Fires marked the scope of his army's camp, and Gultec indeed felt a surge of pride as he saw the vast mass of warriors across the plain. Twenty-five thousandmen, each composed of ten companies of a hundred, had answered the alarm of invasion. They were all independent formations, each commanded by a highly ranked Jaguar or Eagle. Each hundredmen included an auxiliary force of perhaps a half-dozen Eagles or Jaguars, knights who had proven exceptional valor in many campaigns.

Some bands were armed with bows and arrows, others with slings. These they would position carefully to bombard the enemy. Then the many thousands with javelins or macas would close to complete the capture.

At least, that was the plan.

Erix walked quickly among the fields, passing the houses of farmers. She did not want to go to Ulatos, but neither did she want to sleep on the shore of some canal.

A plump woman patted mayzcakes before one of the residences she passed. It was a small house, adjacent to a narrow canal. But it was freshly whitewashed, and the green fronds of the roof shone with bright freshness. The woman waved cheerily, and Erix waved back and smiled. She hesitated, and the gray-haired matron called her over.

"I am Tzilla," she explained, nodding politely as Erix introduced herself. "Why is a pretty girl like you walking alone at such an hour?" Tzilla asked. Her tone was teasing, but Erix sensed real concern in her voice.

"I am alone here, and I seek a place to sleep."

"My house is your house, my daughter," said Tzilla formally. "Will you share my table?"

"I would be honored, mother" Erix replied gladly. In moments, Tzilla put her to work stirring the beans bubbling in a clay pot among the coals of a fire. The woman sliced peppers and tomatoes, and soon the pair sat comfortably on reed mats and ate a delicious meal.

Erix was surprised that they were joined by neither Tzilla's husband nor anyone else. "Forgive my impertinence, but you have a very large house. Are you here alone?"

Tzilla looked surprised. "My husband and sons gather with their hundredmen on the plain before Ulatos. Have you not heard?"

"Of the strangers? To be sure. I have seen them."

"But you do not know," said Tzilla with a sly look, "that the warriors of Payit have gathered on the plain, very near the strangers. Our army will destroy them tomorrow!"

Erix's face betrayed her shock even before she stammered a reply. "So… soon? There will be battle tomorrow?" The thought of the battle at Twin Visages, multiplied a hundredfold, chilled her.

Tzilla nodded sagely, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "These strangers are great savages! They attacked a group of priests on the shore. They kidnap our women! They fight like demons, but they are men and can be killed."

Erix sat stunned at the swift outburst of rumor. "All of the men of Ulatos, and those within a day's march in all directions, have gathered here! Never has the Payit nation put together such a force!" Tzilla talked on, detailing the pageantry and colors.

But Erixitl had trouble listening. She remembered the metal armor that shattered spears, the silver weapons that cleaved shield and bone like grass. She saw the savage faces of the legionnaires, their tight discipline. She remembered a bare two dozen slaying hundreds of Payit.

Suddenly Tzilla's description faltered as she described the pluma banner depicting a green parrot, the symbol of a nearby village.

"I'm sorry," Erix said, noticing the woman looking absently at the dough before her. Tzilla shook her head, and Erix saw tears in the woman's eyes.

"I babble like an old woman, and I'm far from an old woman yet!" Tzilla forced herself to laugh, but the sound was hollow and she quickly gave up. "I am so terribly frightened!"

"I am, too," Erix said. "I was hoping there could be peace. I wanted to make peace!"

"It is too late," sighed Tzilla. She looked at Erixitl with surprise as the younger woman climbed to her feet. "Where are you going?"

"I must go to the army!" Erix cried, suddenly infused with an idea. Perhaps it was not too late! Perhaps tomorrow does not have to be a day of war!

"Don't be a madwoman!" Tzilla seemed truly alarmed. "Caxal is determined to avenge the insult to his priests! And Gultec, who commands the men of Ulatos, is said to be eager for a fight. The armies will be in a frenzy of dancing tonight. The gods themselves couldn't stop that battle."

"I know of Gultec," admitted Erixitl, suddenly feeling foolish. "He is certainly the most fearsome warrior I have ever seen…"

She trailed off, guilty with the lie, remembering Halloran and his legion. Yet there was no need to terrify this woman with tales of the deadly enemy who faced her husband and sons. At the same time, she sensed the futility of her mission. Gultec would merely turn her over to the priests of Zaltec, and the battle would proceed.

"No matter, for tonight," soothed Tzilla. "We can only pray to our gods, and what the gods will, shall be."

The heavy door slammed. Halloran collapsed glumly against the wooden bulkhead in the bilge of the Falcon, his shoulders slumped to keep his head from knocking against the low ceiling beams. The chains around his wrists and ankles chafed, holding him upright, his arms shackled to the wall.

But he took no notice of his physical pain. Far more grievous was the spiritual hurt, the sense of betrayal that had numbed all other sensations and left his soul teetering beside a yawning black chasm of despair. The legion was his home, his family… even his life! And now it had turned upon him, condemned him for a falsehood that Cordell could not help but recognize.

My general! How could you do this to me? Then his emotions surged through his body, tearing tears from his eyes and sobs from his throat. Hanging limply from his chains, he wept until he could find no more tears.

The soft swaying of the carrack at anchor slowly soothed him. The stink of bilgewater thickened the air around him, and finally he began to take note of his surroundings.

It must be dark now, he guessed. Thin beams of light filtered into his cell through cracks in the floorboards above him, but it seemed more like lamplight than daylight. His tiny compartment offered no amenities, not even a wooden bench. The manacles had been screwed directly into the timber behind him.

The feeling of hopelessness left him exhausted. What good were his struggles when the capriciousness of fate could place him in circumstances like these?

"A curse upon Helm!" he hissed. The gods, he saw, were nothing more than man's excuses, his reasons for doing things terrible and inhuman. Vain, unpredictable and ever-changing, the gods were no source of comfort to him.

A man needed something more real, Hailoran saw. Something tangible, like the strength of his arm or the keen edge of his steel. Even the arcane power of magic was something real, something that could be counted on, even when things were blackest. A god might as soon turn his back upon a follower as listen to his troubles.

Hal thought again of his magic studies under Arquiuius, which seemed like a lifetime ago. What were those strange words he had drilled on so hard to learn, the words of the magic missile spell? He shook his head ruefully. Spells and weapons were as useless as the gods to him now. He was left with his wits, and his wits didn't seem to be functioning at the highest level.

Hesitantly he jerked his arm, wincing against the pain in his raw wrist. But the chain moved! Again and again he tugged, ignoring the blood that now spattered across his skin from the chafing. The bolt had been sunk into the wood between two beams, a very insecure arrangement! Now he finally pulled it free.