War God: Return of the Plumed Serpent Read online

  Table of Contents

  About the Author

  War God: Return of the Plumed Serpent

  Praise for War God: Nights of the Witch

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Time Frame, Principal Settings and Cast of Characters

  War God and History

  Acknowledgements

  Author photo by Santha Faiia

  About the Author

  Graham Hancock is the author of The Sign and the Seal, Fingerprints of the Gods, The Message of the Sphinx, Heaven’s Mirror, Supernatural and other bestselling investigations of historical mysteries. Written with the same page-turning appeal that has made his non-fiction so popular, the fantasy-adventure, time-slip novel Entangled, published in 2010, was his first work of fiction. The first two novels of the War God trilogy, with their supernatural twist to the epic story of the Spanish conquest of Mexico, followed in 2013 and 2014.

  Hancock’s books have been translated into twenty-seven languages and have sold over nine million copies worldwide.

  His public lectures and broadcasts, including two major TV series, Quest for the Lost Civilisation, and Flooded Kingdoms of the Ice Age, as well as his strong presence on the internet, have further established his reputation as an unconventional thinker who raises controversial questions about humanity’s past.

  Graham Hancock on Facebook:

  www.facebook.com/Author.GrahamHancock

  Graham Hancock on Twitter:

  @Graham__Hancock

  Graham Hancock’s website:

  www.grahamhancock.com

  War God:

  Return of the Plumed Serpent

  The conquistador Hernán Cortés is hell-bent on conquering Mexico for the Aztecs’ gold. Having destroyed the Maya at Potonchan, Cortés now marches on Tenochtitlan, the Golden City of the Aztecs, wrapped in the aura of a returning, vengeful god.

  His small force of just five hundred men will have to defeat the psychotic emperor Moctezuma and the armies of hundreds of thousands he commands. Cortés expects that the warlike Tlascalans, hereditary enemies of the Aztecs, will join him, but instead finds himself locked in a deadly struggle and a fight for his life. Even as Cortés risks all in the bloody campaign against the Tlascalans, he plays mind games with Moctezuma, aiming to dismantle the Aztec emperor’s confidence and defeat him psychologically before ever having to face him on the battlefield.

  The supernatural and compelling rich history combine in this tale of love, brutal courage and triumphs. War God: Return of the Plumed Serpent is a story of staggering magnificence.

  Praise for

  War God: Nights of the Witch

  ‘Five hundred years ago the old Mexican prophecy which announced the return of Quetzalcoatl came true. In an era dominated by human sacrifices and the decadence of a great culture, bearded men, white-faced, from beyond the sea, arrived to impose their law. In this fast-moving, highly recommended novel, Graham Hancock masterfully reconstructs the biggest clash of civilizations ever, revealing aspects that only a genius author could unveil.’

  Javier Sierra, New York Times bestselling author of

  The Secret Supper and The Lost Angel

  ‘The book offers up a heady mix of action, politics, spirituality and the supernatural . . . Convincing fantasy elements and viscerally recreated details keep the narrative charging forward.’

  The Daily Mail

  ‘. . . part historical fact, part fantasy, the effect is as intense as the events themselves. It’s a fascinating read that will have you booking a flight to Mexico long before you finish the book.’

  London Evening Standard

  ‘Interweaving historical fact and vivid fiction, Graham Hancock’s War God is packed full of blood, guts, conflict, sacrifice and witchcraft in the last days of the Aztec empire. The story of the Spanish conquest of Mexico and the downfall of Moctezuma is the perfect (if very gory) distraction from modern life.’

  Wanderlust

  ‘It will have you hyperventilating within minutes . . . Meets all the “thriller” criteria with gusto.’

  Newcastle Journal

  ‘Graham Hancock has, once again, produced a book that entertains as well as educates . . . War God is a rich and deeply involving novel that grips you from the very first page. If you can handle the gruesome detail, then you will devour every page and the end will come too soon, leaving you desperate for book two . . .’

  Sir Read-A-Lot Blog

  WAR GOD

  Return of the Plumed Serpent

  Graham Hancock

  Peach publishing

  Copyright © Graham Hancock 2014

  The right of Graham Hancock to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  This book is sold subject to the condition it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be copied, lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated in print or electronic means without the publisher’s prior consent in any form.

  ISBN 978-1-78036-248-9

  Front cover design and graphics by Luke Hancock

  Except where actual historical events and characters are being described, all situations in this book are fictitious and any resemblance to living persons is purely coincidental.

  Published by

  Peach Publishing

  For Santha

  PART ONE

  20 April 1519–12 May 1519

  Chapter One

  At sea, Gulf of Mexico, Tuesday 20 April 1519

  ‘That lurcher’s growing into a fine, warlike animal,’ said Telmo Vendabal.

  ‘He is, sir,’ Pepillo conceded.

  ‘Strong, by the look of him. What you been feeding him on?’

  ‘Goat’s milk, sir, when I first got him, and now galley scraps.’

  ‘What you calling him?’

  Pepillo shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot. ‘Melchior, sir,’ he mumbled.

  ‘Melchior? After that blackamoor friend of yours who went and got hisself killed?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Pepillo bit his lip and added. ‘He was brave, sir.’

  ‘Aye, brave enough, I suppose. But black as the devil’s own buttocks.’

  A brutal, heavy-set hunchback, Vendabal was the expedition’s chief dog handler. A calculating glint sparked in his small eyes. ‘Think this Melchior’s brave too?’

  Pepillo felt a bead of sweat roll down hi
s brow. It wasn’t because of the sun. ‘I’m sure I don’t know, sir. I’m rearing him as a pet.’

  ‘Pet eh? Pet my arse! No room for pets on a fighting expedition.’ With a sour twist of his mouth, Vendabal dropped to his knees beside the lurcher, a wolfhound-greyhound cross, grasped the pup by the lower jaw, lifted his upper lips and examined his new white teeth. Melchior whined anxiously, attempted to back away and rolled his intelligent amber eyes towards Pepillo in mute appeal as he discovered he was held fast.

  ‘Don’t fret, boy,’ Pepillo said. ‘Stay!’

  Melchior was obviously uncomfortable, but Pepillo was training him to be obedient and he remained still while Vendabal prodded at his mouth and rubbed the filthy thumb of his left hand along the dog’s gums. When the hunchback’s right hand snaked out towards the pup’s hindquarters, however, and attempted to grasp his testicles, Melchior’s nervous whine turned to a menacing growl and his teeth flashed in a sudden bite. Uttering a stream of foul oaths, Vendabal snatched his hand away and dealt Melchior a heavy blow about the head, sending the lurcher yelping and tumbling across the deck, then followed him at a run and aimed a ferocious kick at his ribs, eliciting another agonised yelp.

  Reacting instinctively, Pepillo leapt forward as the dog handler stood poised to deliver a second mighty kick; he tangled his legs and brought him crashing down.

  Very rapidly, a crowd of twenty or more crew and soldiers, jeering and yelling, had gathered between the masts to observe the action while others scurried into the rigging for a better view. Flushed and panting, Vendabal struggled to his feet, hauled Pepillo up by his lapels until their faces almost touched and blasted him with a gale of stinking breath. ‘You little shit,’ he bellowed, ‘your lurcher’s mine. Next battle we fight, he’ll be first out against the enemy.’

  ‘No, sir, please,’ Pepillo begged. ‘Melchior’s not a war dog. He wouldn’t even be alive if you’d had your way. After his dam died in the fighting at Potonchan, you had your men kill all the rest of the litter. You said pups were too much trouble to feed by hand. Don Bernal Díaz told me that, sir. It was he who rescued Melchior.’

  ‘Díaz, eh? So where’s he now when you need him?’

  ‘On Don Pedro de Alvarado’s ship, sir, as you know very well, but he’ll vouch for me when we reach land. Melchior was his gift to me and you can’t take him away!’ Pepillo was feeling stubborn now, anger rising in him, though his feet were off the ground and he was helpless in the hunchback’s iron grip.

  ‘Vouch for you?’ Vendabal’s voice rose almost to a scream. ‘Vouch for you? I’ll show you vouch for you!’ And with that he shifted his stance, still holding Pepillo by the lapels with his left hand while slapping him once, twice, three times across the face with his right. As the fourth blow landed, Pepillo heard a snarl through the ringing in his ears and saw a streak of brindled fur as Melchior launched himself at Vendabal and sank his teeth into the hunchback’s thick, heavily tattooed forearm. At once the grip on Pepillo’s lapels loosened; Pepillo dropped to the deck with a heavy thud and could only watch, dazed, as Vendabal shook Melchior loose, threw the puppy down and loomed over him with murder in his eyes.

  ‘Desist!’

  The voice was thunder. It cut through the excited cries of the spectators, stopping Vendabal in his tracks. ‘Desist, I say!’ All eyes turned to the navigation deck, where Hernán Cortés, captain-general of the expedition, had emerged from his stateroom. Since the slaughter of the Chontal Maya at Potonchan, his rages had become legendary, and it was obvious to Pepillo, who knew him better than most, that his master was in a dark mood. It was never good to awaken him from his customary afternoon siesta, but to awaken him rudely was to risk the worst of his wrath.

  Wearing only a length of colourful native cloth wrapped around his waist, Cortés strode barefoot to the railing at the edge of the navigation deck overlooking the main deck and glared down at Vendabal and Pepillo. ‘What’s the meaning of this?’ he asked.

  ‘Bastard cur bit me,’ complained Vendabal, pointing at Melchior, who stood with hackles raised and bared teeth as though daring him to do his worst.

  Suddenly and surprisingly, Cortés smiled. ‘And I suppose that soft flesh of yours has never felt a dog’s teeth before, Don Telmo? No doubt those scars you carry were left by the talons of jealous lovers.’

  Vendabal looked confused. ‘Of course I’ve been bit before,’ he said truculently. ‘A hundred times! But no dog that bites me gets away without a beating. They have to know who’s master.’

  ‘You’ve already beaten Melchior,’ Pepillo objected. He had picked himself up and now crouched beside his pet. ‘He’s learned his lesson. Look, he’s trembling.’

  It was true, Melchior was trembling, but not with fear, Pepillo thought. A low snarl rumbled in the lurcher’s throat and he seemed ready to leap at Vendabal again.

  ‘Be damned he’s learned his lesson,’ Vendabal roared. ‘That dog needs a whipping. Then he goes in the pack with the others to be trained for war.’

  ‘No,’ Pepillo yelled. ‘He’s mine! You can’t have him.’

  Cortés watched from the navigation deck, his features registering a strange, cruel amusement. ‘The dog stays with my page,’ he said finally. ‘For now.’ He turned his back and began to stroll towards the open door of his stateroom, then added over his shoulder. ‘But whip him, Vendabal. By all means, whip him.’

  Chapter Two

  Tenochtitlan (Mexico City), Wednesday 21 April 1519, late afternoon

  Guatemoc leapt high into the air, all grace and style, and Man-Eater’s blade whistled by harmlessly beneath the soles of his feet. Then, in the same smooth movement, the handsome Mexica prince brought his own weapon down on the crown of his opponent’s head, halting the blow less than a finger’s breadth from its target. ‘You’re dead, Man-Eater,’ Guatemoc drawled. ‘Your skull is cleft in twain. I do believe that’s your brains, scant though they are, lying in the dust before us.’

  Man-Eater was a bad loser. This was the fourth time he’d been spectacularly bested in less than an hour of sparring, and now he growled furiously and attacked again, his blade a blur of rapid movement, too fast for the eye to follow. Yet somehow Guatemoc evaded him, his lean, scarred, heavily muscled body weaving from side to side, ducking and swaying as he retreated before the furious onslaught until suddenly – Tozi could not see it coming – he swivelled, let his opponent slide by, and chopped the edge of his blade into the back of Man-Eater’s thick neck, reducing the force of the blow but yet allowing it to strike home with a loud slap that laid out his friend, face down and inert in the dust.

  Invisible, insubstantial as air, able to pass unseen wherever and whenever she wished, Tozi was the silent and unknown observer of the bout. Indeed, she had observed Guatemoc many times since Moctezuma’s plot to poison him, when she’d used sorcery to save him and to bring him healing for the terrible wounds he’d received in battle against the Tlascalans. It was, she had to admit, most inconvenient that she had fallen in love with this noble prince, nephew of that noxious creature Moctezuma, who for the entire fifteen-year span of Tozi’s life had been enthroned as the Great Speaker of the malevolent empire of the Mexica. But having accepted the truth of her feelings, Tozi supposed she was better able to deal with them.

  Above all else, a dalliance of any kind was out of the question.

  Guatemoc was of the blood royal, while Tozi was a witch and the daughter of a witch. Besides, he was her enemy and the nephew of her enemy. She must use her magic and her wiles to turn him against his uncle and the war god Huitzilopochtli, ‘Hummingbird’, whom his uncle served – either that, or she must bring Guatemoc to the same ruin she planned for Moctezuma.

  Quetzalcoatl, the Plumed Serpent, god of peace, ancient antagonist of Hummingbird, was coming, coming as prophesied in this year One-Reed, to overthrow a cruel king and abolish the war god’s vile cult of human sacrifice forever. Tozi felt a momentary qualm – for her own magical powers, most particularly her ability t
o render herself invisible, had been enhanced by none other than Hummingbird himself when she had stood before his altar of sacrifice. Her friend Malinal, who had stood there with her that night two months before, and who had been freed with her following Hummingbird’s intervention, had seen a terrible danger in this. For if Hummingbird had freed them from sacrifice at the hand of his puppet Moctezuma, then it must mean the war god had a plan for them and, since Hummingbird was a being of pure evil, then it followed that only evil could come of it.

  Tozi had dismissed all such concerns when she’d sent Malinal on her way to the coast to seek out Quetzalcoatl. Certainly there was a plan – a great plan – but it was not of Hummingbird’s making. And certainly she and Malinal had their parts to play. Tozi remembered the words of reassurance she’d spoken to her friend: ‘Moctezuma too is playing his part, and even the wicked and deluded god he serves must play his part.’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Malinal had replied. ‘I don’t understand any of this.’

  ‘You don’t need to understand it, beautiful Malinal. This is the year One-Reed and you just have to play your part … Don’t you see, it’s not an accident that you are of the Chontal Maya and that those who came to herald the return of Quetzalcoatl first appeared in the land of your people, and in Potonchan, the very town where you were born? None of this is an accident, Malinal. That’s why you must go back to Potonchan now, without delay. That’s why you must start your journey at once.’

  And so she had sent Malinal off on a perilous journey to her homeland, and to her family who had sold her into slavery with the Mexica – sent her off to seek out the returning god of peace. Tozi’s magic was strong now, stronger than it had ever been, but still she had no idea what had happened to her friend in the sixty days or more that had passed since then. She could only guess, could only hope, that she was well and that her mission to find Quetzalcoatl, and lead him back to the city of Tenochtitlan to overthrow Moctezuma, had been crowned with success.