With a roar, Tenoch brandished the machete and charged.
CHAPTER 22
Preacher wanted another chance at Tenoch, but the conditions weren’t the best in which to fight a battle. The high priest might intend to settle things manto-man, but if it looked like their leader as about to be killed, the guards would probably rush in and take a hand, even though they had been ordered not to.
A little too close in Eztli’s private chamber, Preacher would have preferred the fight take place outside where he would have plenty of room to move around.
Tenoch wasn’t giving him a choice, though. The machete swept toward him in a blindingly fast stroke that would lop his head right off his shoulders if it landed.
He dropped under the deadly blade and lunged forward to meet Tenoch’s attack with a charge of his own. He tackled the warrior around the knees and heaved. With a startled yell, Tenoch went over backwards, landing hard on the stone floor, but the impact didn’t knock the machete out of his hand as Preacher had hoped.
Tenoch lashed out with a sandaled foot in a vicious kick aimed at Preacher’s head.
The mountain man shifted aside in time to take the blow on his left shoulder, but it was powerful enough to deaden his arm momentarily and send him rolling across the room. Along the way, he got tangled in one of the bearskins scattered on the floor. Turning that to his advantage, he came up on one knee, tore loose from the bearskin, and flung it toward Tenoch just as the man leaped toward him again with the machete held high.
The bearskin enveloped Tenoch’s head, blinding him and catching the machete in it, too. Preacher surged to his feet and launched an uppercut aimed at where Tenoch’s jaw ought to be located under the bearskin. The powerful blow landed with a solid smash that shivered satisfyingly up Preacher’s right arm all the way to his shoulder.
Tenoch didn’t go down, but he staggered back a step. Preacher bored in with his left hand, recovered from the kick, and slammed a hard left and then a right into the warrior’s slab-muscled midsection.
Tenoch was shaky but stubbornly refused to collapse. He finally succeeded in ripping the bearskin away from his head, just in time for Preacher’s left fist to crash against his nose. Blood spurted hotly over Preacher’s knuckles as Tenoch’s head rocked back from the blow.
Moving fast, Preacher grabbed the wrist of the hand that held the machete. He pivoted, trapping Tenoch’s arm as he wrapped his leg around the priest’s leg. The mountain man twisted, putting so much pressure on Tenoch’s elbow that he had to turn with Preacher to keep the joint from snapping. The machete slipped from Tenoch’s fingers and clattered on the stone floor at the mountain man’s feet.
Instantly, Preacher released the arm and bent to grab Tenoch’s leg. A powerful heave toppled the warrior again, and before he even hit the floor, Preacher had scooped up the fallen machete.
He dropped to one knee beside his opponent, pressed the blade to Tenoch’s throat, and shouted to the anxious guards as they started forward. “You boys better stay back or I’ll chop your boss’s head clean off!”
They might not know the words, but they understood the threat and pulled back as Preacher bore down on Tenoch’s throat with the blade.
“Drop those spears and kick ’em over here—” Preacher stopped as he heard a whisper of sound behind him. He hadn’t forgotten about Eztli, but he didn’t have eyes in the back of his head. He hoped she would be so afraid for Tenoch’s life that she would stay back.
He sensed as much as heard something coming at his head and glanced back just in time to see the clay pitcher Eztli was swinging at him with both arms. She was strong, and the pitcher shattered as she crashed it against his skull.
Preacher didn’t lose consciousness, but the blow stunned him and sent him slumping forward over Tenoch. The warrior batted Preacher’s arm aside, knocking the machete away from his throat, which bled from the small cut the blade left. Tenoch grabbed Preacher’s throat with his other hand and rolled the mountain man over to smash his head against the floor.
For the second time that evening, oblivion swallowed Preacher whole. The last thing he was aware of was Eztli’s voice angrily spitting out a word.
“Pree-char!”
CHAPTER 23
If Preacher had been able to think about it, he would have figured that if he ever woke up again, it would only be for a last moment of terrible agony while Tenoch carved his heart out of his chest. But when consciousness stole back into his brain after an unknowable time, he slowly realized that he was not only alive but intact. His heart still resided safely in his chest. He could hear his pulse pounding inside his skull like a crazed drumbeat.
Heat completely surrounded him. Not in waves such as what would come from a fire, but an overall, almost liquid heat as if he were immersed in it. The crimson glare against his closed eyelids told him the heat came from the sun.
He tried to move around but was powerless. Staked out, his wrists and ankles were tightly tied so that his arms were stretched above his head and his legs were splayed out to each side. Rough stone underneath him pressed hotly against his bare skin.
It had to be the day after his latest battle with Tenoch, he told himself. His captors had stripped him and staked him out in the sun. There was no telling how long he had been pinioned . . . wherever he was. Since he felt at least half cooked already, likely it had been a while.
There was no point in opening his eyes, either. He wouldn’t be able to see anything except the huge, hot ball of the sun floating in the sky overhead as it baked him. The terrible glare might blind him permanently if he stared into it for very long. He wasn’t going to risk that, even if he didn’t know how much longer he had to live.
Time had no meaning in that hell. Preacher lay there for what seemed like an eternity with his blood boiling in his veins. After a while he grew numb. Eventually, he was no longer even aware of the heat.
It took him a while to realize that the sun had set. Blessed darkness rolled over him, bringing with it cool relief.
Inside, though, he still burned.
He must have slept at some point, because when he became aware of his surroundings again, the sun was back, shining down on him. After a few moments, he was able to tell that it wasn’t directly overhead, but rather off to the side, the rays slanting across his tortured body.
He turned his head away from the light as much as he could and risked opening his eyes.
The world started spinning crazily around him as he realized he could see half the valley rolling away from him. He seemed to be floating on his back, hundreds of feet in the air. He felt like he was falling, and the sensation made him sick. He retched, but there was nothing inside him to come up. Everything had been leeched out of him by the awful heat.
Eventually he became aware of something rough against his cheek. Trembling, he forced his eyes open again. The vertigo wasn’t as bad . . . and he understood why.
He was staked out, all right—on that big stone slab at the top of the huge pyramid overlooking the Aztec city.
No wonder he was hot. He was closer to the sun than anything else in the valley.
Eventually he dozed again . . . or passed out. Either would have been right as far as he was concerned. He was gone....
And then he was there again.
Something sharp jabbed him in the side. A familiar voice barked a sharp command.
Preacher felt the stretched-out muscles in his arms and legs go slack as his wrists and ankles were freed from their bonds. Strong hands gripped him and lifted him from the stone. He hung limply from those hands as they carried him away. The swaying movement lulled him back into a stupor.
He came out of it when water splashed into his face. The cold liquid hit him like a fist. He gasped and tried to jerk upright, but he was too weak. All he could do was lie there with water dripping off him.
“My God, Preacher! They’ve roasted you!”
That was Boone Halliday’s voice.
Even in his misery,
Preacher was glad the young trapper was still alive. He’d been worried that Tenoch might have slaughtered all the other prisoners in a fit of rage after the scene in Eztli’s chambers.
“I must say the young fellow is right, Preacher.” That was Audie, of course. “Once when I was in Maine, I saw a lobster that had been boiled alive, and you bear a distinct resemblance to the poor creature.”
“Umm,” Nighthawk said in agreement.
Preacher instinctively sought darkness after the terrible light to which he’d been subjected, so his eyes were squeezed tightly shut. He forced them to open, and when he looked around he saw that he was back in the stone prison with the others.
Enough sunshine filtered through the ventilation holes for him to make out his fellow prisoners in the gloom. They were still strung up on the walls like they had been before, but he was loose, lying on the floor.
He managed to raise himself on an elbow. “How come . . . they didn’t tie me up again . . . like you fellas?”
“I suppose they don’t consider you a real threat at the moment,” Audie said. “You’re too blistered and too weak from thirst and hunger to put up a fight.”
“That’s what . . . they think,” Preacher rasped. “Just lemme . . . get my hands on a gun . . . or a tomahawk . . .” He groaned and slumped down again as what little strength he had deserted him.
When he could talk again, he asked, “How long . . . was I gone from here?”
“A day and a half,” Boone told him. “Where were you, Preacher?”
“They had me staked out . . . on top o’ that damn . . . big pyramid.”
“Good Lord,” Audie muttered. “No wonder you look like you’ve been baked. Were you up there the whole time?”
“As far as . . . I know.”
“They took you there when Eztli came and got you two nights ago?” Audie asked.
Preacher thought back. His lips cracked painfully as a faint smile pulled at them. “Not . . . the whole time . . . She took me from here . . . to where she lives. I reckon she . . . wanted me to spend the night with her.”
“You mean—” Boone choked off the words and sounded embarrassed again.
“I do believe that’s what he means,” Audie said. “For all of her considerable flaws, Eztli is a very beautiful woman. It’s none of my business, Preacher—”
“That’s right . . . it ain’t, but it don’t really matter. Tenoch showed up . . . and tried to split me from gullet to gizzard . . . with a big ol’ machete . . . like the Mexicans use in the fields down south.”
“A remnant of their Aztec culture, no doubt. Clearly he didn’t succeed.”
“Naw . . . We had . . . a pretty good tussle, though. I just about . . . had the best of him . . . when Eztli cracked a clay pitcher . . . over my head.”
“I’m surprised Tenoch didn’t have you killed.”
“You and me both. I guess he figured . . . that ’d be makin’ things too easy for me.” Now that he had recovered some of his strength, Preacher was able to sit up. He looked down at himself. He was still naked. His hands and face were browned to a deep, permanent tan by his life spent outdoors, but the parts of his body normally covered by his buckskins were not. Most of the time they were pale, but they were burned a painful-looking red. Blisters had popped up in places, burst, and were oozing clear liquid. He discovered that moving even the least little bit was miserable.
Slowly, he forced himself to climb to his feet and began to totter around. Since he was loose, he had to take advantage of the opportunity to look for anything he could use as a weapon.
He didn’t have a chance to search much. With the usual scraping sound, men lifted the bar from the door. Preacher turned in that direction and instinctively clenched his hands into fists.
Audie said quietly, “Preacher, no. You can’t fight them now. Not in the shape you’re in. If you anger them too much, they might just damage you even more.”
“I may not be at my full fightin’ strength—”
“You’re weak as a kitten and probably half-dead from thirst.”
Now that Audie mentioned it, he really was spitting cotton, Preacher realized. He felt like there wasn’t a drop of moisture left in him.
The door swung open. Several warriors came in, grabbed Preacher, pushed him over against the wall, and strung him up like the others, using those tough, braided ropes to bind his wrists. The fact that he wasn’t able to put up a fight gnawed at his guts even worse than hunger did, but Audie was right. It wasn’t the time.
When Preacher was secured, the warriors at the doorway stepped back so that four women could enter the cell. They wore buckskin dresses and appeared to be from the part of the tribe with more Indian blood. Of course, the Aztecs were Indians, too, he reminded himself, but it wasn’t exactly the same thing.
Two of the women carried jugs and took them to the prisoners so the men could drink from them.
When Preacher felt that cool water sliding into his mouth and down his throat, he thought it was the best thing he had ever tasted in his life. He would have guzzled down every drop in both jugs if they had let him, but he didn’t get that chance.
The other two women took tortillas from baskets they carried and held the food so the prisoners could eat. Now that he wasn’t quite so desperately thirsty, Preacher realized his belly thought his throat had been cut.
He could have gobbled down a tortilla in one bite, but he forced himself to take it slow and easy. He knew that if he ate too much, it would make him sick, just as it would if he drank too much. A man couldn’t get over an ordeal like the one he had endured all at once.
As he slowly chewed a bite of tortilla, he realized that one of the women was lingering in front of Boone Halliday. She had already given him a drink but gave him another one.
Boone swallowed, licked his lips, and nodded. “I’m sure much obliged to you, ma’am.”
The woman smiled at him, the expression wreathing her round face. She might have offered him yet another drink, but one of the guards snapped at her. She ducked her head and moved away from Boone, but Preacher saw the glance she darted back at the young trapper.
That was interesting, Preacher thought. Mighty interesting. It might not mean anything in the long run, but obviously, it would be easier to escape from the prison if they had some help. The smile that the young Indian woman had directed at Boone was something to keep in mind.
Preacher’s body might be weak and blistered at the moment, but the wheels of his brain were starting to turn once more. He was dangerous again . . . as Tenoch, Eztli, and the rest of his Aztec captors would find out sooner or later, he vowed.
CHAPTER 24
Imprisoned, it was difficult for Preacher to keep track of the days. He could tell when night fell, because absolute darkness filled the cell at those times. The prisoners were fed and given water twice a day, so he could have tried to count those times . . . but then he would be out of his head for a while and couldn’t figure out how long he’d been that way or how much he had missed.
Eventually he gave up and concentrated on recovering from the torture Tenoch had put him through. Before he did anything else, he needed to regain his strength.
That proved to be more difficult than keeping up with the days. A couple tortillas and a few swallows of water every day were enough to keep the prisoners alive, but not much beyond that. Preacher could feel himself wasting away.
The weeping blisters on his burned skin eventually dried up and the damaged skin peeled off. It didn’t hurt as much to move . . . not that he could move very much, strung up like he was. Despite everything, Preacher knew he was getting better. The key would be whether or not he got an opportunity to make a move before the near-starvation weakened him too much.
If there was one thing that gave him some hope, it was the way one of the young Indian women had taken a shine to Boone Halliday. She always managed to be the one who gave him a drink or fed him a tortilla. Preacher noticed that sometimes she even slipped a p
epper or a chunk of meat into the tortilla without the guards being aware of it.
Even though it didn’t amount to much extra food, Preacher didn’t resent Boone for getting fed better than the rest of them. Maybe the young trapper wouldn’t be as weak when the time came to make a break for it as he might have been otherwise.
One day while most of the other prisoners were dozing in the perpetual gloom of their cell, Preacher suggested quietly to Boone, “See if you can find out the name of that little gal who’s sweet on you.”
“I already have,” Boone whispered back. “We’ve managed to learn enough of each other’s language to talk a little. She’s called Zyanya.”
“Zyanya,” Preacher repeated. “Pretty name. She’s sure got her eyes set on you.”
“She’s going to be disappointed,” Boone said with a touch of bitterness in his voice. “Sooner or later they’ll take me out and sacrifice me.”
“Don’t go givin’ up just yet. I figure as long as a man’s still drawin’ breath, he’s got a fightin’ chance.”
“A fighting chance? Preacher, we’re strung up like sides of meat, and we’re half-starved! Even if we got loose, we couldn’t fight our way out of here.”
“You’d be surprised what a man can do. Even a hungry one. Hell, maybe even especially a hungry one.” And the thing Preacher hungered for most was vengeance on their murderous captors.
The other things that he found of interest and that helped break up the dreadful monotony of their imprisonment, were the visits of Nazar, the priest who had sort of befriended Audie. The man was short, stocky, and bald except for a couple of tufts of gray hair that stuck out from his head behind and above his ears. His scalp was wrinkled, his face sharp-featured with a beak of a nose. He reminded Preacher of a snapping turtle.
Nazar talked for hours with the former professor, both men using a mixture of English and the Aztec language and speaking so fast that Preacher couldn’t really follow most of the conversations. His interest perked up one day when he heard Nazar say something about the cliffs.
Preacher's Bloodbath Page 10
