“Where’s Colts?”
She wiped her eyes but didn’t answer; her free hand continued to massage his face and neck. As the seconds passed, he saw her look away, her gaze distracted by the nearby statue.
“Valeria.”
She ignored him, her focus now on the statue. She rose to her feet and approached it.
*
Never in her wildest dreams had she imagined anything quite like it. Montezuma’s bearing was strong and proud, like the effigy of a great king in the hall of a grand palace. Despite the clear metallic properties, the emperor’s appearance was exactly as she had imagined: authoritative and regal, capturing both the likeness of his face and his domineering personality. The position of the spear was particularly symbolic: the man was victorious, looking down on his foes. The irony was incredible.
After five hundred years, Montezuma had finally conquered the Spanish.
She focused on the spear for several seconds before turning her attention to the top of his head. Growing up in Spain, she was used to the sight of crowns, mitres, galeros, helmets and baseball caps adorning the heads of her countrymen, but she knew what she currently saw had never existed in Europe. It was like looking at a magnificent peacock, if not something more mythical – something that existed only in the minds of authors. Its qualities were enchanting, mystifying, as if the feathers somehow harboured great knowledge or were capable of communicating in their own special language. The colours were equally captivating, like a perfect rainbow that no light on earth could ever recreate. Throughout her life she had heard the legends of the great Quetzalcoatl: the god of wind, the man who came from afar, the feathered serpent.
The man Cortés had been mistaken for.
Taking her eyes off the feathered headdress, she felt herself drawn to the statue’s right hand. Its grip was wide but firm, as if it carried some invisible object. There were marks around the fingers, suggesting some form of grooves had once existed.
Whatever Montezuma had once held was now missing.
*
Ben was lost for words. Valeria’s concern for his well-being had been replaced by something else. As he turned to his right, he saw her approach the statue, her vibrant eyes enthralled by the features of the headdress. She was still to see it, he remembered. What the hell had happened to her while he was being shot?
Where the hell was Colts?
He tried to speak, emitting only a groan. He felt the pain from his wound escalating throughout his body, making it difficult to articulate his words. He wanted to cry out, shout at her, ask her what the hell she was waiting for.
Every second wasted was another closer to death.
Valeria was standing facing the lake of coins, the golden light casting an ethereal glow on her face. To Ben’s left, a different light caught his eye; it came from near Pizarro’s outstretched hand. At first glance it appeared to be purple, but on closer examination he realised several colours radiated from the same source, similar to the feathered rainbow only more concentrated. The effect reminded him of sunlight shining through water, creating a unique spectrum. As he looked up to his right, he saw Valeria had noticed it too.
With Pizarro’s demise, the Stone of Fire had tumbled to the floor.
*
Turning away from the lake of coins, Valeria saw the same object shining from among the pile of bodies. From a distance it was unclear whether it was lying free or still clenched within one of the Spaniards’ hands. As she moved closer, she realised it was the latter. Pizarro had been holding the stone when he fell, his rigid fingers unwilling to part from it.
Even in death, he refused to surrender.
She circled Pizarro’s body, taking care to avoid any contact with Cortés. She glanced at him as she passed, her eyes taking in only the back of his head, his brown locks covering his familiar features.
Alongside Pizarro, she got down on one knee and touched the stone for the first time. The texture was smooth, rounded; there were faint lines running across its diameter that fitted perfectly between her middle three fingers, as if designed to provide an ideal grip. She stroked the stone from top to bottom, familiarising herself with the sensation. For the first time she smiled, her eyes close to tears of emotion once again. After everything that had happened, she had done it; the very reason for her search was there in her hand.
She heard her name being called, loud and urgent.
Ben was still on the floor, looking at her.
*
She took an age to take her eyes off the stone. Whether it was seconds, a minute, something longer, Ben wasn’t sure.
Time no longer registered clearly.
He saw her rise to her feet and walk in his direction, the stone lodged securely in her right hand; he wagered more so than it ever had in Montezuma’s.
Something about her seemed different, almost unnatural.
She knelt down alongside him, close enough for him to take in her scent; even after two hours in the mine, her familiar aroma still radiated strongly from her hands and neck. Up close, he could see the stone clearly, its every feature sharply defined. There were crystals at the heart of it, arranged in a unique pattern. He guessed it was somehow symbolic, perhaps representative of a god. He remembered reading in the Raleigh book that the true Stone of Fire possessed the secrets of the empire.
Whatever that meant.
“Valeria . . .” Pain cut him off.
“Shhh.” She moved closer, her focus now solely on him. She placed the stone down alongside him and gently stroked his forehead. He looked up at her; their gazes locked. Her eyes were alluring, her smile wide, as though a spell had mesmerized her. Her lips were moving, but no sound came out; instead, her smile continued to widen. She leaned forward, her mouth close to his ear.
She whispered, “Close your eyes.”
4
Danny instinctively covered his mouth. Though he guessed he was too far away for his voice to be heard, he feared that possibility.
What he saw had shocked him. Valeria was still kneeling close to the edge of the pathway, her attention fixed on Ben. She was stroking his forehead with one hand and holding the strange, brightly coloured stone in the other. Ben was no longer moving, whether dead or unconscious, he was unsure. Only one thing was certain.
If Ben was dead, he had just witnessed a second murder.
He turned away from the gap between the pillars, his concern, for now, solely on Colts. Colts was still awake, barely alive, his exhausted body propped up against the wall. His gun was missing; Danny had already witnessed it being fired. As far as he was aware, Nicholl had carried the only other gun.
He could see it at the bottom of the pathway. Untaken.
Taking a breath, he considered his options. Bracing himself, he moved slowly along the passageway, stopping again in between two pillars. Valeria was still on her knees, close to Ben. As she rose to her feet, she headed for the statue, where the elaborate headdress was still fixed to the top of Montezuma’s metallic head. Reaching it was difficult, but her persistence was soon rewarded. On bringing it down, she held it carefully in her hands.
And slowly tried it on.
He watched in silence, wondering what Valeria would do next. He could tell from her actions that the headdress held great significance for her, as if she were being reunited with a long-lost family heirloom. Though the nearby treasure was smaller than he had anticipated, it was still far too great for one person to handle. Successful removal would take days if not weeks; he estimated it would have taken at least two mighty galleons to transport the contents from Mexico. Kneeling by the lake, he saw her unfasten her backpack and fill it to the brim with coins.
He remained unmoved as she added the Stone of Fire and the headdress before retracing her steps down the pathway and along the iron railway tracks into the heart of the mine.
*
Nicholl’s gun had fallen over twenty metres from where he still lay. Danny found it lying between two large rocks, the barrel still inta
ct. He had seen Valeria walk straight past it, struggling to carry her recently filled rucksack.
Whether by error or deliberate intent, she had neglected to take it.
Taking possession of the gun, Danny hurried up the ridge. The first person he reached was Nicholl, his body reclining at an awkward angle against the slope of the rock. Old tools and gunpowder lined the way on both sides, indicating for the first time that the treasure had been buried in an area created specifically to hold the vast hoard during past mining activities.
Danny knelt down alongside Nicholl’s body and placed his hand to his bearded face. Though his expression remained surprisingly placid, his jumper and shirt were torn and bloodstained across his shoulder and chest. As far as he could tell, Nicholl had been shot twice, which tallied with what he had witnessed. Valeria had missed with her first shot. The second had entered his back, painful but not fatal. The third had been front on, through the heart.
Death would have been instant.
The path up the ridge snaked from left to right. He calculated the distance from the heart of the mine to the summit of the ridge at around forty-five metres; even in the short period of time he had been climbing, he noticed a distinct effect on his breathing.
Beyond the ridge, the path split into two, giving him the option of heading left or right. The route to his left circled the hoard before heading downward into darkness. Choosing the right would lead him to the statue, where the bodies of the five men lay in silence.
Almost silence.
He ran to his right, not stopping until he reached Ben. Ben was weak and shaking, clearly in a daze.
Danny sensed he was close to losing consciousness.
“Mr Maloney.” Danny knelt down, checking Ben’s right wrist; he could feel a pulse, steady but weak. He lifted Ben’s head and tapped gently against his cheeks. “Mr Maloney. Ben. Ben.”
Despite clear evidence of heavy blood loss from Ben’s leg, there was still colour in his cheeks. Dirt covered his forehead and chin; bloodstains scarred his arms and neck; his jeans were ripped and stained. The zip of his jacket had become unfastened, revealing a black T-shirt that was also soaked in blood.
Danny detected from the slightly different colours that it wasn’t all Ben’s.
He pulled Ben’s arms and spoke calmly into his ear. He heard a groan, but Ben refused to open his eyes. He tapped him again, harder, finally resorting to a soft slap. He saw movement from Ben’s jaw, followed by a low mumble.
“Ben. Ben.”
Finally he saw one eye open: the right, followed by the left. Ben’s expression suggested he was disoriented.
He muttered, “Danny?”
Danny smiled, relieved. “Hang in there, Ben. I’m gonna get you out of here.”
He grabbed Ben’s arms and pulled him upwards, not stopping until Ben was sitting up straight. The movement brought Ben into a deep coughing fit, weak and wheezy. As Ben caught his breath, Danny placed his hand behind his shoulders and attempted to pull him to his feet. Supporting his weight was difficult; he guessed Ben was at least two stone heavier than himself, causing his natural momentum to take them forward. Struggling for balance, Danny braced his right foot against a nearby rock at the edge of the path and placed Ben’s right arm over his shoulders and neck. For the first time, he felt in control. That Ben was stable.
Slowly but surely, they were moving.
“Hang in there, Ben. We’re gonna get you out of here.”
Gradually Ben was coming round, understanding. He stumbled his way forward, using Danny’s shoulder for support. Little by little they were getting there; soon the way would continue downhill.
Thanks to Nicholl, Danny knew there would be no need for Ben to leave the mine the same hellish way he had arrived.
On rejoining the pathway, the journey started to become easier, the surface flatter beneath their feet. Feeling was returning to Ben’s leg, allowing him to walk slowly of his own accord.
As they approached the ridge, Danny heard something, soft at first, then far clearer.
He stopped, turned, and looked around.
Someone was moving behind them.
5
In Extremadura there was an old legend that a priceless treasure had been hidden somewhere amongst the Sierra de las Villuercas mountains.
The story began, allegedly, in the settlement of Cabañas del Castillo, an isolated hamlet founded by the Moors. When the invaders from the south were eventually expelled from the south of Spain, the area thrived under the guardianship of four Christian Holy Orders, who were awarded the land by the Catholic monarchs of León and Castile in honour of their service to the papacy.
Little of the original settlement had survived the transition. The holy buildings of the Moors were all adapted to the modern ways, the original dwelling places dismantled. As the Middle Ages reached their height and the Protestant reformation spread intense upheaval throughout Central Europe, the hamlet had been undergoing its own reformation. A small church was constructed below the outcrop where a mighty castle clung to the rocks like a foreboding shadow. The view both to and from the top was iconic; like any great ruin, there was great majesty in its demise. It was said that whatever secrets the area held were tied specifically to its walls.
Whatever that meant, exactly.
Even amongst the nearby villages, the hamlet was viewed as an enigma. The population had stayed much the same for centuries, rarely more than thirty people inhabiting a small cluster of typical rustic houses. In recent years, the area had acquired a reputation of some significance as a location of interest for ornithologists, but, that apart, it wasn’t really the kind of place to attract the attention of outsiders. A bird enthusiast with an oversized pair of binoculars, hoping to chance upon the sight of a vulture or eagle or a rare glimpse of a blue rock thrush, was unlikely to get anything more than a polite welcome by the residents. It was one of the few parts of Spain where a person could live and die without possessing any great concern for the wider world, or vice versa. The majority of visitors came simply to enjoy the area’s natural beauty. Few aroused any suspicion.
Even if the old stories were true, there were none living who could authenticate them.
Sitting alone in the former storeroom of the Old Man’s Foot, Elena Flores reflected on the anecdotes of the past. The oldest were inevitably the hardest to substantiate, especially those that dated from a time when recorded literature was confined to markings on stone walls and animal-skin parchments.
The majority of the tales dated from the area’s days of power and influence: when local boys of humble origins had taken on the world to become famed travellers, wiping out legendary kingdoms in their quests for greatness. The backgrounds of the individuals were usually easy enough to research, but despite the well-documented journeys, she knew some of the stories were still subject to error or exaggeration. Even in the most reputable accounts, the factual details could often be ambiguous.
Even the experts were unlikely to know everything.
Yet there were other tales of more recent origin; in some cases she had known the participants personally, witnessed their exploits. Like the older narratives, they seemed to follow a similar pattern. What began with hope of great discovery ended with disillusionment and usually the mourning of another’s passing.
Sometimes the mourning lasted longer than others.
As she looked away from the window, she turned her focus to the nearby door. Unlike those in the house and on the other levels, it was the only one constructed of solid oak. In the past it had been put in to protect the building’s most priceless treasure, the source of the great light on the island. Though the replacement bulbs and large coal reserves had since been removed, the door’s purpose remained the same.
To protect the lighthouse’s greatest treasures.
She remembered hearing a rumour on her first visit to St Mary’s that a great many things still remained untouched on one of the islands to the south. Beyond St Agnes and its famou
s lighthouse, St Lide’s had apparently remained uninhabited since suffering a series of catastrophes in the early 1900s. A short lecture from the local historians in Hugh Town had taught her the island had been abandoned suddenly, allegedly as a result of subsidence. Everything that couldn’t be salvaged had been left behind.
Most of what was saved had been taken to St Agnes and deposited within the lighthouse.
Her dream on visiting St Agnes had been to purchase the historic lighthouse and restore it to its former glory. She remembered the way she had felt on seeing it for the first time, its ancient tower looming up above the skyline – an iconic monument against the rugged landscape. The design was unlike anything she had seen before; even on the coast of Spain she had failed to find anything to match its unique appearance. Throughout her youth she had watched with pride as her artistic parents brought new life to old ruins.
She also remembered the day her husband had refused to honour her dream.
He died whilst she was still a young woman, but old enough that motherhood was no longer a priority. Departing Spain, she made herself a new home on St Mary’s, buying a town house that overlooked St Agnes to the south. Few alive had been old enough to remember the lighthouse in its prime. Spurred on by her early visits, she learned everything she could about its history.
Including the practical side.
It took her two decades to complete her dream purchase. The island had no museum, despite possessing an abundance of things that belonged in one. By the time her granddaughter had arrived in St Mary’s, her dream of restoring the Old Man’s Foot to full working order and providing what the isles needed became a project of mutual benefit. As work began on the adjoining house, the first visitors arrived at the lighthouse. Nearly all left happy, satisfied that the heritage of the island was secured.
The Cortés Trilogy: Enigma Revenge Revelation Page 33
