Excavation

Even that small bit of solace went a long way to calm her frayed nerves. She took a shuddering breath, forcing herself to calm down. Glancing at Denal, she patted his hand. “Thanks.” She stared into the boy’s scared eyes, then returned to study the door. “Denal, I’m sorry for getting you into this mess.”

“No sorry. It were my choice to spy on Gil. I wanted to help you. My mama, before she die, she say I must help others. Be brave, Denal, she tell me.”

“Your mother sounds like a wonderful woman.”

Denal sniffed back tears. “She was.”

Well, by Jesus, she thought silently, I’m not going to let that wonderful woman’s boy die down here.

With renewed determination, she raised the gold dagger; the foot-long blade glittered in the flashlight beam. She remembered Sam’s trick at transforming the dagger. She tilted the knife and examined its sculpted hilt, the fanged god Huamancantac. She ran her fingers along its contoured handle. She found no catch to trigger the change. “How did you do that, Sam?”

Maggie glanced to the door, then back up to the statue. She needed to think. Why a door in the back of the heel? The Greek myth of Achilles came to mind. The invincible warrior’s only weak spot was his heel. But there was no such corresponding myth among the Incas or any of the Peruvian tribes.

Still, the coincidence kept nagging her. Could there be some connection? Many myths crossed cultures and continents. Just because she had never heard of such an Incan myth did not mean it did not exist. Without a written language, much of Incan heritage had been lost over the ages-perhaps tales of the Incan equivalent of Achilles had been lost, too.

Lifting the dagger, she recalled the Greek myth. The great Achilles was finally brought down by a blow to his heel. But it wasn’t a knife that slew the magically protected warrior. It had been an arrow. She shook her head at this useless train of thought.

If only you were an arrow, she wished at the dagger.

In her hands, the hilt grew suddenly cool and the golden blade stretched and thinned, blossoming at its tip into a sharp arrowhead.

“Jesus!” Maggie blurted out, popping to her feet. She turned to Denal, holding out the transformed knife. “Look!”

Denal, though, was staring the other way, gaping out at the necropolis. He backed toward her, raising an arm. “Miss Maggie…?”

With her gaze, she followed where he pointed. At the shadowed edge of the tombs, pale, monstrous shapes crouched. They had crept up on them so silently, even now not a growl or yowl escaped them. Maggie noticed several of the faces stared up at the gigantic statue-but not all of them. Several pairs of hungry eyes stared directly at them.

As if knowing they had been spotted, the creatures began to slink, crawl, and waddle out from the necropolis’s edge. Silent, like twisted shadows. There had to be at least two dozen of them.

Maggie pulled Denal back with her into the small cubby between the two heels of the Incan king. Denal had a flashlight, and the remains of their one torch. It would not hold the hordes off. They needed help. She risked a step forward and yelled with all the wind in her lungs. There was no reason to hide in silence any longer. “Sam! Help!” Her call echoed throughout the large cavern.

A pair of the nearest beasts, angered by the noise, rushed toward her. They were of the soldier class of the pack, loping on muscular legs, eyes narrowed to black slits, fangs bared. They resembled hairless bears, muzzles stretched wide as they attacked.

Maggie brandished her only weapon, the dagger now shaped like an arrow. If she could kill one of them…

The nearest of the two raised up from its crouched run, ready to lash out at her, then its eyes flicked toward her only weapon. The beast howled as if struck and fell back, colliding with its partner. The two tangled together, claws raking each other as they fought to back away. Slitted eyes had widened in raw panic. Whining, they fled back to the others.

Maggie stepped farther from her hiding place. She lifted her weapon high. A squeal of fear ran through the massed beasts. Like a school of startled fish, they spun and darted away.

Lowering the transformed knife, she frowned at the gold arrow. What had just happened? She ran a finger down the shaft of the arrow. She glanced back at the locked door. More from the beasts’ reaction than her own insight, Maggie suspected she truly held the key to the Incan statue. They had obviously feared it. But why? Did the beasts recall some frightening memory of the Incas who had once traveled here with this strange knife. If so, how? It had been so long ago, at least five centuries. Was it some type of collective memory, a genetic instinct among this diverse pack?