Jaguar Warrior Read online

  Contents

  Cover

  Blurb

  Logo

  Notes

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Acknowledgements

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Other Books by Sandy Fussell

  Imprisoned in a box, Atl waits for death.

  He is not afraid.

  Anger burns too deeply within him.

  Then, unexpectedly, he is released.

  Released to deliver an urgent message.

  But it is not the mission that sets him running.

  It is the sudden chance for freedom.

  Nothing can stop this Jaguar Warrior.

  Not even the one who hunts him.

  PRONUNCIATION

  Atl: Ay-tel

  Citlali: Sit-larl-ee

  Huemac: Hu-mak

  Ichtaca: Ik-tark-a

  Zolan: Zo-lan

  BACKGROUND

  Mexica

  This term refers to the people now known as the Aztecs and their civilisation.

  CHAPTER ONE

  BOY IN THE BOX

  “Why isn’t that boy dead yet?” When the Captain shouts, even the temple walls shiver.

  Death is scary enough without the Captain of the Temple Guard yelling about it. I’ve seen battalions of warriors cringe and cower beneath his bellowed orders. But I’m not afraid of the Captain and he doesn’t frighten the temple High Priest either. Ichtaca won’t let the Captain kill me. The priest is saving that task for himself.

  For seven days I have been imprisoned in this windowless box, waiting to die. But I haven’t given up. Every morning I sharpen my fingernails against the wooden walls. My heart is strong like a jungle cat and when the box is finally opened, I’ll claw and bite the hand that holds me.

  I was born on the day 3 Ocelotl, the day of the spotted jaguar. Deep inside, I feel the power of its spirit reaching out to help me.

  “I will tell you when the sacrifice has been made.” Ichtaca’s voice is blunt but his authority is razor-sharp. I imagine the Captain glowering. Only the Golden King is more powerful than Ichtaca. Even a mighty Eagle Warrior must listen and obey the High Priest of the Serpent-Sun god.

  I can’t see either man. But I know both well and, in the darkness, I listen until every word is chiselled inside my head. Like now. I know the Captain’s thin lips have curled into a snarl. He despises me more than ever.

  The hatred began long ago. It was only a small thing but in the Captain’s eyes, the insult to his honour was great, and cut deep into his pride. Under the Mexica sun, a wound quickly festers and turns rotten.

  When I was seven I dropped a serving bowl and hot turtle soup splashed onto the Captain’s bare leg. I will never forget that day. A slave cannot afford to make mistakes. Especially here, where clumsiness is paid for with blood.

  “You stupid Purépechan idiot!” The Captain raised his sword to strike.

  I knelt, head bowed before the blow.

  “Stop!” Ichtaca commanded. “I claim this boy for the temple.”

  “My claim was first,” argued the Captain.

  “He is not yours to choose. The Night Owl god wants this one.” Ichtaca waved his arm over my head and pulled an owl feather from my ear.

  An owl is a powerful omen. Old men whisper, “When the owl sings, a man dies.”

  But the Captain of the Temple Guard was not so easily convinced.

  “I saw no bird,” he muttered.

  “The authority of the temple is beyond question,” declared Ichtaca.

  The Captain sheathed his blade but the hatred remained hanging in the air.

  I can still feel it pushing hard against my chest. The Captain is glad I have been chosen for sacrifice. I hope he is the one standing closest when, like the jaguar, I leap from the box. I have not forgiven the suffering he caused me. It was a long time ago but it feels like yesterday. Some memories burn so hot they ache forever.

  “First, the boy must clean up his mess,” the Captain insisted.

  Ichtaca nodded. “Send him to me when he has finished.”

  I cleaned up quickly but it wasn’t easy to dodge the Captain’s displeasure. When Ichtaca saw the bruises his dark eyes flashed in anger. “You are safe here,” he said to me. “You have been rescued by the Night Owl and one day you will be called upon to return the favour.” His voice dropped to a whisper. “Now that you belong to the temple, I will tell you a secret.”

  I leaned closer. “What?”

  “I saw the god hover above you, but the feather was just a trick. A powerful religion must put on a good show for its people.” He clicked his fingers and pulled a gold token from behind my ear. “Remember always, a good priest is a clever magician. And you never know when you might need a little gold to trade.”

  Six years have passed and I have served as a temple slave all that time. I still have the gold token. I’m gripping it tightly. My fingernails gouge deep into my palm to remind me there is only one person I can trust. Myself.

  Ichtaca was a good and caring master. Strict, but always kind. Until he shut me in this box to die. A week ago he came to me with the smile missing from his face.

  “The Serpent-Sun god has spoken to me. You have been chosen for sacrifice.” He placed his hand on my shoulder. “I am sorry, Atl.”

  “No!” I said, shaking my head violently. “There must be a mistake. I’ve already been chosen. I was chosen to live.”

  Ichtaca wrung his hands. “I don’t understand either, but the ways of the Serpent-Sun god are not for you or me to judge. We must obey.”

  So, like a dutiful slave, I helped him build the box. And when it was finished I climbed in and he closed the lid.

  At first, I lay in shock. Unable to move. Later, I raged against the box. I kicked at the sides and punched with my fists until they bled. Let them bleed. At least it’s blood the sun won’t drink.

  Ichtaca said he had no choice but to do as the Serpent- Sun god commanded. I don’t believe that. If he really cared, he would have found a way to set me free. Where is his priestly magic when I need it? I have been abandoned. I will never forget and I will never forgive.

  The Captain doesn’t trust Ichtaca either.

  “I’ll be watching you, priest. I know you’re looking for a way to save the boy again and I’m wise to your temple tricks.” The threat curls through my thoughts like a snake.

  Ichtaca is small and thin like a water reed, but when he draws himself to his full height and glares, great men shrink before him. Snakes slither away through the grass.

  I hear the indignant swish of the Captain’s cape as he turns to leave. “I’m warning you. If you let that boy go, I’ll hunt him down. I’ll make sure he dies this time. I swear it on my dead wife’s memory.” The Captain’s sandal thuds against the side of my box. “You hear that, boy?”

  I do. I growl and kick back.

  The Captain laughs. “He’s got spirit and that will make watching his sacrifice even more enjoyable. You will let me know before it happens. I am the Captain of the Temple Guard and it is my duty to observe.” He laughs again. “You told me the boy was meant for something special. So he is. His bl
ood will keep Mexica strong.”

  When the Captain reaches the door he mutters softly, “Foolish priest.”

  Like mine, Ichtaca’s ears can catch the rustle of a butterfly wing – the only fool is the man who underestimates him.

  “I will see you at the ceremony later tonight. Don’t stand too close to me,” Ichtaca threatens, his words slicing like well-honed obsidian. “I cannot be responsible for every flick of my ritual knife.”

  The Captain’s angry footsteps echo down the corridor.

  Tonight the High Priest will put on his red-and-green robe, his headdress of yellow and blue feathers and the mask inlaid with turquoise. Leaping and chanting, he’ll lead the celebration to honour the rain god, Tlaloc, and mark the end of the dry season. The visiting Spanish lords will watch the warriors dance and help us pray. Those pale lords don’t approve of blood sacrifices so for tonight, there’ll be no weapons and no killing.

  Maybe that’s why I’m still alive. I’m being kept for tomorrow.

  Ichtaca sits on the floor beside my prison, his familiar stench clogging my nostrils. Unlike the rest of us, priests don’t bathe. Their grime and dried blood is a symbol of respect. I’ve learned to close my nose and look through the dirt to the man underneath. I used to like what I saw.

  “I wish it didn’t have to be this way, Atl,” Ichtaca whispers against my box. He has said the same thing over and over each day.

  “Me too,” I reply. Again and again. The monotony of waiting. But the jaguar is a patient beast, preparing for one last leap and strike before it dies. And if my jaguar spirit sinks its teeth and claws into Ichtaca, so be it. The priest is no longer my friend.

  “I detest the Captain of the Temple Guard,” says Ichtaca. “He is proud and brave but his heart is black. Every night I pray the Serpent-Sun god will ask for his blood. He is not fit to spit on your sandals.” Ichtaca sighs. “I wish I could release you.”

  “Then do it,” I plead. Hoping.

  “I can’t. It is a great honour to be chosen as a sacrifice.”

  I don’t feel very honourable. I feel like running away, as fast as I can.

  “How much longer must I wait?”

  We never mention how I will die but I can’t stop thinking about it. The stepped pyramid of the Serpent-Sun Temple reaches high to touch the heavens. In front of the main entrance is a large platform where my body will be draped across the sacrificial stone. Five men will hold me down as my heart is ripped out and my blood runs to help the sun rise again.

  I bet the Captain will be standing in the front row.

  “You are like a son to me.” Ichtaca’s voice cracks just a little. “But even I cannot change what the gods have decreed.”

  “You have been like a father,” I answer. “But I don’t understand. If you cared about me, you would save my life.”

  The first part is true but the rest is a lie. I do understand. Ichtaca loves the Serpent-Sun god above all else and in the end, I am simply a slave boy given from one master to another.

  “The Serpent-Sun god is no better than the Captain. They both want me dead.”

  “Don’t ever say that, Atl,” Ichtaca snaps. “It is your privilege to serve the temple on the sacrificial stone. I have made the right choice.”

  Where is my choice? I want to yell. But Ichtaca would never understand. I don’t want to talk to him any more or listen to his empty words. He doesn’t care.

  “I would like to rest now,” I pretend. “The Captain’s shouting has given me a headache.”

  “Then sleep peacefully, Atl.”

  Ichtaca shuffles away. His weary steps drag along the stone floor.

  It’s hard to wait. The jaguar inside me wants to leap in one last act of defiance. I refuse to die a willing slave.

  I wish it wasn’t so dark. I miss the stars. Sometimes at night, Ichtaca sits beside me and traces them across the sky. He tells me stories of how the gods created the world. About Moon Jaguar and the Cloud Snake stars. And how we must never ignore a message from heaven.

  But I hate the Serpent-Sun god with a vengeance as great as the loathing the Captain has for me. I don’t believe in any god that demands a river of blood and a pile of bodies. Maybe that’s why I’m in this box. Hidden away from the sun as punishment for my lack of respect.

  In the far corner of my prison, there’s a small crack, just wide enough for a bead of light to drip through. If I press my eye against it, I might be able to see out. But that’s the corner where a spider spins its web.

  I helped tend the Royal Feather-Waver after a spider bit him. His face was grey and his skin fell apart in my hands. Even Ichtaca couldn’t save him. So I leave the spider alone and in the long dark hours, I’m glad of its company. Sometimes I imagine it speaks to me.

  “Ssssleep,” it spins. “It’ssss not your time yet.”

  I close my eyes and dream I am swimming through the stars, floating on my back across the darkness. Like the jaguar, I am a good swimmer and unafraid of the night.

  Drift and float. Sleep and dream.

  Without warning, the waves rise. The sky swirls and the water swells to knock the moon from its moorings.

  Crash. Smash.

  “Wake up, Atl.”

  Ichtaca is shaking me so hard I can see the Cloud Snake stars. I peer through blurred vision. The box is open wide. Caught unaware, the jaguar is not alert enough to defend itself.

  Cramped muscles struggle to hold me upright. My body sags and I clutch against Ichtaca. The fog in my mind thins. As it clears, I remember everything.

  I am afraid.

  “Is it time to die?”

  Fresh air fills my lungs as I breathe so deep my chest hurts. I can smell a faint trace of smoke and in the distance, I hear voices shouting.

  “Listen carefully.” Ichtaca holds my face close to his. “The pale lords have raised their weapons against us. Our city is burning and the temple will soon be under attack.” He clasps my hand so tight the gold token digs into my palm. “You are the fastest runner in the temple. Now you must run to save our lives.”

  “Where? Where will I run to?”

  “To your birthplace in Purépecha. Tell your people the city of Tenochtitlan needs their help. Tell them the newcomers have betrayed our friendship and they will not stop killing until all the lands are conquered. Even Purépecha will not escape.”

  Ichtaca propels me towards the central statue of the Serpent-Sun god.

  “Help me move the stone,” he says.

  With our strength combined, one of the large base blocks rolls out of place to reveal a secret exit.

  “Ask them to send many soldiers to help us,” instructs Ichtaca. “It will take more than our warriors to defeat the Spanish army. It is time for you to repay your debt to the Night Owl.”

  I’m not going to die on the sacrificial table after all.

  Ichtaca pushes me forward. “You must do your duty.”

  “Yes,” I force myself to answer.

  But I don’t mean it. I’m not a temple slave any more and I don’t have to obey Ichtaca. I’m free to do as I please.

  Soldiers in shiny armour spill through the doorway as the room fills with shouting and the clash of Spanish sword against Mexica oak lance. A fallen soldier rolls to rest against my feet. Ichtaca grabs the dead man’s sword, ready to defend my escape route.

  I step inside the statue. Onto nothing.

  I’m falling through the floor.

  “Run, Atl, run. Run like the jaguar,” Ichtaca bellows.

  Thump.

  The tunnel floor is soft dirt. I scramble to my feet, ankle aching and heart pounding.

  It’s dark. But I’m used to that now.

  I race as fast as I can down the passage.

  CHAPTER TWO

  THE CAPTAIN

  Like a farmer slashing across a field of maize, the tall warrior cuts and slices his way through the enemy Spanish soldiers. Captain of the Temple Guard, Huemac is bound to protect the temple and all its occupants.
r />   Three feathers hang from his waist belt. The greatest Eagle Warrior of all, his past campaigns have filled the temple with war captives for sacrifice. Today he will add more to the tally. The gods smile on his weapon.

  “For Spain,” challenges the soldier directly in front of him, sword already on the downswing towards Huemac’s unprotected head.

  “Mexica,” Huemac hisses, lance rising to meet the blade. He stares into his opponent’s eyes. I might not have your body armour. But I am much stronger. I am an eagle and you are just a little sparrow.

  Crash. Their weapons collide to send shivers down Huemac’s arm. His body is strong but his oak lance is no match for a Spanish sword. The broken weapon clatters onto the stone floor.

  Unarmed, Huemac is not afraid. Instinctively, he crouches and pulls the soldier’s feet from under him. They roll together. Huemac smells warm blood and sweat trickling down his arm. And he smells something else. Fuchsia. How can this soldier expect to win when he reeks of perfumed flowers?

  With his free hand, Huemac reaches into the soldier’s eye and claws it free. When the soldier releases his grip to clutch at the dripping socket, Huemac seizes his chance. Click. Neck broken, the enemy crumples.

  Triumphant, Huemac rises to his feet, clenched fingers raised skyward. He screeches his battle cry and around him, the warriors answer.

  His hand-picked men are slowly winning, despite their inferior weapons and numbers. The temple protects its own people. Here, in this small enclosed space, the enemy cannot use their powerful firesticks.

  Huemac’s eagle eyes see everything. The balance of each individual contest, the High Priest locked in combat with a Spanish soldier, the flames and confusion. And in the centre of the room, the open box.

  The boy has escaped.

  Seething, he forces himself to concentrate on the fight before him. He picks up the lance of a fallen comrade. Thrust, parry, cut. Step over the body and begin again.

  Could the priest have let the boy go? Not likely. Ichtaca cares about the wretched slave but he wouldn’t interfere with the Serpent-Sun god’s choice of sacrifice. The boy has seen his chance and wriggled away like a cowardly worm.

  Huemac remembers the boy’s smirking face. First the boy insulted him and was permitted to live but today he has offended the gods. If he is allowed to cheat death again, the battle for the city will never be won. The sacrifice must be completed and the honour of the Serpent-Sun god restored.