War God by Graham Hancock Page A

Guatemoc to use his superior height and weight to bear down on the fulcrum of the two blades, wanting him to focus his mind there. He waited … waited … until he felt the point of balance shift, then abruptly swept his own blade clear, letting the big man’s momentum carry him forward and down. Guatemoc rolled as he hit the ground, bounded back to his feet and came circling in again, but he was slower than before, blood was streaming from the wound in his side and he seemed to notice the injury for the first time.
    Did he still seriously imagine he was going to take a captive here?
    Guatemoc lunged and Shikotenka blocked, slid his left leg forward, trapped Guatemoc’s right knee behind his left knee, sliced the blade of his knife thrice through the soft flesh of Guatemoc’s right forearm to disable his knife hand and in a flurry of activity stabbed him in the chest and throat five times in rapid succession – Tac! Tac! Tac! Tac! Tac!
    In an instant the bottom of the hollow had become a butcher’s shambles and Guatemoc was on his back on the grass.
    A bright bubble of blood at the corner of his mouth, the faint rise and fall of his chest and the pulse of the big artery in his neck – miraculously still intact – were evidence that life still clung to his body.
    Shikotenka stooped, knife in hand, whispering a brief prayer of gratitude that his enemy’s heart still beat. Ilamatecuhtli, aged goddess of the earth and death, required no temple or idol and would surely be pleased to receive such an exalted offering.
    True the victim was no longer in perfect physical condition …
    But while he lived he could be sacrificed.
    Like the helpless Tlascalans sacrificed this morning. The smell of their blood still lingered on Guatemoc’s failing breath.
    Cold, implacable rage seized Shikotenka as he remembered the slaughter and his impotence as he witnessed it. He positioned himself to split the prince’s breastbone, raised his knife and was about to make the first deep incision when a wet, choking rattle rose in Guatemoc’s throat, a great convulsion shook his body and his heels drummed out a furious tattoo on the ground. Blood spewed from his mouth and, with a final hideous groan, his breathing ceased, the pulse of the artery in his neck slowed and stopped and the spirit left him.
    Unbelievable! Even in defeat the strutting Mexica had found a way to escape the rightful vengeance of Tlascala! It would have been justice to tear his palpitating heart from his chest, but now it was too late.
    One could not meaningfully sacrifice the dead.
    Keeping his knife in his fist, Shikotenka dropped to his haunches while he decided what to do. The thought occurred to him that he might cut out Guatemoc’s heart anyway and leave it on the grass beside his corpse. It would send a potent message to Moctezuma of Tlascalan contempt. There was a risk the body would be found in the coming hours, putting the Mexica army on high alert with potentially disastrous consequences for tonight’s raid, but that risk would be there whatever Shikotenka did. With so much blood about already it would be pointless to try to hide the body, so he might as well have the pleasure of inflicting this final humiliation upon it.
    Again he raised his knife, and again lowered it.
    The problem was he found no pleasure at all in the prospect of further humiliating Guatemoc.
    Quite the opposite.
    As he looked down at the still, broken corpse of the prince, his handsome face peaceful and almost boyish in death, Shikotenka realised that what he felt was …
    This could be my brother.
    This could be my friend.
    To be sure, Guatemoc was Mexica, and belonged to the family of the hated Speaker. That was his birth. That was his fate. But he had also shown courage, chivalry, intelligence and ingenuity and had been, in his own way, amusing.
    He’d not been as good a knife fighter as he’d imagined, though.
    With a grunt of displeasure, Shikotenka stood, cast around and snatched