Table of Contents
Title
By the Same Author
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Prologue
CHAPTER ONE The Olmec Head
CHAPTER TWO Trouble with a Capital T
CHAPTER THREE Mexican Stand-off
CHAPTER FOUR A Change of Plan
CHAPTER FIVE Desperate Measures
CHAPTER SIX Snake in the Grass
CHAPTER SEVEN The Descent
CHAPTER EIGHT A Pow-wow
CHAPTER NINE The Dawning
CHAPTER TEN Captives
CHAPTER ELEVEN Jungle Boy
CHAPTER TWELVE Travers
CHAPTER THIRTEEN In Limbo
CHAPTER FOURTEEN The Gift
CHAPTER FIFTEEN The Emperor Speaks
CHAPTER SIXTEEN Playing for Time
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN The Big Match
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN Repercussions
CHAPTER NINETEEN The Children of Mictlan
CHAPTER TWENTY Rude Awakening
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE Blood Sacrifice
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO Downriver
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE Safe Haven
EYE OF THE SERPENT
Sebastian Darke: Prince Of Fools
Sebastian Darke: Prince of Pirates
EMPIRE
OF THE
SKULL
Also by Philip Caveney:
Alec Devlin: The Eye of the Serpent
Sebastian Darke: Prince of Fools
Sebastian Darke: Prince of Pirates
Sebastian Darke: Prince of Explorers
PHILIP CAVANY
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ISBN 9781407049656
Version 1.0
www.randomhouse.co.uk
THE EMPIRE OF THE SKULL
A RED FOX BOOK
ISBN: 9781407049656
Version 1.0
First published in Great Britain by Red Fox,
an imprint of Random House Children's Books
A Random House Group Company
This edition published 2009
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Copyright © Philip Caveney, 2009
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For Ray Bradbury, the man who made me
want to be a writer . . . and for Tony,
who has worked so hard to spread
the word.
PROLOGUE
Mexico 1924
Itztli came forward onto the platform at the top of the gigantic step pyramid and held up the obsidian dagger. A cry of exaltation went up from the people in the plaza below and he gazed down upon them, his features set in a benevolent smile. As always at such times, he was shocked to see how few of them were left. Over the past few years, many had succumbed to sickness, and it seemed to him that fewer children were being born than at any time in the city's history. But Mictlantecuhtli had spoken to him in a dream a few nights earlier. The god had told him that more sacrifices were needed if the city of Colotlán were to return to its former glory. Today, the lord of Mictlan's demands would be met in full. The black dagger would do its work and fresh blood would spill down the steps of the great pyramid.
His name meant 'obsidian', the hard volcanic stone from which the Aztecs fashioned their knives. He was a high priest of the city, the most powerful of them all. He had risen to his position by displaying total commitment to the god to which this sacred building and the city itself were dedicated – Mictlantecuhtli, the god of the dead, the all-powerful lord of Mictlan, the lowest section of the underworld. Behind Itztli towered a huge statue of the god, depicted as a skeleton, the skull impossibly large on the body, its teeth set in a mirthless grin. The skeleton's arms were extended as though to welcome the souls of the slain into his protection; and from the open maw of the great flue beyond the statue, heat rose steadily into the sky.
Lately, the lord of Mictlan had been expressing his displeasure by spewing smoke and ash from his underworld domain; occasionally great roars had shaken the very ground upon which his city stood. Itztli knew that the god was demanding yet more sacrifices. Beneath the statue's feet stood the blood-stained altar where these sacrifices, both animal and human, were regularly made.
But first the crowd needed to be prepared. The high priest strode backwards and forwards on the platform, his arms raised, his expression jubilant. He smiled down at his people and let his voice ring out loud and clear.
'Let the ceremony begin!'
Below him, they cheered him on, eager for the blood-letting to start. This was a joyous occasion and they shouted their encouragement. Vendors moved through the crowd selling pulque, the powerful beer made from fermented cactus juice, along with peanuts, sweet potatoes and corn pancakes. Crowds of children ran around, shouting and playing their pretend battles.
Itztli glanced across at the emperor, who sat on a gilded throne. Chicahua. The name meant 'strong', but for all the fine ornamentation he wore – the quetzal-feather headdress, the golden earrings, the fine cloak, nothing could hide the truth. He was a rather podgy twelve-year-old boy, so short that with his fat bottom on the throne, his sandaled feet didn't even touch the flagstones. He was being fed cocoa beans by his servant, Patli, and he looked bored, as though he would rather be anywhere else. On the other side of the throne stood his elder sister, Tepin, who accompanied her little brother everywhere and had more influence over him than the high priest would have liked.
Itztli worked hard to hide his resentment. The boy had come to power only because earlier that year, his father, Ahcautli, had contracted a fever and died. Chicahua was not the first child emperor among the Aztec people, nor would he be the last. But what a tragedy it was that he should have turned out to be such a weakling, a boy who thought of sweets and toys and not much else, a boy who always looked to his sister for guidance. Itztli feared for the city if such a boy were left in control; deep in his heart he knew that he could not allow such a situation to continue for long. Little wonder that the lord of Mictlan was so angry. Many of Itztli's fellow priests had whispered to him that he was the true power in the city; that he was the one who should be giving the orders. But he knew that he must bide his time and wait for the right moment.
For now, there were the demands of his god to be satisfied. The hig
h priest looked at the waiting captives, naked save for loincloths. They were bound together with ropes; trembling and weeping as the moment of their deliverance approached. These were ignorant natives from some far-flung jungle village, taken prisoner by Colotlán's jaguar warriors. With each passing year they were obliged to wander further and further through the rainforests in search of suitable victims.
Itztli lifted a hand and gestured to two priests waiting a short distance away. They wore masks, one of Mictlantecuhtli himself, the other of Quetzalcoatl, the feathered serpent, the god of civilization. Itztli preferred not to wear a mask. He liked his victims to look upon his real face as he dispatched them; to see the cold venom in his eyes. At his command, the other priests gestured to the guards to release one of the captives. The rope was cut and a man, a thin, dark-skinned fellow with a bone nose-plug and shell ornaments in his earlobes, was pushed forward. The priests each took one of his arms and led him towards the altar.
He was so terrified he could hardly stay upright. His eyes were wide and staring and his mouth hung open as though his jaw had lost all its strength. He was mumbling something over and over – no doubt praying to some obscure jungle god. He knew his time was at hand and was asking that his journey to the underworld be an easy one.
Itztli stepped back and the two priests brought the man over to the low stone altar and laid him on his back. They held his arms out to each side, so he could not struggle. He was gasping for breath, but he continued to pray as Itztli moved back to stand over him. The high priest looked upwards and raised the obsidian dagger, the jagged black blade glinting in the sunlight.
'Great Quetzalcoatl, Lord of the Sky!' he cried. 'Guide my hand. May this first sacrifice find favour with Mictlantecuhtli.'
He looked down at the prisoner's chest, selecting just the right spot, then lifted the dagger and brought it down hard. He gave a quick horizontal thrust, opening up the chest, and plunged his free hand inside to grasp the still beating heart. A second knife thrust released the heart from its fleshy home and he lifted it in his bloody hand so that the crowd could see it. A great roar of approval rose up, drowning out the terrified gasps of his victim, who was staring up at his own heart in mute terror, his whole body shaking with the shock.
But then the finisher stepped forward, his machete raised, and one swift stroke took the victim's head from his body. The finisher lifted it by the hair for everyone to see, displaying it to every section of the crowd. Then he flung it down the steps of the pyramid. Eager helpers ran forward to catch it and place it on the skull rack. A few moments later, the headless body was thrown down another flight of steps like discarded rubbish, of no worth now that the all-powerful heart had been removed.
Now, from the other captives, came wails of despair, for there was no doubting the fate that lay in store for them.
Itztli threw the heart onto a brazier of hot coals and breathed in the smell of burning flesh. Then he strode forward again, his bloody hands raised in front of the crowd. He knew that they both loved and feared him. Loved him because they knew that he was their guide to the ways of the gods. Feared him because they realized how easily they might find themselves on the sharp end of that deadly obsidian blade.
The high priest gestured to the guards and a second captive was released, this time an older man, powerfully muscled and carrying the tribal scars that spoke of his position within his tribe. Unlike the first man he seemed unafraid; he came forward without hesitation and looked Itztli in the eye, as though challenging him to do his worst. The high priest favoured the man with a mirthless smile, telling himself that such bravery would quickly evaporate when the man found himself looking at his own beating heart. Then he moved back and allowed the two priests to stretch the warrior across the sacrificial stone.
He stepped forward and raised the knife. He looked to the heavens again. 'Great Quetzalcoatl!' he roared. 'Show us that you approve of our sacrifice. Give us a sign so that we might understand.'
And then there was a noise in the sky – a strange rumbling that turned into a continuous roar that seemed to fill the heavens with its power. This was surely not the thunder of Mictlan. Far below Itztli, the cheers of the crowd changed to gasps of astonishment. He saw that people were tilting back their heads to gaze upwards; some of them were pointing at the clouds.
Itztli lowered his dagger and looked up, and a gasp spilled unbidden from his lips. Something was crossing the sky just above his head, something he at first took to be a huge bird. But he soon saw that this was not a thing of bone and flesh and feathers but something that men had made. Its wings were static, outstretched, not moving up and down as bird's would; its hard body glittered in the sunlight as though made of metal. It was knifing downwards at a steep angle, and as Itztli watched, the noise faltered, making a series of spluttering coughs.
Down in the crowd, the sounds of amazement quickly became shouts of fear: this was something that none of them could understand. People began to run in all directions, their bloodlust forgotten.
The dagger dropped from Itztli's hand as he lost himself in the wonder of the moment; and even the intended victim was sitting up, staring at the mystifying thing as it passed overhead. The high priest was not afraid. He realized that this was not the sign he had asked for, and there was no use pretending that it was a good omen. The arrival of this man-made thing was an insult, timed to interrupt a most solemn occasion. The lord of Mictlan would be angry and prompt action needed to be taken. Itztli could see that whatever this strange apparition was, it could not stay airborne for much longer. As it flew over the city, it was dropping lower and lower in the sky. From where he stood at the top of the pyramid, he could see it long after it must have passed out of the sight of the people below. It was moving on across the rainforest; at any moment it would disappear into the green depths that lay all around. He waited, and for a few moments there was a deep silence.
Then he heard it. The distant crashing of vegetation as the huge sky chariot ploughed into the forest. It sounded like the end of the world. On the horizon he saw great clouds of birds whirling up from the trees and the noise seemed to go on for a very long time; finally it stopped and everything was silent again.
Itztli looked down at what was left of the crowd below. Those who had not fled were looking hopefully up at him, expecting him to take control. He glanced at Chicahua. The boy was sitting on his oversized throne, his mouth open, revealing several partially chewed cocoa beans sitting on his tongue. He looked rigid with terror; beside him, Patli wasn't much better, his wizened features showing an expression of dismay. The boy's sister was merely staring at the place where the sky chariot had vanished, as though mesmerized. No point in expecting any help from that direction.
Itztli turned and beckoned to Tlaloc, the leader of the jaguar warriors who policed the city. The tall, muscular figure hurried forward.
'My lord?' he enquired.
'Take your best men and find the place where the great bird came down,' the high priest ordered. 'Bring back anything of interest you find there.'
'Yes, my lord.' Tlaloc bowed his head respectfully and Itztli could tell that he was frightened.
'Do not be afraid,' he said. 'It is men who have dared to do this thing.'
'But that sky machine, my lord – surely that must be the work of wizards?'
Itztli shook his head. 'It is but a thing that men have made – and all men must yield to my knife and the word of our god. Now, go, find whoever has done this and bring them to me.'
Tlaloc nodded and then gestured to the prisoner, who was still sitting on the altar, looking dazed. 'What of this man, my lord?' he asked.
Itztli glanced at him. In all the excitement, he had quite forgotten about his intended victim. 'Put him back with the others and lock them away,' he said. 'Our ceremony has been defiled. We'll postpone it until we have found the ones responsible for such an outrage.'
'Very good, my lord.'
A guard took the prisoner by the arm and dra
gged him back to his companions. They were led down the steps, still roped together, their expressions stunned, no doubt amazed to find that, against all the odds, they were still alive.
'Itztli!' The high priest turned to find Chicahua gazing fearfully up at him. 'What does it mean?' he gasped. 'Is it the end of the world?'
Itztli smiled and tried not to picture himself putting his hands around the boy's throat and choking the life out of him. 'Your highness, it's nothing to be concerned about,' he purred. He gestured at the huge stone skull that towered above them, its sightless eyes staring out across the plaza. 'The lord of Mictlan saw that thing in his heavens and sent Quetzalcoatl, the feathered serpent, to tear it from the sky. Men must have been behind that abomination; if they survived, we will find them and give them as gifts to the lord of Mictlan. There is nothing to fear. Nothing at all.'
He bent down and picked up his dagger from the pool of blood in which it lay. He bowed respectfully to the emperor; then descended the steps of the pyramid.
CHAPTER ONE
The Olmec Head
Alec Devlin squeezed his horse's flanks gently with his legs and urged it over the crest of the ridge and into the thickly wooded valley below. He had been a confident rider from an early age and rarely had a problem getting a mount to obey him. Coates, his valet, on the other hand, had never been comfortable on horseback and was having a job controlling his big chestnut mare. He sat awkwardly in his saddle, looking faintly ridiculous in khaki shirt and trousers, with a straw sombrero shading his ruddy features.
'How much further, Master Alec?' he shouted. 'When you announced this little trip, you gave no indication that we were going to ride this far.'
'It's only a little way further,' Alec assured him, without turning round. He examined the sketchy map that Pablo, his father's gardener, had drawn for him, and had to admit that it gave no real indication of distance. But they had been riding for hours and he was fairly sure it couldn't be much further.
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