"The Elf Queen said that he is trying to get back his lost love."
"Yes. That was first reason. Now I think he is so much twisted with evil and hate I not know. I will try to show you. If you understand him, maybe you can stop." He reached up and put his cold, arthritic hands alongside my face. "I try to show. I not take you out of your body, but I can maybe show you Cursed One's memories."
"Wait. What is your name? The vampire called you Bar Eeka."
"Byreika," he corrected. "Not important who I am. Now shush, is hard to show. Must concentrate."
"Are you a ghost?"
"Ugh. Quiet, Boy. Time is short. Maybe is ghost. I not know." The Old Man squeezed my head. He wore an intense look of concentration.
"What is this place?"
He took one hand away, and brought it back with a surprising slap. It stung.
"Always with the questions. Respect your elders. Now shush!"
The Old Man closed his eyes in concentration. The church and the smoldering town began to darken and fragment. Falling snow froze in midair. The world he had created began to fall apart without his attention. I could see my reflection in his glasses. As I watched, my face changed into someone else.
Confusion, resolving itself into a hazy vision from long ago.
The jungle road was hot. My horse was exhausted by the heat and lathered with foam. My plate was splattered with the blood of my enemies, and my helmet and plume sat heavy on my sweat-drenched brow. The air was thick with smoke and the acrid smell of powder. I rested my battle-ax across my saddle and passed my matchlock to my secondary to be reloaded. Large carrion birds circled overhead, eager to have their chance at the carnage on the jungle road.
My men were following after the routed, scattering enemy, cutting down as many as possible. Worried about possible counterattacks, I signaled my northern mercenary captain to call the men back. When the undergrowth became thick, the advantages of our muskets and plate were negated. The big man spurred his horse forward, shouting for the men to rally at his position.
I dismounted my steed as a prisoner was brought struggling before me. My men shoved him to his knees. The prisoner was obviously a man of some importance, adorned with gold jewelry and wearing complex armor made of hide, and crowned with a helmet constructed from a jaguar's skull. The prisoner babbled in his incoherent pagan language. I took my helmet off and waited patiently for Friar de Sousa.
The priest came. As a man of many letters, he had made a study of the enemy's language, and was able to communicate with them in a very rudimentary fashion. I waited as the priest and the pagan spoke in a mixture of words and hand signals.
"He is a leader of his people. He says that a great ransom will be paid for his return," the priest said. Shots echoed through the jungle as my men happened upon a few other stragglers. "His city is wealthy and the very streets are paved in gold."
That was more like it, for gold was the very essence of this conquest. Legends of the natives' Dorado, their land of endless gold, were what kept my men focused. "Where is his city?" I asked. The priest translated. The prisoner pointed down the road and said something, holding up a pair of fingers.
"Two days' march."
"Excellent… Why take a ransom when you can take the whole city?" The priest understood and stepped away to avoid splattering his robes. I casually raised my ax and brought it swiftly down on my captive's head.
NO!
Calm down, Boy. It is not you. These are Cursed One's memories. You see world from his… how you say… perspective.
But I just killed a man. I couldn't stop it.
No. Cursed One killed him. Killed him five hundred years ago. He is… I think you would say, mean son of bitch. We just observing.
How?
I am attached to him. Hard to explain. I have gone back too far in memory. Must go forward.
The jungle road faded away, only to be replaced with a city of giant stone buildings and massive pyramids. The city was wedged between jungle-covered peaks and surrounded by a swift river. Brilliant scarlet streamers hung above the roads, and trained jungle birds sang from cages hoisted over the intersections. The vision was jerky as the Old Man tried to control what I saw. If I was truly viewing the Cursed One's memories, that would explain why I somehow understood medieval Portuguese.
It was a strange and unnatural sensation, to see through another person's eyes, to smell the odors of a city long since gone, to hear the voices of people dead for hundreds of years, even to feel the sensations through another's skin, like wearing an all-encompassing suit made out of human senses: it was perhaps the strangest thing I had ever experienced. And worst of all, I could hear his thoughts-not truly hear them, but hear them as though they were my own, only not under my control.
The scene was slightly distorted. Less important details were fuzzy or incomplete, leaving gray patches on the otherwise brilliant landscape. Time moved quickly, only to drag to impossible slowness. Sounds were distorted. Conversations of less interest were merely buzzes of background noise. Of course, memory is an imperfect recording device.
The occupants of the city lined the street. Almost all of them bowed in fear. I ordered my men to kill the few who did not bow as a warning to any who would dare challenge their new rulers. My small army had penetrated further into the interior of the continent than any previous conquistadors and I intended to claim the riches of this city as my own. I led my men toward the central palace, lances up, muskets ready. Many of the people averted their eyes rather than see us in our armor and upon our horses. Bah… primitives.
The people of the city were right to be afraid. We had ground their entire army into the earth only a few hours before. I had lost seven men and a few hundred native conscripts. They had lost over a thousand. Their army had been for ceremonial purposes, full of show, and probably good at raiding small villages to take slaves and sacrifices. My army was made up of hardened warriors, good at nothing other than killing and looting. Isolation rather than strength of arms had been this city's real protection, but no longer.
The priests were happy. We were going to send souls to the Lord, one way or the other. My men were content. There was more plunder, gold and women than they could have ever imagined. It was only through fear and loyalty to me that I had kept them from immediately looting the city. My troops worshipped me, and an entire country feared me. It was a good day.
I had a dream. Dare I say a vision? I saw myself riding forth at the head of a great army, conquering all of this land and making it my own. Returning home in glory, not as a failed merchant, not as just one of the many sons of a nobleman, but rather returning home in my own glory and with my own riches. I ordered no messengers to be dispatched to the sea. This was going to be my bounty, and mine alone. King Manuel would learn of this only when I was ready for him to learn.
My troops marched toward the city center, where the largest palace loomed. I called a halt as we entered the central courtyard, and had my men set up the cannon just in case a trap had been prepared, for surely not all of these backwards people could think that we were gods.
The royal entourage met us in the courtyard. They were brilliant in their finery. A contingent of jaguar-helmeted guards surrounded the royal family. Scores of priests and priestesses, wives and concubines, scribes and courtiers filled the square. A man stood at their head. His skin coated in gold dust, his raiment a robe of brilliant feathers, surely this was their king. He was frail and weak with age. The king approached, ahead of his personal bodyguard, and laid his staff upon the ground in front of my horse's shoes. His eyes were the sad eyes of a broken man. I summoned Friar de Sousa to translate.