Nightfall made the battlefield a hellish place. The grass had disappeared, everywhere trampled to mud. Great fans of feathers, once-brilliant banners, and countless plumed headdresses lay in the mud, a fit epitaph to the fortunes of the Payit army.
Silently women and children moved through the dark, seeking a familiar face among the multitude of dead and wounded. Slaves carried bodies to a great trench and laid them carefully, but anonymously, within. Several thousand Payit had been slain and the normally important ritual of individual burial was of necessity forsaken.
Priests of Qotal and Azul passed among the wounded, tending those they could, but their limited healing magic was overwhelmed by the extent of the disaster. For the most part, the warriors bore their wounds stoically, though an occasional cry — usually from a man in delirium — echoed across the field.
But these trivial human concerns meant less than nothing to Spirali.
The Ancient One looked toward the city, where great fires commemorated the victory of the foreigners. By all rights, by a plan laid through centuries, the foriegners should have met complete disaster on this day. But now they danced about the plaza, with its mound of gold, in a way that added to Spirali's sense of foreboding. Indeed, it seemed that these humans were as dedicated to the pursuit of their goals as the Ancient Ones were to theirs. And they were so much more passionate!
His alarm left him but one alternative. Thus Spirali disappeared from the field at Ulatos, flashing himself with the power of teleportation to the Highcave.
He arrived beside the bubbling caldron of Darkfyre as it was being nourished by the Harvesters. The latter, black-robed like Spirali but smaller of form, bowed respectfully.
The Harvesters stood around the caldron of the Darkfyre as they did every night, tending the immortal blaze, feeding it with the fruit of their harvests, garnered from across the lands of Maztica. And thriving on its food, the Darkfyre twisted and flared.
Indeed, Zaltec was happy, for once again he ate well.
The Harvesters labored diligently, and soon the feeding was done. Silently each slipped away into the darkness. The task of the Harvesters was finished until the following night.
Spirali rustled his cape, the sound harsh and jarring through the vast, echoing chambers of the cave. In moments, the Ancient Ones gathered around the Darkfyre. Spirali remained silent, as did all of them, until the frail, shrouded form of the Ancestor emerged to claim his seat above the caldron.
"The strangers have vanquished the Payit in battle. In one day, they have conquered Ulatos and destroyed the army."
Capes rustled in mute statements of surprise, even astonishment.
"Impossible!" hissed one voice, the harshness of her tone offending the sensibilities of the other Ancient Ones. Her cape swished softly, a careful apology for the outburst.
"It is indeed disappointing that the Payit performed so poorly. Nevertheless, the roots of our power have always lain in Nexal. We can be sure that the strangers will not fare so well when they face the warriors of Naltecona!" The Ancestor looked about the chamber before continuing.
"The connection of these strangers with the lands of the Old Realms makes it imperative that we do our work quickly and secretly. Were these strangers to learn of our nature, our plans for Maztica might suffer disastrously.
"They will doubtless learn of Nexal," he mused, his voice like dry reeds rustling in a breeze. "What of the girl?"
Spirali's head fell. "The cleric failed. He is dead. I attempted to slay her, but also failed." It would, of course, be inappropriate to explain the circumstances, such as the arrival of dawn, that contributed to his defeat. He awaited the verdict of the Ancestor, fully expecting death for his own failure. No slightest whisper of silk disturbed the chamber for countless minutes.
"You must return and seek the girl. Her death is more important now than ever. If she is allowed to fulfill the terms of the prophecy, the effect could be catastrophic. But it is essential that your identity remain a secret. Do you understand?"
"Very well." Spirali bowed, the clasp of his black-skinned hands before his body conveying his gratitude for the second chance. "I respectfully report that I shall need help on this task."
"What sort of help do you require?" asked the Ancestor.
Spirali answered, and a soft rustle of astonishment circled the chamber. Such a step had not been taken for centuries! But the Ancestor considered the request very seriously, and finally the venerable leader nodded.
"Very well. You may call out the hell hounds."
Spirali nodded, pleased with the aid and relieved that no punishment had been declared. He knew that he would not get another chance. After warming his hands and his body beside the Darkfyre, Spirali worked his way deep into the vast cavern.
He followed a winding, narrow tunnel until he reached an opening, where this passage joined the wide vertical shaft in the heart of the volcano. Heat pressed against his face from deep, liquid fires flickering far below.
The Ancient One bent over the plummeting shaft and raised his voice in a long, ululating wail. Twice more he repeated the sound, and then he waited.
Far below, a bubble of hot gas burst from the burbling lava. Fiery red, seething with contained energy, it rolled and rumbled up the shaft, straining against its contained pressure. Higher and higher it climbed, growing in speed and force. It twisted and bubbled with contained energy, finally slowing as it approached the level where Spirali waited.
When the gas bubble reached the Ancient One's level, it paused for a second. Inside, Spirali saw a seething mass of long, pointed teeth, of blazing red eyes and smooth, shadowy shapes. A dark creature sprang from the bubble into the corridor beside Spirali. More and more of the great wolflike animals joined him, until the entire pack had collected around him.
Each of the animals was dark in color, ranging from a dirty brown to rust, like dried blood. Great black tongues flopped from their mouths, and their fangs were long, sharply pointed, and as black as midnight. Only their eyes gave the creatures color, for these wicked orbs gleamed and flickered with a light indistinguishable from the bubbling fire below.
As soon as the great dogs had all sprung free, the bubble resumed its ascent. Quickly it burst from the mouth of the volcano, spreading into a great fireball in the sky. Far below, the citizens of Nexal watched in awe as the orange globe blossomed against the star-speckled void and then disappeared.
"Welcome!" hissed Spirali, stroking and scratching the slavering beasts. "Are you ready to hunt, my hell hounds?"
Darien sought a shady clearing in the garden before Caxal's palace. Here she could work without exposing her pale skin and sensitive eyes to the murderous sunlight. Sitting upon the grass, she laid her components around her with extra care, for without her spellbook, she had but one chance to perform this spell.
She placed a small bowl upright on the ground, crushing several dry leaves into it. Next to this, she placed a silver longsword — Helmstooth, Halloran's sword, taken from him when he was arrested — and a small box of glowing embers. She found a dry twig and placed its tip in the tinderbox, blowing on it until it flickered with flame. Then she touched the twig to the crushed leaves.
The powdery stuff immediately puffed into flame, filling the bower with a sweet aroma. Darien now pulled a small piece of horn from a pouch on her robe. Stroking it with her long, slender fingers, she concentrated on her casting, whispering words of deep and arcane power, searching across surrounding planes for the one she sought.
Her mind drifted across the plane of fire, where heat of all types blazed eternally. Rocks flowed in liquid eruption, and the air itself crackled and hissed. Only the arcane power of her enchantment preserved her, and even the unemotional elf felt a sense of relief as she left the fiery realms behind.