Feathered Dragon mt-3

  Feathered Dragon

  ( Maztica trilogy - 3 )

  Douglas Niles

  Douglas Niles

  Feathered Dragon

  PROLOGUE

  From the chronicles of Coton:

  THE TALE OF TEWAHCA

  At the time immediately preceding the great God War, when Qotal and his sisters battled Zaltec and his brothers for mastery of the True World, the gods commanded their worshipers to build them a temple greater than any other in the world, in a place from which the gods could rule their lands in sublime solitude.

  The gods selected a wasteland, a dry valley in the heart of the deepest desert, and here they commanded the people to come. The humans obeyed their immortal lords, and the gods gave them food to eat and water to drink, that they would not perish. And they gave to the people their commands, and again the people obeyed.

  The humans built the grandest pyramid of all in the center of the place called Tewahca, the City of the Gods. For decades they toiled, carving a wonder from the wasteland, raising their children, living and dying in this place selected by Zaltec and Qotal.

  The structure towered skyward, as big as a mountain. The temple building, a massive stone rectangle atop the highest platform, loomed huge enough to house the gods themselves. The greatest of artisans came from all over Maztica to work their pluma and hishna magic upon the pyramid, to paint it with brilliant colors and bright mosaics.

  Around the pyramid, a city sprang to life. Humans built streets and plazas, wide courtyards and lush gardens. They built for themselves houses and palaces, struggling to make the structures worthy of the blessed locale. Yet all these constructions served as mere adornments to the true center of Tewahca, the pyramid of the gods.

  Finally the Pyramid of Tewahca was completed. The gods commanded the humans to go, and the waters dried away. The food that grew here withered and died, leaving once more the barren waste of sand and stone. The great city stood like a firm, dry husk in the center of nothing.

  The humans had no way to live here now, so they fled to more fertile lands.

  And the war between the gods began.

  1

  WINDS ACROSS THE TRUE WORLD

  A great gulf of ether separates the planes, the dwelling places of gods and mortals. Billowing outward, murky and obscure, the ethereal mist settles and seethes like a vast, cosmic cloud bank. It fills the space between the flesh-bound worlds and the higher planes of the immortals, a place of emptiness, and a void.

  It lay thus, eternal and unchanging, through eons of mortal lives. Occasional travelers passed through the ether, aided by magic or godlike power, yet such journeys left no trace of their passage. Always the ether settled back, washing smoothly over any spoor.

  Even when the gods of the many planes grew restless, when epic destinies clashed in convulsions of good and evil, did the ether ebb and flow in its timeless tide. It held no track, showed no clue.

  Now color flashed in the ether, bright green trailed by red and orange and yellow. An iridescent glow, like the blue of a shallow coral sea, surged and as quickly faded again into the massive fog of ephemeral essence.

  For a while-ages, perhaps, or mere minutes-all remained gray and featureless. Then the colors flamed again, and now a form appeared within the mists of the ethereal plane. No basis for comparison existed here, yet the shape seemed unspeakably massive, world-like in breadth and inexorable in momentum.

  A pair of great wings, huge enough to embrace the sun, spread to either side of the form. Each swept the mist with blazing hues, leaving a wake of color in the ether like streaks of a rainbow. The body between the wings appeared, serpentine and massive, ringed by brilliance.

  The form vanished into the mists again, reaching places where the ether washed against the worlds. Only the eternal mist remained, still seething, still swirling. Then, abruptly, the shape broke free and dazzled in the full glow of the sun. It circled the great star, searching for the world it sought, and settled toward that troubled, turbulent globe.

  As it descended, its passage cast a broad shadow across the Realms.

  “Water here, too!” Luskag scratched his bald, sunburned pate. The desert dwarf felt a great puzzlement, tinged with a little alarm. True, extra water in the sun-baked wastes of the House of Tezca could not possibly be bad. Or could it?

  “More strangeness, like the beasts rumored to control Nexal,” muttered Tatak, his equally sunburned companion. Like Luskag, Tatak wore a smooth leather loincloth, with a band of snakeskin about his scalp. In the younger dwarf’s case, this served to restrain his long, shaggy growth of hair. Both dwarves concealed mouths and chins behind bristling, waist-length beards.

  The pair stood beside a long pool of clear water in a twisting, rocky vale, where two days previously had lain a dust-filled depression in the desert. Craggy bluffs, their red stone faces glowing like fire in the hot daylight, towered overhead. Ripe, green shoots sprouted from the stony ground around the precious moisture. If the pattern observed throughout much of the House of Tezca was repeated, within weeks this former wasteland would produce an abundance of life-giving mayz.

  “And the humans? How do they proceed?” inquired Tatak, knowing his chieftain had ordered spies to observe the great exodus from the wasteland that had once been fabulous Nexal.

  “Southward, as before,” grunted Luskag. “They cross the House of Tezca like locusts, descending on these newly created water holes, scourging them of food, and then starting south again.”

  “As if the gods had placed the food for them…” mused young Tatak.

  Luskag huffed, uncertain and annoyed. He, the chief of Sunhome, had known an unchanging world for more than a century of life in the desert. He and his folk coped with that harsh environment, and if they did not master it, neither did the land master them. They found what water they needed from the plump sand mother, the cactus that grew to serve their needs. Food remained scarce, yet the desert dwarves needed little to survive.

  Now, when confronted with a multitude of changes, Luskag could not dispel a sense of unease that closed in around him, disturbing him like a shadow on this bright, sunny day.

  Indeed, as if to echo his thoughts, a great flicker of darkness passed over the land- The dwarf ducked reflexively, as if a monstrous hawk passed overhead, but when he looked upward the great dome of azure loomed empty above him.

  “Did you see that?” Luskag inquired.

  “What?”

  Not answering, the chief of the desert dwarves studied the sky for some clue as to the origin of the shadow. “We must beware,” he said, his voice a low rumble. “And prepare.”

  “Our craftswomen work hard on the plumastone,” offered Tatak, though of course his chieftain knew this fact very well. “Already they have built many sharp arrows.”

  “Indeed. Another group, ten sturdy dwarves, left just this morning on the journey to the City of the Gods. In ten days, they will return with yet more of the gods-blessed obsidian.”

  “How is it, Chieftain,” asked Tatak, scowling in confusion, “that the gods can allow the desert to claim a place like that? A pyramid such as stands there shows the work of many faithful followers, does it riot?”

  Luskag grunted. “Our lot is not to question the acts of the gods. Perhaps they placed the City of the Gods in the desert so that only we could find it-only we could master the plumastone.” The chief chuckled wryly. “Though perhaps the gods will now show us why we need such weapons.

  They both knew that it had been luck, more than any recognizable destiny, that had allowed Luskag to discover the shiny. super-hard obsidian. The stone seemed to exist only in the ridges around the City of the Gods, the sand-swept ruin that stood in the heart of the bleak desert. From the
stone’s icy smooth surface, the stoneworkers of the desert dwarves had begun to form weapons far stronger than any they had known in Maztica, indeed, the blades were reminiscent of the steel edges dating back to the dwarves’ origins, before the time of the Rockfire.

  “They say that the arrowheads are hard enough to shatter boulders,” observed Tatak.

  “Yes, and they have begun to fashion the heads of axes from this stone as well.” Indeed, Luskag himself carried one of the weapons, its obsidian edge rendered keen and reputedly unbreakable by the feathermagic of skilled dwarves. “Perhaps spears will follow, but still, our numbers are small.”

  Luskag felt, rather than heard, a presence behind him. The ground shook with the weight of a heavy footfall, and the desert dwarf spun, swiftly pulling his stone axe from his belt. He noticed Tatak’s face blanch, but the young dwarf sprang to his chief’s side without hesitation.

  The creature looming behind Luskag almost sent him reeling backward in astonishment and dismay. Huge and vaguely manlike, it towered eight or nine feet in the air. Broad sinews rippled across its torso and limbs as it raised a club the size of a small tree. He dimly noted the blood-red brand, like the diamond-shaped head of a viper, on the thing’s chest.

  But it was the face that drew Luskag’s attention, for he stared into the most horrifying visage he had ever seen. Tiny bloodshot eyes gleamed at him while a broad mouth, flecked with drool, gaped open to display sharp, finger-length tusks. Something within his nature rose in deep loathing at the sight of the monster, and Luskag’s body tensed in primitive hatred.

  “Watch out for the club!” cried the chieftain, seeing Tatak charge forward.

  The young desert dwarf carried merely a stone knife, yet he thrust the weapon at the beast’s sagging belly. With surprising quickness, the monster stepped back, at the same time hammering its club toward the charging dwarf. The stout limb met Tatak’s skull with brutal force, crushing bone and brain in the same instant.

  Luskag snarled his rage, flinging himself into battle with all the primordial hatred this creature aroused in him. He had never seen such a beast, yet the dung’s mere appearance drove him into a killing frenzy.

  Luskag’s stone axe, encircled by the tiny tufts of pluma, sought the monster’s bulging gut. Before it lifted its club again, the keen obsidian edge scored a deep gash across the creature’s flesh.

  The sun-browned dwarf shouted his joy savagely, a harsh bark of vengeance as he saw the monster’s blood. A killing rage upon him, Luskag crouched, watching for the beast’s return blow.

  With a bellow that shook the valley, the creature swung wildly at the desert dwarf. Luskag easily twisted away from the blow, and this time he chopped hard into its knee. The monster’s cry held tones of fear now, and Luskag attacked again, and again. His fury burned through his body, becoming a murderous rage that sent him after this grotesque aberration with brutal determination. Even without the slaying of Tatak, he would have had difficulty restraining his hatred.

  As it was, the need for vengeance left no room for any thoughts of mercy

  The beast cowered backward, stumbling away from the furious slashes of the gleaming stone blade. Suddenly it dropped its club and turned to flee, lumbering frantically up the loose stones toward the rim of the valley

  One sharp chop into the creature’s thigh tore its hamstring. With a panicked bellow, the beast flopped to the earth, writhing pathetically. Luskag’s next blow, to the creature’s brutish neck, silenced it for good.

  Gradually the battle frenzy disappeared from Luskag’s eyes, and he felt a great tiredness press upon his shoulders.

  Sadly the chieftain turned back to Tatak’s body. He remembered the shadow across the sky and looked upward again, but only the clear blue sky arced above him, mocking in its pristine clarity.

  Luskag gently lifted the body of his companion and turned his steps toward Sunhome.

  The man and the woman rested, enjoying the quiet peace of their rocky niche. From here, atop the red-ribbed, twisting ridge, they looked westward across a brown and sandy expanse of desert. They savored these moments alone together, for they were young lovers, and of late times such as this had become increasingly rare.

  They faced the pristine wild lands, away from the bitter trail and the thousands of footsore, weary humans camped behind them to the east. Now, finally, after weeks of flight, the great smoldering mass of Mount Zatal lay out of sight, below the northern horizon. Throughout their long trek, the volcano’s towering summit had loomed above the mass of terrified Mazticans. a scarred and jagged reminder of the night of violence that had driven them from their city and left wondrous Nexal a wretched, smoking ruin.

  The Night of Wailing, it had come to be known, and an apt name it was.

  “How long must we flee?” Erixitl asked wistfully. The evening’s chill began to settle in, gently urging them back to a place where they did not want to go. She was a woman of striking beauty, with long black hair cascading across her shoulders and flowing down her back. She wore a bright cloak, smooth and soft, with a lushly feathered surface of brilliant colors that seemed to shimmer in the pale light.

  At her throat, she wore a jade amulet, surrounded by the silky plumes of emerald feathers. The wispy tendrils seemed to float in the breeze with a life of their own, and the rich green of the amulet’s stone heart reflected a sense of verdant vitality.

  “We can survive a long time, as long as we keep finding

  food,” countered Halloran, avoiding a direct answer. “I know that it’s no future, no life for us… for…” His voice trailed off as she took his hand. In contrast to the woman, the man was tall, with pale though ruddy skin, and a smooth brown beard.

  At his side, in a plain leather scabbard, he wore a long, straight sword. The weapon’s keen steel blade gleamed in the narrow gap where, near the hilt, it lay exposed to the air. He also wore a breastplate of steel, once shiny but now stained from the rigors of the trail. His heavy leather boots showed the scuffs of a long, rugged march.

  Only at his hands did a sense of cleanliness linger, a brightness that the lowering dusk seemed to accentuate. A thin, colorful strap of beaded leather encircled each of his wrists, tiny tufts of plumage puffing from them, blossoming in the twilight.

  “What other kind of life can there be now?” Erix sighed. “Perhaps this is the beginning of the end of the world.”

  “No!” Hal sat upright. “The desert is only a pathway for us, not our life! As long as the food and water hold out, we can keep moving. Somewhere we’ll find a place where we’re safe, where we can build a home! Your people have built cities before; they can do it again! They-we-can do it again, with your leadership, your guidance!”

  “Why does it have to be me?” Erix demanded, then grew suddenly tired as she answered herself. “Because I wear a cloak made from one feather? Because the people-the priests-claim that I am the chosen one of Qotal?”

  “I’ve never claimed to understand the workings of gods,” Hal responded quietly. “But you are trusted by the people, and they need you! Even the men from the legion, my own countrymen, look to you.

  “If a prophecy of the return of the is the thing that brings us all to you, don’t question it!’.’ he continued. “Use that belief to try and bring us together!”

  “Yes” Erix sighed, “I know. All of the signs have been fulfilled. First the couatl returns to Maztica, only to die on the Night of Wailing. Then his cloak is discovered-the Cloak of One Plume-and I happen to be wearing it. Finally we have the Summer Ice.”

  “The ice was the only thing that allowed us to escape Nexal,” Halloran reminded her, “and the last sign that was supposed to predict his return.”

  “But he comes too late, if he comes at all!” she snapped harshly. “Where is he now? And why could he not come when Nexal could still have been saved, before all the killing and war?”

  “Perhaps nothing could save Nexal,” Hal suggested. Though the city had been magnificent, he couldn’t forget
the files of captives that had been claimed daily by the priests of Zaltec, their hearts offered to their bloodthirsty god. The whole image was one of vast and sinister darkness, an evil that could not long remain upon the world.

  “Remember, your cloak saved our lives on the Night of Wailing.”

  “That it did,” Erixitl admitted. She leaned against her husband. “And for all the terror and fear we’ve experienced since then, I would not want to relinquish one minute of the time we’ve had together.”

  “There will be many more,” Hal promised, and he made the vow deep in his heart

  He took her in his arms and held her against the chill of the night that now surrounded them. She melded to him, and for a time, they knew of no one, of nothing beyond themselves.

  And for that too-brief time, they had all that they needed.

  Smoke drifted upward from the mound of shattered stone that once had been the Great Pyramid of Nexal. The surrounding space of the sacred plaza, now torn, buckled, and cracked, stretched like a hellish wasteland of steaming ruin.

  Still, the site remained sacred, for here had been buried, centuries earlier, the sacred talisman of the Nexalan tribe. It lay in the ruins now below the torn surface of the plaza and the shattered pyramid, yet not lacking in potency.

  This talisman was a pillar of sandstone, discovered by a devout cleric of Zaltec many centuries earlier. Legend claimed that this pillar had come to life, speaking as Zaltec to the cleric, commanding him to lead his people on an epic pilgrimage. It had been borne by the wandering tribe of the Nexal until they had come to this valley and claimed this island as their home.

  Before they erected the first pyramid to their hungry god, they had buried the pillar in the earth below the temple site. As succeeding generations had expanded the tribe’s influence, they had also added layer upon layer to the simple pyramid. At last the structure had become the Great Pyramid of Nexal, even as its people became masters of the True World. And always, at the base of the towering pyramid, the sandstone pillar formed its solid foundation. it symbolized the deep and abiding power of the god, much as the looming volcano overhead had come to represent his fiery and explosive hunger.