Viperhand - Douglas Niles [111]
"Give me that," he grunted, snatching it from her hands. He raised the neck to his mouth and once again took a long swallow. Erixitl watched, trembling with fear. Would the potion, diluted by octal, have any effect at all? If it did, what would that effect be?
Alvarro set the half-empty container aside, smacking his lips. Suddenly, with shocking violence, he turned on her, pressing her to the floor and climbing on top of her. A-mad fire gleamed in his eyes.
Then the man grunted once. His eyes widened and his tongue protruded. His fingers clutched for her neck, and his body shook with convulsions.
Finally he stiffened, gasping inarticulately, and died…
Groaning weakly, Erixitl crawled from beneath him, rolling away from the repulsive form. For long moments, she gasped for breath, nearly gagging. She looked at the little bottle, still in her hand. Reflexively she hurled it against the wall, watching it shatter.
She saw her hopes reflected in the shards of glass that scattered all over the floor, disappearing in the fading light of the sun.
Then she sensed movement beside her, and whirled in shock. Another figure had entered the room, not through any aperture-not through any means she could see. This one looked at her with a trace of humor in his slitted, unblinking eyes. Great feathery wings bent slowly, suspending a twisting, serpentine body in the air. His voice, when he spoke, was a sibilant whisper.
"Greetings," said the feathered snake. "I am Chitikas Couatl, and I have returned."
From the chronicles of Colon:
Tb the chronicler is given the sight, that afterward the tale of the Waning may be told.
The gods gather in the gallery of their immortal cosmos now to watch the arena floor below. Each is sublime and confident in his, or her, own presence. Each takes little note of the other gods, watching instead the play of the humans below.
This may be their undoing. Helm licks his lips as his men count their gold, an ever-growing pile within the palace of Axalt. The Bishou makes loud thanks, and the god basks in the praise.
Zaltec feasts upon the hearts that are offered, but the massive feeding does not slake his hunger. If anything, it inflames him. Now his sacred cult seethes and strains with warlike fervor. They crave the release of an attack, a chance to feed their god as he has never eaten before.
Neither of them shows awareness of the third immortal presence, the spidery essence ofLolth, slowly taking shape in the cosmic gallery beside them. She has eyes-vengeful eyes-for her wayward children. The drow, committed passionately now to the cause of their adopted god, have forsaken her completely.
And her patience wears thin.
THE LAST SUNSET
"No, by Helm-we cant be lost!" Halloran shouted, bashing his fist against the wall of the tunnel. Frustration threatened to tear him apart. His mind burned with countless pictures of Erixitl's fate at the hands of his former comrades-in-arms.
For hours, the three men had pushed themselves frantically through the network of tunnels, backtracking, exploring, desperately seeking a way out. AH around them extended connecting passages-apparently identical tunnels, with new intersections, changes in elevation, secret corridors, and hidden chambers every hundred paces. The priest, Erixitl's brother, threw himself into the hunt as diligently as did Poshtli and Hal.
"We'll get out," Poshtli said grimly, pushing himself to his feet following a brief rest. They had paused only for at moment, but he, too, felt the urgency that would not allow them to remain idle.
"I'm sure we've been going down," Hal guessed, frantic at the thought that they had left Erixitl far behind them. "We're underground by now."
"You might be right. Let's look around for some way to climb." Poshtli gestured to the stone ceiling. They had seen several rotting wooden ladders leading upward in various places.
Shatil remained silent, watching Hal and Poshtli growl and bluster. A part of him-the man-admired the passion with which they wanted to rescue his