The insects rolled forward, a wave of hungry, yammering pincers and maws that sought out the warriors’ tasty flesh. As the mandibles snapped, Trick danced, bouncing off the walls of the ravine with sure-footed free-running skills. Fingers and feet found the rough rock, snatching purchase and saving his skin. With each jump he evaded the lightning bugs and their deadly mouths, sensing them snapping at his heels as he leapt through the air. The rocks suddenly crumbled in his grip, sending him tumbling to the gulch floor in a shower of dust. He looked up at the queen. A second bolt was charging in the monster’s body, ready to be launched at Trick.
It never came.
Kazumi leapt down from on high, the wooden shaft of her naginata gripped in both hands. The weapon’s metal blade carved a deep, bloody gash down the queen’s armoured thorax, sending her reeling backwards, stinking goo hissing from the wound like water from a burst pipe. She gave an awful, gut-curdling cry that almost made Trick vomit. He buckled, legs weak, as the mass of bugs surged forward to defend their mistress.
‘Run!’ roared Kazumi, pushing Trick on his way. The two ran blind, scooping up a stunned Mungo and catching up with Toki. Then they were sprinting, scrambling, fleeing the squirming, screeching melee of hideous bugs and grubs.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Trick stood on the jetty, staring out across the water towards the smog-shrouded city. The mouth of the River Meadswill was perhaps five kilometres across, and the fast-flowing tide and deadly currents would make it a perilous swim. In the fading light he could just make out Sea Forge’s towering outline, hulking over the horizon like a sleeping stone titan. Over Trick’s left shoulder was his schoolbag, while in his right hand he gripped his quarterstaff. He shook his head wearily. He was truly a most unlikely-looking hero. This was a nightmare he’d given up expecting to wake from.
Along the shore, Trick could see smaller settlements, dwarfed by the chaotic sprawl of Mudflatt. These little shanties made the small port look like an oasis. The group had passed through a number of these camps on their approach to Mudflatt, and each time had been shocked by what they found. The poor of the Wildlands ended up in these rat-holes, eking a living by whatever means they could. Beggars, clam-diggers and bin-rummagers, and that was just the children. Whole families were living in abject squalor while the Skull Army spread their misery and their masters – the fat cats of Sea Forge – just got fatter.
Trick glanced back to where Kazumi was speaking to the ferry master on the dock. Passengers were disembarking, and the ferry would not return until the early hours of the following morning – enough time for the captain to have his feed, drink and rest in Mudflatt. Then Trick saw the ferry master shake his head, his hands buried in his leather apron, ignoring the samurai’s attempts to barter. He turned his back, clambering back on to his ferry, business with the woman concluded. His boat was the only way across and the fare was steep.
‘He’s a swindler,’ said Kazumi, returning to Trick’s side, her face set hard.
‘What’s the damage?’ he asked as they walked back up the bank, the noise of the crowd rising as they neared the gathering in the heart of Mudflatt.
‘Five gold a head.’
Trick sucked his teeth. They’d had that, and then some, in the money purse. Sadly those coins now lay on the rocky floor of Grub Gulch. His party was penniless and stranded. The cheering and jeering grew louder as they walked between ramshackle huts and tumbledown tents, the air thick with the stench of fish guts, booze and pipe smoke. Torches guttered on tall stands, marking out the space before the largest freestanding structure in Mudflatt. It looked like a big top circus tent, entirely covered in multicoloured swathes of cloth. Trick and Kazumi pushed through the throng, returning to where they’d left their companions. Toki looked over his shoulder as the schoolboy sidled up to him and Mungo, nodding a brief greeting.
‘Any luck?’
Trick shook his head. ‘We need twenty gold.’
Toki and Mungo looked at one another, before returning their attention to the arena. The raucous crowd were assembled round a large pit, the base of which was slick with mud and puddles. Coins changed hands around the pit’s edge as merchants and fishermen placed bets, and bookmakers gleefully accepted the crowd’s coins. On the far side of the pit, before the huge garish tent, a fat man sat on a raised wooden dais, clapping his pudgy hands as the money was deposited in a strongbox at his feet.
‘There’s going to be a fight?’ asked Trick incredulously, as the crowd worked itself into a frenzy.
‘Fight!’ said a wide-eyed Mungo beside him.
‘Reckon it’ll get messy too, judging by the look of that brute!’ added Toki as he peered into the pit.
The man below was tall and rangy, his face obscured by a great dreadlocked mane of hair. He was bare-chested but wore a leather kilt that was knotted with studs of metal. He held an axe in one hand and a shield in the other, which he struck noisily together. Above him, a huddle of vicious-looking and equally lanky hillmen roared their encouragement from the pit’s edge.
‘Who’s he fighting?’ asked Trick. Toki pointed towards the fat man’s tent as a figure appeared from beneath the colourful fabric. He didn’t so much walk as prowl. The fat man stood, clapping a hand on the fighter’s back as he stalked past. He wore what appeared to be a jaguar skull and pelt over his head and body; the cat’s mouth was stretched wide and the warrior’s face poked out from within. The crowd chanted his name: Zuma! Zuma! Zuma! He was clearly their favourite, and seemed content, focused, horribly relaxed. He didn’t even appear to have a weapon. He gave Trick the chills.
‘Champion,’ said Mungo. The Jaguar Warrior looked across the pit, his eyes lingering on them as he seemed to pick out Trick and his friends in the crowd. Then with a somersault he was gone, landing in the muddy pit below.
‘Was it me, or was he looking our way?’
Kazumi sneered. ‘He’s arrogant. That will be his downfall.’
‘Not so sure,’ said Toki. ‘If he’s the champion, he won’t have got the title by accident.’
‘We don’t even have anything to wager to win more gold,’ said Trick, shaking his head.
‘You know, if one of us were to fight him, we could win passage across the Meadswill with our winnings,’ said Kazumi.
‘Can you beat him?’ asked Trick.
‘The fool doesn’t even have a weapon,’ said Kazumi. ‘I expect even Toki could beat him.’
The Viking glowered at her put-down, but Trick was looking at the warrior in the jaguar pelt. He was watching Trick and his companions, ignoring the baying mob above the pit. Surely he couldn’t hear what they were discussing over the tumult and hubbub? Suddenly the crowd hushed.
The fat man on the platform rose, his jewellery jingling as he kicked the lid on the chest shut.
‘The gold is in: let the fight begin!’
The giant dashed forward, axe raised high as he let loose a war cry, his companions cheering him on his way. Zuma remained motionless until the last moment, when he suddenly dived, darting between the giant’s legs. His hand flashed out, leaving a trail of welts on the hillman’s inner thigh. The brute hit the pit wall, winding himself, before turning round.
He charged the Jaguar Warrior again, his axe scything down, only for Zuma to sidestep and rake his hand across the man’s exposed belly. Again, he left red ribbons behind. Not deep, just superficial. He did this again and again, as the slower, bigger man failed to place a blow, although it could only be a matter of time before he connected.
‘He can’t keep dancing,’ said Toki. ‘That axe will hit soon, then we’ll see the colour of the catman’s innards!’
‘New champion,’ added Mungo, the two in agreement for what appeared to be the first time ever.
‘I wouldn’t be so sure,’ said Kazumi. ‘Watch as the poison takes effect.’
They all saw it now. Gradually, the giant was becoming sluggish. He seemed exhausted, unnaturally so, the axe suddenly heavy in his hands as his enemy
skipped round him, still out of reach. The Jaguar Warrior’s eyes flitted to Trick’s once more, locking his gaze, as a smile flickered across his dark face. Then he was pacing round the pit in a fearless strut as the hillman dropped to his knees, wheezing, the axe falling from his hands along with his shield. His skin was shining with sweat and blood, tongue lolling out through his dreadlock-covered face.
Still the crowd chanted Zuma’s name as they looked to the fat man on the stand. He nodded and gave the signal, thumb raised to the Jaguar Warrior. Zuma leapt forward, flashing past the giant, hands reaching out as he went. He caught the man round the neck, twisting his head with a crack. The smaller man landed deftly as the big man toppled lifelessly into the gore-spattered mud. The crowd jeered deliriously, before quietening as the fat man spoke.
‘Should there be a challenger among you who wishes to face my champion, Zuma, you know where to find me!’ At this there was a chorus of shouts as numerous warriors in the audience shouted out their desire to enter the pit. The trappings of champion were enough to draw any fighter to the filthy arena, it appeared.
‘In the meantime, many thanks for your participation. And your gold,’ he added with a chuckle, turning and stepping back into his tent. Two enormous men-at-arms picked up the strongbox and followed him in, the flaps falling shut as they disappeared.
‘So who’s going to fight him?’ asked Kazumi, prompting more bickering from Mungo and Toki, each of them desperate to face the Jaguar Warrior.
‘Shut up,’ hissed Trick, his mind working overtime. He couldn’t believe any of them would be in such a hurry to meet their end. ‘There might be another way, without any of us getting hurt.’
The chanting continued as more gold was exchanged in the crowd and fights broke out among bickering gamblers. The hillmen clambered into the pit, recovering the body of their fallen brother, as Zuma stood in the centre, accepting the applause of the audience. His keen eyes remained fixed on the boy in the crowd and his three companions, as they plotted and schemed.
ZUMA’S SUMMONING
Mexico, AD 1519
The Spaniard stumbled, splashing through the swamp with panicked strides. There was a wail behind him as the last of his companions fell – his fellow conquistadors had all met the same terrible fate. Across his shoulder, the man carried an open chest that brimmed with gold. In the crook of his left arm he gripped his upturned helmet; this too was overflowing with jewellery fashioned from the precious metal. The temple had appeared to be unguarded, the hoard there for the taking. More fool the Spaniard and his companions. They hadn’t reckoned upon the beast that guarded the Aztec gold.
He looked back as he ran, clambering over the exposed roots of mangrove trees and sliding over muddy banks. He had to keep moving, to put distance between himself and the temple. If he continued in this direction, following the morning light, he would reach the beach where his landing party had come ashore. Then he could return to the jungle with more men, more weapons. But for now he simply had to shake his foe off his trail. His enemy was out there somewhere, a demon in the jungle that attacked in the darkness.
Had the monster followed the conquistador? Or had the Spaniard given it the slip? He clambered along the edge of a mosquito-infested swamp before collapsing against an enormous mangrove. The soldier paused for the briefest moment to catch his breath and look back the way he had come. It was a mistake.
The arrow punched clean through his breastplate, breaking the flesh below his ribs. The Spaniard grunted, wheezed, then stumbled down the banks of the incline, hitting the thick swamp with a heavy splash. It was like quicksand, slowly taking hold of him and pulling him down.
He struggled to free himself, but his ornate steel breastplate was weighing him down. The poisoned arrow was already working its dark magic, slowing him, making his internal organs shut down. The chest of gold remained afloat next to him, as did his helmet, but they were also sinking. The Spaniard was sinking faster though.
He snorted when he saw a shape emerge from behind the roots of the giant mangrove tree. Its skin was golden, spotted with black marks, its teeth white and deadly. A giant cat of some kind, here to watch his demise. It rose, tall on its hind legs, staring down at the dying man. The Spaniard spat mud from his mouth as the sucking pit dragged him ever deeper. He could see that this was no beast now; it was a man, wearing the skin of a jungle cat. The pelt covered his arms and the clawed paws hung over the Aztec’s clenched fists. He carried a bow and a quiver on his back.
The Spaniard begged for help, straining with all his might to raise a hand from the stinking swamp. The Aztec saw this and, grabbing a root of the mangrove, lowered himself, reaching out towards the temple robber. The conquistador managed a panicked smile, his hope rising. It was extinguished in a flash when the wild man seized the chest of gold, dragging the half-sunk box back across the swamp to the safety of the shore. Through the dark open maw of the catskin hood, the Spaniard saw the man smile.
Then the light came. The Spaniard imagined this was his Lord coming for him, ready to take him to heaven. He closed his eyes before the blue light, accepting that his suffering was over and he was going to a better place. Tranquillity was only a heartbeat away. Still the pit sucked him down, the gloopy mud surging into his throat and choking him.
The conquistador’s eyes flicked open. The Aztec – and the bright light – were gone. The chest of gold remained on the bank, untouched. Then the thieving Spaniard was swallowed by the mangrove swamp, his slow, agonizing death anything but peaceful.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Beneath the starlight, Trick crouched at Kazumi’s feet as the samurai’s naginata touched the back of the tent. It eased through the fabric as the blade descended, cutting a neat vertical incision. Trick glanced left and right, spying the silhouettes of Toki and Mungo in the shadows; they would remain on lookout in case anyone else arrived upon the scene.
The fat merchant’s soldiers were stationed on the wooden dais at the tent’s entrance, leaving the rear unguarded. This was where Trick could be of use. His parkour skills had helped carry him across numerous London rooftops; his agility had always been his strength, and it would be invaluable this morning.
‘In and out,’ whispered Trick. ‘We grab the chest and go. It’s only the gold we’re after, remember? The ferry leaves in a short while. Nobody needs to get hurt.’
‘So you say,’ replied Kazumi, holding the cut wall open as Trick slipped silently through.
The interior of the tent was dimly lit, with hooded lanterns placed intermittently around the enormous open chamber. Shifting walls of sheer fabrics and velvet curtains hung from the ceiling, and fluttered in the breeze that followed the intruders in. Cushions and pillows littered the floor, and the smell of burning incense made Trick cough. Kazumi shot him a cold glare.
Through the silk fabric they could see the hulking figure of the merchant, lying on an enormous round mattress. They parted the material, stepping stealthily closer, wary of any baubles or bottles that might be underfoot. Trick kept his eyes locked on the man, alert for signs of stirring, while Kazumi followed, naginata at the ready. Her keen gaze searched the rugs around the bed, scouring the chamber for the fat man’s stash. There was no sign of it.
‘Looking for this?’
The two of them turned quickly towards the voice in the shadows. A shape slowly disengaged from the darkness; it was the Jaguar Warrior who had fought in the arena, and he had the strongbox under one arm. In the other he held a strange wooden sword studded with sharp jagged stones. They were glassy and black, not unlike the pendant round Trick’s neck.
‘Put it down slowly,’ said Kazumi, twirling her naginata, ‘and I promise you a swift death.’
‘I’m putting nothing down,’ grinned Zuma, nodding towards the motionless merchant. ‘One shout from me and the rest of his men come running.’
‘So why haven’t you called them?’ asked Trick, wondering what game he was playing.
‘You want the gold, I
understand that. To get across to Sea Forge. For what purpose?’
‘You seem to know our intentions well enough already,’ said Kazumi.
‘Your friends are not subtle. I hear and see things.’
‘So, what? You want a bribe?’ asked Kazumi. ‘You can have my blade instead.’
The Jaguar Warrior raised his wooden sword. ‘You want to dance, woman?’
‘Wait,’ hissed Trick. ‘You haven’t alerted the merchant’s men yet. There must be a reason. What do you want from us?’
‘I would join you.’
Kazumi snorted. ‘He lies.’
The Jaguar Warrior pulled his face into a mock frown. ‘Did Boarhammer upset you? Or has the mean Boneshaker been calling you names? I suspect your fight lies elsewhere. Mine is not here either. I’ve kicked my heels in this turd-riddled pit for months, waiting for an opportunity.’
‘Opportunity?’ asked Trick.
‘Pay me and I fight for you, by your side.’
‘A mercenary?’ scoffed Kazumi.
‘A soldier of fortune,’ corrected Zuma.
‘You have the gold already,’ said Trick. ‘You could just take it.’
‘This is a trifle. There’s more in Sea Forge, I wager. A damn sight more.’
‘You want a share of it?’ asked Kazumi.
Zuma chuckled. ‘As you appear to be on some noble quest, I’ll take more than a share. I’ll take the lot.’
‘Why do you want all the gold?’
The Jaguar Warrior stepped closer, his eyes wide and shining with a yellow glow. ‘What kind of Aztec would I be if I didn’t want all the gold?’
Trick’s mind whirred with vague recollections of tales of Aztec warriors and their love of the precious metal. It made sense.
‘You get the gold if you fight for us,’ said Trick, holding his fist out.
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