Dark Tales Of Lost Civilizations by Eric J. Guignard (Editor) Page A

camp, looking for someone to punish for his foul mood. The night air was heavy and cool, a welcome relief from the heat of the day. The coughing bark of a jaguar echoed through the dark trees, and the men around him flinched.
    The sound of distant drums caught his ear, and he froze. The wind shifted, and the sound faded. No one reacted. “What are you waiting for?” he snapped at his attending officer, Bernal Diaz. “Send out a scouting party! Find the source of those drums!”
    Diaz blinked. “What drums, sir?”
    “There were drums. Before the wind changed.”
    Diaz’s eyes flicked to the flask in Hernán’s hand. “I didn’t hear them, sir. But I did hear a jaguar.”
    “If you slay it while looking for the natives, you can keep its skin.”
    “I don’t think that’s a good idea, sir.”
    “Take some men into the jungle. Lead them yourself.”
    Diaz glanced at the flask again. For a moment, Hernán thought he would disobey. He was delighted—that would give him reason to have the man whipped.
    Then Diaz sighed and looked away. “Of course, sir.”
    Hernán longed to strike the man across the face for his insubordination. But his command was already brittle—he didn’t have the power to punish glances. And he didn’t have the energy to think of another way to put the man in his place.
    Hernán hoped Diaz was one of the ones who spooked at every sound in the jungle night. Maybe the drumming natives would manage to put him down before they were eradicated. Or maybe the jaguar would rip his throat out.
    The thought cheered him, and he continued to walk aimlessly through camp, pretending to check on his men, until he found himself outside of Marina’s tent.
    He went in.
    It stank of strange, resinous native incense and blood. The doctors must have been at work. Marina lay on top of a cot, clad in a simple white robe. Bandages adorned her wrists and ankles, and a low fire flickered in the middle of the tent. The stifling heat was almost unbearable. Sweat coated Hernán’s face and soaked through his light clothing.
    Hernán took another drink. The cactus wine burned down his throat. He passed his flask to Marina. Her fingers, when they brushed against his, were hot and dry.
    Hernán watched her drink. She was so beautiful. Worthy of him. Worthy of the Spanish wine that would never grace her tongue. He brushed stray strands of her dark hair away from her face. “The priest says that you won’t last the night.”
    She laughed. It was a wild, dark sound, and her eyes were black in the flickering firelight. Shivers coursed along Hernán’s spine. “Your priest, for once, might know what he’s talking about.”
    Hernán frowned, pushing away his sudden unease. “Don’t blaspheme, Marina.”
    “Malinalli,” she said. “My name is Malinalli.”
    “You were baptized as Marina before Jesus, our Lord and Savior. You mustn’t fall back into your heathen ways, especially not now. The gates of heaven will open or close to you by morning.”
    Malinalli said something in her torturous native tongue.
    For a moment, Hernán almost understood her. He fought off a wave of dizziness. “What are you burning?”
    “Copal. It is sacred to my people.”
    The drums returned, louder this time. Hernán shook his head, and they faded.
    Malinalli held out her arms. “Come, my lord. Lie with me, one last time.”
    He hesitated. She was ill and her return to her native ways was troublesome.
    “Please,” she said. Her desire-roughened voice stirred him. Who was he to deny her final request?
    Heat came off her body in waves. She smelled like her copal incense and orchid blossoms. The drums came again, pounding in his ears. She pulled him onto her cot, and he took her, rough and fast.
    The warmth from her body flowed into him as they became one. When he pulled away, her body was as cool as the night air, and his skin glowed brighter than the fire.
    “What is happening to me?” he asked.
    “Quetzalcoatl is coming.”
    She