7. The March on Xlantalntaca

A week passed in silence; none of the crew dared to so much as speak a word to Conan, who kept the crystal skull in his grasp at all times. He still trusted not these men, and at first half thought they might try and slit his throat in his sleep to claim his treasure for themselves. But, it soon became clear that they feared Conan almost as much as the precious relic he had taken, and kept as far from him as the cramped confines of the frail, leaking craft would permit. The skull itself showed no further hint of its power, and looked for all the world like some grim talisman carved by an artisan of an elder age, but having no great value in itself.

Then, the grassy hills of Mayapan appeared on the eastern horizon, and Conan saw the grey cyclopean towers of Chirripi from afar. Some time passed, until the ship came within a league of the stone pier, which lay at the foot of Huanaco's palace. Then Conan could clearly see the honour guard of Huanaco in their crimson robes, and Huanaco himself standing before them. Of Tlaloch and his own followers, troublingly, there was no one to be seen.

At length, the ship arrived at the pier, and was secured to it with lengths of rope by the sailors. Then, as Conan took up the crystal skull, all of the Quechalnti present prostrated themselves flat on the pier or on the deck, chanting in their unknown tongue; save Huanaco alone, who sank to his knees, but remained silent as he eyed the Cimmerian coolly.

"Well, here is your treasure!" cried Conan, holding it high above his head as he strode down the gangplank and onto the solid masonry of the pier. "And much effort did it take me to fetch it. But 'tis beyond all doubt a thing of great power, as doubtless you are aware."

"But of course," replied Huanaco with a thin smile. Conan liked the man even less than ever.

"Where are Tlaloch and the Xocantali?" Conan asked bluntly. "I expected them to be here to greet me. I trust for their sake they have not abandoned this city – and I trust for yours they have not met with a worse fate."

"It is not their fate that should concern you," replied Huanaco. Faster than a snake his coppery hand darted out, throwing a black powder at Conan's face.

But Conan was as wary as a tiger, and no stranger to the arts of the poisoner. Holding his breath, he dashed to the side, raising up the skull as a weapon to smash into the head of the astonished Huanaco.

An instant later, it was Conan who was astonished – for once again, the crystal skull awoke in his hands! Suddenly frozen in his tracks by a force beyond his own will, Conan watched in horrified amazement as bright, clear beams of light shot out of the skull's empty sockets, straight into the chest of the King of Chirripi.

The Quechalnti looked up, and then shrieked and gibbered in amazement as Huanaco's body caught on fire! In mere seconds, he was a human torch, his shrieks of agony soon cut off as his body burned to ashes before their eyes. Nothing remained of him save a dark, smoking scar on the heavy basalt stones of the pier where he had kneeled but moments before.

"Crom!" swore Conan, who suddenly was able to move and speak again. He stared in horror at the thing he held in his hands – for it held the power of life and death, and yet had a life of its own, beyond his control. Who knew on whom it might next turn its deadly power – perhaps even himself?

Yet Conan's fears were soon dulled by the actions of the Quechalnti, who now again prostrated themselves, all facing towards Conan. He could not understand the words they chanted, but felt certain in his guts that they not merely worshiped the crystal skull itself, but bowed before him as one who had not only seized the skull for his own, but could use its power to his own ends. He realized they had no knowledge that the skull was completely beyond his control – to them, it would seem as if he had used its power to destroy his enemy.

Regaining his courage now, he again held the skull aloft in his hands – it was dormant, merely a carved mass of crystal. "Such is the fate of all who oppose me!" he cried.

"We hear and obey you, O Conan!" said the captain, still on board the ship, in the common tongue of Mayapan.

"Aye, my lord!" said one of the guards on the pier, whom Conan took to be their leader. "Command us!"

"Where are my servants, the Xocantali?" asked Conan, glowering menacingly at the man.

"They languish in our dungeons, my lord," said the guard, trembling fearfully, and still not looking Conan in the eye. "Huanaco commanded they be sacrificed to Kuthlan."

"Does Tlaloch live still?" asked Conan.

"Aye, and all his men also," replied the guard. "All were drugged at a feast, and none yet slain."

"Then take me to the throne room of your palace, and release the Xocantali. Restore their weapons to them at once, and then bring them before me!"

"We hear and obey," replied the guard. He stood to his feet, bowed before Conan, and then issued commands to his comrades, as the ship's captain did likewise to his own crew. The guards then stood in formation, turned about, and marched quickly back towards the open gateway of the palace.


"Truly you are the prophesied one!" cried Tlaloch, as he and the Xocantali stood in amazement before Conan at the foot of what had once been Huanaco's throne – a squat chair of stone in a grim, dark chamber lit only by several smoking braziers. Conan himself now sat in the throne, for all intents and purposes the new King of Chirripi as recognized by its own people; though it was a far grander city of Mayapan than Chirripi on which Conan now set his sights.

"That I have brought this treasure back from the Crystal Isle speaks for itself," nodded Conan in agreement – the crystal skull was now balanced on the right arm of the throne, as Conan held it in place with this massive right hand.

"All the tribes of Mayapan shall rise up and follow you now!" said Tlaloch, his youthful voice high-pitched with excitement as his dark eyes flashed passionately. "Well may the Feathered Serpent tremble on his distant throne at Xlantlantaca when he hears this news. The hour of his doom is at hand!"

"That may be," said Conan – who wisely had told no one that he could not control the power of the Skull at will – "but we have much work yet to do. It is not only by the power of your gods, but by the blood and sweat of your warriors that we shall defeat out enemies and liberate this land!"

"Yea, we stand with you, my lord," replied the captain of the guard – Tihuanco was his name, though Tlaloch had rendered it into his own tongue as Tezcatlipoca. "Every able-bodied man of Chirripi shall take up arms against our ancient foes, now that the hour of doom is upon us. And so shall all the Quechanlti of the coast, soon enough."

"Then I leave it to you to send out messengers to them, and quickly," replied Conan. "We need to assemble them into an army in one week's time, for too long already have I spent here by the Western Sea, while our enemy has had time to move unhindered in the interior. Speaking of which, Tlaloch, what of the hill tribes? Shall they take up arms against their oppressors at last?"

"I am sure of it," replied the youth. "Word of your deeds surely is spreading like wildfire amongst all the people of this land, even now."

"Then it will soon be known to our enemy as well," said Conan grimly, "and unless he be a fool, he will strike quickly and in force against us, before the folk of this coast and the hill tribes can unite into an organized army to fight against him. All the more reason why I can brook no further delay."

"I shall send out our messengers at once, my lord," replied Tihuanco. "Though likely word of your great deeds already spreads like wildfire, as the boy yonder has said."

"One week," repeated Conan, rising from the throne. "Fail me not!"


Near two weeks later, after the army of the Quechalnti had assembled as promised by the captain – some ten-thousand strong, with two-hundred Xocantali at their head – Conan found himself standing sadly before the smoking ruins of Xocantal. It seemed his prediction of the Feathered Serpent's swift wrath had proved all too true; for while Conan and his followers were away on their quest, his enemy's army had struck and struck hard against the source of the contagion.

"Crom and Ymir!" thundered Conan. "Too long have I tarried on the coast, as I feared. Yet I see no bodies. Have they all been taken prisoner?"

"Taken for sacrifice, far to the north. You can see the trail left by the enemy into the northern mountains," replied Tlaloch somberly, a tear in his eye. "Even my dear sister Huitzil has been taken captive. In vain did you save her from the war clubs of the Jaguar warriors! Now she, my father, and all my people who did not follow you in arms shall perish on the black altars of Kukulkan in distant Xlantlantaca." His comrades appeared similarly dispirited, and some wept openly – to the scorn of the hard-faced Quechanlti.

"Crom! Have you folk of Xocantal learned nothing?" cried Conan, not bothering to hide his disgust at them – especially before the shrewd eye of Tihuanco, who stood at the head of the long column of men alongside Conan and Tlaloch. "Say rather the dogs of Xlantlantaca shall die on the field of battle by our spears and war clubs – and their bastard King shall die by mine own hand, or else by the aid of this talisman I carry!" He gestured with the Crystal Skull, as Conan had deemed its name, affixed now to a long stave of hardened bronze carved with cryptical runes, and forged by the smiths of Chirripi.

"Die in battle they may," replied Tlaloch, "but how shall we save my people in time? They shall be under a fast march, with the whip at their backs."

"If others of your hill rabble would join us openly, rather than cling to their mountain huts," said Tihuanco in a stern voice, "mayhap the progress of the enemy's army would be harried, and they would not reach distant Xlantlantaca in the north before we caught up with them."

"Aye, where are your folk, Tlaloch?" replied Conan. He still did not like or trust the Quechalnti as a race, but he had developed a grudging respect for Tihuanco as a practical and capable leader of men at arms.

"They are scattered widely in the mountain villages," replied Tlaloch defensively. "Our folk have never lived in great towns or cities as do outlanders. It would be a task of many weeks to assemble them."

"We have not the time to wait," replied Conan brusquely. "We must send out some of your men – a dozen, a hundred, however many you think are necessary – to summon the rest of the hill tribes to arms. Tell them what you must of this talisman, if they have not heard the tale of my deeds, and it is necessary to drive them to battle. The rest of your men and all the Quechanlti must follow my lead at once, hot on the heels of our foes."

Tlaloch was about to reply, when a thin, reedy cry of a horn or pipe echoed from the grassy slopes of the steep uplands north of the ruined village.

"To Arms!" cried Conan. "Form up in rows, spears and columns at the ready!" As his army rushed to comply, he stared up at the grassy ridge above the ruins and frowned; he had survived many ambushes throughout his long career, and knew that his men were at a disadvantage in a valley bottom, with swift flight possible only at the eastern and western ends of the pass.

"Those horns sound familiar," cautioned Tlaloch, even as he formed his own men into order. "I have not heard of the Jaguar warriors using them in such fashion, nor in an ambush…"

"Enough talk!" cried Conan. "We must be ready to retreat from this valley to the western foothills if a large army is before us. If it is small, we must pursue it into the hills and wipe it out before it can call for help – but be mindful that be not a lure to draw us into a trap. Send out your scouts at once!"

Tlaloch rushed to comply, even as the cusp of the ridge north of Xocantal darkened with the forms of many hundreds, perhaps thousands of men marching from the north. Conan stared hard at them, straining to see their numbers and armaments, and was surprised when his men began to whoop with delight!

"Our brothers!" cried Tlaloch. "The mountain folk have come. Look!"

As the men marched down the slope towards Xocantal, Conan could now see they were not dressed as the Jaguar warriors he had slain more than a month before, but in white loinclouts, armed with war clubs, spears or bows, and armoured with light shields – just like Tlaloch's own folk.

"How do we know on whose side they fight?" asked Tihuanco, who had given orders to his men and then rejoined Conan and Tlaloch. "I trust not these mountain folk, who have paid tribute to Xlantlantaca since time out of mind. Our enemy counts these lands as his own territory, and these men as his slaves."

"They come not in arms against us, but to join us in our fight!" replied Tlaloch hotly. "I'll wager my life on it!"

"Let's hope you don't have to pay out that wager," replied Conan gruffly. "I count near twice ten-thousand men on those slopes, but they are, like your folk, more lightly armed than the host of the Quechalnti, and armourless but for thin shields. If it comes to a fight this vale will be drenched in blood. Still, I do not seem them closing ranks into formations."

"We shall see soon enough," said Tihuanco. "It seems they send envoys to us."

Indeed, as the horde of mountain folk marched to the foot of the hillside in no order or rank and file, several of the mountain tribesmen walked past the ruined village towards Conan and his generals, devoid of their weapons as if they were ambassadors. Conan gestured to his own warriors to lower their arms, and then strode toward them.

He was not within five paces of the men when, to his surprise, they pointed at his staff and the Crystal Skull affixed thereon, shock on their dusky faces. Before he could say a word, they sank to their knees, prostrate before him, and chanting words of praise in their own tongue.

"Get off your faces!" cried Conan. "If you want to speak to me, do so as men!"

Eyeing each other nervously, the men uneasily stood to their feet. Then the oldest of them, a heavy-set man with streaks of grey in his black hair, woven with blue and green feathers, said, "Surely you are Conan the Outlander – and the prophecies are true!"

"If you refer to this," cried Conan, gesturing with the staff, "by my own blood and sweat have I earned it – and mayhap with the aid of your gods. Its power is now mine to command."

"We have heard, O Conan," said the man reverently. "The sly king of Chirripi met his end before it – the tale has already spread from shore to shore, and for a thousand leagues!"

"Then our enemies know of it too," replied Conan. "But you have not told me who you are, nor what you seek."

"Forgive me," replied the man with a nod. "I am Xoltanc, king of my people, and these men are other chiefs of the mountain folk. We have come not to fight you, as those men of Quechalnti yonder seem to fear, but to join you in arms against the Feathered Serpent!"

"I am glad to hear of it," replied Conan with a grin, "for while the power of the gods is behind me, I need also more men in the field."

"You have them, my lord," replied Xoltanc with a bow. "A score times ten hundreds of them."

"Then thirty-thousand men at arms now serve our cause," said Conan with satisfaction. "But tell me; what of the enemy? How strong is the force that laid waste to Xocantal – and have they laid waste other villages besides?"

"At least two dozen others," spat Xoltanc, his aged face flushing dark with anger. His companions scowled likewise. "When word of your deeds in slaying his tribute-takers spread north, the wrath of the Feathered Serpent was not long coming. He has sent ten-thousand men at arms to our land – Jaguar, Eagle and Coyote warriors. They have taken thousands of our mountain folk into captivity, mostly women, children and elders, while those men who were not slain fled to the hills, forming larger groups in time for their own protection. All the thousands of captives are destined for slaughter on the black altars of Kukulkan!"

"Not if I have anything to say about it," frowned Conan. "And an army weighed-down with captives cannot fight at full strength, for it must both defend itself and guard its prisoners at the same time. They would have been wiser to have slain whomever they came across in a punitive expedition and return to the north."

"That is not their way," replied Xoltanc. "But our folk are not a warlike people, as you may know, though we fight when we must."

"Though no living man of the Quechanlti can recall such bravery on your part," spat Tihuanco.

"And since when have your people struck against Kukulkan, save to protect your own worthless skins?" shot back Xoltanc hotly, while Tihuanaco glared at him.

"Peace!" cried Conan. "We are here to fight our common foe, not each other. I will brook no subversion or infighting amongst my soldiers – and any man who disobeys me in this shall have to face my wrath!"

"We hear and obey, my lord," replied the two men, though they did not cease their angry glances at each other.

"Our folk of Xocantal were the first to recognize Conan as our liberator from the tyranny of Kukulkan," said Tlaloch proudly, "and our trust in him has been proven right!"

"Aye," said Conan shrewdly, "the gods have spoken. Now it is time to answer their call. Behold," he cried in a mighty voice, advancing with the strides of a Hillman towards the mountain folk, "I bear the Crystal Skull of power, fetched by mine own hand from the Crystal Isle of the Western Sea! The Feathered Serpent, avatar of Kukulkan himself shall fly before it to his doom, for I shall slay him upon his own black altar in Xlantlantaca!"

Conan held his stave high above his head, and the assembled armies cheered ecstatically, stamping their feet and clashing their spears and clubs against their shields,

"Hail Conan!" cried the mountain men. "Hail our Liberator!"

The cry was soon taken up by all present, echoing up the length and breadth of the valley, and Conan was pleased to see that in spite of their differences, these very different races of men we willing to unite under his leadership against their common foe. Everything was proceeding beyond his wildest dreams!

"The time to strike is now!" cried the Cimmerian. "Follow the trail of our foes, to victory, and their bloody doom!"

"To Victory!" cried the army of Conan for some minutes. Then, without further word, they fell into a loose order as Conan, with his assembled generals, strode past the village to stand at the head of the vast columns of men, thirty-thousand strong, and lead them up the hillsides on the long march to Xlantlantaca.


One month later, Conan and his army found themselves far to the north, beyond the lands of the mountain folk akin to the Xocantali, and on the borders of the realm of Xlantlantaca proper. The climate and landscape had changed markedly, for they had left behind the cool, green and well-watered highlands of Tlaloch and Xoltanc's folk for a more forbidding land of hot, bare plateaus, higher, snow-covered mountains, and little rain. Only here and there was the soil of sufficient fertility to stand out as a green ribbon in a sea of beige, about which clay-walled hovels clustered miserably.

In all this time, their numbers had grown as ever more stragglers and survivors of the plundered villages of the mountain folk joined the throng – full forty-thousand strong now. Conan had been concerned about their provisioning, for he knew an army marches on its stomach; but the mountain folk showed remarkable ability to live off the land, even in such large numbers, at least in their own fecund clime. Only the armoured warriors of the Quechalnti subsisted of the rations of dried fish, maize and chillies they had brought with them from their coastal cities.

Conan had put his time on the march to good use, for when they were not otherwise occupied with provisioning or guard duties, he trained his men in battle formations and basic infantry tactics – concepts which, he realized, were utterly alien to them. In spite of their initial resistance to the new ways of fighting that he taught, he was a hard taskmaster, and his men did not dare to show displeasure before the chosen one of their prophecies. In time, his training began to take hold, and while he would not trust his army to hold its own against a seasoned army of distant Hyboria, he at least began to feel more confident that his force would not immediately dissolve into the chaos of melee fighting as soon as it encountered the enemy.

Yet in spite of the fact their foes were weighed down by captives, Conan's force seemed always one step behind them; the occasional body of a captive left in their wake, invariably showing signs of having been slaughtered with great cruelty, showed the means by which the army of Xlantlantaca drove its captives before it at a fevered pace. These bodies had grown more frequent as time passed, and it seemed that surely hundreds of captives had been slain on the march for failure to keep pace with their captors.

The men were grim and silent as they saw the remains of their kinfolk, and Conan began to wonder if they did not harbor doubts toward him – why did the Crystal Skull not awake from its slumber? Why did it not transport them all en masse to the captives and their tormentors, as it had transported him from the sinking Crystal Isle to the safety of the ship some months before? For that marvelous tale had been told by the Quechalnti sailors of the ship to their peers on land, and now was a growing legend amongst the folk of Mayapan.

These questions burned in Conan's brain, and at night when the others slept he would often stare at the accursed talisman in fear and doubt as to its real powers – and its intentions. But there was a curious air of fatalism about these folk that was alien to him – now that their ancient prophecy appeared on the verge of fulfillment, they were content to follow him without question, seemingly willing to accept that such losses as their people suffered were the will of the gods, sacrifices that must be made on the road to the day of doom.

At length, on hot, dry morning Conan and his army found themselves at the edge of a broad, flat plain of sand and salt, as if it were the bottom of a long-vanished lake. It was ringed by steep, bare, snow-covered mountains, dotted here and there by the scrubby plants and grasses that made up such vegetation as was found in these lands. Conan looked with some concern at his men, for while the Quechanlti subsisted on their rations, the mountain folk could barely live off the land in such harsh conditions, and many of them were growing gaunt and spare from hunger and thirst.

But then, turning his eyes back to the plain, Conan saw what he had long sought – a large column of dust which rose up into the air from the flatlands, some miles ahead. It could only mean one thing – Conan's army had at last caught up with the army of Xlantlantaca and its captives!

"Ho, lads!" cried Conan in his deep, booming voice. "We've found them at last! Tonight our enemies shall lie dead, and you shall embrace your wives and bairns!"

"HURRAH!" cried the mountain men, a cry which echoed along the mountain walls far out into the plain, and could not fail to have been heard by the enemy – the Quechalnti remained cool and silent.

Conan suspected that now that the soldiers of Xlantlantaca could no longer evade their pursuers, they would turn and fight on their own terms, rather than wait to be flanked or encircled – it was what he would do in their place. His only fear was that they might put the captives to the sword before they could be rescued – for, were he not bound by the Cimmerian code of honour in matters of women and children, that was also what he would do in their place, and those dogs in their slaughter of helpless captives had long since proven they had no honour or scruples to speak of.

"Form your ranks, and march double time straight forward to the enemy!" cried Conan, giving orders to his generals. Tlaloch, Xoltanc and Tihuanaco give their orders, and moved their men into the battle positions Conan had previously determined – half the lightly armed and armoured mountain folk under Tlaloch on the right flank, half under Xoltanc on the left flank, and the heavily armed and bronze-armoured Quechanlti under Tihuanaco in the centre. Conan likewise took a central position, armed with his bronze stave and a bronze dagger, and wearing a bronze breastplate fashioned for him by the Quechanlti – for though his Cimmerian kinfolk disdained armour as the refuge of cowards, he had learned of its value as early as his youthful stay with the Aesir of Nordheim, and knew that it often determined the advantage in battle.

As the army marched forward on Conan's command, he could see on the horizon that the enemy – he could not distinguish warriors from captives at this distance - was likewise moving into formation. To his surprise, they broke into two groups – a larger group which stayed behind, and a smaller group that surged forward at great speed, and in no great order.

He soon realized that incredibly, the Xlantlantacai were using a great part of their strength to guard the captives - and prevent their escape from the fate of sacrifice - while the rest arrogantly rushed out to meet his army, confident that they would smash their foes in combat as easily as they had pillaged the villages of southern Mayapan in his absence.

"That's right, you fools!" cried Conan savagely, though surely his enemies could not hear him from afar. "Rush in and die like the dogs you are!"

His wish was soon granted, for the enemy, near ten-thousand strong, covered the flatlands of the salt pan at great speed, and soon were upon him – Jaguar warriors like those he had seen some months before at Xocantal, and also Eagle and Coyote warriors, each dressed in fantastic and outlandish costumes bearing the likeness of their totem animals. It was clear they knew nothing of an order of battle – nor of course had the mountain folk or the Quechalnti, before Conan had imposed one on them – but simply fought man-to-man in true barbarian fashion. It was a fighting style with which Conan had been familiar since his earliest youth – and at which he excelled – but it was not, he knew, a style which brought assurances of overwhelming victory. His time in the service of armies from Turan to Aquilonia had taught him better.

"Flank them to the left and right!" he ordered. "Centre troops, press forward!"

The orders were relayed, and the lightly-armed mountain folk quickly moving along the flanks of the surging enemy warriors, nearly enveloping them within minutes, while the heavy infantry of the Quechanlti pressed towards their centre.

The enemy warriors surged forward with their war clubs and spears, screaming bloodcurdling cries, the light of bloodlust in their eyes. One of the tallest Eagle warriors, with a hawk-like nose and a scar across his broad face, went straight for Conan, his white teeth gleaming as he raised a blood-spattered war club edge with sharp obsidian blades. He seemed not to fear the Crystal Skull affixed to Conan's stave, or not to know his power – Conan knew and cared not which, for in an instant he whipped out his stave and smashed the man's head like a ripe gourd, sending blood, brains, bone and teeth spraying over his comrades. Then with his battle cries of "Crom!" and "Manannan mac Lir!" he strode into the fray and was upon them!

The battle raged ferociously for the best part of an hour, but its form soon became clear – the enemy warriors were inflicting great casualties on the enraged mountain folk, but remained badly outnumbered, while the heavily armed Quechanlti pressed into their centre, their bronze shields and weapons clearly showing their tactical superiority over the more primitive stone weapons of the Xlantlantacai.

Then, as the sun arose high in the sky, cruel in its searing heat, the Crystal Skull again woke to life! Glowing softly at first, and then brightly, it soon seemed as if it were a second sun of pure white light, dazing and terrifying the enemy warriors. Conan stood stupefied as a beam of light shot out of it, incinerating the band of Jaguar warriors nearest to him in seconds just as it had done to Hunaco months before! Nothing remained of them but piles of smoking ash smeared across the plain.

That was enough to break the will of the enemy – whose once proud warriors now screamed and gibbered with terror, desperately hacking and battering at their foes so as to escape the trap, and flee for their lives. But the vengeful mountain men were ecstatic, and redoubled their attack against their hated foes, who despite their better weapons and armour lost all fighting spirit and began to drop like flies. The grim-faced Quechanlti likewise continued their methodical butchery, until the whole expanse of the battlefield was stained red with the blood of the Xlantlantacai – a grim, red-handed massacre.

Soon it was all over, and Conan was issuing orders for some of his men to care for the wounded, while the rest re-grouped in battle order to bring the fight to those Xlantlantacai who had stayed behind to guard the captives. Yet this soon proved unnecessary, for Conan's fleet-footed scouts amongst the mountain folk swiftly reported that the remaining Xlantlantacai had abandoned their guard at the first sign of life from the Crystal Skull – which could be seen for miles distant – and were high-tailing it to the north, leaving their captives behind them. The long ordeal of these sad folk was at an end!

Smiling with grim satisfaction, Conan gave orders to the Quechanlti under Tihaunaco to say in guard formation, while the mountain men rushed forward to meet the captives – all order on their part having dissolved as soon as the battle was over and nothing stood between them and their kinfolk. He strode across the battlefield towards them, looking for Tlaloch and Xoltanc – and eager to learn if Huitzil had survived, for in spite of his hard nature he felt some tenderness toward the girl. For her father, Zumal, he had less concern, as he had little time or sympathy for those who would frustrate his plans or defy his will.

In the chaos of weeping relatives seeking each other and joyfully reunited or tearfully sundered families, it took Conan the best part of an hour before he found what he sought – Huitzil, alive and embraced by her brother Tlaloch. He did not see Zumal or many of the elders of Xocantal, and from the tears on Huitzil's face he expected the worst.

When she saw Conan, the girl's crying redoubled, and she almost leapt into his sun-bronzed arms, only to then stare fearfully at the Crystal Skull on its stave, and kneel before his feet.

"Get up, girl!" said Conan gruffly, though not without affection.

"Our village…my father…" the girl cried, soon weeping incoherently.

"This is a black day for the folk of Xocantal," said Tlaloch, his dark eyes burning with anger, "even though it is a happy one for Mayapan – our first victory against our foes. But the people of my village were singled out for especial vengeance by the Jaguar warriors, and it seems my folk number amongst many of the swollen bodies we found on the hard road to this accursed place. My father is dead, and the elders with him. They kept Huitzil alive knowing who she was, just to ensure that Kukulkan could personally sacrifice her on the black altar of Xlantlantaca!"

"A fate she shall never endure," replied Conan, "thanks to the bravery of all your folk – and the power of your gods. And I am sorry for your loss. But this is no place for women and children, nor can we lose the advantage that we have won this day. The walking wounded amongst you men, and all those of Mayapan and the Quechalnti, must take the gravely injured, and the women, elderly and children back with them to their southern homelands. The rest, and the able bodied amongst the captives, must be ready to follow hard on the heels of our fleeing enemies! Vengence is owed to them, and it is not wise to leave them alive to fight another day, and in greater numbers with the aid of their countrymen."

"No my lord," said Huitzil, regaining at last her ability to speak. Her eyes also glimmered fiercely. "At least, send me not away. All this time, how I have yearned for vengeance! The souls of our people cry out for it! I implore you, let me follow you to Xlantlantaca, to watch the Feathered Serpent die by your hand!"

Conan stared hard at the girl for some moments. Then he nodded grimly.

"So be it," he said. "If your brother consents. You have earned the right to witness your revenge, if but from afar."

"I wish not for her to come to further harm," said Tlaloch. "But if she wishes it, then I will not stand in her way."

"Then it's settled," replied Conan. "Relay the orders I have given, and tell the able-bodied survivors to say their farewells. I want our army formed-up and on the march before the sun passes the noontide."

"As you command my lord," said Tlaloch, who set to work. Huitzil gazed at Conan demurely, her mood now strangely calm, and then set her eyes upon the blood-stained Crystal Skull, with a curious smile on her youthful face.