"Wh – where did he come from?" babbled Kardann.

"Must be some kind of renegade, hiding out in the palace," the Bishou suggested. "I've warned you, these treacherous savages cannot be trusted!"

Cordell barely heard them. Instead, he knelt down and examined the knight. He felt a vague discomfort, stirred by the expression on the man's face. Never had he seen such fanatical hatred, such an unreasoning bloodlust, in a human face before.

As he pulled the corpse around, the jaguar-skin armor peeled off its chest. "What's this?" he asked, feeling a dull horror.

The man bore a brand on his chest. Scarlet red, angular in shape, it resembled the head of a deadly viper.

Cordell stood and looked at the men around him. "This kind of thing cannot be tolerated. We must teach Naltecona that we are truly a force to be reckoned with." He clapped his fist into his palm, lowering his voice to a whisper.

"It is time for stronger measures!" he growled.

From the chronicles of Colon:

Amid visions of enclosing darkness…

The couatl returns to haunt my dreams. The feathered serpent wings about my world, hut only where no one else can see. Perhaps the harbinger of hope is a mere delusion, teasing me with anticipation promised, fulfillment denied.

But I must seize that hope, for otherwise all is despair around me. The growing image of the spider goddess, Lolth, draws near. Zaltec, in his arrogance, pays no heed. Indeed, he grows mightier each day.

His priests, spreading the cult of the Viperhand, now provide a mountainous feast of hearts each night as more and more initiates are branded. Zaltec slakes his hunger, while his faithful plot the release of his power against the strangers.

And these men of the Golden Legion – now they dwell within the walls of the sacred plaza itself. Somehow the priests have held the cult away, but the seething hatred of the branded ones builds in pressure, and soon it will burst.

The power of that eruption, coupled with the might of the invaders – as they have shown against Kultaka and Palul – will lead to an explosion from which the city cannot survive.

Naltecona awakened suddenly, blinking in the alien light of a brightly glowing oil lamp. "What is the meaning of this intrusion?" he demanded loudly, sitting up in outrage and surprise.

Squinting into the hot glare, he saw Cordell, Darien, the Bishou, and a half-dozen legionnaires. The men-at-arms brandished longswords, several of the blades bloody. In the room beyond his sleeping chamber, Naltecona saw the still, bleeding figures of his personal slaves.

"We have been attacked in the rooms you gave us!" accused Cordell. "By one of your Jaguar Warriors."

"He acted in disobedience of my orders," objected Naltecona, rising to confront the captain-general.

"That may be, and it may not be. In any event, we must take steps to insure our security. This type of occurrence cannot be tolerated!"

"Your presence in our city is difficult for some of my people to tolerate!"

"We are here as your guests, and our safety is your responsibility. Since you have failed to provide that safety, we shall takes steps of our own!"

"Wait!" The Revered Counselor held up his hand. He was more puzzled than frightened, he even forgot his outrage against this intrusion in his efforts to analyze the problem. "This warrior… did you happen to note if he bore the brand of the Viperhand on his chest?"

"So that's what that red… Yes, he did," Cordell replied. "What does that mean?"

"They are a legion of priests and warriors," explained the counselor. "They have all taken a vow to defend the name of Zaltec to the last. They seem to interpret that as resisting your forces. I have forbidden this resistance, but there must still be uncontrolled fanatics. I apologize for the breach of faith."

"This will take more than an apology," said Cordell softly, almost with regret.

"What do you mean?" Naltecona drew himself to his full height, showing no trace of fear. "Have you decided to slay me?"

"No," said Cordell. "That would do neither of us any good. Instead, you will gather your personal belongings and move in with us, into the palace of Axalt." Cordell kept his voice level, staring Naltecona in the eyes, as he concluded. "There you will remain as our prisoner."

"What's going on?" demanded Poshtli, trotting through the open doors to the throne room several hours after dawn. The dais was vacant, but he saw a number of spearmen arguing in a small group across the room. Striding over to the warriors, Poshtli commanded their attention with his presence.

"Naltecona has gone to the palace of Axalt to stay with the strangers," said one tall spearman.

"Of his own will?" asked Poshtli, astounded.

"It would seem not," continued the warrior. "His chamber slaves were slain."

"We must rescue him – or die trying!" growled Poshtli. Another thought occurred to him. "The strangers have signed their own death warrants with this outrage!"

"Perhaps, but perhaps not," said the warrior, shaking his head. "Chical was ready to lead a group of warriors after him when Naltecona himself appeared on the roof of Axalt's palace, commanding Chical and his warriors to return to their lodge."

Poshtli stared in disbelief for a moment, then spun on his heel. He raced from the throne room, through the long corridors of the palace of Naltecona, and out into the morning sunlight of the sacred plaza. Slowing his pace to a steady trot, he crossed the courtyard and came to the gates of Axalt's palace.

A scowling, mustachioed man stood guard at the gate, holding a long spear with the blade of an axe at its end. Beside him stood one of the short men the strangers called "dwarves," also scowling.

Halting before them, Poshtli tried to remember some of the phrases of common speech he had learned from Halloran and Erixitl.

"I… must speak to Naltecona," he said, looking from one to the other.

"No one sneaks to 'im without the captain-general's say-so," said the human.

Poshtli stepped forward, and the guard raised his weapon menacingly.

"He is… in there?" asked the Maztican.

"Sure. 'Cause he wants to be," said the soldier, with a sly smile.

"If you're lying" Poshtli said.

The haft of the man's weapon struck swiftly toward the warrior's chin, but Poshtli stepped backward, out of the way of the blow. The guard swung his weapon around to confront Poshtli with the blade, while the dwarf edged nervously backward, looking into the courtyard behind him, as if he hoped for reinforcements.

Poshtli and the guard stared at each other, neither showing a trace of fear. If anything, the legionnaire's gaze showed a slight measure of respect for Poshtli's quickness and courage. The warrior deeply regretted coming unarmed, though rationally he understood that the presence of a weapon in his hands could do little more than get him killed.

"Wait," came a soft voice that nonetheless had the strength to carry across the palace courtyard. Naltecona emerged from the doors and crossed to the gate, accompanied by several of his courtiers, and also by a half-dozen armed legionnaires. The counselor wore his full regalia – the towering headdress of emerald feathers, a rich, pluma cape, and gold plugs in his ears and lip.

"My nephew, you must listen to me" Naltecona urged when he reached the gate. "I am here of my own will. It was the only way!"

"How can you say this," objected the young warrior, "when you are surrounded by armed men? When they won't admit the members of your own court to see you?"

"Poshtli, listen!" Naltecona spoke with more harshness than Poshtli had ever heard him use. "This is the only way. You must go back to the warriors and the priests. Tell them that I came here of my own free will. They must not attack the strangers! Such a battle would be disastrous beyond imagination.