Quetzalcoatl: Time Stones Book II
By Ian Hunter
Publication Date: 22nd April 2021
Publisher: MVB Marketing- und Verlagsservice des Buchhandels GmbH
Print Length: 277 Pages
Genre: Historical Fantasy
Jessie Mason lives with her nose in the pages of history. But she is discovering that the past is a dangerous place where she doesn't belong, and knowledge alone is not going to save her.
Jessie’s life has become a series of terrible challenges. Now she must lead her friends in the hopeless task Grandfather set them: hunt down and destroy the Time Stones. But her leadership has already failed. Tip has left them and Abe has simply disappeared, while she and Kes are trapped in the heart of an ancient empire in turmoil.
Thrust into a fractured, threatened Mexica nobility, Jessie is immersed in a way of life, fascinating and disturbing in equal measure, yet powerless before the approaching Conquistadors and the impending clash of cultures.
Even as the fabulous city of Tenochtitlan descends into savage violence, Jessie’s determination to succeed is undiminished. But with world history taking a new, bloody direction before her, she is finally forced to decide which is more important: continuing the task or simply surviving.
Praise:
“Quetzalcoatl (Time Stones Book II) by Ian Hunter is a tautly gripping novel that is written with a sensitivity to the era it depicts, but it is also a story packed with adventure and magic. Hunter’s vivacious storytelling made this novel impossible to put down. It is a story that has been penned with an impressive sweep and brilliance.” The Coffee Pot Book Club
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Author Bio:
Books have been an important part of my life as long as I can remember, and at 54 years old, that’s a lot of books. My earliest memories of reading are CS Lewis’, “The Horse and His Boy” – by far the best of the Narnia books, the Adventures series by Willard Price, and “Goalkeepers are Different” by sports journalist Brian Glanville. An eclectic mix. My first English teacher was surprised to hear that I was reading, Le Carré, Ken Follett, Nevil Shute and “All the Presidents’ Men” by Woodward and Bernstein at the age of 12. I was simply picking up the books my father had finished.
School syllabus threw up the usual suspects – Shakespeare, Chaucer, Dickens, Hardy, “To Kill a Mockingbird” – which I have reread often, and others I don’t immediately recall. By “A” level study, my then English teachers were pulling their hair out at my “perverse waste of talent” – I still have the report card! But I did manage a pass.
During a 35 year career, briefly in Banking and then in IT, I managed to find time, with unfailing family support, to study another lifelong passion, graduating with an Open University Bachelors’ degree in History in 2002. This fascination with all things historical inspired me to begin the Time Stones series. There is so much to our human past, and so many differing views on what is the greatest, and often the saddest, most tragic story. I decided I wanted to write about it; to shine a small light on those, sometimes pivotal stories, which are less frequently mentioned.
In 1995, my wife, Michelle, and I moved from England to southern Germany, where we still live, with our two children, one cat, and, when she pays us a visit, one chocolate labrador. I have been fortunate that I could satisfy another wish, to travel as widely as possible and see as much of our world as I can. Destinations usually include places of historic and archaeological interest, mixed with a large helping of sun, sea and sand for my wife’s peace of mind.
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Advancing
slowly along the avenue was a procession of splendour and colour. Barefooted,
in a bright red cloak and tunic, a man walked at its head, holding a golden
staff in his outstretched arm. Following him were a dozen drab road sweepers.
Jessie chuckled quietly. It didn’t seem to register that the dust and dirt they
were sweeping, ended up in the faces of the kneeling crowd, who evidently
weren’t allowed to move or protest. The street sweepers moved along, but
Jessie’s attention had already been grabbed by what followed. She stared,
enthralled, at the starburst headdresses of gold, flamboyant cloaks and tunics
with dazzling feather work and animal furs. There was more gold: the greaves on
their shins, armlets and bracelets, labrets in their lips, nose and ear rings.
The lords, the princes, the kings of the empire, blinked yellow gold and they
walked barefoot, in two silent, dignified columns, with their emperor Moctezuma
between them. He sat upon a litter of silver and gold, studded with precious
stones, and decorated with flowers. Four bearers, one on each corner, great
nobles in their finest clothes and jewels, bore the emperor and his throne upon
their shoulders. But all Jessie could see of the great man were his golden
sandals and bare shins. A shimmering canopy of feathers shielded him from the
sun, like one huge wing of the most fabulous bird. The litter swayed gently in
time to the steps of the bearers, and the feathers gleamed green, gold and
blue, outshining the manufactured decoration of the nobles.
The
procession passed, the onlookers got to their feet and whispering voices
steadily grew in volume.
“Look,”
Jessie pointed to the lake, where an armada of canoes jostled for space along
the causeway.
The
leading conquistadors, four armoured horsemen, with banners on their lances,
were almost at the end of the causeway. The two groups closed on each other
until stately Mexica royalty and hardened Spanish adventurers finally came face
to face on the edge of the island. It was still too far and too crowded to see
anything of the meeting from the rooftop. Jessie drummed her fingers on the
wall impatiently. She guessed there were words of welcome, perhaps gifts to be
exchanged. Eventually, after what felt like an interminable time for
pleasantries, the emperor’s litter rose again, turned, and with the two columns
of nobles reformed, began its return journey. The crowd knelt once again. But
Moctezuma’s passing wasn’t greeted by the silence it had commanded earlier. A
low whisper continued and bowed heads turned to view the strange sights which
followed.
Large,
powerful dogs led the Spanish into Tenochtitlan. They crossed and re-crossed
the street, investigating the unfamiliar scents. One barked, another growled,
and the startled spectators edged back as far as the surrounding throng
allowed.
Horseshoes
rang sharp and loud, on the flagstones.
“What
are they?” Tonauac whispered fearfully at her shoulder, hands over his ears.
The
armour-clad horses were nervous with the tightly packed crowds on both sides.
Their flanks were flecked with sweat and more than one snapped and snorted at
the alarmed Mexicans.
“Those
are horses,” Jessie replied.
The
conquistadors had to fight to control their mounts, which they did with calm,
confident authority. Jessie remembered Tip describing her first experience of
horses. She appreciated how terrifying they must seem, and how astonished they
would be to see the horses controlled so skilfully. Perhaps, she thought,
command over these fearsome beasts was precisely the impression the Spanish
wished to convey.
A
single standard bearer followed. He swung the standard to the left and right,
so the large white cloth snapped loudly open, before he launched it high and
caught it cleanly when it fell back. He tossed it from left hand to right hand,
and back again, and each time, the banner unfurled to display the large red
cross of St James above an appreciative audience.
In
steel helmets, shining breast plates, and drawn swords, a company of foot
soldiers followed the banner. They marched eight abreast, crowding the avenue
from one side to the other. Jessie saw scrapes and dents in their cuirass chest
armour, repaired clothing still stained with the blood of battle, and bandages
covering healing wounds. Unkempt hair and scruffy beards couldn’t hide their
gaunt faces. But their eyes were clear, fixed and determined. They were rough,
experienced fighters, and the silence which descended as they passed suggested
the crowded spectators recognized the nature of these unwelcome visitors.
“What
is this they wear?” Tonauac whispered. “It shines like silver.”
“Steel,”
Jessie answered. “Much harder and sharper than silver.”
Another
squadron of horses clattered past with jingling harness. The riders had steel
helmets but dressed in simple shirts and jerkins of padded cotton. Each carried
a long, steel tipped lance. Then came the last of the infantry, with crossbows,
swords and muskets. Jessie noticed the conquistadors ignored the crowd who had
come out to see them. She’d not seen any wave, not one gesture of greeting.
Their attention was instead fixed on the buildings, the side streets and the
canals: wary and on their guard.
A
final group of horsemen brought up the rear. Alone, at the head, was a rider
Jessie knew, beyond doubt, was Malinche: Hernan Cortés. It wasn’t the gold
chain and medal which hung round his neck, or the gold tracing which decorated
his armour, or that his horse’s steel skirts were more brightly polished. He
was unremarkable in appearance, medium brown hair, minimal red-tinged beard and
average height. It was the smile he wore, a smile of satisfaction, of success,
which he bestowed upon the crowd with friendly confidence. Cortés engaged with
the crowds as none of the others had. He was a leader, and he had accomplished
his goal.
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