Authors: Michael A Stackpole
would be allowed to touch weapons. He relayed a message to Captain Gryst, and she
gave orders for her people to gather up their arms and clean them as the Amentzutl were.
The cavalry and chariots had withdrawn to the northwest and stood ready to react if the
Mozoyan returned, but there seemed little chance of that. By midafternoon the
Amentzutlian warriors organized themselves into patrols and entered the jungle. The
Naleni troops used that opportunity to return to the ships and care for their animals. By
nightfall, the first of the patrols returned and reported that the Mozoyan had disappeared,
which began a round of chanted prayers of thanks, all of which rose to the heights of the
pyramid and the god who peered down.
Jorim spent a long time watching the Amentzutl deal with the battle’s aftermath. Kettles
and smoking racks appeared. Strips of Mozoyan meat were boiled or laid out to be dried.
Mozoyan leather was boiled and stretched. The bones, once dried, would be ground up
for fertilizer. Even Mozoyan intestines would be dried and used to string
peptli
—crooked sticks with a net on one end that were used for an odd kind of ball game.
Nothing, it appeared, would be wasted.
The Amentzutl laughed and sang as they worked, and treated the butchery as a holiday.
Even Nauana descended to the fields of carnage and helped harvest, returning at dusk,
bloody and bearing roasted Mozoyan flesh for him to eat.
Jorim shook his head. “It is not a custom among my people to eat the enemy.”
She frowned. “We are not cannibals, my Lord. We would not eat manflesh, but to waste
Mozoyan or Ansatl flesh would be foolish. You have seen how they laid waste to jungle
and fields. They have taken from us that which we need to live. Now what was their
strength will be ours.”
He thought for a moment and found her logic unassailable. He’d not eaten the Viruk he
slew, but he knew their meat would make him sick. And the Mozoyan certainly were not
men. He’d eaten with countless wild tribes of men in his travels who believed that
consuming the heart of a brave animal would transfer that quality to them. While he really
wanted nothing he’d seen in the Mozoyan, eating part of one was really the ultimate
victory.
Or perhaps it will prevent me from having nightmares about them tonight.
He accepted the small skewer from her and nibbled. It wasn’t too bad. It reminded him of
frog, snake, and turtle. Remembering that the Mozoyan likely had eaten people they slew
did send a ripple through his stomach, but he quelled it. Certainly if he tossed the meat
aside and declared it foul, those below would do the same, even if it meant they would go
hungry in the future.
Jorim smiled. “Is this how it is after every battle?”
“We have few battles. When we fight men, the warriors tend to their own. Twice a year we
have migrations of
tohcho
going north and south. The warriors drive a portion of their
herds to the nearest city and slay them. The others come out and harvest them. But the
Mozoyan did not require us to drive them here.”
“You have not dealt with the Mozoyan before, have you?”
“We have not seen them before this year.” She smiled and a bloody streak on her cheek
cracked. “We have remained as you bid us, Lord Tetcomchoa, always vigilant. You gave
us victory over the Ansatl, and now over the Mozoyan.”
“And thus ends
centenco
.”
Nauana’s smile died. “No, my Lord, this is how it begins. Our first encounter with the
Ansatl was also a great victory, but merely presaged a war. The Mozoyan are the heralds
of the seventh god.”
“What do you know of this seventh god?”
She squatted next to where he sat, his legs dangling over the edge of the pyramid. Shimik
came around and squatted in imitation of her but that did not lighten her expression. “You
must understand, Lord Tetcomchoa, that our powers of foretelling are greatly advanced
from when you were here before, but the time of
centenco
brings many visions. There are many things we do not understand and cannot puzzle out.”
Jorim nodded slowly. “I accept this, and that it is no failing of yours.
Centenco
complicates everything.”
“It does. The seventh god has two names. The first is Mozoloa.”
“Mozochoa I would understand, for it would mean ‘foreign god’ or ‘god of no land.’ Why —
loa instead of —choa?”
She sighed. “—choa does mean god. Omchoa is the jaguar god and you are
Tetcomchoa.—loa means the god is dead. Omchoa ate and killed Zochoa, his shadow-
twin, so has two aspects. Zochoa is now Zoloa, but is not spoken of since he is contained
in Omchoa.”
“I see. So Mozoloa would be ‘dead god of no land.’ ”
“Yes. He is a dead god, not a god of death like Omchoa.” Nauana scratched at her cheek,
flaking off dried blood. “His other name is Neletzatl. It means he makes things new. It is
literally ‘he who names.’ As he names it, thus it becomes.”
“A homeless god who is dead and a creator. I see the confusion.” Jorim handed the
skewer to Shimik to nibble. “What else do you know?”
“Mozoloa has great hatred, and it is through hatred that he gains his power. He has great
anger, too. He is dead but hates being dead. He has bided his time to return, and it has
not been until
centenco
that this is possible. His power is growing.”
Jorim arched an eyebrow. “But he has not returned yet?”
“No.”
“Can we stop him?”
“You tease me now, my Lord. When you departed, you went west, for this is where you
said Mozoloa would come from.” She swept her left arm out to point at the lowlands. “You
returned to save us from the Mozoyan so we could serve you. If Mozoloa is to be
defeated, you will lead us in whatever action that requires. That
is
why you returned, is it not?”
Jorim shivered. He found it all too easy to forget she thought him a god, and his questions
merely his way of testing her. Her faith in him, and belief in the destiny of her people,
especially in the time of
centenco,
demanded he not try to disabuse her of the notion.
“Let it be enough, Nauana, that I am here, now.” Jorim drew his legs up and hugged them
to his chest. “I know much about the west. If this is where Mozoloa is located, and this is
where we have to go to defeat him, I know how to get us there.”
Nauana bowed low to him. “It is enough, my Lord. The Amentzutl have waited long for
your return so we may serve. Lead where you will and we shall follow. We will serve to the
last drop of our blood, and will not fail you.”
6th day, Month of the Wolf, Year of the Rat
9th Year of Imperial Prince Cyron’s Court
163rd Year of the Komyr Dynasty
737th year since the Cataclysm
Moriande, Nalenyr
Nirati’s resolve to tell Junel Aerynnor that the nature of their relationship had to change
died in the heat of his excitement upon his return from the interior. He’d not come to her,
but had instead sent a messenger bearing a note that asked her to be at an inn called
Kitorun by sundown. She arrived wearing the red cloak he’d told her to wear and was
served a goblet of wine—a red of upland vintage. It was not very good, but she also knew
it was better than the Kitorun normally served.
The innkeeper took her cloak when she sat, and when she finished her first goblet,
brought her a black cloak with a hood. She started to complain, but the cloak had a small
pocket in the interior, and in it she found another note. It contained more instructions,
which she followed to the letter, wending her way across the river and toward the east,
into some of the older portions of the city. In her red cloak she would have been a target,
but the black one let her fit in perfectly.
As she walked to the appointed rendezvous, Junel came up behind her. He kept his voice
low. “Nirati, this is very important. Turn left and left again, circling the block. The third left will be an alley. Enter it and knock on the second door on the right. You will be admitted.
Go up the stairs, first door on the left. Do not falter.”
“Why can I not walk with you?”
“Hush. I will watch to make certain you are not followed. They would not hesitate to hurt
you to get to me.”
His hoarse whisper sent a thrill through her. She did as he requested, keeping her gait
even. She cursed the hood, since it did not permit her much in the way of peripheral
vision, and she resisted the temptation to turn around and see if she was being followed.
She really had no idea what was going on, but had to assume the
they
he warned about
were Desei agents.
Did
they
get to Majiata, too?
The prospect of that knotted her stomach. She would have put nothing past the Desei,
having heard all the stories of atrocities in Helosunde. Even so, what happened to Majiata
was beyond anything she had heard of.
Is that my fate?
Relying on Junel to keep her safe, she walked through the alley, dodging puddles and
looking for any sign of his passage before her. She saw none, but in the growing night’s
gloom, she had no light to see clearly in any event. She found the door and knocked. It
opened and a twisted dwarf of a man admitted her. He said nothing, but pointed her to
stairs, which she mounted with trepidation. She felt certain they would collapse with each
creaking tread, but she made it to the top and entered the room.
Nirati had not been expecting much given the surroundings, but the room had been
transformed through the legion of candles—thick and thin, tall, short, and scented—that
flickered from every flat surface. Two even burned in the sconces on either side of a full-
length, standing mirror. The bed had seen far better days, but the linen and bedding were
fresh. A pitcher of wine and two goblets, as well as some cheese and bread, waited on a
sideboard.
Nowhere did she see Junel, so she nearly jumped out of her skin as she felt his hands on
her elbows. His arms slid around her and hugged her back against him. By reflex she
grabbed his arms and squeezed, forgetting for the moment that she needed to have a
serious talk with him.
He turned her about and smiled at her. “Oh, Nirati, I have thought so much of you since I
have been gone. You are even more beautiful than I remember. Too beautiful for a place
like this, and I apologize for it. But I had to see you, and this was the only way.”
She frowned, a bit afraid, and more concerned. Junel still was handsome, but he looked
almost haggard, with dark circles beneath his eyes. He’d lost some weight during his
journey, and he could ill afford it. His eyes had become restless, and the omnipresent hint
of a grin had faded.
“What is it, Junel, what is wrong?”
“Sit, my darling.” He guided her back to the edge of the bed and fresh straw crunched as
she sat. “I’ve been to see the inland lords and there is so much going on. More than I
suspected—more than you did, I’m sure. Not because you are stupid—far from it—but
because so much does not reach the capital.”
He crossed to the sideboard and poured her a goblet of wine. He took one himself and
brought both to her, offering her the choice. She took the one from his left hand and
sniffed before sipping. This wine had come from the interior as well, but south of the Gold
River, and was of the finest quality. Best of all, its delicate flavor would not have hidden
any tinctures, so she knew he was not drugging her.
Junel dropped to his knees before her and sat back on his heels. “There is so much I want
to share with you.”
“Share with me first who is after you? Has Prince Pyrust set his agents on you?”
The Desei exile smiled. “Oh, he has had people watching me since I’ve been here. In
Moriande they were hard to detect, but in the interior they were simple to pick out. They
are the least of my worries, however. At least, I think they are.”
“I don’t understand.”
“You have seen the lords of the interior courting me. You so delightfully insulated me from
them, and I did enjoy that. However, my accepting their invitations to visit was the best
thing I have done since leaving my homeland.” His voice dropped into a whisper. “The
nobles of the interior are very angry with Prince Cyron. They get no money from foreign
trade and are still required to pay taxes. Cyron sends that money back west to fund
projects, like the dredging of the river, but they take it and do not spend it on such things.
The inland nobles see those projects as things that will continue to enrich Moriande, so
they think the Prince should pay for it from trade.”
Nirati shook her head. “But these projects will make it easier for them to ship goods to the
markets our trade makes available to them.”
“Yes, of course, but they don’t see that, my dear. Greed is driving them blindly.” His eyes
blazed as he spoke. “They wanted me to see if I could arrange for them to invest in
shipments—shipments that would escape official notice, maximizing their profits. They
also dropped not-so-subtle hints that if I were actually a Desei agent, they might look
favorably upon an alliance with Pyrust, pitting the interior of Nalenyr and Deseirion against
Moriande and the Helosundian exiles.”
“But that is
treason
.”