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

spoke again in her native tongue, but this time he understood her perfectly. Her native words felt right in his ears.
    He fell to his knees and clutched at the solid gold crucifix around his neck. He prayed. “Holy Father, who art in heaven—”
    Malinalli laughed again, and he realized that he’d been speaking Nahuatl. The words died on his lips. He reached for Latin, but it was gone. He tried to cry out in Spanish, but his voice failed him. He could not even shape the Lord’s name.
    Malinalli pulled the crucifix from him and tossed it away. “Your god has no power here.”
    “How have you done this?” he asked.
    Malinalli shook her head. “My god chose you long ago. Before you were even born.”
    “Chose me for what?”
    “You will be his Tēixiptla—his vessel. He will take your flesh as his own and walk in glory.” She pulled a knife from beneath her thin mattress. The obsidian blade glistened black, and blood-red gems gleamed from its golden hilt. Malinalli held it out, and Hernán’s hand reached forward of its own accord.
    “I offer my life to you, Quetzalcoatl.” She stood, naked and glorious before him, her arms spread, palms up.
    “Why?” Hernán asked.
    “He will remember my sacrifice and be kind to my people. Kinder than Moctezuma, kinder than you. This is the only way I can help them.”
    A weight settled over him, moving his body like a marionette. Hernán stepped forward, crushed his lips to hers, and thrust the knife between her breasts.
    Her blood was cool on his bare skin, refreshing as a mountain lake. A shimmering, green-blue bird, its tail two long, trailing feathers—a quetzal, he knew now—burst out of Malinalli’s chest and plunged into his own.
    Pain raked his body as it entered his heart.
    Hernán struggled against the heathen god. He tried to dive for his crucifix, but his body refused to obey. He felt the Lord’s light ripped from him. His thoughts grew fuzzy, hard to control. His skin shone like the sun.
    =[]=
     
    The Aztec Emperor, Moctezuma, gave him a worthy welcome. He and a legion of his finest warriors met Quetzalcoatl and his host’s men on the wide road into Tenochtitlan. The heat was punishing for his mortal shell, especially clad in metal armor. But his deception had to remain complete, for just a little longer.
    Moctezuma presented him with flowers from the emperor’s own garden, as well as feathers from Quetzalcoatl’s sacred bird. Quetzalcoatl was moved by the gesture. He abandoned his caution for a moment and laid his hand upon Moctezuma’s brow. He whispered a blessing in Nahuatl. Moctezuma’s eyes widened and he fell to his knees. His warriors did the same.
    His host’s companions gaped. “My lord, what did you say?” one of the two priests asked.
    Quetzalcoatl sighed. The invaders’ language was unworthy of his voice and he loathed having to speak to them. He was growing tired of these priests. They asked too many questions, and their weak offerings to their own god offended him.
    “These people are simple and easy to impress,” he said. The invaders’ sense of superiority was their greatest weakness. But they were still a threat, here on the open road, with their guns and hot metal armor. They would not be a threat tonight, after the feast he knew the emperor will have prepared.
    “They will make us welcome in their halls, and feast us like gods,” he said, forcing a companionable grin.
    The priests, gluttons both, were much pleased by the idea. “It’s good you managed to learn some of their heathen tongue before that woman died,” one said.
    Quetzalcoatl looked forward to killing them.
    =[]=
     
    They feasted. Quetzalcoatl and Moctezuma sat together and talked, far from the invader’s prying ears. “There is a sickness spreading among my warriors,” Moctezuma said. “I feared that we had displeased you.”
    Quetzalcoatl shook his head. “The sickness comes from the invaders. I will use their blood to burn it away.”
    “When? My men