Douglas Niles - Forgotten Realms - Viperhand

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Ib Dirk Miles, in memory of the Bighorns

VIPERHAND

This book is protected under the copyright taws of the United Stales of

America. Any reproduction or other unauthorised use of the material or artwork

herein is prohibited without the express written permission of TSR, Inc.

Distributed lo Ihe book Irade in the United Stales by Random House, Inc., and

in Canada by Random House of Canada, Lid.

Distributed in the United Kingdom by TSR Ltd

Distributed to the toy and hobby trade by regional distributors.

FORGOTTEN REALMS, PRODUCIS OF YOUR IMAGINATION. ADA.D, TSR. DRAGONLANCE, and

the TSR logo are trademarks owned by TSR, Inc.

First Printing, August, 1990

Printed in Ihe United Stales of America.

Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 89-51885

987654321

ISBN: 0-88038-907-9

All characters in Ihis book are fictitious. Any resemblance lo actual persons,

living or dead,

is purely coincidental.

TSR, Inc. TSR Lid,

P.O. Box 756 120 Church End, Cherry Hinton

Lake Geneva, Wl 53147 Cambridge CB1 3LB

U.S.A. United Kingdom

VALLEY OF NEXAL

*-.^.; Grasshopper Spring

SACRED PLAZA OF NEXAL

marketplace

1,000 FEET

3. T«mpte of Zattec

4. THnpte and Pyramid of Qotal

5. Nattecona's Palace

6. AxaH's Palace

PRoIogcie

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

*£>*

DOUGLAS NILES

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.

DOUGLAS MILES

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, Halioran 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 lithe 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. Halioran 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.

VlPERHAND

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, Halioran 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.

Suddenly Erix turned toward them, her face brightening with faint vitality.

"Listen!" she croaked through her parched lips.

DOUGLAS NILES

"What?" asked Poshtli, tensing.

"I dont hear anything" Hal said numbly.

"You must'" she snapped. "There! There it is again!"

"A cry ... it sounds human," Poshtli whispered, his black eyes darting around

the horizon. Halloran had still heard nothing.

"This way!" Erix declared, her voice full of sudden hope. She hastened down

the sandy ridge, the men stumbling hurriedly behind her. Hal felt beyond hope,

past depair, only noting dimly that they moved again. Erixitl's trail swung to

the right, and they came around a rough shoulder of rock. "There!"

The woman pointed to a green splash of color against the brown rocks. At

first, Hal thought she had found some succulent plant, but then the greenery

took to the air with a beat of powerful wings, trailing its bright-plumed tail

behind it.

"A macaw," breathed Poshtli. "A bird of the jungle! But here, in the desert?"

"He must have water nearby," Erix replied.

The bird flew upward and circled them for a moment. Then it dove away, coming

to light on another ridge that lay beyond the low rise they had just

traversed. Eagerly, with a desperate sense of hope, they started toward the

bird.

It sat still, regarding them with bright, unblinking eyes as they shuffled

forward as quickly as total exhaustion allowed. It squawked once, chopping its

hooked beak. The macaw's large yellow claws shifted awkwardly on its stony

perch, but still it stared at them.

Erix led the way. Suddenly she was no longer stumbling. Scrambling up the

shallow slope, she almost reached the bird before, with a sudden flip of its

wings, it again took to the air.

The macaw darted up and over the top of the slope, diving out of sight down

the far side. Halloran shook off an irrational fear that Erix would fly away

with the bird, disappearing from his life.

"Hurry!" Erix called excitedly, nearly sprinting to the top.

The others joined her at the rocky crest, gasping for breath. Even Storm

lumbered along, almost trotting,-until

VlPEHHAND

they all stopped and stared in amazement.

Before them lay a shallow valley, rocky, not as sand-covered as the

surrounding desert. Steep shelves of crumbling stone plummeted to the floor of

the depression, which resembled a great yellow bowl, perhaps half a mile

across. It was so deep that they could not have seen inside it unless they

were standing upon its rim as they now did.

At the bottom of the valley, a small blue pool, surrounded by green ferns,

grass, and a few stunted palm trees, reflected the suddenly softened rays of

the sun. A gentle wisp of wind formed ripples across its smooth surface, and

from them, the sunlight glinted like cool diamond.

Shrouded in dark cloth, the Ancestor approached the caldron of the Darkfyre.

The slender figure moved slowly, but with none of the stiffness common to an

elderly human. In a sudden gesture, he threw back his hood, allowing the

crimson light of that infernal blaze to wash over his stark, pinched face.

His dark features stretched taut over his narrow skull, and his white hair

clung to his scalp, too thin to conceal the shiny black skin below. The

Ancestor's nostrils flared with his breathing, and his thin lips parted

slightly to reveal white teeth in red, clearly visible gums. His arms and legs

seemed nothing more than bone, covered with tight skin. He was an image of

death, a gaunt, skeletal figure propped up by some unseen force.

Except for his eyes. All of his energy seemed to focus in those wide, white

orbs, reflecting the dim glow of the Darkfyre and amplifying it with heat of

their own. He stared in relish at the unnatural blaze.

"The fire of true power!" hissed the ancient drow, his voice rasping like wind

through dry leaves.

He watched the Harvesters now, as they fed hearts to the blaze. The Harvesters

were young drow, not yet ready for the exalted order of the Ancient Ones, but

dedicated to the attainment of that rank. Now they worked diligently,

tele-porting nightly across the land of Maztica to the sacrificial altars of

bloody Zaltec, reaping the hearts torn from human

DOUGLAS NILES

victims in the sunset rites.

These grisly tokens of Zaltec's faith were brought here to feed the infernal

appetite of the Darkfyre. The god's hunger, dictated to the priests by the

Ancient Ones, brought an endless stream of captives, slaves, failed

warriors—even faithful volunteers—to the altars. And as the hearts fed the

fire, so did the power of Zaltec grow.

The caldron and the cavern itself, the central meeting chamber of the drow,

actually lay far above the surface of most of Maztica, excavated and eroded

into the towering summit of Mount Zatal. The volcanic peak dominated the

valley of Nexal, overlooking that great city. Now the volcano rumbled, as if a

giant belch signified Zaltec's pleasure with his meal. The sensation of power

as the rock trembled beneath his feet pleased the Ancestor.

Finally the Harvesters finished, and the Ancestor took his seat, alone in the

cavern. From his great throne, he studied the circular stone depression before

him. Some twenty feet across, its lip even with the cavern floor, the caldron

glowed with a crimson, evil flame. The fresh hearts gleamed like red coals,

though they shed little heat. Most of their power seethed downward, into the

heart of the mountain and the soul of Zaltec himself.

This is might, the Ancestor realized. Zaltec is might! The worship of the god

of war is a faith of true vibrancy and great power! Known to the Mazticans

even before the coming of the drow, Zaltec had not achieved his current

influence until the Ancient Ones arrived. Spreading his cult of sacrifice,

they had fed the war god as never before. Soon Zaltec's power would be

supreme, unstoppable.

The Ancestor thought for a moment of Lolth, the spider goddess of the drow,

deified by others of his folk, in other parts of the world. The

personification of evil, Lolth was a cruel mistress, promising power to those

who followed her faithfully.

Once the Ancient Ones had numbered among those faithful, devoting their

strength and their lives to the spider goddess.

"Bah!" he exclaimed, sneering. The other drow were fools. Lolth had forsaken

the drow of Maztica, had turned

VlPEHHAND

her back upon them when the Rockfire wracked the land. Splitting the very

earth, tearing the bedrock itself asunder, that convulsion had cut off the

Ancestors' tribe from the rest of the dark elf race. Now that tribe had become

the Ancient Ones, spokesmen for the cult of Zaltec, revered by the peoples of

Maztica. Lolth and her pathetic minions, separated from Maztica by vast

stretches of land, counted for less than nothing here.

Zaltec alone became their life and their future.

The Ancestor stared again at the hot, crimson hearts, glowing like coals in

their vast hollow. Zaltec would rule the land! The priests of that dark god,

following the teachings of the Ancient Ones, worked to convert warriors to

their cause, marking them with the snake's-head brand. The cult of the

Viperhand had begun to flourish, and this was the perfect instrument for the

drows' work.

Another perfect tool sat on the throne of Nexal itself, the venerable drow

reflected. The great Naltecona, Revered Counselor of the Nexala and virtual

emperor of Maztica, served nicely as a figure to be held in awe. The ruler

himself didn't see how willingly he forwarded the cause of the Ancient Ones.

Yet Naltecona's death had long been foretold, and in his passing, he would

create a void of power across the land. Maztica would require new masters. And

the Ancient Ones, through the cult of the Viperhand, would be ready.

Two matters still caused the Ancestor some concern. One was the landing of the

Golden Legion in Maztica. These warlike strangers threatened to destroy all

the preparations of the Ancient Ones. With their steel and their magic, the

invaders were a formidable foe. Still, the Ancestor had anticipated the

invasion and had taken a precautionary step, some ten years ago, to counter

it. That step had come to fruition, and it might be that it would turn the

Golden Legion into a powerful, if unwitting, ally.

The other, more vexing, matter was that of the girl, Erix-itl. She still,

somehow, eluded them.

Recalling the vision that had chilled him decades ago, the Ancestor faced his

grim knowledge. Zaltec had sent him a warning, in the form of a white,

gleaming star. In the draw's

DOUGLAS NILES

vision, that star touched upon them just as Zaltec's mastery came to fruition.

The resulting cataclysm wracked the dark elves, bringing the tribe to ruin. As

an insignificant side effect, the continent of Maztica suffered horrible

ravages from the force of the same convulsions.

After years of study, meditation, and sacrifice, the nature of the white star

had become clear: A human girl held the seed of potential disaster. Not until

much later had this girl been identified, again through the flaming picture of

the Darkfyre, as Erixitl of Palul. She had been a mere decade old at the time,

but orders for her death had instantly gone forth. Somehow she had escaped all

his agents of murder-priests. Jaguar Knights, and finally even the drow

Spiral!, who had been slain by Poshtli and Halloran. Erixitl still lived, and

while she lived the Ancient Ones' machinations remained in peril. She must

die!

Then the mastery of Maztica would be assured.

Erixitl had never tasted anything sweeter than the water from the lonely

desert pool. The macaw squawked, approvingly she thought, from one of the palm

trees as the three humans and the horse slaked their thirst in the shallow,

clear pond.

They collapsed in the shade of the palm trees and said nothing for a time as

the sun sank toward the horizon and long shadows stretched across the little

vale. The clear sky offered no sheltering cloud, and the desert heat still

baked them. For now, it was enough to live, to know that their throats would

not crack from lack of moisture, or their lungs parch from the dry air.

"We'll head north from here," Poshtli said after a while. "That should bring

us into the south of Nexal, away from the surrounding cities. I'm sure we can

carry enough water to make it that far."

"What then?" asked Halloran. Erix noted that his command of the Nexalan tongue

grew with each passing day. Though she had learned his language—aided by

magic—the trio conversed in Nexalan, which they all understood.

"We will see my uncle, Naltecona," explained the warrior.

VlPEHHAND

"I expect that he will grant his protection, though there is no way to be

certain of that. Some of his advisors will surely urge your harm. After

Ulatos, bad blood will flow hot among the warriors."

The defeat of the nation of Payit by the forces of the Golden Legion had

included a bloody rampage by the invading forces. The legion had attacked the

Payit at their capital city of Ulatos. It had been the first, but probably not

the last, violent conflict between the legion and the warriors from a nation

of Maztica.

"But Halloran didn't aid his comrades at Ulatos!" objected Erix. "He saved me

from them!"

"The great Nattecona will hear this, and we must have faith in his wisdom,"

answered Poshtli.

"I'll take that chance," said Hal. "For one thing, it seems we have few other

choices—save constant flight. It runs against my nature to flee my enemies

rather than to face them."

"Well said," Poshtli agreed. "Though we do well to choose a battle on our own

terms."

"Agreed." Halloran nodded. "When it comes, it can't be any worse than some of

the other fixes I've gotten myself into over the years. I've had battles

against pirates and desert nomads, been surrounded by ogres ..."

"Ogres?" asked Poshtli. "What are these 'ogres?"

Halloran looked at him in surprise. "Well, they're fierce and huge—kind of

like humans, but bigger and dumber, and very savage. They're monsters, of a

type similar to ores and trolls. Dont you have creatures like that in

Maztica?"

Poshtli shook his head. "These monsters, manlike but savage, do not exist

here. We have the hakuna, the fire lizard, and other dangers. But for a lack

of ogres and ores, it seems we should be grateful."

Erixitl listened to the men talk of monsters and warfare, feeling the

weariness creeping over her even before the sky had completely darkened. She

wished that these minutes of peace might last into hours, or days, though she

feared this was impossible. Nevertheless, the prospects of future dangers

could not overcome her present contentment.

In minutes, she slept. But sleep offered no peace on this night.

DOUGLAS NILES

Erixitl became a bird, soaring above the expanse of Maz-tica. Or perhaps she

was the wind itself, the warm embodiment of life-giving air, sweeping across

the True World with a cleansing caress. She swirled above snowy peaks, whisked

among green forests and heavy jungles. She knew a sense of freedom and power

that had never been hers before.

Across Maztica she soared, over the lands of the Payit and the Kultakans, and

finally, at the center of the continent, the realm of mighty Nexal. The twin

volcanoes of Zatal and Popoi barred her way, but the wind broke up and over

the massif unchecked. She swept into the streets of the city of Nexal, and

though she had never seen the great city, she recognized it—indeed, she knew

it well. Beneath the cool wash of a full moon, hanging low against the eastern

horizon, she darted around towering pyramids, along myriad canals, until

finally she soared into the palace of Naltecona himself.

But here something was wrong.

Growing chill, she glided up the walls, onto the roof of the palace. There she

saw the Revered Counselor, resplendent in a feathered headdress and his cape

of many colors. Men of the Golden Legion surrounded Naltecona. In alarm,

Erixitl coursed closer, noting the sharp shadows cast by the moon. The figures

stood in a circle, a tableau for her inspection.

She saw a metal-helmed figure with steely hard black eyes, and she knew this

was Cordell. With vague surprise, she noticed that Halloran, too, stood among

them, though his former comrades did not desire his presence. She understood

these things, even as she witnessed the frozen scene.

And around the palace, across the floor of a broad, enclosed plaza, glowered

thousands of warriors. Upon the chests of many, Erix saw, was the pulsating

crimson head of a living snake. The forked tongues of these vipers flickered

forth, sensing blood in the air.

Then the stillness on the palace roof broke as, with slow but deliberate

movements, the players came to life.

Under the glaring moon, slowly rising in the east, Naltecona fell dead. Erix

swept forward, too late for aught but a final circle around the bleeding

figure of the greafr ruler.

VlPEHHAND

The men of the legion staggered back in consternation at the killing. The

world turned dark, and chaos fell from the skies. The looming volcano rumbled.

And then black shadows spread across the face of Maztica. The land became a

great, gaping sore, and poison poured forth. It spread in a growing circle, to

the horizons of her vision, and it kept growing.

Erix knew that she was seeing the end of the world.

"It's called' steel,1" Halloran explained, showing Poshtli the gleaming edge

of his sword, Helmstooth. "It conies from a mixture of metals, combined under

great heat. Mostly iron."

He enjoyed talking to the warrior, and during their journey had come to

realize that he and Poshtli had much in common. At times, he almost forgot

that this man was the product of a savage, bloodthirsty society.

"Iron? Steel?" Poshtli repeated the foreign words, lisping them off his

tongue. He had seen Hal's weapons in action, had held and examined them

before, but now he took advantage of Hal's growing command of the language to

ask about them. "These must be metals of great power."

"Perhaps. They are strong materials, and hold a keen edge. You've seen them

splinter wooden weapons and stone blades."

"These are metals that do not dwell in the True World," explained the warrior,

a trifle wistfully.

"I think they do," Hal countered. "But you lack the tools— the 'powers'—to

pull them from the earth."

"Metals. Silver and gold, these are the metals known to us. They are

beautiful, even desirable. They have many uses— for art, for ornamentation.

Lords wear Up plugs and earplugs of these metals, and the dust of gold is used

for barter. It is easier to transport than a similar value of cocoa beans. Yet

these metals do not cause a hunger in us such as they seem to among your own

people. Tell me, Halloran, do you devour such metals?"

Hal laughed grimly. "No. We covet them, some of us, for they have come to

represent wealth. And wealth represents power in our lands."

DOUGLAS NILES

"We are of different worlds, different peoples," said Poshtli, with a slow

shake of his head. He looked up, staring frankly at Hal. "Yet I am glad that

our paths have crossed."

Hal nodded in agreement, surprised at the warmth of friendship he felt for

this warrior. "Without you, Erix and I would surely have perished by now," he

said sincerely. "I can only thank whatever gods watch over us that we have,

the three of us, been brought together."

They both looked at ErixitI, who rolled restlessly in her sleep. Tossing her

head, as if in sudden dismay, she threw a hand upward. Her long brown fingers

rested across her forehead, and Halloran was struck, as he had been struck so

many times before, by her serene beauty. The ravages of their march, soothed

now by rest and water, seemed to melt away from her.

Soon the men, too, settled back quietly. Poshtli quickly slumbered, but Hal

couldnt keep his eyes closed.

His mind was tormented by the confusing pictures of this land. He looked at

Erix and Poshtli, recognizing their nobility of character, the depths of their

friendship and loyahy. Each could certainly have fared better alone, rather

than to remain with him, a giant, white-skinned stranger from another world.

They showed him the strength, the fineness of Maztica.

Vet he also remembered the brutality of a cleric in Payit, a worshiper of

Zaltec who had torn the heart from a helpless woman held prostrate across his

vile altar while Halloran was restrained, helpless, scant feet away. He saw

images of that grim, warlike god, and thought with a shudder of this culture

that tolerated such a bestial religion. He wondered in amazement about such

people, that they could accept as a god's due the gruesome sacrifice of so

many of their own.

Now he journeyed to the city at the very heart of this world. Why? He asked

himself the question that tore at him, but he couldnt be satisfied with the

answer. True, he saw no other alternative. But he didn't belong here!

Everything around him brought home the alien nature of this land. The

barbarism of Maztican religion shocked and appalled him.

But where could he turn? Sitting up and shaking his head in frustration, he

thought of his former companionHn the

VlPERHAND

Golden Legion. Doubtless they all wanted him dead by now—certainly that was

the desire of the dour Bishou Domincus and the quiet, menacing elven mage,

Darien.

He thought of his escape from the legion's brig, where he had been sent by the

Bishou in the man's grieving rage over his daughter's death. Hal escaped,

seeking the chance to redeem himself on the field. There he had found Alvarro,

ready to trample Erix into dust, consumed by bloodlust.

The choice then, as now, had been clear. He saved her and they fled, though

the act must surely now have branded him a traitor.

So he remained with these true companions, accompanying them to Nexal, to this

great city about which they both talked so reverently. He had, in truth,

nowhere else to go. But there was more, much more, to it than that.

He remembered the Bishou's daughter, Marline, slain by the sacrificial knife.

At one time, he had thought he loved her. Now he knew that her beauty, her

smile, her pleasant attentions had been food for his vanity, nothing more. She

had been a shallow, selfish girl and he a foolish knave. Though that thought

relieved none of the pain of her death, it gave Halloran disturbing notions

about his own life.

Once again his eyes fell upon ErixitI. She still tossed restlessly, and he

longed to take her into his arms, to hold her. \et he feared her reaction, and

so he only watched, feeling more helpless than ever.

But he knew now that he loved her.

From the chronicles of Colon:

In silent worship of Qotal, the Plumed Father, I remain a faithful observer of

doom.

Like the venom of a snakebite on the leg or on the hand or arm, the various

seeds of catastrophe gather in the outlying realms of Maztica.

Already the Payit have been conquered, subjugated by the invading men and

their brutal warrior god called Helm. The venom gathers in Payit, and of

course it will How through the blood of Maztica.

DOUGLAS NILES

And the Ancient Ones work their wrack, leading the blind priests of Zaltec

closer and closer to their own bleak destiny. The brand of the Viperhand

becomes their symbol, and like the spreading inflammation of poison, it

infiltrates and festers in the body of the True World.

Everywhere fractious differences divide the land. Kulta-kans strive against

Nexal; Nexal strives to conquer all Maz-tica. This divisiveness, too, is

toxic.

So grows the power of destruction, venom in the muscle and bloodstream

ofMaztica. And as is the way of such poison, it flows through the body of the

land, until soon it will gather in the Heart of the True World.

THE CITY AT THE HEART OF THE TRUE WORLD

A small deer slipped between two encloaking ferns, silently pressing through

the deep jungles of Far Payit. The creature hesitated a moment, then darted

forward, sensing danger but unable to pinpoint the threat.

Suddenly a huge jaguar landed silently on the ground before it, fixing the

deer with a sharp, penetrating gaze. The smaller creature froze in terror,

staring into those unblinking yellow eyes. The only movement was the trembling

of the deer's thin legs, the quivering of its heaving flanks.

For long moments, the jaguar held the deer spellbound. Then, with a slow,

deliberate blink, the great cat dropped its lids over those bright eyes.

Instantly the deer leaped away, springing through the brush in a desperate

flight. So fast, so terrified was its escape that it failed to notice that the

cat offered no pursuit.

"Well done, Gultec." The speaker, an old man with long white hair and brown,

wrinkled skin, emerged from the brush and spoke to the jaguar.

Or to what had been the jaguar. Now, in the cat's place, stood a tall,

muscular man. Both men were clad in spotted loincloths and otherwise were

naked and unarmed.

"Thank you, Zochimaloc," said the younger man, bowing deeply to his companion.

When Gultec looked up, his handsome face wrinkled slightly in confusion. "But

tell me, Master, why do you bid me hunt thus, with no killing and no food?"

Zochimaloc sighed, sitting lightly on a moss-covered log. As he waited for a

reply, Gultec pondered his own ease with this strange, wizened man. Weeks

earlier, the concept of a "master" would have been one that the Jaguar Knight

could never have accepted. Indeed, death would have been pref-

DOUGLAS NILES

erable to his own servitude and devotion. But now the old man who had become

his teacher seemed the most important thing in the world to Gultec, and every

day seemed to bring more evidence of how very little the warrior actually

understood.

"Soon you will be ready to learn more," said the old man finally. "But not

yet."

Gultec accepted the statement with a nod, not questioning his teacher's

wisdom.

"Now let us return to Tulom-Itzi," said Zochimaloc. In a flash, the old man's

form changed as he became a brilliant parrot. With a quick thrust of his

wings, he took to the air, vanishing among the tree trunks and leaving Gultec

to follow on foot.

The Jaguar Warrior pushed his way through the jungle patiently, though he

couldn't help reflecting on the changes in his life that had brought him here.

He remembered his despair when the metal-skinned strangers had destroyed his

army and conquered the Payit—his nation. Then he recalled the freedom of his

flight into the jungle as a wild, hunting jaguar.

His flight had ended with the humiliation of capture by men who served

Zochimaloc; almost immediately his captivity gave way to the discipline of his

teacher's long hours of training.

Never before had Gultec learned so much or asked so many questions. He had

dwelled in the jungle lands all his life, yet Zochimaloc showed him how little

he really knew about those jungles. Gultec studied animals and plants, he

observed the patterns of the weather and the stars. Indeed, the pride of

Tulom-Itzi was a building erected for no other purpose than the study of the

heavens!

All of his studies, all the strength of his renewed discipline, his teacher

often hinted, would soon focus in a great purpose—the reason Gultec had been

brought to Tulom-Itzi. That purpose remained a mystery, but another trait the

warrior had developed was patience.

And soon enough, Gultec knew, this purpose would be made clear.

VlPERHAND

They came around the shoulder of the great mountain and then stopped suddenly,

all three of them frozen in awe. The blue waters of the lakes beneath them,

far below on the valley floor, glittered like turquoise in the sunlight. On a

flat island in the center of the largest lake lay the valley's gem: Nexal, the

magnificent city at the Heart of the True World.

"See the four lakes?" said Poshtli, pride thrumming in his voice. "Named for

the gods. Here before us, on the south, is broad Lake Tezca, for it lies along

the tracks to the sun god's desert."

He pointed to the right. "Tb the east, the largest—Lake Zaltec, named for the

war god. Largest, because war is man's grandest purpose, and no men are better

at war than the Nexal!" The warrior suddenly cast a sideways glance at

Halloran. He had recited, by rote, the lessons he had learned as a youth. Now

he thought of Hal's countrymen in the Golden Legion and no longer felt so

certain.

Quickly he pointed into the distance. "Lake Azul, deep and cold, named for the

god of rain. And here, to the west, is Lake Qptal"

The latter was a brackish brown in color, obviously shallow, since tufts of

grass and reeds extended far into the lake from its marshy shore. "The small

stagnant one," Poshtli said, a hint of sadness in his voice. "Named for the

absent god Qptal, who turned his back on his people and left them to the

hunger of the younger gods."

Halloran tried to absorb the vista before him. His exhaustion vanished in the

first moments of that stupendous view. The days of marching northward, finally

leaving the desert behind, the fatigue of the long climb up this mountain, all

disappeared in a sensation of reverent awe.

"Nothing you've said has prepared me for this," he noted haltingly, not

looking at Poshtli as he spoke.

"It is the place I have dreamed about," Erix added quietly.

Hal looked at the three blue lakes, a rich deep blue, remembering that each

was named for a bloodthirsty god of sacrifice. The fourth, the ugly brown one,

they dedicated to the "Plumed God," the one who had disappeared. Still, he

DOUGLAS NILES

had learned that many Mazticans, including Erixitl, believed the tales that

Qotal would one day return.

They lapsed into silence again, Halloran still staggered by the wonders below

them: the city of white buildings and colorful plazas, covering many miles in

breadth; the tall, terraced pyramids, gathered around and dwarfed by the

mountainous massif the Nexalans called the Great Pyramid. He looked upon

Nexal's sprawling palaces. He wondered at Nexal's great size, at the green

fringes surrounding the buildings, extending into the lakes themselves. These

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