Halloran felt a chill of fear.

"He is in my power now," Darien continued. "Without the wench to protect his body, my magic can tear the secret of the spellbook from his mind!

"But before your soul becomes mine," she added, "there is another thing you should know."

Now Halloran's blood froze in his veins, and he imagined her words before she spoke.

"Your woman is already dead!"

"What?" demanded Cordell. "She was under my protection. How dare you-"

"Your protection?" Darien scoffed. "Like the legion is under your protection – the safety of your wisdom, your keen planning?"

"What do you mean? Explain yourself!" Cordell growled. The legionnaires edged nervously back, never having witnessed such an exchange between the general and his elven mistress.

"You have been a useful tool," she sneered, "but that use is finished. The girl is dead…"

The pause that followed seemed to leave room for the sun to rise and set, yet still that bright, full moon hung suspended in the sky.

"And know this," Darien continued, almost conversationally. "There will be war."

Suddenly she raised her finger and barked a sharp, magical command. A bolt of hot magic burst like an arrow from her finger, slashing forward to explode in her victim's chest. Another, and a third, and still more magic missiles darted forth. Each struck deep into her target's blistered skin, crackling and sizzling with arcane power, ripping his body apart, driving him backward. Blue sparks hissed while the others stood, shocked and speechless.

As the spell finally waned, Naltecona's torn and bleeding form tottered on the edge of the roof. A sudden hush fell across the mob below. Then, already dead, the mangled figure of the Revered Counselor toppled from the roof to crash to the paving stones of the plaza below.

Magic still sparked across the roof, a residue of the killing power that had slain Naltecona. This power sizzled as light, flaring upward and then falling back, casting everything alternately in brightness and shadows.

As the light pulsed, Halloran stared at Darien, watching her in stunned, disbelieving shock. In the brightness, her skin gleamed with the alabaster whiteness caused by her albinism.

Yet in the shadows, it seemed to be dark, as black as any drow's.

From the chronicles of Colon:

Now the True Wbrld stands poised at the brink of chaos. My fingers tremble, and my brushes move unsteadily across the page. I must put them down, and I hold my breath as the fate of the land takes shape.

Erixitl suddenly broke her feet free, and she instantly ran from the shadows into the bright moonlight, toward those clustered at the edge of the roof. Around her, the city seemed frozen, strangely paralyzed. "Hal!" she cried.

Whirling, his face split into a look of disbelief, then disbelieving happiness. He shouted, "Erix! You're alive!" then swept her into his arms. His relief turned to fury, and again he turned to Darien.

He saw the wizard's face then, twisted into a look of shock, dismay… and fear.

"No!" Darien gasped, her voice a strangled choke.

"You treasonous witch!" Daggrande howled, looking at the place where Naltecona had stood. "You've killed us all!" From below, howls of outrage erupted from the Nexalan masses. They surged toward the palace, blind rage growing quickly into battle frenzy.

"What – what have you done?" Cordell gaped at her.

"What are you?" asked Bishou Domincus, softly, fearfully.

Holding Erixitl at his side, Halloran studied the albino elf. He saw the other legionnaires, with their expressions of shock and anger and disbelief – and, slowly, growing fear as the rage of the Nexalans swelled from the plaza around them.

He alone understood.

"You're one of them, aren't you?" he stated quietly. "An Ancient One. A dark elf. That's why you avoid the sun, not because of your delicate skin. You've planned this for a long time."

The wizard, still gaping at Erixitl, didn't reply. Cordell, however, regarded Hal with confusion that the man found almost pathetic. "What do you mean? What are you saying?"

"I'm saying that you have been manipulated – used by the drow who seek to gain control of Maztica. Those who sought to start the war that would tear this land apart and give them ultimate mastery."

The sounds from the plaza below, where Naltecona's death and fall had been plainly visible, indicated that the war had indeed begun.

The sign! Hoxitl, watching from his lofty vantage on the Great Pyramid, saw Naltecona outlined in deadly magic, witnessed the grotesque dance of his assassination, and then observed the limp corpse tumble to the plaza below.

So did thousands of Nexalan warriors. For a prolonged moment, the square fell still from the shock. Then a rumble shook the ground as a burst of smoke billowed upward from Zatal's summit, and finally the high priest lifted his voice in a long, ululating call. Instantly the members of his cult – perhaps one in every five of the assembled warriorhood – understood the order.

The branded ones echoed the call and raised their weapons. Their fury and battle lust spread contagiously, and in another moment, the cult surged forward to attack. As Hoxitl had known they would, the other warriors of Nexal immediately followed.

A great wave of humantide swept across the sacred plaza, converging on the Palace of Axalt. A din of stomping feet, screaming voices, whistles, and wooden-hafted weapons clashing in rhythmic cadence rocked the center of the city. The volume of sound could surely, the priest thought, be heard by the gods themselves.

The Kultakan and Payit warriors allied with the legion suffered the first onslaught of Nexal, quartered as they were outside the palace. The Kultakans guarded the north and east sides of the structure, while the Payit were encamped to the west. This pleased Hoxitl, let the foreigners see the fate of their allies and know what was in store for themselves.

The Kultakans, braced for war, launched volleys of stone-tipped arrows into the approaching mass. Many Nelalan warriors fell, but in seconds, the two forces clashed in melee. Feathered headdresses waved above the fight, marking the line between the two nations, but soon the colors mingled in confused slaughter.

Hoxitl watched the battle, his features flushed with transcendent ecstasy. Zaltec would be well pleased.

Thousands of men whirled through a dance of death, macas chopping, stone daggers thrusting, all illuminated by the bright, eerie moonlight. Spears, arrows, and stones flew above the tide of warriors, landing indiscriminately among the packed ranks. Cries of the wounded, shrill howls of triumph, and hoarse shouts of warning all blended into a battlefield cacaphony.

Blood spread slick on the paving stones, glistening like black oil. The bright moon rose higher into the sky, covering the whole gory scene with its mockingly pristine glow.

The five thousand warriors of the Payit, on the west side of the palace, couldn't stand long against the rush. Fragmented by the shock of the attack, these spearmen tried to hold a line but soon found themselves fighting in small islands, surrounded by the hordes of Nexalans.

Desperately the Payit tried to fight their way free of the plaza. Some of them made it and some of them died. Most fell into the hands of their attackers. The Nexalans quickly marched the prisoners toward the Great Pyramid. Even as the battle against the Kultakans raged with increased savagery, the first of the Payit prisoners started the long, one way climb up to the altar of Zaltec.

Shatil stared, awestruck. Erixitl! His sister still lived! He didn't understand the speech of the foreigners around him, but he sensed their shock, and their anger, directed at the pale woman who had slain Naltecona. Too, he saw the sorcerer's fear when Erixitl arrived.