Excavation

Suddenly the jungle fell away around him. The gloom of the forest broke into brightness. Norman stumbled to a stop, brushing at his eyes. When his vision cleared, he gasped in horror at the sight.

A small clearing had been blasted into the jungle by grenade and gunfire. Bodies lay strewn all around, torn and broken. Both men and women. All Inca. The smell gagged him as he stumbled back: blood and excrement and fear.

“Oh, God…” Norman moaned.

Flies already lay thick among the corpses, buzzing and flitting around the clearing.

Then suddenly on his left, a huge shape rose up, looming over him, the dead coming to claim him. Norman spun to face the new threat. He would no longer flee. He could no longer flee. Exhausted and hopeless, he fell to his knees.

He raised his face as a huge spear was lifted in threat, its golden blade shining in the brightness overhead.

Norman didn’t flinch.

I’m sorry, Denal.

Henry stepped toward Otera, gun raised. “Let him go!”

The trapped boy’s limbs trembled as the knife was pressed harder to his tender throat. A trickle of blood ran down his neck. “Don’t try it, Professor. Get back! Or I cut this boy open from neck to belly.”

Fighting back a curse, Henry retreated a step.

The friar’s eyes were wild and fierce. “Do as I say, and everyone lives! I don’t care about you or the boy. All I care about is the gold. I take it with me, and you all stay here. A fair bargain, yes?”

They hesitated. Henry glanced to Maggie, then to Sam. “Maybe we should do as he says,” he whispered.

Maggie’s eyes narrowed. She stepped to the side and spoke to the friar, her voice fierce. “Swear on it! Swear on your cross that you’ll let us go.”

Scowling, Otera touched his silver crucifix. “I swear.”

Maggie studied the man for a long breath, then carefully placed down her weapon. Henry did the same. The group then backed a few steps away.

Otera crossed to their abandoned weapons, then shoved Denal toward them.

The boy gasped and flew to Maggie’s side.

The friar returned his long dagger to a hidden wrist sheath. Henry now understood how the man had managed to escape his ropes. He mentally kicked himself. None of them had thought to search the unconscious man.

Gri

Otera stood and finally swung to face the room himself. He froze, then stumbled back, overwhelmed. His face glowed in the golden light. A wide smile stretched his lips. “Dios mio…!” When he turned back to them, his eyes were huge.

“Impressive, isn’t it?” Sam said.

The friar squinted against the torches’ glare. He finally seemed to recognize the Texan. “I… I thought I killed you,” he said with a frown.

Sam shrugged. “It didn’t take.”

Otera glanced to the cave of gold, then back to them. He leveled his gun. “I don’t know how you survived. But this time, I’ll make sure you die. All of you!”

Maggie stepped between the gunman and Sam. “You swore an oath! On your cross!”

Otera reached with his free hand and ripped off the silver crucifix. He tossed it behind him. “The abbot was a fool,” he snarled at them. “Like you all. All this talk of touching the mind of God… pious shit! He never understood the gold’s true potential.”

“Which is what?” Henry asked, stepping beside Maggie.

“To make me rich! For years, I have endured the abbot’s superior airs as he promoted others of pure Spanish blood above me. With this gold, I will no longer be half-Indian, half-Spanish. I will no longer have to bow my head and play the role of the lowly mestizo. I will be reborn a new man.” Otera’s eyes shone brightly with his dream.

Henry moved nearer. “And who do you think you’ll become?”

Otera leveled his pistol at Henry. “Someone everyone respects—a rich man!” He laughed harshly and pulled the trigger.

Henry cringed, gasping and falling back.

But the shot went suddenly awry, striking the roof and casting blue sparks.

As the gun’s blast died away, a new noise was heard. “Aack…” Otera choked and reached for his chest. A bloody spearhead sprouted from between his ribs. The friar was lifted off his feet. Gouts of blood poured from his mouth as he moaned, mouth opening and closing like a suffocating fish. His pistol fell with a clatter from his fingers.

Then his head slumped, lolling atop his neck, dead.

His limp body was tossed aside by the spear-bearer.

From behind him, a large figure stepped into view. He wore singed and torn robes.

“Pachacutec!” Sam cried.

The man suddenly stumbled forward, falling to his knees before the Incan temple. Tears streaked his soot-stained face. “My people…” he mumbled in English. “Gone.”

A second figure appeared out of the darkness behind the man.

“Norman!” Maggie ran up to the photographer. “What happened?”

Norman shook his head, staring at the impaled form of the friar. “I ran into Pachacutec on the trail, amid the slaughter. He was coming to the temple, chasing after those who would violate his god. I convinced him to help.” But there was no satisfaction in the photographer’s voice; his face was ashen.

Norman’s eyes flicked toward Denal. The photographer wore a look of shame. But the boy crossed to Norman and hugged him tightly. “You saved us,” he mumbled into the tall man’s chest.

As Norman returned the boy’s embrace, tears rose in his eyes.

Off to the side, Pachacutec groaned. He switched back to his native tongue as he bowed before the temple, rocking back and forth, praying. He was beyond consolation. Blood ran from under his robes and trailed into the golden chamber. He looked near death himself.

Henry crossed closer to the king. If Maggie’s story was true, here knelt one of the founders of the Incan empire. As an archaeologist who had devoted his entire lifetime to the study of the Incas, Henry found himself suddenly speechless. A living Incan king whose memories were worth a thousand caverns of gold. Henry turned to Sam, his eyes beseeching. This king must not die.

Sam seemed to understand. He knelt beside Pachacutec and touched the king’s robe. “Sapa Inca,” he said, bowing his head. “The temple saved my life, as it once saved yours. Use it again.”

Pachacutec stopped rocking, but his head still hung in sorrow. “My people gone.” He raised his face toward Sam and the others. “Maybe it be right. We do not belong in your world.”

“No, heal yourself. Let me show you our world.”

Henry stepped forward, placing a hand on Sam’s shoulder, adding his support. “There is much you could share, Inca Pachacutec. So much you can teach us.”

Pachacutec pushed slowly to his feet and faced Henry. He reached a hand to the professor’s cheek and traced a wrinkle. He then dropped his arm and turned away. “Your face be old. But not as old as my heart.” He stared into the temple, his face shining. “Inti now leads my people to janan pacha. I wish to go with them.”

Henry stared over the king’s shoulder to Sam. What could they say? The man had lost his entire tribe.

Tears ran down Pachacutec’s cheeks as he slid a gold dagger from inside his robe. “I go to join my people.”

Henry reached toward the Sapa Inca. “No!” But he was too late.

Pachacutec plunged the dagger into his breast, bending over the blade like a clenched fist. Then he relaxed; a sigh of relief escaped his throat. He slowly straightened, and his fingers fell away from the blade’s hilt.

Henry gasped, stumbling back, as flames jetted out from around the dagger impaled in the king’s chest. “What the hell…?”

Pachacutec stumbled into the temple’s chamber. “I go to Inti.”