by S. C. Stokes
They were definitely Inquisition. I waited for them to pass me and rose from my hiding place. I hoped to evade detection for as long as possible.
I strode deeper into the jungle, until I realized the direction the men were heading. They were making a beeline for the hut with the young man.
I wrestled with my choices for all of a moment. I needed to get moving, but at the same time they were clearly looking for something. They might simply want to drive the child away, but what if they did worse? Those at the airport had shown no compunctions about taking lives. I couldn't leave the boy at their mercy. He was just hungry and looking for food. He probably wouldn't even notice the soldiers until it was too late.
I couldn't leave the child to his fate.
The two soldiers charged through the jungle for the village. Without warning, they pulled up short. They hovered at the jungle’s edge and scanned the village. A dozen paces behind them I waited silently.
The men spotted the boy, and one reached for a radio.
“Base, this is patrol three, over,” the soldier called. His accent was from the south of London. It seemed the Inquisition had broader membership than I had supposed.
“Patrol three, what's your situation?” a voice called through the radio. It was smooth, like velvet.
“The movement is just a child,” the Londoner replied. “The village still seems abandoned.”
“We have our orders, patrol three. No witnesses inside the perimeter. You know what to do,” the velvet voice replied with no hesitation whatsoever.
The sinister threat sickened me to my core.
Two men looked at each other, and the man with the radio released the button. He spoke to his companion. “It's just a boy. He is no threat.”
“It doesn't matter,” his companion replied in a heavy French accent. “It's him or us. Torquemada brooks no interference.”
I stood in silence as the two men wrestled with their conscience, not knowing that I sat watching their every move.
Just let him be. Just let him be. What harm is a child to you?
The child turned, as if aware of their presence, the half-eaten fruit still gripped in his left hand. He spotted the two soldiers at the edge of the village and paused.
Run. I wanted to shout it at the top of my lungs, but the boy stood rooted to the spot.
Curiosity could be deadly.
The two soldiers raised their assault rifles. They had made their decision.
And so had I.
I launched forward, intentionally crunching through the undergrowth. The two men spun, and I pressed myself flat against a tree. They were less than twenty feet away now.
“What the hell,” the Frenchman cursed.
“Get the boy,” the Londoner called. “I'll watch our back.”
I had my sidearm, a Glock 17, but didn't want to risk alerting the others to our presence. Instead, I drew on my will and drank deeply of the energy flowing through the region. This close to the temple and situated atop the ley line running between the continents, I felt almost drowned by the response of arcane energy. It coursed through the plateau.
Focusing my mind on the jungle around the two soldiers, I whispered, “Aprovechar!”
The jungle came alive as strangler vines seized both men. A bough belonging to a nearby tree swept low, knocking the Frenchman off his feet, his assault rifle landing in the leafy foliage beside him. The Brit spun around as a vine tore his rifle from his grasp. The men fought back, but the fury of the jungle overwhelmed them. Branches from nearby trees pummeled the two as constricting vines bound them down to the earth. The two men flailed as the jungle beat them into submission. Their bodies went limp as vines dragged them into the mud. Roots grew from the earth, plunging through them in a spray of blood. The Frenchman gasped and went still. The Brit didn’t even manage that as one of the vines snaked into his mouth, suffocating him.
I approached the pair, checking them for any sign of life, but they were well and truly dead. Taking lives was never something I took satisfaction from, but I would lose no sleep over two men who were willing to kill a child.
I turned to find the olive-skinned boy standing at the edge of the hut looking at me, a mix of confusion and fear on his features. I held up my hands so he could see they were empty.
There was a cackle and the radio burst to life. “Patrol three, are you there?”
I bent down, grabbed the radio, and pressed the broadcast button. In my best mimic of the soldier, I replied, “Patrol three to base, it’s done.”
“Very well. Resume your patrol.” The velvet voice sounded pleased.
The child stared at me with his head cocked to one side.
It dawned on me that I had no idea what dialect the natives here spoke. Spanish was still the dominant language in Panama, but how much of it had made it to these natives was another matter. My conversational Spanish was passable and I thought it worth a try so I called out to the boy, “You’re safe. It’s okay.”
The child stared at me. I couldn’t tell if he had understood me and accepted the fact, or he hadn’t caught my meaning at all and was simply curious of the pale skinned stranger who had fallen from the sky.
I approached the hut slowly, reaching into a pouch on my tactical rigging and producing a chocolate bar. It was already going soft in the heat. Unwrapping it at one end, I took a bite and held it out to him. It was probably more sugar than he’d had in his lifetime, but given his condition and my lack of other options I couldn’t see the harm.
I handed the bar to him, and he took it. He eyed it warily before popping the partially melted chocolate into his mouth. He grinned and swallowed, looking at me with childlike wonder.
“Do you speak Spanish?” I asked in Spanish. I was clutching at straws, but if he could understand me, it might help speed up my search. If this was his village, he’d know where to find the well.
The boy tilted his head to one side in a gesture that did nothing to reassure me that he understood a word I was saying.
I reached for my canteen and poured a little water in my hand before lifting it to my lips and slurping it up.
I poured more water in my hand, pointed at it, and said, “Agua?”
The hope was that the child might be able to shorten my search. After all, if this was his village, he should know where the water was. There had to be something around, or it made little point for the villagers to settle here.
The child nodded.
I had to stop myself from whooping. I mimed an action for walking, moving two fingers back and forth along the back of my arm.
The child looked at me, and then held out his hand.
Why was it that children everywhere seemed to understand how to extort the best deal out of you?
I chuckled, pulled out another melting chocolate bar from my pocket, and handed it to him.
The child smiled and padded out of the structure, past the two dead soldiers and into the forest. I followed close behind, noting how quietly he moved. It was as if he knew instinctively how to avoid that the loudest of the dead fall, his little feet racing nimbly over roots that threatened to trip me up.
I mopped the sweat from my brow as I followed him. I simply wasn't used to this humidity. It wasn't actually that hot, but the moisture in the air made it feel like you were swimming as you moved through it. A sheen of sweat seemed to be my constant companion.
We came to a small clearing with a large stone well. It was a simple rock construction, with a thatched roof and a crossbeam with a rope that disappeared into the darkness. I bent over the rock wall and studied its depths. Darkness obscured the true extent of the well, and I smiled. It was certainly promising.
The child pointed at the well, and I gave him a thumbs up. I scooped up a small stone and dropped it over the edge. The stone fell for some time before hitting the water with a gentle plunk.
The well seemed deep enough to hide some secrets, but at the same time, it was hard to be certain it was the well I was searc
hing for. There was no way of knowing without testing. I smiled and gave the child a third candy bar, patting him on the head.
I whispered in Spanish, “Run and hide.”
The child seemed to understand. He clutched the chocolate with eager hands before sprinting off into the jungle.
Reaching into my pocket, I drew out an earpiece and put it on. The pieces were Caldwell tech, and transmitted via satellites for a far greater operating range. They would allow me to stay in touch with Murdoch over considerable distances, though the deeper I got beneath the earth the more difficult that would become.
“Murdoch, can you hear me?”
There was a brief pause before the pilot’s voice chirped over the comms. “Loud and clear, Seth. What’s going on?”
“I’ve found the well and am about to take a closer look,” I murmured as I took a length of black climbing rope off my back and began to rig myself a harness. I didn’t dare try to descend the fraying braided thing currently hanging from the well’s crossbar. I’d likely fall and break my neck, or drown.
“Nice work,” Murdoch replied. “Your father has wrangled a satellite off Lynch, something about protecting his investment. I’ll have eyes on the site in a few minutes. I’ll give you whatever overwatch I can.”
“Thanks, Murdoch,” I said, climbing onto the rock wall ringing the well. Dangling my feet over the edge, I muttered, “wish me luck.”
Murdoch chuckled. “Give ‘em hell.”
I had no idea what waited for me below, but the spring-fed well should have been at its lowest point just after dawn. It was low tide after all. If the journal was correct, it would reveal the priestess’ path, a narrow passage leading to the temple.
Giving the rope a tug, I tested the stability of the well’s construction, making sure it could take my weight. I gave it a few more for good measure.
The structure seemed sturdy enough. With a sigh of resignation, I eased off the stone wall and swung out over the hole. For the second time in an hour, I found myself muttering, “Don’t look down.”
Overhead, the timber groaned, and I damn near wet myself. After a moment, the groaning stopped and I breathed a sigh of relief. The timber gave no further signs of imminent collapse, so I eased my grip and plunged into the darkness.
14
The darkness enveloped me. Water lapped against stone somewhere far beneath me. With the strange acoustics of the well, it was impossible to tell if the water was five or fifty feet away. The damp, earthy scent of mildew choked the confined space. There wasn’t much in the way of circulation, so I breathed through my mouth and tried to keep my mind focused on the task at hand, though the darkness seemed to make it easier to see Lara’s face in my mind’s eye. Her emerald eyes glittered and for a few moments my heart was a world away, in New York City.
“Stupid curse,” I muttered as I descended, hand over hand, wishing there was an easier way. My left hand chafed against the rope as it stopped me from plummeting to my death, or perhaps a broken neck which would mean about the same in the water at the well’s base. The task, difficult on a good day, was made all the more so by being loaded down with my tactical rig.
“It’s okay, your hands aren’t burning,” I tried to reassure myself, wishing I’d thought to pack a good set of gloves. Mind over matter.
I had to have gone a good forty-five feet into the darkness. My hands were going numb, and I was sweating like a pig. The water lapping beneath me was growing louder.
I couldn’t be far off now. Ellawaya had made this trip in the dead of night, while running for her life. My respect for my ancestor grew by the moment.
Perspective.
The well itself was fed by an underground stream. The water level would be at its lowest point just after dawn. According to Ellawaya’s journal, that would reveal a passage leading into the temple. I needed some light, but I wasn’t game to take a hand off the rope, so I cheated.
Focusing my mind, I channeled a wisp of power into an illuminating orb before me. A tiny shimmering blue orb flickered into existence about a foot in front of my face. It hovered there, giving off an eerie blue light that struck the walls of the well. The stone was tinged green with algae.
Glancing down, I could barely make out the murky depths of the water about twenty feet beneath me. I searched the well wall. Solid stone. There was meant to be a tunnel, but all I could see was solid stone.
Had I picked the wrong village? Was I wasting precious time floundering about in a random well, or had I just gone too far? I looked up and willed the orb up, searching for any sign of the tunnel.
The blue orb rose, but I found only solid stone as far as the eye could see. I didn’t have time for this. The Inquisition was breaching the temple. Unpalatable as a frontal assault would be, I couldn’t keep roaming the jungles of Chagres hoping to find the hidden entrance.
Adjusting my grip on the rope, I began the unpleasant task of trying to drag myself back up to the surface. The rope bit into the skin of my palm. I winced, clutching at the rope with my other as the brim of my fedora clipped the climbing line. I felt the hat teeter and fall.
“No!” I shouted as I clutched for the hat, catching it in the fingertips of my right hand, even as my left burned against the rope.
Without both hands to hold my weight, my grip faltered and I began to fall.
My heart leapt into my throat as I plunged toward the water. Jamming the hat back on my head I clutched the rope with both hands. The pain brought tears to my eyes, but my descent slowed as the rope took a layer of skin off my right palm.
I came to a halt, skimming the surface of the water. I could feel it soaking through my slacks as I lay there panting above it, my body laid out flat like a board. Overhead, my werelight flickered in the distance.
I willed it towards me, so that I could take stock of my rapidly deteriorating situation.
A deep groan escaped my lips as the light sank towards me.
The illumination played over the well’s walls, catching on a lip of stone jutting out from the wall almost three feet above my head. Arching my back, I followed its progress and realized my mistake.
The stone protrusion had prevented my werelight from casting light on what was hidden beneath it: an inky black portal that had been concealed from view. Behind me, stretching into the distance, was a sloping path hewn into the earth.
I'd found it. The priestess’ way.
I panted a sigh of relief. My body ached, but my heart flipped in my chest in giddy delight. Gripping the rope with both hands, I sat up and wiggled back and forth, using my body weight to swing like a pendulum from side to side. The water sucked at me as I skimmed its surface but with each swing, I grew closer.
My feet reached the inner wall of the well and I kicked off with both boots. Sailing back toward the portal, I let go of the rope and landed heavily on the stone floor of the path.
I tumbled and came to a gasping halt. Resting my head against the cool stone, I lay there panting as I tried to catch my breath. The stone floor was damp, likely a result of the receding tide. I had expected a muddy trail, but the floor was solid. Willing my light closer, I studied the path. It was as if the entire tunnel had been hewn from a single piece of stone. It was seamless. No mortal workmanship was that good; it was magic. Geomancy.
Earth magic, and a lot of it. The witch cult had carefully shaped the path that ran from the village to the temple annex. Perhaps it was meant to function as some sort of escape route in the event of a siege.
Such paths were not uncommon. Witches and wizards are well-known for their paranoia. It was what came from their long lives and a first-hand study of human nature. Perhaps the Brujas de Sangre had been afraid that the locals might one day turn against them and their bloody rituals. The path would give them a ready escape.
I scrambled to my feet and stood up, water running down my legs and into my boots. I adjusted my kit, dusted myself off as best I could, and anxiously studied the tunnel before me.
&nb
sp; It was a surreal experience to think that I was walking where Ellawaya had once walked. The sloping path ran beneath the plateau in a straight shot toward the temple. I had no doubt that at high tide the entire tunnel would be submerged. It would flood and be lethal for anyone caught within. I reached for my scuba rebreather and reassuringly felt its presence on my back. If things got too hot in the temple, I might well need it to escape.
The deeper I went, the warmer the air grew. The tunnel was dank and moist, a function of the humidity and moisture in the cavern. I tried to prepare myself for what lay in the temple, but Ellawaya’s journal had been remarkably sparse on that front. Perhaps she had hoped her posterity would never return to this place.
From what I had observed of the temple during our flyover, the Inquisition had unearthed the temple. Were they already inside? Was I walking into an ambush? What did the zealots even want with the Brujas de Sangre?
So many unanswered questions.
The Spanish had been the dominant presence in the Caribbean in the 15th and 16th centuries, with outposts and mining concerns throughout Panama and South America. The New world had been the corner stone of their colonization and treasure raising endeavors, funding their wars with England and refilling their depleted coffers. It had eventually given rise to the pirate plague that had swept the Caribbean.
The promise of easy gold had drawn nations to the New World. For the first time, I wondered how much of that gold had been sourced from the Brujas de Sangre and appreciated the irony of Ellawaya’s escape. Her return to England with Drake, and the subsequent rise of the Caldwell Dynasty, had changed the course of history. Her bloodline had financed England's ascendancy.
It had all begun, right here, far from the prying eyes of historians. So much of what had transpired here remained a mystery.