by Bob Nailor
The Amazon
Book One: The Ancient Malice Series
Bob Nailor
Jack Franklin
Foundations Book Publishing
Brandon, MS 39047
www.FoundationsBooks.net
The Amazon
Book One: The Ancient Malice Series
By Bob Nailor and Jack Franklin
Cover by Dawné Dominique Copyright © 2021
Edited and formatted by: Steve Soderquist
Copyright 2021© Bob Nailor and Jack Franklin
Published in the United States of America
Worldwide Electronic & Digital Rights
Worldwide English Language Print Rights
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned or distributed in any form, including digital and electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the prior written consent of the Publisher, except for brief quotes for use in reviews.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
This book is dedicated to the indigenous tribes of the Amazon who have suffered much and will still prevail…
Table of Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Epilogue
About the Authors
Chapter One
LEGENDS
In the year of our Lord, 1541. Quito, Vice-Royalty of Peru, Spanish Empire
The scent. A virgin. Ejup Mikic, the mission’s lone Serbian mercenary, lingered in the shadows, momentarily distracted by the heat of his blood. He fought back the impulse as the young Andean maiden sashayed between him and another man. His urges needed satisfying, but not now, not in the daylight, not in the presence of his companions. With narrowed eyes, Ejup focused on the scene unfolding before him and watched as Don Francisco de Orellana trod the stairs to the top of the plaza and stare at the small group of men assembled. Ejup surveyed the men around him, all assigned to Orellana by Gonazlo Pizarro. He shook his head in disgust. "These men follow him like swine to the slaughter," Ejup thought then sighed. "A pity." He noticed Orellana raise his hand, as required by the Church to ceremoniously make the sign of the cross over the gathered group. Ejup cringed and kept his head down. The other men fell silent. Footsteps. The priest, Frei Gaspar de Carvajal moved forward through the gathered soldiers, avoiding any possible touch with them, and then hastened up the stairs. Ejup listened as the priest’s sandals slapped each stone step loudly and watched as the two talked in hushed tones discussing plans. Unlike the others, Ejup listened to the two while the convened men patiently waited.
Ejup’s acute hearing picked Francisco de Orellana's words from the air. With a smile, he plotted his agenda.
Finally, he saw Francisco de Orellana motion to his sergeant who in turn hustled the procession on its way. The cobblestone street echoed the sounds of armored men marching and the clatter of horse hooves. They descended from Quito to the jungle’s floor via the narrow and treacherous Andean pass. Ejup smiled behind his black mask. Francisco de Orellana was sure he knew the route, having combined the tales and information gleaned to a sketched map. The explorers proceeded to follow the river known as the Cinnamon River. Don Francisco de Orellana smiled. The towering trees engulfed the group and shadows became night. The guides moved with caution through the thick growth, but Francisco de Orellana continued to smile. Ejup had heard the leader’s whispers. Orellana knew in a mere few days they would arrive at El Dorado, the great city of gold.
The trek was slow and the days passed. El Dorado eluded them.
Ejup Mikic felt the stares; the secretive watching from the lowland overgrowth and jungle above them. His keen eyesight caught a glimpse of those following the group, yet he saw no reason to tell his arrogant leaders.
Suddenly, the Icamiaba Indians attacked. Ejup watched Francisco de Orellana's powerless men against the attackers who moved like ghosts in the jungle. Finally, he saw an attacker; a tall, white, female warrior who appeared to wear nothing but a quiver of arrows. He looked at her and knew she was the one he had felt watching him. She drew her bow and let loose the arrow. It grazed his helmet. In the distance, he heard Frei Gaspar de Carvajal screaming something at him, but he ignored it. Men dropped around him. Ejup fell to the ground and waited. The female tribe was victorious and Ejup watched Francisco de Orellana flee down the river. The mighty leader abandoned the few surviving followers who were cut off during the battle. Ejup covertly watched while the Icamiaba women killed the few remaining men and the injured.
With a raucous flap of their wings, a pair of vibrant macaws fluttered to a spot high in the dense canopy and sat tenuously on a branch in the still, morning air. Their gentle squawking seemed to be the only sound breaking the thick silence. Several meters below, the thwap of an arrow silenced the last muffled groan of the single survivor of the brief skirmish.
Over two dozen men lay motionless on the moss of the forest floor, their white, sunburned bodies pierced by scores of well-placed arrows. The victors stepped among the corpses, yanking the solid gold-tipped arrows from the dead men. They stared at the pale foreigners with intense curiosity, as if they had never slaughtered men before.
The leader of the attack group was tall, lanky, and much whiter than many of her shorter and darker sisters-in-arms. Her thick, black hair was tightly braided and coiled on the top of her head like a forest snake. The woman's eyes were intense beyond her years; her shoulders thick and muscled. She wore only a triangular patch of embellished leather over her private parts; the hand-tooled ornate yellow sun glistened in the filtered sunlight.
From a tangled mass of death, a hand shot out and latched onto her ankle. The woman blinked in surprise but gave no start. Her young lieutenant loosed another arrow that thumped through the shoulder of the man who should have been dead. His iron grip strengthened in return.
The invader who refused to die stood, rising until he was eye-to-eye with hers, his red eyes glowing from inside the black helmet. One by one, he snapped off the half-dozen arrows jutting out from his throat and armored torso. A gasp escaped from the band of warriors as they watched each wound on his body close and disappear. The figure now towered above his attackers, his head still hidden within the metal helmet. Slowly, piece by piece, he removed his armor then pulled the thin, protective fabric from his body. Finally, he removed the mask and the early morning light shadowed his handsome, rugged, and extremely pale face. His pulled back dark hair ca
scaded over his shoulders. His muscled body stood only inches from the female leader as his red eyes now pierced to search her very soul.
She placed a hand to his chin, tracing a path through the stubble, slowly, as if fascinated. The warrior pushed one probing finger through his cold, deep red lips to find the small incisor which curled back into his mouth.
With a malicious smile, she dropped her weapons and snaked one hand around his neck to his shoulder. Her left knee traced a line up his leg, before slipping it around his thigh. The female fighters closed the circle as their leader wrapped herself around the stranger. With her free hand, she untied a small knot at the small of her back and the loin patch with the golden sun fell to the ground. Her naked body now pressed against his. With the precision of a serpent, she leaned forward to flick her tongue on his ear lobe, and then pulled on it with her teeth.
“You are vrykolakas,” she whispered into his ear, nipping him once again, this time drawing a bead of blood. “I am Itotia, queen of the Icamiabas.” She leaned her head back, her graceful neck curving upward toward the rising sun in an offering.
“Yes, I am vrykolakas,” he whispered and leaned into her offering. He inhaled the scent of her blood as it pulsed in the jugular vein below the soft skin. He felt the pressure of his canine teeth grow. She winced with pain, her eyes opening wide as his gleaming fangs sunk into her throat. As the virginal essence of her life flowed into his greedy throat, her moans of pleasure filled the scene of carnage. With the new blood flowing through his body, he was aroused and plunged into her, taking her virginity in the throes of sexual ecstasy.
A twig snapped only a few yards from where they stood. He pushed her away, leaving a stream of blood oozing from her throat. His eyes shot toward the sound, piercing the morning twilight to find a robed cleric, trembling in terror, huddled behind the dense brush. His stood his ground, white robes streaked with blood, green woodland stains, and mud.
“You,” roared the stranger and pushed the weakened female warrior to the ground. “Why didn’t you stay with the others in the boat?”
He strode toward the Dominican who rose to his feet, forgetting his fear. The priest grasped the wooden crucifix dangling from his neck and thrust it toward the charging madman.
“You would spoil this paradise as well, thou spawn of the devil?” snapped the priest.
Fury filled Ejup and propelled him toward the priest whose white knuckles trembled around the blood-soaked cross. The Dominican stood firm. The charging beast of evil stopped short mere inches from the symbol of good. His red eyes swelled in their sockets as he snorted in rage, held at bay by the crucifix.
Behind him, his warrior mate slipped a massive arrow into her bow and drew back the thick cord. Her eyes seemed to pulse in a faint crimson glow as she aimed at the center of the cleric’s chest.
“Stop,” roared Ejup, turning to face his recent lover. Now it was he who trembled, his body frozen in place.
She eased the arrow from the bow. He turned back to the sniveling cleric.
They watched. The priest backed away, holding his trembling crucifix before him until he reached the path which led toward the beach where they had landed. The Dominican turned and dashed into the muddy river water where the boat which brought them still waited.
As if on cue, the macaws shrieked overhead and the thick tension evaporated like morning mists on a breeze. Ejup strode into the dense growth away from the river. The female leader followed with her sisters, disappearing into the verdant green embrace of the jungle. The clearing, littered with bodies, carried a steamy, pungent scent of death. Still, the jungle returned to life with the sounds of insects and small animals. All was as if the encounter had never happened.
Frei Gaspar de Carvajal survived, rowing and stumbling through the jungle to find the outlet of the Great Amazon River on the Atlantic Ocean. He returned to Spain and presented his journal to immortalize the first journey down the world's mightiest river. He shared his knowledge with Rome and Pope Paul III. The information was regarded and quickly retired to the archives.
The Icamiabas tribe disappeared. The forest reclaimed the grand city and temples of the Icamiabas. Their fame remained a part of the mythology, but they were no more. Ejup taught them well.
Time waited.
In the year of our Lord, 1541. Granada, Spain, 1543
Charles the Fifth’s gout acted up, causing more pain than usual. “Tell me about this cinnamon,” the Emperor growled. “You have shiploads of the commodity and claim it to be as good as gold.” He narrowed his eyes. “But, gold would do fine.”
“Give it to me, you imbecile,” Francisco de Orellana snapped at the monk who was as nervous as a nun in a whore house. The Dominican carried the oilskin which contained the handwritten reports Friar Gaspar de Carvajal had given him. It was divided into two parts: only one of which was for Charles’ eyes. The monk fumbled to retrieve the larger report for the Emperor; both fell from the oilskin onto the inlaid floor.
The Emperor’s patience exhausted, his foot in excruciating pain, plus he’d not been able to eat a good meal in days, glared at the offending report. “What is that? Hand it over.” He pointed at the floor then waved his hand in the air with a flourish.
The monk scurried forward with the parchments and presented the large one to the king.
“Come on, man. I can read better than you.” He leaned out to glower at the monk. “Give me it all.”
The larger was entitled, “A report on the discovery of the famous Rio Grande that Captain Francisco de Orellana discovered through great luck.” It was long and weighty. Charles was hungry. He tossed it back to Francisco de Orellana and scanned the second. “A report to Bartolomé de las Casas on the odd occurrences during the battle with female forest warriors.” This was just the ticket before lunch. He read with interest until near the end when his face grew dark.
“Tell me about the Serb, Orellana.” A ringed finger tapped on the wooden chair arm, echoing in the chamber while the Emperor awaited an answer.
The Spaniard was silent.
“I demand you tell me about this Ejup Mikic,” barked the most powerful man in the world.
“He was killed in the battle with the warrior women, Your Highness.” Orellana bowed.
Charles stood momentarily before collapsing back onto the heavy chair that served as the throne of the Holy Roman Empire when he was in Spain.
“Out, Orellana. Leave the friar with me. Don’t come back until I can count on you to tell me the truth.” He drained a goblet of wine and listened to the heavy door click shut. He looked at the monk. “Now tell me, young friar, why is this addressed to Las Casas?”
“We have a protocol in the Church, Your Highness. Las Casas will assure it goes to the Holy See.”
Twenty years before, he’d sent Martin Luther packing. His brother daily fought holy wars in Germany. The Portuguese were camped out in Rome, pushing their claim to half the discoveries Spain had paid for. The last thing he needed on his platter was a heresy in the New World.
“Did you see these things with your own eyes?”
“No, Your Highness. Only Friar Gaspar de Carvajal witnessed the events.”
Charles hobbled to his study. Maps of the world covered the heavy oak table which occupied half the room. He wrote a simple note in Latin:
Your Eminence, Pope Paul III,
There is a Dominican friar serving in The New World by the name of Friar Gaspar de Carvajal. His influence on the well-being of the natives is extraordinary. I recommend that you take advantage of him in a permanent assignment to the Viceroy of Peru. We could all benefit from his example.
Humbly yours,
Charles, by the grace of God, Holy Roman Emperor, forever August, King of Germany, King of Italy, King of all Spains
He sealed it in a royal envelope and handed it to the friar. “Do your Emperor a favor,” he instructed. “Deliver this to Rome. Put it into the Pontiff’s hand yourself. When you return to the New World, send a
holy kiss from me to this Frei Gaspar de Carvajal. Leave today. And, before you go, tell Orellana he can come back after lunch and read me this other report.” Charles grimaced from the gout. The young Dominican stood frozen. “Go, I said.” the Emperor barked.
The heavy door slammed shut. He was alone. Then, and only then, did he click open a special drawer built into the massive leg of the table underneath the oak top. He slipped the small report in and snapped it shut. He rang for the lamb he’d smelled grilling in the kitchen. He was ready for meat as rare as they could bring it.
In the year of our Lord, 1867. Mouth of the Amazon River.
The 19th century saw a re-awakening curiosity in the region. A French expedition set out to re-trace the steps of Francisco de Orellana and Frei Gaspar de Carvajal. The men no longer were searching for El Dorado, but now sought the gold in the tiaras of the female Icamiaba warriors, the true Amazons of Greek mythology. In the headwaters of the river, the party from the Sorbonne disappeared. Then, a single canoe made its way down to the end of the Black River and the Meeting of the Waters at what today is called Manaus. There, a fisherman pulled the craft to shore and discovered one of the French team's scientist’s corpse. It was completely dehydrated, blackened from the sun, and resembling an Egyptian mummy. Not a religious man, the fisherman still made the sign of the cross for protection. The local people weren’t surprised and whispered it was the work of the morcega mulher. The translation is difficult and awkward, but means something akin to ‘the bats who are women.’