Demons of El Dorado: Part 5

CHURCH OF SANTIAGO 

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!”

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.)

Demons of El Dorado: Part 4

GRAND STUDY, DE GUERRA MANSION 

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.

Demons of El Dorado: Part 3

COURTYARD, PORT OF SPAIN, TRINIDAD 

Swords flashed and clanged in a rapid blur of steel. Luis de Guerra jumped back and disengaged from his opponent, but kept his sword poised, ready to block any new attack. He was at the centre of a sun dappled courtyard, a discordantly peaceful space lined with lush green plants. 

He was faced by a burly man with a thick black beard and leering grin: his older brother, Angel de Guerr. Tanned and barrel chested, the older man strutted about with what Luis thought was almost cartoonish swagger. Angel let out a hearty laugh. “Too much for you, eh? Need a rest?”

Luis wiped the sweat from his baby face. His chin was tipped with a faint, scraggly beard he’d been trying to grow to give himself greater gravitas, but without success. His indignant eyes glared at Angel out of soft, boyish features, as if demanding justice. “You wish.”

Angel smirked like the jovial sadist he was, and he straightened up out of his fencing crouch. He was richly but, Luis noted, slovenly dressed. Wealth without rigor, as their father might say. Angel was the eldest son, four years older; always been bigger, stronger, and more experienced. He’d never let Luis forget that, a fact which Luis resented. He suspected his brother kept Luis around just to have someone to bully. An audience for endless braggadocio. 

As a point of contempt, Angel gripped a flask of amontillado in his free hand. He took a sloppy swig while keeping one eye on Luis. Half on. Taunting. Daring Luis to pull a fast one.

Luis held his position. He’d already fallen once for this trick. 

Angel lowered the flask. “Piss, you’re hopeless. Drunken monkeys fence better, little brother.” And, of course, he emphasized the word ‘little’. Luis gritted his teeth.

“I’ve never lost to a drunken monkey.” Luis flexed his knees and snap swirled the sword tip. Ready. Eager. “Defend yourself!”

“Ha! Hardly have to.”

“You underestimate me. So!” Luis lunged. The swords flashed and blurred and clanged again. Luis’ gambit was easily turned aside.

Angel laughed again and he jauntily turned to three sultry ladies, prostitutes Angel had on retainer, who lounged at the courtyard edge. He only dared have them around while their father was away, which had been the case for the last month. During that time, Luis has gotten to know them more than he’d have liked. There was Hermenia, the cunning red headed Basque; Genova, the sycophantic follower from Barcelona who laughed like a hyena at all of Angel’s vulgar jokes and reaped the reward in the form of jewelry; and the mysterious Celestina, who had the bearing of a noble woman and the milky white breasts of a seductress. Angel gave them a lecherous, toothy grin, displaying his gold teeth.

“Show him your tits!” Angel barked.

Their cheeks aglow with rouge, the trio laughed and wrenched open their corset tops, allowing bosoms to spill out. 

Luis blushed red and gaped.

For a second. 

It was enough. 

Angel deftly slipped under Luis’ guard, thwacked him on the waist with the flat side of the sword, hooked a foot, and tripped Luis, who sprawled onto hot red cobblestones.

“Damn it, Angel,” blurted Luis, turning over and glaring up at his brother. “What was that? Of all the dirty, low, underhanded tricks. Tricks! Gave my knee a twist, you know.”

Angel rolled his eyes. “Stop whining, little brother. You sound like a woman.”

Luis heard a curse from the shadows: he spotted a dark figure slouched against the wall leading to stables. Arms crossed. It was Esteban the Moor, servant and slave and now personal trainer. Esteban shook his head in disapproval, causing Luis to feel a wave of shame. He’d not been utilizing the advice he’d been given effectively.

The ladies giggled at Luis’ expense.

“You like, little boy?” cooed Hermenia, glancing down at her bosom.

Luis ignored her and sat up. He couldn’t look. His cheeks were burning crimson.

Celestina bit her lower lip. “So shy. You know, he’s kind of cute.”

Angel glowered at her, and strode around Luis, placing himself between him and Celestina. “Isn’t he? Like a puppy. All concerned with right and wrong and love and God. Studying to be a priest. He reads. Me? I act.” He sneered. “Oh, stop dawdling, brother. Up! Up! You have more lessons to learn. Your Moor pet isn’t doing the job.” And he thrust out an open hand.

Luis shook his head. “Not… that’s not true. If you fought fair, I could beat you.”

“Whine, whine, whine.”

Luis took Angel’s hand. Half way up, Angel let go, and he fell flat on his ass to uproarious laughter.

Angel spread his arms. “Fighting isn’t fair, Luis.” And he winked. “Remember that.”

Luis got up on his own and dusted off his pants. “I have The Devil for a brother.”

Angel took another swig and grunted. “Saint Nick has nothing on me.”

“His ass isn’t as fat.”

Angel’s grin vanished and a scowl appeared. “Don’t push me, you little–”

At that moment Don Rodrigo de Rivera marched into the courtyard, regal and immaculately garbed in armour and burgundy raiment. He scanned the courtyard with sharp, dark eyes that missed nothing.

“Father!” bellowed Angel with enthusiasm. “You’re back. Welcome!”

Rodrigo raised an eyebrow. “To my own home? I should think so. I arrived three nights ago by yacht. I’ve been staying at the church. If you’d been paying attention as you were supposed to, rather than having picnics and getting drunk, you’d have damn well known that.” He turned to Luis. “Stop sitting there like a school boy. Get up.” Rodrigo’s baleful gaze fell upon the prostitutes, who lowered their eyes and submissively covered their chests. They seemed to shrink into themselves. Rodrigo grunted and crooked a finger at his sons. “Come! There is much to discuss.”

Don Rodrigo spun about on a heel and strode out.

Demons of El Dorado: Part 2

COASTAL WATERS, TRINIDAD 

Lapping waves and blazing sun. 

Macro squinted down at the raft as it bobbed against the galleon’s hull, borne on brilliant turquoise waters. He felt the sharp tang of the sea in his nostrils. Two tanned sailors slipped down a net of ropes and onto the unraveling craft. It had been tied together with vines that were now coming apart. There was a man lying on it. He looked dead. Gaunt and clad in rags. The sailors slipped a loop around the man’s chest and Marco’s comrades hauled him up and onto the deck while he watched. Marco felt his bandaged chest. Still sore, but the wounds had mostly healed. The grapeshot that killed his friend Tomas had only grazed Marco. Even so, he wanted to conserve his strength, in case another catastrophe befell the San Cristobel. 

The body of the bedraggled stranger was laid gently down on the hot, dry deck. Marco and the other sailors crowded around, shoving for a good look. Marco leaned in close, his grizzled, sun-weathered features wrinkling with curiosity.

The unconscious man’s belly rose and fell. 

“He’s alive,” declared Marco, grinning and jabbing a finger at the stomach. “Send for the doctor.”

“Fat lot of good that butcher will do,” snarled Ricardo, the Catalan, and he spat onto the deck. Amputees were convalescing below. They stank of rum and rotten flesh. “Wager this poor bastard will be dead by nightfall.”

Marco shrugged and knelt down beside the unconscious man, whose hair was an unruly mess streaked with grey and matted with blood and dried mud. There was a gash in his forehead. Could be anywhere from forty to fifty or more. Marco found it hard to tell given the man’s poor condition. But the rags he wore were definitely the remains of priestly robes. A Hound of The Lord, then. The rags were dry and stiff, cooked by the heat of the sun. There were even pockets in the man’s undergarments. Marco eagerly dug into them, fingers roughly probing, seeking valuables. 

Nothing. This whole damn voyage was cursed, thought Marco bitterly.

Then he noticed the glint of metal in the man’s clenched fist. It was tightly wrapped around something. 

Something gold. 

“He’s got something,” said Ricardo, licking his lips. “What’s that, eh? What’s he got?”

Marco cursed. He’d hoped to secret it away before anyone could see. No chance of that now. He reached over and tried to uncurl the gnarled fingers.

The man let out a loud gasp, causing everyone to jump back. His eyes snapped open, revealing all black eyes. Marco leapt up to his feet and made the sign of the cross. “Madre de dios!” 

“Stand aside,” said a commanding voice. Don Rodrigo de Guerra pushed his way through the clutch of sailors and looked down at their disheveled guest. Rodrigo wore finely woven garments and had the bearing of a man used to getting his way. Marco knew better than to cross the man, who had a fiery temper and was prone to having minor infractions met with the lash. Their recent defeat had left Senor de Guerra in an even more unpredictable mood than usual. Everyone knew the hidalgo had invested everything in the treasure fleet which now lay either at the bottom of the Caribbean, or in the hands of the English heretics. Some of the mercenaries had grumbled about how they were going to be paid now that Don Rodrigo’s wealth was fifty fathoms below the glittering surface. And their wrath would be nothing compared to that of the king, who was desperate for funds to carry war to the Protestants. 

Don Rodrigo adjusted the cross of St. James that hung round his neck, below the frill ringing his throat. His beard was neatly trimmed, as always, his high forehead beaded with sweat.

Marco cleared phlegm from his throat. “Don Rodrigo, his eyes. His eyes are black as the night!”

Don Rodrigo glared at Marco, who immediately cast his eyes downward. The Don then put a hand on his sword hilt and knelt down beside the half-dead priest, who’d shut his eyes and was rolling his head from side to side. He reached out and placed his right hand on the priest’s bony shoulder. “Easy, old man. You are safe now.”

The man swallowed and moistened his cracked lips. “Where… where am I?”

“You are aboard the galleon San Cristobel. What is your name?”

“Abuljar. Friar Jose Martin de Abuljar.”

Don Rodrigo seemed to consider this. “Where do you come from, Friar Abuljar?”

The man shuddered, then leaned his head forward and opened his black, soulless eyes. “El Dorado,” he blurted, voice filled with emotion.

The word sent a chill down Marco’s spine.

Abuljar’s clenched fist relaxed, and a statue of a hideous, bejeweled creature clattered onto the deck. 

Before Marco could get a good look at it, Don Rodrigo scooped it up. “Madre…” The hidalgo bit it. “Gold,” he breathed, as a hungry grin spread across his face. His eyes glittered. 

“Fool!” snapped Abuljar. “It is the gateway to damnation. They’ll kill you all,” he moaned, his voice rising in volume and strength until it became a shout. “God help us. The Gates of Hell have opened, and the hell spawn are unleashed!”

Rodrigo stepped back, alarmed.

Perhaps, thought Marco, it was Don Rodrigo who was cursed. Bad things seemed to follow the man. 

Marco decided to slip away the moment they reached shore. 

Demons of El Dorado: Part 1

An adventure / horror story I've been playing around with... 

ORINOCO RIVER, SOUTH AMERICA, 1585 A.D.

They were being hunted.

It went against all reason, yet was still happening. Jose Martin de Abuljar had come to the New World to spread the Word of God, but found instead the yawning chasm of the Gates of Hell. 

He stood at the center of a rickety raft, between his two remaining comrades. The raft careened down the churning river at an incredible pace, on the back of thousands of tons of water that would wait for no one. It was inky black, lit only by a sliver of moon. Flecks of foam were the only warning they had of rocks that could smash their raft to bits. 

That didn’t frighten him. 

It was what was in the water that filled him with horror.

Only minutes ago he’d dared to think they’d made good their escape, that they were safe. He’d even secreted away an object as evidence of their travails. They’d come back, in force and with fire, to visit the wrath of God upon the beast. Pope Sixtus V would know what to do with them. His mind had brimmed over with thoughts of righteous vengeance. 

“There!” Miguel thrust out an arm, pointed at a flash of gold specks slipping by in the water. “Salatoc!”

The hell spawn had found them. 

“Aim for the eyes,” advised Franco, his voice quavering. 

Abuljar tightened his grip on his rough hewn spear and watched the water with wide eyes. The tattered remnants of riestly robes hung from his gaunt frame. He’d not eaten in days, and his stomach was a knot, his neck rigid from stress. He had a fever from drinking river water. Franco was even worse off. His long time friend could hardly stand. Abuljar felt a dizzy spell coming on, but there was no time for that.

“Do you see it?” demanded Miguel. “Do you see? There!”

Abuljar scanned the blackness at which Miguel pointed. He could see nothing.

There was a sudden explosion of foam and a dark shape surged upward and hit the front of the raft hard, lifting it. Miguel lost his balance, and with a cry of despair, the man toppled into the river and was gone.

The creature approached again, and this time slapped a great, webbed claw onto the deck and hauled its sleek torso up out of the water. It had a broad, flat head and wide set eyes, and its back glittered with flecks of gold. The lipless maw opened and flashed rows of razor sharp teeth. 

Abuljar and Franco jabbed at the bulging black eyes in a mad frenzy. Franco began to scream, as if he had become completely unhinged.

Wood pierced jelly. 

There was an inhuman howl of agony. 

Saliva coated fangs snapped shut around Franco’s head, cutting his cries short; the river beast then dropped low, flexed sinewy arm muscles and pushed off the deck, heaving backward into the water, and dragging the limp body of Franco along with it.

The raft spun about into foaming rapids. Abuljar staggered and lost his balance as the raft tipped forward, then back, and he smacked face first into the deck, cracking his skull. 

Everything went black.