by Alex Archer
“We’d better find him,” Hugo said, “or somebody’s going to pay.”
He grabbed the rifle from his tent, and he and Claire headed toward the waterfall and the pool at its base, calling Marcos’s name as they went.
Annja waited until they were out of sight and then called her sword to hand and headed off in the other direction. Splitting up at a time like this was a calculated risk; if there was someone out there, still watching them, Annja had just made herself a convenient target. On the other hand, they could cover much more territory if they split up and she, at least, was used to dealing with confrontations with those who had less than her best interests at heart. Putting Hugo and Claire together was a natural combination and created the best set of circumstances that they could hope for in a time like this.
She could hear Hugo’s voice carrying on the light breeze, calling for Marcos, but Annja didn’t do the same. For one, she didn’t want Claire or Hugo to confuse her cries for those of Marcos looking for help, and two, she didn’t want to give whoever might be out there any notice that she was on her way.
Whoever they were, they’d messed with her and those under her charge one too many times. Now it was time for payback.
In the end, it was Annja who found him.
She was moving through the trees, looking for signs that someone had come through this way before her, when she heard the snarl of a large cat.
Jaguar, she thought.
She was about to head in the other direction, intentionally avoiding a confrontation with the local wildlife, when the thought reared up in the forefront of her brain.
Jaguar!
The cat’s hunting cry came again and she took off at a run in the direction she thought it had come from, leading with her sword arm as she went.
Seconds later she came upon a small grove of ceiba trees, each one easily eight to twelve feet in diameter, with large, coiling roots that rose in hoops and swirls like the back of a sea serpent.
Annja’s gaze was drawn to the base of one tree in particular, where, pacing back and forth in front of the trunk and looking upward, was one of the largest jaguars she’d ever seen.
The cat hadn’t seen her yet, so she followed the direction of its gaze with her own, curious what it found so interesting. She gasped when she saw what it was looking at.
Marcos had been strung up against the trunk of the tree several feet in the air, his arms and legs spread-eagled and he was lashed to the tree with ropes made from vines. His head lolled against his chin, unmoving, his eyes were closed and his entire form was so covered in blood that Annja thought he’d been skinned alive when she first laid eyes upon him. She wondered why he hadn’t cried out until she saw the gag that had been stuffed in his mouth and tied around at the back of his head to keep it in place.
To Annja, Marcos looked dead.
To the cat, however, he probably looked like an easy dinner, especially with all that blood, and the beast was none too happy about Annja’s sudden appearance. It snarled a warning, a keening scream that sent the jungle around them into silence as the other creatures recognized the cry of the predator on the hunt.
Annja was tempted to scream right back at it, but she settled for bringing her sword around in the ready stance and grinning at the feisty feline.
In response, the cat lowered its front half to the ground, its face mere inches above the earth, its eyes locked on hers as its tail twitched back and forth.
“Here, kitty, kitty,” Annja taunted, and the fire of battle rose in her heart as the cat charged at the sound of her voice.
20
The jaguar was a beautiful specimen, about one hundred and fifty kilograms of rippling golden-brown muscle covered with a pattern of black rosettes that undulated as it ran. It had yellow eyes and a dark tail that lashed back and forth in anger.
She hated to kill such a glorious creature but she didn’t see how she was going to be able to chase it off. It saw her as the interloper in its meal; perhaps even the meal itself now, and it was going to fight to protect the same.
The cat bounded toward her on large padded feet that allowed it to move almost soundlessly, and Annja knew that if she caught a swipe of one of those massive paws across just about anywhere, she was in a host of trouble.
So don’t let it connect, her inner voice told her.
Right. Easier said than done.
Then the cat was upon her and she didn’t have any time for thought, just action.
The jaguar rushed in, closing to within three feet of Annja before skidding to a stop and rearing up on its hind legs, lashing out with its right paw while roaring at her from close range.
Something in the back of Annja’s mind cataloged the cry—the jaguar was the only cat in the western hemisphere that actually roared like a tiger or lion—but the rest of her was entirely focused on the battle unfurling mere inches away.
As one of the cat’s big paws came lashing in, Annja struck out with her sword in turn, cutting a narrow slash across the outside of the cat’s paw.
Sorry, kitty, but it’s not going to be as easy as all that.
As if it heard her, the jaguar snarled, a harsh, rippling cry, and then lashed out again, once, twice, driving Annja backward, forcing her to keep her sword swinging frantically as she sought to keep those paws off her. The cat was trying to corner her against another tree, where it could kill her and then eat her at its leisure.
Annja twisted and turned, striking out with her sword every opportunity that she had, and before long both of them were bleeding from half a dozen minor wounds but neither side giving any inclination of giving up.
Then it happened.
The cat lashed out with its paw again, but this time the blow connected with the flat of Annja’s weapon, ripping it free of her hands and sending it twisting and turning away somewhere into the thick foliage behind her.
If the cat had been capable of smiling, there was no doubt in Annja’s mind that it would have in that moment.
Its yellow eyes gleamed wickedly as it let loose a final roar and charged.
Annja turned and ran directly at the tree behind her, praying she’d be fast enough. The cat closed half the distance in a single bound.
Annja used the first of the ceiba roots that she came to as a springboard, pushing off with her left foot and bouncing to the next on her right, then jumping off with that one to bring her into contact with the trunk of the tree itself.
No sooner had her feet landed against the trunk of the ceiba tree than Annja threw herself backward in a Hail Mary move, flipping end over end as she sailed between the jaguar’s paws even as it reared up, trying to catch her. She felt a claw tear down the outside of her calf, but she dismissed it, concentrating on her landing, knowing she was only going to get one chance.
She arced over the jaguar’s head, hit the ground on her outstretched hands and tucked into a roll to bring her back around facing the cat. As she rolled upright she called her sword, opening her hand and feeling it slap into her palm with reassuring heft.
The cat had already shifted about, following her dive, and it leaped toward her with a stunning force.
Annja knelt there, sword thrust forward, and watched the big cat plunge toward its death, praying it wouldn’t maul her too much in the process.
But the jaguar wasn’t ready to die quite yet.
It had been wounded by the sword once already and recognized it as a threat, so as it dropped toward her the big cat twisted in midleap, pulling the majority of its body out of the path of the blade.
Instead of impaling the cat through the center of its chest, as Annja had planned, the sword took it through the shoulder instead. The cat’s downward momentum forced its body down the length of the blade and it screamed in pain even as Annja went over backward with it atop her, using her feet to buck the b
east up and over her head. She heaved it away from her, releasing her sword back into the otherwhere at the same time to avoid amputating the cat’s leg in the process.
Annja rolled over and scrambled to her feet, snatching her sword back from the otherwhere in order to defend herself as the cat hit the ground and landed on its feet.
It turned to face her and for a moment Annja thought it was going to charge a second time, but at the flash of the sword in her hand, the cat apparently decided that discretion was the better part of valor.
It roared one last time and then slunk away into the trees, favoring its injured shoulder.
Annja paused, sword in hand, making sure it wasn’t going to change its mind and come charging back. When it didn’t, she climbed wearily to her feet and returned to Marcos.
Only to find him thrashing in his bonds, his arms and legs kicking weakly while odd choking noises came out of his mouth from behind the gag.
The sound galvanized Annja into action.
She rushed forward to the base of the tree, staring up at Marcos hanging there several feet above her head. It only took a few seconds for her to realize that the ropes holding him to the tree had been cleverly tied to become their own sort of prison and punishment rolled into one. If Marcos struggled, the ropes tied around his neck tightened, making it more difficult to breathe. The more difficult it became to breathe, the more Marcos struggled. It was devious and cruel but extremely effective, and Annja was amazed that the man had managed to hold out this long.
“Hang on, Marcos!” she called up to him. Standing on the highest root, she could only come up to eye level with his boots, but it did put her into striking range of the ropes if she used her sword.
She reared back and was about to call the sword to slash through the bindings nearest to her when something stopped her. She followed the ropes with her eyes, letting her gaze travel over the various lines and knots. That was when she recognized the problem.
If she cut the lower ropes, all of Marcos’s weight would sag against the ropes tied about his neck, finishing the job they’d already started and strangling him to death. She’d have to climb higher and cut the upper ropes first, freeing his neck and eliminating the threat. At that point she could cut through the rest of the ropes once they had figured out how to support Marcos’s big frame.
At this point the sword was just going to be a hindrance, so she sent it away with a thought. She was leaving herself vulnerable if their enemies were still around, but that was a chance she was going to have to take. She couldn’t make it up the tree while holding the sword; she needed both hands for the climb.
She checked to be sure her knife was in its proper place on the sheath on her belt—she was going to need it in just a few minutes to cut Marcos loose—and then grabbed the trunk in front of her and started to climb.
It was slow going; the bark was slick with humidity and there weren’t that many hand-or footholds to make it easy. Only her rock-climbing experience, particularly the skill of finding and sticking to minute holds, kept her from slipping right back down the trunk to where she started. Hand over hand, step after step, she worked her way upward.
She was almost into position to the side of Marcos when she heard Hugo calling her name from nearby.
“Over here!” she cried, and a few moments later Claire and Hugo rushed into the clearing.
“Quick! Support his legs!” Annja directed them. “We need to get the pressure off the ropes before they choke him to death!”
They jumped to do so, clambering up onto the roots just as Annja had before them in order to get high enough to reach Marcos’s legs. While Claire steadied him, Hugo put his back to the tree trunk and tried to guide Marcos’s feet onto his shoulders.
While the other two were getting into position, Annja was in the tree next to Marcos, thinking of a method to get him back down to the ground alive.
Unfortunately, she wasn’t succeeding.
Without any other options available to her, Annja did the only thing she could.
She used her knife to slash through the ropes and watched Marcos tumble forward, landing on the ground in a heap in front of Hugo.
21
It was a good thing Marcos was as tough as an ox. Otherwise, the ordeal might have caused him permanent harm. As it was, he’d be talking in a rattling hiss until his vocal chords recovered and be sporting so many bruises that his body looked as if it had been covered in a quilt dyed black and blue.
After rinsing off all the blood and then assessing Marcos’s injuries and overall condition, Claire made the decision to remain there in the camp by the waterfall for an extra day to give Marcos time to rest and recover. Annja didn’t think it was a smart move—as long as the enemy knew their position, they were sitting ducks—but Claire would not be dissuaded. The three of them took turns standing watch, rifle in hand.
Marcos regained consciousness later that morning. He’d come through his experience surprisingly unscathed. A bit of rest and he’d be ready to travel again soon. Annja left him alone to recover for most of the day, but as evening rolled around she slipped inside his tent and asked him if he could remember anything about what had happened.
“Not much,” he told her, his voice a hoary rasp. “Flashes of this and that. I don’t think it will be much help.”
Annja smiled, trying to be encouraging. “Tell me, anyway. Sometimes two seemingly unrelated pieces of information combine to give you the answers you’re looking for almost before you realize it.”
He shrugged and did what she asked.
“I woke up when somebody slapped a sharp-smelling rag over my nose and mouth. Without thinking about it I sucked in some air to yell, which sent whatever they’d soaked the rag with down into my lungs. I started to get dizzy immediately, which I’m sure was the point. I had the sense that there were two, maybe three, guys in the tent with me, holding me down, and then everything went dark.”
Annja wasn’t surprised. She’d assumed that they’d drugged him in some fashion; otherwise, he would have alerted the rest of them.
“When I came to, I was hanging in that tree with those ropes around my neck. They slit the neck of a pig and directed the stream of blood pulsing out of it so that it splashed all over my face and chest. They laughed when I struggled and tried to get away, because every move I made forced the noose tighter about my neck.” Marcos shuddered at the memory.
“Did they say anything to you?” Annja asked.
“Not to me, but they did talk among themselves.”
That caught Annja’s attention. “Did you understand anything they said?”
He shook his head. “Some of it sounded kind of familiar, but most of it was just gibberish.”
Annja was disappointed. She’d been hoping Marcos would confirm her suspicions that it was a rival team trying to drive them off, but he hadn’t seen or heard enough for his information to be of much use to her.
“Any idea who they were?” Marcos asked.
“They were long gone by the time we found you. You can rest easy, though. We’ll be posting a guard and standing watch all night. If they come back, we’ll be ready for them.”
She turned toward the door, intending to leave him to his rest, when he said, “I don’t know what it means, but they said one word several times.”
Annja looked back at him. “And that was?”
“Uthurunku. Whatever that is.”
Annja frowned. “Are you sure? Just like that—uthurunku?”
Marcos nodded. “Is it important?”
“I don’t know,” she replied, carefully keeping her expression neutral. “But at least it gives us a starting point.”
She flashed another smile and then slipped out the door.
Uthurunku.
She knew that word.
Her fascination
with archaeology had taken Annja to a lot of places in the world, many of which were the kinds of places that were off the beaten track. Finding someone who spoke English in those areas was often difficult and she’d gotten in the habit of learning a smattering of phrases in the local language while working a dig site. Usually they were simple sayings designed to help her communicate with the locals—hello, goodbye, my name is Annja, that kind of thing. Sometimes they were warnings about dangers lurking nearby. Being fluent in several different languages was certainly useful when amid the culture and etiquette of the big cities, but when you were squatting to have dinner with the Bushmen of the Kalahari or fashioning a mud mask with the Asaro peoples of Papua New Guinea, it was the little phrases that got you by.
Annja had been in Peru, working a dig at Ingapirca, when she’d first heard the word uthurunku. Several of the locals had been hired to help clear back some vegetation at the edge of the forest and Annja had gone with them. They’d mimed the image of a stalking cat and had repeated the word several times.
Uthurunku meant “jaguar” in Quechua, the language of the indigenous peoples of the Andes region of South America. Unlike other indigenous languages, it was still spoken by more than eight million people across the countries of Bolivia, Peru, Ecuador, Colombia and Argentina.
Quechua was also the language of the Inca.
First the representations of the death god and now this.
What on earth was going on?
“Did you learn anything?”
Annja spun around, startled by Claire’s sudden presence. She’d been so wrapped up in her thoughts that she hadn’t heard the other woman approach.
“No, not really,” Annja lied, shaking her head. “They drugged him while he was half-asleep, so he really didn’t see anything that could help us.”
Claire glanced at the darkness beginning to gather amid the trees surrounding them and then back at Annja. She shook her head. “I’m worried, Annja. What if Richard ran into the very same people? He couldn’t possibly survive what Marcos just went through.”