Then the monsters had come.
Erix moaned with horror and fell to the ground, paralyzed by fear, as were many of the other observers. This paralysis meant death in most cases, as the beasts with their humanlike cunning and cruelty, their supernatural speed and power, raced among the Payit and butchered the warriors and the helpless watchers alike.
The sight of the massacre sickened and numbed her. She saw a small child torn from its mother's arms, killed on lance point before the woman was trampled under, the flashing hooves of the monster. She watched an old man standing valiantly before his gray-headed wife, and saw the creatures thunder past, clubbing the husband to earth and laughing as the old woman knelt to hold her dying mate.
She watched spellbound from her knees as the monsters swept closer. Their leader, a great, red-bearded manlike form with wild, flaming eyes and black streamers trailing from his helmet, saw her crouching. The light flared in his eyes, and his lance tip lowered. The monster lumbered toward her, and she saw her death approaching. At its heels raced a smaller, shaggier creature, slavering and yowling.
Erixitl faced the charging rider, wishing she could slay him with her eyes. She could not, so instead she calmly climbed to her feet before his charge. Around her lay the battered and bleeding wreckage of Maztica. She sensed her world ending, saw it writhing in torment everywhere.
It seemed a good day to die.
FROM THE CHRONICLE OF COTON:
There came a time of war, and the brothers Zaltec and Qotal each made ready with sacrifice. The masses of men gathered eagerly, relinquishing their hearts and bodies and minds to the will of their gods.
And Zaltec claimed ten thousand warriors as his sacrifice. Eagerly, in song and verse, they ascended the pyramids in the time when pyramids reached the sky. Laughing and singing on the top, they offered their hearts to Zaltec, and the god was pleased.
But Qotal made his sacrifice of thirteen butterflies, each a different color, each brighter and bolder than the last. And his sacrifice was not the death of the butterflies, but their freedom. Each, in turn, he raised to the heavens and released.
Then came the war. Zaltec strived to gain dominance over the gods, but Qotal would not yield. In the end, Zaltec tumbled from the pyramid and crawled away. He left behind him the supreme form of the elder god, Qotal, reigning at the height of his glory.
But ever after, in the dark of the night and the privacy of his treacherous thoughts, did Zaltec know Qotal as the Butterfly God.
ENEMIES AND FRIENDS
Alvarro soared with the momentum of the charge, the invincible feeling of power that surged through him as he led the lancers through the tattered ranks of the enemy. He had killed many of these natives already, more than he could count.
The horses rumbled on, unstoppable, the sleek, fierce greyhounds running beside them. Alvarro delighted in the effect of the war dogs, for the natives seemed to fear the hounds nearly as much as the lancers.
But still targets abounded for his lance, victims awaited the cut of his sword. The killing became a ritual for him, a process he could continue indefinitely.
He took no note of the fact that they had ridden beyond the enemy warriors. Still he hacked and slayed. The twelve horses of his wing thundered among the old people, the women and children who had come to watch the battle. Now the horsemen rode them down, far faster than they could flee.
Alvarro sensed, dimly, that he should turn, but the momentum of his attack had taken on a life of its own. Instead, he flew forward in his orgy with death, and still he killed.
Something caught the captain's eye, and he wheeled his mare sharply as his wing thundered on. He saw an extraordinary young woman standing on the field, staring at him. She was slender and very beautiful, but her arresting feature was her eyes. They found Alvarro and accused him, baring his soul to himself in all its ugliness.
The sight enraged him, and he lowered his lance, spurring his steed on toward the lone woman as bloodlust contorted his soul.
Halloran watched the battle with keen interest, balanced in his tree, concealed by its leafy branches. He feared for Daggrande's company as those ranks charged forward. He cheered the valiant stand of Garrant's men, and finally breathed again when they were relieved by the charging cavalry.
He watched the lancers with a twinge of envy, knowing that he should be riding at their head. He felt a grudging admiration for Alvarro's audacity as the riders circled among the mass of Payit warriors. The colorful banners trailing from the lances, the smooth precision of the horses and riders, all characterized the riders of the legion he had helped to train.
But his admiration turned to puzzlement as he saw the lancers ride beyond the native army and keep riding. And his puzzlement turned to shock, and then to horror, as he saw the butchery perpetrated by his — no, not his, he knew for certain they followed Alvarro now — horsemen.
The savage riders cut along the fringe of delta, and several thundered past a hundred feet from Halloran's lookout. He slid quickly to the ground as they passed. Hal forgot all thought of heroic intervention on the part of his comrades, for he felt no kinship to these brutal assassins.
The lancers killed without regard to the nature of their victims, whether warrior or bystander. The horses trampled those Payit who did not get out of the way, and the dogs growled and snarled and snapped, causing more consternation by their savage appearance than from any actual damage they inflicted.
Halloran saw the black charger wheel away from the others, recognizing Storm. He saw the black streamers trailing from the rider's helmet, knowing this was Alvarro's banner. His enemy had even claimed Hal's mount! A greyhound followed Alvarro and Storm as the lancer looked to his next victim. Halloran watched Alvarro's lance drop. I should have killed him when I had the chance, he thought ruefully. Murderous hatred burned in Hal's heart.
Then, for the first time, he saw Erix on the battlefield and recognized her as the horseman's intended victim.
Not Erixitl! "You bastard!" he croaked, scrambling forward. "By Helm, no!" The thought of her death on this field seemed like a final nightmare to his life — a nightmare he could not allow.
Alvarro rumbled forward, taking no note of Hal as the young legionnaire stepped out from the trees. Halloran desperately felt the inadequacy of his only weapon, the slender dagger. Even had the blade been weighted for throwing, it stood no chance of stopping or even distracting the racing lancer.
Magic! Now was the time when arcane powers could aid the swordsman's arm. But Halloran knew no magic, had known none for ten years.
Kreeshah… What was that phrase? Damn! The words tickled his brain with a long-buried memory. Alvarro's foaming charger galloped past as Hal desperately tried to think.
Kreeshah… barool… hottaisk! That was it!
"Kreeshah… barool…" Halloran pronounced, very loudly. He pointed his finger at Alvarro and his black charger as the lancer rushed toward Erix. "Hottaisk!"
A tiny flash of light sparkled from his finger, hissing like an arrow through the air and trailing sparks behind it as it flew. The magic missile surprised Halloran with its vigor. It struck Alvarro squarely in the back as the horseman loomed over the strangely motionless girl.
Alvarro shouted in pain and surprise as his horse bucked sharply. His cavalry lance fell to the ground as he forcibly brought the charger under control, cursing the burning wound in his back.