Ник Картер - War from the Clouds

I heard one of the warriors mutter something that sounded like “loco,” but I went on slashing at the cracks. Mortar by the handful fell past me and showered Elicia and the two warriors. I knew I would be able to loosen the mortar and possibly push the square stone out of its socket in the wall, but what then?

Even if there were no guards behind this wall and even if Don Carlos hadn’t yet signalled for the revolution to begin, what chance had one exhausted gringo, a sobbing girl and two disconsolate and disenchanted Indians against the formidable bastion described by Luis Pequeno, the Cuban Marine whose story had set me on this fantastic voyage up through the center of the mountain?

No matter, I thought. One thing at a time. If I were concerned about how to stop Don Carlos once I reached his lair in the clouds, I should have resolved the matter long ago, not now. Now was the time for action, any action, to get out of this dark trap and to do all that was humanly possible to complete the mission.

When Hugo’s thin blade could find no more loose stone and mortar to unseat, I put him back in his sheath and leaned as far away from the square as possible. I put the palms of both hands against the stone and gave a push. It didn’t budge. I pushed harder, grunting like an animal in heat, but the stone was unmovable. I rested, took time to look at my watch — it stood at 8:20 now — and explained to Elicia what I was trying to do, then gave the one final shot of my strength. It still didn’t move. The watch numbers flicked to 8:24. Sweat, spurred by physical exertion and growing panic, mixed with the soot, spider webs and mortar on my face and hands.

I had no energy to give the stone much of a push now. I had used it up. Perhaps a rest of five minutes or so would restore it, but each passing minute meant a greater risk of failure, if we hadn’t already failed.

It was then that I heard the faint clanking sound from behind the stone. I felt the stone move against my chest. I put my palms against it, took a deep breath and willed my strength to return without a proper rest.

I pushed as hard as I could. The stone moved a fraction of an inch and I felt that it wasn’t me that had moved it. Someone was tugging from the other side. I understood the clanking sound then. Don Carlos had undoubtedly fitted the stone with a metal handle of some sort, in case he needed to remove it and use the chimney as an escape route. Someone was in there tugging on that metal handle. That someone was obviously not a friend, but an enemy who had heard me scraping away with Hugo and was curious to see what was happening in the chimney.

Again, I thought, it’s no matter. Friend or foe, I’m coming through.

I heard the clank again, felt the stone start to move. I timed my final push with that, gave it all I had, and the stone popped out of that square like the cork from a bottle of exquisite champagne.

Even as the stone was falling away and I was peering into a dimly-lit chamber beyond, I had Wilhelmina in my hand. The stone plummeted to the floor of the chamber and I saw a short man in monk’s garb scrambling out of its way. He still had his hand on the metal handle he’d been tugging on.

I leaped through the opening and stared at the startled monk. I took a look around and saw that we were in an enormous wine cellar. The monk had let go of the handle and was lying on his backside, staring up with wide eyes at the big pistol in my hand.

“El diablo,” he gasped.

“No,” I said, “not the devil, but somebody just as determined. And if you don’t cooperate right now, my friend, this someone is determined to blow your head off. Tell me, has Don Carlos sent the signal yet?”

I could hear Elicia and the two warriors coming through the hole behind me, and could tell by the monk’s face that they were entering the room. His eyes grew wider, as though he had seen more devils. We must have looked terrifying with our faces, hands and clothing smudged with soot and other assorted debris from the chimney.

“What signal, senor?” the monk asked.

I put the cold muzzle of the luger to his forehead and slid back the ejection chamber. I tightened my finger on the trigger.

“This devil isn’t kidding around, pal,” I said. “You know what signal. I’ll give you one more chance, then I pull the trigger.”

He sweated and squirmed a little, then he seemed to recognize one of the warriors with me. He squinted at the warrior and a smile played at his lips.

“Uturo?” he said.

The warrior nodded. “I am Uturo. Who are you?”

“Sagacio,” the monk said. “I am your father’s brother. I am your uncle.”

“No,” the warrior said. “Sagacio was killed when I was ten years old.”

“So they told you,” the monk said. He was smiling openly now. He started to get up, looked cross-eyed at the business end of Wilhelmina and changed his mind. “I got drunk one night on wine,” he went on, “and fell in with some of our tribe that had already joined Don Carlos and his rabble. When I sobered up, I was their captive. I was brought here a dozen years ago and have been here ever since.”

The warrior studied the chunky monk for a time, then leaned down and took the man’s hand. He slid up the coarse robe and peered at a wide scar just below the biceps. He smiled then and looked at me.

“It is Sagacio. It is my uncle. He got that wound on a boar hunt. I remember it.”

Old Sagacio began to ramble on then, about other mutual memories, but I had to put a stop to it. I had already put the luger in my belt and the old monk had raised from his undignified position, no longer afraid of the devils from the chimney.

“Has Don Carlos sent the signal?” I asked again.

“No,” the monk said, shaking his head. “There is a storm and the entire mountain is covered with clouds. Don Carlos is furious with the weather, even though it is passing to the southwest. The clouds will be gone in a few minutes and he will send the signal then.”

“And what are you doing down here?” I asked, looking around the wine cellar again. “Planning to get drunk again?”

“No, I was sent to fetch more wine for Don Carlos. As I said, he is furious with the storm and has been drinking steadily ever since it started.”

A thought struck me.

“If you came for wine for your master, knowing that he’s furious and will probably be even more pissed off if you don’t hurry, why did you take time to pull on that stone?”

Sagacio looked sheepish, then the look turned to one of shrewdness.

“I have sought escape ever since I was brought here,” he said. “Many of Don Carlos Italla’s earlier followers and all of his captives despise the man now. He is not a man of god, but a man of satan. We all look for ways of escape.”

“And they all know about the sacrificial cave and the legendary chimney?”

“Yes. When we are sent for wine, we each keep trying to pull out that stone. Don Carlos says that the area behind it is inhabited by devils who will cut out our tongues and lead us to hell. Still, we chance it. When I heard you digging, I felt that my chance had come. I pulled and pulled, and it finally came out.”

I had another thought. It was the constant pulling by the monks that had loosened the mortar at the back end of the stone. If not for them, I would never have found those depressions, those squared lines. Such things are not accidents, I realize. Fate, perhaps, but not accidents. Perhaps fate had other good things in store.

“How many of Don Carlos’s people feel the same as you? How many can we count on as allies?”

“Allies in what?” Sagacio asked, his face screwing up with puzzlement.

“We’ve come to stop him,” I said, “to stop the war, to end his reign from this cloudy mountain-top.”