B01AOKY60K

  I heard the Incas laugh and scream, but still I didn’t see them. Then the silence returned and as I headed further down, I tripped on a body. I fell on my face and crashed to the ground, I turned to see who it was, and to my chagrin and horror, it was Céspedes. He bled from his mouth and his spleens were cut out from under him.

  I got as far as twenty paces and all I saw was more of the same. Bodies everywhere. And all of them were my men.

  I found corpse after corpse as they lay dead the ground. I counted six men on the far turn, and about fifty paces later, I counted two more men. I counted and recounted. They were all on the ground. I searched the bodies and tried to see if any man was wounded. They weren't. They were all dead and cold. Some had whole spears lodged into their head. Some only had wounds to their limbs and stomach. Some were decapitated. But all of them had been stripped of their armor, and all that was left of them were their dead flesh and their white rags.

  I screamed and cried. I knew the Incas were behind me or perhaps in front of me. I just knew they were close. I hurried out and hobbled away. The spear in my shoulder remained and my speed was curtailed. I staggered through the fog and then stopped to catch my breath, and to my horror, I found myself without a sword. I was beyond shocked. I was petrified. I felt sweat run down my entire body and I searched for my cloak on the ground, but still I couldn’t find my sword. My mind raced to remember where I had it last. I probably had it when I examined the corpses. I probably had it then. I probably sat it down to check each man’s pulse just for a second, just so I could free my hands momentarily. But whatever was the case, I didn’t have it now. And there were no other swords in sight.

  I was unable to breathe. All I had left was my armor and my sack that contained a tiny amount my fortune. I had left my chest near the camp. I had forgotten all about it.

  I cried again and my heart pounded. All I wanted to do was scream, but I couldn’t. I lost my voice and I could barely whisper. I stood still in the silence and tried to pray but I forgot the words. Then I covered my face with my hands and I cried. I cried more than I did in my entire life. I cried long and hard. But I was alone. There was no Inca in sight. There seemed not a soul left. Then I fell to my knees and simply waited for the Incas to approach and kill me.

  I waited for hours. It might have been more.

  But they didn’t come.

  I fell to my side and closed my eyes, and the rain subsided. My thought was that by playing dead I would have more than a chance of surviving though I would have very careful in doing so, and I would have to find the exact time to escape.

  I was still wearing my armor, and I struggled to pull it off. It was quite a difficult task to do for the spear was still lodged into my flesh and I couldn’t take the piece off from the front, so I unhinged myself from the piece by crawling out of it as I lay on my side. The pain was ungodly, but I managed to get through by wedging the tip of the spear through the crevice of the shoulder, and in one motion the armor came off. My rags were bloodied and soaked in sweat, but I managed to crawl over about fifty paces. I could have got up to my feet, but I hadn’t the energy. So I continued to crawl on my knees and I languished as far as I could. When I got far enough I stopped, and in that instant, I knew for certain that I would die.

  My heart ached and I fell asleep out of sheer exhaustion, hoping I would die right there and not have to live out the next day. But of course, the next day came, and of course, to my amazement and dismay, I was still alive. The fog had disappeared and the sun had returned. I heard the sounds of the river and the waterfall and realized that I wasn’t as far away as I thought.

  I got to my knees and looked around again, and in less than a minute, I saw a dozen Incas approach with spears in their hands. They took their time and staggered into view. And they got closer and closer. I didn’t close my eyes, and they stared at me for what seemed like an eternity.

  Then they rushed at me in a teeming pace. In the final seconds, I stared at one Inca in particular. He was a young man, not much younger than myself. His eyes grew wider as did the other Incas. His face was covered in paint and dirt, and his body was bare and torn with scars. Had he my angel of death? It certainly looked as if he was.

  They were five paces away, but then they all stopped, for they heard a voice cry from afar. A moment later a tall Inca walked towards me. It was Manco.

  He held out his knife and aimed for my heart. With my hands quivering I reached into my bag and pulled out the gemstone and offered it to him. It was my last gesture, but I knew it wouldn’t amount to anything. He took the gemstone from my hand but he didn’t look at it. Instead, he continued to look me straight in the eye. Then he tossed the gemstone to the other Incas and slowly drew his knife towards my chest.

  But then Manco smiled. He dropped his knife to the ground, reached his hands towards my chest and laid his hand on the spear that was still lodged into my shoulder, and in one motion he removed the spear and threw it to the ground. Then Manco bent over to my side and wrapped the wound with a trinket of cloth until it was secure. He continued to look at me, and while he shook his head I saw his smile start to fade. His fellow Incas barked and shouted at him, but Manco shouted back at them and ordered them away, and they obeyed his command. Then Manco got back to his feet and his smile returned. For a full minute, all we did was stare at one another in silence.

  But then the minute ended, and when it was over Manco blinked his eyes and simply turned away. He turned away and led his Incas back into the jungle. For the longest time I stared at the Incas until they had completely vanished from my sight, and then they were gone, and I was alone again.

  For the entire night, I hadn’t moved more than ten paces. I kept asleep for the majority of the time, and when I was awoken I stared up to the stars. I couldn’t go on. I didn’t want to. Though alive and walking, my mind was flooded with guilt and the feeling in me was haunting and overwhelming. I felt empty and sad, and everything felt like borrowed time, and I knew for certain that this dream in Peru was over. My loyalties to Gonzalo were terminated by my own regard. I felt very much like a dead man lost in between two worlds. The entire night I kept awake and I was taken by the moment so much so that I could not think of anything else, and every time I did tears ran down my eyes.

  That moment. That baffling moment. It was a spirit of some sort, and it wasn’t much later that I understood it completely. It came to me when I remembered the time back in Cusco. That odd little moment. The moment where Manco was at my mercy and I simply was unable to swing my sword. It wasn’t until even later that I realized that the moment had simply repeated itself with the roles reversed. Manco knew it at the time, I did not. Though some would say it was a mutual understanding, I knew in my heart that it was wasn’t. It was merely an exchange, an exchange of the gift and burden of living, and Manco remembered it in whole and he simply returned the favor.

  In the morning, I hobbled over and followed the river west. There was nothing in sight for miles, and I felt a great peace. Though I felt dead, what kept me alive was the flow of the river, and it provided me with new life and meaning, and I followed it every day, and many times it felt as if I were floating. I continued west, and in my heart, I knew that it was the right direction. I thought of God and the mundane, and for days on end, I walked alone. I wanted to see the river’s end. In the back of my mind, I knew the Inca gods were stronger and more real than mine. My God was replaced by gold because I couldn’t trust it. I could only see glimpses of my God in dreams or when I had closed my eyes, but I could see the Inca gods every time I stared into the river. And each time, the feeling made me realize its beauty and power. In time, the river meant more to me than anything in the world.

  So I followed it to its end. I followed the river until it met the shore.

  The river grew smaller as days turned to weeks. In that time, I regained my strength and ate what the river provided, which was mainly fish and oysters. Each meal was good and filling, and I tried to pray before
each meal.

  I was amazed that the mountains were still in sight and I looked back whenever I could simply because I wanted to see its beauty. In my mind, I knew the Incas were there on top the snowcaps, and from that high elevation I could see their trails of breath in the cold dawn. I imagined them praying to their Ice God and I could see them with their hands outstretched in reverence to welcome the rising sun. On the jagged slopes of the Andes, I imagined all the Incas gathered. I imagined their ceremonies, their continued celebration of all life, their laughs and cries, their smiles, for I saw it many times, and it wasn’t until then that I understood it. I understood its beauty, and I confirmed it with a sigh and a nod.

  Another morning sunrise glistened, and I continued to stare and wonder, and so too I imagined Manco. I imagined him there on the mountain with his son was by his side. And in that final glance up the mountains, I imagined I heard them chant a long and lingering song, and what I didn’t catch returned to me in echoes. It was then that I knew in my heart that the Incas would never be conquered. They would fight in different ways, but they, as a people, would remain forever.

  The cold of the morning drizzle settled to my bones. The winds grew and whipped at my face, and the more I moved west the less and less I saw of the mountains, but forever in my mind I thought about them, and in the quiet moments that lingered I still could hear the sound of whistling.

  I followed the river west until I met the shore. And when I saw the ocean, I knew I had left the jungle for certain. I ate what I could find, and the more I trekked, the less there was. Then one day I found something lodged into the sand. It was a heavy metal object that was rusted and seemed as if it weren’t touched in years. It was a sword. I stared at it for a long time. I picked it up and knew that other Spanish men were near. I wondered whose sword it was, but the thought escaped me as did its trance. I didn’t want to give more time than it deserved, so I plunged the sword back to the sand, moved passed it, and met the ocean.

  A day later, I found other men near the shore, and there I stared once more into the great ocean. The river had ended and so did the jungle. The men were very poor and looked defeated. In the time I spent on shore, I learned that the men had been searching for El Dorado, but they had given up. Some of the men had been with Almagro, others were merely mercenaries who were outcasted from Cusco, but they all shared the same look of dejection and disgust, and all they talked about was their plans to go back to Mexico or Spain, and in two days they got their wish.

  A ship arrived on shore and it was heading north. The men on the ship said they would take anyone who wanted to pay the fair, and after a brief minute of thought, I made my decision. I stared at my bag that contained my fortune. It was merely a handful. All of my possession was in that small bag: about fifty pieces of gold and thirty pieces of silver. The rest I lost in the fog. That was my fortune. My tiny fortune. It would be even less when I boarded the ship.

  It was a ragged old ship and it looked exactly like the ship I refuse to board when Francisco made his line in the sand. I felt at ease, but only temporarily. I didn’t recall the men on board nor any conversation I had. I left the men alone and they did the same for me. I just remember the smells of salt and sea and my body rocking back and forth as the ship rolled on the waves. I was alone with my thoughts again, and so I spent my time in wonder.

  I wondered about Francisco and I imagined him in his palace in Lima. I pictured him leaning over a veranda, watching sunset after sunset with tired, drunken eyes. Did he smile when he did so? Yes. He most likely did. Then I thought of Soto and his voyage back to Spain. He was the richest man in the world, and he knew it. Though knowing Soto, he probably grew tired of smiling. Finally, I thought of Manco, and the lineage of Inca kings, and the beauty of their people and their land that I failed to see all this time.

  After a while, my thoughts died and all I did was stare at the sea. I was still alive. I should have died. I should have died many times. But there I was. I still could move my hand. I still could see and touch and feel. I was alive and there was no other thought that mattered.

  It was all very hard to believe.”

  IX

  “I kept the lie intact. I looked Coronado straight in the eyes and said what I knew would work.

  “We didn’t find him. We didn’t find Manco Inca. That’s all there is to tell, Coronado.”

  There was only a shred of truth to what I said, but Coronado accepted it fully and nodded in respect. He was bewildered and he looked a bit sad when I finished my tale.

  I was as well.

  “So you made it all the way here?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did that ship bring you all the way up here?”

  “No. There were other ships. Three more. I boarded on the ones I could afford.”

  “No one knew who you were?”

  “No.”

  “No one asked?”

  “No man knew me. They didn’t ask. So I didn’t tell them.”

  Coronado uncrossed his legs then reached for the jug of wine. It was empty. He tipped the bottle and tried to drink the last sips, but there wasn’t even a drop.

  Then he stared at me with a baffled face.

  “So here you are, Sardina.”

  “I am.”

  “I, for one, am very glad you’re here. So, Sardina, do you miss it?"

  "Miss what?"

  "Do you miss the chaos?"

  I didn’t respond. I merely gave him a glance and waited for a full minute.

  Did I miss it? Did I miss the chaos? Why did I tell this story to Coronado in the first place? Was I just passing the time? Was I just whetting his appetite? To feed the hungry as many would say?

  I wasn't sure. I don't think I'll ever be.

  I studied my arm and my hand. Then I studied my fingers. I moved them and watched them grasp the air. They were still dirty. They still smelled of blood.

  Coronado laughed and waited for the right second, and when it came he repeated the question. Then he turned to me again, and I gave him the most honest answer I could think of.

  "Do you miss it, Sardina?"

  "I can't tell."

  Thanks for reading!

  Too epic? Too much blood and angst? Probably. But if you’re into it, I’m glad to tell you there’s much more.

  Conquistadors 2: Devils of the Desert is on its way! I’m working feverishly to complete it by April 2016.

  If you like to be updated on this and any of my projects, please subscribe to my Newsletter on my website:

  http://santaniellodennis.wix.com/romanduckproductions

  Or if you like to contact me directly my email is [email protected]

  If you like Conquistadors: Brothers and Kings (Book 1), please give it a nice review.

  For those not interested, hey, I understand, but thanks for reading. It means a lot regardless.

  -Dennis

  Table of Contents

  Contents

  Title Page

  CHAPTER 1

  II

  III

  IV

  V

  VI

  VII

  VIII

  IX

  X

  XI

  XII

  CHAPTER 2

  II

  III

  IV

  V

  VI

  VII

  VIII

  CHAPTER 3

  II

  III

  IV

  V

  VI

  VII

  VIII

  IX

  X

  XI

  XII

  XIII

  XIV

  CHAPTER 4

  II

  III

  IV

  V

  VI

  VII

  VIII

  CHAPTER 5

  II

  III

  IV

  V

  VI

  VII

 
VIII

  CHAPTER 6

  II

  III

  IV

  V

  VI

  VII

  VIII

  IX

  X

  CHAPTER 7

  II

  III

  IV

  V

  VI

  VII

  VIII

  IX

  Thanks for Reading!