Feathered Dragon - Douglas Niles [48]
We humans cower in the corner of the room, terrified by the anger of the gods. They take no note of us, intent instead upon their wrath. It is an eerie, silent battle-a clash of wills and might without violence, yet with an outcome that creates massive danger for the loser and for the True World. Zaltec raises his arms slowly. His stone fingers, each larger than a man, unfold and spread from his hands, and a nightmare wind springs up, summoned by his supernatural command.
Qotal bellows his anger as he fades, and the wind howls loudly. It spirals about, raising the fine grit of stone and hurtling it through the air with stinging power.
And then die dust surrounds us and we see nothing more, though still we hear the violence and the fury of the gods.
THE SPIRIT WARDENS
The wind rose to a screaming crescendo, until it seemed that the rock walls of the temple itself must splinter around the companions. Shards of dust stung their skin. The howling noise of the whirlwind drowned any attempts at communication, even shouts.
Halloran caught a glimpse of white feathers high above them. He saw the eagle, Poshtli, diving through the dust toward the great stone statue. The massive shape of Qotal seemed to lurch forward, though it was difficult to see.
The magnificent bird disappeared into the cloud with an angry shriek, and the former legionnaire groaned inwardly at the courageous but futile act. He knew that Poshtli could be smashed by a casual, even accidental blow from one of
Zaltec’s fingers.
Erixitl moaned as the Cloak-of-One-Plume floated into the air, borne across the temple by the chaotic gusts of battle. The wind tore at the colorful garment with a maddened intensity, tearing brilliant plumage away, rendering it into minute tufts of rubbish. In a moment of awful violence, the cloak disappeared, and at the same time it grew darker still in the huge temple.
They heard a sharp squawk, and once again the eagle came into sight, wheeling high in the air, Tucking his wings, talons extended, Poshtli dove toward the mountainous block that was Zaltec’s head.
The little party huddled together in a corner of die temple, paralyzed by fear and awe. Shaking his head and wiping the dust from his eyes, Halloran tried to peer through the dust. It was then he realized that others had entered the temple.
Dimly through the haze in the air, he saw a lumbering figure move through The door. Others followed, and the brilliance of the setting sun outlined their forms clearly – trolls, the minions of Zaltec. More and more of the grotesque creatures crowded through, filling the space behind the stone! monolith’s feet.
Halloran groaned inwardly Still, it seemed to him that he and his companions, crouched in the shadows and concealed by the raging dust cloud, had not yet been seen. But how much longer could they remain concealed?
Slapping Daggrande’s arm to get his attention, Halloran indicated the monsters as still more of the beasts pressed into the temple to watch their master’s battle-their master’s victory.
For indeed it seemed that Qotal had faded from sight in the face of Zaltec’s relentless might. Poshtli, too, had vanished. The huge stone figure began to lower its arms, and slowly the wind began to fade.
Halloran remembered the other door, in the east wall. “Come on!” he shouted, prodding the others ahead of him. With gestures, he urged them toward the door.
They crept along the base of the wall, desperately hoping to avoid the notice of the monsters. Halloran stayed in the rear, his hand near Helmstooth’s hilt. He didn’t want to draw the weapon prematurely, for its gleaming blade would certainly draw the attention of the trolls still stumbling into the temple. Daggrande, he noticed, carried his axe, the now useless crossbow slung across his shoulder beside his empty quiver.
Finally they reached