Feathered Dragon - Douglas Niles [62]
“Our only hope of survival is to abandon Tulom-Itzi and seek shelter in the jungle.”
“It shall be as you command,” said the master, with a deep bow.
Poshtli clung to the feathered mane with both hands, desperately trying to retain his hold. He didn’t know where he was or what he was doing, but he sensed that to let go was to die. So he held tight to the plumage and ignored the pitching and bucking that threatened to tear him free.
It was not until later-much later-that he understood the transformation that had come over him. Finally, though, he realized that he was holding on with hands-human hands, with fingers and thumbs! Making a sensory inspection of his body, he realized that the eagle’s shape no longer cloaked him. Once again he was human, But where was he? All around him, he sensed movement, though no wind whipped at him. Bright, soft feathers cushioned and surrounded him, and he realized that he held on to a huge living form.
Qotal! The carried him in flight, away from the scene of the terrible fight. But why, then, was! there no wind?
Hesitantly Poshtli turned his head away from the great’ neck. He saw only gray nothingness, a thick, swirling vapor, that surrounded them both and masked any sense of up or down. He stared away from the dragon, in die direction he guessed must be up. but he could see no sign of the sun through the mist.
Slowly, carefully, the Maztican changed his grip on the flowing plumage of the huge serpent’s mane. He crept up ward, until his head emerged from the plumage. Now he looked over Qotal’s head and saw that more of the gray emptiness yawned before them.
He could see that the serpent’s massive wings beat J strongly to either side of its great body. The bright plumage on those wings seemed even more colorful now, in contrast to… well, to nothing. Try as he might, he could discern no
color or shape, no irregular feature within the encloaking
Qotal’s wings still beat steadily as the carried him swiftly toward an unknown destination. Poshtli could only thank the mercy of the god for saving his life and be grateful that he now rode in relative security, wherever it was that they went.
But still, he wondered, why was there no wind?
* * * * *
The great eagle soared slowly to earth, settling to the ridgetop where the line of warriors still stood watch against the threat offered by the horde of the Viperhand. The earthworks, abandoned for the most part, still stood like proud, steep sentinels along the heights overlooking the dusty wasteland to the north.
In the valley to the south, around the lake the Nexalans had named Tukan, a small community slowly grew. Many grass huts lined the shores, while a few dugout canoes probed the deeper waters, where great schools of fish swam. Already stones had been gathered and a low pyramid built-a pyramid dedicated to Qotal, sanctified with offerings of flowers and a multitude of butterflies.
The eagle dropped to the ridge, and then his form shifted, shimmering briefly in the bright sun. The shimmer faded and revealed Chical, Lord of the Eagle Knights. He approached Cordell, and as he did, the Maztican warrior’s face broke into a faint, reluctant smile.
“Good news, man?” asked the captain-general. He spoke a rough mixture of Nexalan and common-speech, understood by the Eagle Knight.
“It would seem so,” Chical responded in the same bastardized tongue. “The beasts march northward, back toward Nexal!”
“Hah!” Cordell exclaimed his joy, throwing his hands skyward at the news. He restrained an impulse to embrace his ally, knowing such an approach would offend the proud, aloof warrior.
Bui even Chical’s face split into a grin then, as did Tokol’s when the chief of the Kultakans arrived and heard the] news.
“So we have turned them back?” he asked incredulously. “They will not attack again?”
“For now, anyway,” Cordell conceded.
“But why?” Tokol seemed reluctant to accept their