Douglas Niles
Ironhelm
These pages commence the Chronicle of the Waning, enscribed by Colon, Grandfather Patriarch of the Golden God, Qotal.
My labors, as always, are dedicated to the greater glory of Qotal, the Plumed One, Iridescent Ancestor of the Gods.
The Time of Waning comes upon us, arriving all but unnoticed by the masters of Maztica. The nobles and warriors of the great city of Nexal care for naught but conquest and battle, gaining tribute and prisoners from the subjugation of each neighboring state.
The priests of the younger gods cannot see beyond their need for more sacrifices to feed their bloodthirsty masters. Crimson Tezca, god of the sun, requires blood every day to coax his flaming self into the skies at dawn. Blue Azul, rain god, prefers to claim the lives of little children in exchange for his body's life-giving moisture.
But none is so greedy for blood as Zaltec, patron deity of the Nexala. His crimson brand marks the chest of his most loyal followers, and long columns ascend the pyramids to offer him their hearts, in willing or unwilling sacrifice. Such is the glory of Zaltec!
No god of the True World is so mysterious, so secretive as bloody Zaltec. Zaltec, the great god of war! Vast ceremonies, these wars, ceremonies fought for the honor and glory of Zaltec. The armies of Nexal go forth and conquer Pezelac, that they may claim captives. They do battle with the forces of fierce Kultaka, and both sides come away with many captives for the altars of Zaltec.
In Nexal, warriors, priests, lords, sorcerers, all struggle for their own ends, complacent in the eternity of Maztica, the True World. They compete, they gain victories and suffer defeats, all for their pathetic goals! All of them are blind! All of them, fools!
Only I, Coton, see the True World as it changes. I see the commencement of its decline, the Time of Waning that has long been foretold by us, the faithful priests of Qotal. Other priests speak only of more sacrifices, grander pyramids, brighter temples. I see a time when temples vanish altogether and pyramids become heaps of unrecognizable stone!
Qotal is the vessel of my vision. His faithful are few, for most of Maztica has turned toward worship of Zaltec and his bloodthirsty offspring. Once Qotal presided as the hero of our forefathers, esteemed by the True World. It is Qotal who brought mayz to the world, so that mankind would always have food. For centuries his benign vision watched over the peoples of Maztica.
But now Qotal is supplanted by Zaltec across the True World. People follow the god of war blindly, ignorant of the peaceful wisdom offered by Qotal. Especially here, in Nexal, has Zaltec of the Bloody Hand taken the place of honor once reserved for the Plumed One.
I am sworn to silence by my station. I say nothing to the mighty of Nexal. Instead, my tale becomes the Chronicle of the Waning. As my immortal master, the Silent Counselor, so wills, I observe and record, a witness but not a participant to the unfolding of history.
The individual threads of chaos remain diverse, most of them unknown to me. My auguries show an emperor god, mightier than any ruler in the history of Maetica, yet fatally weak and flawed. But they also tell the story of a little girl, dwelling in happy innocence near the Heart of the True World; and the tale of a youth, countless day-runs distant. I know not how these strands will entwine in the course of the Waning. Only the passage of time, the swirling eddies of fate, can bring these threads together.
But when they bind, they shall form a knot of surpassing strength and cataclysmic import.
THREADS
He couldn't tell whether it was rain or blood running into his eyes, but his vision blurred to nothing. Night settled around him, but it was a night illuminated by hellish fires. The sharp crack of deadly magic-lightning bolts, he suspected — barked beyond the tree line, then bugles blared and he felt the pounding of heavy hooves through the ground.
Wiping his face, he found that only mud obscured his vision, and soon he could see again. Flames spouted from most of the town, and some trees had caught fire, but otherwise the night was dark. His ears told him that the battle had moved on.
He looked at the gashes in his steel breastplate and chuckled wryly. His helmet was gone, and around him lay the bodies of his men — his boys, really. They were young, cheerful; they were farmers gone to war, and they had been massacred by warriors. The bitter laugh died in his throat as he raised his eyes. Angrily he blinked at the tears that stung his eyes.
He flinched suddenly at the touch of a slender hand and turned to see an elfin face. A small woman stood before him, partially wrapped in a deep robe. Her skin was remarkably pale, almost milky white. It seemed to glow and fade in the reflected light of the flames. Suddenly a great fireball exploded not far away, and he saw her pale eyes, pupils dilated, studying him and soothing him.
"Captain, you are hurt," she said.
"The battle is lost." He sighed.
"Lost by the fools who commanded! You and your men fought well."
"And died well." He was too exhausted to feel anything except a vague bitterness. He saw the banner, the crimson figurehead outlined in silver against the bright red field, now trampled in the mud, torn by sword and dyed almost black in the blood of the young soldiers who followed it.
Horses lumbered near, their black-helmeted riders on the prowl for stragglers. The pale woman raised her hand and said something very strange, and the horsemen rode past. Mud splattered onto the pair from the great hooves, but the knights took no notice of the two survivors. Instead, the riders paused some distance away, looking toward the fires, seeking targets silhouetted in the light.
The man felt the soft protection of magic, invisibility created by the woman and now cloaking them. In another minute, the knights charged off into the night, and the man and woman heard the screams of men caught by lance or mace or hoof.
"Red is a poor color for a banner," he decided absently, looking at the bloody spots on the tattered cloth. "It will have to be something else."
The woman took the man's arm and began to lead him away, though there was no way to tell which way to go. The battlefield surrounded them, fire and smoke and the clamor of battle in all directions as far as they could see and hear.
"Disaster," he realized. "The alliance is finished. The war is lost."
"But you. Captain Cordell, you will live to fight again. And I will fight beside you."
He nodded vaguely. How did this woman know his name? The question seemed quite unimportant, the confidence of her assertion instead focusing his attention and his agreement.
More and more shadowy forms appeared, fleeing in all directions, followed by the great waves of horsemen and their riders, so eager to slay and keep on slaying.
But always the riders passed the two figures without seeing them. Once a great leering beast, twice the height of a man, sniffed suspiciously and turned toward them. The troll chomped its wicked fangs and crept closer.
The woman raised her hand and pointed, speaking a sharp, alien sound. A tiny globule of flame appeared, flickering from her fingertip and flying toward the troll. The monster blinked stupidly, and then the fireball erupted, engulfing the creature in a blossoming sphere of incredible heat and flame. It screeched piteously, falling to the ground and writhing in its death throes, as the woman once again urged the wounded captain into the night.
"Gold," he said, stopping suddenly. The battle had by now fallen behind them.
"What?" She, too, stopped, facing him. Her hood fell back, and he saw her snowy-white hair, her pale, almost bloodless skin. The tip of one ear protruded from her hair, and he saw its point, the characteristic mark of an elf. He was not surprised.
"Gold," he explained. "That will be the color of my banner. Gold."