and determination, of strength and perseverence.
Uxmal Chac appeared confused by the cry, his attack brought up short. His great arms lifted his weapon high over his head; as he began the massive downswing, he tried to change direction, perceiving the flight of Ronin’s long blade. A blur, it was within his guard, slamming aside his vertical blow, and clove his high mask down the center.
Great yellow and blue sparks flew from the violent contact, and bearing down, Ronin drove the sword further, through bone, tissue, more bone, and the body of Uxmal Chac dissipated like smoke upon the air. A clapping, as of dry stones crashing.
He vaulted to the sixth level.
‘Ah, no!’ Ek’s voice no longer recited toneless liturgy. And, from below, Ronin heard the desperate cry of Kin Coba as she pulled her broken body up the Sacred Pyramid’s central stairway:
‘It is true then. What was written in the Long Count, in the Book of Balam, cannot be changed—’
Got it!
‘No!’ cried Ronin, stalking the sixth level. ‘I was born in the katun Ce-Acatl. I was driven from Xich Chih with my Father in the katun Ce-Acatl. And, as the Long Count and the Book of Balam foretold, I have returned in the katun Ce-Acatl!’
‘What?’ Ek threw up his hands. ‘What madness is this? What do you know of Atsbilan, warrior?’
‘All!’ cried Ronin. ‘For I am He-Who-Sets-The-Sun!’
Ek screamed: ‘Impossible! It cannot be!’
Ronin raced along the stone step on the sixth level, his eyes intent on Xib, the skull, coming alive on the seventh step. A fresh breeze had sprung up and as it reached him he turned and in the east saw the horizon, entirely visible at this elevation over the distant treetops of the immense jungle, saw the faint edges of pink and pearl gray streaked there as if by an artist’s brush, presaging dawn.
‘Return!’ cried Kin Coba. ‘Reassemble!’
Crouching, the skull advanced.
Ronin made the seventh step.
‘Oh, Tzcatlipoca.’ Ek raised his arms toward the black heavens. ‘Master of the moon and the pole star and the deep of night, is this truly Atsbilan or is it some imposter?’
It was what frightened them. He used it.
‘It is I, Ek! Atsbilan has returned! Who else but He-Who-Sets-The-Sun could prevail against the forces of Tzcatlipoca in the sacred game?’
He closed with the red aspect and, as he did so, the skull drew forth an ebon rapier, ivory-handled, its blade thin and flexible.
The two unequal blades flashed, crossing.
‘Destroy him!’ sobbed Kin Coba. ‘He must not reach the ninth step!’ Her spine splintered, still she strove to crawl up the central staircase, a ruined jaguar, noble even in death.
He used both hands to maneuver his sword against the lightning-like rapier as the grinning skull in his red robes caused the air to whine with the complex patterns of thrust, feint, thrust.
All along the seventh level they fought like fiends, using every ounce of their strength, every trick in their cunning combat vocabulary, their deadly dance as precise, as coldly geometric as the silent stone city crouched far below them. They whirled and lunged, twisted and circled, stalking the one instant of hesitation, searching for the one flicker of an eyelid indicating a break in concentration that would signal the death of one combatant.
The breeze from the east stiffened, tugging at the skull’s crimson robes, fluttering Ronin’s long hair.
Ek’s fevered cries rose again into the dying night:
‘Tzcatlipoca, hear the call of Your children, we who have served You faithfully and tirelessly through the endless katun of Time. We must be victorious this night for Your time in Xich Chih has come again! Once again it shall be filled to overflowing with Your worshipers, who will walk with the prowling Chacmool; who will serve You. Aid us now against Your enemy!’
The green and blue lightning crackled and it seemed to Ronin that Ek’s desperate cry was successful for surely now the skull’s
Uxmal Chac appeared confused by the cry, his attack brought up short. His great arms lifted his weapon high over his head; as he began the massive downswing, he tried to change direction, perceiving the flight of Ronin’s long blade. A blur, it was within his guard, slamming aside his vertical blow, and clove his high mask down the center.
Great yellow and blue sparks flew from the violent contact, and bearing down, Ronin drove the sword further, through bone, tissue, more bone, and the body of Uxmal Chac dissipated like smoke upon the air. A clapping, as of dry stones crashing.
He vaulted to the sixth level.
‘Ah, no!’ Ek’s voice no longer recited toneless liturgy. And, from below, Ronin heard the desperate cry of Kin Coba as she pulled her broken body up the Sacred Pyramid’s central stairway:
‘It is true then. What was written in the Long Count, in the Book of Balam, cannot be changed—’
Got it!
‘No!’ cried Ronin, stalking the sixth level. ‘I was born in the katun Ce-Acatl. I was driven from Xich Chih with my Father in the katun Ce-Acatl. And, as the Long Count and the Book of Balam foretold, I have returned in the katun Ce-Acatl!’
‘What?’ Ek threw up his hands. ‘What madness is this? What do you know of Atsbilan, warrior?’
‘All!’ cried Ronin. ‘For I am He-Who-Sets-The-Sun!’
Ek screamed: ‘Impossible! It cannot be!’
Ronin raced along the stone step on the sixth level, his eyes intent on Xib, the skull, coming alive on the seventh step. A fresh breeze had sprung up and as it reached him he turned and in the east saw the horizon, entirely visible at this elevation over the distant treetops of the immense jungle, saw the faint edges of pink and pearl gray streaked there as if by an artist’s brush, presaging dawn.
‘Return!’ cried Kin Coba. ‘Reassemble!’
Crouching, the skull advanced.
Ronin made the seventh step.
‘Oh, Tzcatlipoca.’ Ek raised his arms toward the black heavens. ‘Master of the moon and the pole star and the deep of night, is this truly Atsbilan or is it some imposter?’
It was what frightened them. He used it.
‘It is I, Ek! Atsbilan has returned! Who else but He-Who-Sets-The-Sun could prevail against the forces of Tzcatlipoca in the sacred game?’
He closed with the red aspect and, as he did so, the skull drew forth an ebon rapier, ivory-handled, its blade thin and flexible.
The two unequal blades flashed, crossing.
‘Destroy him!’ sobbed Kin Coba. ‘He must not reach the ninth step!’ Her spine splintered, still she strove to crawl up the central staircase, a ruined jaguar, noble even in death.
He used both hands to maneuver his sword against the lightning-like rapier as the grinning skull in his red robes caused the air to whine with the complex patterns of thrust, feint, thrust.
All along the seventh level they fought like fiends, using every ounce of their strength, every trick in their cunning combat vocabulary, their deadly dance as precise, as coldly geometric as the silent stone city crouched far below them. They whirled and lunged, twisted and circled, stalking the one instant of hesitation, searching for the one flicker of an eyelid indicating a break in concentration that would signal the death of one combatant.
The breeze from the east stiffened, tugging at the skull’s crimson robes, fluttering Ronin’s long hair.
Ek’s fevered cries rose again into the dying night:
‘Tzcatlipoca, hear the call of Your children, we who have served You faithfully and tirelessly through the endless katun of Time. We must be victorious this night for Your time in Xich Chih has come again! Once again it shall be filled to overflowing with Your worshipers, who will walk with the prowling Chacmool; who will serve You. Aid us now against Your enemy!’
The green and blue lightning crackled and it seemed to Ronin that Ek’s desperate cry was successful for surely now the skull’s
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