“They say that the arrowheads are hard enough to shatter boulders,” observed Tatak.
“Yes, and they have begun to fashion the heads of axes from this stone as well.” Indeed, Luskag himself carried one of the weapons, its obsidian edge rendered keen and reputedly unbreakable by the feathermagic of skilled dwarves. “Perhaps spears will follow, but still, our numbers are small.”
Luskag felt, rather than heard, a presence behind him. The ground shook with the weight of a heavy footfall, and the desert dwarf spun, swiftly pulling his stone axe from his belt. He noticed Tatak’s face blanch, but the young dwarf sprang to his chief’s side without hesitation.
The creature looming behind Luskag almost sent him reeling backward in astonishment and dismay. Huge and vaguely manlike, it towered eight or nine feet in the air. Broad sinews rippled across its torso and limbs as it raised a club the size of a small tree. He dimly noted the blood-red brand, like the diamond-shaped head of a viper, on the thing’s chest.
But it was the face that drew Luskag’s attention, for he stared into the most horrifying visage he had ever seen. Tiny bloodshot eyes gleamed at him while a broad mouth, flecked with drool, gaped open to display sharp, finger-length tusks. Something within his nature rose in deep loathing at the sight of the monster, and Luskag’s body tensed in primitive hatred.
“Watch out for the club!” cried the chieftain, seeing Tatak charge forward.
The young desert dwarf carried merely a stone knife, yet he thrust the weapon at the beast’s sagging belly. With surprising quickness, the monster stepped back, at the same time hammering its club toward the charging dwarf. The stout limb met Tatak’s skull with brutal force, crushing bone and brain in the same instant.
Luskag snarled his rage, flinging himself into battle with all the primordial hatred this creature aroused in him. He had never seen such a beast, yet the dung’s mere appearance drove him into a killing frenzy.
Luskag’s stone axe, encircled by the tiny tufts of pluma, sought the monster’s bulging gut. Before it lifted its club again, the keen obsidian edge scored a deep gash across the creature’s flesh.
The sun-browned dwarf shouted his joy savagely, a harsh bark of vengeance as he saw the monster’s blood. A killing rage upon him, Luskag crouched, watching for the beast’s return blow.
With a bellow that shook the valley, the creature swung wildly at the desert dwarf. Luskag easily twisted away from the blow, and this time he chopped hard into its knee. The monster’s cry held tones of fear now, and Luskag attacked again, and again. His fury burned through his body, becoming a murderous rage that sent him after this grotesque aberration with brutal determination. Even without the slaying of Tatak, he would have had difficulty restraining his hatred.
As it was, the need for vengeance left no room for any thoughts of mercy
The beast cowered backward, stumbling away from the furious slashes of the gleaming stone blade. Suddenly it dropped its club and turned to flee, lumbering frantically up the loose stones toward the rim of the valley
One sharp chop into the creature’s thigh tore its hamstring. With a panicked bellow, the beast flopped to the earth, writhing pathetically. Luskag’s next blow, to the creature’s brutish neck, silenced it for good.
Gradually the battle frenzy disappeared from Luskag’s eyes, and he felt a great tiredness press upon his shoulders.
Sadly the chieftain turned back to Tatak’s body. He remembered the shadow across the sky and looked upward again, but only the clear blue sky arced above him, mocking in its pristine clarity.
Luskag gently lifted the body of his companion and turned his steps toward Sunhome.
The man and the woman rested, enjoying the quiet peace of their rocky niche. From here, atop the red-ribbed, twisting ridge, they looked westward across a brown and sandy expanse of desert. They savored these moments alone together, for they were young lovers, and of late times such as this had become increasingly rare.
They faced the pristine wild lands, away from the bitter trail and the thousands of footsore, weary humans camped behind them to the east. Now, finally, after weeks of flight, the great smoldering mass of Mount Zatal lay out of sight, below the northern horizon. Throughout their long trek, the volcano’s towering summit had loomed above the mass of terrified Mazticans. a scarred and jagged reminder of the night of violence that had driven them from their city and left wondrous Nexal a wretched, smoking ruin.
The Night of Wailing, it had come to be known, and an apt name it was.
“How long must we flee?” Erixitl asked wistfully. The evening’s chill began to settle in, gently urging them back to a place where they did not want to go. She was a woman of striking beauty, with long black hair cascading across her shoulders and flowing down her back. She wore a bright cloak, smooth and soft, with a lushly feathered surface of brilliant colors that seemed to shimmer in the pale light.
At her throat, she wore a jade amulet, surrounded by the silky plumes of emerald feathers. The wispy tendrils seemed to float in the breeze with a life of their own, and the rich green of the amulet’s stone heart reflected a sense of verdant vitality.
“We can survive a long time, as long as we keep finding
food,” countered Halloran, avoiding a direct answer. “I know that it’s no future, no life for us… for…” His voice trailed off as she took his hand. In contrast to the woman, the man was tall, with pale though ruddy skin, and a smooth brown beard.
At his side, in a plain leather scabbard, he wore a long, straight sword. The weapon’s keen steel blade gleamed in the narrow gap where, near the hilt, it lay exposed to the air. He also wore a breastplate of steel, once shiny but now stained from the rigors of the trail. His heavy leather boots showed the scuffs of a long, rugged march.
Only at his hands did a sense of cleanliness linger, a brightness that the lowering dusk seemed to accentuate. A thin, colorful strap of beaded leather encircled each of his wrists, tiny tufts of plumage puffing from them, blossoming in the twilight.
“What other kind of life can there be now?” Erix sighed. “Perhaps this is the beginning of the end of the world.”
“No!” Hal sat upright. “The desert is only a pathway for us, not our life! As long as the food and water hold out, we can keep moving. Somewhere we’ll find a place where we’re safe, where we can build a home! Your people have built cities before; they can do it again! They-we-can do it again, with your leadership, your guidance!”
“Why does it have to be me?” Erix demanded, then grew suddenly tired as she answered herself. “Because I wear a cloak made from one feather? Because the people-the priests-claim that I am the chosen one of Qotal?”
“I’ve never claimed to understand the workings of gods,” Hal responded quietly. “But you are trusted by the people, and they need you! Even the men from the legion, my own countrymen, look to you.
“If a prophecy of the return of the is the thing that brings us all to you, don’t question it!’.’ he continued. “Use that belief to try and bring us together!”
“Yes” Erix sighed, “I know. All of the signs have been fulfilled. First the couatl returns to Maztica, only to die on the Night of Wailing. Then his cloak is discovered-the Cloak of One Plume-and I happen to be wearing it. Finally we have the Summer Ice.”
“The ice was the only thing that allowed us to escape Nexal,” Halloran reminded her, “and the last sign that was supposed to predict his return.”
“But he comes too late, if he comes at all!” she snapped harshly. “Where is he now? And why could he not come when Nexal could still have been saved, before all the killing and war?”