“No,” Talu said, shaking his head.
Neil felt a great disappointment wash through his body. No Kukulcan. A time trip wasted.
“We are about to pray,” Talu said.
Neil looked out over the field where the laborers stood at attention, their eyes glued to the sky. Talu touched his hand to his forehead, then lifted his hand to the sky.
His voice rolled from his throat like a rich peal of thunder.
“Oh, god,” he intoned, “my mother, my father, Yumil Kaxob, lord forest, be patient with me, for I am about to do as my fathers have ever done.”
A Maya standing near Talu began to burn copal incense in a large cup. Talu took the cup and held it to the sky.
“Now I make my offering to you that you may know that I am about to trouble your very soul, but suffer it, I pray you.
“I am about to dirty you-to destroy your beauty- I am going to work you that I may obtain my daily food. I pray you suffer no animal to attack me nor snake to bite me. Permit not the scorpion or wasp to sting me. Bid the trees that they fall not upon me.
“And suffer not the spear or knife to cut me, for with all my heart I am about to work you.”
He touched his forehead again, and the men in the fields did the same. They stood erect for a moment, the silence covering the land like a warm, heavy blanket. And then they began to work, one man walking with a stick and poking holes into the prepared field, the other following behind with seeds which he dropped into the holes.
“The gods will be good,” Talu said, looking out over the fields, and watching the teams of Mayas walking rapidly along, sowing the land. “And soon you will be able to go home.”
“Amen,” Neil muttered under his breath.
They burst into his room that night, Olaf leading three Norsemen and a handful of Mayas.
Olaf seized Neil by his shirt front and yanked him to his feet. Neil shook his head, trying to ward off the sleep that still lurked behind his eyes.
There was no light in the room. The moon cast its dim rays through the window, and long shadows danced on the wall.
“Where is he?” Olaf demanded, his fist tightening in Neil’s shirt.
“Who?” Neil asked, glancing from face to face, hard, drawn, desperate. Weapons were out, ready to do murder. The cards were on the table, and Olaf was making his play.
“Erik!” Olaf said. He spit at Neil’s feet. “Our proud captain. Where is he?”
“I don’t know,” Neil said, looking around the stone chamber.
“We are sailing,” Olaf boasted, “as soon as we get the food we need.”
“You can’t…” Neil started.
Olaf’s open hand slashed across his face, and Neil tasted blood in his mouth.
“But before we leave,” Olaf went on, “there are three people to dispose of: Erik, your friend, and you.”
Neil lashed out with his fist, reaching for the point of Olaf’s jaw.
The sword shaft came down with blinding speed, crushing against the base of his skull. He felt the strength drain out of his body, struggled to keep his feet for an instant, and then toppled to the stone, waves of blackness smothering his senses.
Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick.
Blackness.
Tick. Tick.
Immense black walls, leaning sideways, about to topple.
Tick.
Neil stirred, his eyes fluttering open. He lay like a stone, heavy, solid, incapable of moving a muscle.
There was a ticking near his left ear. On and on, relentless. Tick, tick, tick, in the blackness.
He moved his head a little and the ticking grew softer. Tiredly, he dropped his head again. The ticking increased in volume, seeming to be right inside his head now, louder and louder.
He opened his eyes wide and stared around the chamber. He was lying flat on his stomach, his head resting on his left arm.
The ticking went on.
He realized, suddenly, that he had his ear pressed to his wrist watch. He moved his arm and the ticking stopped. In the darkness he looked at the luminous face of his watch. Twenty minutes to one.
He sat up and rubbed his eyes, looking around the chamber for Dave and…
Erik!
A wave of remembrance splashed into his mind. Olaf had been here. He was raiding the storehouse! And he was going to kill Erik!
Neil jumped to his feet and sprinted for the door. He leaped down the steps, stumbling once, picking himself up, and running onward.
The storehouse! That’s where they’d be.
He stopped momentarily, his head twisting from side to side in panic as he tried to determine his surroundings.
To the left. The storehouse was to the left.
Like a worried ant, Neil spurted off to his left. The streets were deserted. Night hung over Chichen-Itza like an inky cloak. The storehouse loomed ahead on its earthen platform, silhouetted against the moon.
Neil started up the steps, two at a time, his breath raging in his lungs. At the top of the steps he found the two soldiers sprawled out. One had a dagger jutting out of his chest at a curious angle. The other’s head had been split down the middle.
Neil’s heart leaped into his throat. Quickly he darted inside the building.