The Codices of the Serpent: The King and the Feathered Serpent

Chapter VII. The Aftermath of War (Part 2)

“Good news, I trust!” the king exclaimed as he saw his loyal warrior approach. “Eat whatever you like,” he added, gesturing toward the lavish spread on the table.

“Yes… my lord,” Iktan replied, his voice unsteady. His trembling hand barely managed to pour himself a clay cup of pulque.

“You’ve returned sooner than I expected,” the king observed, noting the man’s agitation. “How did it go with the warriors of Cot?” he asked, his deep voice alone enough to instill dread.

“My king… we could not defeat them,” the warrior answered, his words laced with fear.

The king watched him in silence, lifting a piece of meat to his mouth. Once he had finished chewing, he surged to his feet with a violent slam of his fist against the table—anger flashing hot and sudden.

“You lost the battle?!” he roared. “How could that happen? I gave you a portion of the Red Army for this mission!” In a fury he closed the distance and seized Iktan by the throat. “Are the Taíj nothing but incompetents?”

“They are cowards, my lord—the warriors of the Red Twins fled at the first sign of trouble,” Iktan gasped, struggling for air. “And… it was because of a boy who appeared.”

“What boy?” The king released him instantly. “What are you talking about?” His tone sharpened with sudden, vivid interest.

“In the thick of the fighting I saw a very young man. He wore strange garments… clothes I had seen before—among your possessions, my king,” Iktan rasped, still catching his breath.

For a long moment the king stood motionless, lost in thought. The fire in his eyes guttered and died. He walked slowly back to the table and dropped heavily into his seat.

“Did you kill him?” he asked, his voice suddenly calm—almost gentle.

The change was startling. He sounded like a different man entirely. His skin, though, had gone unnaturally pale.

“I tried… but a power rose from him. He stopped my blow,” Iktan answered, watching his sovereign with growing unease. He had never seen the king so distant, so absorbed, the rage simply… gone.

“Tell me, Iktan—how long until the Feast of the Feathered Serpent?”

“Six moons remain,” he replied at once. “One hundred and twenty days, to be precise.”

Still gazing into nothingness, the king gave a soft, almost amused laugh.

“Summon General Yhábi and Solvit at once. Find them quickly. I want the three of you at the stone table—now.”

“As you command, my king.” Iktan bowed and hurried out, secretly relieved; he had been certain death awaited him moments earlier.

The king crossed to one of the palace windows framed by tall columns and stared out.

“So after all this time… you were right. He found a way back,” he murmured aloud, eyes fixed on the moon. Tonight its light seemed fiercer, almost unnaturally bright.

A woman’s voice interrupted him.

“What’s wrong? I thought you would be dining with the Taíj and the council by now.”

It was his wife.

“My love, you shouldn’t be here. Go back to the bedchamber,” he said tenderly. “You must rest. Our child must be born strong and safe.”

She laid a hand on her rounded belly, nodded silently, and withdrew. He watched her go, a strange new brightness kindling in his gaze. Then he turned once more to the moon, curiosity flickering across his features.

Beneath that same moon, Elías ran as fast as his legs would carry him—or as close to it as exhaustion allowed. The group halted abruptly at the edge of a sheer drop. Far below, perhaps a hundred meters down, sprawled an enormous encampment of warriors. Countless campfires glittered across the plain, their light stretching into the distance like scattered stars.

“Who are they?” the boy asked Ikal, who stood closest.

“Eagle warriors,” Ikal answered simply, then began sliding down the cliff face.

One by one the others followed. When they reached the bottom, a conch shell blew—a deep, resonant call announcing their arrival.

They were soon met by a warrior named Akon, who informed Ikal that their leader, Yarátu, was absent. An unexpected delay had kept him from returning that night. Still, Akon offered food and shelter while they waited. The eagle warriors rested in modest shelters stitched from worn cloth and animal hides.

Far to the north, the king paced, impatient. Minutes later the remaining two Taíj lords arrived alongside Yhábi—greatest general of the Aztlán empire, commander of its entire military. All three were elite warriors, bound to the king by iron loyalty.

“My king, the Tlatoani of Lakamha has deployed his finest scouts to comb the Cot jungle, as you ordered,” Yhábi reported. “Tonalli has sworn to locate Yarátu’s hideout soon. We are closing in.”

Yhábi was advanced in years, yet radiated unyielding strength and authority. His long hair was braided tightly back from a clean-shaven face. A gray-stone sword hung at his side, its white handle carved with a coiling serpent. Sharp nose, bronze skin, commanding brown eyes beneath heavy, almost joined brows. A green thorn pierced one ear; a white bone ring dangled from his septum.

“No more treaties. No more prisoners,” the king declared, his voice cold steel. “From this moment, anyone who dares oppose the crown dies.”

“Are you certain, my lord?” A slow, pleased smile spread across Yhábi’s face. The prospect delighted him; cruelty came naturally.

“I have never been more certain,” the king answered without hesitation. “We can wait no longer. Tonalli has failed—failed with the resistance practically under his nose. I no longer trust his loyalty. Go south at once. Find the Cot warriors… and slaughter them all. Spare only one—a young man traveling among them.”

He lifted a cup of pulque to his lips, savoring it.

“Which young man, my lord?” Yhábi asked, curiosity piqued.

“Let that fool Iktan tell you,” the king snapped. “Take the nahuales with you. Their senses will succeed where others failed. This time we find their lair.” He crossed to a small wooden table and lifted a bundle of unfamiliar cloth—the very garments David had worn the day he vanished on Crocodile Island. “With my son soon to be born, we can no longer tolerate this rebellion.”

“I will bring you that boy, my king,” Yhábi vowed.

The three men departed at once.

Later that night the king walked the palace corridors, watching sheets of rain lash the capital. A shadow haunted his thoughts—a vast black shape that whispered endlessly: He will return. His hand drifted to the bracelet on his wrist; fury flared in his eyes as he touched it.

At that same moment, Elías stood gazing up at the enormous moon until Ikal’s voice broke the silence.

“What are you doing out here? You need rest.”

“I couldn’t sleep. Ikal… the moon looks huge.”

“Metstli, some call her… and you’re right. I’ve never seen her so large, so bright.”

“Where I come from the world is very similar,” the boy said quietly, a pang of homesickness tightening his chest as he thought of Ernesto and María. “We have a moon and a sun too.”

“Is it the same moon?” Ikal asked.

“Yes… only this one seems bigger. Brighter. I keep wondering whether this world is the same one, only…”

A sudden voice cut through the night.

“The light she casts now is the same light she cast before the Day of Sorrow. And look—the flowers are budding again.”

It was old Nicteel, appearing as though from nowhere. She studied a nearby cluster of blossoms.

“Is that true, Nicteel?” Ikal asked.

The elder snapped off a still-closed bud and held it up. Before their eyes the petals unfurled, blooming in an instant.

“It is true indeed!” she cried.

Elías looked from the woman to the moon and back. When he turned again, Nicteel was gone—vanished. He scanned the darkness, but found only a single white feather drifting slowly to the ground where she had stood.

“Don’t worry. That’s simply how she is,” Ikal said with a small shrug.

“Ikal… do Yarátu and these eagle warriors live here?”

“For now. The impostor’s war took everything from them, just as it did from us. Yarátu is the finest eagle warrior I have ever known. His entire family was butchered at the Battle of the Eagles. He was heir to the throne, yet never crowned. Dani Baá was razed; his kingdom fell with it. The survivors fled with him. Since then they have wandered, living wherever the mountain jungles of the south allow.”

“That’s… heartbreaking,” Elías murmured.

“Very. Yarátu has given his best years to the resistance. He has led great battles, yet we have gained little ground. The enemy’s power is overwhelming, and treacherous kingdoms have joined him, swelling his strength. Without Yarátu many of us would have surrendered hope long ago.”

The young prince’s mind churned with everything he had heard. Compassion welled up for these people who had suffered for so many years. Now he understood why the gods had demanded his return. Still he wrestled with thoughts of his friend—hidden? captured?—refusing to entertain the darker suspicion that sometimes crept in: that the boy who had appeared so long ago might actually be…

Ikal’s voice pulled him back.

“We should rest while we can. Most likely we’ll meet Yarátu at first light.”

With that he ducked inside the small tent Akon had assigned them. Elías lingered a moment longer beneath the luminous moon, then followed…

… "

–Continue reading in its original Spanish language at fictograma.com–