Indeed, the army marched swiftly. Before too many hours had passed, they saw the looming bulk of the twin volcanoes, Zatal and Popol, rising from the horizon ahead. Between them lay the pass leading to Nexal.

Cordell's pulse quickened as the road carried them to they cooler heights. He thrilled to a sense of epic momentum as the approached the pass.

He knew that his destiny lay beyond.

The wound began to fester on the first night, and the next morning Halloran did not awaken. Fever pressed its fiery clasp around him as he lay senseless, unable to eat or drink or speak. Throughout that long day, his temperature climbed and sweat burst from his every pore.

Occasionally, in cruel mockery of the fever, chills wracked Hal's body and convulsions threw him about the straw mat like a child's toy, shaken hard by its owner. Delirium claimed him by evening, and he grunted and cursed through the night.

Erixitl remained by his side, trying to keep him cool, trying to cleanse the infection that seeped from his wound. His mutterings recalled past battles as he spoke of blood and smoke without an apparent pattern.

Just once, when his back arched and his body grew rigid, he uttered a cry like a lost youth. "Erix! My love! Please!" His voice choked, spitting garbled syllables. Then he formed words again: "By Helm, I love you!"

His eyes flashed open, unseeing, and then he collapsed limply on the bed. He seemed to rest for a few minutes before the sickness wracked him again.

By the second dawn, his breath came in rasping bursts, sometimes seeming to cease altogether. His pulse became too faint for detection even by Lotil's sensitive touch.

As the sun climbed all that morning, so did the fever. At high noon, the hot sun blazed against the whitewashed house, though the loose thatch of the roof shielded some of the heat. Within, Hal writhed and Erix administered cool, sponging baths. The water all but sizzled, she thought, as she touched it to his skin.

But as the sun sank and the cool evening breezes arose, the heat wracking Hal's body slowly dissipated. By sunset of the second day, he slept comfortably, even waking once to smile faintly at Erix and gently squeeze her hand.

He was going to live, she knew.

He would live, and he loved her. Unimaginable relief flooded through her at his recovery, and a strange warmth gripped her at the knowledge of his love. Releasing her caged emotions at last, she held him as he slept, rejoicing in the steady, strong rise and fall of his chest beneath her head.

And she knew that she loved him in return.

Shatil joined the other initiates in climbing the steep stairs to the top of the Great Pyramid. A sense of deepest reverence gripped him as he looked below to see the priests leading the file of captives. Each would give his life and his heart for one of the initiates into the cult.

The captives were mostly Kultakans, among the few prisoners taken by the Nexalan warriors outside Palul. Not knowing of Cordell's edict, of course, Shatil assumed that the hundreds of Nexalans taken prisoners there faced a similar fate upon Kultakan altars.

At the top, he looked to the east. High up the slope of the valley, in the saddle between the two great volcanoes, he could see the glittering fires of the legion's camp. They would reach the city tomorrow – and Naltecona would admit them as his guests.

"Kneel!" Hoxitl barked the command as Shatil, first of the initiates, stepped forward.

Shatil knelt, anticipation tingling through his body as Hoxitl sliced open the chest of a captive and pulled forth the slick, bloody heart. The high priest held the flesh toward the setting sun, then tossed it into the heart of the statue.

Turning toward the kneeling figure of Shatil, Hoxitl extended his hand, then paused. Blood dripped unnoticed from his fingers as he fixed Shatil with a penetrating stare.

All the young priest's past failings, he felt, were bared to that gaze.

But so, too, was his passionate devotion to Zaltec, and this was the knowledge Hoxitl sought.

"With this brand, your life belongs to Zaltec, everlasting master of night and war. Your blood, your heart, your very soul itself are his, to be spent as he desires, in the furtherance of his almighty name!"

"I understand and accept," Shatil intoned. He lifted his head and bared his teeth, preparing for the touch of Hoxitl's hand.

"Through this sign, let the might of Zaltec protect you! May it harden your skin, proof against the silver weapons of the enemy. May it sharpen your eye and quicken your wit, that when the killing begins, you shall neither falter nor fail!"

Joy surged through Shatil's body. He was ready now for the brand.

But in truth, nothing could prepare him for the searing agony that hissed into his skin, crackling like lightning through every nerve and fiber of his body. He stiffened reflexively but didn't cry out. Clenching his teeth, Shatil felt sweat break out across his face, trickling unhindered across his skin and onto the ground. Still he kept silent, grimacing. The leering face of the high priest filled Shatil's vision as Hoxitl leaned over him.

The stench of burned flesh wafted upward from the wound, and finally the patriarch pulled his hand away. Shatil swayed drunkenly, but then he felt a new, tingling sense of might surge through his body. He sprang to his feet, the brand still smoking on his chest.

Energy thrummed through his body. A fire blazed hot in his heart, and Shatil knew that he was ready to kill or die for Zaltec. He felt invincible. Numbly, striving to contain his exultation, he stepped to the side and watched.

One by one, a file of a dozen aspirants went through the ritual after Shatil. Several of these were Jaguar Knights, and a pair were priests of Zaltec, but most were common spearmen.

One of the spearmen cried out when the brand was applied, and the apprentices immediately lifted him to the altar, where Hoxitl tore out his heart and offered it to the statue in penance for the man's lack of faith. The remaining initiates accepted the brand, like Shatil, with the silence and stoicism of true fanatics.

At last they all stood in a row before Hoxitl. The high priest addressed them while the apprentices tossed the bodies of the ritual's victims down the back of the pyramid.

"You are brave, true men, and members of a sacred order – the cult of the Viperhand. Our purpose is the destruction of the strangers from across the sea, who threaten not only our land, but also our very gods themselves!" The priest paused, fixing each of them with his passionate gaze.

"Now I must command you to do a very difficult thing, in the name of Zaltec. I must order you to wait! Our numbers grow nightly, and soon we will have the forces we need to overwhelm them. Tomorrow they enter the city, and soon you will receive the command to attack!

"Until then, you must avoid the strangers. If you go near them, the power of Zaltec may compel you to kill!

"But I promise you this: When the time for action arrives, we shall strike, and strike quickly. There will be killing aplenty for each of you.

"And Zaltec will eat well."

At dawn the legion marched, ready for war but hoping for peace. The horsemen, lances ready, trotted in the lead, riding forward and back through the fields to either side of the road. The companies of sword and crossbow marched in loose ranks, ready for speedy deployment. The Kultakans and Payit warriors extended in an elongated column that trailed into the distance behind Cordell's veterans.