"In a few minutes, they'll be back, and I'll have a talk with the lad. He's a good soldier."

Martine, Cordell knew, was deeply cherished by the Bishou, as a father cherishes his daughter. But her importance to the cleric went even deeper, in some way that the commander couldn't entirely understand – perhaps because she was Domincus's one remaining link with younger, more peaceful times. He had not always been a martial cleric.

The Bishou glared up the bluff. "If he allows any harm to befall her…" He did not finish the thought, nor did he have to.

The maniacal battle cry jerked Halloran's attention to the wall of jungle. He sensed the import of the sound even before he saw the knife-waving native burst into sight, followed a second later by the rank of warriors. Their orange headdresses waved in synchronization as the line paused, and the legionnaire saw them placing javelins into the notches of hand-held spear casters.

Halloran leaped in front of Martine as he saw the javelins soar into the air, raising his shield to protect her head and torso. He grunted in pain as one of the missiles grazed the fleshy part of his thigh. Another cracked against his steel breastplate, while a third stuck in his shield.

One of the swordsmen was slow to react, and a stone-tipped javelin knifed through his throat. The others raised their shields, deflecting most of the missiles, though one man took a wound in his forearm. The banded leather armor of the footmen, Hal knew, would not be as effective against these weapons as his own breastplate.

"Shields out!" he called, and the three joined him in an arc facing the native warriors, sheltering Martine behind them, their swords arrayed outward. They watched helplessly as the fourth swordsman, mortally wounded, gasped out his life from the gaping neck wound.

"Go back… quickly!" Hal commanded Martine, not turning to look at her. "Down the stairs! Get Daggrande!"

He glanced over his shoulder and saw the woman staring in shock at the whooping, rushing band of spear-wielding natives. Their plumed heads bobbed and their bronzed faces grimaced, twisting the sticks they wore through their noses. They whistled and shrieked, and the din they raised seemed enough to blast the leaves from the trees.

The warriors charged through the brushy clearing, stopping suddenly about halfway to their quarry. They cast back their arms to hurl another volley.

"Go, by Helm!" He turned to face Martine, grabbing her shoulder with his shield hand. She finally turned and started to run, but immediately her foot caught among the tangled brush. She sprawled headlong as Hal's heart pounded in fear. He must get her to safety! Nothing else mattered.

"Captain!" shouted one of the swordsmen.

Halloran instantly raised his shield and crouched over Martine, huddling with the other three men. The second volley of javelins, though delivered from a shorter range, found no targets among the well-shielded fighters of the Golden Legion.

The attackers renewed their rush, following the fanatical leader. Shocked by the man's blood-caked, filthy visage, Halloran stared as his attackers closed. He saw the dagger of dark obsidian, the black emblem on its hilt.

The man tried to dart around Hal, and the captain slammed his shield into the fellow's face. Immediately the black-clad figure dropped to the ground, but the mass of native warriors streamed forward in undimmed frenzy.

"Strike to kill!" he ordered, doubting their chances of survival. He cast one last look behind him and saw Martine scrambling to her feet, staring in mute shock at the swarm of shrieking, howling attackers. Desperately Halloran pulled her back into the small circle of legionnaires.

His shield crushed a stone spear tip, and his sword cut cleanly through a native's quilted armor. Another man thrust, and Halloran hacked off his wooden sword, bashing the face of yet another attacker with his shield.

He saw the flashing steel of the other swordsmen at each side. The four of them sheltered Martine in the middle, defending frantically against a whirlwind of thrusting spear tips. Halloran twisted, dodged, and stabbed repeatedly. He felt as if his life had become a focus of brown faces, waving feathered headgear, and blood.

He heard a grunt of pain as a swordsman fell, his leg slashed deeply. The three remaining men instinctively closed the circle, but then another man tumbled, claimed by a spear thrust through the bands of his armor.

Twoscore or more bleeding bodies covered the ground around them, but the numbers of the enemy were too great. Hal's arm grew leaden from the weight of his sword as he stood back to back with the remaining trooper. He did not see the priests crawling forward between them, seizing Martine, and tugging her away from the melee.

Halloran did see the first priest, the one whose fanatical charge had precipitated the battle, climb slowly to his feet, just out of sword range. For a split second, the spearmen fell back, leaving the two swordsmen to gasp for breath amid the slain forms of the attackers. Hal heard his companion cry out suddenly. The man slumped against him as a keen spear tip slipped over his belt to penetrate his vitals.

Then the priest removed a stretch of cord from his waist and held it in the air before him. It twisted, snakelike, in the man's hand. Indeed, Halloran at first thought that the object was a snake. He finally saw that it was merely the skin of a snake, though it still seemed to move as if it were alive.

The blood-caked priest barked some kind of command, and Halloran could not react before the cord darted toward him, growing and twisting into a weblike net that wrapped his arms tightly to his sides and then carried him heavily to the ground.

In another second, dozens of warriors leaped on him, completing the binding as they stripped away his sword.

From the chronicle of Colon:

In beseechment of the truth in the heart of the Feathered One.

The harbingers of the Waning have landed upon the shores of Maztica. Poshtli, in lofty form, observed their coming. He reports their numbers to be small, but their vessels massive.

Now is Naltecona thrown into a fit of oppression and brooding. He sees no one, speaks not at all of his anxieties. Instead, he sends more eagles to watch the newcomers, while he waits in agony for words that can offer no comfort.

The Revered Counselor now feels certain of the meaning of these many years of signs. He fears their import, but no longer doubts their meaning. Only I could dissuade him, for I know the truth. But the bonds of my vow of silence restrain me.

Meanwhile, Naltecona's army commanders, Eagles and Jaguars alike, demand to gather troops, to prepare a force to drive the strangers back to the sea. Naltecona's young nephew, the honored Lord Poshtli, is the most ardent advocate of this view. But Naltecona takes no counsel of their words.

For he is certain that these visitors are none other than the Silent Counselor and his minions, at last returned to his kingdom in the True World.