Viperhand
Douglas Niles
PROLOGUE
The gods grew complacent in the sameness of their immortal lives, content to accept the worship of mortals and to rule their lordly domains. Eternal imperturbable, they passed the centuries in sublime disregard of the flesh-bound world below.
But occasionally the actions of a god's worshipers brought that deity into conflict with his fellows. Such a collision of godhood inevitably spelled chaos, even complete doom, for the peoples in the divine one's fold.
So it was with Helm the Vigilant, patron god of the Golden Legion. His faithful, the crusading soldiery of that legion, carried his banner forward into new lands – lands of great riches and beauty, but of dark savagery as well. Willingly, eagerly, Helm followed. Now he faced gods from beyond his ken – gods with an apparently unquenchable thirst for human hearts, human blood.
So, too, with Zaltec the Terrible, one of those thirsty lords. The ravenous god of war consumed the hearts offered by his priests with relish. Lordly master of Maztica, he faced the invading forces of Helm with a burning increase in his own hunger. Zaltec needed more hearts, more blood.
And with Qotal, once hailed as preeminent among the gods of Maztica. The Plumed One, however, had long since been banished from the True World by those who thought gods could only be worshiped with the shedding of blood and the taking of lives. Qotal sought to smooth the confluence of peoples and gods, but his power was weak, his presence all but unknown.
And also, below them all, seething with the darkness of her hatred and evil, so it was with another god – a god whose presence and interest the deities of Maztica did not even suspect. Lolth, the spidery essence of darkness and evil, dwelled far from the others, in the infernal reaches themselves. QuEen of the dark elves – the drow – Lolth's hatred now focused against those of her children who no longer held her name in awe.
To Lolth, to them all, the Sand called Maztica was a gaming board, a table upon which lay the pieces of their immortal contest. It required but a thoughtless breath, or the casual flick of a limb, to sweep the board clean.
THE HOUSE OF TEZCA
Halloran felt certain they would die here in this miserable, waterless waste. The sun assaulted them from all sides, searing their skin, parching their dusty mouths, blinding their eyes with an unceasing glare.
His tongue swelling in his throat, Hal looked about, only dimly aware of the infernal surroundings. He and his two companions trudged wearily across the House of Tezca, the great desert named for Maztica's god of the sun. Harsh yellow shards of rock jutted from the sandy ground, and low, windswept ridges marked the horizon on all sides. In the far distance, purple mountains, capped with blinding snowfields, loomed against the skyline, taunting them with their unattainable promise of cool heights and rapid, icy streams.
Long since discarded, Halloran's steel helmet and breastplate were now lashed to the saddlebags of Storm, his once-proud war-horse. The sturdy charger plodded listlessly, sometimes tripping or stumbling. A few more hours without water, Halloran knew, and the steed would collapse.
Reluctantly, blinking against the pain, he looked to the man and the woman who were his companions. They, too, could last but a matter of hours unless they found water.
Poshtli, the Eagle Knight, seemed least affected. The proud warrior led the way, maintaining his steady stride across the rocky, undulating terrain of the desert. For days, Poshtli's strength had guided and propelled them. He had brought them to the desert – for good reasons, Hal understood – but now the torched landscape had become a trap. Burdened by this responsibility, the warrior drove himself mercilessly, leading the way without a backward look.
Erixitl, the beautiful young woman who had showed him so many wonders of her land, seemed but a distant memory to Hal now. It broke his heart to see her in this wasteland that must soon claim them all.
She looked at him now, her eyelids swollen by sun and dust. Her lips, cracked, sunburned, and bleeding, could no longer smile. She had not spoken since the merciless sun had risen uncounted hours earlier. If even her exuberant spirit had been broken, Halloran knew, their doom must be imminent.
For more countless hours, they marched, seeking shelter that could not be found. Their last water gone, consumed at the end of the previous day's march, they all understood that their only hope lay in continuous, desperate search.
"I have failed," Poshtli croaked finally as they crested yet another sharp, parched ridge. "It was a mistake to seek the desert dwarves. We would have done better to brave the lands of Pezelac and Nexal. There, at least, we would have found food and drink to sustain us."
Hal shook his head weakly. "But enemies, too. They would kill us before we could ever reach the city."
Erixitl stumbled past, as if she did not hear. But she did. She knew that she was the cause of their ill-chosen path, selected to avoid human habitation and the bloodthirsty priests who strived to place her litle body across a gruesome sacrificial altar. Every tiny village had a temple devoted to this god of war, and any one of the priests to be found there would strive mightily for the chance to offer this girl's heart to Zaltec. She did not know why the priests of Zaltec sought her death so unceasingly, but she understood that their hatred was implacable.
Before entering the desert, they had slain one of these agents of death – not a priest, but rather one of the black-robed leaders of the cult of Zaltec known as the Ancient Ones. Even the priests of Zaltec looked to the Ancient Ones for leadership and direction. Halloran had told her that these beings were known as drow, or dark elves, in other parts of the world. Everywhere – on the Sword Coast, in Maztica, or beneath the surface of the land – they were hateful and malicious.
But the drow represented only one of the enemy's tentacles. The savage priests of Zaltec, the god of war, sought Erix's heart for their bloodstained altars. And unlike the dark elves, the priests of Zaltec would be encountered in every town, every small village, that lay in their path.
Another cause of their flight lay in Hal's former comrades, now his enemies, who fought under the golden banner of Captain-General Cordell. The mercenaries of the Golden Legion had sailed from the Sword Coast, the most populous shore on the continent of Faerun, in search of the gold and spices of Kara-Tur. They had found, instead, this land called Maztica, where gold aplenty awaited their depredations.
But his former swordmates now sought Hal as a fugitive and traitor. Betrayed by Bishou Domincus, the dour cleric who spoke for the legion's warlike god, Hal had fled into the interior of this strange land. Pursued by the frightening elf-wizard Darien, Halloran knew that either the wizard or the cleric would slay him at the first opportunity. He had only the company of these two loyal companions to keep him from a plight of complete solitude.
Their only hope of sanctuary, the trio had decided, lay in the great city of Nexal, the Heart of the True World. There they would seek the protection of the great Naltecona, Revered Counselor and ruler of all Nexal, and, perhaps more to the point, the uncle of the Eagle Knight Poshtli.
Hal and Poshtli looked across the bleak landscape from the crest of the low ridge. No trace of greenery gave the promise of water. The war-horse, Storm, hung his head listlessly. The faithful steed's eyes were glassy, his flanks covered with dust.
A sense of despair dropped over them like a black cloth. What could they hope for, besides a slow, parched death? Earlier, Poshtli's goal – to reach the desert dwarves that he knew dwelled somewhere in this rocky wasteland – had seemed like a hopeful alternative to death by magic or sacrifice. But now that hope faded, for they had seen no sign of any living creature for many days.