Author: Kirk Straughen
Synopsis: In this Lost Race adventure story our dashing hero discovers a remnant of the ancient Inca civilization, and becomes embroiled in political intrigue as two brothers battle for the kingdom's throne. Savage assassins, bloodthirsty gods, and barbaric splendor abound. And to add to his troubles he falls in love with a priestess whose sacred vows places her beyond his reach. How can our intrepid adventurer survive with life and limb intact and save the day? Read the story if you'd like to know.
Edit history: Minor changes were made to this story on 10 July 2021.
Chapter 1: The Uncharted Island
A man may run from many things, but how can he escape those dark and scourging thoughts that drive him ever onwards? Shall he flee to the furthest country, the highest mountain, or the depths of the sea? Ah, but those lashing memories, more brutal than a whip of scorpion’s stings, shall fall upon him no matter where he goes.
This harsh unyielding fact slowly dawned upon Sinclair Remington, who sat at the helm of Wave Flame, his hover-yacht, as he fruitlessly fled along the fifty fifth meridian and into the South Pacific Ocean‘s midst. The man gazed morosely at the dark expanse of water stretching out before him, and for the umpteenth time recalled that day on Islas Gilbert near the tip of South America, that day of terrible truths and shattered dreams from which he so desperately sought escape …
**********
They had anchored in a small bay, its sandy shore edged with emerald verdure that clung to the gently rising land. Above, in the cloudless heavens, the sun shone its warm benevolence upon the fertile earth, and across the expanse of flawless sky, which mirrored the calmness of the azure sea, flew birds whose feathers blazed with all the rainbow’s colors.
“Oh, how picturesque,” breathed the young woman as she leaned against the rail.
Remington gazed upon the beauteous lines of his fiancée’s finely chiseled countenance and well proportioned figure. She was twenty, ten years younger than him. Quite a catch, or so he thought.
“Not as picturesque as you, Ann” he replied with deep sincerity as he cupped her breasts and kissed the graceful column of her neck.
The girl laughed with embarrassment. “Please Sinclair, not here. Tim might see us.”
“Indeed he does,” said a voice with mock severity.
Both turned and saw Sinclair’s younger brother emerge from below decks. They were very different, these two men. Sinclair, tall and powerfully built, was a fairly easy going fellow. His sibling, though, of stocky build and reddish hair, was something of a trouble maker. Sinclair wasn’t overjoyed to have Tim on board, but his brother’s wild ways had led him into recent trouble with the law, and with both parents dead he felt obliged to keep an eye upon him.
Tim grinned mischievously. “Hadn’t you better get our engine fixed? After all the money you’ve spent on this prototype of yours, I’m surprised its system still has bugs. This trip along the coast of South America was supposed to be a holiday, you know. “
“Rome wasn’t built in a day,” replied Remington, slightly nettled by his younger brother’s comment. Then, rather pointedly: “Why don’t you go ashore and amuse yourself? This problem may take some time to resolve.”
Tim laughed good naturedly, and turned to Ann. “Let’s leave old sourpuss to his tinkering. I’ll race you to the beach. Catch me if you can. “
And with that challenge he sprung upon the rail, cleaved the sea with a graceful dive, and with powerful strokes struck out for the sandy shore two hundred feet away.
“Unfair advantage,” cried the girl as she eagerly followed his example.
Remington, frowning slightly, watched them gain the beach. He would have liked Ann to stay … Still, this was supposed to be a holiday, and she wasn’t really interested in his experimental electromagnetic propulsion system.
Sighing, he descended to the engine room and began his examination of the vessel’s touchy mechanisms. The problem, he soon discovered, was quite simple - nothing more than a loose connection in the power plant.
Remington quickly fixed the fault and ascended to Wave Flame‘s deck. With eager eyes he scanned the empty beach for Ann. But of her and his brother there was no sign. Fear touched him. Somehow, he knew something was terribly amiss.
Quickly, he grabbed a diver’s knife from the cabin, stuck it in his swimming trunks and flung himself across the rail in a wild dive. Remington’s powerful thews thrust him through the water, and in record time he was upon the beach. At breakneck speed, spurred by formless dread, he dashed along the sandy shore, following the trail of footprints that led into the fringes of the rampant jungle, and it was here that he came upon the dreadful, soul destroying scene.
Both Ann and Tim were locked in the most intimate of embraces - completely nude, and from the girl‘s eager cries it was clearly not a case of ravishment. For a second Remington stood there in utter disbelief; then a dozen minor incidents all fell into place, and the shocking jigsaw was complete in all its dreadful lines.
Rage seized Remington; he became a puppet to this raw and terrible emotion. Leaping forward the snarling man caught his brother by the hair, hauled him off the panting girl and flung him to the ground.
With an oath the younger man rolled aside, barely avoiding Sinclair’s vicious kick. Tim’s only regret as he flung dirt in his brother’s face was that he and Ann had been discovered.
Spitting curses, Sinclair, half blinded, fell upon him. Both men grappled fiercely as Ann watched breathlessly, ashamed and horrified. The two brawlers strove mightily, muscles rippling. Tim was shocked by his brother’s manic strength, knew he had no chance against the man who he was certain meant to kill him. In a desperate move he viciously bit his ear.
Remington howled like the wild beast he had become. With a surge of overwhelming strength he flung his brother against a tree, and had the satisfaction of seeing him strike his head against the bole and slump unconscious to the earth. Possessed by seething jealousy, he then drew his knife and advance menacingly upon the senseless man, his face a rigid mask of satanic rage.
With a cry of terror Ann dashed past Remington and flung herself protectively upon his brother.
“Oh, don’t,” she desperately cried. “Please don’t. Oh God, what have we done.”
Remington looked upon her tear stained face, her shielding body upon his helpless brother. The sight broke through his madness, and the debilitating realization dawned upon him that he’d utterly lost - what woman would sacrifice herself but for the man she truly loved? The knife slipped from his nerveless fingers, and the world spun in mad confusion about his sagging form as he fell upon his knees.
Time passed, the quiet broken only by the wind stirred trees and the soft weeping of the guilt-wracked girl. Tim groaned and opened his eyes. He tensed as did Ann when both saw his older brother standing over them.
What could Tim say? There had always been intense rivalry between them, and his seduction of Ann had been an enormous triumph. The trouble was that he’d actually fallen madly in love with the girl, and she with him much to their mutual surprise.
Remington looked dully at the couple, feeling as if a mule had kicked him in the guts. They had betrayed him, true. But to play the role of Cain and attempt to shed his brother’s blood - was this not the greater sin? This terrible realization struck Remington like a blow. Overcome by overwhelming shame, he turned and fled ...
**********
An alarm sounded, stirring the brooding man from his gloomy thoughts. Sonar indicated the sea floor was rapidly rising, as if his craft was nearing an unknown shore.
The puzzled man looked out to sea. There was no sign of any land; only a strangely shimmering haze lay ahead of him, perhaps one league away. Remington maintained his course and speed - it was only a harmless perturbation of the atmosphere caused by differences in temperature.
Wave Flame drew near; the haze grew, became a huge dome through which sky and sea, strangely distorted could be seen. Puzzled by the vastness of its size, Remington piloted his craft closer still. Suddenly, he realized something was terribly amiss - the shimmering air was glowing with subtle light.
With a startled oath, he tried to veer away. Too late - his speeding craft plunged within the weird phenomena. Strange forces reacted with Wave Flame‘s drive field. Snapping discharges suddenly filled the cabin, became glowing balls of fire that flew about like demonic cannon balls. Remington, white knuckled, gripped the helm controls. Swearing profusely, He ducked and weaved like a demented boxer to avoid the searing spheres.
One flaming globe formed within the engine room, crashed against the vessel’s power plant. A flare of seething energy erupted as arcing current overloaded the hapless vessel’s mechanisms. The ship’s electrodyne exploded. Half the deck vanished in a fountain of whirling, smoking debris. Remington swore as one lancing fragment shattered the cabin’s aft window, narrowly missing him.
Desperately, he struggled to control his slewing vessel as she madly careened across the waves. An island materialized as if by magic, and the sweating man stared in disbelief as the burning craft hurtled unstoppably towards its sandy shore.
Wave Flame struck the beach; ploughed into fringing jungle with a thunderous crash. One mighty palm crunched down upon the burning hulk, adding fuel to the leaping flames gnawing at the shattered craft. Smoke, thick and black, plumed upwards in a twisting ebon column to mark the once proud ship’s final resting place.
Coughing violently, Remington crawled from the burning wreckage. Only the deploying of Wave Flame‘s bespoke airbags had saved him from instant death. The singed and battered man, half blinded by the choking smoke, looked about. To his horror he glimpsed crimson flames creeping towards spilt fuel from ruptured tanks. A surge of wild fear propelled Remington to his feet. He leapt clear of the burning hulk and staggered desperately for the safety of the sea. A vast explosion shook the earth as he plunged beneath the waves, and even here he could feel the terrific heat of the fearsome blast...
Remington surfaced, gasping for air, having stayed submerged as long as humanly possible. Nothing was left of Wave Flame except smoldering debris strewn up and down the beach - years of toil now utterly ruined. With slow and ponderous steps Remington struggled free of the clutching waves, and collapsed exhausted to the sand.
He laughed, but it was not the laugh of bitterness or madness. Strangely, he found his black mood had lifted, and realized that there is nothing like the surge of adrenalin when fighting for your life to burn away self-pity.
Thoughts of Ann, his brother and their betrayal were still there. They always would be. But for now, at least, these memories were a dull ache rather than searing pain, for his mind was focused upon the strange series of events that had so unexpectedly befallen him.
Shortly, he regained his strength, stood, and looked curiously about. He was on an island, that was clear - the golden beach curved gently in both directions, while the land rose forming rugged and verdant hills that mounted ever higher. But it was not these mundane things that held the startled man’s amazed attention, for in the centre of the isle was a mighty peak, the likes of which he had never seen before nor could have imagined in his wildest dreams.
It rose in formations resembling monstrous organ pipes - like the monolithic instrument of some primordial cathedral built by colossi. Immense, towering masses of gleaming stone, metallic blue in color, seemed to rake the sky with their glittering pinnacles, and about each mighty column was a shimmering aura of golden radiance.
Remington looked upon it in silent awe, and now realized that all about the very air seemed to shimmer with its subtle light. Could it be this strange radiation, when it reached a certain distance from its source, altered the refractive properties of the atmosphere, thus rendering all the land invisible to unsuspecting eyes? If so, it was like a mirage in reverse, with some light leaking in from the outer world, like a two way mirror, thus enabling him to see. Being a physicist he thought this the most likely explanation, fantastic though it was.
But where exactly was he? The days had passed in a blur of headlong and unreasoning flight. All he could be certain of was that he had sailed well outside normal shipping lanes. Little wonder, then, that given the isle’s invisibility and its remote location it had remained uncharted.
A slow smile crept across Remington’s handsome face with the realization this discovery would make him famous, then he sobered with the knowledge his vessel had been utterly destroyed. It was a nasty situation to be in, but he refused to give up hope. Picking up a length of shattered railing for a staff, he set off along the beach to explore the land, thinking that perhaps he might find suitable timber to construct a raft, and flint for a stone axe with which to fell the trees.
After about half an hour of walking, Remington noticed something in the distance upon the beach - small shapes circling a prone form struggling wildly. Drawing nearer he saw, to his horror and amazement that a man had been staked out on the sand, and surrounding him were cawing things who eyed their victim with the ruthless gaze of ravenous predators. In shock, the American stopped and stared in utter disbelief.
The creatures, striped with the coloration of tigers, were flightless birds about three feet in height and resembling emus. Their heads, though, were eagle-like in form, their snapping rostrums viciously hooked - the mark of savage flesh eaters.
One brute leapt upon the struggling victim’s chest, its gaping beak darting for his eyes. Remington flung off the paralysis of shock that had momentarily seized him. With a wild cry he dashed forward, wondering if he could reach the helpless man in time.
Chapter 2: A Lord of Uxchal
As Remington sprinted to the rescue he saw the stranger jerk his head aside, the snapping beak narrowly miss its mark. Again, he uttered a frantic shout and the mecu, four in all, swung their brutal heads in his direction. With cawing cries they charged him in a wild rush.
This tactic took Remington completely by surprise. Being small, he had thought to easily scare them off. Too late he realized his mistake - the mecu, though avian, hunted like wolves, and like wolves they set upon him in a vicious pack.
Reality became a mad whirl of darting beaks. Remington swung his makeshift staff in deadly arcs. One mad eyed creature fell, its head shattered to bloody ruin. Another leapt at him, razor beak murderously agape. He jumped aside, struck it down. The third came at him from behind and bit his calf.
Remington cursed, fell. He managed to brain the thing before it could again attack. The last one, though, leapt upon his chest, talons raking. He screamed, barely caught it by the neck as its darting beak sought his throat. With a mighty heave he jerked the mecu off and surged upon his feet, then with wild strength swung the helpless bird about his head and smashed the horrid thing upon the sand. It quivered for a moment; then lay still.
Chest bloody and heaving, Remington stood there for a moment gazing at the carnage he had wrought. He shuddered at the sight, thinking how close to death he had come. Clearly, this island was no tropic paradise.
Looking at his injuries, Remington was relieved to see they were not as serious as he had feared, and so turned his attention to the stranger whose life had been preserved by his succor.
Lord Haracha quietly returned his gaze, his mind churning in speculation at the strange appearance and origin of his rescuer. As a Lord, though, it was unbecoming to reveal anything other than complete composure, so he maintained a façade of calm repose, but only just.
To Remington, equally wondering, the fellow’s appearance suggested he was related to the Indians of South America - his cheek bones were prominent, his nose slightly hooked above full lips. Eyes, dark and observant, scrutinized the American as he drew near.
By Haracha’s apparel, Remington correctly guessed he had saved an important man - the Lord, who appeared to be in his early twenties, was clad in a richly embroidered loincloth, and about his neck, wrists and ankles were ornaments of pure gold that shone dazzlingly against nut brown skin. Why, though, had he been staked out upon the sand like some common criminal?
Remington knelt and began the difficult task of freeing the man. As he picked at the knots he tried to question the Lord and thus resolve this mystery. English drew no response, nor Spanish. Fortunately, the American was something of a polymath, and in desperation he tried Quechua, the Inca language he knew from his anthropological studies of that culture.
A slight smile curved Haracha’s lips. “So, you speak out tongue. Good. Those other sounds you made were like the screeching of a parrot - most uncivilized.”
The American couldn’t help but laugh. It was a haughty remark, true, but somehow it suited the fellow, and he found he could take no offence at this affectation of vaunted superiority.
At last the final rope fell away, and Remington helped the Lord to stand. He was surprised when the man embraced him warmly; further when he spoke these words:
“Brother you now are to me for having saved my life. As Lord of Uxchal my generosity will know no bounds. I have many questions for you, as no doubt you have for me. But first you must cleanse your wounds in the sea, for the mercu’s bite and claws can cause disease.”
As Remington bathed, both men conversed at length, and the American had conformation of the incredible thing he had suspected - that the island was populated by descendents of the ancient Inca, for Haracha spoke of the age old legend of a distant land - Tawantinsuyu - where two mighty lords contested for the crown of empire.
Savage battles had raged across the land. Cities burned, men fell like leaves from a storm wracked tree, and the entire earth seemed to overflow with blood and tears from the brutality of total war. Then, the final battle came - the hosts of Pachacuti faced those of Mauahic upon the plain of Xocutal. Ten thousand men to a side were those mighty armies.
Plumed warriors shouted fierce battle cries at the foe, and when this savage diatribe reached its fuming climax both sides swept down upon the other in a living tide of howling men. The legions crashed together in a mighty shock. Then the battle swirled about in a melee of fighting men who smote each other in unrestrained ferocity.
Men screamed, fell dying by the droves to swinging axe and thrusting spear, while the bones of others were shattered by the mace‘s crushing blow. The day wore on in a frenetic nightmare of wild struggle, and broken bodies grew in gruesome heaps upon the battlefield. The pitiless sun baked the blood soaked earth, and in the burning heavens condors circled, awaiting their grisly feast. Death, it seemed, had become lord of all creation.
At last darkness came, and the decree of Night ended the bloody fray, or so Mauahic thought. But in the midnight hours the legions of Pachacuti fell upon him with such cunning stealth and dreadful slaughter that only he and one hundred men survived the brutal massacre, and fled towards the coast in ignominious defeat.
Darkness was upon the soul of Mauahic - before him was the sea, behind the pursuing army of Pachacuti. He was trapped, and death and all its terrors were upon him. In desperation he prayed to Viracocha, the creator, and a vision was granted to him - of a hidden land across the vastness of the sea.
Giant rafts were hurriedly constructed, women and provisions stolen from coastal villages, and Mauahic and his followers set out upon the heaving waves of the vastness of the sea…
“And so,” concluded Haracha, “That is how my ancestors came to Uxchal. I see you find the tale a marvelous one; but not as marvelous as the account of your own origins. You must be mighty magicians in that distant land of yours, and I am in sore need of some miracle.”
Remington smiled as he waded ashore, having completed his ablutions. “I’m no sorcerer, nor are my countrymen. It is our understanding of nature that allows us to perform what seems to you like magic. But tell me your problems, and I’ll help you if I can.”
It was a generous offer, but not entirely selfless. Remington was only too aware of his precarious situation - marooned on an unknown island, his only means of returning home utterly destroyed. Clearly, friendship with this Lord had best be cultivated.
Haracha smiled, his shrewd mind guessing that the American would agree, and as the two men walked towards the jungle he began his explanation:
“My mother, Cuillaca, gave birth to twins - myself and my brother Xucapa. Unfortunately, as we both look exactly alike, there was confusion afterwards as to which of us was firstborn, and therefore inheritor of the kingdom. Because of this our father, Vichima the Sapa Inca [king], decided that we should rule jointly until one of us produced a firstborn son who, when he came of age, would be ruler of the land.
“However, with the death of our Sapa Inca several months ago, the trouble began, for there never was a body with two heads or a kingdom with two rulers …”
A grim silence descended upon Haracha as they entered the fringes of the luxuriant jungle, his mind recalling his brother’s treachery; all starting with a friendly invitation to hunt wild fowl, then proceeding to the unexpected ambush - men rushing from concealing verdure to leap upon him; a wild fight of fists and feet.
One he felled with a mighty blow; another with a well placed kick. Then the rest flung themselves upon him, and he crashed to earth beneath the weight of brawny bodies. Still he fought, his teeth biting savagely. One man lost a finger, howled as he clutched the severed digit. Then someone struck him in the groin, and thus he was at last subdued.
For a moment Remington saw Haracha tremble with fury at the recollection of this humiliation and his brother‘s gloating explanation for his treachery; then, regaining his composure the Inca Lord continued.
“Xucapa is being aided in his plot by Maztaca, High Priest of the Sun. Now, ever since the hair began to sprout upon his loins, Maztaca has desired my sister Quilla, who was appointed Priestess of the Moon by virtue of a crescent birthmark upon her brow, and of course is now beyond his reach thanks to her holiness.
“Maztaca, though, is a cunning man and now seeks to ensnare my sister using the guise of religion to conceal his base desires in this crafty way: before we sow our maize a sacred ritual is performed - the mating of Sun and Moon, our divinities of fertility. Traditionally, this ceremony was purely chaste, with High Priest and Priestess clothed, merely embracing and uttering the prayer of invocation to our deities.
“Now, though, Maztaca wants the ritual to be a sexual act. If my brother does not oppose the alteration of the rite, Maztaca will use his authority to proclaim my death - a tragic hunting accident - the will of Heaven, and thus remove suspicion from Xucapa.”
“And your sister, has she no say in this matter?”
“Hardly, for the Sun outshines the Moon, and she must follow him.”
Suddenly, four warriors marched around a bend in the trail they had been traversing, catching Remington and his companion completely by surprise. A moment of frozen silence ensued - each party looking at the other in astonishment. Then, at a sharp command from the leader, the guards, spears leveled, were upon them in a savage rush.
Chapter 3: Temple of the Sun
With his staff Remington parried one thrusting spear, spun his weapon and struck the warrior a savage blow across the head. The foe collapsed, skull shattered by the fearsome stroke.
Haracha sidestepped his opponent, tripped the fellow who crashed upon the earth. Another lunged - a vicious thrust he had no time to evade. Remington saw the danger, knocked aside the weapon. Haracha then leapt upon the guard, powerful hands locking about his throat.
To the rear the fallen warrior staggered up, thrust his spear at Remington’s unprotected back as the American engaged the leader of the guards. With a mighty heave Haracha flung his foe into the path of the stabbing spear. The hapless fellow uttered a bloodcurdling scream as the sharp bronze point plunged within his guts.
Remington parried, lunged; felled his man with a lightening thrust to the groin. He spun around, saw Haracha evade the final warrior’s stabbing spear and end the fight with a well timed kick to the fellow’s knee. The Lord then snatched up a fallen weapon and rammed its point into the surviving guards before the panting American could object. Remington turned away, sickened by the brutal act.
“These were the traitors who staked me out upon the sand,” explained Haracha. “No doubt they were returning to see if the filthy mecu had done their work. But I see you do not approve of my killing of them.
“Listen carefully,” he continued in a hard tone that would brook no contradiction. “By saving me you have made an enemy of my brother and his supporters. They will show neither of us any mercy, nor can we afford the luxury of being lenient to them. Now, arm yourself with a spear from our slain enemies - it will make a better weapon than that makeshift staff of yours.”
A grim silence descended upon both as they continued their way along the jungle trail, Remington reflecting on the fact that he was not the only one to have a troubled relationship with a brother. In this instance, however, far more was at stake than the affections of a woman, and the American wondered if he’d live to regret having saved Haracha’s life. It was a depressing thought, and so he sought distraction from it by observing his surroundings.
The jungle hemmed them in on all sides. Towering trees shut out the sky with their luxuriant canopy of emerald leaves, and all about their buttress roots was a wilderness of undergrowth whose monotony was broken by gorgeous blooms - explosions of vivid color all the more dazzling in the gloom.
Scents infused the air - the odor of humus in decay, subtle perfumes from nameless flowers; the musky smell of some animal whose scent was brought to them on a gentle breeze. Here, nature was at her most vibrant, the world permeated with untrammeled life. Remington felt very small, dwarfed by some vast, inexplicable and overpowering presence…
With startling suddenness the jungle ended, and they found themselves upon a cliff overlooking a grassy plain overshadowed by the isle‘s fantastic peak. Before them, at a distance of perhaps a quarter mile and at a lower elevation, was a mighty tree fringed plaza in whose middle Remington descried an ushnu platform - the centre of ceremonial activity and symbol of the Inca state.
The structure was a truncated pyramid of polished granite, fifty feet in height; whose base must have measured three hundred feet to a side. It was slightly different from the traditional ushnu; for at the eastern flank, rising up from the platform’s plane, was the Temple of the Sun, and upon the western - the Temple of the Moon.
Each temple – a stepped pyramid in form with a base of perhaps fifty feet - rose to a height of at least one hundred feet or more. But it was not these mundane dimensions, impressive though they were, that so astonished the amazed American, for each temple was covered from base to crown in a precious metal. For the Sun it was pure gold, and the Moon - silver, preserved from tarnish by secret arts unbeknown to the outer world.
About the mighty ushnu, like children clinging to the skirts of a colossal matriarch, were lesser structures - paved terraces where statues of the minor divinities could be found, and small shrines at which the common folk could perform their daily rituals. But today the shrines were bereft of their attentive worshippers, for all were slowly gathering before the Temple of the Sun, the growing throng gazing at three figures standing high above.
Haracha swore, his voice starting the astounded American, who had expected to behold nothing more than villages of thatched huts. They were there, true - beyond the temple, dwarfed by distance and the imposing structure of the gods.
“Look,” cried the Inca Lord. “Maztaca and my brother are before the crowd. Overconfident of their success, they are no doubt informing the populace of my demise.” Haracha then grinned at Remington. “Let us go below and disappoint them.”
Both carefully descended the precipitous declivity by a narrow trail and then, when the level ground was gained, sprinted towards the mighty ushnu and reached its southern flank unobserved by those on the structure’s other side.
Remington stood near Haracha as the Lord carefully examined the bas reliefs adorning the towering building. A grin of triumph, cold and cruel, came upon the Inca prince as he thrust his finger within the eye socket of a leering skull. Stone grated on stone, and the American watched in silent wonder as one mighty block of the rearing wall descended to reveal the secret way it hid.
They entered, the door rising when Haracha pulled a bronze lever upon the other side. Remington found it all rather surreal - the swirl of strange events into which he had blindly stumbled. What was Haracha planning? A confrontation with Xucapa, obviously; but what was to be his role in this unfolding drama? The American felt trapped, and not just by the narrow passage whose twisting, rising way they now ascended. To Remington it seemed he had become a pawn in a deadly game the outcome of which was far from certain.
They entered a small, square chamber, and both jumped as a bronze door slammed down behind them. The darkness would have been absolute had it not been for wan light filtering through narrow, masonry piercing shafts. It seemed they were trapped, for no exit presented itself to their roving gaze, merely a room encircling frieze of grinning skulls at shoulder.
“There is great danger here,” murmured Haracha. “One of these skulls opens the way, the others bring death. But which one is it? Of that I am uncertain, for these passages are very ancient, and much knowledge of them has been lost with passing centuries.”
Brilliant, thought Remington, sourly, just bloody marvelous. He was wise enough, though, to keep his sharp opinions to himself as he nervously watched Haracha carefully examine the carvings.
In tense silence the minutes passed. Sweat was upon Haracha’s brow as he finished his examination. He licked dry lips; then spoke: “I have narrowed my choice to three. I shall try the first.”
Remington tensely watched as Haracha approached the skull, saw the man hesitate. It was either death by slow starvation or some other means. Firming his resolve, the Inca thrust his finger within the eye socket of the hideous image.
Sharp twangs - the hiss of flying darts slashed the silence. From hidden apertures about the walls cunning mechanisms hurled forth a storm of deadly bolts. Cries of agony echoed in the confines of the chamber. Wicked missiles ricocheted in all directions from the stone. Then the barrage ceased and two figures, unmoving, lay bleeding upon the floor.
**********
Xucapa looked upon the wailing throng with barely concealed glee - the High Priest had just announced his brother’s untimely death. Xucapa had nearly laughed - for him it was an intoxicating moment of long awaited triumph, and the hypocrisy of the mournful speech was most amusing to him. Maztaca, too, was infused with dark delight at the thought of his reward - Quilla, Priestess of the Moon. He turned towards the girl by his side, drinking her beauty with his lascivious stare, a salacious smile oozing across his brutish countenance.
The girl regarded the leering priest with aloof contempt, but inwardly she was sick with stabbing fear and the heavy weight of sorrow - Haracha dead, her other brother reveling in the knowledge, and now Quilla sensed with a woman’s intuition she was at the mercy of Maztaca whom she knew lusted after her.
“I have kept my bargain, Xucapa,” whispered the priest, not taking his eyes off the frightened girl as she hastily backed away. “I have proclaimed your ascension to the throne Heaven’s will.”
His co-conspirator smirked. “Then go claim your reward while I assuage my grieving subjects with golden words.”
Quilla gasped at this callous declaration, for although whispered she'd read the lips of the conspirators. In that terrible utterance she glimpsed the essence of the pair’s nefarious scheme. For a moment she stood in utter disbelief that her own brother could sink to such depravity. Then fear turned to righteous anger, and the girl bravely stepped forward, full lips parted to decry their treachery to the wailing populace.
Maztaca saw her move, sensed her purpose. In an instant he leapt upon the girl like a pouncing tiger. Both fell to earth, struggled wildly while Xucapa, callously unaffected by his sister’s plight, addressed the milling crowd to distract them from the fray.
A powerful hand clamped upon Quilla’s mouth, cutting off her scream. The High Priest, Inflamed by the press of her writhing body abandoned all restraint. With animal passion he ripped her tunic open and fixed his hungry gaze upon the naked, heaving breasts of her luxuriant physique.
Chapter 4: Messenger of Inti
Maztaca, hot with lust sought to seize one naked breast. Quilla savagely bit his hand that was upon her mouth. The High Priest screamed, rolled off the girl, and clutched his bleeding finger. She leapt up, staggered towards the ushnu’s edge some fifteen feet away. The truth must be told to her people.
Xucapa paused in his speech when he saw the crowd was stirring. Some were pointing - they had briefly glimpsed the commotion high above. Silently, he cursed his sister with wild banes.
“Get up, you fool,” he sharply ordered in a hissing aside to Maztaca. “Stop her before those below fully realize something is amiss.”
Volcanic fury rather than Xucapa’s words propelled the High Priest to his feet - how dare she reject him, how dare she bite him like a filthy animal. Again, he threw himself upon the girl and felled her to the earth. Then from his girdle he drew a wicked blade and thrust it towards her throat, unbridled rage overwhelming all his other passions.
**********
Deathly quiet reigned in the chamber of the skulls; then Haracha stirred. He gazed at Remington. “Wrong one,” was his sober but banal observation.
“Obviously,” replied the American, dryly.
Somewhat abashed, but not showing it, the Inca uttered a silent prayer as he tried the second skull. Both men were bleeding from cuts upon arms and legs where the flying barbs had grazed them, and he wondered if their luck would hold. Stone grated upon stone. Both men tensed, and then relaxed as another secret door descended.
The way had opened behind a statue of Inti, god of the Sun. Though Remington was from a wealthy family, old money in fact, the sight of it staggered him as he emerged from semi-darkness – it was a towering, barbaric idol, fifteen feet of solid gold. It stood in a shaft of light, blazing with the reflected power of the solar orb.
Stealthily, Haracha moved to the trapezoid doorway of the temple, Remington close upon his heels. Cautiously, both peered without and beheld the terrible scene - the fallen girl; Maztaca’s glittering blade.
With a silent curse Haracha’s knuckles whitened on his spear. He dashed towards the struggling pair with Remington close behind. Too late - the dagger plunged unerringly at Quilla’s throat. She twisted; the blade struck stone. Haracha hurled his spear with utmost force.
Quilla screamed as the High priest raised his dagger for a second strike she knew would end her life. The blade descended in a savage arc. The flying spear struck Maztaca a glancing blow upon the head. He tumbled unconscious off the frightened girl, his falling dagger barely missing her.
Xucapa turned and staggered back as Haracha’s fist struck him upon the jaw. Remington saw the plotter duck the second punch, draw his dagger and lunge in a vicious stab. Haracha caught his wrist; both men grappled. The American’s heart skipped a beat as he saw them totter on the edge.
Both combatants were close together. The American dare not cast his spear or try and stab the foe. Leaping forward he grabbed Haracha, hauled him back and kicked Xucapa in the shin. The man fell, but saved himself with a clawing grasp and hung precariously upon the edge.
Quilla rose unsteadily, overjoyed that Haracha was still alive. Ah, such short lived happiness - the tumult of the throng drew her startled gaze. Warriors were rushing towards the temple stairs - the opposing factions of her brothers, each seeking to aid their respective Lord. In but moments the disaster of civil war would consume the land.
Thinking quickly, the girl ran forward and pulled Xucapa up to safety, knowing that for the moment she must put aside her desire for vengeance to serve the greater good. “Peace,” she cried. “We are not a numerous people. If we fight among ourselves it will be the end of us. Each of you, swiftly stay your men.”
For a brief moment the brothers glared at one another in unveiled hate, but then common sense prevailed. The surging warriors halted at each Lord’s shouted order - it seemed a stalemate.
Haracha grinned, for he knew where brute force fails subtlety can often win the day. “What’s this?” he cried in mock surprise to the wondering throng. It appears the announcement of my death is somewhat premature.”
Then, turning to Maztaca, who slowly stood, his face a competing mixture of hate and disbelief, as was Xucapa‘s: “The High Priest’s prophecy of my demise was false. He is no true servant of the Sun. Behold the Messenger of Inti who told me so.”
And with that startling announcement he knelt in obeisance before the shocked American. Speechless, Remington gazed in disbelief as all the people in the plaza threw themselves upon the earth, for if a mighty Lord of Uxchal would sink upon his belly before this being, then so must they.
All at once the American saw Haracha’s cunning plan - being proclaimed a Servant of Inti would enable Remington to decree Haracha Sapa Inca by will of heaven, and thus foil all the schemes of his brother and Maztaca.
Would the population believe the ruse? More than likely, Remington thought. The conquistadors had been considered virtual gods by the Indians who had never seen a European before. Would he play the part? Considering his situation he had little choice, and Haracha knew it. Although annoyed at being used, Remington couldn’t help but admire the cleverness of the Inca Lord.
Not so Xucapa, who in this announcement saw all his plans undone. He, too, lay prostrate before Remington, wondering if Haracha’s words could be true, but not daring defiance in case they were. Surreptitiously he gazed at the American, saw with amazement his pale skin and blond hair, which the light seemed to tint with gold - the symbol of the Sun.
His eyes shifted to Quilla. She appeared quite composed despite the ordeal she had just been through. Xucapa wasn’t surprised. Quilla had always been an extremely resilient person, with an inner strength the envy of most men. Still, he wasn’t fooled by her outward calm - he had made an enemy of her. Again, he carefully looked about and saw Maztaca defiantly upon his feet. The sight of the High Priest’s rebellious stance lent him courage, as did the words he now cried for all to hear:
“I see wounds upon this man. Though of a strange appearance, he bleeds like any other. Before I bow to him I demand the Test of Fire to prove he serves the Sun.”
Remington turned to face Maztaca, and saw the sardonic smile upon his face. That the High Priest was skeptical came as no surprise, for the American correctly guessed that he was used to putting words into the mouth of Inti, and that years of doing so had made him doubt many things allegedly divine.
The throng murmured at these words; Xucapa smiled cruelly at his brother, who, despite his accustomed composure, was obviously alarmed by this cunning counterstroke. Quilla maintained an inscrutable demeanor, but inwardly she was afraid - if Haracha was lying, then Maztaca had effectively called his bluff.
“You too can bleed,” replied the American meaningfully, referring to the ugly gash on Maztaca’s head where Haracha’s spear had struck him a glancing blow. “I accept whatever test you propose,” continued Remington who cast aside his spear as if he had no need of it, “and when I pass the trial I demand you death as punishment for this outrageous insolence.“
It was sheer bravado, but Remington knew he had no choice. The slightest signs of vacillation would expose the fraud to all, and then his life would be measured in but moments. The only consolation was the shaken look on the High Priest’s face - he had clearly not expected this self-assured response. The American took advantage of the fact, and continued.
“Arise Lord Haracha. With your permission may I retire and await this doubter’s petty test?
“I would be honored,” replied the Inca as he rose, “if you choose to accompany me to my humble palace.” Then, turning to Quilla: “Sister, would you care to grace us with your presence?”
The girl stood, and Remington briefly glimpsed her full breasts as she quickly covered them. Their eyes met - a lingering glance that touched both with strange emotion. Before, events had been too swift for either to truly look upon the other, but now the opportunity arose it seemed both were captivated by the other’s presence.
“Servant of the Sun, shall we go?” prompted Haracha, breaking the thrall that held both of them.
“Yes … Of course … Please lead the way.”
Remington could have kicked himself as they slowly descended the broad steps by the Temple of the Moon, leaving the others to stare after them in open speculation. No divine being would be affected by the glance of a mortal woman, and he wondered if his foes had noticed his extraordinary reaction.
He risked a sideways glance at Quilla, and caught her surreptitiously observing him. Quickly, she turned her eyes away, but not before they betrayed her inner thoughts, as did her blush - clearly, she was fascinated.
Memories of Ann rose up within his troubled mind, and he could not help but compare the two of them. Quilla was not as beautiful, but somehow there was an allure to her, the essence of which was impossible to define. Was it her mystique as Priestess of the Moon, the way she moved with fluid grace, or her dark, expressive eyes? He shook his head in bafflement as they reached the bottom of the steps.
And Quilla - what could her thoughts be? The girl silently reproved herself - was she not the High Priestess, the incarnation of the Moon? This stir of emotions that now beset her was most disturbing. Still, he was a handsome man, strangely so. Perhaps it was nothing more than that.
The silent, awe struck crowd parted, opening up the way, and soon they found themselves before the ancient palace of the island’s kings - a group of rectangular, thatch-roof stone buildings located within a high walled courtyard upon the square’s northern side.
Spear armed guards thumped the butts of their weapons in a crashing salute as they passed through the massive gate, and entered the fragrant garden of the royal compound. Here, blooms of every color grew in profusion, scenting the air with their delicate perfume.
Remington was nearly overcome by the vibrancy of the sight - the exotic flowers of incredible size and form set against the granite buildings, all richly ornamented in fantastic carvings of stylized animals and men.
They entered the cool interior of the most imposing of courtyard’s seven structures. Haracha bade Remington sit upon crimson mat embroidered with thread of gold, then summoned a servant to bring refreshments, while Quilla excused herself, and continued on into the inner sanctum of the palace to change her ravaged attire.
The two men sat in silence for a time, sipping chicha* from golden beakers of ornate design, each wondering what the future held, and how best to meet it.
“Well,” said Haracha with forced casualness. “That was a clever move you made. It certainly got us out of a difficult situation.”
It was certainly an understatement, and Remington eyed him coldly for the American knew he was in more strife than he could imagine. “What is this Test of Fire Maztaca spoke of, and what are my chances of surviving?”
“Well,” began Haracha, but he got no further, for a woman’s scream, quickly muffled, broke upon their ears.
Both men leapt upon their feet, madly dashed down the corridor to Quilla’s rooms. Through the door they burst and found themselves fighting for their lives as leaping figures with glittering knives fell upon them.
* Footnote: Chicha is a kind of beer made from fermented maize
Chapter 5: Assassins of the Death God
A dagger plunged. Remington caught his assailant by the wrist. The blade halted a fraction from his jugular. He glimpsed the assassins face - a thing of horror. Nose and lips had been cut away, as had the flesh around the eyes to show the bone beneath. A living skull-like visage of ritual mutilation confronted him.
He swore in revolted shock, failed to block the punch that crashed against his jaw. Haracha, who was wrestling with his own assailant, saw Remington stagger back and the foe lunge, his blade swinging upwards in a gutting stroke. With a mighty heave he flung his man to the floor, and leapt to aid the doomed American.
Remington twisted, gasped as the leaping knife scored a bloody line across his skin. Haracha fell upon his foe, brawny arms wrapping about the man in a crushing hold. Remington finished the fellow with a vicious blow across the throat.
The American cried a warning - the second assassin was upon his feet and lunging at the Inca’s back. Haracha spun about, and the dagger stabbed the corpse he held instead. But the Inca tumbled to the floor, unbalanced by the violence of the blow.
Again, Remington was set upon. He leapt aside, felled his opponent with a vicious kick, and then broke the killer’s neck with a brutal stomp as he lay sprawled upon the stones.
Looking up, the American beheld the third assassin who had held himself in reserve. The murderer crouched above the struggling girl who lay nude, gagged, and bound upon the floor. From the wetness of her skin she had obviously been set upon whilst bathing.
Guards, alerted by the servants, surged within the chamber. They were halted by Haracha’s warning cry and the assassin’s dagger pressing against his sister’s throat. With impotent rage, Remington watched as the killer dragged Quilla into an adjoining room, giving the furious men a final insolent and mocking look.
“The fool has trapped himself,” whispered Haracha as he stood. “That chamber has no exit but the door through which he went.”
“Then perhaps we can bargain with him for Quilla’s safe release,” suggested the American as he crept cautiously towards the room and peered within.
Remington swore in disbelief. Haracha rushed forward, his guards close behind. The small room - a private shrine - was completely empty to the enquiring gaze of all.
“Magic,” cried the Inca Lord, horrified. “The fiend has vanished, taking Quilla with him.”
“A secret door, perhaps?” was Remington’s more logical suggestion.
The men rushed within, began a frantic search. Remington found a damp spot upon one ornate bas relief of the blocky altar - as if a hand, wet from Quilla’s body, had pressed against it. His eager fingers probed the image. It gave slightly beneath his touch, and a trap door dropped open in a corner of the room.
Haracha struggled for calm at the sight of the dark way into which his helpless sister had been carried. The Inca glanced at his warriors who stood stiffly, awaiting orders, but what good were they? His brother and Maztaca were clearly behind this frightful kidnapping. Quilla would be their shield against which he dare not launch any counterplot. Remington, who also saw the danger, spoke decisively:
“I’ll pursue, and rescue Quilla. Once she is in Xucapa’s hands his hold upon you will be unbreakable. Now tell me quickly, who were those men, and where does that passage lead. I must know what I’m up against.”
Haracha hesitated. Any rescue effort would endanger Quilla’s life, he was sure. But given his brother’s cruel treachery, could he be certain she would remain unharmed even if he did nothing? And then there was the lustful Maztaca to consider … Despite the danger, it seemed he had no choice but to act.
“They are the supaya - a cult of assassins who worship Supay, God of Death. A pogrom was launched against them by my father. But a remnant of the cult still exists in its secret stronghold, occasionally stealing women from outlying villages. I didn’t know that tunnel existed, and cannot say where it leads, except into certain danger. I will send my best men with you on your mission.”
Remington shook his head. “Many men clattering through the passage with their arms and accoutrements will alert the supaya he is being followed, and thus endanger Quilla‘s life. I must go alone in stealth and silence. It is our only hope.”
The Inca Lord chewed his lip in worried thought. So much depended on Remington’s success... If the American failed… Well, that didn’t bear thinking about. Still, what he said made much sense, and so Haracha slowly nodded, speaking thus:
“Then go, and may Viracocha favor your perilous enterprise.”
Without further words Remington armed himself with an assassin’s dagger, and climbed into the pit of gloom that had opened up before him. Slowly, cautiously, he descended, clinging to hand holds cut into the stone of the shaft. At a depth of fifteen feet he touched the bottom, and quietly padded along the tunnel’s shadowed length, which was dimly illuminated by balls of metallic blue stone that shone a wan golden light upon the way.
The direction he was heading in appeared to be towards the ushnu, and Remington correctly deduced that this passage was part of a labyrinth that lay within and beneath the temple complex. That it was of great antiquity was evidenced by the dust upon the floor, and the American knew that if it had not been for the faint impressions of the supaya’s footprints in the grime, he would be lost, for the way branched at several points.
He had traversed perhaps fifty yards when he came upon a despairing sight - the tunnel floor had collapsed, leaving a gaping chasm he could not leap across. A sense of hopelessness settled upon Remington. Had the wily assassin, using a false trail, eluded him in the semidarkness?
With a sinking feeling Remington gazed at the yawning cavity. Further progress was quite impossible. For a moment all seemed hopeless, and into utter darkness his soul did sink, weighed down by the thought of Quilla in the hands of her brutal captor.
But then hope rose within him as he drew near - the floor's collapse had opened a way into a natural cavern, dimly illuminated by phosphorescent fungi that grew in fantastic coral forms about a forest of rearing stalagmites and below, in the fallen earth, were the footprints of the fiendish kidnapper.
Carefully descending the sloping rubble, Remington stepped among the thallophytes, which glowed like the smoldering coals of Hades, and so focused was the man upon following the trail of his enemy that he failed to notice the thing lying hidden so near to his encroaching feet.
Camouflaged coils were suddenly flung about his ankles. He fell, and cursed in fear as the enormous serpent began to wind about his struggling form. Man and beast rolled. With a surge of strength Remington freed his arms. But to his horror he found his knife had fallen out of reach.
Its iron coils constricted. Reality became swirling darkness and crushing pain. Through fading vision the frightened man saw the swaying head that loomed above his sweating face. Remington’s hands shot out. In utter desperation he gouged the glittering eyes.
The thing convulsed, jerking him about. Grimly, he clung to the thrashing head as the serpent sought to free itself. The coil about his chest tightened. Remington clenched his teeth against stabbing agony, dug his fingers deeper within its eyes - to let go now would seal his fate.
Again it writhed, hissed in agony. Remington struggled against its weakening grip, desperately trying to suck life giving air into his starving lungs. Suddenly, the beast slid from him - it had had enough. The man released his grip, and rolled clear, chest heaving.
Now free, the furious snake reared like a striking cobra. Though blinded, the serpent’s heat sensing organs perceived its gasping tormentor. It struck with whip crack speed, hissing jaws agape.
Remington snatched up his blade, thrust it within the creature’s darting maw and up into its brain. Blood spurted, the serpent writhed. Its death agonies wrenched the American’s knife from his grasp. He staggered away, panting like a spent hound, and watched it slowly die.
After several minutes Remington regained sufficient strength and calmness to continue his pursuit. For a final time he turned a shuddering gaze upon the serpent - fifteen feet of crimson death, distantly related to the anaconda, he supposed.
A sudden movement among the fungi made him tense - a hairless rat-like creature, about the size of a small dog, poked its snout from behind a thallophyte, squeaked in alarm, then vanished. Remington relaxed, correctly guessing it was the prey the serpents of this cavern usually fed upon.
Searching carefully, he soon discovered the assassin’s trail - a path of broken fungi that even his untrained eye could follow. Hope rose within Remington - the supaya was not bothering to hide his progress, overconfident that the hidden passage remained a mystery to those above.
For an interminable period, Remington doggedly followed the trail as it wove its way between the towering stalagmites of this subterranean realm - a series of interconnected and twisting caverns that steadily rose towards the island’s mountainous interior.
At last he came to the exit of the hidden world, which debouched upon a lengthy shelf of metallic rock, blue in color, which projected from the precipitous flanks of isle’s rugged mountain.
From this height the view was panoramic; awe inspiring. The very air was tinged with a subtle, golden radiance that emanated from the unknown element that comprised the soaring peak, which fell away in a series of fantastic organ pipe formations to the verdant earth a thousand feet below. In the distance Remington saw the expanse of ocean glittering as if strewn with myriad diamonds.
Turning his gaze from the incredible scene, the American found himself standing on a slight acclivity that afforded a rightward view across shelf’s extensive length. He was amazed to see a village had been constructed against the mountainside. The buildings hugged the stone in a ragged line, as if fearful of the precipitous drop mere yards from each structure’s trapezoid doorway.
Quickly, Remington crouched within the shadows of a rocky outcrop and carefully studied the silent village. He was certain that here Quilla lay imprisoned, but how to reach her? The nearest building was perhaps one hundred yards away. If he approached he would be seen at once, for the space was a level plain. Should he wait until nightfall? But then the glowing rock would still illuminate him.
He frowned in worried thought. For the moment the girl was probably safe from death. But there were other ways in which she could be harmed, and with this disturbing realization swift fear stabbed him like a blade.
Suddenly, his thoughts were interrupted by a shout. Remington spun about. He saw men laden with baskets of fungus emerging from the cavern. The American swore as they dropped their harvest and charged him in a wild mob.
Men leapt at him, their hideously mutilated faces filled with hate. Remington struck savagely with his dagger. One assassin tumbled, blood gushing. Others took his place and fell upon the loan defender. The American went down beneath the weight of bodies. A fist lashed out, and for him the world spun into sudden darkness.
Chapter 6: Citadel of Knives
For the umpteenth time Remington wrenched the heavy chain about his neck, heaved mightily against the thing that bound him to the wall. But it was no use, and he sagged in exhausted dejection - the bronze links were far stronger than any man could ever be.
He had awakened within the cell. How long he had been there he didn’t know. The only illumination was a torch that guttered in one corner of the room, its feeble light disclosing his doleful plight. Whether it was night or day without was impossible to tell.
That he was still alive despite the savage beating inflicted upon him was little consolation. No doubt his captors wished to question him, and by brutal torture he was sure. He went cold at the thought, colder still when the cell door crashed inward with alarming suddenness.
An old woman entered, bent with the weight of years. In her arthritic hands she bore a wooden platter heaped with fungus. Behind her strode the thuggish turnkey - a pitiless fellow, face sickeningly mutilated as were all the male assassins in this citadel of knives.
Slowly, the crone approached - too slowly for the jailer’s liking. He pushed her roughly. She stumbled with a frightened cry; fell sprawling at Remington’s feet. The turnkey luridly cursed, drew his cudgel and stepped forward to land a savage blow upon the helpless hag.
It was all too much for the American - if he was going to die, then he‘d exact what revenge he could upon these swine. His foot lashed at the fellow’s groin. The brute, though, was quicker than he looked. He twisted, and the painful blow struck his thigh instead.
Remington aimed another desperate kick. With lightning swiftness the hulking brute blocked his leg, lunged forward and swung his club in a wild blow. Remington ducked, the turnkey’s weapon slammed against the stone and shattered in a spray of flying splinters. The savage howled - one fragment had struck his eye; he dropped his ruined cudgel.
Swiftly, Remington drove a brutal uppercut against the fellow’s chin. His foe grunted, staggered back and tripped upon the moaning woman. The turnkey fell heavily, cracked his head against the stone, and then lay deathly still.
Instantly, the woman stopped her groans, which were mostly sham to hide the fact she was stronger than she looked, and then regarded the American with thoughtful, intelligent eyes. Remington returned her steady gaze, fearing she would raise the alarm. He wondered if he would have to kill her too. His fears were quickly allayed by her friendly smile, further by her helpful words.
“I am Coya. You are here to rescue the girl? I will help you. Ah, I see you wonder why I betray these fiends. They are not my people. When I was young a supaya desired me, stole me from my father’s house in Uxchal. I would not see these evil men harm the daughter of the Sapa Inca. “
“You know where Quilla is held? Is she safe?” questioned Remington eagerly as Coya snatched the keys from the jailer’s corpse and freed him.
“To these murderers, women are less than the dirt beneath their feet. They ignore us mostly, unless their brutal passions are aroused. One may learn much by keeping silent and listening carefully. She is safe … for the moment. But enough talk. Come with me before we are discovered.”
Quickly, they exited the cell, closing the door behind them. Along a short corridor they quietly stole, Coya now moving with an agility that belied her years. Both entered the small guard room at its end. They froze - an assassin was within, his back towards them.
Instantly Remington leapt towards the foe. The man turned, drew his dagger - the faint sound of the American’s attack had alerted him. The blade swung up. Coya gasped. Remington’s hands shot out. One caught the fellow’s wrist, the other latched upon his throat cutting off a desperate call for help.
With his free hand, the killer wrenched violently at Remington’s stranglehold as they staggered about the room. The American felt his fingers slipping - in but seconds the fellow would give a warning cry and bring other foes upon them. Quickly, he drove his knee into his opponent’s groin. The man collapsed, Remington snatched his dagger, and with it stabbed the supaya through the heart.
Shakily, he stood, revolted at what he’d had to do. Coya touched his arm. “Quickly,” she gently said. “Help me hide the body. Then we must continue on.“
They left the building (the corpse having been concealed in an empty cell), and stepped upon the narrow street that plunged away in a frightful abyss to their left. It was early evening, and the village appeared deserted, deathly quiet. Where was everyone? Remington voiced this whispered question to his guide.
“Quilla was to be held here, unharmed, as a hostage,” explained the woman. “But a falling out over the reward has occurred between Xucapa and Manac, chief of the supaya, and now a vengeful Manac plans to sacrifice the girl to Supay, god of death and Lord of the Underworld. Most of the men folk have gone to the Grotto of the Skull to watch this awful ceremony.”
Remington halted. A look of utter consternation was upon his face. “Then take me there at once,” he hoarsely cried.
“Calm yourself”, advised Coya as she tugged him within the open door of a nearby house. “You cannot succeed alone. A rebellion has been slowly gathering strength among the captive women. Wait within my home whilst I summon those loyal to me.”
She quickly departed before he could object, and Remington was left alone with only his gnawing fears for company. An agony of eternity seemed to pass before Coya finally returned. She stepped within the room, ten girls following quietly in her wake.
The anxious man looked them over. Most were young and pretty; all were marked by signs of cruel abuse, and in the unflinching hardness of their gaze he saw a burning desire for revenge. But all were slightly built, no match for the brawny thews of their brutal captors. He gave Coya a dubious look.
In answer, she drew a yard long blowgun from beneath her cloak, as did the others. Her eyes glittered. “The darts are coated with deadly poison as are the knives we also carry. The slightest scratch will kill. Are you satisfied?”
Remington nodded. They left the house and swiftly walked along the narrow ledge towards the village’s further end. Here they halted, and Coya cautiously peered around the corner of the final building.
Before her was the entrance to the Grotto of the Skull, and from it sounded the ominous chanting of the Death God’s fanatical worshippers. Coya signaled, and Remington tensely watched as two girls slunk forward upon their bellies towards the pair of killers who guarded the opening to the cavern.
**********
Within the grotto, many men knelt in the lurid light of flaring torches. They formed an arc about the Death God’s leering idol, swaying in time to their sonorous chant, glazed eyes fixed upon its diabolical hideousness.
The ugly statue squatted on its haunches, and straddling them, as if mounted upon a horse, was bound a naked girl. Quilla screamed, struggled wildly. Her fear wide eyes gazed in horrid fascination at the statue’s blade-like phallus that slowly rose, propelled ever upward by cunning mechanisms within the hollow image.
Manac, in the role of priest, stood beside the writhing girl, aroused by the thought of her hideous end - the penetrating blade ripping through virgin flesh, blood and entrails oozing from the gaping wound. Manac chuckled, and Quilla shrilly screamed, her mind a swirling maelstrom of incoherent fear, as cold metal inched ever nearer to her naked loins.
**********
Darkness was upon the world, but the glowing rocks provided a dim illumination whose wan light faintly disclosed two creeping forms. From the corner of his eye, one guard sensed this subtle movement. He turned. A dart struck him in the throat; a gurgling cry escaped his lips as he fell dying to the earth.
The second killer saw he was outclassed, and fled within the grotto to summon aid. Within two steps another missile struck him in the back. The supaya staggered, his yell for help drowned out by the rising chant, as was the thud of his body as it fell upon the floor. Remington and the girls dashed towards the entrance of the cave. They burst within the Death God’s unholy tabernacle and beheld the hellish scene.
Remington yelled. The girls spat their darts. Assassins fell, the burning poison turning chants of ecstatic worship to lurid screams of agonizing pain. Manac ducked as a missile whipped within inches of his head. He shouted orders. Quilla glimpsed the surviving supaya, knives drawn, charge the girls. A second volley killed half their number. But the remainder fell with fearless savagely upon the maidens and a swirling melee of flashing blades and spurting gore erupted.
Frantically, the American fought his way through the struggling press of bodies towards the idol, cutting a bloody path through the foe with his dripping blade. Manac drew his dagger, leapt to meet him. They crashed together like striving bulls, each grasping the other‘s knife hand in a surging wrestling match.
Quilla screamed as the statue’s blade pressed home. Sickening fear seized Remington when he saw the danger she was in. With a mighty heave born of utter desperation he flung away his enemy, slashed the cord about one ankle of the girl, and pushed the wildly panicking woman off the idol.
She fell heavily, for both hands were tied behind her back, and her other leg was still bound to the horrid image. The breath was knocked out of Quilla - she could not cry a warning. In utter helplessness she watched as Manac’s dagger swung down in a brutal arc towards Remington’s unprotected back.
Chapter 7: The Narrowest of Margins
Manac’s dagger plunged. Sensing danger, Remington quickly turned. He caught the knife hand of his foe about the wrist and swung his own blade upwards in a gutting stroke. The supaya chief caught the American’s forearm in a crushing hold, and the knife jarred to a halt mere inches from his belly. Then, in a cunning move, Manac dropped his heavy dagger so its point struck Remington’s bicep, cutting painfully.
The American gasped, dropped his blade. Quilla cried in fear as she saw Manac lunge against her would-be savior to topple him upon the idol’s deadly phallus. The American saw his foe’s murderous plan, twisted, threw the man. Manac fell and screamed horribly as he was impaled by the risen blade of his hideous god. Fell silence then chased away the echoes of his dying cry.
Remington quickly looked about, expecting to be set upon at any moment. But none were left alive to face him. They had won, but at a cost - of the girls who aided him, only five remained. He turned to Quilla and began the task of freeing her.
“Are you badly hurt?” he queried as the last rope fell away.
For an answer Quilla flung her arms about him, weeping softly. Remington held her in his arms, stroked her hair as he whispered words of comfort to the trembling girl.
The press of her voluptuous nudity his body aroused him despite the danger of their situation, and it was only Coya‘s intrusion upon the scene that dispelled his rising passions.
“The priestess is sacrosanct, young man,” warned the crone in a knowing fashion as she severely eyed him. “She is an embodiment of the Moon Goddess, and her sacred vow of chastity is a bar to earthy passions.” Then, more gently to the girl: “Take this cloak, my lady. It shall shield you from the eyes of men, and the coolness of the mountain air.” Although, she thought, your rescuer seems hot enough.
Embarrassed, Remington released the girl and turned his back while she donned the garment. Once clothed, Quilla spoke, and Remington was shocked, not so much by what she said, but by her tone which conveyed to him all the avenging passion of the Furies of ancient Greece.
“With these woman’s hands I shall slay my brother Xucapa. I swear this by the Moon, and may all of you bear witness to this oath of mine.”
Clearly, despite her womanliness, she was a person to be reckoned with when made an enemy.
Coya, seeing the minds of all were focused on passions of a different nature, changed her line of argument. “No doubt the priestess is eager to return to her people and assure them of her safety. The caverns are the quickest means. But since your arrival - proof that the way has been discovered - many guards have been posted within its passages, and so that path is barred to us.”
They left the Grotto of the Skull in silence, the grim mood of all stifling further discourse. As they emerged from the cave, a full moon greeted them. Quilla gasped, not at the beauty of its cloud lancing rays, but at the sight of leaping flames that swathed the supaya citadel in rippling sheets of burning light.
Tongues of lurid fire danced upon thatched roofs, while others burst from doors and windows to join their brothers high above in a flaring serenade of roaring flame. And the risen wind took spitting sparks as its partner, and whirled them all about in a fandango of blazing incandescence.
To Remington’s horror, he saw figures staggering from the burning buildings, their hair and clothes aflame, and by the light of these living torches glimpsed hard faced warriors cut them down. It was like a scene from the depths of hell - butchery silhouetted against roaring flames, the anguished screams of victims as they died a brutal death, and the terrible stench of burning flesh that filled the air. Clearly, the cavern guards had been overwhelmed by a better trained and greater force of professional warriors.
Suddenly, a figure stepped forward from the demonic melee and hailed them: “Quilla, is that you I see? It is I, Haracha, come to rescue you. Approach me alone so I know that you are safe.”
Remington gripped Quilla’s arm and held her back. She turned upon him in angry puzzlement, for she knew her brother‘s voice.
“We cannot see his face,” he said before she could object. Then, to the distant man: “Drop your weapons, and come closer so we may see you clearly.”
“Sinclair? You are safe! The gods be thanked. Of course I will come closer.”
“You suspect something is amiss?“ murmured Coya, sickened by the sight of the massacre, and the knowledge she was too late to save the children. Remington nodded. The girls readied their weapons. The man, unarmed, drew near. A moonbeam disclosed the features of Haracha. Or were they?
“Is that Haracha or Xucapa?” Remington whispered to the girl. “Can you tell your brothers apart?”
Quilla frowned as the possibility of a deception dawned upon her. Her brothers were identical, but they made a habit of dressing differently and adopting dissimilar mannerisms, for each despised the other. But even so, each could play the other’s role, and she had often been fooled by their childish pranks of imitation. Then, an idea came to mind.
“Haracha”, she called. “Do you remember that time I threw a pot at you when we were young? I missed, but you stepped upon a broken piece and badly cut the heel of your foot. Show me the scar so I may know that it is you.”
“Gladly,” replied the Inca as he knelt to remove his sandal.
All relaxed at his unhesitating compliance. Then, as if by magic, a concealed knife flew from Xucapa’s hand and whirled in a glittering arc at Remington.
Quilla screamed. Remington dodged the flying blade. The girls loosed their darts. They struck Xucapa’s cloak that he had flung up as a shield. Retreating in a zigzag sprint, the Inca called upon his men, and in response a rain of javelins arced towards the group who scattered just in time.
“This way to safety,” shouted Coya,“ as she sprinted with surprising speed along the narrow shelf of stone. “Our weapons have not the range of theirs.”
Remington followed at a run as did Quilla and the other girls, and as they made their desperate race, the yelling warriors hot upon their heels, the worried American wondered if escape was possible, for he saw the ledge ended in a yawning chasm that dropped away into a thousand feet of terrible emptiness.
A javelin flew passed his ear, struck Coya in the back. She fell lifeless to the earth. Quilla tripped upon the corpse, nearly fell.
“Keep going,” panted Remington. “There is nothing we can do.”
Onward they raced, another girl falling to a flying missile. Then, they came to the bridge that leapt the dizzy chasm - a flimsy thing of ropes that did not inspire the slightest confidence. Upon its rickety, windswept length they stepped, edging in single file out over what seemed an endless void of shadowed space, utterly terrifying.
“They’re gaining on us,” gasped Quilla, as she looked behind.
“Hurry,” urged Remington. “They’ll be forced to slow when they begin to cross, and the swaying of the bridge will spoil their aim. When we’re on the other side I’ll cut the ropes.”
But the warriors did not cross. Xucapa halted them with a sharp command, for the cunning Inca Lord had anticipated what Remington planned to do - sever the cable when they were upon the bridge, and send them plunging to their deaths.
The stranger, though, was not the only one who could play that game. Remington was too dangerous to be left alive, and if Quilla (whom Xucapa had hoped to recapture) must die with him, then so be it. Maztaca wouldn’t like it, but if the stranger passed the test it would be the end for priest and prince alike.
Xucapa smiled cruelly, spoke: “Bring me an axe.”
Half way across, the thud of sharp bronze upon a wooden post made Remington turn. The sight chilled him through. “For God’s sake,” he cried, “hurry.”
Again, Xucapa swung his axe. The thick rope parted a little more; then another swing sheared the cable. The bridge fell. It hung by a single line. Girls tumbled screaming into nothingness. Quilla gasped - the girl and Remington had saved themselves by retaining their grip upon the final cable, but now, to her horror, she was slipping. With one hand Remington grabbed the girl, hauled her tightly to him.
“Cling to me”, he cried. Then Xucapa severed the remaining rope, and the stricken bridge dropped away in a frightful plunge that blotted out all rational thought. Through the void they swung to crash against the chasm’s precipice, the jarring impact absorbed by Remington’s muscular thighs.
Remington hung on for dear life. The girl, eyes tightly closed, clung to him so forcefully he could feel the beating of her racing heart. Clearly, she was too terrified to be of any help. Looking up he saw the edge of another rocky shelf, perhaps five feet away. He began to climb, groaning under the terrific strain of Quilla’s dragging weight upon his body.
Xucapa looked on in disbelief. Perhaps Maztaca was wrong, perhaps this stranger was blessed by Inti after all. Then he cursed in bold defiance, for neither gods nor men would deter him from his scheme. He barked an order, and a flight of javelins leapt across the gulf towards the helpless pair.
From the corner of his vision Remington glimpsed the flying death, and with a surge of strength gained the safety of the ledge, the deadly weapons gouging stone where he had hung.
Frantically, he scrambled further upon the rocky shelf; his movements impeded by the tightly clinging girl. The panting sweat soaked man crawled around a hairpin bend, spurred to greater haste by another javelin that crashed down upon the ledge in the narrowest of misses.
Remington collapsed, utterly spent. Time passed… It seemed an age before he felt sufficient strength return to stir. He sat up and looked at the girl who lay next to him, quite nude, for her cloak had fallen off some yards away.
Her eyes were closed, her breathing steady. He took guilty pleasure in gazing upon her shapely form. Suddenly, her lids fluttered open. The girl’s gaze touched his face, and she became aware of his desire.
Tongue tied, Quilla blushed, acutely aware of her nudity and his examination. Quickly, she sat up and placed a concealing arm across her breasts and one hand between her thighs. Her sudden rising, though, made her dizzy, and she swooned.
Remington caught her in his arms. Again, he held the girl. For the first time they were completely alone, and for some reason it made him intensely aware of her. Quilla, too, was suddenly affected: Remington’s hand, warm and strong, rested gently upon her shoulder - an innocent touch, yet strangely sensuous.
They were very close, and in that moment the world and all its cares seemed far away. Remington slipped his arm about her waist. She drew near to him, drawn by an inexplicable need. Suddenly, their lips met in a lingering, spontaneous kiss that held for both all the gentleness and passion one could desire …
Slowly, the girl pushed Remington away, and gazed upon him with troubled eyes.
“I … I cannot love you,“ she stammered. “I am a Priestess of the Moon. My vows forbid it.“ And then she flung herself upon the ground, and wept bitter tears of grief for both of them.
Remington looked upon her, wanting to offer comfort, but not daring - if he again held her in his arms… Well, either one of them might weaken and that would be a danger to them both. He, too, then turned away and placed his head in his hands, pierced through by her unrelenting sobs, and the terrible knowledge they were forever denied happiness...
Gradually, Quilla settled and when he turned he saw she was asleep, exhausted by the tumultuous events that had crashed upon her. Moonlight cast its magic upon her face and figure, tingeing the girl with ethereal beauty. Remington looked long upon her, pierced by a tumult of emotions.
He had found love only to have it snatched away again - not by a mortal man, but through blind obedience to the dictates of ancient and forbidding gods. It was a blow of utter cruelty, and it took all his resolve not to sink into that pit of black despair he had fallen into after losing Ann. No, this time he would find a means to circumvent heartless fate that sought to deny them happiness.
For long minutes ideas passed through his troubled mind, but no Muse gifted him with an inspired thought, and so at last he sighed, and gently wrapped Quilla within her cloak he had retrieved. He needed to think about more immediate things, like their survival.
They had escaped by the narrowest of margins - the gulf was too wide for the warriors to leap across, and the bridge would take many days to repair. But even if that were not the case they must perforce stay here - both were too exhausted to continue. Remington lay down next to Quilla, wondering what other ordeals they would have to face.
Despite the hardness of the ground and his worries, he was soon asleep.
A scream thrust Remington into sudden wakefulness. The startled man jerked up, saw Quill crouching and discerned at once the cause of her alarm. Before them, illuminated by the dawn and perhaps thirty feet away upon the narrow ledge, crept the stalking beast.
The thing’s tawny legs and body resembled that of a mountain lion in form and size, but with a stiff horse-like mane running from the middle of its skull to the tip of its whipping tail. The head, though, was dog-like in appearance, the brutal jaws armed with vicious canines. Clearly, it was a ferocious carnivore.
Quilla swallowed hard. “It’s a yapas”, she gasped. “Extremely dangerous." Then the beast, as if to emphasize the point, charged upon them in a savage rush.
Chapter 8: Descent into Peril
As the yapas hurled itself towards them, Remington grabbed Quilla, hauled her up.
“This way,” he cried as he urged the frightened girl towards narrow ledge’s hairpin bend.
Quilla ran, spurred by the sight of the charging beast. She slowed her headlong dash to take the corner, slipped on dewy stone. Her fear wide eyes gazed in utter horror as she tumbled towards the edge; then Remington‘s strong arms hauled her back from certain death.
Man and girl stumbled around the bend, heard the yapas skid with grating claws to a halt. Remington cursed. He had hoped the momentum of its frenetic charge would be too great to stop, would propel it into the frightful depths below. But it seemed cruel fate had once more turned her hand against them.
The yapas eased its savage bulk around the corner. The couple backed away as it again stalked towards them, a bass growl rumbling in its hairy chest. Behind them loomed the broken bridge, the path’s fell edge. There was no escape.
Then Remington glimpsed the javelin that had been cast the night before. He leapt for it. The yapas charged. Quilla screamed as man and beast collided. In helpless terror the girl watched as both tumbled towards the edge. She screamed again as they fell over into utter emptiness.
**********
Drums throbbed in the darkness. In wild abandonment danced the frenzied priests - grotesque and barbaric figures that capered madly about the fire pit in the middle of the ushnu. Maztaca, resplendent in his cloak of rainbow plumage and golden ornaments stood before the trench, his dark, narrow eyes gazing into its glowing depths. Night had fallen, and the lurid orange flames of the blazing logs had settled to coals of luminescent scarlet.
The High Priest’s chest swelled with an intoxicating sense of exultation as he looked upon the stone steps that led into the glowing pit whose length was studded here and there with spikes of bronze. Soon he would descend those treads, and walk unscathed along the bed of burning coals, and ascend other stairs at the trench’s eastern side where stood a smaller idol of the Sun.
Maztaca softly laughed. In but moments he would prove to all he was the true Servant of Inti, for who could brave the flames unharmed unless he enjoyed the blessings of the Sun?
The High Priest turned to Haracha, a slow, malicious smile oozing across his shadowed countenance. Again, he cruelly laughed, for he knew the man his enemy had proclaimed so boldly as a messenger of the Sun was nowhere to be found.
Haracha, though bound and helpless, was still defiant. He returned Maztaca’s look with contemptuous silence, but within his heart cursed the priest, Xucapa, and the servant who had betrayed him to their cause. For a moment his memory replayed the fatal scene …
Suddenly, unexpectedly, through the unlocked postern gate of the palace compound had surged Xucapa’s howling warriors to fall upon his men with bloody fury. Axe crashed upon shield, spears thrust. Haracha, alerted by the fray, dashed out, tried to rally his scattered men, but without success. He glimpsed Xucapa in the melee of surging fighters, charged towards him.
Men fell beneath his swinging axe. He yelled a challenge. Xucapa grinned. They crashed together, smiting one another with vicious blows. Xucapa’s shield cracked under a terrific stroke. Cursing, he swung a savage blow that numbed Haracha’s arm when he blocked the fearsome counterstroke.
Again, Haracha swung with wild strength. Xucapa, who had thrown away his useless shield, caught with both hands the descending axe’s haft. The weapon jarred to a halt; he heaved.
Haracha lost his balance, fell. Xucapa dropped upon him like a rock. Both men wrestled for possession of the weapon, sinuous as writhing serpents. Xucapa howled when Haracha bit his ear. He released his grip upon the axe. Haracha thrust the haft against his brother’s neck and forced him to the ground.
Xucapa’s breath was stopped by the deadly pressure of the haft across his throat. The world grew dark, his frantic struggles weaker. The frightful end was near. Then strong hands hauled Haracha off, and with brutal blows Xucapa’s warriors subdued the Inca lord...
Figures emerged from darkness, their sight breaking through Haracha’s brooding thoughts. It was Xucapa and the other nobles, all come to witness his brother’s uncontested triumph. Haracha instantly recognized his enemies. Former friends, though, would not meet his somber gaze. He felt like spitting on them.
Xucapa spoke: “Is all in readiness?”
Maztaca nodded. Xucapa turned towards his brother, and uttered these words in triumphant, mocking tones.
“Where is the man you claimed was Inti’s servant? Why is he not here to prove his worth? Ah, he must have fled - a coward and a liar, much like you.”
Haracha quivered - not with fear, but with fury. Remington was obviously dead at his brother’s hand, for the traitor had also disclosed the hidden way the American had taken to rescue Quilla. The Inca lord, though, maintained a stony silence, not wishing to lower himself by trading insults with his evil sibling.
Xucapa grinned. “The fire pit is very hot. Without Inti’s aid no mortal can survive. I’ll prove it by throwing you upon the coals.”
Hard faced warriors seized Haracha. They forced the struggling man towards the pit. Upon its edge he saw the angry glow of the burning coals, felt their frightening heat. The guards hoisted their prisoner for the fatal cast. Within Haracha fear rose to a screaming crescendo of utter terror. He choked back a wild cry of humiliating fear.
Suddenly, confusion reigned - men shouted, milled about. The drummers stopped their frantic beat. The warriors who were about to throw Haracha within the pit hesitated, and turned to see the cause of this disturbance. As one they released the Inca Lord and fell prostrate upon the stones. Haracha teetered on the edge, stumbled back and collapsed weak kneed to the paving. To him this reprieve seemed like an unexpected miracle.
Looking up he was amazed to see Remington and Quilla standing before the other bowing nobles, with only Maztaca and Xucapa remaining defiantly upon their feet.
Remington gazed calmly at the plotters, his placid façade concealing troubled thoughts. Here he was among his enemies - deadly and as treacherous as serpents - with the woman he loved by his side and in equal danger. That Quilla was here at her own insistence didn’t ease his worries, for if he had miscalculated in his conclusion he could masquerade …
Xucapa’s lurid cursing broke Remington’s train of thought.
“Fools,” he hotly yelled. “This fellow is no messenger of the gods. He is an impostor! Do you not remember Maztaca’s proof - his wounds proclaim him nothing but a mortal man.” Then, to the grovelling guards: “Seize them both, you idiots, or I‘ll have your families killed if you disobey.”
In consternation, the warriors leapt upon their feet. Goaded by this threat they advanced hesitantly upon the pair, frightened to obey, but terrified of the consequences if they didn’t.
Fear assailed Quilla as she saw the men approach. She, too, knew Remington was not divine. Only the gods, luck, or Remington’s desperate plan could save them now. The girl swallowed hard, stepped boldly forward to play her part, and raised her hands dramatically.
“You dare lay violent hands upon my sacred person? Xucapa may kill your mortal bodies, but the gods will curse your souls and those you love for this affront. Remember, I am Priestess of the Moon, and am therefore sacrosanct.”
The guards wavered. They looked in shocked dismay at one another, their superstitious minds assailed by the fear of supernatural vengeance. Vast relief flooded Quilla at the sight of their hesitation. The girl pressed home her advantage, spoke to the nobles who now whispered indecisively among themselves.
“This man,” she loudly proclaimed, pointing at her companion, “is the true servant of Inti. I swear …“
Maztaca savagely cut her off with a wild curse. He faced the American, every muscle tense with quivering rage. In an instant he could see all his plans were in grave danger of being undone - Quilla‘s oath and Remington‘s heroic deeds would win the day.
“The test,” he cried. “Only the Test of Fire can prove such claims.”
These words smote Haracha like a fist - in his joy of seeing his sister and friend alive he had quite forgotten the deadly challenge. To him this verbal sparring had suddenly become as lethal as a poisoned blade. Xucapa saw his look of consternation brought on by the terrible realization that all was lost. He grinned viciously.
“What’s this?” he cried before Remington could respond to the challenge. “My brother’s worried look clearly shows he does not believe this stranger is the messenger of the Sun.” Then, to Remington: “You’ve trapped yourself, you fool. If you accept the challenge you’ll burn. Refuse and we’ll know you’re an impostor. Either way you’re dead.“
And then he laughed uproariously in the knowledge that he had won.
Chapter 9: The Test of Fire
Remington was strangely calm despite the terrible risk he was about to take. Indeed, He had faced so many perils that it seemed he was becoming numb to danger. It had been a near thing - that tangle with the yapas. The creature had impaled itself upon his javelin, and both had fallen onto another ledge a few feet lower down.
The descent from the mountain had not been without further perils, but at last they reached an outlying village in the afternoon. Here, the chieftain gave them food and shelter and informed them of Haracha’s fate. Then, a mad race ensued to reach the ushnu - through the secret way Quilla knew to the Temple of the Moon, from which they had emerged, much to the plotter’s consternation.
“I accept Maztaca’s challenge,“ was Remington’s calm reply. Then, to the others who looked on in astonishment: “When I emerge victorious from the flames Haracha shall be Sapa Inca by the will of heaven. Then Xucapa and this lying priest shall be his to do with as he pleases.”
“Enough of this nonsense,” screamed Maztaca. “Strike down this filthy charlatan.”
“And risk the fury of the gods?” shouted Remington. “Tell me, priest, have you doubts about yourself? Is this why you seek to evade the challenge?”
Suddenly, Maztaca felt the weight of questioning eyes upon him. Silently, he cursed the stranger. The man seemed so confident. Could he know the secret of the test? The High Priest’s mind became a whirl of frantic thought. If Remington passed then all was lost - already, many half-believed in his alleged divinity. Suddenly, an idea came to mind, and Maztaca smiled a cunning smile.
“Words are easy. But it is the deed that counts. We shall undergo the test at once.” Then, to the others: “Stand back. Only the Priests of the Sun may observe this sacred rite.“
Despite his earlier confidence, a growing sense of unease settled on Remington as a lesser priest came forward and washed and carefully dried their naked feet. The trench was deep - about ten feet. Both would be out of sight - an opportunity for treachery on Maztaca’s part. But this disturbing realization had come too late - the ceremony had recommenced with thudding drums and their madly dancing players. He could only trust his plan and be alert for trickery.
They approached the steps, Maztaca in the lead. The High priest offered a salutation to the idol of the Sun, descended. Remington did likewise and followed suit.
Xucapa watched, his face lined with worry. Could this man really be the messenger of the Sun? Haracha looked concerned; Quilla unperturbed. She smiled at him unpleasantly as she freed her brother from his bonds. Was she bluffing? He didn’t know. The signs were all contradictory.
Remington began to sweat, and not just from the stifling temperature. The coals glowed with shimmering, threatening radiance, their fearsome heat trapped by narrow walls of stone. Onto this scorching bed calmly stepped Maztaca, and began to walk along its blistering length of twenty feet, avoiding the metal spikes, widely spaced. Chanting softly, his eyes were focused upon the image of his god. He showed signs of neither fear nor pain.
All of Remington’s instincts rebelled at following him upon the burning way - one thousand three hundred degrees Fahrenheit - the coals were a fearsome scarlet, and here and there tongues of dancing flame could still be seen. Danger from every point screamed at him. Still, he dare not hesitate.
Onto the glowing bed Remington stepped, thrust through by knifing trepidation. A prickling sensation was all he felt as he walked upon the coals, and the American grinned in vast relief. Being a physicist, he knew that the heat conductivity of wood is very low, and from Quilla’s description of the ritual, correctly guessed that by walking quickly his feet would not be in contact with the coals long enough to burn. It was still dangerous - the spikes of bronze were red hot, and would sear him instantly, but if he was careful he would be safe.
All seemed assured of success - his feet would be unscathed. Maztaca was in front and could not strike him down from behind. The High Priest, though, was more cunning than he had anticipated - Maztaca stepped to safety upon the lowest tread of the exit steps, and drew a long and wicked dagger from beneath his cloak.
At once Remington saw the High Priest’s crafty plan - to burn his feet by trapping him on the coals. Retreat was impossible - an admission of defeat. Above, the capering priests and watching nobles were too far back to witness Maztaca’s dark deceit and the throbbing drums would mask the sounds of struggle. He was on his own.
The American did the only thing he could - he rushed Maztaca in utter desperation. The glittering blade swung up in a gutting stroke. Remington leapt, twisted in midair. The dagger grazed him as he collided with his foe.
Both men fell painfully upon the steps, grappled. Maztaca fought with all the fury of a cornered beast. Remington grunted as one bony knee struck him in the ribs. He nearly lost his grip on the knife hand of his foe. Quickly, he countered with a head butt that broke the High priest’s nose.
Maztaca swore, spat in the American’s face to distract him. The trick worked - the priest broke free in a surge of strength and aimed a kick at Remington that would knock him back into the fiery pit.
**********
An agonized scream started the expectant onlookers. The drums fell silent and Quilla gasped involuntary. Who had made that awful death-cry? Remington? He had explained to her as best he could the trick of fire walking, but now doubt assailed her. The girl’s full lips quivered. If he were dead then she would join him in the burning trench. Better that than Maztaca’s foul embrace.
The suspenseful murmuring of the eager watchers was cut short - someone emerged from the pit, silhouetted by its crimson glow. A moment of breath-stilling suspense ensued - the shadowed figure, indistinct, his identity cloaked by darkness. Slowly, the man walked into this pregnant silence, drew near. A moonbeam broke through clouds, touched his face as he approached.
Xucapa cursed in disbelief. Instantly, he knew all his plans had come to naught. With a howl of rage he drew his dagger and leapt upon his brother, for only bloody vengeance was left to him in this darkest hour of defeat.
Remington swore. He sprinted towards the struggling figures, saw both tumble to the ground - Haracha grappling with his brother who, with wild strength, sought to slit his throat. Remington went cold - the glittering blade was a hairsbreadth from the Inca’s neck. He knew he could not reach the pair in time.
Quilla saw the danger. She flung herself upon Xucapa and grabbed his knife hand. The trio rolled about in a madly thrashing tangle of arms and legs. The hesitant nobles scattered as Xucapa’s guards leapt forward at his command to aid their Lord, spurred on by deadly threats against their loved ones.
Xucapa’s elbow struck Quilla in the ribs. With a cry of pain she rolled away. Briefly, she glimpsed the rushing warriors as they surged around the struggling twins, spears poised for the killing thrust.
Remington slammed into the circling guards like a battering ram, felling several with the bruising impact of his wild charge. He rolled upon his feet, barely dodged a thrusting spear. The American grabbed the weapon’s haft. With a surge of strength he tore it from the foe, whipped the butt against his skull and sent him spinning to the earth.
Quilla’s warning cry spun Remington about - Xucapa had broken Haracha’s hold upon him. The dagger plunged. For Haracha that dreadful blade became all reality - a flashing blur that would slash the thread of life. He and Quilla cried out in fearful denial of the end.
A whipping spear struck Xucapa’s swinging arm. He howled in pain as the plunging dagger spun away, then clutched his broken limb and collapsed upon the stones.
“Back,” cried Remington to Xucapa’s menacing guards as he pressed his spear against the fellow’s neck. “Your false High Priest is dead, burnt by the fiery coals, while I remain unscathed.”
Then, pointing to Haracha, who had risen. “The will of Heaven proclaims this man Sapa Inca by virtue of my deeds.”
Quilla stepped forward. “The Servant of Inti speaks true”, she said, adding her support to his argument. Although the girl knew Remington was only human, clearly he served the gods, albeit unknowingly. It was a rationalization of course, but one that enabled her to utter this desperate lie.
Remington watched the guards, his outward calm and confidence a false mirror to his inner feelings. It had not been a divine power, but luck that had saved him from Maztaca’s treachery - the High Priest had slipped whilst trying to kick him, and had fallen to his death - impaled by a glowing bronze spike set among the burning coals.
Xucapa, although in great pain, had managed to follow the thread of conversation and knew that he was doomed. Well, if he was going to die, then he’d take as many with him as he could.
“Kill them,” he gasped to his followers. “Though I’m doomed Haracha will still kill all of you for having aided me. If you wish to live it’s your only chance.”
Would Xucapa’s henchmen believe this possibility? The American saw they were undecided as to what to do. He tensed as they gazed at their moaning, fallen Lord, then upon Haracha whom they had opposed. Haracha, though, had his sister’s wisdom and knew he must put aside all desire for vengeance if he were to win the day.
“As Sapa Inca,” he quickly cried, “I forgive all those siding with my brother. They shall not be harmed, nor their families. I swear this by all the gods of heaven, and may they curse me with ten thousand curses if I lie.”
The warriors, reassured by the potent oath quickly knelt, as did all the other nobles. Xucapa groaned. Haracha sighed with vast relief. It was over.
**********
Several days had passed, and once again evening found Remington upon the ushnu before the entrance to the Temple of the Moon. The American felt rather incongruous, arrayed as he was in the regalia of a High Priest of the Sun.
Xucapa had been executed by Quilla‘s hand, and thus her revenge was darkly consummated. Cruel and vicious though he was, the man had died with quiet dignity, drinking unhesitatingly the bowl of poison his sister presented to him. Maztaca, too, was no more. No one questioned the former High Priest’s end, and Haracha had elevated Remington his position unopposed.
Invested with this authority, the American hoped to prepare these people for contact with the outer world, for clearly they would not remain unknown forever. Perhaps dedication to this cause would help fill the loveless void within him, or so he hoped.
Remington stepped within the temple. Moonlight shone through an aperture, softly illuminating the idol of the goddess Mamaquilla. Three times the height of a man it was, all of solid silver, its burnished form casting an aura of pale radiance all about.
Before the image was a receptacle like a font, at least a yard across. It was a scrying pool, and into its inky depths Quilla quietly stared. She was arrayed in a clinging translucent robe, and Remington gazed upon her with piercing longing. Though near, she might have been upon the Moon itself - beautiful and untouchable as star strewn heaven, for no solution presented itself by which both could fulfill their longing for each other.
The girl sensed his presence and turned, smiling shyly at him.
“You asked me to come,” said Remington, his voice thick with emotion. “And I am here.”
Quilla beckoned. He moved forward and stood beside her. Both gazed into the pool’s midnight depths. The liquid was strange - like condensed darkness, a void that seemed to open up into illimitable depths before his startled eyes.
The fluid trembled like a living, unknown element. Green mist rose up to form images in its heart - himself and Quilla, quite nude, joined as one. The vision slowly faded. Remington, weak kneed rubbed a hand across his eyes. Had it been a hallucination - the projection of his desire? There was a moment of utter disorientation where he didn’t know what was real and what was dream.
Quilla’s hand, warm and strong, steadied him. Questioningly, Remington looked upon her, not knowing what to think.
The girl blushed under his enquiring gaze. “The ritual of fertility,” she began, hesitantly. “Maztaca sought more than mere symbolism in my embrace - an affront to my vows of chastity. With you as High Priest, though, the Goddess sees things differently, has answered my prayers with this revelation …”
Then, with more boldness she spoke again. “From now on I think the ritual will be performed quite frequently and in a manner that will be most pleasant for both of us.”
Remington looked at her, amazed; and in Quilla’s gaze he saw both love and desire that was a mirror to his own. Was the Goddess real, or was this vision the product of science unknown?
It didn’t matter. What mattered was the woman who stood before him, the essence of all that any man could desire. They embraced with gentle passion, and in a ray of moonlight that blessed them with its supernal touch, they spoke to one another those words all lovers do.
THE END