Legend

PROLOGUE FRANCISCO PIZARRO

The Spaniards let loose a volley of musket fire into the endless green of the jungle, not knowing if their lead shot struck anything more vital than fern or moss. Even before the acrid smoke was cleared by the slight breeze that reached the floor of the small valley, the soldiers had turned and continued their flight, four and five men at a time, while a like number reloaded and covered their retreat. The captain ventured a look back to make sure all of his soldiers had safely vacated their positions, then he quickly followed to catch up with them.

The deeper they fled into the surrounding jungle, the denser it became, effectively choking off their escape route with natural tangle-foot of vines and small trees. Above them, the sun was slowly being smothered by the trees that seemed to grow together, creating a false roof that offered no sanctity of protection. The river offered the only clear avenue of escape.

The captain had but two choices: stay here and stand their ground against arrow and dart while taking and losing more lives, or go into the river, where they would be more exposed yet could make better time than they would while also fighting the thickening growth around them.

"Into the water, men. Why do you delay? We must follow the river, it's our only route!"

"Look, my captain," Lieutenant Torrez said, pointing skyward.

When Captain Hernando Padilla looked up, his eyes widened at the monstrous sight. Towering above the Spaniards two sixty-foot-tall stone carvings rose above the giant trees on either side of the river. The expedition had never seen the like of them. The carvings were manlike in stature, only the heads were not that of any men or any of the Incan gods the soldiers had seen thus far. The lips were thick, and the deep etchings in the rocks depicted scales where flesh should have been. The heads of both giant figures stared down upon the intruders with the large eyes of a fish. They were ancient stone deities, guardians of the vegetation-choked waters of the darkened river beyond. Vines entered and exited the cracked and age-worn stone like snakes emerging from holes.

"They are only stone imaginings of heathen people," Padilla shouted. "Get these men into the water, Lieutenant, now."

Just as he had uttered the orders to advance, an arrow glanced off his armor from behind and ricocheted into the air. The captain almost lost his balance as he bent over, cursed, and then quickly recovered. Small darts started to strike the spit of sand and moving water around the Spaniards. The Indians were upon them once again, not only shooting their primitive arrows, but launching from long blow guns small darts tipped with the poison of exotic frogs — the very same devices the soldiers had seen the native peoples use frighteningly well during their time with the tribe. They knew it would be a slow death if even one dart pierced their exposed flesh. The men needed no more coaxing or threats. As the huge stone edifices watched on either side, they splashed into the swirling water and made their way into the shadows of the canyon.

The Spaniards traveled between massive trees that cut off the sky. They marched most of the late afternoon, enduring sporadic attacks from Sincaro emerging from the thick undergrowth beneath the trees. Then the Indians vanished just as abruptly into the jungle. It had been close to an hour's time since the last ambush, but the Spaniards were still expecting the next attack at any moment. As they progressed, the sky ahead of them was slowly being shut out by the jungle and towering trees from both sides of the river. They heard with ever-increasing volume the more pleasurable sounds of animal life, as a semblance of normalcy returned to their surroundings after their headlong flight. Until this point they had noticed no sound of life other than their own shouts and curses during the assaults they had endured the last few hours.

Finally they fought their way past the raging rapids that had appeared suddenly. The violence of the waters had terrified the men, who were lucky to spy a small wedge of beach along which to pass.

The captain called a halt and rested his worn body against the trunk of a large tree. The nightmare visions of the murder of so many innocents churned over and over in his mind, threatening to drive him mad. He lowered his head with shame at what they had done. The orders for the excursion into these unknown lands to the east had been given to him personally by Pizarro. The words of that order now echoed through his memory: The Indians are not to be thought of as allies. They must be subdued with forthright action and intimidation until such a time as the source of the gold is obtained. If this course of action cannot be maintained, assistance shall be called for immediately. The location of El Dorado is paramount above all other considerations.

But Padilla had found the Indians to be gracious and kindly toward the visiting strangers. So he had changed his tactics and tried to gain the advantage in his own manner, ignoring the orders of the madman in the east.

Padilla angrily removed his helmet and harshly rubbed the sweat from his face. The heavy iron soon slipped from his slick fingers and fell to the green jungle floor. The Spaniard ignored it as he instead looked skyward, trying desperately to penetrate the deep canopy of green for just a small glimpse of the blessed sun. But it was as hidden, removed from the world as he knew the grace of God would be forever removed from his soul.

For three months they had endured the hellishness of the Peruvian mountains and Brazilian jungle, only to find they were alone in the most godforsaken area the expedition had ever known. Only the good nature of his men, grateful to be away from the slave master Pizarro, had kept his small company in line. Then one evening they had come upon a most wondrous valley, full of exotic flowers, tall leaf-laden trees, and the blessed sun. It was here they had found the Sincaro; the dwarf Indians that inhabited the beautiful valley. The small people met them with trepidation at first. Against orders, Padilla had eventually gained their trust through trading and the honest goodwill of his men. They treated the Sincaro with respect and gentleness, and the small men and women of the village slowly welcomed the tall strangers as friends.

These prehistoric tribesmen were a hardy people and, according to their stories and legends, had been so since they had been enslaved by the empire to the west. They had gained their freedom thanks to the river gods who had dealt their Inca taskmasters a savage blow a hundred years before, which had finally freed the small people. When asked how their river gods had achieved this, the elder of the village would answer only that the Inca had gained the secret knowledge of the Sincaro through murder and slavery, and had even tried to chain their deities and turn them on the Sincaro in the Incan pursuit of earthly riches. The river gods would not become the slaves of men, and they revolted. Then the Inca were no more. The old man would smile at that point when he saw the skeptical looks of the Spaniards. The Inca had never returned to the valley, and now it was the captain who would have to gain the trust of these strange and vibrant people to learn the secret that had brought and then driven the Inca from these lands.

The short-lived harmony between Spaniard and Indian lasted for exactly twenty days: Good days that they used to their advantage, learning the Sincaro way and their simple lifestyle. Long days of nurturing the trust he sought, and in return Padilla's men helped these industrious people learn the strange ways of their taller visitors. The soldiers amazed them with the strange black powder that made their cooking fires jump toward the heavens in a shower of smoke and sparks.

There had been smaller things, to be sure: The screaming enjoyment of young and old alike when they had been shown small mirrors. Letting the Sincaro touch and be awestruck by their armor, which the primitives thought was some sort of magical skin. The Spaniards had been patient as the children tugged and pulled on their beards and laughed as the men playfully tickled them in return. Padilla and his soldiers were also happy to share their own rations of pork and rice, and eat the strange but delicious meals the Sincaro painstakingly placed before them. It had been during one of these evening meals that the Spanish learned the Sincaro had never ventured out of the valley. Even their enslavement had been here, which indicated to the captain that what the soldiers sought was indeed close by.

A time of trust had presented itself just as Padilla had said it would. Ever so slowly, the Indians of the Sincaro village began to take the Spaniards into their confidence and soon began bringing forth small trinkets of gold they had so cautiously and painstakingly hidden during the early days of their encounter. The gold not only started to appear as small bracelets, idols, and necklaces but loose, in leather sacks around their necks that brimmed with dust from the Amazonian tributary. It had been hard to hold his men in check once they had seen that. Padilla only succeeded in doing so by promising them the El Dorado that Pizarro had rightly guessed to be hidden in this green-canopied country, despite the Incan denial. If they bided their time, these friendly people would probably share the location of the source of their gold with them without much prodding and, even more important to Padilla, without bloodshed.

Captain Padilla suspected the trouble would come from dreams of avarice, but instead it came from a man he should have been watching all along. Joaquin Suarez, a brute of a man who had worn out his welcome with the main company of conquistadors in Peru because of blackish and boorish behavior, had been attached to the expedition by Father Corinth himself, after Suarez's unholy rape and murder of an Indian child near the new Spanish town of Esposisia. The priest had sent him as far from Pizarro as he could, knowing that the big man would have been executed on the spot if word of his crime had reached the generalissimo's ears. The captain mused often how one could murder entire villages, even kidnap and kill the reigning monarch, but the single killing of a child was worth a death sentence, because nothing spawned revolt more than the deliberate murder of innocence. So the accused Suarez, a distant cousin of Father Escobar Corinth, was sent away with the only expedition to venture out this year, to keep him out of Pizarro's sight.

During those many days of travel into these forsaken parts of the world, Suarez had grumbled about how he had been treated shabbily over the murder of the Incan child; after all, he thought to himself, It wasn't as if she had been a child of God. But he obeyed the orders given to him. He was silent and brooding most of the time, even treading lightly among the other men of the expedition, who looked upon the large soldier as a pariah. Suarez remained well behaved even after the gold started to appear. But now Padilla rebuked himself for not remembering the brute's black heart.

Last night Suarez had taken Spanish wine with a tribal leader, against express orders to not give anything fermented to the Indians. The men could accept the strange beer that the Sincaro brewed, but the soldiers were to offer the Indians nothing of an alcoholic nature from their own stores.

After an hour of drinking, Suarez had managed to get the elder drunk. But even then it was as if the old man knew exactly the giant Spaniard's intentions, and refused to say anything about where the Sincaro mined the gold. Suarez, having been driven mad by the refusal of the elder to talk, had finally tortured him for what he knew.

Hours later, when the other tribesmen found the torn and battered body of their much-beloved leader, they viciously attacked the sleeping soldiers without warning. The raid was so fierce that the Spaniards' defense had been hurried and, in the end, futile. Padilla and his men fought back with a loss of sixteen of his best soldiers and most of their firearms. Among the casualties was Pizarro's own nephew, Dadriell. The Sincaro had lost at least forty or more, mostly women and, God forgive them all, children.

Now the survivors of his once proud and now cursed expedition were holed up in a large green basin that was fed water by a very deep tributary of the Amazon, at least ten leagues from the site of last night's massacre. This great lagoon, which for all practical description was like a small lake, lay before them. They had waded along the shore of the tributary, following the treacherous rapids to gain entrance into this hidden Eden that had trees so tall they stretched and bent over the dark waters.

This was a setting Captain Padilla had never thought to see in his lifetime. It was too beautiful, somewhere one would not wish to conclude a massacre if the small people chose to attack them here. It truly was a place God had sculpted when last upon this earth. Tree branches hung out over the water and soft grasses grew all the way to the slow-flowing lagoon. The walls of what had to be an ancient and extinct volcano rose on three sides, actually leaning out over the lagoon, creating three natural shelves.

Flowers of every variety bloomed and nourished honeybees that gently moved from species to species, never noticing or caring about the sudden invasion by the Spaniards. The strange flowers that grew with only small dapples of sunlight were large and the most fragrant Padilla had ever smelled.

The ancient volcanic bowl was not only fed by the Amazon tributary but also by a mammoth waterfall that fell from high above on the far end of the lagoon. But that was not the outstanding feature of the small valley. There, flanking either side of the tumbling waters of the falls, were pillars. They were at least 120 feet high, carved from the surrounding rock, and supported an arch that vanished into the white waterfall of the river above. Vines coursed through the cracked and weather-worn pillars; in several places they had separated the stone completely, making the columns look as if they would fall at any moment.

Now here he stood, trying to decide if he should make their last stand or continue the insanity of running deeper into the green hell beyond the lagoon. The men knew there might be something here because of those giant pillars, but they had lost all interest in riches and just wanted familiar sights. Even to return to Pizarro was preferable to this madness.

Maybe the villagers would take the decision out of his hands and just leave them be. The captain would then personally report to the fool Pizarro that the expedition had been for naught, that nothing but death awaited any man in the distant valleys of the Amazon.

While Padilla wrote his thoughts down into his personal diary, the map he had made of their travels fell from the back pages where he had placed it. As he bent over to retrieve it, he hesitated momentarily, as he was suddenly tempted to leave it to rot on the ground. Then he considered his men, picked it up, and placed it back into his journal.

His thoughts of leaving the map so no one could follow were broken by the harsh laughter of the very man who had caused so much horror in the last twelve hours. Such a display of pleasure after the spilling of so much blood seemed wrong. The captain looked over at his men. Joaquin Suarez was kneeling by the water, his hair freshly wet after washing the blood from himself and his armor. The soldiers around him looked on and shook their heads. Everyone knew now that this man was a danger to them all, because of his recklessness.

Padilla reached down and retrieved his helmet, and that was when he caught a glimpse of a strange visitor to their makeshift rest area. Huge eyes were there for the briefest of moments before whatever it was scurried off through the thick foliage, using the jungle for cover as it slid silently into the waters of the lagoon. Captain Padilla looked around to see if his men had seen what he had, but they were busy washing and lying on the thickly carpeted grass; some of the more experienced soldiers were even knelt in prayer. He once again peered into the thick undergrowth for some sign that the little creature had been there at all, but saw not a trace. He quickly came to the conclusion that it had been nothing but a trick of his overtaxed mind and the darkened jungle floor. Suddenly there was a rustling of bushes behind him, and his hand went to his sword.

"My captain," Ivan Rodrigo Torrez, his friend and second-in-command, stepped from the dense growth of the forest, "the Indians have disappeared." Torrez removed his helmet; his long black hair fell free as sweat poured from his face and beard. "One minute, we were watching them from a clearing about a half a league from here, and the next minute, they fell back into the jungle and were gone. Our trail into this valley was so obvious, they must know where we are." He took a breath and looked around him as he loosened his armor. "I expect them to double back this way, so I placed the men in an excellent position for ambush, but thus far they haven't come."

Padilla patted his old friend on the shoulder. "That is just as well; I can't do this any longer." He lowered his hand and looked around at the darkened area under the thick canopy of trees. "I just feel like resting here for a month before returning and reporting this horrible thing we have done." He pulled the front collar of his armor away from his soaked tunic. "Maybe I'll swim out to the only spot here that has sunlight hitting it and remain there until the Lord pulls me under." He looked at the magnificent waterfall and then back toward the center of the large lagoon and the bright dapples of sunlight that lit the blue waters and made them sparkle.

"I, like most of the men, feel like cutting Suarez's throat for bringing this evil to our doorstep," Torrez said angrily.

"I can't think on that now, my old friend, I am weary to my very bones. Besides, in the end, it is I who will be judged for this debacle, not Suarez."

"Surely Commander Pizarro will not blame you for the actions of this maniac?"

"Pizarro is not an ordinary man and he has little or no patience for incompetence. I can assure you I will be judged harshly for losing his nephew and a chance at finding the Indians' source of gold. For my failure, the Sincaro will be extinct or enslaved by this time next year," he sighed. "I had the arrogance to believe I could do this another way; I am but a fool."

Loud laughter once again sprang up from the beach area. As both officers turned and walked toward their men, another round of raucous howling came from the lagoon. Upon entering the small clearing they saw Suarez hold something in the air as the other soldiers hooted loudly, several even patting each other on their backs. As they looked closer at the strange object the soldier was tossing into the air, they saw it resembled a small monkey. Then Padilla realized it was the same creature he had spied looking at him from the bush only moments before. The captain could clearly see the small animal and its remarkable resemblance to their chattering companions that lived in the trees. In his diary he had listed many different varieties of monkey and other strange animal life, but this was unlike anything he had ever witnessed before in his many travels. On this expedition he had become quite knowledgeable about the far-ranging species that inhabited this new continent, thus the animal that Suarez held in his hands so casually was something he knew to be very special.

"Captain, we have a captive; this little clown tried to steal my satchel with the last of our bread," Rondo Cordoba, the quartermaster, said while gesturing toward the small creature Suarez was toying with.

Padilla and Torrez joined the men to take a look at the creature up close. It was a monkey, or what a monkey would look like without so much as a hair on its body. The facial features were close to that of a man, except for the lips. They framed many sharp teeth and were thick, the upper lip much larger than the bottom one, and the ears were but small holes in the sides of its head. The tail was slick as a taskmaster's whip and it swung back and forth quickly. Padilla surmised that the animal was agitated at being thrown into the air by Suarez. He saw small protrusions of skin like a spiny sail that flared outward down its back every time it was tossed upward.

"Stop tormenting that creature, you ignorant fool!" Torrez commanded loudly.

Suarez stopped, looked angrily for a moment at his captain and then at Torrez, and, without removing his eyes from the two men, arrogantly tossed the small animal into the air again. He caught it and then concentrated his stare on the captain in a silent challenge. Padilla drew his sword and pointed it at the larger man's throat, pressing the blade enough that blood was soon collecting on its steel surface. His eyes were locked on Suarez's and a ghost of a smile touched his lips. He would enjoy sliding his sharp blade into the throat of the very reason for their current predicament, no matter if they needed all the men they could get at that moment.

"As you can see, you fatherless child, our captain is of ill humor today," Torrez said, smiling, as he watched Padilla and a seemingly unshaken Suarez.

Suarez ignored the sword and the neck wound, still holding the animal tightly. He quickly changed his grip to hold the creature by its throat. It made choking sounds; its tail was now jittering in small movements that were more of a spasm than a swing.

Padilla pressed the blade farther into the man's neck, and the arrogance that had been there a moment earlier was replaced by a worried frown, as Suarez just then noticed there was no laughter from the men around him. He saw there was only expressions of anticipation for his seemingly imminent death.

All this time, the animal's eyes never left those of Padilla. It was if the small creature knew it was the subject of the standoff and was awaiting the captain's next move. While the sword remained in place, Suarez slowly lowered the creature to the white sand that made up the small beach and the monkeylike animal scurried not toward the jungle or the water, but behind the captain. The beast jumped up and down and spat at Suarez, and jabbered as if cursing the large soldier. As Suarez straightened up, Padilla did not withdraw but pushed the gleaming sword forward, bringing a more satisfying flow of blood to the blade, where it rolled slowly down the shiny surface and dripped onto the few feet of pure white sand.

"We may need this fool, Captain," Ivan Torrez said loudly so all could hear. "We may still have him up on charges upon our return, but we need his strength to fight, or to flee from this place, and, God willing, he may even redeem himself at some point in this nightmare." He placed his hand on the captain's arm as he gave Suarez a withering look.

Without dropping his gaze, Padilla slowly lowered the sword and just as slowly wiped the blood from its tip onto the red sleeve of the big man. Then he slowly slid the weapon back into the ornate scabbard at his side.

The hairless monkey was still holding onto the captain's leg and hissing at Suarez. Padilla reached down and, using both hands, gently picked up the animal and looked it over. It was breathing through its small nostrils and open mouth, but it also had what looked like the gills of a fish right where the small neck joined the head, three rows of soft skin arranged along its jawline, flaring and then closing as they, too, sought life-sustaining air. There were finlike features along its forearms and a small spiny dorsal fin, again like that of a fish, on its back, traveling the length of its spine.

"This is the most amazing animal I have ever seen in all of our travels," Padilla said softly, as the large black eyes of the creature blinked, not with eyelids like his own, but with a set of clear membranes.

"I think it looks like my mother-in-law," Torrez joked as he slapped the captain on the back, in an attempt to lighten the darkened mood.

The men laughed; Padilla smiled also, even as he chanced a wary eye toward Suarez.

"Captain, look!" one of the men shouted.

Padilla lowered the small creature and looked at the spot his men were pointing toward in the calm waters of the lagoon, where another of the monkeylike species stood holding a struggling fish in both its clawed hands. The first animal scurried up to the newcomer, waddling bowlegged on its paddle-like feet, and started jabbering loudly. The second creature looked across and then tossed the fish in an underhanded throw toward the group of Spaniards; it landed on the sand and flopped around, then lay still. Small claw marks were evident on the smooth skin of the large catfish.

As the soldiers watched in amazement, another and then another of the animals tentatively stood up and waddled from the water, to toss more flopping fish onto the small shoreline. The men nervously laughed.

"Maybe it's an offering?" Rondo ventured to no one in particular.

"Gather the fish, men, we will not waste this gift brought by our new friends," Padilla ordered. "Collect them all so we can also feed the men who are guarding the perimeter."

As the men moved forward to collect the offered bounty, they failed to notice as large bubbles appeared in the middle of the lagoon to slowly circle under the sunlight, then vanish after a moment. Nor did they hear the sudden silence that filled the trees around them as the birds grew momentarily still in their high nests and roosts, but they did see the small creatures glance at one another as they chattered back and forth and headed with apparent deliberation back toward the water. The first one, the one Padilla had saved from the murderous Suarez, was looking back as it retreated from the newcomers to its beautiful world. To the men who were watching the strange exodus, it seemed as if this animal was saddened at leaving.

Padilla turned away from the lagoon and was amazed at the horde of fish that had accumulated on the sand; he counted over ten species of varying types. But just one particularly caught his eye, and he bent over to examine it. He called Torrez over to see this wonder. The fish had huge scales and very strange fins on its lower belly, and a thick and powerful-looking tail. These most unusual fins looked as if they had small feetlike appendages on the very tips. The mouth was huge and filled with lethal-looking teeth; the jaw jutted far forward unlike that of any fish he had ever seen, almost like a barracuda's, only far more pronounced. As the two officers examined the strange fish, which was lying on its side, its eye seemed to roll and look at them and, as it did, its mouth snapped open and closed. They quickly straightened up and looked at the men, who were starting to build fires for cooking and to guard against the coming night. Padilla once again bent down toward the large fish. He thought he saw something on its blackened, coarse scales; he reached down and lightly rubbed them. The fish moved momentarily and then lay still. Padilla held his fingers close to his face and rubbed them together, as small gold flakes gently fell to the tips of his worn boots.

Padilla lay under one of the many ancient and beautiful trees that permeated the area, their massive roots projecting from the earth like a giant's arms ripping through the fabric of a blouse. He held his booted feet close to their small fire, to dry the thick leather as best he could. His diary was in his hands and he had just finished recording the observations of this eventful day. His last entry written before he closed the small book declared that the battle with the Sincaro was due to his own negligence.

He had considered not recording evidence of gold found lodged in the scales of the fish. But he had never omitted anything from his observations and would not start now. Pizarro would be amazed to read about a source of gold that was so abundant it was actually brought to the surface on the backs of fish. The captain shook his head at the thought as he placed the diary back into his tunic.

Torrez lay beside Padilla, playing with one of the strange monkeylike animals.

"What do you make of them, my captain?" the lieutenant asked, holding out a small piece of bacon for the visitor who sat on his chest, its tail swinging back and forth like that of a happy puppy. Its little claws finally stabbed the small piece of meat and popped it into its mouth. Smiling and jabbering softly at the man, its mouth worked frantically, along with the small gills.

"I think they are an offshoot or very close relative of the monkey, just one that happens to live in the water, surely not a design that God had intended," said Padilla, then he laughed. "But who knows the mind of God, but God himself?" He watched Torrez and the animal for a moment. "What is truly amazing is the fact that you can see their small gills moving like that of a fish, but then you notice that the rise and fall of its breathing is light, almost as if it is taking air through both systems. It must be difficult for them to live out of the water for such long periods of time."

"We need such devices, my captain, for breathing onboard those stinking vessels of ours."

"Yes, if our friend Rondo over there gets a belly full of beans and pork fat, the whole ship is in danger of choking to death or exploding like a musket," Padilla joked.

The two men were silent a moment as they listened to the comforting sound of the men as the soldiers spoke among themselves, talking of things other than death and this accursed mission. Then Padilla placed his diary in his belt pouch and looked over at his friend.

"When we entered the water in the outer valley, the stone monoliths, what did you think of them?"

"I was hoping that subject would not have arisen after the sun went down, if at all," Torrez said as he gently laid the small creature upon the ground and watched a moment as it scurried away. "As for what I thought at the time? They scared me." He glanced over at Padilla and he could make out the captain's eyes on him. "You know me, I fear no man or, for that matter, anything I have come across before. But those carvings gave me chills as I looked upon them, even as I ridiculed our men for the same reason."

"The watchers of this valley, gods of the lagoon, that's what I called them in my diary. They were very old carvings, I suspect even older than some of the Incan dwellings we found in Peru."

"The age isn't what concerned me, my captain, it was the forms themselves. I would hate to run into one of those while bathing, I'll tell you."

Padilla laughed loudly and was about to comment when a shrill, piercing scream ripped through the night around them. The small creatures who had been playing in the sand screeched at the noise and shot off for the water, making little splashes as they dove for the safety of the lagoon. Padilla and Torrez were up in a second, Ivan with his sword drawn.

"What is it?" Padilla called to his men as they entered the circle of light cast by the fire. The soldiers were angry, yelling as they pointed forward toward the small shoreline.

One man stood apart from the others, holding the limp and obviously lifeless body of one of the little creatures. He clutched it by its broken neck and it dangled, almost formless, in the firelight.

"You bloody bastard!" one of his men yelled. "Why did you have to do that?"

The soldier who was standing and facing everyone was none other than Suarez. The huge man stood his ground and stared back at the others, almost daring them to make a move toward him. He wore no armor and his scarlet shirt glimmered in the firelight as if with blood.

"What is happening here?" Padilla asked, knowing all too well the answer to his question.

One of the soldiers stepped forward, a boy of only twenty, pointing out to where the big man stood.

"That bastard did that for no other reason than a lust for killing."

"He bit me, and I will kill anything I wish, man or animal," Suarez said, still looking at the group rather than at his superior officer, shaking the lifeless body of the harmless creature.

"The man is mad, my captain; we must put him down as we would a dog with the foaming sickness," Torrez hissed, stepping closer to Suarez and forgetting his earlier words of restraint. His sword was pointing straight at the big man's chest.

"He bit you by accident; you're the one that pulled the bread away and allowed his teeth to strike your fingers instead," another man said as the others shouted agreement.

"Suarez, you have caused enough trouble and it ends here, now, tonight," Padilla stated flatly and without emotion. He reached over and made his lieutenant lower his sword. "This will be my responsibility; you will stand down, my friend."

"You must not go into armed combat, my captain; we cannot risk losing you. I will do it."

Suarez tossed the dead creature onto the sand, backed up three paces to the water's edge, and slowly drew his sword.

"I will make quick work of anyone that comes for me," he said, slicing the blade through the air.

The rest of the soldiers placed hands on swords or pistols, demonstrating their willingness to dispatch Suarez. They would make sure he brought them no more ill will.

"Stand down, all you men," Padilla said as he advanced, drawing his own thin blade, not removing his eyes from Suarez. "This is your captain's duty."

Suddenly, small explosions of water erupted from the lagoon as dozens of the small creatures burst through to the surface, some clearing the water by two and three feet. They hurriedly swam to the far side of the lagoon, and before the men knew what they were looking at, the fast and agile animals were all scrambling up trees and large bushes on the opposite shore. They jabbered back toward the water they had just exited and then grew suddenly quiet. That was when the men noticed the animal sounds in the deep night had ceased, as if the entire jungle had grown mute while the two Spaniards faced each other.

Suarez had backed farther into the water as he waited for the advance of Padilla. But he had turned at the small creatures' noisy flight from the lagoon.

"Rondo, take five men and follow the shoreline and see what you can see. Something has frightened them," Torrez ordered.

Rondo pointed to five men. They broke free from the group and started to slowly walk down the slim shoreline, buckling their armor and drawing their swords as they did so. Rondo cocked his two pistols and then placed himself at the head of the small band of Spaniards. They walked cautiously, and then they disappeared around some bushes at the turn in the lagoon.

Padilla was as calm as the night around them as he advanced on Suarez. He slowly brought his sword up toward the other man's barrel chest. Suarez smiled and moved deeper into the water while moving his own sword in a slow, deliberate arc, parting the lagoon's surface with a swish of the blade. When he saw how much anger etched the face of Padilla, he backed deeper into the dark water.

The remaining men in camp froze when they heard the large man shout out in terror as he was grabbed from beneath the water. His legs were jerked out from under him so hard that in one moment he was screaming, and in the next he had vanished. Suarez surfaced briefly, splashing and in shock, the whites of his eyes showing brightly, then he was quickly pulled into the lagoon before he could utter a second cry of pain or terror at what was happening. He completely disappeared below the rolling surface. Nothing but bubbles and two quick slashes of his shining sword marked his trail to death's door.

"What in the name of God was that?" Torrez yelled as he ran to the water's edge.

Suddenly the gaping soldiers saw new bubbles and a sharp V-shaped wake along the surface of the water as something else traveled fast toward the far side of the lagoon — toward the spot that Torrez had sent Rondo and the five others. The sounds of splashing and then screams of terror split the quiet night, and then two loud reports followed as Rondo fired his pistols. Then among the screams of men and the dying echo of the gunshots they all heard a sound they would take with them to their graves. The roar was like a deep echo of the worst imaginable enraged demon from their nightmares. The horrid sound reverberated and sent chills down their spine.

The screams of the six Spaniards ended as suddenly as they had begun, and in an instant the night became still once again.

Torrez appeared at the stunned Padilla's side, pressing his armor into his hands. The captain sheathed his sword and slipped the heavy iron onto his back and chest. Then they looked again toward the spot where the men had disappeared just moments before. A dark figure of a man emerged through the bushes and stumbled forward, obviously wounded. Two soldiers ran to him and brought him into the bright circle cast by the firelight. There were deep gouges in the man's face and arms, as if he had been mauled by a tiger. The punctures in his armor were deep and ragged; his left eye was missing. He cried out, claiming for all to hear that the Devil had risen from the water.

Padilla ran over and knelt next to his soldier. He grimaced, as the young man's wounds were some of the worst he had ever seen. The rest of the men turned back toward the lagoon and watched fearfully. The jungle was again quiet around them. The captain heard the man cough out the same words as before, only the ending was different: "The Devil has risen from the water, and he has come for his offering." Then the wounded soldier's eyes were devoid of life, as his pain ended and darkness covered him.

Padilla didn't hesitate in ordering his men to form up. The sentries had entered the campsite with swords drawn and flintlocks aimed. They had lost seven men in as many minutes to something in the lagoon that he cared never to see or hear again. He would leave this place, retreat, and nevermore venture into the jungle. They would return to Pizarro and tell him they were cowards and that he could punish them however he deemed fit; Padilla would gladly suffer anything not to be sent here again.

"We march west tonight, and we stop only when we are under the light of the Lord's sun once again," he announced.

The Devil can have his home, Padilla thought, and he prayed that no other man would ever find this place, for humans were not meant to be here. He would give the map he had made of the valley to Father Corinth and warn him that this was truly the playground of demons.

With the night sentries on the point, Padilla ordered his soldiers forward. But just as they nervously took their first step, the night exploded around them. This time, the murderous animal came at them not from the water, but from the bush. It must have followed the tracks of the soldier who had escaped it. The darkness around the screaming men was rent with the powerful and enraged cry of the beast at it attacked. Padilla felt the warmth of something striking his face and then the coppery taste of blood filled his mouth.

"Captain, into the water while there is time. Fall back, men, into the water and swim for it!" Torrez shouted as he pushed the shocked Padilla into the cool lagoon. "We can gain the trail on the other side."

Padilla was still trying to peer into the blackness as he was pulled away by Torrez. That was when the beast stepped closer to one of the open fire pits and swiped its strangely formed hand at one of the men. The soldier was silent as the claws raked down his face and tore through his chest armor. As the Spaniards watched in horror, the animal was struck from behind with a sword, and then a shot rang out from a pistol. The beast did not slow down, even though Padilla saw the ball strike the animal in the upper chest, slinging scales and red meat into the air. The monster screamed a cry of outrage and quickly reached out to grab and disable the hand that wielded the sword. The animal easily lofted the man over its head and then threw him bodily against one of the large trees as if he weighed no more than a piece of firewood.

Another Spaniard made a break for the trail they had used to enter the valley, and that was when Padilla saw the real speed of the creature. It easily headed off the soldier and attacked from the front, throwing its massive weight against the man and driving him to the ground.

"Look at the size of this devil," Padilla mumbled while Torrez pushed him into deeper water. "It is a man!"

Padilla snapped out of his shock as the cool water closed over his head. He reached for the buckled straps that held his armor in place, and quickly shrugged out of it. The heavy iron was sent to the bottom as Padilla pushed his way to the surface. As his head broke free of the water, he saw Torrez ahead of him swimming for all he was worth for the far side of the lagoon. He started after his lieutenant while the screaming of his remaining men continued on shore.

Padilla began to lose the strength in his arms after ten minutes of swimming blindly across the lagoon. His ears were now filled with his own struggles and the roar of water ahead of him emanating from the waterfall. His arms were flailing and his knee-high boots had filled with water. He was finding it very difficult to keep the momentum needed to propel him forward. As his head dipped below the surface in his fatigue, he started to swallow more and more of the strangely cool and sweet water. He felt himself go under. He thought he heard shouts as he began to give up his struggle and let the pleasant water embrace him.

It was comforting because now he wouldn't have to face Pizarro or any of his men that survived, and he could accompany those that hadn't on their final journey toward forgiveness for what they had wrought on the innocent Sincaro. Captain Padilla even managed a smile as his lungs took in his last breath of not air but water. Suddenly he felt hands grabbing at him from above. Even his beard was pulled on as he was lifted up out of the water. His eyes rolled as he tried to catch one single blessed breath but found his lungs were full.

"Captain, Captain," Torrez shouted.

Padilla felt ground beneath him as he was forcibly rolled over, his back hit as if it were an anvil. He felt his spine pop as he was pushed on heavily. Torrez had dragged him to shore and was trying desperately to expel the water from his lungs.

"Breathe, my captain, don't you leave me here in this black place!" Padilla vomited the now-warm water from his stomach and lungs, and the pain hit him in earnest when he tried to replace the liquid with precious air. He felt his body spasm as his lungs slowly brought in the needed oxygen. A loud moan escaped his shivering lips, then he slowly brought in another breath.

Padilla rolled over and tried to sit up but failed miserably. Other hands quickly grabbed for him and he was lifted to his feet. He looked over and saw that the two soldiers were Juan Navarro, a cook's assistant, and Javier Ramon, a blacksmith. They were only feet from the waterfall. Padilla looked up and saw where the water cascaded from somewhere high above. He coughed, trying to clear his throat of the remaining water he had ingested. Torrez stood on the edge of the small shore, staring out across the lagoon.

"The screaming of our men has stopped," he said without turning as Padilla approached. Together, they gazed at the dwindling fires of their destroyed camp flickering in the darkness across the lagoon.

After a moment, Torrez took his captain by his shoulders and turned him away from the distant scene of destruction. As they walked toward the wall of rock that ascended straight up from the lagoon and bordered the waterfall, Torrez knew they were being watched.

"Look," he softly spoke, not wanting to attract the attention of the other men.

Padilla studied the spot Torrez had indicated. Another statue, here carved into the wall, stared down upon them. It resembled the same beast that had just attacked them, and resembled the two images that guarded the tributary. It had been hidden from their vantage point across the lagoon. This one was larger and it stood alone. How had they missed seeing it during the daylight hours? Padilla didn't know.

They both turned as they heard a loud splash in the water. The noise had come from their destroyed campsite. Both men could see the ripples and the large wake that was streaking toward their side of the lagoon.

"Captain, Lieutenant, there is a cave rising above the waterline under the falls," Navarro said as he approached. "You won't believe it — there are stairs."

Torrez turned to face the sheer cliff in front of them, which held only the carved figure of the animal that was now their god of judgment. Then he looked down the shoreline at the distant jungle. Surely whatever this creature was that was coming after them, it would surface long before they could reach the trees. He looked around frantically and then pushed Navarro forward.

"Take us to this cave, soldier," he shouted, as he pulled Padilla after him.

The three men joined Ramon the blacksmith, who was waving for them to hurry. He had caught sight of the underwater demon as it sped to their side of the lagoon. As they came upon the waterfall the roar drowned out all talk. In vain, Torrez studied the point where the water struck the lagoon. Then he saw it. The cave was just a darker outline against the cliff face, but it was there. It rose about ten feet above the water and then disappeared into the depths. He saw no other choice. He dove headfirst into the water; the others, including Padilla, followed. They had to dive deeply to avoid the crushing rush of the falls, the vortex of which pushed them even farther into the depths as they fought to reach and enter the dark and foreboding cave. As they disappeared from sight, the creature changed its underwater course and swam toward the whitewater of the falls.

Two months later, a lone survivor was saved from the river. At first, the Spaniards who had discovered him thought him to be an Indian, but soon realized the man had been part of Captain Padilla's expedition. The men had struggled to carry the survivor back into Peru but knew they would never make it. Word was sent to Father Corinth; knowing this, the survivor had miraculously clung to life. The man was dying from exposure and a strange sickness the men in camp had never before encountered. His only possession was a book they had mistakenly taken for a Bible, which the survivor held tightly to his injured chest. Every time they tried to relieve him of the book the man would arise like a tiger to protect it. They even tried to pry his fingers from it when he had passed out, but that had proven just as futile.

When Father Corinth arrived at the small outpost with a rank of Pizarro's personal guard, the man was still alive, only he waited for the priest on his deathbed. For hours the lone survivor of the expedition spoke softly with Corinth. The priest listened, never interrupting, while he examined the soldier's wounds and nursed him through the strange sickness. As the man spoke, gasping in inner pain and getting weaker with each word he managed to hiss out through clenched teeth, he reached into his tunic and withdrew two small objects. One was a large golden nugget. The other was a strange green mineral, a chalklike substance imbedded in stone. It was strangely warm to the touch. The soldier pulled Corinth close to him, close enough that the priest could feel his high temperature rising from his face. A dire warning was conveyed by the dying man, barely audible and with fetid breath. Father Corinth wore a handsome cross that was plated with gold not only for beauty but to give its cheap metal base more strength. It was of a sort the church frowned upon as being arrogant, but it was a ceremonial gift his late mother had given to him on the day he took his vows. It was very beautifully engraved and far too large, and she had spent every ounce of her meager savings to present him with it. Corinth took the cross from around his neck and removed the bottom portion. The inside of the pendant was hollow, and he easily slid the small mineral samples into it. He put the end back on the cross and placed it around his neck.

It was long after sunup when Father Corinth finally emerged from the small hut, and with him he carried the book.

"How is he, Father?" one of the soldiers asked. "Is there any news of our friends, is Captain Padilla still alive?"

"The soldier is dead. His name was Ivan Torrez."

"Lieutenant Torrez? We know this man; he looked nothing like him," another soldier said. Many of the soldierly escort had gathered to hear the priest.

"The plague will change a man's features so you would not even recognize your own brother."

The men stepped away in fear. That one word was enough to weaken their knees and make the brave conquerors cringe; they had no idea, but this was another fatal disease entirely.

"What of the expedition, Father? Did he give a location of their whereabouts?"

"Captain Padilla and his men will stay where they are. Get your men ready to break camp, and bury Lieutenant Torrez deep. Honor him; he was a brave man," he said as he bowed his head and crossed himself. The Padilla diary, which contained the unholy route the doomed expedition had charted, was clutched tightly to his chest.

He slowly moved away from the stunned men. The priest knew he would have to either destroy the diary and the map that would again fire the greed of man to follow Padilla's direction, or bury them so deep no one could ever find them. The diary was the only proof of what wonders the captain had found under the falls of that lost lagoon but, because of men like Francisco Pizarro, the contents must never see the light of day. For only death could come to those that ventured into that dark lagoon, and Father Corinth would take it upon himself to make sure the pope sided with his decision.

A few months before the death of Francisco Pizarro, the general ordered one last expedition sent out to try to trace the route of Captain Padilla's ill-fated journey. The Spaniards found only helmets, rusted armor, rotted clothing, and broken swords on a path that stretched for thirty miles along the Amazon, which was clear evidence of a running battle with an enemy that had since disappeared into the jungle. The trail leading to the deep tributary that led to that dark and beautiful lagoon was never found. As for the men of Padilla's brave band, the search party never found a trace of them or the gold they had sought. Pizarro, in what little time remained to him, would continue to lust for El Dorado. But in the end, another generation of explorers and adventurers would have to do the searching.

Rumors of the lost expedition of Captain Padilla would filter down through the years and even a few old artifacts turned up from time to time as the jungle begrudgingly gave up her digested secrets. Whatever lived in that forgotten lagoon would wait patiently for men to come into its realm once again.

Captain Myles Keogh was at the head of troops C, I, and L as they made for the river. Captain Yates had gone with troops E and F to support his assault on the village at a point called Deep Coulee. God only knew the situation with Reno and his companies, and Captain Benteen was still off reconnoitering to the south. He figured Benteen would miss the engagement altogether.

Keogh's orders had been simple: cross the river and attack the northern end of the village. A hundred yards from the edge of the riverbank, they quickly discovered to their horror that what they thought was the end of the enormous Indian encampment was actually its middle. The burly Irish captain called a halt to the charge just as a hundred hostiles came over the top of the riverbank to mix with the already confused column. Amid the initial assault he turned and spurred his large mount back in the direction of the low-slung hills, followed by all three companies. He had failed to see that, downriver, another band of Cheyenne led by the warrior Lame White Man had already swarmed across Medicine Tail Coulee and rushed forward unseen. Keogh belatedly saw that the hostiles had anticipated his retreat route east and cut it off.

As he gave the command to turn south, his companies were hit suddenly from the side of a hill that had hidden another group of Cheyenne. Keogh pulled violently on his reins, but not before six of his troopers in the lead had continued headlong into the advancing ranks of hostiles. The attacking Indians drove his men and their mounts to the ground in a frenzied attack that quickly hid their slaughter in a rising dust cloud. The captain immediately signaled for his three companies to turn to the north, hoping to squeeze his units in between the attacking groups, but immediately saw that there was no clear path away from the Cheyenne assault. To continue going forward would only guarantee being picked off piecemeal, so in the madness of the moment and dictated by their predicament, he ordered his men to dismount — a command of last resort for a cavalry unit, because it would take away the only advantage they had, the quickness of horse. But Keogh had no choice. He remembered a successful dismounted defense at Gettysburg thirteen years before under General Buford; they would hold until relief could come.

As the remains of companies I, L, and C dismounted, arrows and bullets began to find their deadly mark. Keogh pulled his army Colt revolver and started issuing orders to fort up behind whatever they could find. Horses were shot as men threw themselves behind their bulk for protection. Keogh sat tall and purposely in the saddle and fired deliberately at the swarming horde of warriors. He hoped he could inspire his men to gather the courage they would need this dark day. The hostiles were now attacking en masse, no tactic involved other than strike and fall back. Every time they came forward the Indians would leave at least ten of his men either dead or dying.

"Captain, shouldn't we try and reach the general?" his aide called out.

"One spot's as good as the other today; we'll all be eating supper at the same table tonight," he said loudly in his Irish brogue as he fired two quick shots and then jumped from his horse.

Keogh had no hope for relief as he saw farther down the hill that Captain Yates and his men were also in headlong flight. At that point the captain hadn't seen Custer among them; the dust had started to obscure his view. The captain fired his last round at a warrior who could not have been more than thirteen, sending him back three feet when the bullet struck his chest.

While he opened his cartridge pouch to retrieve his last detachable cylinder, a Cheyenne dog soldier, attempting to count coup on him, lunged with a long, red, striped staff. He easily dodged the feathered tip and grabbed for the coup stick, dropping his pistol at the same moment. He pulled the Indian close to him by yanking on the pole and started hitting him with his gauntleted right fist. As he brought up his hand to strike another blow, a bullet struck the warrior in the back of his head. Keogh tossed away the coup stick and then noticed that it had been a nineteen-year-old private that had come to his aide. The captain had just dipped his head in thanks when an arrow pierced the young trooper in the neck and the boy fell. At the same moment, a bullet creased Keogh's forehead through his straw hat and almost knocked him down. The hat flew from his head and was caught in the dust storm being thrown up by the circling Indians.

Captain Keogh shook his head to try to clear his vision, not realizing blood from his head wound had clouded his right eye. He shook his head again as he tried to find his horse, Comanche. The big roan, disciplined as always, stood at the center of the three companies, his reins hanging free. Keogh started walking, struggling to gather his thoughts. Where were they, anyway…the Big… no, the Little Bighorn? Yes, that was it, the Little Bighorn River. He kept the name running through his mind, concentrating hard on those words as he fought to stay conscious, and then he finally reached his horse.

Instead of reaching for Comanche's reins, he started untying the saddlebags. He reached inside and pulled out a long chain from a steel box. He could barely see and tried in vain to wipe the blood from his eye. He felt the chain through his thick gloves and was satisfied at the touch of the Saint Christopher; next to that were his prized papal medals, and then he finally felt the cross. It was the largest of the four objects, a full seven inches long. He slid the chain around his neck and ran his fingers along the cross once again. He hoped the sight of the holy cross and the two medals would keep the hostiles from mutilating his remains. His breath was coming rapidly now and he felt as if he were starting to lose his battle with staying conscious. Comanche jerked and screamed as a bullet went through Keogh's McClellan saddle and struck the animal across its back. The movement spun the captain around, and that was when things seemed to slow to a crawl as if he were only dreaming this disaster.

Down below his engagement and behind a solid wall of swirling dust, a warrior named Crazy Horse and several hundred Sioux were ending a fight that would haunt the U.S. Army for a hundred years and send the great Indian nations into a bleak future.

Before Keogh struck the ground he saw the guidon for his own company falling just as he was. The letter I emblazoned in red struck the grass and lay there. The captain hit the ground as two arrows found the trampled yellow grass next to his head, tossing soil onto his face as he lay blinking against the sun. He didn't even react when a third arrow struck him in his side. He clutched the cross to his chest and prayed and waited.

For ten miles around companies C, I, and L, 265 men of the United States Army's most elite fighting unit, the Seventh Cavalry, met their fate with bullet, lance, and arrow. On a hill overlooking the spot where a foolish man with long yellow hair and a buckskin jacket struck the ground, his swallowtail blue and red flag soon following, Captain Myles Keogh held onto his cross and died. And with his death, he took with him a secret from hundreds of years in the past — lost with the rest of the Seventh in the Valley of the Little Bighorn.