by S. C. Stokes
He nodded and handed me the leather-bound journal. “You're a wizard, Seth. We’re always outnumbered, but we have one thing that counters it all.”
“Magic?” I asked.
“Knowledge.” He tapped my temple with one finger. “Knowledge is power, and you have the first-hand account of someone who walked those halls. Her blood runs in your veins and that temple was once our home. They should fear you.”
My father's words buoyed my spirits, but I couldn't help but wonder what horrors waited for me in the lost temple of the Brujas de Sangre.
13
The steady thrum of the seaplane’s engine whirred as the tiny aircraft moved through the pre-dawn sky. It was no Gladys, that was for certain. The small plane had spent most of its life serving as a launch platform for insane sky divers.
Murdoch and I had arrived in Panama City after midnight. We’d been met at the airport by a local Brotherhood operative and ferried out to a sheltered bay where the fueled seaplane had been waiting.
The faded red and white vessel had a single propeller mounted on its nose and bobbed gently on its floats as the bay lapped at the craft.
Dawn was approaching, brilliant streaks of orange and pink starting to blossom over the horizon as we headed north.
While the vessel was far from stealthy, we hoped it would be dismissed for what it seemed: a skydiving vessel out to deliver some thrill-seekers to their destination.
As a precaution, Murdoch kept the vessel out of small arms range, just in case any ground-based Inquisition operatives took umbrage at our presence. Below us, the Chagres National Park stretched out in every direction, a hundred and twenty-nine thousand hectares of pristine rain forest and rivers that covered much of the region between Panama City in the south and the Caribbean in the north. The Chagres National Park and the rivers that flowed through it were essential to the smooth operation of the Panama Canal to our west.
The lush green forests themselves were inhabited by a small indigenous population that lived in harmony with the environment around them, largely cutoff from the distractions of the industrial world.
The towns of Portobelo and Nombre de Dios along the Caribbean coast were both significant sites in the life of Francis Drake. Drake had captured and attempted to ransom Nombre de Dios. The Spanish ships in harbor had been sunk and the English had launched an assault along the old Panama road. The gambit had been a failure and the thwarted English had retreated. Sickness and death had beset the ill-fated expedition and they retreated to Portobelo, where history would have you believe Francis Drake, her majesty’s privateer, died of dysentery on the 28th of January 1596.
Hurled from his ship in a lead lined coffin, Drake was buried at sea. Unbeknown to his crew, Drake escaped, and with the aid of a young witch, Ellawaya of the Brujas de Sangre, not only made a full recovery, but purchased passage on a ship to England, paying for the voyage with a lump of gold the size of his fist.
As the plane roared over the pristine rainforests, I couldn’t help but marvel at the grandeur of it. No wonder Francis had been able to hide his survival here. You could spend a lifetime lost in such wilderness and never be found.
“We're approaching the coordinates, boss,” Murdoch said, his voice crackling through the headset, as we hurtled over the canopy of the rain forest.
I looked out the window, searching for any sign of the ancient temple.
“I don't see anything yet,” I replied, worrying that the Red Knight may have sent us on a wild goose chase.
Murdoch pointed. “If my instruments are correct, it should be just over this plateau.”
The seaplane rose, clearing a ridge rising out of the dense green foliage.
I looked down and gasped. A dirty brown scar had been carved into the basin of Chagres National Park. It looked like a meteor had plunged into the middle of the tropical wilderness. The chasm swarmed with men and machinery.
“Holy mother of—” I whispered.
“Watch your mouth,” Murdoch said. “I won't have you blaspheming in here. There’s enough set against us without incurring the displeasure of the Almighty.”
“Sorry, Murdoch,” I muttered as I stared at the pit.
A gaping hole had been carved into the earth. It loosely resembled an open pit mine. Progressively circling ramps led down into a deep pit. Banks of dirt had been thrown up around the mine where the discarded fill had been dumped. Excavators worked in the base of the pit, while a trio of mine trucks steadily wound their way in and out of the pit. It had to be almost a hundred and fifty feet deep. Around the perimeter, lights had been set up, with what looked like solar arrays to power them.
It seemed the crews were working night and day. At the base of the muddy pit, I could make out a wall of gray stone. It wasn’t a natural rock formation. I could make out the hand-hewn stone blocks that had been painstakingly quarried and stacked upon each other, in the style popular with the ancient inhabitants of Central America.
“They’ve found it,” I muttered in disbelief, staring out the window. Part of me knew they would, but at the same time I had been chasing the location of the temple for so long I had almost given up believing that it even still existed.
“You better get down there,” Murdoch said. “The sooner the better. Looks like they’ll be inside soon, if they aren’t already.”
“I can't jump here.” I pointed to the mass of workers below. “They’ll spot my chute. Head back over the ridge to the southwest. There should be a village there. They should be a little friendlier.”
“Whatever you say, boss.” He adjusted his grip on the seaplane’s yoke, bringing it about in a wide banking maneuver.
Unbuckling my seatbelt, I set my headset aside and ran my hands over my kit, checking that I hadn’t lost anything during the flight.
My outfit consisted of khaki slacks, a cotton shirt, my bullet-proof vest, and the combat rigging. Sliding out of my seat, I pulled myself to my feet, grunting with the effort. Weighed down by my kit, I was a good twenty pounds heavier than I would normally be. I was lean and not nearly as well muscled as I would have liked. Gyms were a luxury reserved for social media influencers and people who weren’t being stalked by ancient death curses. I simply didn’t have the time.
Making my way into the back end of the seaplane, I gripped the handle that ran along the ceiling behind Murdoch’s seat. The entire rear compartment of the plane was empty but for a bench seat and some space to store parachutes. I pulled on my chute, strapped myself into it, and loaded the last few pieces of my gear.
Staring out the glass window on the plane’s door, I could make out a loose collection of structures beneath us. If you weren’t looking closely, they would be easily missed. The only giveaway was the different shade of the foliage serving as thatching on the roofs of the structures.
The natives lived untouched by modern society. Free of electricity and the distractions it brought with it, they eked a living from the land in the same way my ancestors had centuries earlier. Or at least, the way they had until the Spanish had arrived. The natives posed little threat to the heavily armed Inquisition.
“Bring us over that village,” I called to Murdoch, shouting to be heard over the engine. “Get us nice and low. I don't want to be seen dropping in.”
“If they have scouts out this far, it's not gonna matter,” Murdoch replied with a shrug. “They can’t miss the chute.”
“That's a risk I’m going to have to take. Once I'm in the forest, it will be like looking for a needle in a haystack. As long as I make it to the ground, I’ll be fine.”
“You’ll make it to the ground alright.” Murdoch chortled. “Gravity will see to that.”
“Thanks, pal.” As I eyed the jungle floor below, an involuntary shiver ran down my spine. “I can always rely on you to make me feel better.”
Murdoch turned in his seat and fixed me with a stare. “I’m your pilot, not your priest. I gave up that job a long time ago. You, my boy, are parachuting into a valley f
illed with zealots who want you dead. I thought a little honesty might be the order of the day.”
My heart beat a little faster as I tightened the harnesses on my parachute. “Too much of a good thing, Murdoch. A little blind reassurance won’t hurt.”
He grinned back at me. “You’ll be just fine, Seth. Nothing to worry about here.”
“Atta boy, Murdoch. If you’re speaking to your old boss, put in a good word for me.”
“He’d rather hear it from you,” Murdoch laughed, looking out the windshield. “If you can't get into the temple, bug out and double back to the river. I'll wait for you there.”
“I'm not leaving empty-handed,” I replied. “I’ve come too far.”
“Better dead years from now, having lived a good life, then dying here in this wilderness. Don’t be so quick to discard the life you’ve been given, Seth.”
“I'd rather not die at all,” I said, my hand moving to the door’s handle.
Murdoch pointed up. “From your lips to his ears. Are you ready?”
“Ready as I'll ever be.”
Murdoch held up his thumb and index finger, giving me the okay signal. I took a deep breath and prepared to open the door, but Murdoch craned his neck around.
“Hey, Seth?”
“Yes?” I called.
“Give those zealous little crusaders hell. For Gladys.”
I clapped a hand on his shoulder and nodded.
Wrestling open the rear door of the seaplane, I was assailed by the roaring wind as we cut through the sky at several hundred miles an hour. I clung to the seaplane for dear life as I carefully lowered myself onto the seaplane’s float.
I hated everything about this.
I shimmied out, clutching the strut for support. All I had to do was not look down.
No sooner had the thought crystallized in my mind, then I made the mistake of looking down. My regret was immediate. We were high enough the fall would certainly kill me, and worse yet, I’d have plenty of time to think about it while plunging to my death.
I hated heights, but they were an occupational hazard. Arcane relics seldom resided in easy to reach places. That said, I’d rather face a cavern of angry zealots than leap out of a perfectly serviceable plane.
Murdoch passed over the village and I sucked in a deep breath. Questioning my sanity, I pushed off the strut.
There was a sense of giddy weightlessness and gravity gripped me like a vice. I began to plummet toward the earth.
Spreading my arms, I arrested my spin, turning until I was face down, looking at the rapidly approaching jungle canopy. Glancing to my right, I looked at the plateau that separated the village from the temple and hoped it would block as much of the line of sight as possible.
I was going to have to keep an eye out for Inquisition sentries. I scanned the ground, but the dense jungle canopy rendered the effort pointless.
I hadn't had nearly enough training in low altitude openings. Chickening out, I gripped the cord that would deploy the pilot chute and gave it a stiff pull.
Nothing happened.
My heart began to pound in my chest as the earth drew nearer by the second. I gave the shoot another pull, to no avail.
The ground rushed up to meet me. I could feel my hands sweating as I fumbled desperately with the parachute.
In a moment of clarity, I remembered the reserve, found it, and pulled it for all I was worth.
The reserve shoot deployed, and the harness around my chest tightened as the canopy blossomed outward and caught, arresting my descent. My speed slowed but my heart threatened to burst from my chest. It was simply too early in the day for near death experiences. I breathed a heavy sigh of relief as I glanced down at my palms. They were slick with sweat. There was still an indentation on my left hand where I'd been furiously pulling on the release.
It was certainly a closer call than I had hoped for. On the plus side, the late opening might have helped make my descent harder to observe.
I gripped the risers and steered my descent as best I could toward the end edge of the village.
Dawn was coming quickly and the last thing I wanted was to get caught in the rain forest’s canopy. I didn’t expect the natives would give me any trouble, probably more curious than anything. Who was the man who had fallen out of the sky and jumped into their well? Crazy, would be the likely conclusion. One that would serve me well, as long as the Inquisition didn’t find me.
If my ancestor’s journal was correct, the village well would lead to an underground entrance into the temple. I wondered if the tribespeople had any idea of the treasure that lay just beyond their village. Then I wondered if they even cared. My ancestors had once played a pivotal role in protecting and prospering these people. At least until the Spanish had come. If the Inquisition knew where to find the temple, it meant their conquistador ancestors had likely had a role in burying the temple. What had become of the Brujas de Sangre?
What exactly was I walking into? Had Ellawaya’s people fled? Or had they been massacred within their shrine? What state would the Conquistadors have left the temple? If the Inquisition had gone to the effort of excavating it, something had to have been left intact.
I stretched my legs and braced for impact. As my boots struck the dirt, I ran forward so that I wouldn't become entangled in my chute, while slipping out of it. I bundled the canopy into a small heap and packed it down, before stuffing it into a hollowed-out log.
On the ground, it was humid and warm. This time of year, Panama was a touch over eighty-five degrees but the humidity made it feel much hotter. Reaching behind my back, I slipped my fingers between the bulletproof vest and tactical rigging and pulled until the battered brown felt fedora came free. It had seen better days, but I ran my hand around the inside of the brim until it retook its shape. I slid it on and took comfort in the familiar feel of the soft felt against my head.
I scanned the village as I made my way toward it. I was no creature of the jungle, but I was a thief. Moving quietly was an occupational necessity.
Calling it a village was perhaps a little generous. It was half a dozen timber structures that served as shelters. Each of them was built-up off the ground on stilts, with open sides instead of walls, and thatched roofs. They were the kind of structure that only really worked in a place with a climate like Panama. Anywhere else and the villages would have risked freezing to death at night. Two of the structures had been reduced to charred husks, the fire of which had gone out some time past. There was no hint of any lingering embers.
The other huts still stood, but were deserted. The village was empty.
I began to worry for its inhabitants. Had the Inquisition found them and disposed of them? There was no lingering stench of death, so it seemed unlikely. I couldn’t find any trace of conflict as I moved along its perimeter, and I laid aside my fears that the Inquisition or someone else had exterminated the occupants. Perhaps they had fled at the arrival of the men and machinery. Such were certainly strange occurrences in the Changres basin.
Crouching in the jungle at the edge of the village, I hunted for any sign of the well Ellawaya had mentioned. Insects buzzed about in a tiny cloud. The blasted mosquitoes seemed everywhere in the moist, warm jungle. Even the thick layer of repellent I'd applied seemed to have little impact on them.
It wasn’t until the small thud rang out, that I noticed the presence. The thud was the result of a piece of timber striking the hut’s floor. My eyes zeroed in on the source of the sound and I spotted a child. His black hair reached to his shoulders as he bent over a wooden box.
He rose triumphant, a piece of fruit clutched in one hand, grinning jubilantly. His ribs were a little too visible above the small loincloth he was wearing.
The child was no threat to me. He was far more concerned with his next meal to care about my presence. I had a well to find. As I looked about, there was no sign of it in the village.
It had to be nearby.
Or at least I hoped it was. A lot could
change in four hundred years. It was entirely possible that the village I was looking at wasn't the same one my ancestor had escaped through all those years before. From the topography of the region, I thought it most likely, but the village could just have readily been closer to the temple and buried along with it.
The structures themselves might have been moved or been replaced many times over the years. I needed to search the area.
Trying to enter through the mine the Inquisition had created was suicide. One entrance, at the base of a steep pit, guarded by perhaps a hundred armed soldiers and operatives. It was a killing field. On my best day I had no chance of making it through that unscathed.
Even if I did, I’d be exhausted and still be facing the dangers of the temple itself. A deadly proposition. I needed to find the priestess’ path. If the notes in Ellawaya’s journal held true, the underground path would take me beyond the annex of the temple and perhaps allow me to insert myself ahead of the Inquisition's advance.
Hope springs eternal.
I melted back into the foliage.
The sound of cracking branches brought me to a halt and sent a shiver down my spine. I sunk low, crouching beside a tree covered in strangler vines. Up ahead, something was moving through the jungle. Something that didn’t belong here. It was simply too loud. A steady, crunch, crunch, crunch marked its advance.
Whatever it was, it made no effort to hide its approach. Likely because it didn't consider anyone a threat. The natives of Chagres National Park had no technology to speak of. They certainly didn’t pose a danger to two heavily armed shock troops of the Inquisition, like those tromping through the jungle toward the village.
If I had to guess, I would have picked them as Inquisition scouts, patrolling the area. I went still. They were on track for the village and if I remained where I was, they would pass a good fifteen feet ahead of me. I could avoid them entirely. I hunkered between the trees as the two-man team emerged from the foliage about thirty paces to my right. They both carried assault rifles, although they were of different makes. One was a Russian-made AK-47. The other was a FAMAS assault rifle. Both soldiers wore the same black tactical gear with red crosses emblazoned on the chest piece, in an identical style to the men who had been waiting to ambush me at the airport.