Feathered Dragon - Douglas Niles [14]
He placed a hand on her shoulder, and she did not try to evade his touch. For a second, she felt a brief warmth, and a renewed sense of energy filled her. And then she couldn’t help but pull away.
Xatli rose and bowed to Halloran. He turned once again toward Erixitl before he departed. “Know this, Chosen Sister. Our god is not unmerciful”
Hal feared for a moment that Erix would erupt in anger, for such had often been her response to talk of the Plumed Serpent. But instead she turned to him and nestled in the shelter of his embrace.
The moment was broken by a call from a nearby warrior. Worriedly Hal saw Erix start to climb to her feet. Knowing the futility of ordering her to rest, he helped her up.
“What is it?” she asked as several warriors, their tall emerald plumes swaying above their painted faces, trotted closer.
“We don’t know what it means, sister?’ one announced, “but a great eagle has landed in the midst of the people. It stands and stares at us, as if in challenge.”
“An eagle?” Erix’s voice sang, once again vibrant. She hurried ahead of Hal, pulling away from his supporting arm until he had to trot to keep up with her.
The crowd of men, women, and children parted for Erixitl and Hal and soon they saw the bird, resting upon a larger ock in the center of a vast and growing circle of humanity.
The eagle stood nearly as tall as a man. Its feathers, clean and smooth, etched its form in pristine black and white. From its vantage point on the rock, the bird’s glittering yellow eyes looked down on the assemblage. Proud and noble of bearing, the eagle turned its head this way and that, until finally those keen eyes came to rest upon Erixitl.
For a moment, the great creature shimmered before them, as if the bright sunlight reflected from a rippled surface of water. Then the image grew larger, manlike.
The Mazticans around them gasped, many falling to the ground and pressing their faces in the earth. Others fell back, staring in awe as the shape of the bird changed.
“By Helm!” growled a burly legionnaire in die crowd, awestruck.
The shape of the bird remained visible, like a shade in the background, but overlaying it stood the image of a tall, brown-skinned man.
“Poshtli” Erixitl whispered, scarcely daring to breathe the word aloud.
The noble stood tall and silent. A cloak of black and white feathers, faint but visible, swung from his shoulders. Gold plugs ornamented his lip, his nose, and his ears. The great beaked helmet of an Eagle Knight he carried under his arm, so that his long black hair flowed freely in the breeze. His other hand he raised, pointing southward and holding it there for several beats, then suddenly wheeling and pointing to the east before he lowered his hand.
For a long time, the image of the warrior stared at Erixitl, while the watchers remained breathless. Finally he bowed, a deep and honorable genuflection conferred to one of great power. A sudden gust of wind whirled a funnel of blowing sand through the crowd, and for a moment the image was obscured. When the wind and sand passed, there remained only the great eagle, still staring at Erixitl with those sharp black eyes.
Then the eagle raised its huge wings, driving powerful strokes toward the ground. With serene grace, the bird rose from the rock and glided over the heads of the assembled humanity. Slowly climbing, it soared in a vast circle around them before turning toward the southern horizon. The bird remained visible for many minutes, steadily climbing, always flying south.
“Lord Poshtli did not die in the volcano,” Erix announced confidently as the Mazticans around them looked at her in wonder. The noble Eagle Warrior of Nexal, nephew of the city’s late ruler, had been widely respected through his life and widely mourned after the Night of Wailing.
“Now he comes to us, with hope and promise,” she continued. Though she spoke softly, everyone heard. “This is not an idle