Feathered Dragon - Douglas Niles [50]
Too terrified to speak, they clutched each other’s hands and prayed the spell supporting them would not break. Nothing visible or tangible supported them, and they couldn’t escape a horrifying sense of falling.
“Don’t look down,” Halloran gasped, suddenly queasy when he made that mistake.
Settling slowly, drifting with the faintest breezes, the cushion of pluma supported them safely. They saw that it carried them toward the ruined avenue they had first walked along when they approached the pyramid.
Finally, with a parting swirl, the wind set them gently on the earth and gusted away. Half a mile away, the monsters howled with glee and charged, while the temple atop the pyramid had grown suddenly, ominously quiet. Nearby gaped the black doorways of the ruined building they had passed on their approach to the pyramid. The many columns on its porch still stood, so many mute sentries barring passage to an unimagined interior.
“Storm!” cried Halloran as he saw movement around the corner of the ruin. The black mare galloped toward him. She had fled at the approach of the monsters, but now she kicked up her heels in delight.
Coton silently raised his hand and pointed toward the black doorways. They all sensed his suggestion: They should take refuge there. “That could be a dead-end trap!” growled Daggrande. “We cant outrun them,” grunted Hal. “We might as well fight them where we can put our backs to the wall.”
Without further hesitation, they started through the forest of stone columns toward the black doors. Even in the darkening twilight, Hal could see that each column was carved elaborately into the standing shape of an Eagle or Jaguar Knight, with the customary helmet, beaked or fanged, capping the structure at perhaps ten feet tall.
Then they reached the first of the doorways, a ruined aperture with a capstone atop an almost fully arched entry. Beyond, a smell of must and decay, odd for its dampness in this harsh clime, wafted forth.
Coton led the way, with Daggrande and Jhatli close behind. Erixitl took her father’s arm and followed, while Halloran, with Storm beside him, brought up the rear. He held Helmstooth high, ready for the pursuit he knew must eventually follow. Around them, he saw walls and dim, rubble-
strewn chambers. They turned a corner and the doorway disappeared from sight.
Very quickly full darkness closed over them, broken only by the pale light from Helmstooth. A damp and oppressive sense of age seemed to linger here, along with a dim presence that Halloran could not identify. It was not his sense of smell or hearing-or any sense, really-that alarmed him, but the swordsman felt a vague menace that raised the hackles at the base of his neck.
Coton, however, seemed to see a path before them, for he led them deeper into the structure, turning his wad through a maze of twisting corridors with uncanny accuracy.
“Wait,” said Daggrande, suddenly bringing them to a halt.
“Do you see them?” asked Erixitl.
Around them, dark shadows pressed, and Hal raised the] sword. Puzzled, he saw that the light did not penetrate! these shadows.
Then his blood chilled. He saw that the shadows them-! selves came closer.
Poshtli shuddered under the impact of a blow of incredible violence. For a moment, he felt certain that he had bee killed, but slowly his senses returned. His talons clung lightly to something, some long trailing thing that he vaguely identified as the feathered mane of the Plumed Dragon.
Rage coursed through the eagle’s proud body, fury directed at the bestial god who tried to drive Qotal from the True World. He shrieked his anger and tried to break free. to once again dive at that despised foe.
But the plumage of the dragon’s body seemed to take on a life of its own, seizing and grasping the eagle’s claws, holding it fast. Poshtli beat his wings in frustration, wondering why the god refused his aid, but he couldn’t break free.
The battle passed its climax, and he could