James Rollins (Page 91)

“Professor?”

Henry opened his eyes and stared angrily at the abbot. “You bastard…”

“Choose. Or I will order both of them slain.” The abbot raised a hand, ready to signal the friar. “Who will die for your sins?”

Henry choked on the words, “D… Dr. Engel.” He sagged after he spoke Joan’s death sentence. But what other choice did he have? Though many years had passed since their time together at Rice, Joan had not changed. Henry still knew her heart. She would never forgive Henry if he preserved her life at the cost of Philip’s. Still, his decision cut him like a huge jagged dagger in his chest. He could hardly breathe.

“So be it,” Abbot Ruiz stated mildly, turning away. “Let it be done.”

Sam followed Kamapak as the shaman trotted out of the jungle’s fringes and into the brightness of the morning sun. Even with the cloak of mist overhead, the sun’s brilliance was painful after the dim light of the shadowed jungle.

Shading his eyes, Sam stumbled to a stop. Maggie pulled up beside him. Both were winded from the high-altitude jog. A headache rang in Sam’s skull as he surveyed the land beyond the jungle’s edge.

A hundred yards away rose an almost vertical wall of bare volcanic stone, a cliff of crenellated rock, knife-sharp, and as coppery red as fresh blood. Above it loomed the black cone of the neighboring volcanic mountain, imposing in its heights.

Ahead, a thin trail zigzagged up the wall to the opening of a tunnel seventy yards above the valley floor. It looked like a hard climb. Two men could be seen working their way down the slope from the opening. Sunlight flashed off the spears they carried. Denal was not with them.

“C’mon!” Sam said, pointing his transformed dagger toward the men.

Maggie nodded, too winded to speak. Adjusting Sam’s rifle over her shoulder, she cinched it higher and followed.

Kamapak led the way through a small field of wild quinoa, a type of highland wheat, along the forest’s edge. Beyond the green fields, at the base of the cliff, lay a wide apron of scraggled scrub and tumbled volcanic rock. A handful of vents steamed nearby, collared with yellow stains of sulfur. The air was humid and warm, a foul-smelling sauna.

They met the other two Incas at the trailhead that led up to the tunnel above. As Kamapak spoke to the guards, Sam studied the spears the two men brandished. Their blades were gold like his dagger. But more importantly, the weapons appeared unbloodied. Sam tried to listen to the conversation, but he could understand none of it. Finally, the shaman waved the men back toward the village and began the steep climb, leading them upward.

Sam stopped Kamapak with a touch to his shoulder. “Denal?” he asked.

The shaman just shook his head, pointed up, and continued the journey.

“What do you think?” Maggie asked.

“I don’t know. But apparently the answer lies up there.”

Maggie glanced worriedly toward the opening far above. “At the temple?”

Sam nodded grimly, and the two followed Kamapak up the series of switchbacks that climbed the wall. Any further talk was cut off by the need to breathe. Sam’s grip on his knife grew slick. He heard Maggie panting behind him. The muscles of his legs began to protest from the exertion.

Only Kamapak seemed unaffected. Acclimated to the altitude and moist heat, the shaman seemed unfazed by the climb. He reached the opening before they did and waited for them. He spoke as they approached. The only word recognizable to Sam was Inti, the god of the sun.

Sam glanced behind him and surveyed the spread of valley. Below, the village, half-covered in jungle, was barely discernible. Then suddenly a series of small fires climbed the rocky ridge off to the left, reaching to the lip of the volcanic cone. The signal fires. “Good going, Norman,” he wheezed quietly.

Maggie joined him. “Let’s hope your uncle gets here soon,” she said, eyeing the fires. Then she nudged Sam toward the tunnel. “Let’s get going.”

Kamapak struck a torch to flame and led the way inside. The tunnel was wide enough for four men to walk abreast and seemed to stretch straight ahead. No curves or turns. The walls around them were smooth volcanic stone.

“A lava tube,” Maggie said, touching the stone.

Sam nodded and pointed ahead. The darkness of the tunnel had seemed at first impenetrable. But as Sam grew accustomed to the gloom, he noticed a vague light coming from far ahead. Sunlight. “Norman was right,” he said. “The tunnel must connect either to another valley or a cavern open to the sky.”

Before Maggie could respond, Kamapak stopped ahead. The shaman lit two torches embedded in the right wall. They framed a small cave that neither Sam nor Maggie had noticed in the darkness. Kamapak knelt before the entrance.

As flames blew forth, a glow from the side chamber reflected back the torchlight into the main tunnel. Drawn like moths, Sam and Maggie moved forward.

Sam reached the entrance first. He stumbled to a stop as he saw what lay in the side chamber. Maggie reached his side. She tensed, then grabbed the Texan’s upper arm. Her fingers dug in tightly.

“The temple,” she whispered.

In the neighboring cave stood a sight to humble any man. The space was as large as a two-car garage, but every surface was coated with gold—floor, ceiling, walls. It was a virtual golden cavern! And whether it was a trick of the light or some other property, the golden surfaces seemed to flow, whorling and eddying, sliding along the exposed surfaces but never exposing the underlying volcanic rock. In the center of the room’s floor was a solid slab of gold, clearly an altar or bed. Its top surface was contoured slightly, molded to match the human physique. Above the altar, hanging like a golden chandelier, was a fanciful sphere of filigreed gold, strands and filaments twined and twisted into a dense mesh. It reminded Sam of a spider’s egg sac, more organic than metal. Even here the illusion of flowing gold persisted. The entwined mass of strands seemed to wind and churn slowly in the flickering torchlight.

“Where’s Denal?” Maggie asked.

Sam shook his head, still too shocked to speak. He pointed his serpent-shaped knife at the central altar. “No blood.”

“Thank God. Let’s—” Maggie jumped back a step.

A small spiral of gold filament snaked out from the mass above the altar and stretched toward Sam. “Don’t move,” Sam mumbled, freezing in place himself.

The thread of gold spun through the air, trailing like a questing tentacle. It seemed drawn toward Sam’s extended dagger. Finally it stretched long enough to brush against the gold serpent, touching a fang. Instantly, the golden sculpture melted, features dissolving away, surfaces flowing like warm wax. The hilt grew cold in Sam’s grip as heat was absorbed from it. Then the gold reshaped itself, stretching and sharpening, into the original dagger.