He himself had succumbed to a lethargic passivity that had verged on the comatose. For a time, he lay unknowing his mind vacant, awaiting the command and the vitality OF his god. The towering statue of Zaltec, near his lair, stood impassive and unmoving as the weeks became months. Finally, not knowing why, the monster Hoxitl raised himself from lethargy into stiff, unpleasant movement.
Gradually a command took shape in the cleric-beast’s mind, an image of a destination and a growing compulsion to again put his beastly force into motion. At the end of this march, he sensed, there would be killing, and hearts to feed the god, and final, ultimate victory over the humankind of Maztica.
Hoxitl emerged from his cavelike lair and raised his voice in a high, ululating howl. The sound echoed from the great mountains around the valley, rolling across the muddy, swamp-like stretches that had once been lakes. Among the ruined streets and cesspools, the ores looked up from their bickering. The cry called forth other ores and ogres and trolls from slumber or feeding. All took up their weapons and responded.
Slowly, by ones and twos, then by dozens and scores and hundreds, the beasts of the Viperhand moved to their master’s call. They gathered across the sprawling chaos of the great plaza, perching on ruined temples, clustering in the few flat expanses of the stonework, all of them turning their beastly faces toward the great stone monolith that was their power and their glory.
“Creatures! My children!” Hoxitl bellowed in his grotesque language, and the creatures listened attentively.
“Zaltec calls us, and we must obey! Again we shall march so that all Maztica will know the terror of our presence!”
His creatures responded with dull roars of anticipation. The long days of inactivity weighed heavily upon them, and now they stood, once again ready for war.
“Chief Tabub, we bring two of the Big People as prisoners,” explained the little man, who was called Kashta, after placing his bow and arrows-the tips of the deadly missiles wiped clean of their kurari poison-beside the door to the chief’s low hut. Kashta carried Halloran’s sword with him into the hut. The weapon was as long as the warrior himself.
“It is as I dreamed, as the Lord of the Jaguars told me in my sleep,” said Tabub in a low monotone. The chief sat cross-legged, flanked by two of his wives. “A man and a woman… she carries a child?”
“Indeed,” whispered Kashta, awed.
“They must go to the pit tonight,” pronounced the potbellied chief. Like Kashta, his face was painted red and black, though in vertical stripes while all the other warriors bore their marks in horizontal lines.
“But this man, he is like no other 1 have seen, no other man in the world,” the warrior objected tentatively. “His face is covered with hair, like a bearded monkeys, and he wears a shirt of hard silver. He bore this great knife, also of silver.”
“Let me see,” said Tabub. He drew the weapon from its scabbard, and his wives shrank back as the glow from the enchanted blade filled the tiny hut. Tabub reached out with one short finger and traced it along the keen edge. “Ah,” he grunted, without any display of pain, as blood ran from a gash in his skin. “This is a potent weapon indeed.”
“The stranger speaks gibberish, also like a monkey, but the woman understands him. She can talk, too, in the normal language of the Big People.”
Tabub’s visage grew stern. “You know the commands! You may not speak with the Big People! They must be placed in the pit, and there they die!”
“But always we kill the Big People! We place them in the pit, and the Cat-God devours them! For how many years must it go on this way?”
The chief’s scowl didn’t waver. “You know of the words of the god, as told me by my father, and his father before him, and on through the history of our people!”
Tabub’s eyes closed, and his words came forth rhythmically, reciting the prophecy that had long been lain on his folk.
“The Big People are our enemies, and they will kill us unless we kill them first. They go to their deaths to appease the gods, and the gods are pleased, and the Little People will live on.”
“But the killing must end sometime, to that same tale,” argued Kashta. He, too, spoke the rote of long-taught prophecy: “ ‘There will come a man, a giant even among the Big
People, who will turn night into day and lead us into the peace of a new age.’”
“Is this man a giant?” demanded Tabub.
“He is tall, even for a Big Person. Yet truly I could not call him a giant,” Kashta admitted.
“Then he will be fed to the Cat-God.” Tabub, his pronouncement final, turned with studied arrogance to inspect his newest wife. Kashta knew that the interview was over.
The small garrison of Helmsport, some thirty men, rushed to the shore, shouting hurrahs, at the appearance of Don Vaez’s fleet of carracks. Their delight swiftly turned to chagrin when, after landing his troops, the commander of the relief expedition ordered them thrown into irons and imprisoned in the very fort they had guarded for so many long, lonely months.
Helmsport was in fact little more than a huge, rectangular earthwork. It stood upon a low hill, commanding the sheltered waters of Ulatos Lagoon, where first Cordell and now Don Vaez had anchored their fleets.
The wall itself enclosed a rectangular compound, although a low gate had been built, a notch in the earthen wall where horses, men, and even carts could pass through. The rest of the rampart loomed some thirty feet above the surrounding ground and supported a wide walkway at the top. Any defending force occupying the top of that wall would have a commanding advantage over an attacker forced to scramble up the steep outer slopes.
The base of the wall within the fort was lined with wood and grass huts, with roofs of thatch. Several wooden barns had been erected plus one framed structure, much like a house, that had been intended to serve as Cordell’s headquarters. Several smaller, but solid, wooden buildings served as storage sheds. It was to one of these that the captain ordered the garrison members, still chained, to be confined.
“What’s the meaning of this?” howled Sergeant Major Tranph, the burly veteran Cordell had left in command, when Don Vaez confronted them in their rude dirt cells. “What manner of enemy are you?”
“Cautious,” explained the blond-haired captain, unruffled by his prisoner’s outburst. “You are suspected of treason, of betraying the charter of Amn. Rest assured that you will have ample opportunity to defend yourselves. It may be that you were duped by the real villain in the affair.”
“Cordell?” Tranph gaped at Don Vaez, understanding his meaning but disbelieving just the same. “Surely you jest! What has he done to arouse the ire of the merchant princes? Why, his profits after conquering Ulatos alone would pay for the expedition tenfold!”
“Those profits have not been delivered into the proper hands. Indeed, we have evidence that he is concealing them from the just owners. Where is the eminently loyal captain-general? Why does he not appear to defend himself?”
“Profits delivered? To Amn? By Helm, man, we haven’t had contact with the Sword Coast since our landing a year ago!” Tranph sputtered, indignation wrestling with outrage.
“And that, in itself, may be at the root of the treason,” Don Vaez suppressed a yawn. “But come now, my good sergeant. Where is your general? Surely he is the one who must provide the ultimate answers.”
“1 tell you, he has marched on the capital of this land-a city reported to hold more gold than you can possibly imagine! Our last message from him told us that he had entered the city and was engaged in negotiation with their ruler. We have heard nothing else from him for these last four, maybe five months.”
“Nor will he hear aught from you,” promised Don Vaez with a tight smile. “When he returns, we shall have a quiet reception-call it a trial, if you will-and he will have ample opportunity to answer the charges against him. Perhaps if his mission is a success, he will return with enough gold to convince us of his noble intentions.