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.
Sam noticed Norman had the shaman’s shard of flint gripped in one fist. The photographer lifted it. “If they mean to take my tongue, they’re gonna have to fight me for it.”
“Where’s Denal?” Sam whispered.
“I left him with the rifle,” Maggie answered. “He was supposed to lead the others away so I could try and free you. We were to rendezvous in the jungle.”
“I don’t think that plan’s gonna work,” Norman said. He pointed his flint knife. “Look.”
Across the square, one of the hunters held Sam’s Winchester in his grip. He handled the weapon as if it were a poisonous snake. The man sniffed slightly at the barrel’s end, crinkling his nose.
“Denal…” Maggie mumbled.
There was no sign of the boy.
A gruff voice sounded behind them. They turned.
Pachacutec pushed through the crowd. He was in full raiment, from feathered crown to fanciful robe. He lifted his staff. The golden sunburst caught the first rays of the rising sun and glinted brightly.
The king spoke slowly in Inca, while Norman translated. “We have captured the strangers in our midst. Inti rises for his sacrifice. Revive Kamapak so the gods can be honored.”
Off to the side, a trio of women worked on Kamapak. They bathed his face in cold water and rubbed his limbs while chanting. Slowly Kamapak’s arms began to move. Then his eyes flickered open. He seemed blind for a moment until the memory of his assault returned. Anger shone in his gaze. Weakly pushing away the women, he shoved to his feet. He wobbled a bit, but one of the hunters helped steady him.
Kamapak ambled shakily toward his king.
Pachacutec spoke again, this time in English, drawing the eyes of the students. “It be an honor to give blood to Inti. You disgrace our god with your fighting.”
By now, the sun had risen enough that the center of the square was bathed in sunlight. Sam brandished his dagger, bright in the morning light. Disgrace or not, he wasn’t going to give his blood without drawing the same from his attackers. He raised the knife higher, wishing he had a more intimidating weapon, something to strike terror.
With this thought, the handle of the dagger grew warm and the length of gold blade shimmered and twisted, spreading and curving, until the form of a striking snake sprouted from the hilt. Sam froze, afraid to move, unsure what had just happened.
He stared at the transformed dagger. Gold fangs were open to the sun, threatening the gathered throng.
Pachacutec had taken a step back when the transformation had started. He now took a step nearer, eyes wide with awe.
Sam did not know how the transformation had occurred, but the miracle of the dagger was clearly something the Incas had never seen. Sam raised the golden asp high.
Pachacutec lifted his staff, mimicking Sam’s pose. His eyelids lowered slightly, as if in prayer. Suddenly the golden sunburst symbol atop his staff flowed and transformed to match the serpent. Two snakes stared each other down.
Now it was Sam’s turn to back away. Pachacutec met the Texan’s gaze. Sam no longer saw anger in the man’s eyes, but tears.
To the king’s side, Kamapak fell to his knees, bowing his head toward Sam. The gathered throng followed suit. Foreheads pressed to the stones.
Pachacutec lowered his staff. He stepped toward them. Arms wide. “Inti has blessed you. The sun god of the Mochico listens to your dreams. You be one of the chosen of Inti!” The king crossed to stand before Sam. He offered his hand. “You be safe in our house. All of you!”
Sam was too confused to react. The sudden change in the Incas was unnerving. But he could not quite trust the transformation, any more than he could understand what had happened to the dagger.