The Temple of Guanya Tuampa

         The temple of Guanya Tuampa rose silent, imposing, its towering facade built hundreds of meters above the valley floor, where Captain Mortimer Daniels stood with his small crew and a handful of Inca natives.  While Mortimer and his academic staff sought only to find a cache of scrolls rumored to be hidden within the might stone halls, he knew that the Incas had agreed to be their guides more out of lust for their ancient rivals' riches, more so than it was out of kindness.  Nevertheless they had proven valuable, and the two-week trek over the northern stretch of the Andes – into the Realm of the Western Dragons – had proven uneventful and swift.

         The Captain had chosen to leave his dirigible, a small aerostat built for only 28 crew, on the border of the New Inca Empire.  It was one of the only bastions of safety on the American continent, and Mortimer was glad for it: the Pacific were rough waters to cross, and neither the dragons nor the Fae were eager to receive guests on their land.

         “The guides say the land is clear, Captain.”

         Captain Daniels turned to his gunnery officer – the only other crew member who could speak the Quechua language.  The man had his leather airman's helmet on, despite the surprising warmth, and his enhanced goggles placed atop his head.

         “And our riflemen,” Mortimer asked.

         “They have reported back with the same, Sir.”

         Mortimer nodded.

         “I want you and Wilkins to see about that front door,” Mortimer said.  “Have Iverson and Taylor set up camp . . .” he paused, looking around the valley that was outlined by thick woods and high peaks, “. . . somewhere close to the temple with a good view of the trees.  Pick three of your best men.  I want this to be quick.”

         The gunnery man, Adam Parsons, a stout man with a penchant for strong whiskey (and the growing paunch to prove it), slipped away to mete out the Captain's orders.

         “History,” Mortimer said to himself, “and a way to right the wrongs of the world.”

         With that he hefted his Fae-coal-powered electric rifle onto his shoulder.  Its small engine hummed pleasantly against his chest.  He turned and made his way to his tent to gather his necessaries.

*

         “Blasted cold in here!”

         “Hush, Wilkins,” Captain Daniels said.  “There's no telling what might be in here.”

         An orb of light ahead of Mortimer stopped, but he could not seek Wilkins' face.

         “What the blazes does that mean?”

         “We're in Fae territory, Wilkins,” Parsons said.  “What do you think it means?”

         There was a quietude that settled as the nine-man party continued on, but Mortimer heard Parsons whisper something about their being a lady present, and that he should mind his foul language.  The Captain could appreciate the sentiment from Parsons – whose father had been a Marshall and justice decades ago, before the Cataclysm – but he knew well enough that Evangeline McMurphy, the crew's only woman and damn fine nurse, was mouthier and more callous than she led on.  Quietly Mortimer chuckled and continued on with the procession, his rifle primed, and one of the Inca guides holding a glow-lamp beside him to the light the way.

         “Fork,” Parsons called.

         The line stopped as Mortimer's guide went ahead.  His glow-lamp disappeared around the corner of one of the passageways before reappearing a moment later and slipping behind the other path.  Mortimer felt a hand slip into his.  He looked to his left to see the lamp-lit face of Eva.  She smiled at him: her cheeks were smudged with dirt and her hair bespattered with cobwebs; somehow, though, her lips still retained the vibrant red lipstick she refused to go without.

         “The dark is good for some things,” she said with a wry grin.

         Mortimer grinned and gave Eva's hand a squeeze.  It was not that anyone would particularly object to an intimate relationship between the pair – indeed, Parsons was fully aware of Mortimer's and Eva's rendezvous; the Captain simply had a rule of not letting temporary crew, and save for Parsons the crew was entirely expendable, know anything about his personal life.  It turned out safer that way, given the growing number of Guardian agents out to take down anyone who benefited from Fae resources.  And Captain Mortimer Daniels had no qualms about using whatever he needed to stay alive.

         Ahead of them, the guide yelled in Quechua that he had found the right path, and the group followed.  Mortimer let Eva light his way, and the Inca guide who been there before ventured off down one of the hallways.  In the dark, Mortimer kept a firm grip on Eva's slender hand.

*

         How deep do these caves go, Mortimer asked in Quechua.

         Many lengths, the guide replied.

         Their answers were not cryptic, per se, but Mortimer knew well enough that there just weren't concepts in their culture that could translate.  So he simply nodded at the answer: it was at least comprehensible, which was more than he could say about some of his own crew.

         If we're underground, he continued, why is it so cold?  We keep descending.  It does not make sense.

         The Inca was quiet for an uncomfortably long time.  Mortimer looked at his half-lit profile: the man was deep in thought; or perhaps communing in some way.  It was no secret that those humans who had managed to make a living on the ground, steeped in the magic of the Fae, rather than living in one of the nearly innumerable city-ships, had an uncanny ability to sense (if that could be the proper term) the Fae around them.  It was the single reason Mortimer had learned the Quechua language and befriended the Inca in order to gain access to parts unknown.  Parts where people were not meant to go because they were old and haunted and steeped in magic, Cataclysm or no.

         The Fae, the guide finally said.

         They are here, Mortimer said.

         It was more of a statement than a question.  The Inca nodded.

         Any indication where the scrolls are held?

         Near the heart, the Inca said.  Near the Fae.

         “Of course they are,” Mortimer said.

         Whether the guide understood or not, he turned and looked at Mortimer in the waxy light and furrowed his thick, hairy brow.  Mortimer sighed and shrugged.

         Onward, he said, pointing down the corridor.

         The party continued to move forward through the ever-increasing cold, damp hallways.  Captain Daniels stood at the forefront, his electric rifle at the ready still.  Parsons stood just behind him, a loaded carbine in his hand.  The rest of the crew, including the guides and Eva, had pistols; one never knew that the Fae might do – especially when one was making his way in their temples.

*

         The top level of the temple had been simple.  While it had delved quickly underground, beneath the huge stone structure that jutted above the valley floor, the level just below had been a simple floor plan with rooms laid out in symmetrical patterns and a central room for rituals of whatever grotesque nature that had once been.  After they had search for some time, the guides had found the passage that led further below, into twisting tunnels made of neatly-laid stone and brick, with rooms filled with piles of bones and stacked walls of skulls – human sacrifices, centuries old or perhaps only decades.

         Now the party was many levels below ground, the tunnels carving their way through the earth with intermittent off-shoots and rooms every so often.  They were tired, ragged after so much unexpected walking, and caught off-guard by the small group of Fae that emerged from one such room just in front of them.

         “Shit!”

         Mortimer looked up to see Iverson pull his gun and fire before his head became a glowing mass and dissolved before their very eyes.  Behind him, in the fading light of the glow-lamp that Wilkins had dropped, Mortimer saw the distinct, blue-green features of a dryad, and he knew that there would be few of them, but they would be angry – furious, in fact – at their intrusion.

         Two shots rang out from Parsons' rifle, and then Mortimer shouted for everyone to duck.  He raised the electric gun and fired into the darkness, hoping he was shooting at the dryads.  Regardless, their watery bodies would not take the heat or the ionic charge, and he knew that they would be injured and would likely retreat.  The gun whirred to life a second or two before it burst forth a powerful stream of pure energy in their direction.

         The dryad that had been directly in front of Iverson lit up, taking the hit directly, and slumped to the ground.  Behind it the other shrieked and jumped back.  Beyond that there were two others, perhaps, and the three of them scattered down the corridor, further into the cavernous tunnels of the underground levels of the temple.  It was just the thing that Mortimer did not want.  More trouble ahead was not what they needed.  He put the rifle in the hands of the nearest body and rushed to Parsons, who had raised his glow-lamp and was standing over the body of what had once been Iverson.

         “We'll rest,” Mortimer said.  “Do something about him.  How is everyone else?”

         Parsons and Wilkins and the guides nodded that they were fine.  Mortimer quickly turned and made his way back through the dark to where Eva had been.  He found her glow-lamp in her hand, shaking tremendously around a corner of the tunnel from which they had just come.

         “They came out of nowhere,” she said.

         Mortimer quickly enveloped her in his arms and pressed her to him.

         “You've seen worse, Eva,” he said.  “There's nothing to be afraid of.”

         “I know.  I know.  Sorry, they just startled me is all.”

         Knowing that they were alone, knowing that at this point there was little concern for what the others might think, Mortimer leaned close and kissed Eva.  She wrapped her arms around him and sighed and then leaned back from him and straightened her blouse.  She looked squarely at him, held her glow-lamp aloft and nodded resolutely.

         “I'm good now,” she said with a half smile.  “Won't happen again, Sir.”

         Mortimer chuckled and kissed her on the cheek.

         “Come on, then.”

         The party set up a small camp then in the room that the dryads had occupied.  It was mostly empty save for a natural spring that was used to fill up their canteens and a pile of straw that had most likely been a bed of sorts.  Parsons and one of the Inca guides took first watch.

*

         When Mortimer awoke, he knew that they had stayed too long.  He felt too rested to have only been asleep for the few hours he had told the men to allow them all.  He quickly sat up and looked around the well-lit room – the glow-lamps had all been bundled and inside the small quarters, they lit nearly everything.  Everyone was sound asleep, their breathing steady, and Mortimer knew that the dryads had done something.

         “The water,” Mortimer said aloud.

         He had had plenty of water in his canteen before they had filled up and drank from that first before filling his.  Opening it he smelled the contents: it was too sweet to be water.  Dryads were notorious for their tricks.  Perhaps they had hoped that the men would be foolish enough to plunder the room rather than chase them further into the temple. 

         The sound of footsteps outside confirmed Mortimer's fear.  He rose to his feet and stepped over to Parsons.  The man was a light sleeper at the worst of times, and Mortimer felt his heart race as his gunner remained asleep with the Captain's rough grip on his shoulder.  Unsure of what to do, Mortimer pulled Parsons' rifle from his hands and turned to face the door.  Outside the glow of eerier light seeped under the loose-fitting door and illuminated first one, then, two, then perhaps three other pairs of feet.

         Mortimer turned to his weapon.  It lay quiet on the pile of straw in the corner.  He looked back at the door.  With Parsons' rifle in hand, Mortimer dashed the short distance across the room and bent down to pull the lever that would charge the weapon.  It began to hum and just as it did, the door pushed open.  Mortimer raised the rifle.

         When the first of the dryads came through the door, Mortimer fired.  The shot echoed in the small space, and he winced at the pain in his ears.  The dryad yelled out as the bullet pierced its shoulder, and then the group backed out of the room hastily.  Thankfully, the shot had also roused the rest of the group.

         The dryads returned in force immediately, perhaps seeing that no one else had a weapon at hand, and burst into the room.  Mortimer turned and saw Parsons looking for his weapon.

         “Tristan!”

         Parsons looked over, and Mortimer tossed the weapon across the room.  The gunner caught it with expert hands and raised it, firing it before it seemed like he had even lined up the shot.  A dryad fell to the ground, moaning.  Mortimer turned and grabbed the electricity gun and hefted in, holding it on his hip as it powered up.  He would be lucky – damned lucky, indeed – if he could get just one shot off.

         A pistol shot went off.  A dryad screamed.  Then one of the Inca screamed as a dagger or knife or some strange Fae weapon pierced his throat.  Parsons fired another shot, followed by another pistol report.  The dryads kept coming.

         “We must protect the messiah,” one of them said, an almost cult-like recitation.

         Mortimer checked his weapon: still being primed, the coil charging with energy.  Parsons fired again.  Then they were gone.  Hastily, Mortimer and Parsons roused the group and bade them move.  The dryads were gone, though, and Mortimer warned Parsons that they would have to be careful.

*

         Captain Mortimer Daniels had seen many things in his life.  Even since the Cataclysm, he had seen giants, a flying horse, and Fae as small as bees.  He had also seen the rise of the grandest city-ships – the Danforthe, the Russian Lyudy, and even the beautiful Chinese Xïn Dìguó – as well as amazing technological marvels like the very weapon he held in his hands.  Human ingenuity and Fae wizardry together on the same world for the first time in hundreds of years.

         He had not, however, seen a dragon the color of river hoar and the length of an English train.

         After the men turned the corner of a carved tunnel into an eerily-lit but massive underground cavern, no doubt hundreds of feet below the ruined temple above, they were almost immediately waylaid.  The dragon, perhaps having sensed them, had uncoiled as they entered its lair and struck: first Wilkins and then a guide were killed: each man went into one of the creature's massive, clawed hands.  It ripped them to shreds, splattering blood on men and stone and the pile of gold.  Mortimer shouted in disgust and surprise and threw himself back into the tunnel.

         “Wilkins!”

         Mortimer saw Eva move for him, and he grabbed her arm and stopped her.  She turned and shot a look of terror at him: her eyes, half-darkened by the eerie, glowing, icy light, were wide and full of her dark green color.

         “It's too late,” he said.

         Eva looked at the mangled body of Wilkins and swallowed hard.  She nodded.

         Another shot went off from Parsons' rifle, followed by two or three reports from the pistols.  Mortimer checked his electric gun: it was humming with life, fully primed after their second run-in with the dryads.  And then, in a moment of insight, he realized that the bastards had warned the beast.  It had waited for this very moment.

         Mortimer watched for the dragon to ready a strike.  When the thing's long, scaly body began to wind tight – very much like a wound copper spring – he lifted his weapon.

         “Down!” he yelled.

         Parsons grabbed Iverson by the shirt and yanked him roughly to the hard stone floor.  Mortimer didn't hear the thud of the man's knees on the ground or his muffled groan over the boom and hiss as the electric rifle unleashed its payload on the lunging dragon.

         The creature roared.  The very foundation of the temple seemed to shudder with the sound, and the party covered their heads for fear that the roof might collapse.  Mortimer watched the dragon retreat to the back of its massive cavern, its scales turning a sickly blue-gray.  For safety Mortimer readied the energy coil for a second burst.

         Parsons was the first on his feet.  With his rifle raised and eyes fixed steadily on the dragon, he stepped into the cavern.  Mortimer moved forward, too, the electric rifle held in his hands, aimed directly at the creature to fire again once it was primed.  Behind him he heard Eva moving with him, keeping close.  The three stood in the doorway of the cave, the dragon coiled at the back of it, barely visible in the looming darkness save for the glowing blue that seemed to emanate from its very essence, and its eyes glaring at the three of them.

         “The scrolls!”

         Mortimer looked at Eva  She pointed discretely at a room to their left that shone with a soft but vibrant white light, as though the room were filled with candles or giant glow-lamps.  Mortimer nudge Parsons, and he looked in the direction of the room before returning his attention to the dragon.

         “Go,” Parsons said.  “I'll cover you.”

         Eva was already moving as Mortimer side-stepped with his weapon still pointed at the dragon.  After only a few dozen meters, they stood in front of the little library.  Eva gasped and entered the room.

         Captain Daniels was ready and so was his weapon.  Weak though the dragon seemed, it lunged across the cavern as soon as Eva crossed the threshold, tossing handfuls of gold and stone.  The electric rifle hummed to full power just as the creature's scaly body was within range enough for Mortimer to feel the cold spike of its breath.  To his right, he heard Parsons fire off a half-dozen rounds before the Captain shot.  The bolt of electricity burst through the plume of blue wind projected from the thing's mouth.

         The pulse pierced the cloud, dispersing most of it, and shot into the dragon's maw.  Mortimer fell back as the cold seared his skin like hot ice.  The dragon cried out louder and more vicious than its first time, and Mortimer nearly dropped the weapon to cover his ears.  The creature reared back and nearly flipped over on itself before collapsing on the gold in the center of the cavern.

         Mortimer turned and looked into the room.  Eva stood in front of what looked to be a shrine, with a wall of candles and glow-lamps, and a large tome on a podium in the center of it.  On the walls to either side, shelves of little cubes were filled with tightly-rolled scrolls.

         “Eva, we should hurry,” Mortimer said.  “Grab the book and anything that looks important.”

         Behind him Mortimer heard boots on the stone.

         “Captain, we should go,” Parsons said.  “Those fool Inca are gathering up fold like it's bread.  That dragon ain't dead, though, and they're going to be lunch if it wakes up.”

         “I know,” Mortimer said.  “Get Iverson over here.  Get as many scrolls as you can.”

*

         Only one of the Inca guides had been persuaded to come back with them, and it had taken both the Captain and Parsons to convince him that Mortimer's weapon had not killed the dragon.  The man had insisted on a handful of gold, but he had finally come with them to lead them out.  The rest of them – Parsons, Iverson, and the Captain – had their packs filled with the most sturdy of the scrolls.  Eva only had the book tucked securely in hers.

         The party moved quickly, the Inca working fervently to find the right path back up to the top.  Mortimer had already decided to send him and Iverson ahead as soon as he knew where they were.  Those who were in the camp had hand mortars, and he would order them to fire on the entrance to bury in the dragon, dead or alive.

         They had passed the small with the spring an hour before, give or take, when a scream arose like a soul tortured in hell, and a chill ran up Mortimer's spine.

         “Run!” the Captain shouted.  Then he repeated it in Quechua.

         It did not take any coaxing to get them to do just that.  Behind them, deep in the tunnels, Mortimer heard the rumble of the earth and knew that they were being pursued.  The dragon had no doubt made quick work of the gold-laden fools who had stayed in the cavern.  He gave Parsons a shove in front of him, and the whole party surged into the tunnels as quickly as possible in the fading light of the dying glow-lamps.

         When they reached the smooth, well-manufactured walls of the lower levels of the temple proper, Mortimer knew they were close.  He ran forward to the guide and touched him on the shoulder.  They both stopped and stood in the haze of his lamp: the fear in the Inca's eyes nearly made Mortimer lose his lunch.

         Go, the Captain said.  Take Iverson and go.

         Mortimer turned and grabbed the young crewman.  He looked wide-eyed at the Captain, his breathing heavy.

         “You know what to do,” Mortimer said.

         The two men turned and fled at full tilt.  Mortimer looked at Parsons and Eva.

         “Follow me!”

*

         The three stragglers burst into the sprawling central room of the temple just ahead of the dragon.  The door was too small for the beast but only for a moment.  The door frame shifted as it grabbed with its giant claws and tore at it, roaring in frustration at its fleeing prey.

         “Mortimer!”

         He turned.  The world froze.  The dragon had ripped most of the doorway with one claw and had reached through it with the other.  It had Eva’s leg in one hand, a talon tearing into her, and she was struggling desperately to pull away from its grip with little success.  With her remaining energy, Eva tore the pack off and threw it at Mortimer.

         “Go!” she screamed.

         Parsons – the marksman and gunner – had already raised his rifle and shot at the dragon, barely leaving more than scratching on its touch scales.  Mortimer raised his rifle and fired the payload directly into the dragon's face.  It roared and flung Eva nearly across the room.  Mortimer screamed and rushed to her.  He heard Parsons' weapon fire again, once, twice, three times, close behind him, no doubt at point blank into the downed dragon.

         Mortimer fell to his knees beside Eva.  Her body was crumpled into a grotesque heap.  Her leg was bleeding, serrated by the dragon's claw.  She was gone.  Mortimer had never told her he loved her.

         He felt a hand on his shoulder.

         “Captain.”

         Mortimer looked up at Parsons.  Neither man wept, but both of them knew it threatened to overtake either of them.

         “I'll take her,” Parsons said.  “You take that book and your weapon.  We need to go.”

         The Captain stood and patted Parsons on the shoulder.  He quickly gathered his gun and the tome.  When he reached the entrance, Parsons was there was Eva's limp body in his arms.  Outside the sun was coming up over the ridge to the east, and Mortimer felt the first of his tears quietly rolling down his cheek.

*

         Mortimer Daniels, captain of The Evangeline, stood with only the Inca guide who had led them out – the others dead or heading back with the crew – and Parsons near the sparsely-marked grave of Ms. Evangeline McMurdy.  Behind them the ruins of the temple face lay as a heap of stone rubble.  The rest of the men and supplies had departed early in the morning, returning to the ship with the needed equipment and the scrolls.  Only the book remained with the Captain.

         He and Parsons would make the journey over the mountains.  After that they would fly to Cuzco and resupply.  Then they would hire a new crew – a more capable crew – and cross the ocean north to the Baja, where there was a hidden camp for just such occasions.  They could regroup there, train the men effectively, and allow the Fae to lose their scent.  Then, Mortimer hoped, they could make it across the sea back to old Japan.  Maybe there they could find a worthy city-ship on which to dock and sell the tome to the highest taker.  That at least – Captain Daniels hoped – would quantify Eva’s loss.

         Either that or they would have to search out this dragon messiah.









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