Feathered Dragon - Douglas Niles [37]
Then it emerged onto the lake’s south shore, its heavy footfalls crunching into the ground. It passed the smoldering remains of Mount Zatal without a sideways glance. Instead, the glowering eyes, gray orbs of granite in a stark, stone face, remained fixed upon the desert, in answer to some distant and unknown compulsion.
And Zaltec marched on, until a watcher on the rim of the valley could have seen only a huge, monolithic form, moving into the remote wastes of the desert, like a towering, sheer-sloped mountain.
A mountain that walked.
* * * * *
“Forward, beasts of the crimson hand’”
Hoxitl urged his minions into a lumbering advance. Earlier, while darkness still shrouded the desert, the ogres bad stalked through the camp, kicking and cursing their charges awake. Now the ranks of ores stood armed and restless, ready to move.
The route lay plain before them: the wide, flat-bottomed valley that curved gently through the desert, lb each side, ridges of windswept rock, red and brown in color, provided a jagged outline to the track of their quarry.
“Today we will find more humans, and there will be more killing!” promised the beastlord.
The assembled creatures snorted and stomped at the pledge, pounding spear-shafts against the ground or clashing macas and clubs together. The throbbing noise rolled across the desert, all the way to the camp of his hated enemies, Hoxitl hoped.
HOW he hated the humans’. The anger that had spurred him from the ruins to lead his army on this great march seemed a pale flame compared to the fiery loathing that now consumed him. With each slain body, with each life claimed for Zaltec, his fury had grown.
With an explosion of howls and roars, the beasts lumbered after Hoxitl as the great monster started to advance. They spread into a vast wave, moving down the same valley the humans had followed the day before, advancing at a steady trot. For an hour, the horde rushed forward, covering distances it had taken the humans four times as long to march.
The first clue was an odor on the dry wind, the sweet scent of prey. Hoxitl howled, and the cry arose from the ranks behind him until a horrid shriek of bloodlust filled the air, reverberating across the desert like a killing gust from the north.
Hoxitl searched the dry valley floor before them, but no sign of movement caught his eye. The humans had probably moved on early in the day, but his nostrils told him that they had been here, and very recently.
Then he saw them.
Atop one of the low ridges that bordered this desert valley, Hoxitl saw a flash of color. Squinting, he picked out several shapes-human, no doubt, though one seemed somewhat short and stocky.
And then a hot, hissing spear of light lanced into his eyes. The colors! The brightness! Screaming in pain and rage,
Hoxitl tumbled backward. His clawed hands scratched at his eyes in agony.
Very slowly the pain faded away, and the beast, with a low growl, sneaked another look at the ridge. He blinked in confusion and fear, and red spots swam before his eyes, but no further blaze assaulted his vision. Yet he recognized it for what it was: pluma. Only the power of feathermagic could cause such pain to his powerful senses.
Dimly he realized that the attack had come from the ridgetop, from that point of color up there. And with this awareness, all of his hatred, all of his rage, focused against that distant, slowly moving spot of color.
Hoxitl’s heavy eyelids drooped over his wicked, gleaming eyes as he pondered this mysterious development. The great mass of humans, he knew, continued to flee along the valley floor. Yet the one who now climbed the desolate ridge must be one of special significance. Certainly the power of the pluma he had just witnessed indicated this.
He could not ignore the mass of victims awaiting his army. No, the taste of blood on the previous day had been too sweet, too tempting. Yet neither could he ignore the spoor