must do, a vision of where Fire Giver must lead his warriors. Already they had traveled far from the mountains of home, on a pilgrimage whose goal had yet to be revealed. Tezcatlipoca, the blood-eating god, was angry. By opposing him Fire Giver hoped to put an end to the spotted sickness that had crept across the ancient ridges and found the People in their place of solitude, the Valley of Eagles. Home lay many walks behind them—still the warriors followed the high priest, because they trusted his vision. Weeks ago, Tezcatlipoca had whispered in his ear and told Fire Giver to follow the rising sun. The high priest had obeyed. And he would continue to do so. But now he sought direction, the purpose of his journey, that revelation which all men seek.
And so Fire Giver sat alone among the weathered rocks on the lonely summit of a thirsty peak and stared into the flames of the ceremonial fire before him while the warriors watched from below. Like the soldiers who had followed him, Fire Giver was small of stature, wiry as whipcord. His chest and shoulders rippled with red muscle and his eyes were the same color as the caked blood that matted his waist-length black hair. He was covered from head to toe with a sootlike paste denoting his station as a high priest, the reflection of the dark god, and wielder of the sacrificial knife. Suddenly he rose and stood completely naked, his hands held palm outward in an attitude of submission. Blood already trickled down his back and chest and forearms where thorns of the maguey cactus pierced his flesh. Now he waited, trembling as two of the warriors from farther down the slope left their vantage points and climbed the dozen yards separating them from the priest. The two men wore eagle-head helmets made of hide and feathers that hid their blue and yellow painted features behind beaklike visors. Body armor of quilted cotton soaked in brine covered their hardened torsos.
Striker, the closest warrior, was covered with battle scars and brandished an enormous wooden club studded with razor-sharp obsidian chips. An obsidian dagger was thrust through the woven belt at his waist. Young Serpent followed close behind Striker and carried an atlatl (a spear thrower favored by the elite warriors} and several obsidian-tipped javelins. Young Serpent had recently buried his wife, a silky-skinned maiden who, like many others, had succumbed to the spotted sickness. This night the two men knew what was expected of them and they quickly set down their weapons beside the great axe wielded by Fire Giver when in battle. Its serrated obsidian edge had split the skulls of countless foes.
Fire Giver’s limbs were already crisscrossed with tiny crimson rivulets. Another pile of thorns wrapped in a tanned elkskin had been placed upon the ground at his feet. These cruel slivers of the maguey were capable of inflicting extreme pain. Striker and Young Serpent began to chant softly as they went to work, inserting the thorns in the high priest’s thighs, calves, and scrotum.
“God of darkness, ancient killer, see how your shadow embraces his suffering. Drink of the blood of your shadow, accept his gift, and grant him what he seeks. Open his eyes that he may see.”
They sang this song until the last of the thorns had pierced the flesh of Fire Giver. Then Young Serpent and Striker reverently gathered their weapons and dipped the stone blades in Fire Giver’s blood. The other elite soldiers in their eagle helmets and war-painted faces climbed the hillside to join them. Barbed javelins, axes, stone swords and knives, war clubs both curved and straight were baptized in the blood of the high priest. No sound did he make as he stood unmoving—eyes glazed with pain, his breath ragged. He stood searching—waiting.
Images rushed to him in waves of white-hot pain. The night seemed ablaze with searing fire and an incandescent light that flickered on the periphery of his vision, then stabbed toward the center of his
And so Fire Giver sat alone among the weathered rocks on the lonely summit of a thirsty peak and stared into the flames of the ceremonial fire before him while the warriors watched from below. Like the soldiers who had followed him, Fire Giver was small of stature, wiry as whipcord. His chest and shoulders rippled with red muscle and his eyes were the same color as the caked blood that matted his waist-length black hair. He was covered from head to toe with a sootlike paste denoting his station as a high priest, the reflection of the dark god, and wielder of the sacrificial knife. Suddenly he rose and stood completely naked, his hands held palm outward in an attitude of submission. Blood already trickled down his back and chest and forearms where thorns of the maguey cactus pierced his flesh. Now he waited, trembling as two of the warriors from farther down the slope left their vantage points and climbed the dozen yards separating them from the priest. The two men wore eagle-head helmets made of hide and feathers that hid their blue and yellow painted features behind beaklike visors. Body armor of quilted cotton soaked in brine covered their hardened torsos.
Striker, the closest warrior, was covered with battle scars and brandished an enormous wooden club studded with razor-sharp obsidian chips. An obsidian dagger was thrust through the woven belt at his waist. Young Serpent followed close behind Striker and carried an atlatl (a spear thrower favored by the elite warriors} and several obsidian-tipped javelins. Young Serpent had recently buried his wife, a silky-skinned maiden who, like many others, had succumbed to the spotted sickness. This night the two men knew what was expected of them and they quickly set down their weapons beside the great axe wielded by Fire Giver when in battle. Its serrated obsidian edge had split the skulls of countless foes.
Fire Giver’s limbs were already crisscrossed with tiny crimson rivulets. Another pile of thorns wrapped in a tanned elkskin had been placed upon the ground at his feet. These cruel slivers of the maguey were capable of inflicting extreme pain. Striker and Young Serpent began to chant softly as they went to work, inserting the thorns in the high priest’s thighs, calves, and scrotum.
“God of darkness, ancient killer, see how your shadow embraces his suffering. Drink of the blood of your shadow, accept his gift, and grant him what he seeks. Open his eyes that he may see.”
They sang this song until the last of the thorns had pierced the flesh of Fire Giver. Then Young Serpent and Striker reverently gathered their weapons and dipped the stone blades in Fire Giver’s blood. The other elite soldiers in their eagle helmets and war-painted faces climbed the hillside to join them. Barbed javelins, axes, stone swords and knives, war clubs both curved and straight were baptized in the blood of the high priest. No sound did he make as he stood unmoving—eyes glazed with pain, his breath ragged. He stood searching—waiting.
Images rushed to him in waves of white-hot pain. The night seemed ablaze with searing fire and an incandescent light that flickered on the periphery of his vision, then stabbed toward the center of his
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