Temple by Matthew Reilly Read Free Book Online

And

with the Spaniards holding Cuzco, it is only a matter of time

• before they find it.'

Well.

I did not know what to say. I could never do such a thing.

I could never help him escape. I would be making myself a hunted
man, a traitor to my country. If I were caught, I would be the one
imprisoned inside this hellish floating dungeon. And so I left the
hulk without another word.

But I would return. And I would talk with Renco again—and again he
would ask me to help him, his voice impassioned, his eyes
begging.

And whenever I contemplated the issue more closely, my mind would
always return to two things: my total and utter disillusionment at
the despicable acts of those men I called

my countrymen, and—conversely—my admiration of the Incan people's
stoic refusal to disclose the secret location of their idol in the
face of such overwhelming adversity.

Indeed, never had I witnessed such unfailing devotion. I envied
their faith. I had heard tell of Hernando torturing entire villages
in his obsessive search for the idol, had heard of the atrocities
he had committed. I wondered how I would act if I were to see my
own kinfolk butchered, tortured, mur dered. In those circumstances,
would I disclose the location of Jerusalem?

In the end, I decided that I would and I was doubly ashamed.

And so despite myself, my Faith and my allegiance to my country, I
decided to help Renco.

I left the hulk and returned later that night, bringing with me a
young page—an Incan named Tupac—just as Renco had instructed me. We
both wore hooded cloaks against the cold and kept our hands folded
inside our sleeves.

We came to the guard station on the riverbank. As it happened,
since most of my country's forces were at Cuzco partaking in the
looting there, only a small group of soldiers were on hand in the
tent village near the hulk. Indeed, only a lone night guard—a fat
slovenly thug from Madrid with liquor on his breath and dirt under
his fingernails—guarded the bridge that led to the hulk.

After taking a second glance at young Tupac—it was not uncommon at
that time for young Indians to serve as pages for monks like
myself—the night guard belched loudly and ordered us to inscribe
our names on the register.

I scratched both of our names in the book. Then when I had
finished, the two of us stepped onto the narrow wooden footbridge
that stretched out from the riverbank over to a door set into the
side of the prison hulk in the middle of the river.

No sooner had we stepped past the filthy night guard, however, than
the young Tupac whirled around quickly

and grabbed the man from behind and twisted his head, breaking his
neck in an instant. The guard's body slumped in its chair. I winced
at the sheer violence of the act, but strangely I found that I felt
little sympathy for the guard. I had made my decision—had pledged
my allegiance to the enemy—and there was no turning back

now.

My young companion quickly took the guard's rifle and his
pistallo-or 'pistol' as some of my countrymen were now calling
them—and, last of all, his keys. Tupac then affixed a stone weight
to the dead guard's foot and dropped the body into the river.

In the pale blue moonlight, we crossed the rickety wooden
footbridge and entered the hulk.

The interior guard leapt to his feet as we entered the cage room
but Tupac was far too quick for him. He fired his pistol at the
guard without missing a step. The explosion of the gunshot in the
enclosed space of the prison hulk was deafening. Prisoners all
around us awoke with a start at the sudden terrifying sound.

Renco was already on his feet as we came to his cage.

The guard's key fitted perfectly in the lock of his cell and the
door opened easily. The prisoners all around us were shouting and
banging on the bars of their cages, pleading to be released. My
eyes darted around in every direction and in the midst of all this
uproar, I saw a sight that chilled me to my very core.

I saw the Chanca, Castino,