Erix looked at him in shock. She recalled the weapons, close at hand, used by the warriors in the plaza, and she slowly realized that he spoke the truth. But it was a truth that soothed none of the bitterness of the slaughter.

"Darien, the Bishou – either of them could have learned about the trap through sorcery of one kind or another," Hal explained.

"My father," Erix said finally. "I must go see that he is out of danger."

"I'll go with you, if you'll let me," offered Hal." Now that it's dark, we can move safely."

"You have to come with me," she said calmly. "Your wound must be tended, and you will need rest before you can travel anywhere."

Poshtli stood up, then looked away from the pair for a moment. When he turned back to them his face was set, though lined with regret.

"There is certain, now, to be war," he said. "And my duty to my nation becomes clear. I must return to Nexal and offer my services to my uncle."

Halloran nodded, understanding. "Take Storm. You'll need to travel fast to reach the city before Cordell. He's certain to march soon."

"But…" Poshtli hesitated, looking questioningly from Erix to Halloran.

"Hal needs to rest. His wound runs deep," said Erix. "He will stay in my father's house. He will be easy to hide if you take the horse."

"Very well. I shall leave you together" said Poshtli," and hope that you may avoid the coming ravages. May… Qotal watch over you."

"Good-bye, my friend," said Halloran, ignoring his pain to rise and embrace the warrior. Erix, too, held the Nexalan tightly, but at last broke away to look at him through misty eyes.

"Take good care," she whispered, "that we may see you again."

Poshtli bowed, smiling slightly. Then he turned and mounted the mare. Storm pranced for a moment before wheeling to gallop into the night.

"The house is not far… up there," Erix explained, pointing.

Hal nodded, grimacing against the sudden spasm of pain in his chest. She led him onto the lower slope of the great ridge that sheltered Palul. The woman pushed through thickets, slowly working her way higher.

"We're staying off the trail," she explained when they stopped to rest after several minutes. "Can you make it?"

"I'll be all right." Hal managed a weak smile, and she took his hand. The feel of her skin against his gave him strength to rise and start upward again.

"Up here – we're close now," urged Erix, holding back thorny branches as Hal scrambled after her. The inky cloak of night completely surrounded them.

Finally she stopped at a small level shelf in the side of the ridge. "This is my father's house."

Gasping for air after the climb, Halloran raised his eyes to stare at the little structure. "Your home," he said, with unusual gentleness. She looked at him in the darkness, and he wondered if she understood his feelings.

He wanted to take her and hold her close, never to let her out of his sight again. Below, in the village, men of his race and culture made camp. Yet they had become as foreign to him as the scarred priests who practiced their nightly butchery in Nexal. This woman before him had become the only anchor in his life, his only source of purpose and meaning. He wanted to tell her all of this, but the look of pain in her eyes compelled him to silence.

"My daughter! You live!" The voice from the darkened doorway was full of strength and joy. An old man stepped into the yard, and Halloran saw him in the light of the half-moon that had just risen. The fellow shuffled like the blind man he was, yet he looked up with an alertness that made Hal think he saw more than any of them.

"And Shatil? He is with you?" Lotil's inflection showed that he already knew the answer.

"No, Father. I fear he perished in the temple. The soldiers overran the pyramid, destroying everything there."

The featherworker slumped slightly, stepping back into the hut before turning to face them again. "And who is this who accompanies you?" he asked.

"This is Halloran, the man I told you about, from across the sea. He came from Nexal to – to see if I was safe." Briefly Erix told her father about the events of that bloody afternoon.

"And the shadows, child – are they still there?" asked the old man.

"I… I don't know, Father," Erix replied, shaking her head miserably. "I can't see them at night, and I didn't look back at the town before sunset."

"I myself can see very little," said Lotil. Nevertheless he reached out with unerring aim and took one of each of their hands. "But some things it is given me to see, and this I see for the two of you."

Halloran felt the old man's surprisingly strong grip. Lotil's strength was a comfort to him, and he returned the pressure, feeling a deep bond of friendship form between himself and the old man. It was more than the pressure of a handshake, but that clasp seemed to symbolize and define it for him.

"My blind eyes can see that the two of you are linked," Lotil continued. "And part of this link is formed of shadow – a darkness that was not dissipated by the events of this day.

"But another part of the link, and, we can hope, the stronger part, is formed of light. Together the two of you may yet bring light to a darkening world. I know, at least, that you must try."

"Light? Bring it to the world? Father, what do you mean?" asked Erix, looking at Halloran in wonder. He looked back, warmed by the expression in her eyes and by her father's words. Meanwhile, Lotil answered.

"I do not know, child. I wish that I did." The old man turned to Hal. "Now, you are wounded! Come, lie here."

Halloran stared at the blind man in surprise, suddenly sensing again the sharp pain in his chest. Erixitl took his arm and led him toward a straw mat in a corner of the hut.

Before Hal reached it, the world began to spin around him. He groaned, his legs collapsing as he barely sensed Lotil and Erix supporting him. Looking around, he blinked, but everything before his eyes slowly faded to black.

Chical, lord of the Eagle Knights, entered Naltecona's presence for once without donning the rude garments normally required of visitors to the great throne room.

This time there was no need to affect a bedraggled appearance. The scars of battle marked the legs, arms, and face of the warrior. His once proud Eagle cloak was a tattered rag. As he advanced toward the throne, he looked so battered that it seemed a miracle he could even walk. Even so, he had flown, in avian form, from Palul to Nexal.

Now his pride sustained him, holding his head high until he knelt before the great pluma litter that was Naltecona's throne.

"Rise and speak!" demanded the Revered Counselor.

"Most Revered One, it is disaster! A thousand times worse than we could have feared!"

"Tell me, man!" Naltecona leaped to his feet. His feathered cloak whirled around him as he stalked toward the groveling warrior. "Where is Kalnak?"

"Dead – slain by the first blow of the battle. My lord, they knew of the ambush. They were prepared for it and unleashed their own attack before we could act." Weeping, Chical told the tale of the massacre, and Naltecona sank back into his litter. His face grew slack, his eyes vacant, to the point that it seemed he no longer listened.

"Then they summoned killing smoke, a fog that reached its fingers into the hiding places of our men, slaying them even as they breathed. Revered One, we must make immediate preparations if we hope to stand against men like this – if indeed they are men!"

"No, they are not," said Naltecona with a sigh. "It is clear now that they are not men at all."

He stood and paced slowly along his raised dais. The row of courtiers and attendants behind him stared in universal terror and awe at the tear-streaked face of Chical.