In unison, they all turned to run, but they were already too late.
Around the square, armed men and women entered from streets and alleys. Sam and the others were herded to the center of the plaza and surrounded.
Sam noticed Norman had the shaman’s shard of flint gripped in one fist. The photographer lifted it. “If they mean to take my tongue, they’re gonna have to fight me for it.”
“Where’s Denal?” Sam whispered.
“I left him with the rifle,” Maggie answered. “He was supposed to lead the others away so I could try and free you. We were to rendezvous in the jungle.”
“I don’t think that plan’s gonna work,” Norman said. He pointed his flint knife. “Look.”
Across the square, one of the hunters held Sam’s Winchester in his grip. He handled the weapon as if it were a poisonous snake. The man sniffed slightly at the barrel’s end, crinkling his nose.
“Denal…” Maggie mumbled.
There was no sign of the boy.
A gruff voice sounded behind them. They turned.
Pachacutec pushed through the crowd. He was in full raiment, from feathered crown to fanciful robe. He lifted his staff. The golden sunburst caught the first rays of the rising sun and glinted brightly.
The king spoke slowly in Inca, while Norman translated. “We have captured the strangers in our midst. Inti rises for his sacrifice. Revive Kamapak so the gods can be honored.”
Off to the side, a trio of women worked on Kamapak. They bathed his face in cold water and rubbed his limbs while chanting. Slowly Kamapak’s arms began to move. Then his eyes flickered open. He seemed blind for a moment until the memory of his assault returned. Anger shone in his gaze. Weakly pushing away the women, he shoved to his feet. He wobbled a bit, but one of the hunters helped steady him.
Kamapak ambled shakily toward his king.
Pachacutec spoke again, this time in English, drawing the eyes of the students. “It be an honor to give blood to Inti. You disgrace our god with your fighting.”
By now, the sun had risen enough that the center of the square was bathed in sunlight. Sam brandished his dagger, bright in the morning light. Disgrace or not, he wasn’t going to give his blood without drawing the same from his attackers. He raised the knife higher, wishing he had a more intimidating weapon, something to strike terror.
With this thought, the handle of the dagger grew warm and the length of gold blade shimmered and twisted, spreading and curving, until the form of a striking snake sprouted from the hilt. Sam froze, afraid to move, unsure what had just happened.
He stared at the transformed dagger. Gold fangs were open to the sun, threatening the gathered throng.
Pachacutec had taken a step back when the transformation had started. He now took a step nearer, eyes wide with awe.
Sam did not know how the transformation had occurred, but the miracle of the dagger was clearly something the Incas had never seen. Sam raised the golden asp high.
Pachacutec lifted his staff, mimicking Sam’s pose. His eyelids lowered slightly, as if in prayer. Suddenly the golden sunburst symbol atop his staff flowed and transformed to match the serpent. Two snakes stared each other down.
Now it was Sam’s turn to back away. Pachacutec met the Texan’s gaze. Sam no longer saw anger in the man’s eyes, but tears.
To the king’s side, Kamapak fell to his knees, bowing his head toward Sam. The gathered throng followed suit. Foreheads pressed to the stones.
Pachacutec lowered his staff. He stepped toward them. Arms wide. “Inti has blessed you. The sun god of the Mochico listens to your dreams. You be one of the chosen of Inti!” The king crossed to stand before Sam. He offered his hand. “You be safe in our house. All of you!”
Sam was too confused to react. The sudden change in the Incas was unnerving. But he could not quite trust the transformation, any more than he could understand what had happened to the dagger.
Maggie pushed beside Sam. “What about Denal?”
Pachacutec heard her. “The boy. He be not fourteen years. Too young for huarachicoy.” He smiled as if this explained it all.
Sam frowned. Huarachicoy was the ceremonial feast where a boy was accepted as a man into a tribe, when he was given his first huara, the loincloth of an adult tribesman. “What do you mean ‘too young’?”
Kamapak raised his face and spoke. Norman translated. “It was decided that the boy, like all the tribe’s children, was to be taken to the temple. He was to be gifted directly to the gods.”
Maggie turned to Sam. “Sacrifice,” she said with fear.
“When?” Sam asked. “When was this to be done?”
Pachacutec glanced to the rising sun. The bright disk was fully above the volcanic edge. “It be done already. The boy be with the gods.”
Sam stumbled backward. “No…”
The Texan’s reaction confused the king. The Sapa Inca’s bright smile faltered. “Be this not Inti’s wish?”
“No!” Sam said more forcefully.
Maggie grabbed Sam’s elbow. “We need to go to that temple. Maybe he’s still alive. We don’t know for sure that he’s dead.”
Sam nodded at her words. There was a chance. He faced Kamapak and Pachacutec. “Take us to the temple.”
The king bowed his head, offering no argument to one of the chosen. Instead, he waved, and the shaman stood. “Kamapak will guide you.”
“I’m coming with you,” Maggie said.
“Me too,” Norman added, swaying a bit on his feet. Clearly the transformation and the long stressful night had taken its toll on him.
Sam shook his head. “Norman, you need to stay here. You can speak the local lingo. Get the Incas to light a signal fire on the highest ridge so the evac helicopter can find us.” Sam reached to his vest pocket and pulled out the walkie-talkie. “Here. Contact Sykes and get a status report. But more importantly… get Uncle Hank up here ASAP!”
Norman looked worried with the burden of his assignment, but he accepted the walkie-talkie with a slow nod. “I’ll do what I can.”
Sam clapped the photographer on the shoulder, then he and Maggie hurried away, stopping only to collect Sam’s Winchester.
“Be careful!” Norman called to them. “There’s something strange up there!”
Sam didn’t need to be told that. All he had to do was look at the golden viper mounted on the dagger’s hilt in his hand.
Bright sunlight glinted off its sharp fangs.
He shivered. Old words of warning rang in his head: Beware the Serpent of Eden.
Henry trudged toward the collapsed subterranean temple. Even from here, he saw how the crown of the hill had fallen in on itself. Sodium lamps highlighted the excavation on the lee side of the slope, where workers still struggled to dig a rescue shaft into the buried ruins.
As Henry walked, Philip’s litany of the events of the past few days droned on: “… and then the temple started to implode. There was nothing I could do to stop it…” Philip Sykes had come running up to Henry as soon as the professor had cleared the helicopter’s rotors, wearing a smile that was half panicked relief and half shame, like a dog with his tail tucked between his legs. Henry ignored his student’s ceaseless explanation. The theme was clear from the start: I’m not to blame!
Henry finally touched Philip’s shoulder. “You’ve done a great job, Mr. Sykes. Considering the circumstances and confusion here, you’ve managed admirably.”
Philip bobbed his head. “I did, didn’t I?” He ate up the praise with a big spoon… and then thankfully grew quiet, content at being absolved for any of the tragedy. Henry, though, knew the student was hiding more than he was telling. Henry had heard the disparaging comments whispered from some of the Quechan workers as they passed. He knew enough of the local Indian dialect to tell that the laborers resented Philip. Henry suspected that if he questioned the workers, a different view of the events of the past few days would come to light… and that Philip would not come out looking so squeaky clean.
But right now, Henry had more important concerns.
He eyed the two guards who flanked them. They no longer brandished their guns, but they kept their hands on holstered pistols. Abbot Ruiz marched ahead of them, wheezing through nose and mouth. The altitude and exertion in climbing through the ruins were clearly taxing the heavy man.
As they finally reached the site where a black tunnel opened into the side of the buried temple, a man dressed in the brown robes of a friar stepped toward them. He was darkly handsome with cold eyes that seemed to take in everything with a sharp glance.
Abbot Ruiz stared hungrily at the tunnel opening. “Friar Otera, how do things fare here?”
The monk remained bowed. “We should reach the temple ruins by noon, Your Eminence.”
“Good. Very good. You have done brilliantly.” He stepped past the bowing man without a glance, dismissing him.
Henry, though, caught the glint of white-hot anger in the monk’s eyes as he straightened, the man’s face settling back to passive disinterest. But Henry knew better. A few words of faint praise were not going to satisfy this man as they had Philip. Closer to him now, Henry noted some Indian features mixed with his Spanish heritage: a deeper complexion, a slightly wider nose, and eyes so deep a brown they seemed almost black. Friar Otera was clearly a mestizo, a half-breed, a mixture of Spanish and Indian blood. Such men had hard lives here in South America, their mixed blood often a mark of humiliation and ridicule.
Henry followed the abbot, but remained attuned to the friar’s movements. He knew he had better keep a close watch. There were dangerous layers to this man that had nothing to do with the abbot’s schemes. Henry noticed how even Philip gave the man a wide berth as the student clambered up the loose soil toward the tunnel opening.
Friar Otera took up a pace behind Henry.
As they reached the excavated tunnel, the sun climbed fully into the sky. The clear blue skies promised a hot day to come.
Suddenly a crackle of static drew their eyes toward Philip. The student reached inside his jacket and pulled free a walkie-talkie. “It must be Sam,” Philip said. “He’s early.”