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  "I do not like this Capitán General. Why give a goddamn Bible to a pagan king? Besides, the priest, Valverde, is an ass. He does not hold our best interest to his bosom."

  I didn't expect the scene to turn ugly so fast. The priest, as well as the rest of the landing party goes down, attacked and killed by Atawallpa's guard.

  "Hernando, get a tender and four of our best men."

  He grabs my arm, staying me. "To what end?"

  "There must be a misunderstanding. I will speak with Atawallpa before more blood is shed."

  A cannon blast from the hills echoes across the water, followed by several more. Pedro, acting against my orders. Dammit. Thick, black smoke obscures his position as iron cannon balls arc away from him toward the Inca. Each ball slams into the ground, tearing through masses of Inca warriors, cutting men in half, ripping off limbs, severing heads.

  Twenty horsemen, forged steel swords at the ready, charge down the slope and across the beach, followed by another twenty on foot. Cannon balls continue falling ahead of them, red splatterings of guts and gore punctuating the beach. Watching Pedro charge toward Atawallpa, Pizarro surges in me, adamant to teach these savages a lesson about resisting the Spanish Empire.

  Hernando's voice breaks the spell of the scene before me. "Francisco, we must fire. Francisco!"

  I turn to Hernando's voice. Overconfidence and something else flits across his eyes. Challenge.

  "They killed our goddamn priest. You must fire, Francisco!"

  I don't want a massacre, but if I'm going to remain the commander, Hernando is right. I cry out, "Fire!"

  Our cannon discharge at once, the ship listing with the big guns' recoil, dark smoke and pungent black powder burning my eyes and throat. We continue our bombardment at will, lofting balls across the water, which splash white or crimson, depending on whether the ball hits sand or flesh. After one last volley, the air clears. Across the water Pedro's men continue their charge toward the lightly-armed Inca.

  "‪¡Para el fuego! Cease Fire!" My command passes through the fleet.

  The cannon go quiet as Pedro and his horsemen collide into Atawallpa's bloodied force, their blades hacking through warriors carrying only clubs and slings. I hear none of the usual clash of metal, only screams of pain and fear filling the air. Pedro crushes men underfoot, fending off spears, hacking arms and heads, slicing his way toward Atawallpa until he pulls his horse to a fevered stop. Inca bodies litter the beach around them.

  His men circle their prize. He looks to me, his sword raised in victory. We have taken Atawallpa captive, but completely destroyed his army–the very thing I wanted to avoid.

  Pedro calls out a command to his men to finish this business, but before he moves to subdue the object of our quest, an odd wind rises beyond the hills. A storm rolling down the mountainside? I turn to shout another command, when the wind grows to a rhythmic thwump, thwump, thwump, like huge birds of prey catching Andean air in their massive feathered wings. An Inca monster has been awakened? Over the crest behind the remnants of the Emperor's force, huge beasts ply the air, thwump, thwump, thwump, a steady drone. For a moment, everyone around me stops to take in a sight like none they have ever seen.

  I can't believe what's coming toward us. Giant floating beasts with cauldrons spewing black smoke fly over the battlefield. Atawallpa has accessed the tech. Pizarro's consciousness chokes back terror. Men on deck fall to their knees, crossing themselves, begging for mercy, while others point to the sky, cursing the flying demonic monsters bearing down on us. What the hell? The Inca have created hot air balloons? Yes, giant balloons from some kind of woven fabric brought together in a triangular shape with reed baskets large enough for a crew of ten. Something juts out the sides. Wings? A version of the Wright brothers' wing extends from each basket's sides, while a rudder, like that of a ship, comes off the stern. A flying balloon is bad enough, but the thwump, thwump comes from a propeller mounted on each basket's bow, cranked by her crew, driving the behemoths through the air. A fiery glow makes the crew look like demons from hell. In the center of each basket, a hearth heats air, which rises into the airship's cloth envelope. Her crew hurl clay globes with large, mounted slingshots. the projectiles bursting into flame as they rush to their targets. A hundred death angels ply the skies, raining hell upon Pedro's men on shore. How can this be? Pizarro's consciousness rages out of my control.

  "Fire! All cannon, fire!"

  The fleet's cannon loft balls skyward, but the projectiles arc below the pagan king's airborne army, crashing through Inca and Spanish flesh alike on shore, their screams reaching out to me across the water. Atawallpa's airborne armada advances toward my fleet. I command every man with a harquebus above deck. Men position themselves along the railings, loading their guns with powder and ball. They heave the weapons up on wooden forks, taking aim at the enemy. With cannon thundering below, my top deck gun men fire, each rifle-like harquebus sending small balls of lead toward the approaching baskets. Damn. The beasts fly too high!

  "Reload and fire. Fire, dammit!"

  Lifting my eyes, I know my command comes too late. Just above our ships’ masts, hoards of Inca warriors drop from their baskets by grass ropes tied to their ankles, deftly slicing the tethers with blades to roll into fighting positions on our decks. Hernando at my side, our swords drawn, we desperately swing our blades at Inca warriors, their blood covering our arms and chests. I look across the fleet. Three ships, their decks in flames, while a fourth, its gunpowder magazine, exploding in a fireball. The blast hurls millions of wood splinters, it’s concussion thudding in my chest.

  I fight to regain control from Pizarro's mind, his adrenalin and fear surging.

  Hernando screams above the cacophony. "Francisco, we must retreat!"

  If we run I may never restore the continuum. Or save Jules. "To where, Hernando? No, we fight."

  "Francisco, we did not count on these demons hurling fire from the sky. We must retreat or all will be lost!"

  Hernando, covered in Inca blood, struggles to keep his calm in the chaos. I can't let him retreat. Without Atawallpa, Jules will be trapped here and the time continuum will be forever altered.

  "We stay. God will not abandon us."

  A fiery ball flies over my shoulder, its heat and flame hissing past me. The object slams into Hernando's chest, hurling him to the deck, flames engulfing his writhing body. His desperate blood-curdling screams and the stench of burning flesh fuels a rage deep within. I turn in time to meet an attacker, driving my sword deep into his chest, twisting the blade, then push the warrior off my steel. Men, Spaniards and Inca, lay dead, cut open, burned alive, all across the deck. My God, what have I done?

  I make my way to the stern when three warriors corner me at the officers’ quarters. Nothing is happening to plan. I raise my sword in anger at my attackers, at whoever has given them this technology, at my failure to make things right.

  "Come on you bastards. Come on!"

  Fiery globes impact the deck, one flying through an open hatch behind them, igniting caches of gunpowder below deck. The explosion slams me through a door and down some steps. For a moment the roaring fury of battle is muffled and my vision blurred. I hear screams, several smaller explosions, and smell burning wood and gunpowder.

  Jules.

  ***

  Addy put me in Pizarro's stateroom to keep me safe, but the odd-looking, hot-air balloons hurling flaming spheres tells me my survival is in my own hands. After what I've heard–the explosions, the screams–Addy probably has died back by now. But if he's still here, I need to be ready. As the ship rumbles with cannon fire, I search the small cabin for a weapon–something hard or sharp or both. Ah! I find a dagger, its sheath hanging from a hook. This will do nicely.

  A Spaniard crashes through the door as an explosion rocks the cabin. By God, if this bastard tries to touch me I'll cut his heart out.

  I hold the blade in my right hand, ready to plunge my dagger into his neck. He's on all fours. Best to cut his
throat now before he stands. Holding the dagger with both hands, I take a deep breath in anticipation of driving it hard into his neck. He turns his head towards me. Pizarro. Addy.

  He raises his arm protectively. "Jules."

  I stop, mid-strike. He's covered in blood and filth, but he still manages a weak smile. "Addy. What's happening?"

  "I don't know. They've got the tech."

  I stagger as another explosion rocks the ship. "Addy, we've got to go. Now!"

  My host's ten year-old body strains, helping him to his feet. We race out the cabin and upward to the deck, now listing to one side, wood splintering around us, our lungs burning from thick black smoke. Two more explosions rock the ship's hull. I take Addy's hand and we leap off the burning deck.

  ***

  Hitting the water, I go under, then make my way to the surface, looking with desperation for her. "Jules!"

  I see the remainder of Pizarro's fleet, four ships in flaming ruins, sinking. No one flails in the water, only pieces of charred wood litter the surface. "Jules!"

  A hand grabs my arm. Jules.

  I reach down, pulling up an Inca warrior, ferocity aflame in his eyes. He clambers up me, his arm locked around my neck, sinking us both in deep waters. I writhe and struggle to break free, but my attacker clearly intends on giving his life to end mine. My lungs burn, my heart pounds. I want to give up, just let die back happen.

  Jules.

  I must keep going. I grab his arm using every last ounce of force I can muster. To my surprise, his arm falls limply away, the water tinged pink. I kick to the surface, breaking through with a huge gulp of air. I hear Kushirimay's voice nearby.

  "Over here, Addy."

  Kushirimay motions to me from a piece of charred oak hull floating in the water a few feet from me. I swim to her, pushing the dead body of my attacker away, a splintered spar in his back. For a ten-year-old, the girl sure knows how to fight. I rest on the floating wood with Kushirimay, catching my breath, and look to shore. Atawallpa's fleet of airships moves toward Pedro and his small force. He and his men are defenseless against the aerial attack, as the great ships hurl fire down on them, destroying cannon, horses, and men. The bombardment lasts only a few minutes, until Pedro stands alone, sword in hand, swearing at the Inca warriors who surround him. His cursing stops, warriors close in, and a single gut wrenching scream rises up.

  "What are we going to do, Addy?"

  The ship is gone, Pizarro's entire force has been destroyed, and we're floating on a piece of wood a few hundred feet from shore. "I guess we go ashore, Jules." Water slaps against us. "You'll be okay. You're his wife, after all."

  "What about you? They'll kill you."

  I try to smile, but know I've failed. "Remember, you have to die to live."

  Jules reaches to touch my face. "If you die back, at least I'll know you're out there in the future. And who knows, maybe you'll figure out another way to bring me back."

  I take her hand, my heart aching. "Jules. No matter what happens to me, you need to live. As long as your host is alive, there's hope."

  ***

  Once we’re on shore, warriors gather Kushirimay, moving her quickly away. The beach is oddly quiet. No cannon. No screaming. Only hundreds upon hundreds of Inca warriors, calm determination in their eyes, holding bows, javelins, maces, clubs and slings. They surround me. Silent.

  I can't die back. Not yet. I pivot to run, warriors parting to allow my passage, the conquistador within me filled with disdain for these pagans, the Inker in me filled with despair for my mission. A warrior stands in the distance some twenty yards away swinging a bolo, three stones, each hanging from a rope, the ropes gathered at one end. I turn, running from him, hoping my path to die back will not be too unimaginably horrible. Whooshwhooshwooshwoosh. The bolo stings as it wraps tight around my ankles, slamming me face first into hard sand. The wind knocked out of me, my head throbs, as the world spins by. I get to my knees, trying to stand, feel a searing pain at the back of my head and then, nothing.

  ***

  I open my eyes, my head throbbing. No die back. I am stripped naked, staked to the ground, a god-awful stench of death heavy in the air. White, billowing clouds lumber across a blue sky. Chanting voices, thousands of voices, accompany a beat of footfalls. At first faint and distant, but now thundering, the footfalls shake the earth beneath me. Am I going to die today? Will they trample me? And what's happened to Jules?

  I hear a language I don't understand. A familiar face appears, Kushirimay—Jules. She's alive! She stands above me, in a red robe of blue with threads of gold woven throughout. To her side stands an older woman, her azure robes covered with gold symbols.

  Jules speaks to her. Those within earshot of her words laugh. The older woman speaks in Spanish, "Kushirimay wants you to know that you look well, you white hairy dog."

  "You speak Spanish."

  "Yes, the god-emperor Pachakutiq has given me the gift."

  "Tell Jul, uh, tell Kushirimay that I've been better."

  "I will. But know this. You are about to be much, much worse."

  The old woman speaks to Jules, who looks to me with fear in her eyes before walking back to the golden litter of her husband, Emperor Atawallpa. They speak briefly, then he calls the oracle to his side. I don't understand the language, but I do understand the argument that has ensued. Kushirimay wants something and the oracle adamantly argues against it, maybe almost with too much enthusiasm. The emperor's voice is harsh and threatening.

  Four warriors walk over to me, cutting the binding at each stake. They haul me to my feet, the searing pain in my head making me almost black out. Across the beach, a pile of dead Spaniards and horses are picked over by gulls and other scavengers. A pole is placed horizontally across my back, my arms wrenched behind me so the crook of each elbow rests on the pole. A warrior binds my wrists to the poles, and ties a noose around my neck. Bound, naked. A pig on a spit, ready for the fire.

  Temple of the Sun

  "I am Governor and Captain General Francesco Pizarro, emissary of his majesty, King Charles I of Spain, Holy Roman Emperor. Untie me, you filthy pagan dogs! Untie me!"

  He lay across a camel-beast, bound hand-and-foot. A man Pizarro considered a savage grabbed a fistful of his hair, lifting his head. The pagan spoke words Pizarro could not understand, then released his grip. Pizarro's face bounced off the beast's side, bits of fur clinging to his dry, cracked lips. I will gain my freedom and slit the throats of these pagan bastards. I swear it!

  Endless days of starvation and thirst passed. A voice, Aa-Dee-Son, haunted him with demonic visions of huge mast-less ships of iron breathing fire and a great iron bird, larger than any fierce Roc, wings spread, roaring above cities whose spires rose to the heavens. His captors kept him weakened, barely alive. The girl, Kushirimay, sometimes smuggled him morsels of food late at night, speaking to the demon plaguing his mind. He tried to speak, but slipped into madness, the demon Aa-Dee-Son ranting from his lips, words only the pagan girl understood. Then, one day, hope arrived. After a morning spent climbing a narrow mountain path, his captors wrenched him from the camel-beast—what the girl called a llama—and lashed him to a tree. The guards busied themselves with other tasks, when a visitor used the distraction to his advantage.

  "Mi hermano, Francisco! ¿Como estas Capitán General?"

  His brother walked toward him, golden armor gleaming, a sword at his side. He looked strong, not the bloodied Hernando, whose flesh burned away from his bones. How can this be? "Hernando…you are in blood."

  "Of course I live, which is more than I can say of you. Why do you let these savages truss you up like an animal for slaughter?" He stood over Pizarro, wagging a finger. "King Charles would not be pleased."

  Pizarro glanced in either direction making sure his rescuer would not be found out. "Hernando, you must help me. Untie my lashings. Together we kill these bastards."

  Hernando laughed, his arm around an Incan whore, one hand slipping down her back. She di
dn't resist, instead, leaning into him, letting her robes fall to the ground.

  "Hernando, help me."

  He thrust into her from behind, the woman facing Pizarro on her hands and knees, her eyes cold and dark, her hot breath lingering on his face, her voice filled with malice. "He is busy, Francisco. You got yourself into this imbroglio, so get yourself out."

  "Hernando." He struggled to rise, but his bindings kept him fast to the tree. "Hernando!"

  A fiery pain flashed across his face. He looked up at the angry stare of an Inca warrior. The whore had vanished and his brother had fled. I will bide my time. Hernando will return and when he does, together we will slay the demon, Aa-Dee-Son and the pagan dog, Atawallpa.

  ***

  We travel for days, maybe weeks. My guards speak of our destination, Q'inti Marka—Machu Picchu. Sometimes I'm conscious and other times I slip away, only to be jarred back to the nightmare I've inked myself into. I've lost track, my body wracked with pain, bleeding sores on my arms where rough flax rope binds me to the wood post. My feet, swollen and bleeding. I walk until I pass out. When I'm no longer able to walk, I ride a llama, my arms and feet tied together under the animal's belly. I'm losing myself, Pizarro's consciousness warring with my own. Sometimes I manage to individuate, but his broken body and raging mind regain control, hurling me back into the dark. I need to find her again. I need to find Jules.

  Someone yanks my head up, shoves a gourd to my dry, parched mouth.

  "Jules? Where is Jules?"

  The hand drops me, my eyes return to the rhythmic dips and turns of the ground below. Sandaled feet walk beside me. I'm so weary, but I can't let Pizarro's consciousness win out or he'll kill us both. If I die back the time shift remains and Jules is lost. I try to keep my eyes open, to stay alert, but as soon as I think I've gained control, my world becomes a blur and darkness once again overtakes me. Hours, days pass. The hot, humid air becomes cool and thin. Rising in altitude.