Excavation (41 page)

“Professor?”

Henry opened his eyes and stared angrily at the abbot. “You bastard…”

“Choose. Or I will order both of them slain.” The abbot raised a hand, ready to signal the friar. “Who will die for your sins?”

Henry choked on the words, “D…Dr. Engel.” He sagged after he spoke Joan's death sentence. But what other choice did he have? Though many years had passed since their time together at Rice, Joan had not changed. Henry still knew her heart. She would never forgive Henry if he preserved her life at the cost of Philip's. Still, his decision cut him like a huge jagged dagger in his chest. He could hardly breathe.

“So be it,” Abbot Ruiz stated mildly, turning away. “Let it be done.”

 

Sam followed Kamapak as the shaman trotted out of the jungle's fringes and into the brightness of the morning sun. Even with the cloak of mist overhead, the sun's brilliance was painful after the dim light of the shadowed jungle.

Shading his eyes, Sam stumbled to a stop. Maggie pulled up beside him. Both were winded from the high-altitude jog. A headache rang in Sam's skull as he surveyed the land beyond the jungle's edge.

A hundred yards away rose an almost vertical wall of bare volcanic stone, a cliff of crenellated rock, knife-sharp, and as coppery red as fresh blood. Above it loomed the black cone of the neighboring volcanic mountain, imposing in its heights.

Ahead, a thin trail zigzagged up the wall to the opening of a tunnel seventy yards above the valley floor. It looked like a hard climb. Two men could be seen working their way down the slope from the opening. Sunlight flashed off the spears they carried. Denal was not with them.

“C'mon!” Sam said, pointing his transformed dagger toward the men.

Maggie nodded, too winded to speak. Adjusting Sam's rifle over her shoulder, she cinched it higher and followed.

Kamapak led the way through a small field of wild quinoa, a type of highland wheat, along the forest's edge. Beyond the green fields, at the base of the cliff, lay a wide
apron of scraggled scrub and tumbled volcanic rock. A handful of vents steamed nearby, collared with yellow stains of sulfur. The air was humid and warm, a foul-smelling sauna.

They met the other two Incas at the trailhead that led up to the tunnel above. As Kamapak spoke to the guards, Sam studied the spears the two men brandished. Their blades were gold like his dagger. But more importantly, the weapons appeared unbloodied. Sam tried to listen to the conversation, but he could understand none of it. Finally, the shaman waved the men back toward the village and began the steep climb, leading them upward.

Sam stopped Kamapak with a touch to his shoulder. “Denal?” he asked.

The shaman just shook his head, pointed up, and continued the journey.

“What do you think?” Maggie asked.

“I don't know. But apparently the answer lies up there.”

Maggie glanced worriedly toward the opening far above. “At the temple?”

Sam nodded grimly, and the two followed Kamapak up the series of switchbacks that climbed the wall. Any further talk was cut off by the need to breathe. Sam's grip on his knife grew slick. He heard Maggie panting behind him. The muscles of his legs began to protest from the exertion.

Only Kamapak seemed unaffected. Acclimated to the altitude and moist heat, the shaman seemed unfazed by the climb. He reached the opening before they did and waited for them. He spoke as they approached. The only word recognizable to Sam was
Inti
, the god of the sun.

Sam glanced behind him and surveyed the spread of valley. Below, the village, half-covered in jungle, was barely discernible. Then suddenly a series of small fires climbed the rocky ridge off to the left, reaching to the lip of the volcanic cone. The signal fires. “Good going, Norman,” he wheezed quietly.

Maggie joined him. “Let's hope your uncle gets here
soon,” she said, eyeing the fires. Then she nudged Sam toward the tunnel. “Let's get going.”

Kamapak struck a torch to flame and led the way inside. The tunnel was wide enough for four men to walk abreast and seemed to stretch straight ahead. No curves or turns. The walls around them were smooth volcanic stone.

“A lava tube,” Maggie said, touching the stone.

Sam nodded and pointed ahead. The darkness of the tunnel had seemed at first impenetrable. But as Sam grew accustomed to the gloom, he noticed a vague light coming from far ahead. Sunlight. “Norman was right,” he said. “The tunnel must connect either to another valley or a cavern open to the sky.”

Before Maggie could respond, Kamapak stopped ahead. The shaman lit two torches embedded in the right wall. They framed a small cave that neither Sam nor Maggie had noticed in the darkness. Kamapak knelt before the entrance.

As flames blew forth, a glow from the side chamber reflected back the torchlight into the main tunnel. Drawn like moths, Sam and Maggie moved forward.

Sam reached the entrance first. He stumbled to a stop as he saw what lay in the side chamber. Maggie reached his side. She tensed, then grabbed the Texan's upper arm. Her fingers dug in tightly.

“The temple,” she whispered.

In the neighboring cave stood a sight to humble any man. The space was as large as a two-car garage, but every surface was coated with gold—floor, ceiling, walls. It was a virtual golden cavern! And whether it was a trick of the light or some other property, the golden surfaces seemed to flow, whorling and eddying, sliding along the exposed surfaces but never exposing the underlying volcanic rock. In the center of the room's floor was a solid slab of gold, clearly an altar or bed. Its top surface was contoured slightly, molded to match the human physique. Above the altar, hanging like a golden chandelier, was a fanciful sphere of filigreed gold,
strands and filaments twined and twisted into a dense mesh. It reminded Sam of a spider's egg sac, more organic than metal. Even here the illusion of flowing gold persisted. The entwined mass of strands seemed to wind and churn slowly in the flickering torchlight.

“Where's Denal?” Maggie asked.

Sam shook his head, still too shocked to speak. He pointed his serpent-shaped knife at the central altar. “No blood.”

“Thank God. Let's—” Maggie jumped back a step.

A small spiral of gold filament snaked out from the mass above the altar and stretched toward Sam. “Don't move,” Sam mumbled, freezing in place himself.

The thread of gold spun through the air, trailing like a questing tentacle. It seemed drawn toward Sam's extended dagger. Finally it stretched long enough to brush against the gold serpent, touching a fang. Instantly, the golden sculpture melted, features dissolving away, surfaces flowing like warm wax. The hilt grew cold in Sam's grip as heat was absorbed from it. Then the gold reshaped itself, stretching and sharpening, into the original dagger.

The questing filament retreated, pulled back into the main mass like a reeled in fishing line.

Sam held the dagger before his eyes. “What the hell just happened?”

Maggie found her tongue, crossing into Sam's shadow, keeping his wide shoulders between her and the gold cave, the temple. “It's not gold. It can't be. Whatever your blade is made of, it's the same as the temple. What the Mochico called
sun gold
. Some metal culled from meteors.”

“But it almost seems alive,” Sam said, backing away with her.

Kamapak rose to his feet, eyes full of awe for Sam. He mumbled something at Sam, then bowed his head.

“I don't think we should tinker with it, Sam. Let's find out what happened to Denal, and leave this until more experienced
scientists arrive.”

Sam nodded dully. “This is what Friar de Almagro saw. It's what must have scared the man into sealing off this caldera. The Serpent of Eden.”

“That an' the decapitated head of Pachacutec,” Maggie mumbled.

Sam turned to her. On the way to the temple, Maggie had told him how she had eavesdropped on Norman and Sam's fireside conversation, knew the fabricated story of Inkarri. “You don't buy into that nonsense of the beheaded king, do you?”

Maggie glanced down. “There's something I didn't tell you, Sam.”

“What?”

“I wanted more time to think about what I saw before speaking.” She glanced up at him. “I sneaked into the courtyard after you an' Norman were dragged away. I saw Pachacutec without his robe. His body was…was wrong.”

“What do you mean?”

“It was like—”

A scream suddenly echoed down the passage, cutting off the conversation. Sam and Maggie froze.

“Denal!” Maggie gasped out as the cry echoed away.

“He's alive!”

Sam stepped farther down the tunnel, toward the point where the vague glow of sunlight could be seen coming from ahead. “But for how much longer? Let's go.”

Kamapak raised an arm to block them. He shook his head fiercely, babbling clear words of warning. The only understandable syllables were
janan pacha
. Incan Heaven. Sam recalled how the children of the villagers were said to be given as gifts to the gods at
janan pacha
. It was where they must have taken Denal! Kamapak stared defiantly at Sam, forbidding them passage.

“Fuck this!” Sam mumbled angrily. He brandished his dagger before Kamapak. “We're going, buddy. So either
move or I'll carve a door in you.”

The tone of his voice must have breached the language barrier. Kamapak backed away, fear in his eyes at the dagger. Sam did not wait for the shaman to change his mind. He led the way at a fast clip. Kamapak, though, trailed behind them, muttering prayers under his breath.

Soon they were at the exit of the tunnel. It emptied onto the floor of another volcanic caldera. But the mists there were thicker, the sunlight filtered to a twilight glow. Even drapes of heavy fog obscured the forested jungle ahead. The reek of sulfur was strong enough to burn the eyes, and the heat was stifling. A clear path led into the jungle.

“We must be in the neighboring caldera,” Maggie whispered.

Sam nodded and continued into the valley. Maggie followed, and after a moment's hesitation, so did Kamapak. The shaman's posture was slightly hunched, his eyes on the strange skies, like he feared something would reach out and grab him. Clearly, the shaman had never been there. Some strong taboo.

“Not exactly my idea of heaven, that's for sure,” Sam said as he led the way into the jungle, wiping the sweat from his brow. Under the canopy, twilight became night.

Around them, the jungle was quiet. No bird calls or the rustle of animals. In the gloom, Sam did spot a few monkeys hidden in the canopy overhead, but they were motionless, quiet. Only their eyes tracked the strangers in their midst.

Maggie already had the rifle unslung, and Sam hoped she was the experienced marksman she claimed to be. Especially since their only other weapon was Sam's dagger.

No one dared even whisper as they followed the path to where the jungle opened ahead. As they reached the brighter light, Sam crouched and held up a hand, halting them. They needed a plan. He glanced to Maggie. Her eyes were wide with fear and worry. Kamapak huddled behind
her, wary.

Then another scream erupted, piercing the jungle like an arrow. It came from just ahead. “Help me!” The terror was clear in the boy's voice.

“To hell with caution,” Sam blurted, and stood. “C'mon!” He raced down the last of the path, Maggie at his heels.

They burst from the jungle cover into the outskirts of another Incan village. There, too, terraced stone homes climbed the gentle slopes and lay half-hidden in the fringes of the jungle. But that was the only similarity. The jungle had encroached on the village, claiming it. Everywhere weeds and bits of forest grew from between the slabs of granite, sprouting as if from the stone itself. Nearby, a tree grew from one of the cracked rooftops, spreading its limbs to envelop the house.

But as unkempt as the village was, the smell was even worse.

The streets were full of refuse and offal. Old animal bones lay scattered like broken glass in an alley, many with pieces of hide or fur still clinging to them. Underfoot, shattered shards of pottery crumbled.

“Jesus,” Maggie said, covering her mouth. “It's the third city.”

“What?” Sam whispered.

“Remember from the celebration the first night. You guessed the necropolis was built as a city of
uca pacha
, the lower world, while the other village was of
cay pacha
, the middle world. Well, here's the
third
village. A city of the upper world, of
janan pacha
.”

Sam glanced at the fouled and ruined streets in disgust. This was no heavenly city. But he dared not stop to ponder the mystery. Waving them on, Sam led them down the avenue.

As they ran, Kamapak stared at the ruined village with horror, eyes wide with disbelief.

Obviously this is not his idea of Heaven either
, Sam
thought.

Ahead noises began to be heard: grunting and soft angry squeals. But through the noise, one sound drew them on. Sobbing. It had to be Denal.

Sam slowed as the street emptied onto the village's main square. He peeked around the corner, then fell back. “Damn…”

“What?” Maggie whispered. She crept to the corner and looked.

Sam saw her shoulders tense. He joined her at the corner, forcing back his initial shock. Stripped naked as a newborn, Denal stood in the center of the square, dazed and terrified.

And with clear reason.

Around him, the square was crammed with pale creatures. Some as large as bulls, others no bigger than muscled calves. Sam recognized the sickly forms. These were the same beasts that had haunted the necropolis below. They circled the boy, sniffing, snuffling at his heels. Occasional fights broke out, sudden hissed screams and slashes of razored claws. They had yet to decide what to make of the boy.