The Cortés Trilogy: Enigma Revenge Revelation

by John Paul Davis

  “We need to rid your body of the poison.” Maria placed her lips to the wound and bit down hard. Juan gritted his teeth and held his breath as pain encompassed his entire body. As the seconds passed, it eased slightly; his ability to move returned. He looked down and saw his ex-wife attempting to suck the poison from his wound.

  “Are you crazy? It might kill you.”

  Maria looked up at him, saliva dripping from her mouth. She spat fiercely on the floor. A hideous red and purple solution tainted her saliva.

  “Why did you not shoot me?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “That night in the woods near your castle. You could have killed me. You didn’t. Why?”

  “I never shoot in cold blood.”

  She reached across to his cheek, touching him softly. The moment felt like a small glimpse of heaven in a cauldron of hell.

  “You spared my life.”

  “And today you spared mine. Perhaps we are not so different after all.”

  Maria smiled, soft and innocent, like a small child reunited with a lost brother. The years had passed. Much had changed. The things she once knew were no longer the same. Her mother often told her that the path of life was not always straightforward. It could lead from one place to another and then back again, like the prodigal son returning home after many years away. Detours were not always a bad thing. Sometimes the longer the journey, the more there was to be learned. The only thing she had to remember was that all roads eventually led back home; that the circle of life always became complete in the end. Mother was right, she thought.

  Though the path had been long, the circle at last was ready to be completed.

  On the ring above, the chaos continued, the sounds of screaming partially drowned out by gunfire. Shadows moved above them at speed; Juan was grateful no one had noticed their new hiding place.

  “Here.” He removed a semi-automatic pistol from his inside pocket, armed it and gave it to Maria. “All you have to do is point and fire.”

  Maria was nervous. “You’re going up there?”

  “Stay close to me. If anything happens to me, you can trust Ben.”

  *

  Ben saw a sudden blaze of gunfire appear from the ring below. Seconds later, Juan reappeared from the same spot, firing rapidly at the Aztecah. Several bodies hit the floor; blood and tissue erupted from their naked torsos.

  Ben darted towards Chris, taking shelter behind the largest of the rocks. Despite Chris’s best efforts, Valeria still refused to snap out of her trance-like state.

  “We’re gonna have to do something,” Chris said.

  Ben looked down at her, now with sympathy. Her body was shaking, her stare blank.

  The girl was a complete mess.

  “Just focus on clearing a path. Maybe we can carry her out.”

  Pizarro appeared behind him, followed by Claude. “Help us free our hands. We will die otherwise.”

  Brandishing his Swiss Army knife, Ben selected the largest blade and cut through the strapping that had secured their lower arms. Thanks to Juan’s latest counter-attack, the passage ahead had cleared.

  “Come on. Let’s move out.”

  *

  Maria saw Ben appear from the right, followed by Juliet and the Spaniards.

  “Where’s Valeria?”

  Juliet answered, “Back there. Chris is helping her.”

  Maria sprinted in the direction the others had just come from, undeterred by the rising effects of gaseous clouds that were now rising up from the hollow below. She found her way to the area of rocks where Chris and her sister still remained.

  She knelt down by her sister’s side. “What is wrong? Valeria?”

  Chris answered, “She’ll be okay. Just help me get her to her feet.”

  *

  Cortés looked ruefully over his shoulder, watching Maria head at speed in the wrong direction. A further volley of poisonous darts hit the walls behind him.

  He feared Maria had become a sitting duck for any shooter capable of long-range accuracy.

  “Forget about her.” Pizarro grabbed him around the collar. “There is nowhere she can go. If you wish to aid her escape, I suggest you start by helping us get these monkeys off our backs.”

  Cortés gritted his teeth, reluctantly agreeing. Both of the lower rings were still devoid of any human movement, whereas the highest one was still swarming with Aztecah. In a brief absence of gunfire, a strange humming sound could be heard, a unique combination of the natives’ speech and whatever was going on directly below. In the vast chasms below the primitive wash plant, he sensed even more was going on, like another lost world existing beneath the earth.

  Whatever progress humans were making remained overwhelmed by that of nature.

  Pizarro opened fire again, aiming in the general direction of the podium. No less than four tribesmen fell to the rocky ground, their intestines disintegrating before his eyes. Some of the younger men were clearly starting to become frightened.

  Inwardly Juan prayed they would flee.

  Velázquez appeared alongside them; his clothes were torn, his arms bleeding, his face dripping with sweat.

  Pizarro punched him in the face. “You traitor.” He looked at Juan. “I always told you never to trust the family of the Segovian.”

  Juan gazed down at the ground, angry. He retrieved Velázquez’s firearm, which had come loose.

  It was the same one he had confiscated off Juan near the ball court.

  “I will take that.” He reloaded it. As Velázquez got back off the ground, Juan punched him as well.

  “Count yourself lucky you are still alive.” Juan grabbed him round the neck. “For over three hundred years our ancestors have fought to heal the wounds of the past. Yet you betray me to her.”

  Velázquez’s face was flushed, struggling under the pressure Juan placed on his gullet. “She said you had betrayed me. That you had found the stones with the help of an American and had cut me out.”

  “So you told her the location of the city?”

  “She already knew the location. All she needed were the stones.”

  Juan shook his head; at the same time he felt a sudden twinge coming from his wound.

  He feared the poison was spreading.

  Gunshots rained all around him, sparks flying off the nearby walls. Kabil and his men were making good progress towards the podium, backed up by Juan’s own men. Juan counted that four of his own remained standing, the same number as the locals.

  Further back, Claude had recovered enough to offer counter fire, joined by Juliet.

  From somewhere, she had obtained a firearm.

  Remaining low, Juan dashed towards them. “Where is Ben?”

  Juliet had been wondering the same thing. “I don’t know. He was here a second ago.”

  Behind them, Chris and Valeria remained in the same place; he was relieved to see Maria was with them. He looked at Maria longingly, quietly wondering how he had managed to waste the last five years of his life.

  He saw movement on the ring below, close to where he had previously fallen. Flashes of bright yellow erupted from two guns, firing into the Aztecah. As the gunfire stopped, he saw faces, bodies.

  Ben and Colts were charging through the ring below.

  *

  Ben had never fired a gun in anger before. His first experience of shooting had been as a teenager on his uncle’s ranch, the last time only a few days later.

  Thanks to Eastwood though, he still considered himself well educated on the subject.

  Cortés had given him all the instructions he needed. The weapon was a Heckler & Koch USP 9mm, with a mechanically locked breech using the usual short recoil. Thanks to the Spaniard, he also had four extra magazines of ammo and the knowledge of how to reload.

  They had taken a small stairway to the middle ring from where he had recently seen Juan and Maria emerge. Like the highest ring, the pathway had been chiselled out of the rock and was littered at various intervals
with wooden barrels.

  He moved quickly from cover to cover, keeping himself concealed from danger.

  Colts followed him.

  “How’s the stomach?”

  “Be a lot better when we’re out of here,” Colts responded, holding the wound with his free hand. Ben was relieved to see he had found something to slow the blood flow.

  Ben ducked instinctively as another flight of darts flew over his head, followed by a spear. Composing himself, he fired back. Among a crowd of charging tribesmen, he saw one fall to the ground, clearly injured, perhaps worse. In that split second, time seemed to freeze, numbing his senses. In TF’s first diary, he had read about him having shot a man in the Sudan, watching over him as he died beneath his feet. In the time that followed, his ancestor recorded how he had experienced every emotion under the sun, finally coming to terms with the event as a necessary action for king and country and to ensure his own survival.

  “Good shooting, cowboy.” Colts’s words reassured him. TF had been right, he knew.

  There was always more than just one life at stake.

  He reloaded and let fly again, aiming for the same crowd. Amongst the mayhem, he saw flames, then something else. One of the natives was sprinting through the crowd, spinning around like a whirling dervish. As the man got nearer, Ben noticed panic in Colts’s face. Both fired frantically, Colts finally bringing the man to ground. In the seconds that followed, the fiery substance flew through the air, landing less than ten metres away.

  A blinding flash engulfed the floor.

  57

  Chris and Maria hit the ground immediately. No time to prepare or panic.

  A further bright flash exploded from the middle ring, followed by a sharp bang. The ground shook for several seconds; the walls of the mountain vibrated as though struck by a tsunami.

  Maria had been talking to Valeria, whose eyes remained unblinking, as though locked in a stupor. The sound of the explosion had shaken her.

  Suddenly she was back.

  Maria had never been so relieved. “Valeria.” She hugged her and pulled her to her feet. “Come on. We must leave this place.”

  Stunned to shock moments earlier, Valeria appeared awakened, revived; there was life in her eyes, determination.

  Chris grabbed hold of one of Valeria’s hands, Maria the other. They sprinted from cover to cover along the highest ring, stopping above the source of the explosion. Chris saw Ben and Colts on the lower level, seemingly laid out across the floor.

  He hurried down the stairway.

  *

  Ben rolled over, still in a daze. His head felt as though it had been submerged underwater, if not struck by a sledgehammer.

  Even compared to his recent experience in the jungle, he had never felt so sick.

  Coming to, he saw the remnants of the barrels scattered across the floor, whatever had once filled them now obliterated. Damage from the explosion extended to the foundations. A large hole had appeared in the second ring, and a massive chunk of rock had been dislodged from the lowest of the three.

  He feared another blast would cause the ground to become unstable.

  Chris appeared in front of him. “Ben, come on, we need to get moving. There’s only a few more natives. Come on, we can take them.”

  His vision clearing, his thoughts gathering, he sat up, assessing the situation. Colts was also regaining his senses alongside him; Ben saw him nod in agreement. Beyond him, Juan was descending the stairs, carrying extra ammo.

  “The bomber is no longer with us; we must pray he was one of a kind.” He passed out the ammo, grabbing hold of Ben’s arm. “We must return to the inner sanctum. We must move quickly.”

  Ben accepted the new supplies and ran for the nearest cover. The number of tribesmen on the top ring had reduced since the explosion; the majority who remained were now stationed between them and the podium.

  Still, he counted more than thirty.

  Ben opened fire, exhausting his latest rounds quickly.

  “We may have to find another way out,” Colts said, also reloading. “It’s either that or plough through every one of them.”

  Cortés took a grenade from his belt, removed the pin and tossed it on to the top ring. A second explosion shook the ground below the podium; rocks and bodies erupted in unison.

  “Here, take these.” Juan gave Ben, Chris and Colts three grenades each. “Use them only if you have to. Too many and the walls could collapse.”

  “Walls could collapse. Man, it’s a mountain, not a chalet.”

  “Even so. Do not take any chances. Aim one at a time.”

  Ben placed them inside his pocket. As he closed the zip, his attention was taken by movement less than twenty metres away on the same level.

  Valeria and Maria were facing each other.

  Fighting each other.

  *

  Pizarro fired off his latest shots and dived for cover, landing in an area of rocks and barrels. As he hit the ground, he felt a hard stinging sensation in his right shoulder.

  He had been shot with a dart.

  Velázquez appeared alongside him, still directing his men. Six had died. Only two remained.

  He saw something was wrong. “What is it?”

  “I’m hit. I can no longer fire.”

  Velázquez fired frantically towards the podium, timing his shots in between grenades being thrown from the level below. The walls and floors shook almost constantly from the tremors.

  “I am running low,” Velázquez said. “How much ammo do you have?”

  Reluctantly, Pizarro opened his supplies and saw two magazines remained. Unlike Juan, he carried no other weapons.

  “Here.” He handed them to Velázquez and grabbed his shoulder. “Do not fail.”

  Velázquez took the extra ammunition and directed his remaining men forward, passing two rows of barrels. Almost immediately a further explosion rocked the floor, shaking it to its foundations.

  Taking shelter, Pizarro waited until the smoke cleared before investigating the bomb site. Merely metres away, three men lay still, their remains scattered.

  Velázquez was dead.

  The sound of violent humming began again beyond the podium, where a new band of natives were letting loose with darts and spears. With his remaining bullets, Pizarro aimed awkwardly with his left hand and fired until the magazine was empty. Three fell to the ground.

  The rest were closing in.

  Pizarro knew he was in trouble, his chances of escape fading rapidly. The stairway to the middle ring was now beyond reach; hiding, also, was no longer an option. Removing his knife, he waited till the last second before emerging from cover and lashed out with his weaker arm.

  The first blow caught the nearest tribesman in the heart, the second in the pit of the stomach. As a further five assailed him, he felt spears enter his sides and arms, forcing him to the ground. A young native prone on the floor below him cushioned the blow as he fell; blood spilled from his damaged throat. Finally he felt an impact into his back, a silver blade passing right through his back and chest. In that moment he felt a strange numbing sensation.

  Then all went dark.

  *

  Juan was the first to reach them. Valeria was overpowering Maria, gripping her thighs securely around her sister’s waist and banging her face down hard against the rocky ground. Her eyes disclosed an anger he had never believed was possible.

  Madness had taken her.

  “Juan!”

  Cortés ignored Ben’s desperate shout and charged towards his former wife. A blurred object passed quickly in front of him and erupted in a bright spark.

  Another firebomb went off amongst the barrels.

  The impact of the explosion knocked Juan to the ground, dazed but largely uninjured. Scrambling through the smoke, he saw Maria had recovered slightly, the explosion forcing Valeria off balance. Another followed, destroying half of the ring below. Valeria slapped Maria hard with her right hand.

  Maria was sliding prec
ariously close to the edge.

  Juan saw Valeria grab hold of Maria’s leg and slap her hard in the face. Now alongside her, he grabbed Valeria around the midriff and struck her hard.

  She hit the ground, unconscious.

  There was a third explosion, closer still, by far the loudest yet. Juan saw the foundations of the lower ring disintegrate in front of him, the middle one now almost half its initial width. Maria’s tired body was sliding again, her legs carrying her over the edge.

  He reached out, grabbed her hand and caught her as she was falling.

  Juan held on with all his strength. A fourth explosion erupted somewhere behind him, challenging his grip. With his other hand, he held tightly to a sharp outcrop of rock, concerned by its lack of grip. Below his waist, his left leg now felt almost totally numb.

  He realised the poison was taking him.

  His left hand came free, momentum taking him down. As he attempted to jam his fingers into holes where the rock surface had been fragmented by the bombs, he felt his middle finger become trapped. It was the finger on which he had always worn his ring.

  One wrong move and his finger would come off.

  He held on tightly, straining to the limit of his failing strength. Below him, Maria was getting weaker, now barely conscious. Further down, the enigmatic hues of the coloured rivers dazzled him as they moved downstream from the source, the effect almost hypnotising. He estimated the fall was over fifty feet.

  Certain death awaited.

  He felt his finger come loose, sweat loosening the ring. As he felt it come free, he began to slide.

  Then stop.

  *

  Ben arrived just in time. The third explosion had caused a large part of the floor to disappear, the fourth more still. Peering through the smoke, he saw Cortés desperately holding on to Maria, both now in serious danger of sliding over. The way to him was complicated by a series of gaps in the floor.

  Should the floor deteriorate further, he knew he was in danger of becoming trapped.