The Spirit Banner (2 page)

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S
EVERAL HOURS LATER
Curran sat in a cave that was deep enough to filter out the winds howling outside. There had been a few sticks lying just inside the entrance. He combined them with some of the extra clothing from his pack, and made a small fire to keep them warm. It was still cold, though not as bad as it would have been had they been trapped outside. It would serve to keep them from freezing to death.
At least until the fuel ran out, he thought, and then just as quickly pushed the image away. The Lord will provide, he told himself. The Lord will provide.
At least we won't starve to death, Curran thought, with a glance at the corpse of his horse where it lay just within the entrance tunnel. The poor beast had collapsed after carrying so much weight through the freezing cold weather without rest. Curran hadn't yet managed to get up the nerve to start carving up the carcass. He didn't mind eating horseflesh. He'd been forced to do so during other missionary journeys he'd been on and it hadn't been all that bad. It was just that this particular horse had been instrumental in saving his life and it felt disrespectful to treat its remains in such a fashion.
Still, when the time came, Curran had little doubt that his reticence would quickly vanish. Starving to death wasn't on his list of endings to this saga.
The dead horse was proof of what they had endured to reach this point. The trail had been difficult to find without the Mongols to guide him. The ever-increasing fury of the storm had cut their already-slow pace to a crawl, as did the times that Curran lost his grip and toppled off his patient mount. Thankfully, the horse had traveled this way before, and when he finally stopped trying to control it and just gave it its head, it took him where he wanted to go.
With the help of the firelight, Curran had cleaned Tamarak's head wound and had broken off the jutting ends of the arrows to keep the wounded man from accidentally driving them deeper into his body.
After that, there wasn't anything to do but wait.
The snow had continued to fall and the entrance to the cave was half-covered from the heavy accumulation. Curran didn't mind, as it served to keep the heat from the fire trapped in the cave, warming him and his unconscious companion, while still allowing the smoke to escape.
Unable to sleep, Curran took out his worn leather journal and began to write, recording the events of the past several days in as much detail as possible to ensure that there was some record of what had happened to him should he not make it back to Karakorum. He'd been doing the same thing since his mission had started many months before, and what had once been an annoying chore had turned into a soothing balm for his spirit.
At the very least, it gave him something to think about other than the pain in his injured leg, he thought ruefully.
It wasn't long before Tamarak, delirious with fever and pain, began raving aloud. At first Curran ignored it, knowing there was little he could do for the man, but then something Tamarak said caught his attention and he listened more carefully.
What he heard amazed him.
If it was true, he was being given the secret of the ages!
I really need a miracle now, Lord, he prayed, as he turned to a clean page of his journal and began writing frantically, trying to get it all down just in case the good Father decided to deliver on his request.

Mexico
Annja Creed was knee-deep in sacrificial victims when the shooting started.
At first, there was only a single gunshot, which was easy enough for her to ignore. After all, the sound of isolated gunfire was relatively common at a dig site this deep in the jungle. Someone fired off a weapon at least once a week. The reasons for doing so varied, but they usually had something to do with the local wildlife. Just last week, Martinez had found a twelve-foot python in his bed and had fired off four shots before he managed to hit the thing. A few days before that, the cook—a guy by the name of Evans—had used his shotgun to drive off the howler monkeys he'd caught raiding the food larder. The monkeys still managed to get away with the chocolate bars he'd been hording.
But when the first couple of shots were followed by an entire volley of gunfire from several different weapons, Annja knew something was seriously wrong.
For the past three weeks, Annja and the rest of the dig team working on behalf of the Bureau of Cultural Studies had been carefully excavating the ruins discovered at Teluamachee, about a hundred and fifty miles outside of Mexico City. A recent earthquake had cut a swath through the jungle, knocking down trees and natural earth formations with equal abandon, exposing a set of long forgotten ruins hidden in a narrow valley deep in the jungle. A scout for a local logging company had discovered the site and, thankfully, had enough respect and admiration of his heritage to report the location to the bureau rather than selling that information on the black market. The bureau wasted no time in assembling a team of experts—including Annja—asking them to come down and take a look at what they had found.
Annja had been in between assignments when the call had come in and she'd wasted no time in agreeing to join the team.
The main dig site consisted of a large three-story temple complex in the standard step pyramid formation, with several smaller buildings lining the east and west sides of the courtyard extending south from the base of the pyramid itself.
A few hundred yards to the west of the main structures was the site's cenote, a deep, water-filled sinkhole that the Mayans considered a link to the rain gods, or Chaacs. Sacrificial victims and precious objects had been tossed into the sacred well as offerings during the site's heyday as a way of protecting the populace and bringing good fortune. To the dig team's delight, the earthquake that had uncovered the primary dig site had also drained the cenote, exposing its secrets to the light of the sun for the first time in centuries.
Annja was down in "the hole," as they had come to call it, erecting a grid made of nylon rope and stakes across the entire area. This would allow them to record the precise depth and location of every object they removed from the muck-covered bed at the bottom of the sinkhole. That information would then be fed into a 3-D simulation program that would provide them with a computer model to work with in analyzing the artifacts.
It was important work, which was one of the reasons Annja had volunteered to do it, despite the ankle-deep puddles and stinking muck that covered the bottom of the cenote. From where she stood she could see the skeletal remains of at least five different individuals and more than a handful of ceremonial objects, such as knives, bowls and statuettes. The items they recovered from the cenote would probably tell them more about daily life at the site than the ruins themselves. It was like a window into the past, one she looked forward to peering through.
But right now she needed to forget about the past and focus on the present.
She looked up toward the rim of the cenote, expecting to see Arturo, her partner for the afternoon, peering over the edge and frantically signaling for her to come up, but there was no sign of him.
Had he run off? Gone for help? She didn't know. Thankfully, the rope she'd used to climb down into the hole was still where they had left it, hanging against the interior wall of the cenote. It was tied off at the top around a nearby tree trunk and so Arturo's help wasn't required for her to get back to the surface. It would have been helpful, but not necessary.
She slogged over to the far wall, being careful not to step on any of the remains scattered about her feet, and took hold of the rope. Planting one foot against the interior wall of the cenote, she began to pull herself up hand over hand, walking her feet upward as she went.
She hadn't gone more than a few steps up the wall when a shadow blotted out the light from the setting sun above. Startled, Annja looked up. She was just in time to see Arturo hurtling down toward her, his arms and legs flailing wildly, his mouth open in a silent scream.
Annja let go of the rope, dropped the few feet to the bottom of the cenote, and flattened herself against the wall, trying to make herself as small as possible.
Arturo's body missed her by mere inches and then hit the bottom with a loud, mud-filled splash. His sightless eyes stared back at her, accusing. So, too, did the bullet hole in the center of his forehead that was leaking a thin stream of blood into the muddy water where he lay.
She could hear voices above, shouting in Spanish. She couldn't make out everything that was said, but the word
cenote
came through loud and clear a few times and she knew they were headed her way, either to see if Arturo had been alone or to be certain he was dead.
If they looked in and caught her here…
Annja didn't need to finish the thought to know she was in deep trouble. She had only seconds to find a place to hide. Any moment now someone was going to stick their head over the edge and see her.
Her chances of surviving for even a few minutes after that were slim to none.
Without hesitation she took a deep breath and threw herself down into the water at her feet, burrowing into the mud and muck beneath and throwing it over her body, trying to cover herself up as much as possible. There wasn't anywhere else she could hide. The dark fatigue pants and top she was wearing would help, she knew, as would the deep shadows accumulating with the close of day near the walls of the cenote itself. If she could just stay out of sight for a few moments, she might be all right.
For the time being, at least.
She kept one ear turned to the side, listening, and just as she suspected, she heard two voices talking together somewhere above her. An argument ensued for a moment, the voices rising and falling rapidly, and then they fell silent.
Annja didn't move from her place of concealment. She was unable to tell if they had left or not and didn't want to take the chance of being caught unexpectedly in the open.
Her caution saved her life.
Bullets suddenly thumped into Arturo's unmoving form and it took all she had for Annja not to flinch as the gunshots echoed around the enclosed confines of the cenote. The rope she'd intended to use to reach the surface was thrown down a few moments later. Laughter drifted down from above and then moved off until she couldn't hear it anymore.
Annja pulled herself out of the muck and took a deep breath, not only to fill her lungs with air but to keep her startled wits about her, as well. It wouldn't do anyone any good if she lost it now. There were too many people in the camp above who'd need her protection.
And that was precisely what she intended to do.
She reached out and placed her finger tips on Arturo's throat, checking for a pulse, wanting to be sure. She would have been highly surprised if he'd survived the fall, never mind the gunshot wound to the head, but stranger things had happened and she didn't want to leave without being certain.
In the end, it turned out to be wasted effort.
Arturo was dead.
Gently, she brushed the side of her palm down over his eyes, closing them, and then stood. A glance upward told her she was alone and she suspected it would remain that way. By now the handful of people working the dig site had either been rounded up or slaughtered as Arturo had. There was no reason for the assailants, whoever they were, to examine the cenote a second time unless they wanted to dredge the bottom for themselves.
She figured that wasn't too bloody likely, given the pile of artifacts that the team had already unearthed that were just sitting around in the research tent above.
Annja wasn't about to let the lack of a rope hinder her, either. Her colleagues were up above, friends who were clearly in trouble, and she'd go through hell and high water to get to them.
The walls of the cenote were formed from limestone and, thanks to the constant erosion of the water that had filled the hole, were pockmarked throughout, providing all sorts of hand- and footholds for those who knew how to use them.
Having done her fair share of rock climbing, Annja was one of those people.
She grabbed a hold and started climbing. She'd learned that those unfamiliar with the sport often tried to pull themselves upward using the strength of their arms alone. That causes lactic acid to quickly build up in their muscles, cramping them, and tiring the climber faster than necessary. Annja knew what was necessary. With more than a hundred feet of climbing to go, she had to be sure to conserve her energy, which meant using her hands primarily for balance and doing the majority of the work with her legs. She was careful where she put her hands and feet, knowing that the pockets of eroded rock might still be damp or even full of water. Without a rope, one slip could be fatal.
Slowly, carefully, she worked her way to the top.
Once there, she cautiously peeked over the lip of the cenote and then, not seeing anyone nearby, pulled herself up and onto solid ground.
As silent as a stalking cat, she rolled smoothly to her feet and slipped into the thick foliage of the nearby jungle. The sun had set during her assent of the sinkhole, something for which Annja was thankful. The darkness would provide additional cover for her as she moved through the dense undergrowth in the direction of the dig's main encampment.

She smelled him first. The thick odor of cheap cologne, unwashed human body and hand-rolled cigarettes clashed with the humid scent of the jungle around her and gave him away about half a moment before she blundered directly into him. Annja froze in place, waiting for her peripheral vision to pick him out in the gathering darkness.
He stood a few feet up the trail, his back to her. The rifle he carried was slung over his shoulder while his hands were busy in front of his body. The sound of liquid splashing in a thick stream against the broad leaves of the bushes in front of him reached her ears a second later and clued her in to what he was doing.
Taking a deep breath, she put her right hand into the otherwhere and drew her sword. Incredibly strong and unsurprisingly deadly, the ancient broadsword had once belonged to Joan of Arc, but when Annja had reunited the last of its pieces, it had become mysteriously bound to her in some kind of mystical fashion. She could summon it at will and release it back into the otherwhere when it was no longer needed. Reversing it in her grip so that the blade hung downward, she approached on silent feet. A quick snap of her wrist, the solid thunk of the pommel of her sword striking the back of the soldier's head, and then he was tumbling to the ground, his hands still on the zipper he'd been pulling shut when she'd struck.
Annja rolled him over, made sure he was unconscious and then took a good look.
The briefing they had received before arriving at the dig site had mentioned that members of a revolutionary group had been seen moving through the region, but Annja hadn't paid much attention to the warnings. In Mexico and most of Central America, insurgency was a way of life, and if they fell into a tizzy every single time a group was spotted by local villagers, nothing would ever get done.
Apparently she should have paid more attention this time.
The rebel soldier was dressed in a faded set of old fatigue pants and a dirty T-shirt. A new green cap with the emblem of his group emblazoned on it lay close to his unconscious form. He carried an assault rifle, an AK-47 to be exact, but unlike the rest of his uniform the weapon was new.
Someone, somewhere, was arming the troops.
She shrugged off the thought as soon as it came. It was not her problem and certainly not one she intended to get involved in. Right now, her only concern was rescuing the rest of her team from this guy's buddies.
Annja considered taking his weapon, knowing she might need a bit of firepower, but while she knew how to use it, she felt better with her sword in hand. In the end, she ejected the submachine gun's magazine and shoved it into the cargo pocket of her pants, then jammed the muzzle of the weapon into the mud at her feet, stuffing the barrel so that it couldn't be used again without being cleaned. She also took the time to peel off the man's shoelaces and used them to bind his hands and feet. Between the smack on the head and the bindings, he should be out of the fight for some time.
Satisfied, she moved off into the darkness again, slowly continuing to make her way toward the wide clearing where they had set up their main encampment a few weeks earlier.
The path ahead grew lighter, the glow coming from the portable lights strung up over the eating area outside the mess tent, and she knew she was close. As there were sure to be guards posted at the top of the pathway and she didn't want to blunder into another one unexpectedly, she decided to slide off the path into the thicker foliage and approach at an oblique angle.
When she came to the edge of the jungle, she stopped and peered out at the camp.
Their tents had been grouped haphazardly, without any real plan or design to how they had been set up. After all, this was an expedition, not a Boy Scout camp. Whenever someone new arrived, they just selected a patch of ground and set up their tent wherever they wanted. Portable lights had been strung up here and there on poles throughout the camp, as well. While they didn't light up the camp like broad daylight, they did do their share to banish the darkness around the most commonly used paths and in front of about half of the tents. From where she crouched Annja could see that she was to the right of the mess area and about halfway along the maze of tents.
She could also see several soldiers moving through the camp; she counted four in all. They were stomping in and out of the tents, kicking aside piles of equipment and supplies, looking for anything of value. She could also hear someone yelling something in Spanish at the other end of the camp, where the larger mess tent and command center had been set up.
She couldn't see who it was. No matter. She'd find out soon enough.
First, though, she had to deal with the soldiers in front of her.
Annja waited until they were all either inside a tent or facing the other way, and then, when no one was looking, she left the cover of the trees behind and ran in a crouch to the nearest tent that hadn't been searched yet. Using her sword, she cut a long slit into the rear panel and then squatted at its edge, waiting.
It didn't take long.
The rebel came into the tent as she expected he would, head down, eagerly anticipating another iPod, cell phone or laptop computer to claim as his bounty. When he bent over to paw through a backpack someone had left open on the cot, Annja made her move. Slipping through the hole in the back of the tent she headed directly toward the soldier's unprotected back.
She had almost reached his side when he straightened and turned. Seeing her, his eyes opened wide in fear.
"¡Madre de Dios!"
he whispered, frozen in place.
Annja could only imagine what she looked like to him with her hair, face and body covered in drying muck, and a sword almost as long as she was grasped in one hand, like some vengeful spirit come back from the grave to right some ancient wrong. She didn't give him a chance to make sense of what he was seeing, either, but rather jammed the point of her sword up under his chin and held a finger to her lips to indicate he should be silent.
"Give me your gun," she said in Spanish.
Stiff with fear, he complied.
"How many others are there?" she asked.
His voice trembled as he said, "Five plus the captain."
That meant she'd already taken care of the captain's only companion, since she'd counted four men looting the tents.
Too bad for them that the odds were in her favor.
"What are you doing here?" she asked.
The soldier shrugged.
Annja pushed the sword blade a bit harder and a thin trickle of blood ran down the man's neck in response. "Don't mess with me," she told him. "What are you here for?"
The soldier explained that they had stumbled upon the excavation while fleeing from the police. With no money and a need to resupply themselves with both food and ammunition, the captain decided that a quick raid was in order. If they discovered that the excavation had yielded gold or other precious artifacts, so much the better.
She could hear the other soldiers laughing nearby and knew she didn't have much time left. She was going to have to act and hope for the best.
"Give me your shirt and hat," she told her captive.
Once he had, she made him turn around and then struck him hard on the head with the butt of his own weapon.
Two down, four to go.
Releasing the sword back into the otherwhere, she pulled his shirt on over her own muddy T-shirt and shoved her hair up under the hat. The shirt was bulky and hung down to midthigh, which should help hide her shape and size from casual view. She only needed to pass for the other man for a few moments, just until she was close enough to carry out her plan. In the dark, and with the soldiers feeling secure that they were not in any danger, it just might work.
She left the man lying there unconscious and stepped out of the tent, the soldier's rifle slung over her shoulder and the hat pulled down low over her face.
The other soldiers were several tents away, a long stretch of darkness between them and her. They saw her emerge from the tent, but didn't think anything of it, her disguise apparently good enough at this distance to keep them from noticing anything was wrong.
The one in the middle turned to her, shouted for her to hurry up and gave a "come on" gesture with one hand.
Annja grunted something indistinguishable, waved to show she'd heard him and then held her breath.
This was the moment of truth. If they were going to notice something was wrong, it would most likely be now, while their attention was on her and they were addressing her directly.
The soldier hesitated.
Annja tensed.
The soldier turned back to his companions, apparently satisfied with her response.
They waited for her there in the center of the camp's main thoroughfare as she approached. The men laughed and joked among themselves, their attention on one another and not on her.
It proved to be a fatal mistake.
She considered simply gunning them down where they stood as she moved closer; after all, they'd certainly killed Arturo and probably several others at this point, as well. She didn't owe them anything. But the sound would easily carry across the camp and she wasn't ready yet to let the captain know that his pack of hired guns had been taken out of the equation. Instead, she kept her right hand down at her side, ready to snatch her sword out of the otherwhere the moment she needed it. Thanks to the fact that they were standing directly in a pool of light cast by one of the overhead lamps, Annja was able to approach quite close to them while remaining shrouded in shadow the entire time.
The man who'd spoken to her earlier turned as she approached, his eyes widening in surprise as she passed from shadow into light, revealing herself at last. His hand fumbled for the gun at his side as he pushed himself backward into the other two.
Annja called her sword to her and thrust forward in the same motion, skewering him where he stood.
By now the other two men had noticed she wasn't who they'd been expecting and the fact that they were in danger was just registering in their surprise-addled minds. Using the precious seconds that surprise had given her, Annja spun to her left, withdrawing her sword from the body of the man she'd stabbed while at the same time bringing her elbow around in a vicious arc that connected with the head of the man on the far right, dropping him senseless to the ground.
The man she'd stabbed dropped to his knees, his hands cupped across the savage wound in his gut.
As often happened whenever she was in a fight for her life, Annja's senses suddenly became hypersharp, giving the effect that she was moving incredibly fast in a world where time had suddenly slowed to a crawl. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the third man had managed to get his hands around his gun and was bringing it up in her direction. Without stopping her momentum she planted her foot and continued her spin, the hand holding the sword coming up and down again, her weapon whistling through the air like the keening of a hungry ghost. The edge of the sword struck the man's arm just below his elbow.
The gun dropped into the dirt at his feet.
The soldier was opening his mouth to scream when Annja silenced him with one final blow of her sword.
Heart beating madly thanks to the adrenaline coursing through her system, Annja took a few deep breaths to get herself under control. She collected the soldiers' weapons and tossed them into the darkness. She stripped the belts from the bodies and used them to bind the hands and feet of the unconscious man, assuring that he wouldn't make a sudden appearance and cause her future difficulties.
When she was ready, she picked up her rifle once more and headed toward the mess area on the other side of camp. As she drew closer, the captain's voice came to her clearly.
"¿Donde esta el tesoro?"
None of the hostages answered him. Annja knew that the vast majority of those working the dig spoke Spanish and she was surprised that they seemed to be pretending otherwise, but she was glad they were. It meant there was still some fight in them and that was good. The sudden attack hadn't broken their spirit at least.
The captain tried again, this time in English.
"Where is the treasure?"
By now Annja had reached the edge of the wide area that served as the camp's main meeting place. Floodlights set up on the front of the mess tent lit the place up well, allowing her to get a good look at the rebel leader.
He was about her height, with that wiry look to him that told her not only would he be fast in a hand-to-hand fight, but that he'd have the strength to match his speed, as well. A wide scar started beneath his right eye and curled down to the edge of his mouth. Unlike the other soldiers, he was only armed with a handgun, a handgun that was currently pointed absently at the rest of the dig team who were kneeling in a semicircle in front of him. He did not appear to be happy with the cooperation he was getting, but he was clearly distracted, as well, glancing back repeatedly over his shoulder at the trailhead that led to the cenote.
Annja smiled grimly to see his unease.
Sorry, buddy, but there won't be any help from that direction.
She knew she was going to have to use the gun this time, for the sword would be far too conspicuous and there would be too many questions about it afterward. While it wasn't her preference, she'd handled guns before and shouldn't have any problems.
As the captain began shouting in anger at the captives, Annja checked to see that her weapon was ready to fire and then strode out of the darkness and into the light.