Excavation

Maggie and Denal had managed to escape. All night long, men had been searching the terraced village and surrounding jungle, but with no luck. Maggie must have heard the commotion from Sam’s capture and run off with the boy, disappearing into the dark jungle. But how long could the two remain hidden once the sun was fully up? Sam prayed Denal and Maggie could avoid capture until his uncle arrived with help. But when would that be? He had no way of knowing. His walkie-talkie was still inside his vest, but with his arms bound behind him, there was nothing he could do.

He yanked on his bonds. If he could only free a hand…

A rifle blast suddenly pierced the quiet dawn. The crack echoed over the valley, but it clearly came from the east. Maggie! She must have been discovered.

Both guards turned in the direction of the rifle shot. They spoke hurriedly as more men poured into the square, led by Kamapak. With much chattering, the group of barefooted hunters took off toward the forest’s edge. The tattooed shaman waved even the two guards away to aid in the search.

Bound tight, Sam and Norman were not a threat.

Once the square was empty, Kamapak crossed to them. He wore a worried expression.

Sam suspected the shaman feared his god’s wrath if all these foreigners were not slain at dawn.

In his hands, Kamapak bore small bowls of paint. He knelt beside Norman and spoke to the photographer as he placed down his dyes, then slid a long narrow flint knife from his sashed belt.

As the man spoke, Sam stared hungrily at the shard of sharpened stone. How he longed to grab that weapon.

Norman groaned after the shaman finished his explanation.

“What is it?” Sam asked.

“It seems the shaman has come to prepare us for the sacrifice,” Norman said, meeting Sam’s eye. He nodded to the dyes. “Marks of power are to be written on our bodies.”

The shaman dipped a finger in the red dye, intoning a prayer loudly, then picked up the splinter of flint.

Norman’s gaze followed the blade, his face paling. He glanced sidelong at Sam, but he kept one eye on Kamapak.

“What else?” Sam asked, sensing something unspoken.

“Before the sun rises, he also plans to cut out our tongues…so our screams don’t offend Inti.”

“Great…” Sam said sourly.

Kamapak raised his knife toward the growing dawn. As he continued his chanted prayer, the bright edge of the sun rose above the eastern lip of the volcanic cone. Like an awakening eye, Sam thought. For a moment, he understood the Incas’ worship of the sun. It was like some immense god peeking down on their lowly world. Kamapak sliced his thumb with his knife, greeting the sun with his own blood.

Even though Sam’s own life was threatened, a small part of him watched the ritual with clear fascination. Here was an actual Incan sacrificial rite, a dead tradition coming to life. He studied the tiny pots of natural dyes: red from rose madder, blue from indigo, purple from crushed mollusks.

As Kamapak continued his prayers, Norman suddenly stiffened beside the Texan. Sam glanced up from his study of the dyes to see a figure break from the cover of a nearby doorway. He almost gasped as he recognized the figure: It was Maggie.

Behind Kamapak’s back, she dashed across the stones, barefooted like the hunters-but, also like the warriors, she was armed. In her right hand was a long wooden cudgel.

Kamapak must have sensed the danger. He began to turn, but Maggie was already there. She swung the length of hardened wood and struck a fierce blow to the side of the shaman’s head. The blow sounded like a softball struck by a Louisville Slugger. Kamapak was knocked to his hands, then fell to his face, unmoving. Blood welled through the man’s dark hair.

Sam stared, too shocked to react for a few seconds. He turned to face Maggie. She seemed equally stunned by her act. The cudgel fell from her limp fingers to clatter on the granite cobbles.

“The knife,” Sam said, drawing her gaze from the limp form of the shaman. He nodded toward the sliver of flint and twisted around to indicate his roped wrists.

“I’ve got my own,” Maggie said, alertness returning in a rush. She glanced around the plaza and drew forth the gold dagger from her belt. She hurriedly sliced Sam’s lashed wrists.

Sam jumped to his feet, rubbing his wrists. He stepped over to check on Kamapak. The shaman lay unmoving, but his chest did rise and fall. Sam let out a relieved breath. The man was just unconscious.

Maggie passed Sam the gold dagger after freeing Norman, then helped pull the photographer to his feet. “Can you both run?”

Norman nodded weakly. “If I have to…”

Voices sounded from nearby. Somewhere a woman’s voice was raised in alarm. “It looks like you’ll have to,” Maggie said.

In unison, they all turned to run, but they were already too late.

Around the square, armed men and women entered from streets and alleys. Sam and the others were herded to the center of the plaza and surrounded.