's shoulder, while others clattered against the stone walls of the cave.
Then the Ancestor rose from his chair. He raised his hand and started toward Halloran and Erix.
Desperately Hal dropped the spellbook at the edge of the pit and leaped to his feet. He turned toward the archers and saw them swiftly draw additional black arrows from their quivers, nocking them into the bows.
"Kirisha!" he cried, suddenly inspired. He cast his light spell directly in the faces of the nocturnal Ancient Ones. The white glow blossomed, illuminating the cavern brightly.
With cries of pain and anguish, many of the drow archers dropped their weapons or turned away from the painful blast of light. In another second, Halloran charged among them, and Helmstooth found the bodies of many of the blinded, stumbling drow.
Poshtli followed, striking a drow with his steel sword, knocking the blow of another aside. The warrior staggered, weakened from the arrow wounds he had suffered just moments before and atop the palace, and one of the dark elves saw his weakness. With a sudden lunge, the drow drove his blade toward the Nexalan.
Twisting away, Poshtli tried to stop the blow, but the black blade knocked his own sword aside. Continuing the lunge, the drow stabbed the warrior in the chest. With a dull moan, Poshtli sprawled onto his back, bleeding.
Erixitl faced the Ancestor as the wizened, decrepit drow hobbled forward, coming around the deep pit of fire. The elf held a wand or some kind of weapon in his hand, a short staff with an evil-looking tip like the outspread claws of a small dragon.
Erix stood, strangely unmoving, before him as he raised the clawlike staff. He was perhaps halfway around the crater when a sudden, searing hiss filled the cave, and red light exploded in tiny beams from the claws on the Ancestor's wand. Each of these rays of light merged with the others into a heavy bolt of solid crimson energy that smashed into Erixitl with crushing force.
Her pluma token puffed upward, and the gust of wind that had sheltered her from Darien's magic swiftly swirled around Erix. But the power of the attack blew this protection aside, bashing Erix backward and flattening her to the floor. The Cloak of One Plume billowed behind her.
She lay there, moaning, as the Ancestor took another step and raised the weapon again. He had come nearly all the way around the caldron and soon would loom directly over her. Halloran started for Erixitl, not knowing what he could do. He heard the Ancestor laugh, a harsh, cruel sound.
But neither he nor the aged drow anticipated another reaction. Chitikas — coiled, motionless, and apparently unconscious throughout the battle — suddenly exploded from his coil. The wingless couatl drove like a spear toward the Ancestor.
Chitikas's fangs sought the throat of his victim, but the Ancestor barely managed to knock the snake's bead to the side. For a moment, the two of them teetered on the brink of the bubbling caldron. The snake's tail lashed around, striking the spellbook where Hal had left it. Darien, still imprisoned by hishna, screamed as the tome toppled into the Darkfyre.
Hal reached Erixitl's side, kneeling to sweep her into his arms. She sobbed against him, helplessly watching the struggle. "Chitikas!" she cried.
Then, locked in their desperate fight, the couatl and the Ancestor fell slowly, following the spellbook into the flaring caldron.
Hoxitl paused for a long, splendid moment, basking in the full scope of his triumph. Below him, the cleric of the strangers' god stared bug-eyed at his poised dagger. The Bishou's lips were flecked with spit, his tongue protruded, and the veins in his face seemed ready to burst.
The priest of Zaltec leered at him, and then began to lower the dagger. With a quick, sharp slash, the stone tip met the skin of the cleric of Helm.