Thursday 29 November 2018

Demons of El Dorado: Part 6

I really ought to edit this more, but here goes anyway...


Luis yanked the reins of his horse and brought his horse to a halt. He deftly dismounted and tied his horse to a post, then ran to catch up to Rodrigo and Angel. They had finer mounts, and were more accustomed to riding than Luis. After hiding the bodies at the church they had rushed Bartome, Abuljar and some monks into a wagon and sent them ahead. 

It would not be long before the bodies were discovered. 

Speed was their only asset left.

A servant he recognized bowed and pushed past him, towards his horse. There was no time to ask him what he was doing. Everything was moving so quickly, and his father was not telling him everything.

The dock was packed with men, mules, and cargo, and it stank of fish, tar, sun cooked wood, and human sweat. They walked past a moored galleon, half unloaded, and weaved between stacked crates and barrels of rum. Surly, sunburnt men glared at them as they passed. Luis imagined they were jealous of his fine clothes, which made them stand out like sore thumbs in a crowd. He hated being looked at, being the centre of attention, but it was not to be helped. There was no time for petty anxieties anymore. 

Soldiers milled about ahead, while shirtless sailors and dock workers, bodies glistening in the sun, loaded supplies aboard a row of six sturdy brigantines. Each ship was sixty feet long, broad, with two banks of oars and a mast, cannon mounted at the prow. Buff-bowed shallops. Ship’s boats, really, if Luis wasn’t mistaken. Much like what Cortez had used at the siege of Tenochtitlan, they would make for decent river craft. 

Luis felt a gust of cool sea breeze on his face, and looked up at the sky. It was clear azure, not a cloud to be seen. A small mercy.

Rodrigo and Angel had stopped just ahead, before a crowd of men. Bartome was there. Two monks flanked Abuljar, holding the poor soul up. Abuljar’s head was downcast, which was fortunate enough. No one who saw the man’s eyes would want to be anywhere near him. Rodrgio was speaking to Sergeant Mendez, who commanded the small contingent of troops who oversaw the de Guerra plantations on the island. He must be coming too. Someone to help control their mercenaries. Luis also recognized the quartermaster, Antonio. 

There must have been over two hundred soldiers on the dock, waiting to board the ships. This was a large expedition for such short notice. It was fortunate the mercenaries had nowhere else to go now that the English had captured their original destination. Luis smiled. They’d be much happier seizing El Dorado, anyway. If the tales were true, they were all going to be very rich!

He listened for a moment to the discussion his father was having. Concerns over the supplies, the amount of food and water, and especially the speed of departure. There was nothing Luis could add, nor would his input be wanted. He went over to examine their newly acquired ships. He ran a hand over the bulwark. The wood was smooth and freshly stained. The ship was new, or relatively so. No barnacles would be on the bottom to slow their progress.

“It isn’t the ships you should be worried about,” said a voice from behind. He recognized it immediately: Esteban. Luis turns and embraces his friend and teacher, then looked down at the open chest beside him, filled with books. 

“My library,” observed Luis.

The Moor nodded. “The servants brought it.” Esteban looked at Luis like he was a fish out of water. “You’re mad. You know that, do you not?”

Luis shrugged. “We’ll likely never return. And if we don’t, if we must live out the rest of our days in some fetid swamp, cut off from civilization, I’d just as soon have my books.”

“Fair enough.”

There were shouts back down the dock. The expedition was getting underway. 

“What’s the great rush with all this?” asked Esteban. “This city you seek, is it going somewhere?”

“No.” Luis could not bear to tell Esteban the truth. It would be too shameful to admit to a Moslem, a captured infidel, the dishonor that had been washing over his formely august family. Especially not after what happened in the church. True, this was The New World. Rules here were looser, lives cheaper, than in Spain. But Luis couldn’t help but think they were all on a path to damnation. 

“Captain! Prepare to set sail!” It was his father, Rodrigo. Soldiers gathered up their gear and clambered aboard the ships, along with a few sailors to steer the ships. The soldiers, however, would be providing the manpower.

Rodrigo and Angel approached, trailed by the quartermaster, who seemed flustered: “But, Don Rodrigo, the supplies are not yet all loaded.”

Rodrigo ignored the man and slapped a sailor on the back, who looked up quizzically. Rodrigo pointed at a mooring line. “Undo that. Hurry. We leave at once.”  It would have been beneath Rodrigo’s station, or that of Angel or even Luis, to do it himself. Hidalgo did not stoop to physical labour. 

Angel saw the chest as he passed and laughed. “Stupid waste of space. Books are shit.” He waved ahead. The prostitutes were further down the dock, surrounded by a group of grinning soldiers. They stepped back as Angel stormed towards them. Luis grunted. It looked like there’d be some of the fairer sex accompanying the expedition. He turned and looked back, over the roofs and up the hill, towards the citadel. 

A cloud of smoke rose over the road. 

Esteban followed his gaze, squinted. “What’s wrong?”

“A… little misunderstanding.”

“What did you do now?” growled the Moor.
“Me?” exclaimed Luis, incredulous. He gave Esteban a sharp look. The mischevious Moor was being insufferably cheeky. “It wasn’t my fault.”

“That’s what you always say.” Indifferent. Judging. 

“That’s totally untrue. I’ve never said that, to the best of my recollection. By any measure, I am the most proper and law abiding of all the de Guerra family.”

The Moor smirked and slapped him on the back. “That’s why you get in so much trouble.”

“Help me with this.” Luis gestured at the chest, and stepped round, and grabbed the handle on one end. Esteban took the other and together they heaved it onto the bulwark and into the waiting grasp of two sailors. 

“Put your back into it, you louts!” Luis could hear Angel’s gruff voice over his shoulder. Angel was prowling along the dock like an angry panther. He grabbed Luis’ arm. “Don’t stoop so low, brother. You’ll bring dishonor on us all.” He let go and stomped on. “Faster, you sons of bitches! Crippled crones would be done by now!” Angel booted a slow sailor in the rear, but did nothing to help himself. 

Sailors rushed loading the remaining supplies. Luis watched his horse, along with Rodrigo’s and Angel’s, being trod past and onto the fourth brigantine, which had a roof of sorts made out of thatch and animal skins. The ships sat dangerously low in the water. If they hit rough seas, Luis imagined they’d all be doomed. He looked for reassurance from his father, but Rodrigo and the First Captain, Luis thought his name was Aragones, something like that, continued to argue. 

Luis stopped and watched.

Aragones was waving a list at Rodrigo. “Don Rodrigo, we’ll need another hour or two, at least. Please! Be reasonable.”

Rodrigo stepped up into the man’s face and glared. “Cast off. Now.”

There were shouts from the road leading toward the docks. Between the buildings a troop of horses was fast approaching. Soldiers.

Luis grabbed hold of his pistol. “Get ready,” he said quietly to Esteban, and they stepped over behind some crates. 

Horsemen rounded the bend and reached the far end of the docks. The lead cavalry man held aloft the banner of Don Philip’s family. Even from this distance Luis recognized the man beside him, dressed in fine armour: Santino Philip, the Don’s eldest son. 

“Father!” shouted Luis. Rodrigo turned and Luis pointed at the approaching soldiers. “It’s Santino, Philip’s son!” 

Rodrigo swore and drew two gold handled pistols. “Get aboard!” he shouted at Luis, and headed back down the dock, shouting orders to the confused mercenaries, who didn’t know what was going on. Sergeant Mendez raced after him, leading a dozen heavily armed men.

Luis stayed behind the barrels, beside Esteban. 

There was a puff of smoke at the far end, two hundred feet away. Then a half-dozen more. A mercenary fell. Shards of wood spat from struck barrels. Men yelled in alarm. Everyone scattered for cover.

The Moor was smiling. “I begin to see why your father was in such a hurry.” He drew his pistol. “It always is interesting with your family. I should tell you some stories of your brother. Stay down.”

“They can’t hit us from here,” said Luis, unsure of his words even as he uttered them. “We should help.” He started to get up. 

“Hold.” Esteban pushed him back down. “It’s a confused mess up there. You’re likely to be shot by your own men. They’re as skittish as chickens.” 

Rodrigo and his men were now engulfed by drifting white smoke. Esteban was right. The scene was one of mayhem. Troops surged forward past them, towards the fighting, but Angel roared at them to stop, and to get in the ships. 

Luis could not stand to be shamed any further. He slipped away from Esteban and began to urge the men into the boats as well, waving his pistol in the air. “Get aboard! Set sail!”

A puff of smoke belched from a second story window overlooking the dock. Buildings lined the length of it. Luis cursed. Philip’s troops were occupying the houses, firing down into Rodrigo’s men from the left flank. “The windows!” he shouted to the soldiers. “Fire on those windows!” There was a loud crack beside him as a sniper’s bullet blew slivers of wood off a crate, causing Luis to cringe involuntarily. In his fine armour he was a prime target, along with Angel. He raised his pistol, sighted, and fired a shot at the smoke. 

Don Rodrigo charged towards them out of the smoke. He cast about for the quartermaster, found him cowering behind a pile of ropes, and hauled him out. “Cast off now!”  He shoved the Quartermaster away, and gestured at the soldiers. “Cast off! Any one who refuses, shoot them!” Sergeant Mendez and two men started herding soldiers and sailors aboard. 

“What’s going on?” demanded one of the mercenaries, a big fellow with a bushy, untrimmed beard. His armour was collected in a rope net he held over his shoulder, and he held his caliver loosely in his right hand. He spat a large black wad of tobacco. “I’ll not fight.” He pointed towards the end of the dock. “Those are men of the city watch, down there.” Chin jutted out, he planted his legs wide apart. “What are you getting us caught up in, eh?”

Rodrigo snapped up a pistol and shot him in the chest. The man staggered and fell between the dock and the brigantine with a loud splosh. Rodrigo furiously rounded on the others. “Do you want to be rich or dead? Get in the ships!” They obeyed. He began to reload his pistol.

The first two brigantines were moving away from the dock. Soldiers were pushing hard against it with oars and halberds.

Luis scanned the building windows and saw a man, not thirty feet away, raise an arquebus and aim it at his father. Acting on instinct Luis fired his second shot and hit the man in the arm. The arquebus roared, but the shot went hopelessly wide. 

Esteban fired and hit the sniper in the forehead. The man toppled out of the window and into stacked bins of spice. 

Don Rodrigo and Angel climbed into the middle Brigantine. The prostitutes were already aboard, sheltering in the makeshift altar that had been set up near the ship’s stern. Abuljar must be there somewhere. He could see Bartome, crouched low against the bulwark and trying to look as small as possible. Luis started to follow. A flurry of bullets struck in front of him. He dropped back in a panic. Philip’s troops had occupied the buildings opposite, and were now pushing their way up the dock from Luis’ right. 

A Sailor untying the last mooring line was hit. The four ounce metal ball blew a chunk out of his tanned chest. He fell dead. 

Angel, crouching behind a supply crate aboard the brigantine, looked in askance at Luis. “Get that! The line! Hurry up, or we’ll leave you behind!” Soldiers beside him hefted oars and began to push against the dock. Angel pulled out a knife and began cutting the line. Rodrigo pulled Mendez aboard. One of his troopers was hit in the back and fell against the bulwark, then slipped away, down into the water.

Luis crouched back as bullets zipped by. Esteban looked over at him from behind a crate nearby. He was pointing at the barrels Luis lay behind, but his words were lost in the cacophony.

“What?” shouted Luis back, perplexed. Everyone was demanding his attention all at once.

Rodrigo, face was red with fury, shouted, “Cut that line or we’re all dead men!” 

“Hurry!” yelled Angel. “Father is watching! Don’t be a coward! I’ll cover you!”

Luis looked back again to Esteban, who cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted, “Gunpowder! You’re behind a barrel of gunpowder!”

Luis’ eyes went wide. Sparks and bullets and shards of wood were everywhere, but this was obviously no place to stay. He slipped up to a crouch, drew his sword, and ran for the brigantine. 

Soldiers focus their fire on Luis. Bullets and crossbow bolts whizzed by as he ran. 

A musket shot singed his shirt.

He stopped short, by the mooring line, planted his legs wide, and swung his sword down with all his might, slicing the line clean through with one blow. A bullet hit him in the back, knocking the wind out of him and causing him to fall forward. He grabbed the bulwark with his left hand and found himself looking down into the dark sloshing water. A body bobbed up and down below him, face up, eyes looking blankly up into his. He swallowed hard. His sword was pulled from his right hand. He raised his head. Angel and Mendez grabbed at his arms. Luis could feel his feet sliding along the dock, closer and closer to the edge as the ship drifted away from the dock. Bullets struck the bulwark, but there was nothing he could do. Suddenly they had him by the torso and he was hauled aboard the brigantine, and awkwardly rolled onto the bottom of the boat, dizzy and disoriented. A moment later he saw Esteban elegantly leap aboard, only to be undone by uneven footing of ropes and pouches, and found himself falling into a group of soldiers, who cursed and pushed him roughly off. 

Luis sat up. The crescendo of battle floods back into his consciousness.

Angel shoved a caliver into his chest. Luis took it up and leaned against the bulwark. Philip’s men now lined the dock, and were firing haphazardly at them, but they were becoming more organized as they consolidated their control along the dock’s length. Luis spotted Philip. He set the caliver against his shoulder, steadied it as best he could, and fired. Philip jerked back, but remained standing. But it had been a hit. A palpable hit! Luis couldn’t help but grin. 

Something struck him as wrong. The ship was angling round, facing towards the dock, rather than away. Soldiers were rowing madly, one side rowing forward, the other back. A moment later he saw why, as Rodrigo set a match to the cannon’s fuse, and it boomed. The shell hit the gunpowder barrels, setting them off. A massive explosion blew apart a section of the dock. 

“That will teach them to challenge the de Guerra,” crowed Rodrigo, a fierce smile on his face. He turned to the soldiers. “Now row, to sea, for all you’re worth!”

Luis looked back at the dock. Fiddled with reloading his pistol while the soldiers rowed madly.

The ship had fully turned and was pulling out to sea before Santino Philip had recovered enough to rally his men, the ones not deaf from the explosion. 

The ship pulled further away from the docks. 

Santino had his men form up into ranks, then theatrically waved his sword in the air. He then sliced it downward. A thunderous volley cracked the air, and the stern of the ship was peppered with shot. Chunks of the altar were blown off, and a sailor’s skull blown open. The man collapsed atop the prostitutes, who, in a fit of horror and revulsion, toppled his corpse over the side. 

The soldiers at the oars bent forward and covered their heads.

“Row!” ordered Rodrigo, storming amongst them. “Row! Distance, that’s your only armor now!” 

Luis, focused on reloading his pistol, wasn’t paying attention. “Almost…”

Esteban grabbed a befuddled Luis by the tail of his shirt, sticking out from below his armored breastplate, and roughly hauled him backward. Luis dropped the ball of shot and swore.

Bullets peppered the hull of the ship, sliced through rigging, and cut holes in the sails. The quartermaster gouted blood from his chest and dropped into the gleaming, cerulean blue, staining it.

Luis shifted himself round, facing Esteban. “What did you do that for?” he demanded, scouring the floor of brigantine for the lost ball.

Esteban grinned back. “You’re welcome.”

As the ships pulled out of range, Angel stood up and planted his hands on hips. He made obscene gestures at those on shore. “I shit on your mothers, you bastards!” he bellowed. 

He laughed as Santino and his men rushed along the dock, back towards the city. 

Saturday 24 November 2018

Demons of El Dorado: Part 5


Luis and Angel followed their father into the church. The smell of cool stone and incense washed over him. Sunlight streamed in through the soaring stained glass windows, beams of light split into a cacophony of rich colors. The great height of the nave always filled Luis with a feeling of elation somehow. He could imagine himself closer to God in this place. It was sumptuously furnished, funded by the enormous wealth of the New World. Still, it was nothing compared to Alhambra or the cathedrals of Madrid. Luis had heard the churches in Paris were even more magnificent. One of these days, he intended to visit them. Perhaps he’d even travel to England and see the home of Anglican heresy.

They tromped down the center aisle towards a magnificent marble statue of Saint James, their metal shod boots clanking on the cold stone floor. Rodrigo reached out and rubbed the neck of the statue, then knelt before the altar in prayer. Luis and Angel followed suit.

Rodrigo spoke softly, under his breath. Luis could barely hear him. “Dear Lord God Almighty and Father Everlasting who has safely brought me to the beginning of this day by thy holy power, grant that this day I fall into no sin…”

“Well spoken, Don Rodrigo,” said a voice. Luis looked up. He saw Father Bartome, an older, rather portly man approaching. A kindly smile was etched onto his weathered features, but it did not reach his eyes. Luis felt they had a tinge of envy to them, the way they darted about, analyzing and assessing everything. There was something resentful about the way he looked at Luis and Angel. A yearning for lost youth, perhaps. It had not been there when Luis was younger. Bartome had known Luis’ father for over twenty years. It had been the quest for El Dorado which had brought them closer together over the years. Bartome’s hands were clasped together. He stopped a few feet away. “Welcome, my friends.”

“Father Bartome,” said Rodrigo, rising. “Any improvement?”

Father Bartome shook his head. “None, I’m afraid. This man you brought us… he is most unwell.”

Luis looked at his father. Rodrigo did not take this news well. A scowl crossed his face. “Take us to him.”

Bartome frowned but didn’t move, which incensed Rodrigo. “Did you not hear what I said? Now. I insist,” he demanded forcefully. 

“Don Rodrigo, I do not think this man is… No.” Bartome reconsidered. His eyes flitted over Luis and Angel. He slumped ever so slightly. There was no point in opposing Don Rodrigo when his mind was set. “Very well. It is better to show you.” He led them over to the stairs leading down into the crypt, and took a torch from the wall. 

Luis stooped as they walked along the crypt. The ceiling was low and it was dark and dank. The torch flame danced and murmured as Bartome swept along the passage ahead. Eventually he stopped in front of a heavy oak door and began to fumble with a set of keys that jangled at his belt. Thick fingers slipped over them until they found the one he sought. He paused and looked back at Luis and Angel. “Boys, I warn you, what you see may be… disturbing.” With a clack of gears, the door unlocked, and Bartome swung it wide. 

They crowded around the entrance and looked in. Abuljar lay on a wooden bunk inside the cell, curled up in a ball atop a thin mattress. His arms and legs were shackled, and his eyes were open but black, like those of a shark, without whites. They stared vacantly, as if the man were catatonic. 

“Abuljar, you have guests,” said Bartome. He set the torch in a wall mounted clasp and gently shook Abuljar’s shoulder. There was no response. Bartome sighed and looked back to Don Rodrigo. “He stopped responding early this morning, before dawn. He’s been like this since. The Sisters did what they could. Last night, he howled like a beast. Like nothing I’ve ever heard before, for hours on end. It was so unnerving the nuns moved to the outer seminary. Worse, word of his presence has spread. I could not contain it. There was no way, considering his disturbing behavior.”

Angel grimaced. “By the saints, what’s wrong with his eyes?”

“Yes, strange is it not?” mused Bartome, lowering the torch a little. “All black. At first I thought it might be a disease, some New World plague. Yet he is not blind. But look.” Bartome reached out and pulled out a chunk of hair from Abuljar’s head. It came away easily, in a clump. “His hair is beginning to fall out.”

Luis shuddered. “What happened to him?”

Bartome shrugged. “He was a missionary, an emissary of God at the edge of the world. Who knows what a man might find there. He jabbers of beasts. Evil spirits. It’s hard to make sense of it. It may be the fever, or…”

Luis gave him a questioning look. “Yes?”

Bartome fidgeted. He seemed uncomfortable to say. Finally he blurted, “The man may be possessed.”

Angel let out a guffaw. “Ha! What shit.”

Bartome gave him a cold look. “Do not dismiss it so easily. He claims to have discovered The Gateway to Hell.” He looked down at Abuljar and shuddered. “And I am inclined to believe him.”

Rodrigo shook his head. “No. I know what it is. I’ve seen this before, on the battlefield. Look at him. Curled up like a baby. Traumatized. Tortured. He’s lost his nerve. He was weak. It made him vulnerable, and he became sick.”

Father Bartome straightened up. He seemed dubious. “It is possible. But I have seen men scarred by war. Consoled them. This… this is something different. Something…”

“Useful,” interrupted Rodrigo. “He’s been to El Dorado and lived. And he’s in our hands, Bartome. He’s the key to the future. Any more details?”

Bartome shook his head. “Only what could not possibly be true. It will take time, my friend.”

“That we don’t have,” said Rodrigo. He slapped Abuljar’s legs. “Up!” There was no response, so Rodrigo turned to Bartome: “Get him ready to travel, and down to the docks, along with yourself. Understood?”

Father Bartome became flustered. “Don Rodrigo, I must protest. La Navidad—”

Rodrigo seized Bartome’s arm and pulled him close. He glared into the priest’s eyes, which were set in loose, drooping flesh. “Do not go soft on me now. You want this as much as I. El Dorado, Bartome! Not only wealth beyond imagining, but eternal youth as well. You’ve studied the lore, lived with the Indians. I need your help on this expedition. Someone to look after Abuljar. Make him talk.”

“No.” Bartome shook his head fiercely. “He is in no condition to travel.”

Angel and Luis exchange a surprised look. 

Rodrigo hissed fiercely into Bartome’s ear. “How much have you lent me? Stolen out of church coffers, eh? You want to be found out?”

Father Bartome squirmed, trying to free himself from Rodrigo’s iron grip. “Don Rodrigo, I was trying to help you. Our friendship. Does it mean nothing? You wouldn’t dare—”

“I dare all!” Rodrigo was adamant. “This is my only hope, don’t you see? Otherwise I am finished. My family, finished! Bankrupt. Destitute. Disgraced. If gold does not compel you, remember The Fountain of Youth. What it could do for you.”

Bartome paused. He ran thick fingers absentmindedly down his wrinkled features. “Rejuvenation…” 

“Yes!” Rodrigo’s eyes gleamed in the torchlight. It was if a fever had seized Luis’ father. “And it could be ours! A second chance, Bartome. All of us, rich and immortal. Never aging. I know you want that. I can see the hunger in your eyes as well!”

After a long moment, Bartome nodded.


Rodrigo, Angel, and Luis clambered up the steps and re-entered the nave, only to find six overdressed thugs with murder in their eyes waiting for them. 

Out of shafts of coloured light strode Don Philip Marin, clad in the richest finery. His slitted lip was curled in a perpetual sneer, as if it was caught on a fish hook. Luis had always hated the man. “Ah, but what is this? It is my dear friend, Don Rodrigo! You seem in a rush. Going somewhere?”

Rodrigo bristled. “None of your concern, Don Philip.” He looked back at Angel and Luis, then down at their sword hilts. Luis took the hint and started to slide a hand towards the brass handle. In response the thugs gripped their sword hilts tightly and tensed, ready for action. Clearly violence was only a misstep away. Luis froze. He looked to Rodrigo for cues, but his father did not draw his sword. Neither did Angel. Yet.

Don Philip stroked his beard. “Oh? Isn’t it? What is this nonsense going on down at the docks, then, might I ask, hmm?”

Rodrigo jutted out his chin, defiant. “A trip to the interior.”

Don Philip’s eyebrows rose. “Oh? Up the Orinoco? Whatever for? Bird watching? No?” He twirled a handerchief in the air, then snapped it down. “To El Dorado, perhaps? To rescue Don de Silva?” Over shoulder, to his Aides, he added, “Three years too late, I think.”

Rodrigo stepped forward. “I’ve had enough of your juvenile games. Stand aside.”
He tried to move pass Philip, but the man shifted over, and placed a hand on Rodrigo’s chest. Luis knew that would not go over well. His father did not like being touched.

“Now, now. Don’t be like that, Don Rodrigo,” said Don Philip with mock sympathy. “Tsk tsk. Surely you know Governor Vasquez has revoked your charter and given it to … me.” He pulled out a vellum scroll and waved it in Rodrigo's face. “I, too, am a Knight of of the Order of Santiago.”

Rodrigo glowered back, barely able to contain his fury. “You’re a thief. That charter is rightfully mine. De Berrio promised it to me!” With each word, Rodrigo’s fury built. His expression twisted with uncontainable rage. 

A fight was imminent now. Luis knew his father well. He’d been wary of his fathers’ rages since he was four, and his father had beaten him for breaking one of his precious artifacts. It had probably been Roman, and it had fascinated him as a child. Something from the distant past. Rodrigo’s great great grandfather had acquired it during fighting in Granada, where he had distinguished himself as a Knight of Santiago. Rodrigo himself had fought for Spain at Lepanto against the Turkish infidels. He’d worked hard to salvage the de Guerra reputation, which had been ravaged by their reckless, alcoholic grandfather. Luis had only dim memories of the man. But he had been a cruel and bestial, inflicting pain without purpose.

Luis slowly slipped his hand over his ice cold sword hilt while the thugs’ eyes were riveted to Rodrigo. They too could see the bottled rage. 

“Oh?” sniffed Philip. “Then why am I holding it, and not you?”

“How much did you pay?” snarled Rodrigo.

Don Philip shrugged as if the matter were of no significance. “A pittance, really. Without your precious treasure fleet, the upper hand is mine, you see. Go home. You don’t have the cojones for this, old man.” 

“Old?” Rodrigo blustered. “I can still break your back over my knee.”

“Ah! You know what?” said Philip, pacing in front of Rodrigo. He raised a finger up and waggled it. “Perhaps I’ll buy your estate. Yes. I’ve always liked the property. You used to look down your nose at me from it. Highest house in the city. But don’t fret. I may let you stay… in the servant’s quarters.” Don Philip tapped the royal charter on Rodrigo’s nose and sneered triumphantly. This was clearly a moment he had been waiting for. The man had been envious of Luis’ father for decades.

There was a sharp, wet thud. 

Don Philip’s twisted smile fixed in place, then vanished. He looked over Rodrigo’s shoulder at Luis. The man’s eyes bulge grotesquely and blood spurted out his mouth. Don Philip stumbled backward, astonished, and looked down at a gaping knife wound in his sunken chest. Thin rivulets of blood pulsed out, streaming down along the gold trim, splitting and spreading and staining his finely embroidered jacket. He looked at Rodrigo, an expression of utter incredulity on his face. “Animal! So easy to goad…” Philip stopped mid-sentence and slumped to the floor, dead. 

Rodrigo looked blankly at the body, then down at the blood covered knife in his own shaking hand.

“Father?” asked Luis, leaning forward. His father did not seem to be listening. It was if he were in a trance. In another world. 

Or possessed.

Steel sung as Don Philip’s thugs drew their rapiers. “Rodrigo de Guerra,” declared the largest of the set, a burly man with pockmarked cheeks, “you are under arrest for the murder of His Excellency, Don Philip Marin. You’ll hang for this!”

A rat faced man to his left spat on the floor. “I’ll not wait!” And he lunged, slashing with his sword at Rodrigo. 

Luis reacted. He surged forward and blocked the blow with his blade. He then swept it up and over to the side, swinging the attackers sword away. Luis locked eyes with the rat faced man for a moment, then ran him through before the mercenary could recover his fighting posture with a stab to the gut. 

The other thugs charged. Luis, desperate to protect his father, sent one reeling back, but in so doing, opened himself up to counter-attack by another and got a bloody cut across his arm. 

Quickly the tide turns against him. He was unused to fighting multiple opponents. He’d always trained one on one. Steel slashed at him as fast as lightning bolts, but he could not retreat without exposing his father. 

Luis risked looking back. He couldn’t hold out much longer.

His father had unfrozen. The sight his son being injured had jolted Rodrigo out of his trance. The Don drew his weapon and joined the fray. 

At the same time, Angel set upon the mercenaries from the left, easing the pressure on Luis and Rodrigo. A man without grace, Angel charged forward like a bull, slashing as he went, slicing a mercenary across the stomach. Blood gushed from the broad slit in the man’s belly, and he toppled to the floor with a whimper. A wiry mercenary, a man Luis noted moved with the skill of a veteran swordsman turned his attention to Angel and launched a ferocious attack. The burly leader of the group struck at Luis, who parried the sword strike only to be belted in the face by a meaty fist. He stumbled backward against a pew, then rolled to the side as a blade stabbed into it. He kicked with his right foot, hitting the man in the crotch, then followed with a jab at the gut. The man spat blood and collapsed, head cracking on the pew as he fell.

Luis half laughed with relief and looked up. The fight was over. The mercenaries lay scattered about on the floor, not moving. One groaned. Angel stabbed him in the throat and blood spouted up like a fountain, and the man gurgled and fell silent. Blood spread out over the formerly immaculate cold stone floor.

Luis looked at the bodies. The blood. Then the enormity of what they’d done hit him. He looks up and down the church, but there is no one else. 

Angel sheathed his sword. “Pathetic. Whatever Don Philip was paying them, it was too much.” He grabbed two dead Thugs each by a leg and dragged them towards the confessional, their corpses leaving long bloody streaks in their wake. Angel let go of the legs and yanked open the confessional door, then paused to wipe sweat from his brow. “And he fed them too much.” Grunting, he unceremoniously shoved one of the bodies inside. “Luis, help me.” He started back over, and pointed at the body of Don Philip. “Grab his legs.” He said it as if he were discussing preparing a turkey for dinner. There had been very dark rumors about his brother, told in whispers, but enough to have reached Luis. Tales of his behavior in the taverns, towards the serving wenches. Towards any pretty peasant who crossed his path. 

Luis ran a hand through his hair. His stomach was in a knot. A sharp pain throbbed in the back of his neck. “God help us. What have we done?”

Angel put his hands on his hips and looked crossly at Luis. “Don Philip provoked us. You heard him. We were totally justified. He never should have confronted us in a church in the first place.” Angel kicked the corpse in the shoulder. “This is all his fault.”
Luis’ mind raced. “We… we must explain to the governor, to Bartome, we must—”

“No,” said Rodrgio flatly. He reached down with a trembling hand and wrenched the blood smeared charter from Don Philip’s clutched hand. “There is no going back. No explaining. We succeed—or we die!”

Friday 23 November 2018

The key to good writing: edit, edit, edit

One of the most difficult things about writing is editing.

I don't write enough. Words don't flow out of me smoothly. They jumble up inside my head and tumble out onto the page in a big sloppy blob of letters. I look at the writing of others and I'm always amazed how breezy and natural their prose is, and wonder if it is simply my thinking process that's convoluted.

Maybe they, too, edit the hell out of their writing.

With Demons of El Dorado, I haven't edited enough.

Not nearly.

I just went back in to part 4 and made refinements.

Ever so frustrating.

You fix up passages of text, only to find the next time you read it, it requires further work, because it flows like a brick down a river. Or fingernails over a chalk board. Pick your simile.

Eventually, you just have to let it go.

The text is what it is.

(Edited for clarity. There's more I wanted to write, but I can't put the thoughts into coherent form)

(Edited the edit, cutting useless words.)

Thursday 22 November 2018

Demons of El Dorado: Part 4


Don Rodrigo’s study was decorated with rich furnishings and the finest baroque tapestries imported from Granada. Sunlight flooded in through ornate glass windows, the nearest of which to Luis was open. He could hear the chirp of birds outside. A light breeze rustled papers on Rodrigo’s dark mahogany desk. Rodrigo walked behind it and gestured for Luis and Angel to sit and cleared his throat. “I arrived late at night, by the ship’s pinnace. I wanted to keep my return quiet as long as possible, although I have no fondness for skulking about like a common criminal. The secrecy has been necessary. No doubt you’ve heard the other news. We’re at war with the English. Again.”

Luis nodded. Everyone was talking about it. “There was word last week, from a French ship. The British looted Cidade Velha.”

“And Santo Domingo and Praia as well, the swine,” growled Angel. He was more than ready for a fight, so long as he held the advantage, thought Luis sourly.

“Indeed.” Don Rodrigo looked at his sons, assessing them. It made Luis feel like a child, as if the glare bore right into his soul. “It has proven poor timing for us, to say the least. They sank or captured the entire fleet.” 

“What?!?” exploded Angel, shifting in the luxuriously upholstered seat. The brothers exchanged a look of shock.

Rodrigo held up a hand for silence. “Everything save the San Cristobel. Half a million pounds of silver, lost. A thousand pounds of gold. It was a disaster for the king. And catastrophic for us. That Genoese blood-sucker Justiniano will offer no leniency on our loans.”

“But how? It was the best-armed fleet in the Caribbean.”

“It doesn’t matter how many guns you have if you cannot bring them to bear. Strong winds favored their ships. Our were too slow, too cumbersome. They cut us apart ship by ship, tacking around, staying out of our gun sights. The San Cristobelonly managed to escape thanks to a summer storm. An act of God. Scattered the English. I can only hope it dragged some to a watery grave.”

Luis felt physically struck. Aside from the greater disaster engulfing his family’s fortunes, this blow meant Luis himself would be stranded in The New World for the foreseeable future. His admittedly selfish hope to return to Spain with the treasure fleet had sunk along with it. Father had brought him back to help manage the cotton plantations, as Angel had been indulging too much in drink and women to pay attention to business. Production had fallen.

But there had been little Luis could do to reign in his hedonistic elder brother, who took no counsel but his own.

“So that’s it.” Angel slumped back in his seat and yanked out his seemingly bottomless flask. “We’re ruined.”

“Not quite,” said Rodrigo. He paused dramatically, then added: “We rescued a man on our way back.”

“Oh? Who?” asked Luis, intrigued.

“A priest.”

Angel grunted. “Is he going to pray for us?”

Rodrigo shook his head: “He’s been to El Dorado.”

Angel’s jaw dropped. “What?”

“He was with an expedition led by Pedro de Silva that disappeared a number of years ago. Apparently they found the legendary City of Gold. What I have been searching for, for over twenty years. It’s just as Diego de Ordaz claimed. Riches beyond our wildest imaginings. More. Built atop The Fountain of Youth. One of them, at any rate. And he’s going to take us there.”

Angel's fleshy lips parted and he grinned. “At last!”

Luis rubbed his chin. El Dorado was a legend he’d known since he was five. In university in Spain, he’d read accounts by explorers who had sought the mythical city. The location was always different, same for the Fountain of Youth. One situated it in Asia, another claimed it was in Africa, and several others claimed various locations in the New World. “Ponce de Leon…”

“Bah! Ignore him,” snapped Rodrigo, brushing the name away with a sharp gesture. “Man’s a fool. Empty headed dreamer who’ll believe any silly rumour he stumbles across. The Fountain of Youth is in the northern jungles of the Amazon, and it is the source of El Dorado’s strength. Think of it: immortal warriors, capable of regrowing whole limbs! Naturally, the city dominates the region, and grew rich. And so will we when we take it!”

Angel nodded. “And we have ready made allies, in the tribes they oppress!”

“Divide and conquer.” Don Rodrigo smiled grimly. 

“What of de Silva?” asked Luis.

“Still there. A prisoner. They seek to turn him to their false gods.”

Luis shivered. His father was a practical man who evaluated everything coldly, like an alchemist. Things were about to change for the inhabitants of El Dorado, and not for the better. If they really existed. Perhaps this priest was delusional, spinning stories out of his head. Hernan Perez de Quesada had sought El Dorado back in 1540, and spent years navigating the Orinoco River Basin. Luis had little interest in trekking into the jungles of South America in pursuit of an imaginary city that would forever be one step ahead of them. What would be the point? Discovering new species of birds? New river forks? Still… the mystery of El Dorado was intriguing. To solve it once and for all would be a coup. “The well at the end of the world. I know you have been pursuing it, father. For many years. People have been seeking it since Herodotus. But can it really be true?”

Rodrigo gave a sharp nod and tapped a finger on the map on his desk. “It is. The priest has seen it with his own eyes. We’ll take the city for both Spain and God.”

Luis’ head spun. What of the endless obstacles they’d face? Disease, heat, animals, natives. All of it standing in the way of him returning to Spain and his studies. His real passion! Yet without filthy lucre, he would have no studies to return to. And he had duties to his family. Obligations he could not, would not, shirk. “What of the rulers? El Rey Dorado? What do we know of them?” 

“We’ll brush them aside with Spanish steel and superior discipline. Only…” Rodrigo paused. Rapped knuckles on the map idly.

Luis leaned forward. His father actually seemed uncertain, which was most unlike him. “What is it, father?”

“The priest, Father Abuljar, he babbled about… some nonsense about beasts. Demons. The man rants like a madman, describing horrors and tortures I cannot… The practices of the inhabitants I will not repeat. They are unspeakable. I have never heard such…” His voice trailed off into a silence that hung in the air, pregnant with menace. Luis felt a tingle at the back of his neck. Then Rodrigo broke the spell. “They must have tortured him. It’s the only explanation for such fanciful ravings.” He straightened up. “Their pagan gods will be torn down and the true faith revealed. They’ll abandon their infidel ways or we’ll put the lot to the sword.”

“Here, here!” exulted Angel.

“You see, my sons? Never give up hope. Salvation arrives at the very brink of defeat. I promised to rebuild this family's fortunes, and I intend to do exactly that. By any means necessary. Do not doubt it. Our devotion shall be rewarded.”

“I’ll let the men know,” said Angel. “There are some mercenaries staying down by the port. They were headed for Santiago. In a few weeks, we should…” 

“We leave today. I’ve already given the orders, hired men. They are assembling we speak at the docks. Time is of the essence.”

Luis was struck dumb. What he was hearing was madness. Sheer, reckless madness. Such a mission should be carefully prepared. And Abuljar sounded far from reliable as a guide. Things must be very bad for father to rush preparations so…

“We’ll buy out expeditions already in port. Strip them for ours.”

Angel wasn’t having any of it. “Impossible,” he spluttered. Angel was king of procrastination. Fortunately, as aristocrats, manual labor was beneath them both. Angel specialized in beating those who did the actual work. That and fighting. “You just got back. Your men will need time to rest. We can’t possibly have everything ready today.”

“We can,” asserted Rodrigo in a tone that wasn’t to be disputed. “And we will. Tomorrow morning at latest. Get your things ready.”

Luis wondered about the legal aspects. One couldn’t just go out conquering lands without the king’s permission. You’d be branded a renegade and executed. Unless, of course, you bought your way back into favour. It was a practical system that rewarded success by any means. Luis found it hard to reconcile with the teachings of Christ. “The charter to conquer El Dorado, do we have that?”

“Yes, yes. It shouldn’t be an issue. Let me worry about de Berrio.”

Angel slapped a thick thigh. “Very well! An eventful afternoon it will be. Adventure await us.” He leaned over to Luis, his breath stinking of alcohol. “Keep the servants in line while we’re gone, baby brother. We don’t want the place in ruin when we get back.”

Luis opens his mouth to speak but Rodrigo cut him off: “He’s coming too.”

Angel gaped. “Him? This bookworm? Why? What good is he in a fight? He knows nothing of the interior. Never even been to Mexico City. Probably shit himself if he saw a native warrior. I’ll have to baby sit him constantly, he’ll be a dead weight, always whining. Let him go back to his monastery, or university, drown in books and legalisms.”

Luis gritted his teeth. Deep down, he knew Angel had a point. While Mexico City itself held appeal, chiefly for the magnificence of its heretical ruins dedicated to false gods and whatever might remain of the great skull towers, he would have preferred the quiet and calm of university. He had no interest in traipsing about after the immortal lords of El Dorado through fetid swamps, half starved, being bitten by bugs as big as his thumbs, getting sick from malaria or typhoid or God knows what else. But that didn’t mean he couldn’t handle it, or that he’d let Angel get away with slandering his abilities, not after all the work he’d put into trying to improve his martial skills. By God, he’d prove Angel wrong if only for the sake of proving Angel wrong. “I’ve been training—”

“He’ll be dead in a week,” asserted Angel, leaning back in his chair. “Two at most.”

Luis kept his voice calm, flat. “That’s not—”

“Enough!” snapped Rodrigo. “I need every loyal man I can count on.” He fixed his cold eyes on Luis. “Even you.”

Luis felt like he’d been slapped in the face and flushed. “What does that…”

Angel sneered. “It means he knows you’re useless, brother.” Angel gulped from the metal flask, then held it out to Rodrigo, who just gave Angel a withering look. “Just as I do.”

“Have the servants pack and send your things down to the docks. Tell them nothing of our destination. Say good-bye to your mother. Then meet me at the front gates. It’s time you met Abuljar.”

Luis peeked into the master bedroom. It was a cavernous, dim chamber. Light poured ineffectually in from narrow windows, illuminating rivers of gently wafting dust. 

Anne de Guerra, pale and dying, lay in a vast bed at the centre of the room. A maid and Luis’ two younger sisters stood at the foot of her bed. 

Luis walked over and knelt down. He took his mother’s frail, parchment like hand in his. “How are you feeling, mother?”

“Better today.” She smiled wanly. “Has your father spoken to you?”

Luis sighed. “I can do nothing right by him, mother. I try, but…”

“He loves you, Luis. Just does not know how to show it. And he’s stubborn. Stubborn as the day I met him. Even bankrupt he won’t accept my brother’s money. After the loss at Nombre de Dios… I know not what the future might hold for us. I pray for all of you.”

Luis squeezed her hand. “We’ve been granted the charter. El Dorado.”

Anne sighed and gazes at the ceiling. “More dreams. Grasping dreams.”

Luis noted her eyes and cheeks were more sunken, her skin almost translucent. “Mother, I won’t leave you. Not like this. I can’t.” She might be dead by the time they returned.

She shook her head. “Luis. My dear Luis. You must go. Don’t let him disgrace the de Guerra name. Promise me.”

The suggestion shocked him. Especially coming from his mother. “I… Father would never—”

“Luis,” she interrupted, fixing him with a steady, penetrating gaze, “he’s desperate. He’s talking madness. Have you listened to him? Magic fountains, lost cities of gold.” She shook her head. “No. He will do anything, risk everything. Even you, my son. For all his stern demeanour, he’s a dreamer. Like that silly Sepulveda. Or Belalcazar. They, too, sought El Dorado. None of them were seen again.”

“There was Orellana. He came back rich too.” 

“He came back mad. They said he was possessed. I saw his execution.” Anne looked up at the ceiling, her voice fell in volume to a whisper. “He looked sick. All his hair had fallen out. He screamed curses at us. They could only be that, whatever language he was speaking none of us could understand. He did not burn at first. Eventually they threw oil on and pierced him with lances, and only then did he bloat and burn.” She shut her eyes at the unpleasant memory and squeezed Luis’ hand back. “It is not a fate I would see for any of you.”

There’s a priest. Abuljar.”

Anne shushed him and pressed rosary beads into his hands. “Mad as the rest, I would wager. Protect your father. From himself most of all. You are the future, Luis.”

Bewildered, Luis nodded. “I will do my best, mother.”

A tear in his eye, Luis rose and delicately kissed his mother on the forehead. He walked to the door, passing his father on the way out. He stopped and watched as Rodrigo marched over to the bed and with surprising tenderness, kissed Anne's lips. 

Luis is too far away to hear their last words to each other.