The journey is long and tiresome, but the only thing that drives me forward is knowing how urgent the matter at Analoixan is to the future of Pachil. The Auilqa warriors identify a point in the mighty Maiu Atiniuq that is the narrowest and begin constructing makeshift rafts to get us across. It¡¯s a laborious task that takes nearly two days. Yet the Auilqa are diligent, ceaseless workers, toiling from dawn until dusk. Working together, we¡¯re able to cross the great river without much disruption or incident, and I am impressed at the efficiency of these men and women.
After a short while, my breath hitches, caught in the grip of sudden emotion at the sight. A sizable village, perhaps as grand as Haqiliqa, has been laid to waste. The ruins aren¡¯t smoldering, suggesting it has been this way for some time. Yet overgrowth hasn¡¯t settled in, and much of what remains are the bones of a desolate town. Splintered support beams are strewn about, many singed. Nearly every home and building is leveled, with the acrid stench of rotting corpses lingering in the air from the innumerable skeletal remains littering the paths.
Although the Auilqa and Sanqo warriors remain stoic, Paxilche glumly surveys the scene. The overwhelming loss of life nearly brings him to tears. He clutches Ridgebreaker tightly, determined to seek revenge on whomever caused this destruction. The burn markings everywhere clearly tell the story of who is responsible. It¡¯s a grim reminder of what we¡¯re likely to face.
We press on, and after traversing the Ulxa jungles for days, the landscape changes abruptly. As we push forward, the oppressive humidity that clung to my skin like a second, sweat-soaked layer begins to fade. There¡¯s a crispness to the air that invigorates my lungs with each breath. The dense canopy of the jungle that seemingly swallowed the sky thins out, allowing shafts of sunlight to pierce through more freely. The music of unseen creatures grows quieter, the chittering more sparse and subdued. The rioting underbrush of ferns and flowering plants gives way to grasslands and scattered trees. It¡¯s as if we¡¯ve stepped through an unseen barrier, leaving the throbbing heart of the jungle behind to enter a realm of open skies and gentle winds. The transition is so sudden, so stark, it¡¯s like waking from a dream into a different world entirely. From what Saqatli has told me through our shared connection via Noch, the Auilqa believe the great Ulxa capital, Analoixan, is near.
Stolen story; please report.
To ease my wary mind, I decide to ask Saqatli some questions about his homeland. Recalling the stone structure at the center of the chamber leading to the throne room, I ask him through our shared thoughts what that statue signifies. At first, he looks confused, uncertain what I could be describing. Then, it suddenly strikes him.
¡°Ah, the calendar!¡± I hear his excited voice echo within my mind. ¡°My people use it to track the passage of time.¡±
My curiosity is piqued. ¡°How are you capable of doing so through such a device?¡±
Saqatli frowns. ¡°I¡¯m not entirely certain. But my father once told me it¡¯s how our rulers and elders knew when it was time for something, like when to harvest, or when the celestial events were occurring.¡±
¡°All through that mechanism? It sounds impressive!¡± I state. ¡°Most factions in Pachil merely determine it¡¯s time to harvest when the weather turns, not through the stars in the sky.¡±
¡°Oh, yes, we know dozens of constellations!¡± I hear him exclaim. ¡°Depending on where they are in the sky, that tells us the month.¡±
Saqatli uses many words that I don¡¯t quite understand, yet using the stars to tell time makes complete sense to me. The Sanqo use them to navigate, so why couldn¡¯t we indicate the passage of time? It makes so much sense! I¡¯m fascinated by the ingenuity of these people, a faction everyone else has immediately cast as savage or uncivilized. With their vibrant displays on their perimeter walls, and their ability to harness the nature of the jungle around them, it¡¯s evident to me that there is more to the Auilqa than outsiders are aware.
There¡¯s a nagging feeling tugging at me, wanting to inquire about the encounter at Qasiunqa. I have a pressing need to express my sympathy for the boy, to let him know that he¡¯s one of us. Is the time to do so right? He seems happy, something I don¡¯t want to ruin by broaching a difficult subject. I resolve there is never a good time to engage in such a conversation, so I should talk to him now, while I have the chance. Yet, just as I¡¯m about to speak, a world-quaking tremor rumbles throughout the sparse forest, jostling us off balance.
Far off, beyond the swaying branches and the curtain of mist that clings to the ground, a cacophony rises?¡ª?the muffled sounds of war. The clang of metal against metal, the thud of spears against shields, and the distant roar of voices locked in battle seep through the air, mingling with the rustle of leaves underfoot. My heart quickens, syncing with the rhythm of the urgent and foreboding drums I can just barely hear. As we step closer, the wind carries the scent of smoke and the metallic tang of blood. The barely discernible cries of the fallen tug at my resolve, and I find myself caught in the suspense of the unseen clash.
¡°It has already begun,¡± I say morosely. ¡°We may be too late.¡±
¡°We can¡¯t think like that,¡± Paxilche charges. ¡°The battle still rages. If anything, we may be just in time.¡±
Paxilche approaches Saqatli and switches his gaze between the young boy and the ocelot beside him. In an uneasy manner, I hear him asking the two, ¡°What¡¯s the Auilqa way of stirring these warriors into action?¡±
At first, the two look at him, perplexed. But after a moment, Saqatli appears to understand and mutters something that resonates within my mind.
¡°Yaotl techiuh,¡± the meek boy¡¯s voice says. Noch stares at him as if he¡¯s said something peculiar, but Saqatli clarifies. ¡°I¡¯ve heard our warriors speak something similar to it before a hunt or conflict. It means ¡®lead against the enemy¡¯, but our warriors understand it to mean a battle is starting.¡±
Paxilche tests out the words, his mouth finding it difficult to speak the foreign tongue. Noch looks unamused, but that¡¯s likely a permanent expression, all things considered. He strides up to the Auilqa warriors, masking his nervousness as he lifts up his chin and looks out among those gathered. All warriors?¡ª?from Auilqa to Sanqo to Qiapu?¡ª?await his speech and direction.
¡°Proud warriors,¡± he begins, ¡°today, we fight for the honor of our people and the future of our children. Let the echoes of our courage awaken the spirits of the sun and the sky, guiding our path to victory. Yaotl techiuh!¡±
Initially, the Auilqa warriors exchange bewildered looks with one another. But at the sound of those final two words, a fierce determination washes over each of their faces. Loud, intense shouts erupt as the Auilqa raise their spears to the sky. Seeing this, Pomaqli and the Sanqo grin widely, relishing in the opportunity to fight alongside these ferocious and impassioned warriors.
The men and women stampede through the grasslands like a squadron of peccaries, charging toward the sounds of battle. Sprinting at full speed, they move swiftly like the winds of an impending storm. I¡¯m caught by surprise as they leave me behind in their haste, and I take off chasing after them. They move at a blistering pace, leaving a trail of bent and broken blades of grass in their wake.
As the sounds of war grow closer, fire flares up above the skyline, arching downward until it¡¯s followed by a thunderous boom. Shouts and screams sporadically burst in the distance. A wave of nervous energy sweeps through me, coursing through my veins. When more flames soar through the sky, I know it can mean only one thing: the Eye in the Flame are present.
There stands numerous warriors, clad in long cloaks of red and black that drape over a single shoulder, covering a skin-tight garment that runs from neck to toe. The outfit contains either spots or luminescent scales that shimmer from the flames illuminating the battleground. They swing long, wooden weapons at their enemies?¡ª?long axes and maces with heads made from bronze, wooden paddles with multiple obsidian blades embedded into the sides, obsidian-tipped spears, and clubs with flint or obsidian studs. From atop a large wall made from jagged wooden supports which surrounds the perimeter of a city, men and women loose arrows down onto the battle, while others sling tiny flint arrowheads. Those below hurtle spears at the approaching cultists using devices or mechanisms that effectively extend the length of their arms, launching spears fields away.
Unguided, the Auilqa begin rushing after the Eye in the Flame, chucking their spears at the cultists, then unsheathing swords as they race at their foe. The warriors slice through scores of the cultists like clearing vines from the jungle, drenching the ashen gray robes with the crimson of their victim¡¯s blood. Not wanting to be left out of the fight, my Sanqo compatriots dash over, swinging their weapons down upon the enemy.
Another crash, this time a tremendous ball of flame collides with the side of the perimeter wall. My stomach is sent plummeting as the grizzly scene appears before me. The wooden structure rapidly catches fire, the flames surging upward and illuminating the area in a blindingly bright light. Men and women hurry away or leap from the wall, toppling to their fate. More yells and shrieks flare up as the warriors desperately search for a way to extinguish the fire.
Beside the city, a great lake nestles among the nearby hills. It¡¯s located a fair distance away, perhaps too far for me to manipulate from here. I search the area for more water, yet none can be found. Panic seeps into my being, and I feel helpless as I watch the wall, the only means separating the city from the cultists¡¯ terrible onslaught, start to wither away as ash floats about the air like snowflakes from early winter.
As the voracious orange flames claw at the city¡¯s ancient walls, I catch sight of Paxilche. Gripped by determination and gnawing frustration, he stands apart, eyes closed and hands raised towards the smoke-choked sky. He murmurs something, words lost to the roar of fire and conflict. When nothing happens right away, his brows knit tighter in concentration. Then, almost reluctantly, the air begins to stir.
A tentative breeze whisks through the battlefield, then a sudden smattering of dark and brooding clouds coalesces above. Yet their promise of rain hangs in uncertain balance. Paxilche¡¯s efforts yield sporadic droplets that land mockingly on the flames without quenching their hunger. He grunts, and the sky responds with a flicker of lightning, more dramatic in its appearance than in any tangible aid it offers. The rain intensifies in patches, extinguishing a few tongues of fire only for others to leap up elsewhere in defiance.
At the sight of him, I¡¯m torn between admiration for his bravery and a pang of helplessness at his plight. As the fire continues to rage, Paxilche¡¯s intermittent downpours feel akin to tears shed in vain against the inferno¡¯s might. His frustration mounts with each failed attempt to summon a deluge.
I hurry over to him, clasping his hands in mine. ¡°One must be grounded with the world,¡± I warn. ¡°It mustn¡¯t come from a place of anger or hatred, but from a peaceful, wholesome connection.¡±
¡°But the Eye in the Flame are vile serpents!¡± he exclaims. ¡°Look what they¡¯re doing to Analoixan!¡±
¡°I understand,¡± I say calmly. ¡°What they¡¯re doing is sinister. However, one mustn¡¯t let rage dictate one¡¯s connection to Pachil. Nothing good comes from such a place. Be in harmony with the environment, and the result will be more successful.¡±
I recite the mantra from my morning ritual, hoping to center his focus. I take deep, controlled breaths, and Paxilche mimics my actions. The adrenaline rushing through him slowly begins to subside, and he no longer shivers with fury. When his brows cease to be furrowed, I gently instruct him, ¡°Try now, staying composed.¡±
With a few more deep breaths, Paxilche casts his hands toward the sky. His eyes are closed, no longer pressed tightly, but instead as if he attempts to drift off into a peaceful sleep. It¡¯s then that the dark clouds, once swirling and ominous, begin to collect over the battlefield. The rain intensifies, falling more steadily as the ground around us gradually becomes soaked and forms puddles of mud. The rainstorm grows more steady, and suddenly, the flames consuming the walls fade into glowing embers, then fall dormant.
As he slowly opens his eyes, a smile creeps onto the corners of his mouth. Thunder rumbles overhead, and a mischievous glint glimmers in Paxilche¡¯s eyes. Though my heart began to fill with warmth initially upon seeing his success, a jolt of fear strikes me where I stand. A shadow lurks deep within him, a desire for justice that twists into forms unjust, revealing a darkness eager to escape its confines.
Before I can confront him about this, Paxilche takes off, running toward the fracas. He skids to a halt a distance away from the combatants, then thrusts his arms to the sky. The rain becomes more torrential, and a swirling wind kicks up debris. I reach out my hand. Before I can shout to him, plead with him to stop, lightning surges from the blackened clouds, crackling down to the field and striking with reckless abandon. Combatants, both Auilqa and Eye in the Flame, tumble to the ground as bolts course through their bodies. Those unfortunate to be standing nearby stumble after being shocked by the charge of energy that fizzles around the site of impact.
A blur aggressively tackles Paxilche to the ground, crumpling him into a heap. When the person pulls themselves up, I notice Pomaqli stands over his compatriot, furious. ¡°By the forge, Paxilche!¡± he scolds. ¡°What were you thinking!¡±
¡°I was putting an end to the threat!¡± Paxilche responds.
¡°You are the threat,¡± Pomaqli charges. ¡°You¡¯re doing just as much harm to our warriors as you are theirs! It¡¯s madness!¡±
¡°I¡¯m doing what must be done!¡± he exclaims. ¡°They¡¯re all savages cut from similar cloth! I¡¯m doing Pachil a service!¡±
In the blink of an eye, Pomaqli crashes down onto Paxilche with a severe blow to the head, knocking him out cold. His chest heaving, Pomaqli tilts his head to look at me from the corner of his eye.
¡°The boy is not ready,¡± he scowls. ¡°Whatever it is you think you¡¯re doing, stop.¡±
He jogs back into the fray, sword in hand, before I can respond. My heart aches at Paxilche¡¯s misguided efforts. Pomaqli¡¯s observation is correct?¡ª?Paxilche is not ready. But how does one calm the waters that yearn to become a tempest? You cannot ask the river to flow backward.
The air is thick with the smell of rain-soaked ashes. The recent downpour barely quenches the fires that the Eye in the Flame have reignited and set ablaze around Analoixan¡¯s walls. Just as we begin to believe the rain might give us the upper hand, I spot a circle of people donning red robes in the distance. With their hands raised towards the dark, swirling sky, sorcerers of the Eye in the Flame gather. Their chants rise above the clamor of battle in a sinister cadence that sends shivers down my spine.
I try to alert anyone to their presence, but my pleas are too late. Fire erupts from the ground before them, and from these fiery maws emerge creatures of nightmare: Massive, feral beasts with coats of living flame. Their eyes, like glowing embers, fixate on the Auilqa and Ulxa warriors with a hunger for destruction. A wave of oppressive warmth rolls over us as the wild dogs burst forth.
Despite their bravery, the Auilqa and Ulxa warriors are not prepared for this new horror. The beasts move with terrifying speed and agility. Their fiery claws and teeth ignite everything they touch. Screams fill the air as one of the beasts launches itself at the city¡¯s gates. The wood blackens and begins to smoke at the impact. Ulxa warriors tumble from the top of the wall like stones down a cliffside, splattering onto the ground.
Under the relentless assault of these fiery hounds, the battle turns desperate as our lines begin to falter. I clutch my water skin, but the liquid inside suddenly feels inadequate against such foes. I dash over to Paxilche, slapping the side of his face to stir him awake. He¡¯s still breathing, but he remains unresponsive, eyes closed and mouth slightly ajar. I search the scene for anyone who can help, but with the chaos of battle all around me, I determine I must get us both to safety.
I wrap Paxilche¡¯s arm over my shoulder and drag us through the slick mud. His unconscious weight is a deadened load against my strained muscles. The sounds of battle?¡ª?the screams, the clash of weapons, the sinister howls of the fire hounds?¡ª?close in around us. My breaths come in ragged gasps as the heat from nearby flames lick at my skin. Paxilche¡¯s feet drag, leaving a trail in the mud that¡¯s quickly washed away by the rain. I realize despairingly that I can¡¯t do this alone.
In the calamity, a determined Auilqa warrior rushes to my aid without a word. Together, we hoist Paxilche between us as we urgently make for the city¡¯s walls. I dare to hope, to believe in the possibility of safety within Analoixan. But our salvation is short-lived; a growling fire beast, its body consumed in flickering flames, intercepts our path. The warrior beside me meets its attack head-on, allowing me a precious moment to pull Paxilche further towards the walls. The pained cry behind me is cut abruptly short. Alone again, I stumble onwards to seek the sanctuary of Ulxa warriors atop the battlements.
As a sudden, booming crash reverberates through the air, the chilling reality of our worst fears materializes before our eyes. The once-sturdy wooden gate of Analoixan succumbs to the relentless assault, crumbling under the ferocious might of the fiery beasts. With a thunderous roar, the barrier falls, laying bare the heart of the city to its invaders¡¯ eyes. Through the settling chaos, the cultists, with their ghastly hounds wreathed in flames, step over the ruins with a menacing calm. Their sinister silhouettes cross the threshold into Analoixan. Now vulnerable and exposed, the city braces for the doom and terror that threatens to swallow it whole.
86 - Legido
It¡¯s the looks of disgust you receive from all the crew members that hurts the most. After the storm devastated the ship, tossing sailors and cargo overboard, the navigators have spent a painstaking amount of time trying to figure out how badly you¡¯ve all been knocked off course. Unbeknown to you, the other ships were trailing the one you¡¯re aboard, following you to the destination. Searching the horizon, you see nothing but the golden sun shimmering on the vast expanse of the ocean like sparkling diamonds¡ªa sight that would usually take your breath away, but instead, now fills you with dread.
The task Gartzen assigned to you didn¡¯t appear all that difficult. Make sure the ship steers clear of any impending storms, and notify the captain and crew of any trouble. It seemed as if you were going to avoid the tempest far off in the distance, sailing out of harm¡¯s way to where it would remain to the starboard side. The night was quiet otherwise, uneventful besides the entertaining banter occurring below your post in the crow¡¯s nest.
Yet you dozed off¡ªby accident! you plead to no one but yourself¡ªand the storm caught you off-guard, having lulled you into a false sense of security. It seemed so obvious, so apparent, and difficult to miss, so you didn¡¯t think you needed to state anything about it. Didn¡¯t everyone see it? How could they not?
The labor-intensive clean up of the storm¡¯s destructive force is a clear reminder of how costly your assumption was. Splintered masts lay like fallen giants across the deck. Their once proud sails are tattered, flapping weakly in the morose wind. Though still intact, the hull bears the scars of nature¡¯s fury, with gaping holes that are hastily patched to keep the merciless sea at bay. Waterlogged supplies are strewn about as water still sloshes in the hold below, with many provisions and goods spoiled and irretrievable. Crew members move with a heavy silence. Their glances toward you are a mix of disappointment and thinly veiled resentment. Born from a moment¡¯s oversight, this devastation brings a guilt from which there is no escape aboard this crippled vessel.
If the looks from the other crew members wasn¡¯t enough, it¡¯s Gartzen¡¯s silent treatment that is the most punishing. Each moment you attempt to approach him, to apologize, to give some kind of explanation, you¡¯re met with a steely cold glare before he charges off in another direction. He always seems to conveniently find some other task to do, or some other crewmate to speak to¡ªanything to avoid talking to you. With each dismissal, you feel the pain in your heart, knowing you¡¯ve disappointed someone whom you respected and admired, who placed their trust in you, however misguided. And there doesn¡¯t appear to be any way to regain his trust, to undo the hurt, to make up for letting him down.
Seeking redemption and a way to productively pass the time, you find tasks to assist with, contributing what you can to the ship¡¯s restoration. Picking up debris, swabbing the deck, sewing patches into the punctured sails¡ anything to make yourself useful. Your offers to help are met with reluctance, at best, and aggressive, flat out rejection, at worst. Nevertheless, you persevere, insisting on giving your assistance wherever you can.
While helping a team of crew members lift a large and heavy mast that¡¯s badly damaged and has fallen onto the deck, Captain Lema darts past you. He mutters something inaudibly to himself as he marches toward the wheel of the ship. You want to continue assisting your crewmates, but there¡¯s something about his demeanor that concerns you. Perhaps it¡¯s the blank stare at nothing in particular, or the frantic, frenetic frenzy in which he carries himself that alarms you. It¡¯s not the cool, controlled captain you¡¯re accustomed to seeing, and you¡¯re eager to discover what¡¯s happened, if there¡¯s some new development of great concern.
Once you all are able to set the mast aside for repairs, you hurry off to the back of the ship¡ªor ¡®stern¡¯, you recall Lander once calling it. There, Captain Lema speaks to one of the crew members, a ¡°first mate¡± as he¡¯s called. The man is a head¡¯s length taller than the captain, though towering over the small-statured captain isn¡¯t a difficult feat. Despite the youthfulness suggested by his stature and the liveliness in his sharp and discerning eyes, his face tells tales of countless voyages. The sun has marked him with lines that indicate relentless days under scorching skies and fierce gales battled at sea. There¡¯s a certain ruggedness to him, a testament to his experience navigating through treacherous waters and guiding this galleon with a seasoned hand.
¡°That¡¯s not the update I wanted to hear,¡± the captain laments. ¡°How could we have strayed that far from our course?¡±
¡°I¡¯m not certain,¡± the first mate says with a high-pitched, nasally voice. ¡°However, judging by the cloud patterns, we appear to be turned toward a south by southwestern direction. If we can get ourselves turned, we should be able to resume course.¡±
¡°But the lack of any real wind,¡± Captain Lema complains. ¡°It appears we¡¯ll have to sail close-hauled. That will be too risky.¡±
¡°Only if we¡¯re not careful, Captain, sir,¡± the first mate challenges. ¡°Certainly, we could veer further off track if we¡¯re reckless. However, we¡¯ll remain sitting here, stalled, until conditions improve otherwise. And who knows how long that might be.¡±
Captain Lema hems and haws as he contemplates the matter. It¡¯s not entirely clear to you what ¡®close-hauled¡¯ means, but it sounds like a tricky maneuver to pull off. Now that you think about it, you haven¡¯t been moving at all. You assumed it was due to the sails being down and damaged, but you hadn¡¯t thought of utilizing the ones that could still function, albeit inefficiently.
Eventually, the captain makes a decision. ¡°I don¡¯t like the idea of tempting the wind¡¯s wrath. But I don¡¯t much care to await the wind¡¯s mercy, either. We can¡¯t afford to be adrift of Xiatli and the others any longer.¡±
He pauses, his gaze sweeping across the waters as if visualizing the maneuver in his mind¡¯s eye. ¡°The sails that can still catch what little of the wind there is, and it should be enough to pull us sideways against the breeze and nudging us onward. It¡¯ll require a keen eye and a steady hand at the helm to keep us on course without veering into the wind¡¯s path or losing our momentum altogether.¡±
The first mate looks resolute. ¡°I¡¯ll set our course and take the wind¡¯s challenge head-on, sir. A few of the sails are close to being completely repaired, so we can begin shortly. I¡¯ll put our best sailors on it¡ªthey¡¯ll know when and how to adjust the sails. It won¡¯t be easy, but the sea never promised ease, sir, only passage.¡±
Just when you believe the conversation to be finished, Captain Lema pulls the first mate in closely, as if speaking conspiratorially about something. You find yourself leaning closer, as if that will help you listen in. But, unsurprisingly, you don¡¯t catch much. The captain walks away swiftly, pointing and barking out orders to other crew members.
Curiously, the first mate stays back, looking flummoxed. Turning to another member of the crew, he begins speaking to him in a hushed tone. Not wanting to be caught, but not wanting to miss what¡¯s being said, you sneak over behind a few crates of cargo¡ªcrouching low so as to not be seen, but better able to listen in. The speech is muffled, but you can still make out a little of their discussion.
¡°The captain¡¯s in a bad way,¡± the first mate tells the other. ¡°He¡¯s terrified of this mission failing.¡±
¡°Well, you got him to sign off on sailing close-hauled, right?¡± the other asks. He¡¯s a portly man with thinning, black hair, and a straggly beard. His bulbous nose is crooked at the bridge, likely from some incident aboard a ship or at port during his travels. ¡°At least we¡¯re finally going to get moving. I don¡¯t know how much longer I could stand sitting here twiddling my thumbs like a common idiot.¡±
¡°Judging by the sheer panic in his voice, I doubt we would¡¯ve been staying put for much longer,¡± the first mate says. ¡°He¡¯s convinced that, if we don¡¯t rejoin the other ships soon, we¡¯re all destined to be massacred by Xiatli.¡±
The other shipman scoffs. ¡°He¡¯s just a brown-nosing deck polisher, always shining the boots that kick him.¡±
¡°That may be so,¡± the first mate says, ¡°but we¡¯ve all heard the stories. Xiatli doesn¡¯t accept failure. And by all accounts, this feels as though there¡¯s some personal matter involved in undertaking such a mission. I¡¯ve sailed my fair share around Legido, but to cross an ocean? My wife was right when she determined this was madness.¡±
¡°It¡¯s mad to think what waits for us on the other side?¡± the shipman challenges. ¡°Imagine the treasure, the mountains of gold and jewels untouched by any who¡¯ve sailed before us. To fill our holds with wealth so vast, we could live as kings upon our return. That¡¯s a madness I can gladly embrace!¡±
The two prattle on like this for some time. Tiring of this, you make your way to other areas of the ship that could use more clean up and repair. Once again, however, you¡¯re met with more cold shoulders and confrontations. Others shoo you away, with some even absurdly declaring you to be cursed and not wanting you to spread your perceived disease to them. It becomes harder and harder to find an ally on board the ship, and you fear you may remain isolated from everyone until you reach shore¡ªif you¡¯re not tossed overboard beforehand.
Having seen your plight, you¡¯re met by a familiar, friendly face, a solitary bloom in a field of thorns. ¡°Hey,¡± Lander says softly, approaching you with a concern that feels like a balm to your weathered spirit. ¡°Don¡¯t let their words anchor you to guilt. You were placed in a situation many seasoned sailors have misjudged. The sea, she¡¯s a fickle mistress. She tests the mettle of all who dare traverse her expanses. What happened¡ it could¡¯ve happened to any one of us.¡±
He continues, and now there¡¯s a depth of sincerity in his eyes as he speaks. "Storms come and go, you know? This,¡° he gestures to the broken masts and the sullen crew, ¡°is just another kind of storm. We weather it, we rebuild, and we sail on. We¡¯re all here because we believe in something greater. Let¡¯s not let a storm divide us.¡± He offers you a slight, encouraging smile. It¡¯s a rare glimpse of solidarity in a world that feels increasingly isolated, and a reminder that you have an ally, someone who sees something in you that you may not see in yourself.
Support creative writers by reading their stories on Royal Road, not stolen versions.
Out of nowhere, a shadow lunges from your periphery. A galaxy of stars explodes abruptly across your vision as an unseen force collides with the side of your head, a thunderous impact echoing in the confines of your skull. You stumble to your side, propping yourself up with a cargo crate. Your world blurs, reality distorting into a narrowing tunnel of darkness. You blink furiously, and when you come to, you see Benicto standing over you, his arm coiled back and ready to swing again.
Lander grabs Benicto and tries his best to restrain your attacker. He clutches Benicto¡¯s arm, shouting for him to stop. Benicto tries to loosen himself from Lander¡¯s halting grip, and for a moment, you¡¯re given a reprieve, allowing you to lift yourself onto your feet.
However, Benicto gets free, now taking his aggression out on Lander. He unleashes a flurry of punches, wailing on Lander¡¯s face and torso. Lander tumbles to the deck, yet he¡¯s able to protect himself from most of the incoming strikes, shielding his face with his arms that take the brunt of the assault. Discontented, Benicto grabs a fragmented piece of wood and swings it. The makeshift paddle slams into Lander¡¯s stomach, the splintered debris slicing along his abdomen and causing a long gash. Panicked, Lander grabs at the hat atop his head that starts to slide off amidst the barrage of blows. He winces in pain, clutching the wound with one hand while holding up the other as a plea for his attacker to stop.
You go to defend your friend, grabbing and restraining Benicto from causing further harm. He elbows you in the face, the tangy taste of iron welling in your mouth from the blood after your teeth cut the inside of your lip. You hold on, clasping onto his arm and attempting to shake the piece of wood loose from his hands. He struggles, trying to fight you off like an ensnared animal from a trap. A few more elbows fly into your face, but you hang on, hoping to protect your only ally on this ship.
¡°Enough, Benicto!¡± A girl¡¯s voice screams above the commotion. Dorez swoops in, slapping at the assailant and forcing him into a cower. Benicto steps away, shrugging his shoulders to shield himself. She persists, continually smacking him, the scene causing cheers and jeers from the onlooking crew members.
Emerging from blind rage, a sudden stillness envelops Benicto in the wake of Dorez¡¯s intervention. With a heavy breath, he surveys the aftermath. The fog of fury that had clouded his senses begins to dissipate, revealing the stark reality of his actions.
¡°You fool!¡± she shouts in Benicto¡¯s face. ¡°You forget how they helped when I was injured, how they sewed the wound on my shoulder. Who knows where I would be without their help. And now, they¡¯re trying to fix their mistake. You need to back off and show them some grace.¡±
Benicto stares her down, nostrils flaring. You think he¡¯s calming himself, gaining awareness of the situation at hand. But rather than make any apology, he shoves Dorez aside, pointing the plank of wood at you.
¡°I¡¯m not through with you,¡± he snarls. ¡°This,¡± he gestures wildly with the piece in his hand, as if brandishing a weapon, ¡°is all your fault. Every shattered plank, every torn sail, this ship teetering on the brink of oblivion¡ªit¡¯s all woven from your ineptitude. You¡¯ve steered us straight into the maw of disaster, and don¡¯t think for a moment that I¡¯ll let you forget it!¡±
You go over to Lander and help him to his feet, noticing the lower part of his shirt stained red. He grimaces, sucking in breath through his teeth as he picks himself up. As you lend him a hand, he waves you away, protective of his wound while he gingerly stands up.
¡°I just need to bandage the wound,¡± he says with a strained voice. ¡°No, no, it¡¯s okay. I¡¯ll be fine, I promise.¡± Though he gives you assurances, you¡¯re still concerned about the severity of that wound. You¡¯ve sewn up gashes already while aboard the ship, so you¡¯re surprised when he turns down your offer. He walks away slowly and with great care, heading below deck.
With the sails mended and the deck cleared, your gaze sweeps the ship for another task, another chance to mend not just the galley, but the rift your mistake has carved between you and the crew. Though unaccustomed to the rigors of the life of a sailor, your hands are eager and willing to help. You notice a small group struggling to secure a patch over a gaping wound in the ship¡¯s hull.
¡°Need another hand?¡± you ask, trying to abate your desperation, and approaching them with a hardened resolve.
Their initial hesitation fades as they assess the sincerity in your eyes. Slowly, they nod, allowing you to join their efforts. Together, you work in unison, hammering, sealing, and reinforcing the patch to keep the sea at bay. It¡¯s meticulous, arduous work that demands attention to detail and a steady hand¡ªqualities you¡¯re determined to prove you possess.
As you drive the last nail into place, securing the patch firmly against the hull, you can¡¯t help but feel a swell of pride. It¡¯s a small victory, but a victory nonetheless, in the ongoing battle to earn back the trust and respect of your shipmates. Maybe Lander is right, that this ship and its crew can weather any storm, as long as you face it together.
Your contemplation is interrupted by the sight of Captain Lema emerging from his quarters. There¡¯s a rare, vulnerable expression etched on his face. His eyes lock with yours for a moment, silently acknowledging the crew before he strides away with purpose in his step. A long, green bottle is gripped in his hand as he darts off. Your curiosity is piqued, and once again, you find yourself drawn to the captain.
Seated on top of a crate, Gartzen takes care in whittling a piece of wood in his weathered, meaty paws. Is the chunk from part of the ship, you wonder? The knife looks worn and well-used, like a relic from generations past. Captain Lema approaches him, holding out the bottle as an offering. You¡¯re trying to make yourself scarce, hoping to avoid another confrontation. Tucked away behind a stack of coiled ropes, you overhear the soft-spoken exchange.
¡°You¡¯ve been with me through more squalls and skirmishes than I can count,¡± Captain Lema begins, his voice unusually gentle. Toward Gartzen, he extends a bottle of what he declares is fine Legido liquor, gleaming in the dull lantern light. ¡°My words earlier¡ they were unjust. It was wrong of me to use such a matter against you like that. I know better. I know the hurt such an experience brought you and your wife. I let my temper cloud my judgment, forgetting the respect we¡¯ve built over countless voyages. For that, I am sorry.¡±
Arms crossed, Gartzen hesitates before accepting the bottle. The tension that had been as thick as the fog rolling off Legido¡¯s coast begins to dematerialize. His face softens, and the rigidity of his posture eases. ¡°We¡¯ve weathered much, Captain. And we¡¯ve always managed to come through. We¡¯re a family forged by the sea, after all.¡±
The captain nods, a rare vulnerability flickering in his eyes. "Aye, and perhaps I was speaking from a place of my own fears, worried about failing those who trust in my command. This storm¡ If we can¡¯t get back on course, and we can¡¯t reconnect with Xiatli?¡±
Gartzen pats him on the shoulder. ¡°We¡¯ll rejoin our people. I see we¡¯re beating to windward. Good call, sir. I knew you wouldn¡¯t rest on your laurels. You never do.¡±
As Gartzen uncorks the bottle, they share a quiet toast, and an unspoken truce. ¡°To lost journeys and found futures,¡± Gartzen murmurs, tipping the bottle to his lips. Captain Lema smiles, grabs the bottle, and takes a swig himself.
¡°Do you remember that time when we were stuck in Luzigar for nearly a week because of that blasted storm?¡± Gartzen says, followed by a hearty laugh. Captain Lema joins in, shaking his head in disbelief.
¡°I thought we were going to be there for the rest of our lives!¡± he chuckles. ¡°We were supposed to sail around the southern part of the continent, but we had to return to Auruma Xosta because we went through all of our supplies for the expedition! I got chewed out so badly by my superiors!¡±
¡°What else were we supposed to do in that flea-ridden place?¡± Gartzen remarks. ¡°My boots weren¡¯t going to step one foot on that soil. You remember how some of the crew came back after a night out on the town?¡±
Captain Lema slaps Gartzen on the shoulder and howls. ¡°I¡¯m shocked any managed to find their way back, as drunk as they were!¡±
¡°At least the alcohol killed off whatever was infecting them!¡± They both double over with laughter, taking more large swallows of the bottle¡¯s contents.
As the two share a drink, they speak of past voyages, of dangers faced, and fortunes found. They speak of the crew that has come and gone, and of family back in Legido. You slowly slip away, letting them have their moment of reconciliation, and you can¡¯t help but feel a twinge of hope. If such rifts can be mended, perhaps there¡¯s a chance for you yet to prove your worth to the crew. While your family may still be in Legido, maybe you can form another, new one out at sea. With that, you remember Lander and his wounds, and decide to check on him, to see how a member of your seafaring family is recovering.
The moon casts its ambient glow upon the ship as night falls. After a long day of hard work, the crew begins to retire to their quarters. Laughter and jovial banter resounds about the deck as the atmosphere lightens significantly. The multitude of successful repairs can do that to the mood, you think.
You slink below deck, passing the numerous bunkbeds on your way to Lander¡¯s space. On the bed lay his baggy, bloodied shirt and worn pantaloons. Nearly the entire lower half of the shirt is soaked red, and a splattering of crimson droplets have fallen onto the pants. Also on the bed are a mixture of personal belongings that catch you by surprise. Oversized, heavy gloves and a series of bandanas lay at the foot of the bed, seemingly too big for someone of Lander¡¯s slight frame. Perhaps another crew member mistakenly placed them here, you consider, having never seen Lander use such items.
With Lander nowhere in sight, you search around below deck for any indication as to where he might be. Finding nothing, you move to the bow of the ship, where crew splash their faces and hands with the salty sting of seawater to ward off any germs or grime. Still, no sight of Lander, and when you ask around, none of the crew know where he is, either.
Concerned, you retrace your steps, hoping you merely overlooked someplace, and there¡¯s an easy explanation as to where he could be. As you walk past the area designated for cooking, you search high and low, wondering if Lander may have stopped by to grab something to eat, or perhaps he knows of some herbal remedy to help with the pain from his wounds. He seems like the resourceful type, you reason, so it makes sense in your twisted, desperate logic.
Aside from admonishing you for being in their kitchen, the cook and crew tell you they haven¡¯t seen anyone fitting Lander¡¯s description. You start to fear the worst, imagining horrendous situations and scenarios where Lander fainted from a loss of blood and is bleeding out, or that the wound has become infected and he needs immediate help. Panicked, you rush off, but in your haste, you stumble onto the floor. The crew teases you and yells at you to get up, but ignoring their yells, you see spots of blood on the ground. Perhaps it¡¯s from the meat being transported to the kitchen for tonight¡¯s meal. But you decide to investigate anyway, in the off chance something more nefarious is at hand.
The blood droplets appear to stop at wall, disappearing from sight after that. The abrupt end to the trail leaves you perplexed, confused as to where they could have possibly gone. You would have walked away had it not been for spotting a stray piece of cloth stuck at the base of the wall. Upon further inspection, it¡¯s not a cloth, but rather a strip of a bandage. You lean against the wall and notice it slides ever so slightly to one side. Is this some hidden storage room? Some closet?
As you peek inside, a figure is hunched over, barely illuminated by a small lamp beside them. The bandages are bundled up in a hurried and unorganized manner on the ground, alongside a large cap. You¡¯ve seen that worn cap before, recalling Lander wearing something like it on the first day you met. In fact, it¡¯s the only item Lander never seems to be without.
The figure tilts their head back, releasing their long hair, which falls in crinkled waves as if enduring a prolonged confinement. You hear a few metallic pings as clips clatter to the floor. There are bandages wrapped around the torso, in a similar location to where Lander was wounded, you observe.
The figure continues to wrap a bandage around themselves, except not around their waist. No, this time, they¡¯re wrapping the bandages around their chest. Having run out, they stop at a certain point. They hold the bandage in place with one hand while reaching for the reserve bandages with the other.
As they lean over to grab more, they look up. It¡¯s then when your eyes meet those of Lander.
87 - Haesan
As the fighting around us intensifies, Teqotlo, Aluxeqwel, and Onixem glare at one another in silence. Questions flood my mind as I feebly attempt to grasp what Onixem just said. Those are her parents? Are they part of the Eye in the Flame? But Onixem is a member of the Qente Waila¡ right?
¡°Daughter,¡± the woman, Aluxeqwel, says with a hiss. ¡°So nice of you to join us.¡±
Onixem slowly unsheathes a dagger from the harness at her hip. ¡°The moment I discovered the Eye in the Flame were near, I knew you two would come out of the dregs to join your band of lunatics here in Qapauma.¡±
¡°Ah, yes, as you play at Rebels with your imaginative friends,¡± Aluxeqwel mocks. ¡°How quaint.¡± At this, Onixem snarls, which only amuses Aluxeqwel further. Onixem¡¯s mother lets out a theatrical sigh, glancing solemnly at the ritual dagger in her hand before continuing, ¡°I really had hoped you would come to your senses when you were finished challenging our authority. You¡¯ve gone long enough masquerading as some freedom fighter, but it¡¯s time you stopped fooling around and return to your family.¡±
¡°I have no family so long as you continue to support those cultists,¡± Onixem growls.
¡°This is the rare moment where I wished you were more like your brother,¡± Teqotlo says. ¡°He¡¯s completely useless, but at least he knows when to get out of the way.¡±
¡°Where is Tonatli?¡± Onixem demands, searching the chamber. Her eyes shift between the two in crimson robes, who remain unresponsive and unemotional. This irks Onixem, causing her to become more assertive, punctuating each word. ¡°Where. Is. Tonatli.¡±
Before they can respond, two palace guards disengage, slipping away from their clashes with militants loyal to the Eye in the Flame. They charge at Onixem¡¯s parents, coiling back with their bronze swords. Teqotlo and Aluxeqwel step back in a slight crouch, their hands gradually coming aflame, with fire creeping up their wrists. As the guards are about to swing, the pair thrust their arms at their approaching targets, the tip of the dagger pointing at their foe, releasing a burst of fire from their hands. The blast sends the two young men flying backward, their leather armor catching fire as if it were mere tinder. They writhe in pain on the ground, rolling about as they desperately try to put out the flames, but the fire refuses to be extinguished.
Onixem glares, overcome with fury. She starts to charge at her parents, but their eyes glow a terrifying red. ¡°You don¡¯t want to do that, my child,¡± Aluxeqwel states. The fire that swirls about her hands grows larger. Onixem reluctantly heeds the warnings, sliding to a halt and firmly gripping her dagger until her knuckles turn white.
¡°Now, where were we?¡± the female cultist rhetorically asks. In a flash, she and Teqotlo dart over to another set of nobles. They shout something inaudibly again¡ªis it Ulxa?¡ªbefore slitting their victims¡¯ throats, as they had done before. They gasp and gurgle before dropping to their knees, a stream of scarlet spurts from their necks.
Enraged and no longer able to restrain herself, Onixem storms over to her parents, who bend over to pool the victims¡¯ blood into their hands. Lowering her shoulder, she rams her mother, knocking her to the ground. As she turns to her father, however, her face is met with the butt of his dagger. It crashes into her forehead, and blood streams down her nose and cheek. She staggers backward, shaking her head to rid herself of the dizziness. With unsteady steps, she makes another attempt at colliding with her father, but he steps aside and easily dodges her efforts. She¡¯s tossed into the wall, slamming into it with a mighty thump.
¡°We warned you not to do that,¡± he halfheartedly scolds.
Helping Aluxeqwel up, the two resume their ritual. They collect their victims¡¯ blood, then make a few hand gestures in the air. A bright, ethereal, orange glow radiates from their silhouettes, and they begin illuminating the chamber like living torches. They appear like someone experiencing the warmth of the sun after a long, harsh winter; they grunt and groan, rolling their heads back as though enjoying a surge of power and energy that flows through them.
The nobles stand about, shrieking and yelling, but doing nothing to overwhelm the two cultists. A few have run to the chamber entrances, pulling and tugging at the heavy wooden doors. Stubbornly, they don¡¯t budge, no matter how much force the nobles use. Around each wooden beam, an ominous orange glow radiates from it, as though it¡¯s been supernaturally secured in place. Some have taken to clawing at the walls, digging their nails into the stone until their fingers begin to bleed. All this effort, yet doing nothing to challenge nor confront Teqotlo and Aluxeqwel.
Who will stop this madness? What can I do? I feel helpless, watching this horrific sight, but unable to apprehend or accost them to put an end to this. Desperation grips me like a noose tightening around my heart as I witness the unfolding chaos. Frozen by the horror of inaction, I¡¯m tormented by the thought that perhaps we are all too ensnared in our own terror to rise against the evil that has breached the palace.
Draped in their crimson garments, Aluxeqwel and Teqotlo move among the nobility with a predatory grace that chills my blood. Each step they take, each life they extinguish, fuels the ritual as their powers grow visibly with every drop of blood spilled.
As the violence unfolds before me, a desperate plea forms in my mind. I find myself instinctively drawing upon the ancient rites I¡¯ve only heard about in hushed tones, the ones that speak to the earth, the sky, and the spirits that dwell within them. Hear the whispers of the ancestors, I find myself thinking as an invocation that taps into the unseen forces binding all of Pachil together.
I just wish they would stop, I think as my mind implores the universe to hear me. See the folly in their ways, see the insanity of this bloodshed. It¡¯s a whisper in my thoughts, a hope more than an expectation. What power do I have against such darkness?
But then, something shifts. It¡¯s almost imperceptible at first, but there¡¯s a tentativeness in Aluxeqwel¡¯s movements, and a flicker of doubt in Teqotlo¡¯s eyes. With their hands stilling mid-air, the deadly ritual is momentarily interrupted. It¡¯s as if my wish has spoken doubts into their ears. The nobles¡¯ whimpering quiets as they, too, sense the change. I dare to breathe, to hope that maybe, just maybe, my silent prayer has made a difference.
¡°Why?¡± the two mutter to one another. The question seems to hang in the air, unspoken yet heavy with meaning. Why continue this path of destruction? Why sacrifice so much for power? The doubts grow, amplified by the fears and uncertainties that always linger in the shadows of one¡¯s mind.
I continue to internalize my desire for them to cease their evil ways, to reconsider what they¡¯re doing and spare us. My heart throbs with an urgency, a silent scream into the void, begging for an end to the madness. Stop this now. Let compassion find its way back into your hearts. The thoughts swirl within me like a desperate incantation seeking to break through the darkness.
In the depths of my being, a warmth spreads like an ember of hope ignited by the fervor of my silent entreaties. It¡¯s as if the very essence of Pachil, the spirit of the land itself, stirs in response to my wordless plea. Could it be that the fabric of the world is listening?
Aluxeqwel and Teqotlo glance at each other, fraught with confusion. For a moment, they seem to reconsider, and their resolve starts to waver from the abundance of introspective questions.
The couple¡¯s indecision is as clear as day, and I can¡¯t help but smirk, albeit nervously. Their sudden hesitation is a peculiar pause, seemingly out of place, and for a fleeting moment, I wonder: did my silent pleas somehow reach them? No, it¡¯s a ludicrous thought, one that teases me with the possibility of an unseen influence. It¡¯s too coincidental, too timely.
And yet, I¡¯ve witnessed their abilities, seen what they¡¯re capable of. This is a world where the Eleven, living myths with incomprehensible powers that saved Pachil, have walked among us. Have I stumbled upon something more? The idea is both absurd and, in some inexplicable way, feasible.
For now, though, I focus on the immediate danger that still looms large over us. Aluxeqwel and Teqotlo may have momentarily ceased, but the danger is far from over. With a hesitant curiosity, I dare to test the waters once more. Part of me craves confirmation, another part fears it.
Enough, I mutter under my breath, my thoughts reaching out like fragile tendrils into the turmoil, aiming at the very heart of the conflict. Turn back from this path. The words feel more like a chant, echoing in the recesses of my mind and resonating with an energy I didn¡¯t know I could harness. It¡¯s as if the Eleven themselves lend weight to my words, carrying them to Teqotlo and Aluxeqwel, urging them to halt and reconsider the bloodshed they¡¯re perpetuating.
And then, to my astonishment, there¡¯s a flicker of hesitation in their actions, a momentary lapse that seems too apt to be mere coincidence. The guards, too, appear distracted. My heart skips a beat, disbelief and awe mingling. ¡°Did I... cause that?¡± I question silently as my gaze darts around, half-expecting an answer from the air itself.
With a mental shake, I refocus. Whether by my silent urging or not, we¡¯ve been granted a reprieve, however brief. And that¡¯s all that matters. For now, I¡¯ll leave the questions, the possibilities, for another time when the stakes aren¡¯t life and death.
Onixem gets up groggily, holding her head and moaning. She starts to come to, slowly registering what¡¯s happening around her. But before she can stand up, her legs give out from beneath her. She droops, falling into the wall to support herself, then slides down, back to the floor.
I don¡¯t let it distract me, concentrating my full attention on her family¡ªI can¡¯t believe these two demons are her family! The pair exchange nods, then reach inside their crimson garments. When their hands reappear, they seemingly have something pinched between their fingers. What are they up to?
In the blink of an eye, they bring their fingers to their mouth and blow, releasing a dense black cloud of smoke. The chamber is engulfed entirely, rendering all visibility nonexistent.
Sounds of the nobles¡¯ shrieks and shouts intermingle with the clattering of weapons and grunts of battle. I reach my arms out, both for protection and to let my hands search for someplace safe. I grow concerned when I can¡¯t see my hands, fearing I may get attacked in this darkness.
Nuqasiq¡¯s voice calls out into the void. A knot forms in my stomach. What if the cultists seize the opportunity and try to kidnap her? I crouch down low, feeling my way toward her along the cold, stone ground, and shout to her to do the same. Occasionally, my hand finds the sticky residue of spilled blood, and I try my best to maneuver around the shallow scarlet pools. I carry on like this until I touch the soft cloth of a tunic or dress. I pull myself closer, calling out to Nuqasiq. But she still hollers at me from another part of the room. Whose garment have I grabbed?
A sharp pain glances my cheek. When I touch it and inspect my hand, I can barely see the blood staining my fingers through the thick smoke. Was I struck? I scurry away, crawling low on the ground to avoid any more errant attacks. The black cloud slowly starts to lift, allowing me to see sandals and boots shifting about. Bright purple cloth spills onto the floor, and I recognize the color immediately from earlier in the evening: Nuqasiq¡¯s dress!
Did you know this text is from a different site? Read the official version to support the creator.
I drag myself along the ground, hurrying over to her. Although the smoke is still pretty thick, I can see her confused expression as her head swivels about, searching for something. She startles when I touch her hand, but sighs in relief upon quickly recognizing me.
¡°Sun and sky!¡± she exclaims. ¡°What just happened?¡±
¡°We need to check on Onixem¡ªshe took a hard blow to the head,¡± I inform her. ¡°And then, we¡¯ll need to ask her what is going on with her parents.¡±
The grim aftermath of the events reveals itself as the dark cloud clears. Twisted bodies lay lifeless on the floor. Nobles, finding their loved ones, weep over the slain bodies of those sacrificed by Teqotlo and Aluxeqwel amidst the spilled blood. The guards who remain secure the area, restraining the surviving cult loyalists while inspecting the dead.
While taking in the gruesome scene, I notice two peculiar items of note: There is no sign of Aluxeqwel nor Teqotlo anywhere, and the doors to all entrances of the throne room remain secured. There is no way to go in or out of this chamber, with everyone forced to stay within. So where did those two go? How could they possibly disappear, vanishing into the smoke?
As if hearing my internal questions, Nuqasiq responds after releasing a drawn out sigh. ¡°The throne,¡± she says simply, shaking her head in disgust. Then, she clarifies, ¡°They must have known of the Arbiter¡¯s hidden passageway. Those two clearly slipped away after causing the distraction.¡±
¡°A hidden passageway?¡± I parrot. ¡°How is such a thing possible?¡±
¡°Quauhtema,¡± she responds. She waves, motioning for me to join her, and we make our way toward one of the entrances. She stands before a doe-eyed guard, who starts to caution her about leaving. ¡°It¡¯s apparent we¡¯re no safer in here than we are out there,¡± she states. ¡°Allow us to leave so that we may be more useful to the assault on our home city.¡±
A confused and terrified look remains on the young man¡¯s face. After a long stare down, he eventually concedes. He cowers as he opens the door, as if expecting to be struck for doing so. It¡¯s a strange reaction, but I place it in the back of my mind, for now, and we rush into the hall.
¡°Shouldn¡¯t we chase after them, down the secret passage?¡± I ask. But then I realize the folly of my question just as Nuqasiq answers it.
¡°They may likely be armed and defend themselves,¡± she says. ¡°Barring any torchlight we could find, they could attack us in the dark. And I don¡¯t see you nor me brandishing any weapons.¡±
¡°The guards,¡± I start, but she interjects again.
¡°They must tend to the quraqas,¡± she states. ¡°It will be okay, Haesan. We¡¯ll find them. The passages don¡¯t go far.¡±
As we make our way hastily down the hallway, Nuqasiq explains. ¡°Quauhtema was the last overseer of all the factions of Pachil. When the Timuaq appeared, he attempted to interact with them peacefully. He capitulated, regularly giving into their demands by conceding land and allowing certain factions to be indentured servants to the titans¡ he bent over backwards to appease them. It was never enough.¡±
We dodge oncoming guards sprinting to various areas of the palace grounds where a battle is raging. We¡¯re moving so quickly that I lose my bearings, wondering where we¡¯re heading. All around us, the sounds of walls crumbling, weapons colliding, and people dying resonate throughout the building. We can¡¯t escape the noise, and I begin to believe it will carry over into my dreams, should I live to have another night¡¯s sleep.
Not missing a step¡ªboth literally and figuratively¡ªNuqasiq continues as we rush outside, speeding toward a watchtower. ¡°It became blatantly apparent that the Timuaq would never be appeased. Thus, in case the time came, Quauhtema created a secret passage by the throne. Should trouble arrive at the palace¡¯s gates, he would be able to slip away, undetected. Somehow, those two zealots learned of the hidden hallway and utilized it for themselves. How they came to finding the secret lever is¡¡±
Her voice trails off as we find ourselves at the precipice of the palace grounds, where a ghastly tableau unfolds before our eyes. Chaos and carnage make up the landscape of the once-pristine courtyards of the palace. Men and women lie scattered like fallen leaves, bearing the grotesque signatures of combat¡ªflesh charred and blackened, wounds gaping open in silent screams. The stench of burned flesh penetrates the senses, and the iron tang of blood clings to the back of the throat, suffocating and inescapable.
Among the fallen, the survivors move like specters, dragging their broken bodies across the ground as they leave behind trails of blood and viscera. Their cries of agony and defiance pierce the tumult, reaching out to any who would listen and offer them aid.
The battlefield is alive with the clash of weaponry, resonating with the sounds of Tapeu warriors locked in a desperate struggle against the onslaught. They move with a grim determination, carving arcs with their bronze blades against their foes. But the cultists, shrouded in ashen gray and blood-red robes, are relentless. They wield their dark magic with a chilling precision, conjuring orbs of fire that hurtle through the air like malevolent stars, crashing into the ranks of defenders with devastating destruction.
The ground itself is scorched and scarred, while buildings that once stood as proud symbols of Tapeu heritage now burn. The grounds are noticeably vulnerable, as zealots pour in through the large, gaping hole piercing through the stone wall that once protected this palace. The structures collapse under the weight of a never-ending assault, sending plumes of smoke and ash skyward.
¡°This way,¡± Nuqasiq instructs, and we sprint toward a small, fortified building adjacent to the walls. Commanders bark orders, stirring warriors into action. We move swiftly past the commotion and dart up a series of long stairs. Reaching the top, Nuqasiq pulls me in one direction, sending me along the edge of the barrier. Looking down, a swarm of bodies shift and squirm about, like watching snakes in a pit. There¡¯s no order to the calamity below; just repeating the image of warriors hacking at one another over and over again. The Tapeu warriors are pressed with their backs against the walls as the Eye in the Flame try to force their way through.
We descend another set of stone stairs, leading us to an isolated section of the palace grounds with a small, narrow door that exits onto the Qapauma streets. The battle fiercely wages on behind us as we reach the entryway. ¡°If we slip through here,¡± Nuqasiq says, ¡°we can avoid being where the enemy is attempting to enter.¡±
¡°But what about the people?¡± I ask, stunned. ¡°The servants? The other warriors? The nobles?¡±
¡°They will need to fend for themselves,¡± she says coldly. ¡°We mustn¡¯t risk our necks¡ªwe can accomplish more if we¡¯re alive than if we¡¯re dead.¡±
¡°Well, of course, that¡¯s obviously true,¡± I say, confounded. ¡°However, abandoning those who look to us for guidance and protection contradicts the very essence of leadership. I believe that true strength is measured by how we extend our hands to those in need, even when the shadows loom large. If we forsake them now, we forsake the heart of what it means to stand together as a people. And if we lose that, what are we really fighting to save?¡±
She looks upon me with disappointment. ¡°You have much to learn, Haesan.¡± She may believe this, but to me, it is she who appears to have much to learn. Is she that jaded by life as a noble and being Queen Mother to the land¡¯s ruler that she spurns her obligation to aid our people?
A swath of color catches my attention. Filling the streets, dozens of men and women in jade green tunics beneath matted down leather armor rush into battle. They seemingly emerge out of nowhere, until I see the mouth of a dark tunnel beneath the streets; more catacombs that they¡¯ve navigated. Though their faces are shrouded by magenta cloth to conceal their individual identities, I know right away who¡¯s coming to the palace¡¯s aid.
¡°The Qente Waila,¡± I breathlessly mutter to myself.
They fight valiantly, storming into the conflict with vigor as they strike anything in a red or gray robe. Their bronze swords are shorter with a curved blade, requiring them to get up to their enemy¡¯s face and slash with it like a scythe. The directness of this combat throws the Eye in the Flame loyalists off guard, unprepared for any counterattacks when their efforts miss their target. Scores of cultists are felled, unable to match the tenacity of the Jade Hummingbird.
An explosion sends people and debris soaring high into the air. Nervous, I panically search for the source the noise. From far off toward the edge of the city, towers and towers of fire thunderously erupt, sending black smoke billowing up toward the heavens. I narrow my eyes, eagerly seeking for an answer as to what¡¯s happening. But Nuqasiq provides the answer once again.
¡°More have breached the gates,¡± she says emotionlessly. ¡°This assault of theirs on the palace only involved the numbers already within Qapauma at its start. It appears their reinforcements have arrived.¡±
Though I can¡¯t see well enough to definitively confirm this, a large surge of specks flood into the streets. They charge toward us, toward the palace, taking out anything in their path. Houses crumble into clouds of dust and piles of rubble. How can they do this to homes constructed of stone? More specks helplessly scatter out of the way, only to get decimated by whatever is coming through the outer walls. Heading directly toward the only warriors putting up any formidable fight: the Qente Waila.
Clad in rich green, the warriors mob the enemy in gray robes. For a moment, they¡¯re able to drive back the Eye in the Flame cultists, hacking and slashing their way toward progress. The efforts of those in ashen gray are futile, as the Jade Hummingbird cut through their ranks with ease. The two combatants feel mismatched, as the more-skilled Qente Waila appears to make quick work of those seeking to penetrate the palace walls.
However, a horrific sight eventually catches up to the palace defenders. A mass of gray, dead bodies rushes the palace walls. They appear to be human, yet their skin sags off their bones and blackened, rotting muscles like wet garments drying on a clothesline. Although the combatants of the Jade Hummingbird fight valiantly, the gray beasts tear through scores of their numbers like cleaving through jungle vines.
The sheer volume of these terrifying monstrosities overwhelms the Qente Waila. Now they are the ones being driven back, and at this rate, their backs will soon be pressed against the palace walls and pinned by these gray beasts. Fire rains down upon them, loosed by the sorcerers in red standing untouched behind the swell of these creatures. Will the Jade Hummingbird be able to withstand this rush of enemies? How can they fight back? With such a tremendous force, what can turn the tide of this battle?
It¡¯s then that a thought occurs to me. To my right is a series of towering stone structures weaving about the city streets and into the palace. These are Qapauma¡¯s aqueducts, the clever Tapeu mechanisms providing fresh water from the springs of the nearby mountains. Perhaps I can extinguish the flames and flush out these invaders. I just need a way to divert the flow, maybe block it at some point in the channel.
¡°To the rooftops!¡± I shout, hoping someone hears me. If they can get above the incoming forces, they won¡¯t get swept away by the floodwaters. Maybe they can even use the height to their advantage. Or, at the very least, they¡¯ll avoid becoming alpaca for the slaughter.
As Nuqasiq calls after me, I race down the wall and climb up the stone structure, speeding down the channel. I start to slip, but mercifully catch myself before tumbling over the ledge and splattering onto the streets below. Eventually, I arrive at a series of wooden mechanisms and levers, and before me stands a colossal stone wheel that¡¯s embedded with intricately carved channels resembling the aqueduct¡¯s paths. I take a brief moment to marvel at the thoughtful design, which allows for the redirection of water¡ªa critical asset in times of fire, or in this case, a siege.
I place my hands on the wheel¡¯s rough, weathered surface, likely unturned for generations. With my breath held tight, I strain every muscle in my body to push against the stubborn mechanism. The wheel resists, but my desperation is far greater than its refusal to budge. With a determined heave, the wheel begrudgingly begins to move.
The ancient mechanisms hidden within the aqueduct¡¯s bowels awaken. Stone grinds against stone, and the network of channels and gates, dormant for so long, responds. The water first hesitates, then diverts toward its newfound purpose.
Below, the redirected water surges into the city streets, sweeping through the avenues. The fires that ravaged the battleground sputter and die under the onslaught of water. Caught in the unexpected flood, the creatures find their advance halted as they¡¯re thrown into disarray. Most of the Jade Hummingbird warriors had heeded my calls and anticipated the change, finding refuge on steps, rooftops, and ledges, evading the rush of water. However, a few unfortunate warriors are caught off guard by the sudden deluge, and get swept away by the indiscriminate fury of the flood.
From atop the walls, I witness the waters reclaim Qapauma¡¯s embattled streets. With the task complete, I sigh in relief. With the invaders momentarily diverted, it gives our defenders a chance to regroup. They¡¯re quickly able to seize the advantage, rallying against their disoriented foes.
My heart suddenly sinks as I see figures of another approaching army from the north, their silhouettes ominous and foreboding against the reddening evening sky. I strain my eyes, trying to discern any identifying banners or armor that might reveal their allegiance. But distance and the failing light cloak their identities in mystery. My imagination conjures up the worst scenarios¡ªreinforcements for the Eye in the Flame, perhaps, or another faction seizing the opportunity to claim the city in its weakened state.
As the first lines come into clearer view, the dread tightens its grip around my heart. Who are they? Friends or foes? The uncertainty is maddening. I must warn the others, prepare for the worst. But even as I think to turn and race back to the palace, to rally our forces for another potential battle, a part of me clings to a fragile hope. Could they possibly be allies, arriving at our darkest hour? Or have I merely delayed our impending doom?
88 - Inuxeq
I tell myself that, if I want to survive, I must fight through the fear. With arrow drawn, I pull the string of my bow taut. The point of my arrow twists and turns in my hands, but the creatures fly above with unreal agility, shadows darting all around us, making it nearly impossible to line up my aim. A cacophony of commands are shouted over one another, becoming indecipherable. I tune it out, letting their words drown in the flood of the transpiring calamity these monsters wrought.
Focus, I tell myself. Steady¡
One of the beasts, these teoliatl, swoops down, something viscous and dark drips from its mouth as it gnashes its fangs in anticipation. It flies toward me, jolting from side to side. I can already feel the chilling vapor of its breath bearing down on me. I loose the arrow, and it pierces its face with a pleasing thwack. I duck and roll to just get out of the way of the felled beast as it crashes, cratering the ground upon impact.
A thrill rushes through my veins at the sight of the slain teoliatl, as a thick, black sludge oozes from the gaping wound. But the brief joy of victory is immediately wiped away as I spot dozens more erupting from the chasm in the ground. It¡¯s as though, for every one killed, two or three instantly replace it. Within a few blinks of an eye, we become vastly outnumbered.
The sky becomes filled with the dark creatures soaring through the air. A bitter scent permeates my senses as the substance drizzles from the teoliatl¡¯s talons and bubbles up from the ground. The monsters swiftly dive down upon our warriors, tearing at them with claws and bites. With each strike that lands, a putrid venom drips from the teoliatl¡¯s fangs and talons, releasing the acrid smell of melted flesh with the hissing of a repulsive sizzle. The creatures chew heaping chunks out of shoulders and limbs, making quick work of their victims.
¡°They are tearing through scores of our army!¡± Mexqutli exclaims. ¡°We need a better plan!¡± In continuous motions, he swings his obsidian daggers like he¡¯s swimming against the current of a mighty river, slashing at anything with the veiny, membranous skin.
Sianchu heaves his mighty sword, slicing through the dense blackness of the swarming creatures like trying to cut the night¡¯s air. Each stroke splits the oncoming enemy. His face is splattered with the black slime, and he grimaces through the pain as his skin becomes pocked with acidic burns. After a while, I lose sight of him as he¡¯s consumed by the sheer number of teoliatl swirling about him.
I loose one, two, three, four arrows in rapid succession, aimlessly releasing them up into the darkness of the onyx swarm. My efforts feel futile as the sea of blackened bodies is never-ending. The teoliatl continue streaming out of the rifts in the ground, spiraling upward before descending upon our warriors with relentless fury. There¡¯s got to be a solution¡ but what could it be? How do we put an end to their increasing numbers?
Through the fluttering flurry, the occasional glimpse of red draws my focus. Looking on, the cultist leaders of the Eye in the Flame stand sentinel as the chaos conspires. They¡¯re nearly a field away, appearing as mere specks amid the unfolding battle before them. I pause, enraged by the sight of them watching with amusement. Now I know what to do next.
Determined, I sprint away from the rift, toward the edge of the battlefield. I duck and maneuver to avoid being struck by friend or foe; hopping out of the way of one fight here, narrowly avoiding being hit by a flying teoliatl there.
I slide to an abrupt halt. My feet nearly dangle off the edge of an enormous cliff. Looking down, the endless abyss is almost as pitch black as the swarming masses of teoliatl. A pebble trickles down into the chasm, never once reaching the bottom to make that recognizable thud. In order to reach the edge of the fighting, I need to clear this tremendous rift first. I look to my right and only see the chasm expanding wider. To my left, a sea of silhouettes engage in combat.
The only way is through, I think to myself.
I take almost a dozen steps back, dodging one teoliatl swooping down to grab me in its clutches before turning around to face the chasm. I¡¯m jostled off balance for a quick moment, struck by some wayward flying creature¡ªor was it a warrior?¡ªbut urgently regain my balance. I take a few panicked breaths, questioning my sanity throughout the duration of the moment.
Long, slow breath in. Long, slow breath out.
Instilling every measure of energy within me, I charge at the rift. When my feet get close enough to the ledge, I launch myself into the air as the ground disappears beneath me. For a moment, the world seems to stand still. The howling wind that rushes past my ears mixes with the eerie cries of the teoliatl circling above. The creatures¡¯ dark forms become a blur as my focus narrows to the far edge of the chasm.
This otherworldly energy surges through my veins, lending me an ephemeral sense of flight. The rift yawns wide below like an abyssal maw ready to swallow me whole. Yet the fear it should invoke is momentarily eclipsed by an indescribable rush of exhilaration. On the edge of life and death, I feel a precarious freedom.
My breath catches as the other side of the chasm draws near. I stretch every muscle, reaching for salvation on the opposite ledge. The teoliatl¡¯s screeches fade into the background, and all existence narrows to the desperate need to clear this leap.
With a thump that sends shockwaves up my legs, my feet slam against the side of the far edge. For a harrowing moment, loose stones skitter beneath my weight, threatening to drag me back into the void. But with a fierce scramble, arms flailing for purchase, I claw my way up and over, collapsing onto safe, solid ground.
I lie there for a moment, gasping for breath while the cool, loose dirt beneath me offers the sweetest comfort. With the abyss behind me, and the teoliatl¡¯s cries fading, I rise shakily to my feet. I pat my body as if checking to make sure everything is still in one piece, and breathe a sigh of relief when I identify my quiver and Sachia¡¯s bow. In disbelief over my achievement, I pause to chuckle to myself at the absurdity of what I accomplished. Let¡¯s hope I don¡¯t need to make that leap twice, I think to myself.
Regaining my composure, I focus solely on the individuals in red robes; those donning ashen gray will have to wait their turn. I grab not one, but three arrows from my quiver. With the battlefield stretching out beneath their watchful gaze, the trio in red seem oblivious to my presence away from the calamity. Their attention remains fixated on the spectacle, making them the perfect targets for my audacious plan.
Gripping Sachia¡¯s bow with a steadiness that belies my racing heart, I carefully nock the arrows, aligning them with practiced precision. It¡¯s something I¡¯ve only jokingly attempted with Sachia during our time together in the Tuatiu jungles. He¡¯d call me mad for attempting it now, but I¡¯d be the first to admit that this is more a result of desperate ingenuity than formal training.
I draw the bowstring back, and for a fleeting moment, doubt whispers through my mind¡ªI¡¯m reminded of the slim odds and what could come should I fail. Drawing the cultists¡¯ attention and ire certainly won¡¯t end well for me. But the thought vanishes as quickly as it came, replaced by an unwavering focus on the figures above. The world narrows to the space between us. Every breath, every heartbeat, marks the time to the moment of release.
Long, slow breath in. Long, slow breath out. Help guide my arrows, dear friend.
With a slow exhale, I let the arrows fly. They cut through the air in a tight, spiraling formation. The distance closes with agonizing slowness, each moment stretching out as the arrows seek their mark.
The impact is almost anti-climactic. The arrows find their targets with a precision that feels like destiny fulfilled. The figures stagger, simultaneously clutching at their chests as blood coats their already-red robes. Their shock is as palpable as the silence that follows. For a heartbeat, everything stops. The battlefield. The cries. Even, it seems, the very wind. I relish the sight, as they collapse to the ground like gently falling leaves.
As chaos resumes, a fierce pride swells within me, and the success lights a fire in my veins. Perhaps it was luck, perhaps it was Sachia¡¯s spirit, or maybe it was skill honed by necessity. Either way, I¡¯ve sent a clear message: I was made for this fight.
Stunned, those in the gray robes cast their gazes about, desperate to identify the assailant. Who dared defy them so brazenly? A reckless part of me itches to reveal myself, to shout that it was I who diminished their ranks.
Instead, I charge toward them. Without breaking stride, my hand finds its way to my quiver, and my fingers wrap around another arrow with instinctual ease.
I dart forward, each step propelling me closer to the gray-clad figures. My focus sharpens¡ªa predator¡¯s gaze locking onto its quarry. Sachia¡¯s bow feels like an extension of my arm as I nock an arrow and draw the string back. My surroundings blur into insignificance, leaving only my target in clear view.
Hearing only the rush of the wind, I release the arrow. It finds its mark with uncanny precision, and my foe¡¯s confusion turns to dismay. His eyes go blank with a long-distance stare toward the heavens as he tumbles forward and off the ledge.
I nock and release a second arrow, then a third, then a fourth, never halting my pursuit. The fanatics gesture wildly with their hands, seemingly performing some ritual or casting some spell. Their efforts are fruitless: The arrows plunge into their robes, penetrating through the thick swath of cloth as their garments become bespeckled with blood.
One, however, remains. My arrow just drifts wide, clattering with the stone structure atop of which he stands. I curse at myself, then hurriedly hunt him down. He scrambles around the corner of the watchtower, fleeing to safety. He won¡¯t escape my clutches so easily.
From my periphery, my attention is briefly drawn away at an astonishing sight. Shadowy figures no longer emerge from the chasm. My hopes have been confirmed, in that it was these cultists preserving the teoliatl¡¯s existence! The beasts have seemingly lost the tenacity with which they once attacked, appearing weakened. No longer overwhelmed, our warriors begin making noticeable progress in combatting these creatures, ceaselessly hacking and slashing at any monster in range.
I determine to put an end to this once and for all. Chasing down the last remaining cultist, I storm up the stone stairs. I breeze along the parapet, then, after slinging Sachia¡¯s bow over my shoulder, I hurry up a wooden ladder. I make it a few rungs up when I spot a shadowy silhouette. At the top, the cultist grins with sinister intent. He pushes the ladder away from the ledge, sending it toppling backward.
I leap off the rung and flail my arms, extending them with the hope of clasping onto anything that can at least break my fall. My palms cling to a rough edge of the wall, scraping my hands in the process. However, I¡¯m narrowly able to grip my fingers onto the seam between two of the stones. My feet slip initially, unable to support me, and I begin sliding down the face of the wall. At the last moment, my sandal catches an uneven section of stone, briefly halting my tumble downward.
I gasp in panicked heaves, then lower myself back onto the parapet. Relieved, I regain my focus and lift the ladder back up before it drops onto the ground below. It takes me a while¡ªtoo long, I would argue¡ªbut I manage to place it into position. With the speed of a puma, I scale the ladder before the cultist can return to knock me off again. Now, that scum has angered me even more.
My eyes sweep the top of the landing, searching for any sign of that lowlife. There¡¯s a walkway leading to a corner of the watchtower. I don¡¯t recall them wielding any weapons, but to be fair, they were quite some distance away. I refuse to take any chances.
Using caution, I approach, prepared for him to leap out and attempt to shove me off. He would, that coward. I draw my daggers, spinning them around in my hands. For a faint moment, I observe how I¡¯m holding them like Mexqutli, like the Ulxa warrior he is. I scoff, simultaneously amused while berating myself for this switch in technique.
The sound of my contemptuousness toward myself alerts the cultist. He flies around the corner, taking one step to close in the distance, then brings down a dagger from overhead. So they did possess weapons, I think to myself. I take two steps back, parrying his effort. With my right arm, I swoop in a backhanded motion and slam my dagger into his shoulder, the momentum spinning him into the wall. With him pinned, I bring my left arm across and slash diagonally down and away, slicing the remnants of his shoulder.
If you spot this tale on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.
While he writhes in pain, I adjust my stance, then shove him off the ledge, sending him plummeting. His shriek in horror abruptly ends as he splatters on the ground, contorting his body into a twisted, unnatural shape. Refusing to sheathe my daggers, I make sure the tower is clear of cultists eager to catch me unawares. To my relief, I am all that remains atop this structure after a thorough inspection.
From the perch, I witness a breathtaking sight. It¡¯s as if a fire has been extinguished: The teoliatl, once an overwhelming swarm whose numbers could blot out the sun, evaporate into the air in puffs of black smoke. The warriors swing at black clouds, their weapons slicing through air. I¡¯m reminded of the final battle of the War of Liberation, when the gray creatures we fought that day disintegrated inexplicably. Despite being clearly outnumbered, we somehow emerged victorious. All things considered, this moment feels just as miraculous.
Returning to the group, we inspect the losses, tallying up the dead for the quipus. Likewise, finding those unmarred by the creatures are few and far between. Nearly every warrior possesses scars from burns caused by the teoliatl¡¯s acidic venom. Many will bear permanent scars, their skin transformed into grotesque, waxy distortions. I can only hope they¡¯ll receive the same treatment as the Tuatiu give to their warriors marred by combat, earning a hero¡¯s welcome upon their return.
This is becoming too routine¡ªaccounting for the dead¡ªsomething I¡¯ve performed far too often. It¡¯s something of which I try not to become disparaged, but after so many deaths, I begin to question the plausibility of all of this. The increasingly unlikely probability that any of us will return to our homes. We are warriors, and being such comes with a significant cost. But what is the measure of that cost? What makes that cost feel justified?
A spark of defiance suddenly flickers to life within me. I¡¯m consumed by the knowledge that our cause transcends the mere defense of Qapauma. Rescuing the city from the clutches of the Eye in the Flame is certainly a noble purpose, but, truly, we are guardians of hope, fighting to preserve a legacy that will echo through the ages.
As piercing as the morning sun through the remnants of night, this realization rekindles the purpose within me. Our strength lies in our relentless pursuit of what is just, despite the specter of loss that marches beside us. So as I look upon the weary faces of my companions, with resolve mirroring my own¡ªa significant change from their mindset in Xaqelatun¡ªthey know as well as that we can¡¯t falter now. They¡¯ve seen what we¡¯re up against. For the sake of those we¡¯ve lost, for those who still stand beside us, and for the countless innocents depending on our victory, we will press forward. There¡¯s one more battle to be won, and I¡¯m not one to shirk fate.
The trek to Qapauma winds around the base of the nearby mountains, which contains the great volcano, Petale. The column of smoke continuously rises into the air, a regular presence for the three factions whose territories border the mountain range. Seeing it from a different perspective, its imposing silhouette commands a renewed sense of awe within me. Yet as breathtaking as the sight is, I can¡¯t help but wish my admiration weren¡¯t tinged with the urgency of impending conflict.
Wait, that¡¯s a curious sight. In the horizon to the south, another plume of smoke extends upward to the skies. Not one¡ numerous. Multiple streaks of black smoke. And to the south? That¡¯s¡ where Qapauma is!
¡°We need to hurry. Now!¡± I exclaim. When Sianchu and Mexqutli look at me questioningly, I point to the smoke. ¡°Something¡¯s amiss. The battle is¡ underway?¡±
Concern and mourning grows on Sianchu¡¯s face. ¡°We may be too late.¡± He halts, grief-stricken at the thought of losing his home. For a fleeting moment, a rare glimpse reveals itself through his stoic facade.
¡°We are too late,¡± Mexqutli agrees. There¡¯s a note of despair in his voice, but not of loss. Perhaps it¡¯s frustration? Or fear of failure? Defeat? It¡¯s restraint of revealing the disappointment he harbors. Sharing a warrior¡¯s spirit, I understand this feeling of regret over unfulfilled duty.
¡°Perhaps there¡¯s still time,¡± I say, not just to reassure them, but to reassure myself, as well.
With the urgency of gales heralding an approaching storm, we hasten toward the capital. The billowing smoke swells as we draw nearer, revealing the city''s walls, which are now marred and broken. Their devastation is laid bare before our eyes, with gaping holes punctured throughout the length of the stone barrier. What could¡¯ve caused such destruction?
Then my mind recalls the ruination of Iantana. The sheer ease with which the Eye in the Flame and their creatures were able to demolish our measures of protection was alarming. But our city walls are comprised of wood. To achieve this amount of destruction against stone? I shudder at the thought, fearing the worst with what we¡¯re about to face.
The distant cacophony of conflict echoes through the ravaged gates. From my vantage point, the muffled clamor of weapons striking weapons, and warriors clashing with warriors, reverberates throughout the grounds. The air carries the scent of dust and ash, and the clouds of kicked-up debris hinder our ability to see the devastation inside the city.
Though the battle rages out of sight, the ground seems to tremble beneath my feet. The low clouds mingle with the plumes of smoke, obscuring the sun¡¯s waning light. Elongated shadows creep across the land, adding to the grim cries of the fallen and the rallying shouts of those still fighting. It¡¯s unsettling, seeing a once bustling city reduced to rubble.
Our warriors march down the street, weapons drawn in preparation for a confrontation. My ears pick up on the faint clattering of weapons. Someone is engaged in a skirmish. I point toward the sound, directing a few members of our squad to investigate. They peek around the corner, assessing the situation.
With a few hand gestures, they indicate what I worried about most: gray creatures¡ªtwo, maybe three¡ªsurrounding a number of Tapeu warriors. A building close by tumbles to the ground from the impact of a gray creature¡¯s strike. We¡¯ll need to act quickly, lest we allow the monstrosities to have their way with the hapless men and women.
I gesture to Mexqutli and Sianchu, though they appear to not understand my signal. Nevertheless, I dart behind a collapsed wall, peering over the debris to assess the scene. The Tapeu warriors are outnumbered and outmatched, barely holding their own against the relentless assault of the gray creatures as their shields begin splintering into pieces. Though their efforts are valiant, their weapons seem to barely make a scratch in the beasts¡¯ thick hides.
Without a moment¡¯s hesitation, I dash into the fray, moving swiftly and silently. I slip between the creatures as they wildly swing their claws down upon the trapped warriors. Somehow, curiously, they don¡¯t appear to notice me, despite rushing directly in front of them.
Surveying the chaos around me, I notice a precariously balanced stone structure or statue, cracked and damaged, teetering on a pedestal near the skirmish. With a swift calculation, I grab a heavy rock from the rubble at my feet, weighing its heft in my hand. I hurl the stone towards the base of the structure, holding my breath as it soars toward my desired target.
It strikes with a thud, except the sound is barely audible over the calamity of battle. Yet, though the beasts didn¡¯t become distracted by the sound, it¡¯s enough to jar the structure. It loosens just enough, and I determine with one strong push, I can knock it over. I press up against it and thrust all my strength and weight behind a mighty heave, straining every muscle. With a slow groan of resistance, it begins to lean, then topple, crashing down towards the street with a resounding boom. The sound echoes through the alleyways, drawing the attention of the gray creatures. Their heads snap towards the noise, the sudden movement and disruption pulling their focus away from the Tapeu warriors.
They spot me right away. Confused and enraged by my elusive presence, they turn their focus towards me. I lead them on a chase, weaving through the debris and ruins. I notch an arrow and loose it towards one of the beasts, the sharp twang of the bowstring cutting through the air. Then another, and another, each shot guiding them away from the Tapeu warriors and toward me.
As the creatures close in, I glance to see Mexqutli and Sianchu positioned just as I hoped. In Mexqutli¡¯s hand gleams the obsidian dagger, and Sianchu, though less familiar with the weapon, stands ready beside him with the other. I suppose they understood me after all, I think to myself.
With a final burst of speed, I dash past my allies with the gray creatures hot on my heels. As they lunge towards me, I duck and roll to the side, allowing Mexqutli and Sianchu to leap forward. Their daggers find their mark, sinking deep into the creatures¡¯ sagging, lifeless flesh. The beasts let out a ghastly howl as their forms disintegrate into specks of ash.
Breathing heavily, I rise to my feet and join the group. The Tapeu warriors look on with awe and gratitude. I¡¯m prepared to hear a bit of scolding from my companions for my rash tactics. But instead of berating me, or speaking to me about strategy or our next moves, Mexqutli and Sianchu meet me with bewildered concern.
¡°Where did you go? One moment you were there, making confusing gestures, and then¡ darkness,¡± Mexqutli demands, scanning me up and down as if he doesn¡¯t believe I¡¯m presently standing before him. He extends a hand, touching my shoulder and inspecting it.
Sianchu nods in agreement while returning the dagger to Mexqutli, his eyes wide. ¡°You just disappeared. What happened to you?¡±
I blink as confusion settles over me. ¡°I was just¡ being stealthy,¡± I stammer, unsure how else to explain. I felt nothing unusual, just the thrill of the fight and my determination to save the warriors. Could they truly not have seen where I went? After all, I was standing beside them before enacting my plan.
¡°No, it was more than that,¡± Mexqutli insists, his gaze sharp and searching. ¡°It was as though you became one with the shadows. Like the night personified.¡±
I laugh nervously, completely confused by what he could be implying. ¡°You¡¯re seeing things. I guess I¡¯m just that fast¡ªtoo fast for your old eyes. It was quick thinking and the shadows played tricks on you.¡± What is Mexqutli speaking about? Is there something being lost in his translation from Ulxa to Merchant¡¯s Tongue? Then again, Sianchu claims to have noticed it, too. What could they be implying? Is there a part of me I¡¯m not yet aware of?
For now, I push those thoughts aside, refocusing on the battle at hand. After all, there will be time later to explore these questions¡ªif we survive.
We hurry down the city¡¯s streets, running toward the unmistakable sounds of combat. My gaze flicks up, noticing the high walls of the Qapauma palace. Arrows rain down from the wall¡¯s archers, descending like a sudden storm upon the enemies below. Yet their efforts seem futile as the surge of gray creatures overwhelms the defenses at the gates. The warriors are met with a fiery assault, with balls of flame hurtling toward them and annihilating their numbers. A grizzly sight we¡¯re all too familiar with.
As we edge closer to the chaos, a figure atop the palace walls catches my eye: A woman draped in a neutral-colored robe, her movements are deliberate and focused. From this distance her presence seems almost serene, blue skies amidst the storm. Her hands move diligently while manipulating something, some mechanism.
Then¡ is that¡ water? I hear the roar of the cascading rush of a river. We haven¡¯t seen water since the Maiu Antumalal, although I suppose the vast waters of the Haqu Suquinoq is nearby. Except even that is quite a distance away. And, is the water coming from¡ the palace?
A powerful flood courses through the streets. Winding through the rubble, the rushing waters wash away enemies and Tapeu warriors alike, tossing them about as it flows away from the palace. They scramble against the sudden deluge, sweeping through the paths and alleys. The gray creatures persist, fighting through the crashing waves and continuing toward their desired destination, but ultimately succumb to the intensity of the waters, drifting back and way from the palace.
My eyes track back to the woman, and a newfound respect kindles within me. In a city besieged, she¡¯s turned its very lifeblood into a weapon. She rushes away, disappearing back into the palace grounds. If we make it out of this, I¡¯ll hope to remember to thank her for the moment of reprieve, should we ever meet.
¡°To the walls!¡± I shout to those around me. ¡°We must aid those defending the palace!¡±
The floods within the city become difficult to navigate. The currents of the waters rush like rapids down the sloped streets, whipping about debris as it flows out toward the perimeter walls. Searching for a way through, I notice a series of raised stone pathways stretching like veins across the city. With the water diverted, these channels for the city¡¯s ingenious water causeways could now serve as our makeshift bridges. The conditions will be precarious, but it could still offer a navigable route above the tumultuous waters.
I signal my warriors to follow, guiding them onto the narrow manmade stone ridges. Our progress is cautious, as the pathways are still slick with remnants of the water it once transported. The roar of the water below constantly reminds us of the danger, but we press on, knowing this is our only passage to the beleaguered palace.
We descend the pathway, finding ourselves on the streets nearly at the palace walls. Just around the remains of a dilapidated building, a group of scarlet-robed figures gather. Their chanting is harsh and stilted, sounding as though their words contain nothing but malice. It¡¯s the language Mexqutli speaks, the severe language seemingly meant to intimidate any non-speaker like a war cry.
The ground beneath us is too wet to approach with stealth, with puddles forming among the stone ground. Exchanging glances with Mexqutli, Sianchu, and a score of the nearby Qantua warriors, we appear to arrive at the same conclusion.
With weapons drawn, we hastily charge at the robed figures. Before they open their eyes to catch us closing in on them, we swiftly lay them to waste. Swords and daggers slash wildly at anything wearing the red of the cult, disposing of them before they can conjure more evil upon Qapauma. Arrows whiz past, finding their marks with deadly precision, while the ground becomes littered with the fallen foes.
In a moment, fires inflicted upon the walls suddenly go out. The stone, still blackened by the scorching flames, remain resilient and stand tall. Were those cultists attempting to tear down more of the barrier? Will more reinforcements arriving to complete the task? We may have briefly spared the palace, but it¡¯s a victory nonetheless.
¡°Noble warriors!¡± An urgent shout calls down to us, halting us in our tracks. I search for the voice¡¯s source, finally looking up at the top of the wall. The woman in the white robes has returned, her innovative use of the aqueduct waters lingering in my mind¡ªa stroke of genius that turned the tide, however briefly, against our relentless foes. She stands defiantly as she casts her gaze upon us, her silhouette is like a beacon in this dark time. ¡°This way,¡± she beckons, pointing away from the main palace gate toward an unseen path. ¡°There¡¯s a way inside, through the aqueducts. Hurry!¡±
Mexqutli eyes the figure suspiciously, his brow furrowed in thought. ¡°Are we to trust one so boldly standing alone?¡± he questions, skepticism lacing his words. ¡°And wearing robes, no less, much like the Eye in the Flame.¡±
Sianchu counters softly, ¡°Yet was she not the one who utilized the city¡¯s aqueducts against the enemy?¡±
Their debate fades into the background as I fixate on her directive. This woman, whoever she may be, had already proven herself an ally in spirit, if not in name. Something about her presence ignites a spark of trust within me. ¡°She has shown us a path,¡± I assert, my decision firm. ¡°We would be fools to ignore the advantage she¡¯s provided.¡±
We regroup, then rush toward the directed destination with quickened footsteps pattering against the mucky ground. As we approach the shadowed entrance to the aqueducts, we realize there is no turning back, and plunge into the darkness, the cool air of the tunnel enveloping us. This battle is far from over, and we are its last, best hope.
89 - Teqosa
Ever since the skirmish with the Eye of the Flame assassin, Upachu has kept a vigilant watch over me with an unwavering gaze. The result of the encounter leaves much speculation, something I¡¯ve been unable to shake. He continues to gawk the whole walk to the Qantua trading post by the Maiu Qasapaq, mouth open to the extent where I begin to fear that, should someone attempt to cast a line to catch a fish, they¡¯d hook him instead.
As annoying and frustrating as it is to be ogled over, I¡¯m hesitant to confess that I, too, share the same curiosity as Upachu. Clutching the lapis lazuli amulet that dangles on my chest, I wonder what influence it has over me, what powers it provides. When Entilqan expressed to me during our conversation in my dream that this was the same amulet she wore, I hadn¡¯t guessed how it may affect me. Yet her powers were never to hear people¡¯s thoughts. She was an adept warrior, possessing a prowess unseen in Pachil. Her uncanny ability for military strategy and tactics in combat go unmatched to this day¡ªall the teachings at the Maqanuiache pale in comparison to her wisdom. But those are not the abilities I possess, leaving me confused as to how this all works. How does one obtain supernatural abilities, and what dictates the powers one receives? Is it from this amulet, or something else entirely?
We collect ourselves and resume the journey to Auilqa by way of the trading post. The tiny settlement buzzes with business, as merchants from far and wide gather to present their wares and exchange news from their homelands. Against the backdrop of rust-colored stone, there is a showcase throughout the bustling plaza involving vibrant displays of textiles and garments from all over Pachil, the wafting aromas of exotic foods being cooked on grills and in fire pits, glimmering metallic jewelry, exquisitely painted pottery and tools to handle any type of labor¡ªall of which is a sight that rivals the grandest marketplaces of Qapauma.
Eyeing over the goods, we manage to scrounge up enough supplies to get us to Chopaqte, the Achope capital. Traversing the Haqu Minsa from Iaqutaq will be lengthy and arduous, requiring countless days enduring the sea¡¯s open waters. Having never before been on a water vessel, I would be lying if the idea of traveling aboard one of those mechanisms didn¡¯t cause me to feel trepidation. However, if it¡¯s what is required of me, I will persevere, likely being dragged against my will like our llama companion.
Much of our time spent at the trading post involves me haggling over the steep prices that Upachu is too willing to pay. Whether it¡¯s the checkered patterns of the adorning garments worn outside of my tunic or Upachu¡¯s white robes of the Great Library, we¡¯re frequently met with merchants attempting to price gouge us, believing us to be wealthier than we actually are. I grow increasingly tired and infuriated with the countless traders telling someone one price, then giving us an inflated number when we approach.
I¡¯m about to give up the endeavor and rely on hunting to fill our stockpile when one more agreeable merchant waves us over. His eyes are bright and light brown, and he smiles warmly at us as we approach. His clothing is more modest than that of his compatriots, dressed in simpler tunics and lacking the excessive number of jewelry pieces that the others flaunt. I look for clues of his homeland in the colors of his garment, but the deep blue and silver doesn¡¯t bring anything to mind.
¡°Your presence has caused quite a stir,¡± he smirks. ¡°Seeing a Qantua general and member of the Great Library this far south has caught everyone¡¯s attention. What has taken you away from the comforts of Hilaqta?¡±
¡°We¡¯re on a great journey,¡± Upachu exclaims. I give him a glowering look, wordlessly demanding he bite his tongue lest he give too much away. We can¡¯t afford to be discovered by our enemies and have our mission exposed carelessly. He doesn¡¯t silence himself, but instead replies in a tone of solemn reverence, ¡°We¡¯re embarking on a journey to honor the ancient tradition of the Great Library of Hilaqta. As stewards of our history, it¡¯s our duty to traverse Pachil, verifying the accuracy of our records and enriching them with the wisdom of distant lands. It¡¯s an opportunity to weave new threads into our quipus, ensuring our ancestors¡¯ efforts and sacrifices aren¡¯t forgotten by those who come after us.¡±
The merchant nods thoughtfully. ¡°I¡¯ve heard tales of such endeavors. It¡¯s a noble cause, preserving the history of not just Qantua, but all of Pachil. It would be a great honor if I may support your noble efforts by supplying your journey. To where are you traveling?¡±
¡°Chopaqte,¡± Upachu replies. ¡°We are to meet with the merchant nobility of the Achope.¡±
¡°That¡¯s a mighty long way,¡± the merchant notes. ¡°I don¡¯t envy having to travel across the great sea. Not much of a seafarer myself.¡±
¡°We have to start some place,¡± Upachu says. ¡°And I¡¯ve gotten off easy. I feel sorry for the person selected to travel to Auilqa!¡±
They both share a chuckle, with the merchant nearly in stitches. I¡¯m impressed by the ease with which Upachu can weave tales. Like how he created an elaborate excuse regarding the painting of the Great Library that led to the discovery of these locations marked on the clay pots. Perhaps I should be concerned, wondering if he¡¯s used the same tactics on me. Yet, for now, I let those suspicions subside, stepping back so as to not expose his untruths.
¡°Then Upuiqu is the guide you need,¡± he says with much confidence. ¡°He can navigate the Maiu Qasapaq better than a condor soars the mountain skies. He¡¯ll get you to Iaqutaq the safest and swiftest way of all navigators, and he may have a contact or twelve at the port city who could let you aboard their vessel to travel to Achope.¡±
A wide smile spans Upachu¡¯s lips. ¡°What a coincidence! That will do greatly! Thank you! Thank you kindly! They say this world lacks civility, and I started to fear they were right, having dealt with your counterparts here. But you! A shelter providing refuge amidst a storm!¡±
I can only roll my eyes at this excessive amount of praise, but Upachu¡¯s charm appears infectious enough to have won the merchant over. Unable to resist, he purchases additional items we don¡¯t need¡ªtunics, wooden figurines, scarves, balsa wood bowls. He claims it¡¯s to curry favor from the gods, to repay the good hospitality. I see it as a way to overload the cart and slow down the llama. Yet I don¡¯t stop him, allowing him to make his absurd purchases, which bring him an abundance of joy.
After gathering what we need for the journey¡ªand then some¡ªwe make our way to the harbor, which consists of a few rickety wooden planks barely supported by large, semi-round posts. The platform is uneven, at best, and the llama refuses to place a hoof onto it. Too excited for the journey, Upachu marches proudly toward the vessel designated to take us to Iaqutaq, not waiting for a moment to assist me with his animal companion.
The wide vessel is manned by a weathered figure standing crookedly atop the mechanism. He greets us with a warm, relatively toothless smile, waving us aboard with his time-worn hands as though he is expecting us. The wind occasionally sweeps the wisps of silver hair, needlessly bound together by a reddish-brown headband decorated with multiple colored beads.
¡°To where are you traveling, friends?¡± he asks in a raspy voice. ¡°You¡¯ll find no better vessel to transport you up and down the Maiu Qasapaq than mine.¡±
¡°Are you the illustrious Upuiqu we¡¯ve heard so much about?¡± Upachu asks in response.
¡°I¡¯m not sure what that word means,¡± Upuiqu says, ¡°but if it¡¯s not a bad thing, then yes! That would be me!¡±
Upachu laughs heartily. ¡°I assure you, friend, that you come well recommended! We must travel to Chopaqte, but will settle for your expertise in getting us to Iaqutaq.¡±
¡°Including that thing?¡± the raftsman inquires, pointing to the llama I¡¯m struggling to handle. Upachu nods, to which Upuiqu says, ¡°Well, I can¡¯t say it¡¯ll be the most comfortable experience for it, and you¡¯ll have to manage the creature yourself, seeing as that¡¯s not really my job.¡±
¡°Not to worry, friend,¡± Upachu says reassuringly. ¡°My partner here, Teqosa, will take care of that!¡± I groan, getting the sense that this was going to happen.
Upuiqu fetches a rather reasonable sum, to which Upachu is more than happy to oblige. He finds a place on the vessel and urges me along without offering any assistance to expedite the process. It requires a lot of coaxing, but the llama reluctantly climbs aboard, appearing nervous the entire time as the raft tilts and wobbles with the tiniest movement. It remains unsettled for the duration of our travels, and is unresponsive to my futile efforts at comforting the creature.
Upachu, meanwhile, prattles on with the navigator. The two speak to one another like old friends, commenting on trivial matters like the weather and the pains of growing older. The navigator is able to chat and work, using his calloused hands to expertly drive a long pole into the river, guiding us along. He steers us about with the same fluidity as the gently flowing waters, nonchalantly planting the pole so that we maneuver around rocks and fallen trees with ease as he¡¯s clearly done for dozens of harvests.
¡°You appear well traveled, friend,¡± Upachu notes. ¡°Yet you choose not to venture any further than the Maiu Qasapaq? Why is that?¡±
¡°No need to travel anywhere else,¡± the navigator remarks. ¡°Been doing this since I could carry this stick. I don¡¯t think there are enough fingers, toes, and hooves on this raft to count the amount times I¡¯ve traversed this river! You meet all sorts of people, especially with the trading post right there. Even had a Tuatiu, a Tapeu, and an Ulxa aboard my vessel not long ago, all at the same time. Sounds like the start of a terrible joke, doesn¡¯t it?¡± His laughter fills the raft, and I can¡¯t help but smile at the toothless man amidst such uncertain times.
¡°Well, blessed be the sun!¡± Upachu exclaims. ¡°We know those people! They weren¡¯t tremendously difficult to deal with, I hope?¡±
Upuiqu chuckles. ¡°Nah, they were fine. The two men squabbled a bit, but the woman? Something about her seemed¡ different. Much more different than any Tuatiu I¡¯ve ever met. But in a good way, of course!¡± He sounds slightly defensive in saying the last part, not intending to offend.
¡°What about her brings such an observation?¡± I ask, speaking for the first time, which catches our navigator off guard.
¡°The Tuatiu are fiercely serious people,¡± he starts, ¡°but she carried herself with purpose every waking moment. She seemed to always be alert, always observing. Her eyes, they didn¡¯t just watch, they saw¡ªinto you, around you, past what was in front of her. It was like she was constantly solving a riddle only she could see. Even in casual conversation, you could tell her mind was piecing together more than what was being said. And even when those two men argued, she had a way of calming the storm between them without saying much. A leader, not by noise, but by presence, she was.¡±
¡°That sounds about correct,¡± Upachu confirms. ¡°She is destined for great things, I¡¯m certain.¡±
As we approach Iaqutaq, the sight of the port village strikes me as a stark deviation from the hilltop dwellings typical of my homeland. Nestled between the rolling hills and the edge of the sea, it¡¯s a rare feather in Qantua¡¯s headdress, where water replaces the stone and soil to which we¡¯re so accustomed. A series of terraced gardens descend towards the shore, closely resembling the agricultural terraces back home, but adorned with crops that thrive on the differing climate, such as cassava, plantains, and a variety of peppers. Made of sun-dried bricks and wood, the buildings sprawl out towards the water¡¯s edge, with thatched roofs waving like the sea¡¯s own currents in the gentle breeze. Here, the air is filled with the tang of salt and the bustling sounds of trade, something uncommon to the silence of the Qantua hills. Wooden docks stretch out into the water like the fingers of the ground itself. They are bustling with activity, and are lined with canoes and rafts of varying sizes, some unloading goods from distant lands, others preparing to travel to far off destinations. It¡¯s a village displaying Qantua resilience at its best, showing our people find a connection to the land, wherever it may lead us.
Thanks to befriending our helpful navigator, he¡¯s helped us secure access to a sturdy merchant¡¯s canoe that happens to be heading to Chopaqte the following morning. Seeing a Qantua general and a wisened servant to the Great Library, he was more than happy to transport us, despite traveling with the llama, and finding just enough space to accommodate us all. It will be a bit cramped, as we¡¯ll mostly be sharing the area with his cargo, but because he¡¯s providing this service without cost, I¡¯m inclined not to complain.
As the first light of dawn breaks over the horizon, I find myself standing at the edge of the Haqu Minsa, the vast expanse of water that separates us from our next destination. Beside me, Upachu hums a tune of the Qantua hills, a soft melody that battles against the roar of the sea. Burdened with supplies and the concealed pots, our llama seems indifferent to the change in scenery, quietly chewing on some hay.
Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on the original website.
The mood of the sea shifts without warning¡ªnow calm, now tempestuous¡ªreflecting the sky¡¯s ever-changing display. Upuiqu warned us of Haqu Minsa¡¯s capricious nature, of storms that arise without warning and waves that could swallow a vessel whole. Having never traversed the sea, I find myself frequently scanning the horizon, the salt air sharp in my nostrils, as I contemplate the unseen depths below. Yet as we travel, there¡¯s an eerie calmness to it all. The only sounds are the gentle lapping of water against the hull and the distant calls of seabirds circling above.
A large canoe hewn from the trunks of giant trees, our vessel is surprisingly stable, even as it¡¯s laden with goods bound for Chopaqte. The Achope merchants aboard are skilled navigators, their familiarity with these waters evident in their confident movements. They steer us through channels marked by subtle cues in the water, impressively navigating by the position of the sun and the stars once night falls.
The voyage is long, requiring almost half a moon cycle, and though it¡¯s fraught with the anticipation of danger, it offers moments of serene beauty. The monotony of the sea is occasionally broken by the sight of a distant island or a school of fish darting underneath the vessel. Upachu tries to lighten the mood by joyfully recounting tales of past adventures, but I frequently find myself lost in thought, considering the challenges that lie ahead.
With each stroke of the paddle, the shores of Iaqutaq and Qantua recede into the distance. As we draw nearer to our destination, the coastline of Achope territory unfolds before us. The dense jungles come up to the sea¡¯s edge, occasionally giving way to patches of a white sandy beach. Lush, large palm trees reach for the sky above, stretching as far as the eye can see, as the breeze carries the humidity of the rainforest. The hues of greens are unlike any in Qantua, spanning from deep emerald to the lightest lime, and the azure waters that surround the land shimmer under the golden sun, revealing rich coral and marine life teeming beneath the surface.
As we navigate further along the Maiu Hatun¡ªthe great river separating Achope from Auilqa¡ªChopaqte comes into view. The city is strategically planted within an inlet that shields it naturally, emerging like a jewel nestled within the river. When we finally dock, I feel a mixture of relief and anticipation. To busy my mind with other thoughts, I take in the sights of this foreign land. The city is a marvel of architecture, with towering stone pyramids that catch the sunlight, casting long shadows over the plazas below. The jungles seem to choke the city, inserting itself throughout the paths and between homes, hardly allowing any clearings. Structures of wood and the occasional pale stone rise in elaborate tiers, adorned with intricate carvings and statues that stand as a testament to the Achope¡¯s wealth. Everywhere I look, the royal purple and gold of the Achope banners flutter in the breeze. The scents of exotic spices and the sounds of haggling mingle among the bustling central marketplace, a constant reminder of the prosperity and pride of this merchant faction.
¡°Isn¡¯t this remarkable!¡± Upachu exclaims excitedly. He gazes upon the multistoried wooden buildings that dwarf the residents below. ¡°I haven¡¯t been here since my youth! It really hasn¡¯t changed at all. Nope, not one bit.¡±
Wearing their colorful garments that hardly cover much of their skin, Upachu and I stand out immensely. The jungle¡¯s humidity quickly catches up to us in our thick Qantua clothing, flushing our cheeks red as beads of sweat spontaneously emerge from our overheated bodies. Upachu doesn¡¯t seem to mind, staring wondrously at the foreign sights. However, I remind him of our current condition of discomfort, as well as seeking hydration for his oft ignored animal, and we determine to purchase clothing better suited for this environment. This notion excites Upachu further, and we make our way to the marketplace.
To call it ¡°a city within a city¡± would be describing it unjustly. Far grander than the Qantua trading post, the central marketplace of Chopaqte unfurls into the horizon, lined with more vendors than trees in the surrounding jungles. Merchants bark from their stalls, resplendent in elaborate garments and jewelry, seemingly to reflect their wealth and status.
Any good one seeks can be found here: Fine textiles and fabrics made from cotton and agave fibers, brightly colored and woven with intricate patterns. Exquisite jewelry crafted from jade, turquoise, and gold. Beautifully decorated ceramics and pottery, used for cookware or ornate ceremonial vessels, all adorned with geometric and nature-inspired motifs. Jars and baskets filled with local and imported spices and herbs, like vanilla, allspice, and achiote. A diverse array of tropical produce, such as avocados, papayas, pineapples, and chili peppers. Cacao beans, and chocolate drinks spiced with chili and honey. Sharp and durable tools and weapons made from obsidian and flint. Pelts of jaguars, ocelots, and other jungle animals, along with the vibrant feathers from tropical birds like macaws and quetzals. A variety of medicinal herbs, roots, incense, and concoctions prepared by Achope healers. Even exotic pets, such as parrots, monkeys, and small ocelots.
Upachu is immediately drawn to the stall containing capes made from the brilliant plumage of tropical birds. ¡°What need have you of such a cape?¡± I challenge him. He waves me away, entranced and enthralled by the enchanting featherwork. I¡¯m left to roll my eyes, standing next to the llama, which expresses its indifference as it munches on more straw.
It¡¯s then that my ears are drawn to the sound of distant shouting. Except it¡¯s not two people bartering over a price. No, this sounds like an intense confrontation. Do I intervene with someone else¡¯s affairs? I ask Upachu to watch over the llama, but he is too enamored by the items in the merchant¡¯s stall to hear me.
Waking by the other stalls, and being shouted at by the vendors hawking their wares, I notice a heated exchange not at a cart, but inside a building. The sweet stench of fermenting chicha permeates the air as I peek inside. There, a stout figure wielding a carafe of the pale beverage points and scolds a young woman. She has long, dark hair, with occasional strands braided with vibrant threads and golden beads, and her deep brown eyes are sharp and piercing. Unlike the typical lavishness of the Achope, and especially of its merchants, she wears a lightweight, sleeveless tunic embroidered with fine, gold thread over rugged pants made from some kind of treated leather. And around her waist is a belt fashioned from various pieces of leather and cloth. Not only do her clothes stand out, but adorning her sun-kissed arms and legs are numerous markings in black, tattoos of lines and dots forming peculiar shapes.
She stands firm, her back straight, facing the towering, red-faced man. His voice booms, ¡°You can¡¯t just come in here, demanding special treatment like some highborn lady!¡±
¡°Special treatment?¡± The woman responds, sounding calm, and almost amused. ¡°I¡¯m merely asking for a fair price, something your inflated rates wouldn¡¯t know if it danced on your ledger.¡±
The crowd around them is a combination of entertained patrons and annoyed bystanders, with the latter trying to move past the spectacle without getting involved. The man steps closer, clearly unaccustomed to being talked back to, especially by someone he perceives as inferior. ¡°Look here, you¡¯ve got some nerve¡ª¡°
But the young woman doesn¡¯t flinch. Instead of being intimidated by his brutish stature, she also steps forward, closing the gap even more. She snarls, defiantly lifting her square chin and jaw to fix her gaze onto his. ¡°And you¡¯ve got some learning to do about hospitality and commerce. I¡¯ve traversed lands you¡¯ve only heard of in tales, and I assure you, your chicha isn¡¯t the treasure you think it is.¡±
Indignant, the man sputters before finally bellowing, ¡°Out! I won¡¯t have my establishment insulted by a¡ a wanderer!¡±
With a dramatic flourish that¡¯s clearly more for the crowd¡¯s benefit than anything else, he attempts to usher her out physically. The woman, however, smoothly sidesteps his clumsy attempt, causing him to nearly tumble onto the ground. She turns, and with a dignified air, strides out on her own terms. As she leaves, she brushes off her tunic, a wry smile playing on her lips, clearly not the least bit troubled by the encounter.
It¡¯s then that I notice the wide, copper bracelets around her wrists¡ªcopper in a land covered in gold¡ªand a complicated, ornate mechanism that dangles from a leather cord around her neck. Getting a better look at it, now that the commotion has died down and the onlookers begin to disperse, I can see that its surface is intricately decorated with strange symbols¡ªnot necessarily the symbols Upachu and I discovered on the papyrus, but something else.
The marketplace fades into the background as I approach the woman. She catches my gaze, wary and watching me with caution as she sizes me up.
¡°Seems you¡¯re not a fan of the local beverage,¡± I start, attempting levity amidst the dense air of the marketplace, and the tense air of her recent encounter.
The woman¡¯s lips twitch into a smirk, and her stance is relaxed but alert. ¡°Not at the cost of being swindled. Some people are born atop the temple, yet boast as if they climbed it stone by stone, and believe they can do no wrong. The owner doesn¡¯t like to be reminded that he obtained this place through deceptive means, using familial wealth to strong-arm those out of their hard-earned possessions. I prefer my drinks served with honesty anyway, thanks.¡±
Her reply draws a genuine chuckle from me. ¡°I¡¯m Teqosa, and my distracted friend over there is Upachu.¡±
¡°S¨ªqalat,¡± she introduces herself with a firm handshake. ¡°And judging by your garb and the llama, not from around here. What brings you to Chopaqte, seeking passage to even more dangerous lands?¡±
¡°Let¡¯s just say we¡¯re on a mission of importance, one that requires discretion and a guide who knows how to navigate more than just overpriced chicha.¡±
S¨ªqalat¡¯s eyes narrow, intrigue painted across her features. ¡°A mission, you say? And why would you trust someone who¡¯s just been thrown out of a tavern?¡±
¡°Because you stood your ground, young lady,¡± Upachu pipes in, finally joining us. I didn¡¯t realize he had been watching the spectacle, believing he was too engrossed in the merchant¡¯s wares to notice. ¡°And anyone who can do that in the face of blatant dishonesty is worth at least a conversation about potentially perilous journeys.¡±
S¨ªqalat assesses us both, and a slow smile forms. ¡°Well, if it¡¯s adventure and discretion you seek, you might have found your guide. Let¡¯s find a place where we can speak freely, away from the chaos of the market.¡±
We follow S¨ªqalat into a building far removed from the splendor of Chopaqte¡¯s main thoroughfares. The room is dark and shady, barely illuminated by the few torches suspended about the perimeter and the small trickles of sunlight that seeps in. The patrons look groggy, hardly able to keep themselves upright as they clutch large carafes of chicha, and off to one side is an exhausted-looking woman looking onto the scene, appearing as though she likely hasn¡¯t slept a wink, wearing a simple, neutral-toned tunic as she leans against the wall. A few hold boisterous conversations that resonate throughout the room, wearing more plain clothing and speaking in a gruff, harsh-sounding dialect like that of the dockworkers.
Upachu leans in, whispering, ¡°So this is a tavern? Quite the peculiar establishment. I much prefer the Qantua qusitampo.¡±
S¨ªqalat chuckles, ushering us to a secluded corner. ¡°You''ll find these ¡®peculiar establishments¡¯ are the best places for honest conversation. Or dishonest, depending on your company.¡±
She signals to the worn-out tavern keeper, who shuffles her feet as she unhurriedly approaches us. S¨ªqalat orders something, and the tavern keeper returns with three carafes containing a drink that smells oddly like fermented cactus. The aroma is strikingly pungent, causing me to cautiously bring it to my lips. The first sip washes over my tongue with an odd combination of tang and sweetness. It¡¯s not unpleasant, but it¡¯s unlike anything I¡¯ve tasted before, leaving a bewilderingly lingering taste. The texture is smoother than the chicha I¡¯m accustomed to, yet its potency is evident after just a few sips. I eye the drink leerily, aware that I¡¯m treading into uncharted territory with every swallow. My reaction amuses S¨ªqalat as a smirk crosses her lips.
¡°So,¡± she begins, settling back against the wooden bench. ¡°You¡¯re not just passing through Chopaqte for the sights and Achope¡¯s alleys, are you?¡±
With his inability to contain excitement, Upachu eagerly starts, ¡°We¡¯re on a journey of discovery.¡±
Her eyebrows arch. ¡°A ¡®journey of discovery¡¯, is it? And just where does this journey take you? Does this fabled path also wander through the land of unlikely tales and forgotten myths?¡±
¡°Our destination,¡± I interject, placing a hand on Upachu¡¯s resting arm while hoping to steer the conversation with caution, ¡°would be to the Auilqa territory.¡±
Her surprise is genuine. ¡°Auilqa? That¡¯s no small undertaking. What could possibly compel you to venture there?¡±
¡°We seek knowledge,¡± I say, veiling our true purpose with half-truths. ¡°Our quest demands a guide who knows the lands, and how to navigate its complexities.¡±
¡°If it¡¯s knowledge you seek, I¡¯m baffled as to why you¡¯d wander so far from your beds,¡± she quips. ¡°Surely, the Great Library of Qantua is ripe with tales to satiate your thirst for adventure, no? Or is it that the comfort of home has grown too familiar, too safe, and now you find yourselves itching for a taste of danger to add a dash of flavor to your tales?¡±
Upachu looks confused and stunned at the mention of the Great Library. ¡°How did you¡¡± But before he completes the question, he pats his white robes and looks down at his garb, coming to the realization. ¡°I see you¡¯re an astute observer.¡±
¡°Like I¡¯ve mentioned earlier, I¡¯m well-traveled and have seen much of these lands,¡± she says, her chest swelling with pride. She tilts her head almost entirely back and takes a long swig from the container, nearly emptying it of its contents.
¡°Well, as much as I¡¯d rather stay in bed, I¡¯m afraid the knowledge we desire brings us to venture into the jungles of Auilqa,¡± Upachu responds.
S¨ªqalat leans back, absorbing our vague reasoning. ¡°You¡¯re not the usual travelers, are you?¡± She now sips her drink thoughtfully. ¡°And your real reasons must be compelling if you¡¯re willing to tread such dangerous ground.¡±
¡°I assure you, our reasons are well-intentioned,¡± I confirm.
¡°Well, for a journey fraught with peril, I may be just the person you¡¯re looking for,¡± she says, kicking her dirty sandals onto the table, much to the chagrin of the tavern keeper. ¡°I¡¯ve traversed the savage jungles countless times, and I know them better than the jaguars that prowl the land. And fortunately for you, I¡¯ve recently grown tired of the monotony here, the endless bartering and bickering between fools.¡±
We sit in silence as we study each other for a moment longer. Then, she sets down her carafe with a decisive clack. ¡°Alright, I¡¯m intrigued. But I don¡¯t work for chicha, you know.¡±
¡°We can ensure your efforts will be well rewarded,¡± I promise her.
¡°Then you have yourself a guide!¡± she exclaims. Then, her tone suddenly turns serious, "But know this, the journey ahead is not for the faint-hearted. I lead, you follow. No questions asked.¡±
¡°We understand,¡± I agree, certain there will be dangers that lie ahead. ¡°At dawn, then?¡±
¡°At dawn,¡± S¨ªqalat confirms with a nod. She snatches the carafe from the table and pounds back the remaining contents. She tosses it aside, letting it clatter along the stone floor, and abruptly gets out of her seat, marching out of the tavern as though she urgently has somewhere else to be.
We look upon one another with a stunned amusement, wordlessly inquiring whether what we just witnessed was a fabrication of the mind or reality. We take our time finishing the beverages, and are abruptly reminded by the tavern keeper that they have yet to be paid for when we attempt to leave. I grunt in frustration, but Upachu blissfully fishes in his pouch for a few copper pieces and gently hands them to the grumpy owner.
As we depart the establishment to find a bed for the night, Upachu mutters to me, ¡°Hopefully she knows her taverns as well as she knows her trails.¡±
¡°It would be a useful skill,¡± I muse, thinking how her unconventionality might just be the edge we need. I¡¯m relieved to have found someone who can aid us in navigating the Auilqa jungles, sensing that in her, we might have found the very means we need to reveal the secrets awaiting us.
90 - Walumaq
As the last echoes of the gate¡¯s destruction reverberate through the thick, smoke-filled air, I press closer to the shattered remnants of Analoixan¡¯s defenses. Rain and ash mingle with sweat, matting my hair to my forehead. It¡¯s a cool contrast to the feverish heat emanating from the city ahead. My heart pounds against my ribcage¡ªa drum of war in its own right¡ªurging me to action despite the overwhelming odds.
Around me, the city burns. Unhindered by the precipitation, flames spread with a voracious appetite across wooden structures, their fiery tongues licking the dark sky with hues of orange and red. Wooden structures that once constituted Ulxa homes smolder about us, succumbing to the inferno. I can feel the heat intensifying as if conspiring to stop us, to swallow us whole in its fiery maw.
Because of the heavy and unrelenting rain from earlier, the ground is sludge beneath my feet, making it a burden to drag Paxilche¡¯s unconscious form to safety. Nevertheless, I set my jaw and tighten my grip on him while he¡¯s blissfully oblivious to the chaos swirling around us. Though shallow yet steady, his breathing is the only noise that cuts through the cacophony of destruction. The sounds of battle grow louder as we enter the threshold of Analoixan, but it¡¯s the silence that follows¡ªa sudden, eerie lull¡ªthat chills me more than the encroaching flames.
Ahead, it¡¯s a scene from the darkest of nightmares. The silhouettes of the fire dogs move with unnatural speed, their forms shimmering in the fire that engulfs them. Their roars pierce the evening, melding with the cries of warriors and the crackle of consuming flames. Their eyes are deep pools of molten lava, seeking out life amid the devastation, eager to extinguish it.
Just as I begin to doubt my quest at the sight of the devastating scene, the howls of the fire dogs are answered by the shouts of Ulxa men and women, rallying cries that cut through the clamoring. They rush past me, raising their obsidian swords, unperturbed with the mortifying sight of these unreal monsters destroying their city. The moment pushes me forward. In my chest, a fire of my own kindles, encouraged by the valor of the Ulxa warriors, and determined to rise to the challenge set forth by this enemy.
Braving the flames and the danger, Ulxa warriors clash with the beasts. But their efforts seem almost futile against such supernatural ferocity. Every swipe of a fiery claw, every bite of scorching teeth, brings ruin and suffering. Though they valiantly strike at the creatures, they¡¯re brought to a grizzly demise, as the monstrous beasts slash and shred them apart with ease.
Then, my gaze is drawn to a solitary structure that defies the chaos consuming its city: the temple. Unlike the surrounding tinderbox of wooden homes and market stalls now falling to the flames, the temple stands resolute. The only building constructed of stone, it endures the catastrophe taking place among the land that cradles it. Rising high from the ground are large columns of bronze statues, twinkling radiantly amidst the horrific scene that surrounds them. Though they¡¯re too far away to confirm this, they appear to be beset throughout with various precious gemstones of all shades and hues.
As we dash through the streets, the heat at our heels intensifies. The ground beneath us feels as if it''s about to melt away. Manifesting from the flames, the dogs close in, each snarl sending embers scattering into the air. Though not of flesh and bone, their paws leave the ground scorched in their wake as they rumble towards us with unnerving speed. With every glance back, I see their fiery eyes, like molten coals, fixated on us. They leap over obstacles with ease, their flames undiminished by the small sputtering of rain.
The city¡¯s defenders struggle against the tenacity of the Eye in the Flame¡¯s fire dogs. Though their ranks are quickly dismantled, the Ulxa warriors persist, determined to shift the fate of this battle in their favor. Overwhelming booms that reverberate throughout the entirety of Analoixan rattle my bones, and explosions of nearby balls of fire momentarily illuminate the city with an ominous orange glow.
Paxilche starts to come back to life, grunting and groaning while rubbing the back of his head. ¡°Wha¡¡± he¡¯s barely able to get out the words before yielding to the pain of his injuries.
¡°You¡¯ve been knocked unconscious,¡± I answer him. ¡°While you were attempting to summon your abilities.¡±
¡°Was it the Eye in the Flame?¡± he asks. ¡°The ones responsible for my condition?¡± When I don¡¯t reply, he shakes his head in disbelief. ¡°So, someone else then¡¡± His remark is more statement than inquiry, for he must know all too well the circumstances that led to the state in which he finds himself.
I continue to scan the horizon for any threat, trying to identify our best course of action to get to safety. Paxilche doesn¡¯t allow me to consider our next move in peace, declaring, ¡°I wasn¡¯t left with much choice, you know. The city was¨C¡°
¡°We are always given a choice!¡± I say harshly, my words more biting than I intended. ¡°You were harming those who sought to defend the city! Your reckless actions not only washed away innocent lives in a merciless tide, but also stirred turmoil among those who might have stood with us.¡±
Paxilche scoffs. ¡°Some innocent lives were sacrificed, so what? Had I not intervened, the Eye in the Flame would¡¯ve caused even more destruction than what they¡¯ve already done. It¡¯s a small price to pay to defend the city.¡±
¡°Every life is precious, even of those you deem insufficient,¡± I charge. ¡°Who are you to determine which ally¡¯s life is worth more than another¡¯s? They joined our cause after we earned their trust¡ªtrust that you just betrayed. There is a fine line between defense and destruction, a line you crossed without a second thought.¡±
¡°That is the life of a warrior¡ªand death is the risk they take,¡± Paxilche shouts above the din. Yet his condition is still unimproved, and he starts to collapse against the remnants of a wooden wall that once belonged to a home. Groggily, he adds, ¡°If wielding the tempest¡¯s fury spares Analoixan from the cult¡¯s clutches, then so be it. I¡¯ll bear that weight so others don¡¯t have to.¡±
I stare at him, stunned by the defiance in his tone. ¡°A storm leaves nothing but ruins in its wake,¡± I counter, trying to restrain my own storm that rages within me. ¡°We vowed to protect this land and its people, not decide their fates with the arrogance of gods.¡±
Though is eyes are fierce and unyielding, his silence is telling, like a tumultuous sea stilled momentarily by my words. For now, an uneasy truce appears to settle between us. His reasoning is disturbing, and while our enemy might unite us, it¡¯s evident that the paths we choose to walk may divide us.
But we have no time to spare, as the presence of our foe bears down upon us. The sounds of destruction grow louder, and the heat from the burning buildings intensifies. The panicked cries and screams of residents trapped by the swirling fires blends with the crashes of falling buildings. From the corner of my eye, they are close by, crouching low behind anything that could afford them a modicum of protection. I call out to them, urging them to run to safety. But they¡¯re petrified in place, too scared to move. I know the makeshift shields they hide behind are not enough, and I know they need to be protected from the fire dogs right away, as I hear the approaching beasts¡¯ flaming paws thump the ground like striking a war drum.
The nearest source of water remains too far away, and I see no other well or pool of water large enough for me to douse the flames that threaten the nearby villagers. The fiery red eyes of the beasts appear above the ruined thatch roofs that once belonged to homes, searching the area for their next target, their next victim.
A few droplets of rain patter against my cheek. I look up, seeing the dark gray clouds hovering overhead, and an idea comes to me in a flash. Turning to Paxilche, I exhale a steadying breath, then ask, ¡°If we can set aside our differences for one moment, can you intensify the storm circling above us? It can hopefully bring enough water that I may have a chance at moving it to where it is needed most.¡±
Still groggy, Paxilche rubs his temples. ¡°I¡¯m not sure I have the power to do that,¡± he says with uncertainty. ¡°I¡ I just discovered this ability, and I¡¯m not confident about knowing the limits of what I can do. I may have expelled all that I can.¡±
A whirlwind of thoughts tangle in my mind. Paxilche has only just come into his powers, and he may be too physically exhausted to utilize them anyhow. But furthermore, his mental state, knowing what defense he raised for his actions, makes it that much more difficult to trust him with such a request anyhow.
Then the realization that I might possess what can unleash his potential¡ªand by extension, ensure the survival of Analoixan¡ªcomes to me. The jade and onyx amulet, warm against my skin, pulses as if in agreement. I clutch it tighter, contemplating the magnitude of the decision before me.
I glance at Paxilche, considering the potential of his newfound abilities against the enormity of the task at hand. The idea of amplifying his power with one of the amulets nestles into my mind like an ember of hope flickering to life. Handing over such a potent artifact to him, however, especially after his recent recklessness, feels akin to entrusting a child with a blade.
I find myself torn, staring at the amulet in my hand. Entrusting Paxilche with this could either be our salvation or our doom. It was only moments ago when he unleashed an indiscriminate fury between friend and foe. I¡¯m haunted by the memory of his lightning, indiscriminate and wild. What if, in his attempt to save, he brings down more destruction? Can I risk amplifying that power, especially now when precision and control are paramount?
Yet as I watch the encroaching flames, I see our options dwindle like the fading light of day, as the decision becomes less about trust and more about necessity. The people of Analoixan, whose lives hang by an ever-fraying thread, cannot afford my hesitation. The thought of failing them, of watching helplessly as the city falls to the Eye of the Flame and the ruthless beasts they¡¯ve summoned, solidifies my choice.
¡°Paxilche,¡± I start, fighting to force my voice to become firm, ¡°I¡ might possess an item that could enhance your connection to the storm.¡± I pause, gauging his reaction, the jade and onyx amulet cool against my palm. I extend the amulet towards him, its green and black gemstones radiating in the fiery glow surrounding us. ¡°It might give us the edge we need. But you must promise me, promise all of us, that you¡¯ll control it. No more blind rage, no more reckless endangerment of lives. Our aim is to protect, not to destroy further.¡±
He inspects the amulet, and his hand hesitates before taking it, making it evident he¡¯s battling his inner storms. ¡°I¡ understand. I¡¯ll do whatever it takes to save them, Walumaq. You have my word,¡± he assures me, though I catch a flicker of doubt in his eyes that mirrors my own.
As the amulet passes into his possession with a trembling hand, the skies respond, and the storm¡¯s rumble grows more intense as if anticipating the unleashing of its full might. Cautiously, he places the gold chain over his head, letting the jade and onyx amulet drop to his chest. The gemstones glow as they rests upon his torso, a swirling mix of green and light-absorbing black. He looks at me questioningly, uncertain of what¡¯s to come. But I give him a single, reassuring nod, finding that I¡¯ve braced myself, ready to guide the deluge with every ounce of concentration I possess.
Paxilche closes his eyes to concentrate, drowning out the calamity that threatens to overtake us where we rest. I place a hand on his shoulder to help put him at ease. Then, in unison, we recite the prayer of my morning ritual. There¡¯s an encouraging calm that washes over him, and I hope beyond hope that he¡¯s channeling his powers from a source of love, not hate.
At once, rain begins to pour¡ªnot just in droplets, but in a deluge. A tremendous torrent streams from the sky, as if the heavens themselves have opened in response to Paxilche¡¯s silent plea. I watch as the water gathers at my feet, swelling into rivulets that chase the flames back, bit by bit. I can barely believe the sight as the land transforms. The once fierce and uncontrollable fires begin to hiss and steam under the onslaught of the rain. What moments ago was a hellish landscape of fire and ash now becomes a scene of rejuvenation, as each drop of rain acts as a salve to the scorched ground.
Seizing this gift of rain, I stretch out my hands, willing the water to rise. The water obeys, swirling and coalescing. With the twist and rotation of my hands and wrists, I direct the concentrated streams into protective barriers that shield villagers from the encroaching flames and dogs of fire. It encircles us into a wall that deflects the incoming embers and debris flung from nearby explosions of splintered homes. The relief on the faces of the trapped villagers is palpable, and their despair turns into hope as paths to safety emerge from the chaos. Without hesitating, they scurry away, retreating into the ever darkening evening as they flee the scene.
However, with each motion, I feel my strength waning. The effort to control such vast amounts of water strains every fiber of my being. I struggle for breath, my chest compressing as if a giant boulder rests upon it, and I¡¯m starkly reminded of my limits with the absence of the jade and onyx amulet around my neck.
Nevertheless, I push myself further. With the villagers clear of the scene, I shift the water towards the dark creatures, causing them to recoil and whine as the rain drenches their fiery coats. The beasts snarl and leap, only to be met by cascades of water that douse their flames, reducing them to whimpering shadows of their former selves. They evaporate into a steaming mist, gratifyingly vanishing before our eyes.
But as the last of them falls, I can feel my powers waning. My knees buckle beneath me as my energy is spent. The barriers of water begin to waver, then dissipate, dropping to the ground with a resounding whoosh as it spreads throughout the ruined remains of the city. The world tilts and blurs as I fall to exhaustion, while the rain continues to fall around me.
Lying there, soaked to the bone but alive, I look up to the dark sky as it continues to unleash its torrent upon us. Despite this, I feel a smile tug at my lips. I¡¯m filled only with gratitude and relief.
Paxilche¡¯s shouts gradually make their way to my ears. He calls out for me, desperately repeating my name. ¡°It¡¯s okay,¡± I say, with barely enough strength to wave my hand dismissively. ¡°I haven¡¯t worn the amulets for that long, yet it seems I¡¯ve already forgotten the limits to my abilities.¡±
He lifts me up to my feet. Every limb, every part of my body¡ªeven the hairs upon my head¡ªache severely. I wince, but battle through the pain. Our fight to defend Analoixan is far from finished, as the discordant sounds of the assault raging off in the distance reminds me.
Recognizing what little time we have before the next wave of creatures storms through the city, we pick up our trek toward the temple through the mud and sludge. It¡¯s difficult for me to determine whether it¡¯s the muck or my weathered muscles that hinders my movement. Clutching Paxilche closer, we maneuver through the rubble-strewn streets towards this fortress, this safe haven. As we approach, its towering walls reveal intricate patterns of terra cotta intertwined with robust stone. The large bronze columns nearly scratch the sky, they are so tall, embedded with turquoise, emeralds, and jade¡ªstones seemingly from all over Pachil. Stone statues line the way toward the temple, with stoic faces carved into them. Details involving carvings of mythical beasts and deities adorn its entrance, etched with such precision it¡¯s as though they might spring to life at any moment. It¡¯s an awe-inspiring sight that, for one fleeting moment, allows me to forget the peril nipping at our heels.
This tale has been unlawfully obtained from Royal Road. If you discover it on Amazon, kindly report it.
Chanting suddenly rises above the rumbles and dissonance, piquing my curiosity. Is there prayer taking place during a battle waged on Analoixan? Could the defenders have stooped to dark rituals to reclaim their city? Could the Eye in the Flame have already captured the sacred structure? Or could those be healers, seeking aid from their gods? More wailing and cries call out, though I can¡¯t discern whether they¡¯re from pain or exultation.
Paxilche looks disturbed, uncertain if we should proceed. Yet there¡¯s a resolve within me, determined to find out who is behind this mysterious event. If it¡¯s a friend, we can exchange information and develop a strategy. If its foe¡ well, I just hope it¡¯s a friend on the other side of these ruins.
Yet as I round a corner, the horrifying scene that unfolds before me brings me to a halt. After pushing through a dense crowd of onlookers, there¡¯s an undercurrent of anticipation among those gathered. Their eager attention is focused on what¡¯s occurring atop the large, stone structure they¡¯re swarming. Their feverish chants are howled into the darkening sky, a sound that causes my stomach to clench.
Arrayed before the temple, a group of Ulxa priests stand in a circle. The hairs on the back of my neck raise as their voices unite in a dark, growling chant. Roughly a dozen shamans stand poised at the edge of the stone platform, adorned in elaborate headdresses of feathers in vibrant blue, teal, and red hues that flit with the wind. Across their bare chests and arms are tattoos in intricate patterns and symbols, with various spots connected by crisscrossing lines. Pendants of bone and jade clink softly around their necks, and I deduce these must be sacred artifacts for their communion with the divine.
In their hands are ceremonial knives with obsidian blades, catching the glow of a towering bonfire with a menacing gleam, and a bundle of herbs that are ready to be offered to the flames. One of the shaman steps forward, his body painted with bold streaks of red and black crossing his chest, arms, and face, and atop his head sits a towering headdress, bristling with obsidian feathers and jagged bone.
Glowering with sharp, observant eyes behind them, a formidable warrior woman stands with an unyielding confidence. She¡¯s adorned with a majestic headdress made from an array of feathers that enshrouds her head. Intricately designed gold and jade jewelry dangle from her ears and neck, catching glints of fire light. Bold lines of thick, black lines along her face accentuate her set jaw, and patterns trace down her toned arms. She wears armor that is both ornate and utilitarian, crafted from leather, bone, and vibrant textiles that blend in with the Ulxa landscape.
Encircling them are the city¡¯s defenders, faces as blank as the stone that surrounds them. Before the shamans, nearly two dozen victims kneel, wearing the unmistakable garb of the Eye in the Flame, their silhouettes casting long shadows in the flickering light. The cultists, whose ashen gray and crimson robes are a stark contrast to the vibrant colors of the shamans¡¯ attire, watch with anticipation. They appear resigned to their fate, understanding the ritual that¡¯s about to be performed. Their expressions remain eerily composed, a disturbing tranquility that belies their unwavering devotion to their dark cause.
At the heart of this spectacle lies the stone altar, its surface somehow shimmering in the dim light. The shaman who stepped forward begins with a low, rhythmic chant that cuts through the silence like a sword. The crowd is hushed, hanging on every syllable, every gesture that he makes. The flames from the nearby torches dance wildly, as if stirred by some unseen force with the cadence of his incantations.
The shaman¡¯s movements become more fervent, and his chants louder, more insistent. The herbs are cast into the fire, sending up plumes of smoke that fill the air with a heady, intoxicating aroma. He then raises the ceremonial knife, and the crowd draws a collective breath. My heart tightens from dread, from a knowing anticipation. As the knife descends, a part of me recoils, silently screaming inside my mind, and I nearly feint at the sight. The others follow his actions, mirroring the grotesque action upon the other cultists. With their final breaths, some of the Eye in the Flame zealots extol their image of Eztletiqa, one reshaped to fit their twisted faith, but their devotions are abruptly silenced by the ritual blade. The sounds that follow¡ªwet, squelching noises, the sharp snap of bone, a chorus of gasps and murmurs from the crowd¡ªetch themselves into my memory unwelcomely. I don¡¯t need to watch; the sounds create a vivid, gruesome image I wish I could wash away.
There¡¯s a moment where the world seems to pause, teetering on the brink of something unfathomable. Then, the proud female warrior strides forward, receiving a chalice that¡¯s been filled with¡ I dare not say, for fear of retching. I am rooted to the spot, transfixed, as the ceremony unfolds before me, its horrors too ghastly and brutal for words. I force myself to look away, to find anything else in the world to focus on but that. My gaze instead catches the faces of the onlookers, with their expressions of reverence and an unsettling eagerness that makes my skin crawl.
With the act done, the crowd¡¯s reaction is immediate, filled with fervent cheers. But I can¡¯t share in their gaze. No, my eyes are fixed on the ground, my mind desperately trying to unsee what it has witnessed. A sickening aroma, sweet and metallic, invades my nostrils and coats my tongue with the taste of iron. I swallow hard, fighting the bile that rises in my throat. Around me, the Ulxa continue their ritual with impassioned zeal.
I find myself backing away, distancing myself from the scene, from the blood that now seems to permeate the very air I breathe. When I dare to look again, it¡¯s only at the faces around me¡ªtheir twisted grimaces, their wide, unblinking eyes, some glazed with tears, others alight with a fervor that chills me to the bone. It¡¯s in their faces that I see the true horror of what unfolds before us, a reflection of the brutality that I cannot bring myself to witness directly.
The need to act, to do something, anything to stop this madness, wells up within me, but I''m rooted to the spot, caught in a turmoil of my own conscience. As the ceremony concludes, the Ulxa''s jubilant cries of victory and empowerment ring out, echoing through the approaching night. But for me, the sound is hollow. How can I fight alongside people who partake in such barbarism? And yet how can I turn away when the fate of all Pachil hangs in the balance, knowing the struggle for our land begins right here in Analoixan?
Then, a woman¡¯s voice pierces through the air like the sharp call of a quetzal. ¡°You, there.¡± It¡¯s the woman from atop the ritual site. Her voice is strong, confident, proud. She points to me, her arm clattering with bronze jewelry that shake over her leather vambrace. ¡°The embodiment of Iolatl, the mother of creation, walks among us! And She is joined by Aqxilapu, creator of storms! Please, bless us with your prayer, so that our precious city, Analoixan, may be protected by the invaders attacking our home.¡±
The crowd turns to look at me as she seemingly reiterates this pronouncement in their native tongue, mouths agape. So, too, is Paxilche¡¯s reaction, stunned and tense. ¡°Uh, what do we do?¡± Paxilche mutters to me, uneasy. From her high vantage point, I deduce that she must have seen our actions against the fire beasts, how we used our abilities to defend the villagers and usher them to safety. The Ulxa begin to revere us, placing their hands upon us and chanting something in some other dialect, something that sounds harsh and vitriolic, yet, because of their worship, their reverence, it can¡¯t be so.
¡°Recalling my time in Qespina,¡± I reply, ¡°I know all too well about being falsely worshipped. But we can¡¯t turn these people away. They need to believe in the fight to protect their homeland, and if we denounce them or correct them, it could prove problematic.¡±
¡°But we¡¯re being worshipped,¡± Paxilche emphasizes. ¡°This is madness! We¡¯re not gods! They have us mistaken!¡±
My initial reaction to Paxilche¡¯s statement wants me to remind him of his actions not moments earlier, when he cast the lightning in a godlike manner, using no discretion. However, much like these Ulxa, I need him as an ally, not pushed away as an enemy.
Biting my tongue, I choose to instead respond with, ¡°Follow my lead, and err on the side of caution. We don¡¯t want to enhance their false perceptions of us.¡±
Against my better judgement, I lift my chin and, still weary from the earlier battle, limp toward the distinguished woman. Those gathered chant in unison, their disturbingly droning voices cause my breath to shorten into quick, panicked gasps. Yet my outward bravery belies my inner fears, concealing the terror that churns within me.
It takes all of my energy to scale the steep, stone stairs, and I approach the presumed leader with overwhelming nervousness. Her dark eyes practically glare at me, but upon closer observation of her sharply arched eyebrows, I soon realize this intensity is simply her fixed demeanor. I also notice the markings along her arms, appearing to be numerous dots connected by lines to form a variety of shapes, reminiscent of designating constellations that the Sanqo use to navigate the seas.
I can see she¡¯s about to make a grand speech, so I quickly interject. ¡°You honor us by bestowing upon us the mantle of the gods. However, I am Walumaq, princess of the Sanqo people, daughter of Sianchu. And this Paxilche, noble warrior of the Qiapu. We have arrived to defend Analoixan from the evil that has come to consume your homeland, and all of Pachil.¡±
The woman looks at me with an evaluative gaze, before proclaiming with flourish, ¡°You have clearly been touched by the gods, chosen by them to shield our people. For this, the Ulxa will hold your names in high esteem, recounting your bravery for generations to come. We are forever entwined with your fates, Princess Walumaq and Paxilche.¡±
The crowd chants our name in their stilted, hissing dialect, which distresses me greatly. It¡¯s as if they still revere Paxilche and me as demigods, despite my objection and correction, though their leader has yet to make this distinction clear, I suppose. Paxilche appears to take it all in, poorly hiding a smile that barely cracks the corners of his mouth. It¡¯s all an unsettling sight, something I wish to put behind me as quickly as I can.
¡°To whom is the revered leader I address?¡± I inquire, hoping to divert attention away from myself.
¡°I am Tlexn¨ªn, the leader chosen by the Itztecatl,¡± she says, prompting the shamans to reflexively shout some unintelligible response. The one calling herself Tlexn¨ªn remains stoic, her presence commanding, as she casts her sharp gaze upon me.
Swallowing the lump in my throat, I ask, ¡°May we discuss the matters of defending Analoixan in a more¡ private¡ location?¡± I glance about the shamans and warriors surrounding us, then flicker my attention to the gathered villager at the bottom of this sacred site.
Initially appearing confused, Tlexn¨ªn eventually responds, ¡°As you wish. Though I do not travel anywhere without my warriors.¡±
¡°Understood, Tlexn¨ªn,¡± I say, bowing my head, hoping it¡¯s taken as a sign of respect. She ushers us down the long, steep steps, and through the dense crowd of adoring villagers worshipping our every step. The warriors attempt to clear a path for us, forcefully and aggressively pushing the onlookers out of the way. Yet it¡¯s not enough to dissuade them from reaching out to grab at us. I clutch at the amulet, then look back to make sure Paxilche does the same¡ªwhich he doesn¡¯t, at first, but eventually catches on¡ªto ensure we protect our precious relics.
Tlexn¨ªn guides us through winding, torch-lit corridors, the walls adorned with intricate carvings that seem to move in the flickering light. We arrive at a grand chamber, its sheer scale and opulence taking my breath away. There is the heavy scent of burning copal everywhere, a sacred resin with its pungent, smoky perfume. Bright, colorful tapestries hang from the walls, depicting scenes of conquest and communion with the divine. They¡¯re seemingly brought to life under the soft glow of torches mounted on gold and turquoise fixtures. Laid in patterns, the floor is made into a mosaic of polished stones with more detailed etchings upon their faces, like that outside the grand entrance. At the chamber¡¯s center stands an imposing throne, carved from a single block of polished obsidian, glinting in the low light. The ceiling soars high above, painted to mimic the night sky of Pachil, complete with what I recognize to be constellations that have guided our people for generations.
Tlexn¨ªn regally lowers herself onto the throne, then stares at Paxilche and me expectantly. After an awkward pause, I take one step forward and, to her amusement, curtsey before addressing her.
¡°Your grace,¡± I state, ¡°we have traveled far from our respective homelands to aid your people in the fight against this evil, those calling themselves the Eye in the Flame. We¨C¡°
She interrupts, waving her hand dismissively at me. ¡°Yes, these are troublesome dissenters to the throne, led by delusional fools. The only aspect that I find amusing is that their leaders are misguided in different ways, yet misguided nonetheless. With the ritual completed, the enemy at our gates will be crushed by Wiqamasqa.¡±
Out of sight, the distant sounds of the assault carry on. Explosions and howls and yelling and chest-thumping booms and cries of agony continue to ring out in the background. Through all of this, Tlexn¨ªn remains inexpressive. Is she serious in her inaction? Does she truly believe the matter to be settled?
I cannot allow this to stand as is. ¡°I understand the significance of your rituals and respect your devotion to your beliefs,¡± I say, ¡°but the sounds of battle still rage outside these walls. While it may certainly sway the tide, Wiqamasqa¡¯s intervention cannot be the only action upon which we rely.¡±
¡°Wiqamasqa has heard our prayers,¡± she declares with unwavering confidence. ¡°The offering of the enemy¡¯s own has sealed their fate. They dare defile our lands, yet now they serve as the key to their undoing. Wiqamasqa¡¯s wrath shall be unyielding. The skies themselves will crush our enemies at the gates.¡±
¡°Your grace,¡± I respond, ¡°our enemies are many, and their resolve is strong. We must stand and fight, not wait for divine retribution to save us. We need a strategy that complements your faith with action. Can we not prepare our warriors, set defenses, or find a way to outmaneuver them on the battlefield? The ritual may have weakened them, but it is by our hands that we must secure Analoixan''s safety.¡±
Tlexn¨ªn appears to consider my words, her lips pursed and her severe eyes narrowing. She pauses, as a flicker of perplexity crosses her features. ¡°You speak of action alongside faith,¡± she finally says with bewilderment. ¡°Such a notion strikes me as strange, for have we not already sought the favor of Wiqamasqa through prayer and ritual? Have we not done enough?¡±
I¡¯m about to respond, but I see her wrestling with this concept internally. Her thoughtful gaze lingers on me for a moment, and then, slowly, a resolve forms. ¡°Yet, the presence of one not from Ulxa, advocating with such fervor for the survival of our people, cannot be overlooked. Perhaps it is indeed wise to wield both faith and action as our weapons.¡±
The look of resolution washes over her. ¡°Though you refuse the mantle of divinity, Sanqo princess, the counsel you offer shines with the clarity of the gods themselves,¡± she says. ¡°Your reluctance to embrace the sole guidance of Wiqamasqa, paired with a strategy that marries the celestial with the corporeal, reveals a divine prudence. Hence, even if you walk among us as flesh and blood, the gods speak through you. Let us blend our approaches in preparation for battle against the darkness at the walls of our city.¡±
I believe the matter to be settled, exhaling a sigh of relief. But then Tlexn¨ªn adds, ¡°I will marshal our warriors to reinforce our defenses, but I entrust you and your allies to spearhead this effort. The enemy¡¯s aggression demands a response in kind. Once victory is ours, we shall offer the blood of the conquered as a final homage to Wiqamasqa. Their spirits will fuel our lands, ensuring prosperity and warding off future threats.¡±
Her statement chills me to the core. The memory of the ritual I¡¯d witnessed and the bloodlust in the crowd¡¯s cheers haunt me. I hesitate, and I find my resolve wavering. Can I, in good conscience, lead a charge knowing it culminates in such barbarity?
Tlexn¨ªn notices my discomfort, and her expression immediately softens. ¡°I see my words have troubled you, Sanqo princess. Understand, the rituals of Ulxa are steeped in tradition, in a belief that the strength of our enemies can fortify our warriors. It is true, the rituals of Ulxa are woven into our heritage, revered for their power to connect us with the gods. Yet,¡± she continues, her voice lowering, ¡°there are those among us who cling to these traditions out of a fear of change. A fear that by evolving, we might somehow diminish our strength or anger the gods.¡±
She leans closer, her voice almost a conspiratorial whisper. ¡°But I dare to dream of a different Ulxa. One where our might is not measured by the blood we spill in ritual. I recognize this belief has made me¡ unpopular with the traditionalists within our ranks. They see this as a betrayal, a departure from the path laid by our ancestors.¡±
Straightening up, her expression hardens as she raises her voice, which finally attracts Paxilche¡¯s attention. ¡°Yet your presence here, along with your perspective, gives me hope that we are on the cusp of a new era. An era where Ulxa can find strength in unity, in alliances with the factions of Pachil. Perhaps, together, we can show that progress need not be feared, and tradition can evolve without losing its essence and power.¡±
Her admission offers a glimmer of hope, a possibility that my involvement could lead to more than just a temporary alliance against a common enemy. It could spark a transformation within Ulxa itself, steering them away from their more brutal traditions.
With renewed determination, I nod. ¡°Let us focus on the immediate threat. We will defend Analoixan, and in doing so, we will find a new path forward for Ulxa.¡±
Loud, thunderous booms cause the ground around us to tremble. Our attention returns to the present, recognizing that the threat still looms over Analoixan. Tlexn¨ªn nods with a newfound respect evident in her eyes. ¡°Indeed, Sanqo princess. Let us proceed with our preparations. The battle awaits us, as does the future of Ulxa.¡±
Tlexn¨ªn stands up and makes a proclamation using her native tongue. Warriors hand her an ornate helmet made of bronze and decorated with numerous colorful feathers, an elaborate obsidian-tipped spear that is two heads taller than her proud stance, and a bronze breast plate. She exchanges these for what she wore to the ritual, then fiercely thumps her chest with her spear.
As I trail behind her, a tremendous fear surges through me, something I try to fight with what may perhaps be na?ve reasoning. While I find the rituals and customs of Ulxa abhorrent, they are a proud and earnest people. They don¡¯t deserve the fate the Eye in the Flame wish to thrust upon them. There is good in these people¡ªthat, I am most confident; I can see it in my exchange with Tlexn¨ªn. It¡¯s been foretold that I am the uniter, and I intend to adhere to that prophecy. Perhaps I¡¯m the one who will reform the Ulxa. Perhaps I¡¯ve been sent to lay the foundation for a more peaceful, cooperative Pachil. Perhaps this is just the next step in my destiny realized.
91 - Haesan
Did I really just allow this to happen? Scolding myself internally, I hold my breath as the army of warriors clad in black and gold make their way through the now-empty aqueduct channel. I may have made a terrible miscalculation and allowed invaders into the palace. I can only mutter a prayer to the Eleven or whatever deity will take pity on me for being so foolish.
At the front is a sight more peculiar than anything told by a folklorist near a campfire. A young girl and two men, all wearing contrasting factional colors, walk ahead of the nearly hundred or so Qantua warriors. It¡¯s as though they¡¯re leading the army of another faction. This unexpected vanguard challenges every notion of warfare and allegiance I¡¯ve ever been taught. And in their silent march, there¡¯s an eerie resolve that chills my spine.
I push the dread to the back of my mind as I prepare for the possible consequences. The young girl and two men stop abruptly, a few paces away from me. They¡¯re a motley mix, and seeing the colors they don, it appears a warrior from the Tuatiu jungles is joined by an Ulxa warrior, and a high-ranking officer of Tapeu, brandishing the orange and deep red.
I¡¯m most intrigued by the young girl, who seems to garner the respect of the others around her¡ªthe Ulxa, and even the Tapeu official, stand a few paces behind and appear to await her orders. Her hair is jaggedly cut short and fairly unevenly, as thought done by herself with the dagger at her waist. Being around nobility for so long, I¡¯ve forgotten what short hair looks like, only seeing long hair tied in elaborate knots, braids, and buns. There¡¯s a power and command in her presence, as though she was forged from a life of battle, despite being so close to my age. I find myself drawn to her, compelled to understand the depth of her strength and the journey that has etched such authority into her youthful figure. There¡¯s an untamed, raw energy about her, a contrast to the polished grandeur of court life to which I¡¯ve grown accustomed.
¡°Are you the one responsible for cleaning the streets of Qapauma?¡± the Ulxa warrior asks in a jarringly stilted tongue. When I nod cautiously, he smirks. ¡°I commend you¡ªthat was very well done.¡±
¡°The enemy still remains at our gates,¡± I note, looking toward the stone walls as though I could see through them to find them there. I find it difficult to collect my thoughts, being flummoxed by the presence of so many different factions from far away lands, here inside the palace, and attempting to defend it. Or so I hope.
¡°What is your role in the city¡¯s defenses?¡± the Tuatiu warrior asks, more out of curiosity than accusation.
Still, I reflexively answer quickly and relatively defensively. ¡°I¡¯m not a warrior like you. I was trying to¡ help from above. Directing the Qente Waila, trying to save what¡¯s left of the city.¡±
The three exchange confused glances. ¡°Jade Hummingbird?¡± the Tapeu official questions. ¡°That name sounds vaguely familiar. Are they¨C¡°
¡°Instrumental to the city¡¯s defense?¡± I interrupt, not allowing him to draw any unhelpful conclusions. ¡°Their knowledge of the tunnels beneath the city has been crucial in navigating the chaos. They fight for Qapauma, just as we all do now.¡±
He seems put off by my statement, but I pay him no mind. I refuse to allow the Qente Waila¡ªwho, at present, appear to be more effective in defending the city from the Eye in the Flame¡ªto have their reputation besmirched. And judging by his reaction, I determine he must be a loyalist to the Arbiter. So I must tread carefully when speaking about certain matters when he is present.
¡°And a servant to the palace is given such freedom to divert the waters of the palace¡¯s aqueducts?¡± the Tapeu official inquires. ¡°Would the Arbiter allow such a thing to happen?¡±
¡°She just prevented catastrophe by giving the palace defenses more time to regroup,¡± the Tuatiu warrior asserts. ¡°Perhaps you should be placing your judgement elsewhere.¡±
I subtly exhale to myself, relieved to hear someone defending my choice. I strive to cloak my trepidation through projected serene composure. I feel I¡¯ve made questionable decisions as of late, so someone offering their support instills much-needed confidence.
¡°And yourselves?¡± I turn the inquisition to them. ¡°What brings this conglomeration of factions to Qapauma, conveniently at the city¡¯s time of need?¡±
¡°My companions and I have been tracking the Eye in the Flame since they attacked and nearly destroyed my home village, Iantana,¡± the young Tuatiu warrior declares. There¡¯s a gruff, unpolished manner in how she speaks, perhaps due to a lifetime of being around warriors, a distinct Tuatiu way of life. ¡°During my captivity within their compound, I discovered their leader¡¯s plot to attack Qapauma. There¡¯s more to it than this, but we have little time to discuss, as, you have pointed out, they attack your palace.¡±
I flinch at the words ¡®your palace¡¯, knowing full well how unwelcome my presence is here, my existence. Her words weren¡¯t intended to harm, I understand, despite the biting note of her astute observation. So I allow it to roll off my back and refocus on the war waged outside the palace walls.
The Tuatiu warrior stands with such confidence that I can¡¯t help but find myself also crossing my arms and looking about sternly. Yet it helps me concentrate on formulating a plan. ¡°I¡¯m thankful to have allies who find the Eye in the Flame to be a major threat to all of our people,¡± I say. ¡°The palace guards¡¯ lines appear to be scattered. The Qente Waila are filling the void that¡¯s being left exposed. We¡¯ll need to reinforce that section of the palace walls, where the enemy has been making inroads. This will hopefully allow enough time for Nuqas¡ erm, I mean the Queen Mother, to mobilize the forces needed to drive the cultists out.¡±
¡°The Queen Mother mobilizing forces?¡± the Tapeu official parrots the statement into an inquiry. ¡°Shouldn¡¯t the Arbiter be doing such a task?¡±
¡°I have not seen¡ the Arbiter,¡± I fight through calling Achutli by his undeserved title, speaking it as though it tastes vile upon my tongue, ¡°since my arrival to the palace.¡±
Concerned looks are exchanged amongst nearly everyone present, as if questioning Achutli¡¯s involvement in this assault. Particularly, the Ulxa warrior looks incredibly angered by the unknown location of the leader. All are troubled by the speculation except the Tapeu official, who looks more worried for Achutli. With suspicions raised, he attempts to quell the theorizing. ¡°Certainly, he must be rallying troops at another contested location. He is a graduate of the Maqanuiache, after all. Top of his class. One of the great minds that crafted the defeat of the Timuaq in the battle of¨C¡°
¡°Yes, yes,¡± the Ulxa warrior interrupts. ¡°You have an excellent ruler, just as the Ulxa have with Tlexn¨ªn.¡±
¡°I beg your pardon,¡± the Tapeu official says, visibly offended. ¡°There is simply no comparison to¨C¡°
¡°Enough!¡± shouts the Tuatiu warrior, intervening before the squabble can escalate. ¡°We need to hurry and fortify the palace walls, as this servant has informed us. Let us go, with haste. We¡¯ll need to¨C¡±
¡°Over here!¡± a voice rings out above the cacophony of the nearby calamity. As the Tuatiu warrior commands her Qantua army, a palace guard points in my direction. Nuqasiq is ushered into the grounds by a deluge of guards at her flanks. If she¡¯s as surprised as I was by the presence of these warriors who¡¯ve arrived from all over Pachil, she hides it well.
¡°Queen Mother!¡± the Tapeu official remarks, cutting off the Tuatiu warrior and practically stumbling over himself to meet her as she approaches. He swiftly kneels, bowing deeply and casting his eyes down to her feet. Looking clearly annoyed, she waves her hand as if lifting up the air, signaling for him to rise. When he doesn¡¯t, she coughs loudly, prompting him to stand at attention. This elicits an eye roll, from both her and myself.
¡°Who are these warriors who have entered our palace gates?¡± she demands, looking upon the new arrivals with suspicion.
¡°They helped drive back the Eye in the Flame, just outside the palace walls,¡± I reply. My reply catches the Tapeu official by surprise, perhaps not expecting me to respond to an esteemed noble with such assuredness and certainty. ¡°According to the Tuatiu warrior, they¡¯ve been tracking the cult since her homeland was attacked.¡±
¡°It¡¯s true,¡± the Tapeu official interjects. ¡°I was sent by the Arbiter to recruit warriors for an attack on the Ulxa¨C¡°
¡°Who are not responsible for the Eye in the Flame,¡± the Ulxa warrior now interrupts him.
The Tapeu officer is visibly irritated by this, but continues on. ¡°We have learned much of this cult, how they have ties to, but are not directly affiliated with,¡± he says with exaggerated emphasis, looking at the Ulxa warrior as if to defend his remark, ¡°the Ulxa. Perhaps there has been¡ some¡ misinformation imparted upon our great ruler.¡±
¡°We can discuss this at a later time,¡± Nuqasiq states. ¡°There is too much talking when we need action. The palace, Qapauma, the Tapeu, and the Arbiter are relieved you all are here,¡± she announces to the Qantua warriors and the three supposed leaders.
She pauses, waiting for them to respond. It¡¯s undetermined what she seeks, until the Tapeu official states, ¡°I am Sianchu, The Shadow to the Arbiter, Queen Mother.¡± He seems somewhat upset that he must remind Nuqasiq of his name and title, yet she looks unconcerned with the possibility of having offended him.
¡°And¡ I am called¡ Mexqutli,¡± the Ulxa warrior says with uncertainty and hesitancy.
The Tuatiu warrior steps forward, announcing, ¡°I am Inuxeq, sent by the Tuatiu leader, Haluiqa.¡± She offers a short bow of her head. ¡°The men before me are Qantua warriors sent by Teqosa and the Qantua council to defend Qapauma and all of Pachil.¡± After this, she takes a few steps back to resume her position, standing stoically.
¡°Right,¡± Nuqasiq continues. ¡°The main gates are under heavy attack. Assist the guards there, as I¡¯m confident your expertise will be greatly needed.¡± She points in a direction behind her, toward the entrance to the palace grounds.
The Tuatiu and Ulxa warriors nod, turning to the Qantua army and gesturing to march in that direction. Meanwhile, the Tapeu official, Sianchu, appears stunned. ¡°I beg your pardon, Queen Mother, but perhaps I am better served alongside you, for protection, than fighting at the wall. Or, perhaps, if I can be directed to the Arbiter, I can¨C¡°
¡°You groveling coward,¡± the Ulxa warrior called Mexqutli sneers. ¡°Perhaps you can instead travel to the far reaches of the continent, away from the conflict, eh?¡±
The Tuatiu warrior, Inuxeq, scowls, speaking to the Tapeu man over her shoulder. ¡°So be it. Fight alongside your Queen Mother. We have important matters to confront.¡±
She storms off toward the palace entrance. Mexqutli shakes his head and accompanies her, waving at the hundred or so Qantua warriors to follow. That leaves me with Nuqasiq, the Tapeu official, and a dozen or two of the palace guards. Overwhelming rumbles shake the foundations of the walls and nearby buildings, tremors likely caused by the chaos occurring just beyond the walls. This spurs us into action, as Sianchu turns to us.
¡°We should secure the throne room, ensuring the quraqas are well-protected and¨C¡°
¡°The throne room has been secured, Sianchu,¡± Nuqasiq interrupts. ¡°There was an incident that took place there, but it has been resolved for now. We must think of an alternate plan.¡±
¡°Noted,¡± the Tapeu official stammers, caught off guard, then searches the sky for another plan of action. ¡°Then, we should rally our remaining forces and join the Arbiter with a frontal assault! We should show our strength and resolve, as the Arbiter would expect. And you, girl,¡± he turns to me, ¡°fetch us some water and supplies. We must be prepared for a long defense.¡±
There¡¯s an awkward silence as I¡¯m taken aback by the command. I want to protest, yet my mouth opens wordlessly. Nuqasiq, on the other hand, rebukes sharply. ¡°Sianchu! You forget yourself. Haesan is not our servant. She is my granddaughter. Her insights have already saved lives today. Treat her with the respect she deserves.¡±
This Sianchu immediately looks embarrassed and apologetic, turning to me with a sheepish expression. ¡°My apologies, Lady Haesan. I was unaware. The stress of battle has clouded my better judgement. Please forgive me.¡±
Love what you''re reading? Discover and support the author on the platform they originally published on.
I nod and shrug, understanding how he could have mistaken me. It¡¯s unlikely many know of my existence at all, to be fair to him. Wanting to put this moment behind us both, I return the discussion to our plan. ¡°If you¡¯ll permit me to suggest, perhaps a direct fight isn¡¯t our only option. The city¡¯s alleys and rooftops could allow smaller groups to move unseen, striking swiftly where the enemy least expects. It¡¯s where I had been able to coordinate with the fighters below. The disruption might buy us the time we need.¡±
Nuqasiq nods thoughtfully, then addresses Sianchu with a firm yet gentle correction. ¡°Haesan is right. We will use our knowledge of Qapauma to our advantage. Sianchu, see to it that our best runners and archers are assembled. Haesan, you will guide them with your plan.¡±
¡°And what of yourself, Queen Mother?¡± Sianchu asks. ¡°You should be protected from¨C¡°
¡°I will have these fine warriors to protect me,¡± she snaps, seemingly finished with having to interact with this Sianchu. ¡°We will return to the secured throne room and guard the quraqas there. Now, go. Execute this plan without hesitation.¡±
Momentarily flummoxed, Sianchu bows, placing a fist over his heart. Nuqasiq glances at me, lips creased into a frown. ¡°Be well, granddaughter. At the first sign of trouble, return to the throne room at once. That is a command.¡±
I nod in short bursts, acknowledging her outwardly, but knowing that, deep down, I will not rest until the enemy has been defeated. We part ways, with Sianchu eagerly awaiting my direction.
I point to the palace walls. ¡°Let us move to the top and signal to the warriors below of our plan. We can coordinate efforts from there.¡±
With this, we hurry up the stone stairs and back to the top of the walls. The scene below is more grim than before. Buildings and homes have been entirely leveled, their scattered remnants are such that it¡¯s difficult to ascertain if structures were ever constructed here. The floodwaters have begun to pool, forming small lakes at various points around the base of the wall. Still, the enemy is resourceful, crafting makeshift bridges to cross the temporary moat.
¡°We should set their bridges alight,¡± I declare. ¡°Prevent them from accessing the palace.¡±
¡°A wise observation,¡± Sianchu says. It feels as if he¡¯s attempting to reconcile for his earlier gaff, but I pay it no mind. I point to the cultists¡¯ new constructions, and he commands the archers to loose fire arrows at the bridge. ¡°And if you see any gray monstrosities,¡± he calls out, ¡°loose fire arrows into them immediately. Fire appears to be their weakness. But they will need to be defeated promptly.¡±
I¡¯m briefly disturbed by the almost nonchalance in which he speaks of the ¡®gray monstrosities¡¯, as though their existence is common knowledge. But there¡¯s no time to think further into this, and I bring my attention back to the pressing matters at hand. The archers shout their acknowledgement in unison, then prepare their arrows by wrapping them in spare cloth and securing them with a tight knot. They rub the clothed tips with some type of resin, perhaps something flammable or something that can retain the flame for a longer period. With torches, they set the arrows aflame, then rain a barrage of fire down upon the attackers. It takes some time, but the bridges ultimately catch flame as fire flickers and licks the cultists attempting to cross.
More warriors in jade and magenta swoop in through the streets, slicing through scores of the red robed enemies. Yet, swooping in from all directions, more cultists in the dreaded ashen gray robes approach their location. The Qente Waila warriors become surrounded in an instant, their exit through the streets immediately blocked on all sides. The tops of the remaining homes appears open, a trail above the catastrophe on the streets below. Maybe this could be their means of fleeing the overwhelmingly threatening scene.
I¡¯m about to call out to them, tell them to approach the rooftops for reprieve and a possible escape when I¡¯m disrupted by a tremendous boom that resonates throughout the wall. It begins to shake violently, jostling everyone about as we struggle to maintain our balance.
¡°Lady Haesan!¡± Sianchu yells panicked. ¡°We can¡¯t stay here for much longer. The wall may collapse. To lower ground!¡±
While I must fight the urge to resist his command, wanting to stay here and help in any way that I can from this improved vantage point, I know he is, unfortunately, correct. Loose stones crackle as they collide with the remaining wall while tumbling to the ground. Shouts of alarm and warning ring out from the archers atop the wall. Large chunks of the wall begin crumbling all around us, the wreckage closing in on our location. We must hurry and get to safer ground.
A huge chunk of the palace wall starts to fall. Many in the Tapeu orange and red, as well as the servants in neutral-colored garments, flee toward the palace, toward perceived safety. As they run, balls of fire hurtle in a large arc, soaring in the sky until crashing down to the terrain. The sorcerers must be launching these over the walls!
I holler for everyone to take cover, hoping a sturdy structure of Tapeu engineering will be our refuge. Sianchu points to the numerous structures among the grounds, directing us to seek shelter there. However, most of the palatial buildings are elevated above the ground like small mountains, making them easy targets for the sorcerer¡¯s balls of fire. Flaming orbs strike the towering structures unceasingly. I alert everyone to stay away from them until I can figure out a different, safer course of action.
I search for something else, something lower to the ground. My heart thunders in my ears as panic sets in, urgently seeking cover. Then, I finally find it: sloping downward into the side of a hill or mound, a path leads into the underground granary. These storage pits are purposely low to maintain cool temperatures, and out of the way so as to not be an eye sore to the ruler living in Qapauma. This should work sufficiently as a temporary solution.
I point to the storage pit, waving on the servants to seek protection there. Though most follow my instruction, there are a few who appear concerned and apprehensive. Do they fear being underground, potentially exposed to a structural collapse?
As I walk to the servants, Sianchu takes over in leading those to shelter. ¡°Please, you must protect yourselves from this assault on the palace. Hurry!¡±
¡°We can¡¯t,¡± one says. Her face is smudged with soot, blood, and ash. Tears well up in her dark brown eyes, unable to look at me directly. ¡°Too many of our people have been trapped by the invaders. We were helping with the defense, gathering supplies and weapons for the palace guards, when the attack blindsided us. We attempted to evacuate, but some have been cornered by the sorcerers near the western garden. If we leave now without saving them, they¡¯ll¡ they''ll be slaughtered.¡±
The urgency in her voice hits me hard like a strike to the face. Her fear is palpable, and I understand that they can¡¯t abandon their friends, their family. I, too, would be hard pressed to leave those I cared about behind.
I exchange a glance with Sianchu, who¡¯s already nodding, understanding the importance of the situation as much as I do. ¡°Lead us to them,¡± I command, more confidently than I feel. ¡°We¡¯ll do what we can.¡±
The servant hesitates for a moment, then nods, leading us towards the garden. As we move, I try to steel myself for what¡¯s ahead. I know it¡¯s likely a trap, that we¡¯re walking into the very jaws of danger. Yet the thought of leaving anyone to a cruel fate at the hands of the Eye in the Flame gnaws at me, relentless and unforgiving.
We navigate through the chaos, dodging debris and leaping over smoldering rubble. The sounds of battle grow louder and more intense as we approach the location. Walls and statues, painted in vivid colors, lay wasted among the striking flowers and verdant bushes that were immaculately trimmed to form certain shapes and designs. It¡¯s a surreal journey, witnessing the contrast between the beauty of the once-pristine palace grounds and the horror of the invasion.
As we arrive, the scene before us is as bad as I feared. A group of servants and palace guards are indeed trapped, as the cultists advancing on them. Ritualistic tumi knives, similar to the one I carry at the bottom of my satchel, are gripped tightly at the side of the zealots. To my shock and horror, their hands and weapons glow a sinister blue! Tremors shake the ground as if something is preparing to erupt from it. And there, among those cornered, is Yachaman, placing herself between the crazed lunatics and those from the palace, her eyes wide with fear, yet burning with defiance.
The shrill cries of the young guards who stand their ground pierce the air, spears trembling in their inexperienced hands. Their eyes dart around, panic setting in as the cultists advance with chilling coordination. One young guard, hardly older than a boy, fumbles with his weapon with violently shaking hands. He makes a desperate lunge forward, only to be swatted down like a fly. His spear clatters against the stone, skidding out of reach, as he collapses with a pained groan. Another guard, a girl with more determination than experience, steps forward bravely to shield the boy. However, their youthful bravado does little to stave off the inevitable, as the cultists press forward, unfazed.
As the cultists raise their glowing weapons, preparing to strike, the urgency of the situation crystallizes in my mind. My thoughts scramble for a solution. Then, the idea strikes me. It¡¯s daring, almost reckless, but it is the only chance we have. I need a distraction, something bold and dramatic enough to disrupt the cultists¡¯ murderous focus and give Yachaman and the others a fighting chance to escape.
Spotting a nearby stack of crates filled with dried fruits, a staple in the palace''s storage for the long siege anticipated, I make my decision. ¡°Sianchu, help me with this,¡± I call, darting towards the crates. Understanding my intent, he follows.
Together, we push the crates towards the edge of a small incline leading to where Yachaman and the others are cornered. With one strong shove, the crates topple over, the contents spilling out and rolling towards the cultists. The sudden barrage of tumbling fruit creates confusion among them, their sinister advance halted as they¡¯re forced to dodge the unexpected obstacle before them.
Seizing the moment, I shout to Yachaman and the trapped servants, ¡°Now! Run to the granary!¡± They don''t hesitate, their survival instincts kicking in as they dash towards the promised safety of the underground storage, their path cleared by our makeshift diversion.
But the relief is short-lived. As they flee, a stray bolt of something I can only fathom being dark magic, arcs through the air with a malevolent hiss. It grazes Yachaman, striking her side. She stumbles, crying out and clutching a wound that¡¯s quickly turning a dangerous shade of black. The edges of the injury fester with some kind of sinister blackness that seems to drink the light around it.
My heart plummets to my stomach. ¡°Yachaman!¡± I scream, rushing to her side. I hoist Yachaman''s arm over my shoulder, her weight supported by my determination more than my strength.
Sianchu covers us, swinging his blade at any robed silhouette as he wards off further attacks. He calls out a booming command, and summons more palace guards that rush into the scene. However, their arrival has drawn more cultists to our location, and soon, we¡¯re swarmed by gray and red robed enemies.
¡°We need to get her to the healers,¡± I grit out, each step fueled by a mix of fear and adrenaline. My arms secure Yachaman, her body heavy against mine.
But the way to safety isn¡¯t visible, shrouded by an overwhelming number of warriors, both friend and foe. We¡¯re engulfed by the chaos of battle occurring on palace grounds. Combat crashes around us like waves. Swords clash and dark spells crack through the air, casting eerie shadows that dance wildly on the shattered walls.
Navigating the way to the granary is perilous, a gauntlet of fire and shadow. But Yachaman¡¯s life depends on our speed and luck. Her faltering breaths against my neck causes me to fear the worst. The injury is unlike anything I¡¯ve seen, and I silently plead with Iptanqa for her life.
Sianchu parries a blow from a cultist who lunges out of the swirling melee. His counterstrike is swift and deadly, and the cultist collapses with a choked gasp as we push forward. ¡°Keep moving!¡± Sianchu shouts over the clangor.
The ground feels treacherous underfoot, slick with blood and strewn with debris. Clad in battered armor, a palace guard barrels past us in a rush to engage a group of gray-robed cultists. Their sinister chants slice through the clamor, raising the hairs on my neck. The warrior¡¯s sword meets the cultists'' obsidian blades in a shower of sparks, buying us precious moments to slip by.
Another explosion of dark magic erupts nearby, the force of it knocking a duo of palace guards off their feet and into the fray, nearly tripping us up. The ground shakes with the impact, filling the air with the acrid scent of scorched terrain. We dodge a falling banner, its once-vibrant colors now smoldering, and leap over a shattered stone columns.
¡°This way!¡± Sianchu yells, guiding us through a narrow gap between two fighting groups. His arm is outstretched to block debris that flies in hundreds of directions. More bolts sizzle menacingly close, whizzing overhead.
¡°Almost there!¡± I shout as we weave through the last stretch of battle. Yachaman¡¯s body sags, her groans growing more faint the longer we take. I use my fear and panic to press on, determined to make it to safety.
Reaching the granary, we stumble through its archway, panting heavily as we inspect the scene. We¡¯re met by wide-eyed servants, their faces etched with concern. ¡°Healers!¡± I shout, the word desperately spoken echoes off the stone walls. ¡°Quickly!¡±
Laying Yachaman down gently, I step back, watching as the healers rush over. Their hands move with practiced urgency, but their expressions are grim. I stand there, feeling helpless, my gaze locked on Yachaman¡¯s pained face. The battle outside rages on, but in this moment, my world narrows to her life slipping through my fingers.
¡°Lady Haesan,¡± Sianchu whispers, barely audible over the din of earnest mutterings and prayers. ¡°Let us leave the healers to their craft, and we can continue the fight to defend Qapauma. We¡¯re more useful out there than in here.¡±
I nod, my face set in a reluctant, but determined grimace. Emerging from the dim confines of the granary, the world outside is chaos incarnate. The clamor of battle, the cries of the wounded, and the roar of fire consuming the palace. Through the smoke and the ember-filled sky, a sea of orange and red advances¡ªTapeu warriors. They retreat to the palace grounds with grim faces. The sight is one of somber defeat, with the warriors appearing as walking wounds. Their garments are singed and smeared with ash and the blood of their fallen comrades.
Among them, two figures stand out starkly: Achutli, leading with a warrior¡¯s grace despite suffering the evident toll of the battle. He stands resplendent in a helmet and armor of bronze, embellished with red and yellow feathers, that covers his prominent orange and red tunic. The other is Anqatil, his advisor, whose gaze upon seeing me betrays a moment of disbelief, which is then quickly overtaken by a deep, simmering anger.
Their arrival is a signal, turning the palace grounds into a storm of activity as they prepare for a last stand. Nuqasiq steps forward from the shadows, her arrival cutting through the tension¡ªor, perhaps, adding to it. Her stride is purposeful, and through an unreadable expression, her eyes locked on Achutli, searching for signs of wear or wound. Yet before words can bridge the distance between mother and son, a silence falls upon us all.
Amid this fraught reunion, words become superfluous. Filled with unspoken questions and accusations, Achutli¡¯s eyes find mine, igniting a tempest within. Anqatil¡¯s glare, so laden with contempt, is a sharpened blade that is aimed directly at me. But before any challenge can be voiced, Sianchu steps forward, saluting Achutli with a fist over his heart and bowing deeply, a gesture of unwavering loyalty in the face of turmoil. Standing regal and unyielding, Nuqasiq casts a protective glance my way, one filled with pride, concern, and an unmistakable undercurrent of disappointment¡ªnot in me, but in the scene before her, in the son she finds lacking.
And there we stand. No words are spoken, yet everything is said in the exchange of glares that pass between us. We are united only in our division, each of us pondering the cost of the paths we¡¯ve chosen. In the distance, the battle rages on, a continuous reminder of the immediate threat at our door. Though here, in this moment, the personal conflicts seem just as perilous, just as capable of tearing everything apart.
92 - Inuxeq
As numerous people in the neutral-toned garments of palace servants dart past us with faces etched in panic, I know we¡¯re racing toward the heart of the battle. Loud, piercing booms of collapsing structures resonate throughout the grounds. Flickers of flames extend high above the remains of the surrounding walls that once protected this palace, now beginning to crumble at the might of the enemy. There isn¡¯t much time before the Eye in the Flame enter the palace, mere steps away from the seat of power.
Leading the charge, we rush over toward the main gate of the palace. The guards are taken by surprise at our presence, preparing to attack us as if we were invaders. It takes them a moment to notice our different colored outfits¡ªnothing like the robes of the cultists that have launched an assault on their palace. A few of the generals shout to their warriors to let us through, then make their way to meet us.
¡°Qantua warriors, a Tuatiu and¡ an Ulxa warrior?¡± They¡¯re perplexed by Mexqutli¡¯s presence. My assumption, recalling Sianchu¡¯s initial orders upon arriving in Iantana¡ªand, admittedly, my first impression upon seeing Mexqutli¡ªis that they¡¯ve been told the Ulxa are attacking Tapeu. They haven¡¯t been informed that, although the Eye in the Flame may be Ulxa in origin, they aren¡¯t representative of the faction in its entirety. I¡¯ll have to somehow convince them of this¡ªand quickly, before Mexqutli says something ill-advised that will only confirm their suspicions.
¡°You could say we¡¯re reinforcements,¡± I state, ¡°sent by the council at Hilaqta. The Ulxa warrior is an ally. An Iqsuwa, in fact. Sent by the leader of his people, Tlexn¨ªn, to pursue a diplomatic resolution between the Tapeu and Ulxa, so that the real enemy, this Eye in the Flame, can be defeated by a united front.¡±
Unsurprisingly, the generals receive my news with bewildered expressions cloaking their faces. ¡°I understand how confusing this may be,¡± I say in response to their obvious reactions. ¡°I have just released a flood of contradictory information upon you at once, but we are here to defend Qapauma¡ªof that, you can be certain.¡±
¡°She speaks true,¡± one of the Qantua officers shouts, approaching those of us gathered. Frankly, I¡¯m taken aback by the support I receive from people who I felt were ready to abandon me, leaving me to an ill fate before the zealots. ¡°We have seen much destruction at the hands of these monsters at your gates, and the Ulxa warrior has been the guiding light in slaying them.¡± Other Qantua warriors nod and vocalize their agreement.
One of the Tapeu generals grunts in dismay. ¡°Their forces appear significantly smaller than ours, yet their might is great. They are cutting down our warriors with ease. What is the way you have been able to defeat them?¡±
I¡¯m suddenly struck with panic. I realize, we haven¡¯t actually defeated the Eye in the Flame; we¡¯ve only forced them back and lived to fight them another day. Like cockroaches, they are resilient, reappearing when we¡¯re most vulnerable. Can they formally be defeated?
Mexqutli responds, ¡°They are sorcerers, using a bastardized version of the powers of the Tletlazotl of my people.¡±
¡°Guardians of the Flame,¡± I clarify. Maybe the Tapeu aren¡¯t as thrown off by Ulxa words as I am, but I feel compelled to explain the term nonetheless.
¡°They appear to be a sect of the monastery, consumed by evil,¡± Mexqutli says. ¡°They use fire, but like many aspects of life, it is what they worship that can defeat them.¡±
The generals appear confused by this enigmatic answer. ¡°What I believe he is saying,¡± I step in to explain, ¡°is that we¡¯ve had success utilizing fire, particularly against the gray creatures they summon.¡±
¡°Gray creatures?¡± they say, confounded. It appears we¡¯re unleashing an exorbitant amount of new information upon them, all at once.
¡°They use a drum, the¡¡± I prepare myself for yet another confusing Ulxa word, ¡°the Huetloia. It¡¯s a ceremonial drum that allows them to raise the dead, similar to those we fought in the War of Liberation. Destroying the drum, burning them with fire, and slaying them with precise strikes at the throat has been the only way to stop these monster.¡±
The generals look overwhelmed. And who could blame them? Speaking all of this aloud reminds me of the tremendous undertaking with which we¡¯re faced. In fact, perhaps the mission is too daunting. Yet there is no other way to face this challenge than staying the course and meeting it head-on.
Exchanging wide-eyed glances with one another, the generals ultimately turn to us and nod succinctly. ¡°If fire is what they worship, then fire is what we¡¯ll give them. Men!¡± They now bark commands to the warriors close by. ¡°Create fire pits along the parapets and watch towers. Order our archers to loose fire arrows at anything that is cloaked in robes or¡ gray-skinned.¡±
The other warriors¡¯ confusion is expressly apparent, yet they salute and hurry into their positions. The generals nod in appreciation for our insight, then return to their men. Meanwhile, the Qantua, Mexqutli, and I stand at the ready, looking about to see where we can be of service.
A crashing resonance reverberates throughout the grounds, drawing our attention toward the south side of the area. Desperate yells and shrieks echo above the noises of destruction as chunks of the palace walls begins tumbling and crumbling apart. Otherworldly howls sends an icy shiver down my spine. The Eye in the Flame and their gray beasts are here.
¡°Do you still possess my dagger?¡± Mexqutli asks. Feeling the side of my hip, I touch the ornate handle, then nod to him to confirm it¡¯s with me. To say I¡¯m relieved is a tremendous understatement: I feared Sianchu may have taken the other blade, and it would be entirely useless in his hands, wherever he is at present.
¡°Then I shall see you when the battle is won!¡± he declares, punctuating the vow with a wink. In an instant, he unleashes a resounding war cry into the air, then beckons us on toward the tumult. While some of the more reserved Qantua warriors look on in bemusement, many lift their swords above their heads and surge into the fray. After experiencing a moment of incredulity from the spectacle, I give my head a dismissive shake and charge steadfastly alongside the remaining warriors.
Warriors clad in orange and red frantically scramble to mount a defense against the invading forces. The scene erupts into chaos as swarms of gray creatures flood the grounds, presenting the Tapeu warriors with a nightmare unseen since the War of Liberation. Yet unbeknown to them, these beasts dwarf any foe we¡¯ve vanquished for our freedom, as their thunderous steps and monstrous forms casting long, ominous shadows across the battlefield underscore the monumental challenge that lay before us.
Shouts of ¡°with fire!¡± ring out throughout the grounds, a hopeful reminder to their men and women of the tactic to deploy which could possibly rescue the palace. The hulking gray monstrosities barge through the stone barrier, hurling debris everywhere. Warriors atop the wall tumble as it collapses. Gazing up at the humungous beasts, the Tapeu men and women stand frozen in terror, unable to comprehend the sight that is before them.
With an obsidian dagger raised in the air, Mexqutli charges at the creatures, leading a pack of warriors that blur past in the Qantua black and gold. Their bravery is on full display: without hesitation, they rush in with torches and swords, prepared for the grueling battle that awaits. Mexqutli narrowly avoids a swooping claw, sliding on the dirt and slashing the obsidian dagger up at the loose, gray flesh. The moment the blackened blade cuts through the sagging skin, the enraged monster bellows before disappearing into a puff of ash.
The sight inspires the others, valiantly bringing the fight to the monsters. Torches force back the flailing beasts, terrified of a fiery fate. Though many of the gray beasts are held back, one, in a furious frenzy, lifts a giant bolder above its head and hurtles it toward a group of unsuspecting warriors. They¡¯re crushed by the toppling stone that moves with a lethal velocity toward the foundation of the palace, though mercifully stopping short of colliding with it.
I kneel down low and retrieve Sachia¡¯s bow. Upon collecting an arrow from my quiver, I quickly wrap it with a strip of some spare cloth dangling from my hemp belt. The monster reaches over to the shattered wall and, with a menacing roar, picks up another large stone. Setting the wrapped cloth alight with a nearby torch, I aim carefully at the rampaging monster, waiting for the right time to loose an arrow without the chance of the bolder accidentally harming the others.
The gigantic rock is raised over its head¡ªnow¡¯s my chance. I release the taut string. The fiery arrow arcs through the air. It hits where the creature¡¯s ribs should be, engulfing it in a brilliant burst of flame. The creature¡¯s howl turns to agony, then its cries are silenced as the massive boulder crashes down, sealing its fate with a thunderous, self-inflicted end.
More clouds of ash arise as Mexqutli hacks through the scores of gray creatures like pruning jungle vines, arms wildly slicing at any inhuman beast in sight. The Tapeu now confidently join in the fight, grabbing ahold of torches and aiding our Qantua warriors by staving off attacks by the cult¡¯s monsters. The beasts try their best to put up resistance to the flames, but ultimately succumb to a fiery demise as they¡¯re overwhelmed by the city¡¯s defenses and renewed vigor.
I loose a fire arrow, then another, then another in rapid succession, striking anything with the melting gray skin and rotting exposed muscles. The creatures are felled one by one, illuminated in an ethereal orange glow as they¡¯re set alight. A swell of triumph lifts my spirits as the success of our defense is apparent. This is the most victorious we¡¯ve been against these creatures, and I¡¯m starting to believe we can actually succeed.
Amidst the swirl of conflict and the cries of the embattled, a figure stands out, commanding and radiant like a beacon against the turmoil. His helmet and armor are imposing, forged from bronze that gleams ominously under the sun, and they are embossed with intricate motifs of the sun and mountains. From his back emerge short feathers of red and yellow that fan out to frame his silhouette. Being worn by him, the orange and red colors of the Tapeu act like a prideful symbol of his fervor and blood spilled in defense of his people. Around his waist is a sash, made of the same vibrant turquoise as his hip cloth, both woven with geometric patterns in gold.
He moves with a practiced grace, as years of training are fully displayed in his well-rehearsed maneuvers. His gaze is focused solely on the enemy before him with an intensity that could melt stone. The leader rallies his warriors, directing them with the bronze spear wielded in his hand. They heed his calls unhesitatingly, positioning themselves wherever the tip of his weapon points. Around his forearms are bronze bracers that cover a small portion of the scars marring his skin that speak of the numerous battles in which he¡¯s fought.
From my periphery, a warrior in red and black moves into a position beside a mass of crumbled wall. Shielded by the barrier, he peeks around it, looking onto the battle. In the near distance, the figure in bronze, orange, and red has his back to this warrior. This person before me appears to handle something at his side, clutching a long cylinder made from bamboo or reed. Then, he slides a slender object, feathered lightly at one end, into the hollow of the tube. The actions remind me of readying a blowgun, an item I haven¡¯t seen since departing the Tuatiu jungles.
Black and red¡ black and red¡ Those are the colors of the Ulxa. Is it¨C
The warrior looks up again, then inspects the scene around him. It¡¯s the Iqsuwa, Mexqutli. I can confirm it now. What is he planning to do with a blowgun when the obsidian dagger has been successful against the enemy? More importantly, why does he have a blowgun in the first place?
A harrowing noise catches my attention. Just inside the palace walls, a group of people clad in neutral-toned garments, servants of the palace, are cornered by a large number of individuals with faces shrouded in blood red cloth. They swell around their targets, raising ritual tumi knives and shouting a vitriolic-sounding chant. An ethereal blue glow surrounds their hands and weapons, ominously growing bigger and brighter.
Mexqutli crouches low. The leader in orange and red fights off one cultist, then another, valiantly slashing and slaying the enemies with ease. Mexqutli takes aim with the blowgun. Is it directed at a scarlet-robed sorcerer? A gray creature? No, it¡¯s being aimed at¡ the Tapeu leader! Is he possessed? Does he plan to poison the warrior?
More shrieks. The zealots encircle the helpless servants. Through their dark magic, the sorcerer¡¯s hands are as bright as torches. The chanting grows louder and louder. A thunderous rumble shakes the ground beneath my feet. What are their plans for these victims?
A deluge of voices scream inside my head.
Rescue the servants!
Stop whatever sinister act Mexqutli is planning!
The innocents must be saved!
The Tapeu hero must be saved!
With fury, my fist pounds the ground. I pick myself up and sprint over to Mexqutli. Whatever his motives are, they must be of ill intent, I can feel it. The muscles in my legs burn as I race toward him. He patiently waits for his moment, eyes fixed upon the Tapeu leader. Every breath is a fiery dagger in my chest as I hurl myself across the battlefield. The ground beneath me and the scene around me all blur into nothingness. Doubt and fear claw at the edges of my mind, but the dire urgency of the moment fuels my resolve.
Unaware of my approach, Mexqutli remains singularly focused on his prey, the Tapeu leader¡¯s unsuspecting form growing ever nearer in his sights. The world narrows to a tunnel, and my entire being converges on the space between us, every step a race against fate itself. My limbs scream in protest as I pour all my strength into stopping this madness.
With deliberate steadiness, Mexqutli rests the smooth bamboo tube lightly against his lips. My arms extend outward, desperately reaching to disrupt him. There¡¯s a moment of calm focus, a breath held in anticipation, as he aims down the length of the tube, poised to unleash the deadly dart.
He coils back, moments away from loosing the projectile.
I thrust myself forward, my feet leaving the ground as I leap at him.
This narrative has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. If you see it on Amazon, please report it.
With a calamitous thump, I collide with Mexqutli, the assassin, tackling him to the ground. We both look up, look on to see that¡ Yes, the dart is soaring toward the Tapeu leader. Everything moves slowly as if underwater. There is no sound. Nothing else is in sight except the dart as it flies through the air. My eyes grow wide with panic and severity, willing it to stray from its path. Yet it continues on to its doomed target.
But fate or the Eleven intervene. At the last possible moment, the Tapeu leader thrusts his spear forward, piercing a gray-robed zealot through their stomach. The motion moves him a whisker away from the trajectory of the poisoned dart. It soars, traveling mindlessly onward, with the warrior none the wiser.
¡°What on Pachil are you doing?¡± I say, incensed.
¡°I can demand the same of you!¡± he snarls, stunning me with his response. ¡°You allow an evil man to live!¡±
¡°Are you with the Eye in the Flame?¡± I ask ferociously. If Mexqutli has been betraying me this entire time, I will spill his blood onto this ground in an instant.
He looks at me in bewilderment. ¡°Are you suffering from insanity, Inuxeq? Of course, I am not! They are just as evil as the Arbiter.¡±
The Arbiter? Is that the Tapeu leader who Mexqutli attempted to assassinate? The realization leaves me speechless. Why on Pachil is Mexqutli trying to kill the Tapeu ruler? Is this the darkness he spoke of confronting, back when we had left the ruins of Xaqelatun? Is he, not the Sunfire nor Xaqilpa, the snake Mexqutli desires to behead?
A whirlwind of black smoke and debris twirls above the courtyard, like a cyclone. But how is it appearing? There is no storm on the horizon. The black clouds whip up violent winds that slice through the Tapeu and Qantua warriors. When the winds reach me, debris like tiny blades rip through my skin. Dust and rust-colored dirt reduce the visibility, turning everyone into mere silhouettes. I cover my face as my forearms continue to be struck by some sharp object. Yet no object is in view; only the looming dark clouds that swirl around us.
Spotting a fallen Tapeu warrior on the ground near me, I crawl low to him, ducking beneath the treacherous storm. I reach for his shield, constructed from the wood of the que?a tree, and retrieve it, using it to cover myself. Through squinted eyes, I see a lone figure with wispy, silver hair emerge from the steps of the palace, unimpeded by the swirling storm.
With arms raised, he manipulates and maneuvers the dark clouds as if controlling them with his hands. As the storm shifts away, I get a better look at the culprit. He strides into the courtyard, pointed nose lifted upward and paired with a look of defiance. His long, white robe contains orange and red patterns on the sleeves and at the hem by his feet, and down the front of his garment is the long, unmistakable scarlet stain of blood.
¡°Xaqilpa!¡± Mexqutli scowls. Without any delay, he charges at the robed man. Before he can get within a dozen steps of the man, he¡¯s violently flung backward. I slide back a few steps as an overpowering gust of air knocks me off balance. This man, this Xaqilpa, seems to be controlling the wind¡ªa daunting thought.
Xaqilpa laughs sinisterly. ¡°I did not expect to find an Ulxa warrior present at the sacking of Qapauma,¡± he says disdainfully. ¡°Has Tlexn¨ªn sent you? That undeserving wench. I wish I could see Analoixan fall. Alas, I am needed here, to finally dispose of refuse like you and the Tapeu.¡±
Mexqutli recovers, slowly lifting himself up to his feet. He unsheathes his obsidian dagger, clutching it at his side. ¡°Do not speak of my queen in such a way! Tlexn¨ªn should have never allowed you to depart the ritual site, you traitorous scum!¡±
He darts toward Xaqilpa once more, but once more, he¡¯s beaten by a surge of wind that plants him onto his back. Xaqilpa chuckles mirthlessly with a sardonic curl of his lips. ¡°The Ulxa are so weak under her rule. Pitiful. All glory to Eztletiqa, who will return us to our rightful place in Pachil.¡±
The only good to come from Mexqutli¡¯s engagement with Xaqilpa is that the sorcerer is too distracted to maintain the dangerous, dark cloud. The robed man walks casually on the battlefield, oblivious to¡ªor unconcerned with¡ªthe fighting happening around him. He approaches the downed Mexqutli, grabs his throat, and, with an uncanny strength befitting a man of his age, lifts the Iqsuwa warrior up off his feet. A maniacal laugh leaves Xaqilpa¡¯s lips as he chokes the life out of his victim.
There¡¯s a voice that speaks inside of me, wanting me to let Xaqilpa kill Mexqutli. Allow him to kill the one attempting to assassinate Achutli. In an indirect way, the fates seek to punish him for what he attempted to accomplish, his terrible, treasonous thoughts and acts. I can let the Arbiter¡¯s assailant meet justice, ridding the world of one more deceitful, misguided fool.
I fight away the disgusting thought. Though Mexqutli¡¯s actions were treacherous, this is not an end that he deserves. No, he must face his consequences, and justice should be dealt at the hands of the Arbiter, not this maniac.
I hurriedly retrieve an arrow, nock it, and release, sending it soaring at Xaqilpa. With one fluid motion, he sidesteps the hurtling projectile and slams Mexqutli to the ground with a bonebreaking thud. He turns, his pitying gaze falling upon me.
¡°Oh, you ignorant child,¡± he says condescendingly. ¡°Green and black? You are a far cry from Tuatiu, little girl. You should have remained under the canopy of your jungle, where your simplicity could be mistaken for innocence.¡±
From one of his palms, a flame as dark as void ignites. Yet, instead of searing brilliance, this black fire casts a cloak of night over us, swallowing the midday sun whole. My eyes squint, not from the glare, but as if the very light around us is being devoured, plunging the palace grounds into an unnatural darkness.
My focus darts about the scene, searching desperately for this dark sorcerer. From the edges of my vision, a gray blur peeks through. There¡¯s an edge to this darkness, I discover. I quickly rush toward it, letting the light wash over me. The sun¡¯s rays sting my sight, leaving me briefly blinded.
Emerging from the blackness, Xaqilpa¡¯s eyes train on me, seeking the next target upon which to prey. His twisted hand conjures another black flame. Terror courses through me at the sight, plunging me into panic. I must avoid being struck by the fire, I repeat to myself. I must stop him before the fire reaches me!
How did I do it before? How did I supposedly vanish? When we fought the gray creatures just outside these walls, Sianchu and Mexqutli noted I had apparently disappeared. The gray creatures never saw me, allowing me to strike. But what caused that to happen? Did it actually happen?
I steel myself, running full speed at Xaqilpa. His sinister smile relishes the thought of taking me out with that black flame. I won¡¯t give him the pleasure. I¡¯m going to vanish. I¡¯m going to vanish. I¡¯m going to vanish.
A ball of black flame hurtles toward me, absorbing all the light around me. Then, in a flash, everything goes black. No sound. No sight. Just emptiness. As though I entered an abyss. Is this from the black flame? Did I die?
In a blink, I suddenly find myself at his throat, clasping his windpipe in my hands. Through strained breath, Xaqilpa mutters, ¡°Nice trick, girl.¡± Did I do it? Was I successful? Did I vanish?
Distracted by considering what happened, I¡¯m thrown like a stone from a sling. I glide in the air, a momentary weightlessness. Time stretches, and every detail sharpens, until I¡¯m pulled back to the unforgiving ground. I land with a jarring thump. Pain radiates through my war-weary bones like wildfire, and I struggle to catch the breath that was knocked out of me.
A yelp sounds behind me. I lift myself up and turn to see the black beginning to lift, revealing Mexqutli writhing in pain on the ground, much to Xaqilpa¡¯s sick amusement. Cast all around him, a black flame engulfs the Iqsuwa warrior. He flails and rolls about, attempting to extinguish the flames, yet receives no relief. The demented man in white unleashes a relentless stream of black fire from his hands, tormenting his victim with no desire for mercy.
I must find a way to strike this sorcerer without alerting him. I take a deep breath, steadying myself and focusing all my energy on avoiding getting Xaqilpa¡¯s attention. I tiptoe around to his back, unsheathing Mexqutli¡¯s obsidian dagger from the harness at my hip. With as much stealth as I can muster, I sneak to the rear of the sorcerer, noticing the orange and red coyote stitched into the back of his robe. I raise the dagger aloft and swiftly bring it down overhead.
Somehow, he avoids the brunt of my strike, catching the blade on his loose robe. The dagger does hit him¡ yet it deflects off of him, as though he was made of stone? Can he not be pierced? I¡¯m stunned at the realization of this, stuck in place. Seizing the opportunity when I¡¯ve let my guard down, he backhands me, smacking me hard across my face. His blow is shockingly like being hit with a sack of stones, and I stumble onto my back.
Mexqutli rolls onto his stomach. Splotches of gray mark his skin, as though the color¡ªor the life¡ªhas been drained from it. He takes large, heaving breaths, shaking his head as he tries to regain his awareness.
Xaqilpa picks something up from the ground, then approaches me, swinging his sandal to kick me in my side. I¡¯m just able to barely avoid the blow, spinning the shield around to absorb most of the impact. I¡¯m still jostled backward, however, my arm stinging from the surprisingly hard strike.
What did he retrieve from the ground? I look over to Xaqilpa, watching as he makes his way to Mexqutli. In one of his hands is a ceremonial dagger, a ritual tumi knife like those held by the other cultists. Yet this one appears to be different: though there¡¯s an eerie glow radiating from it as well, a gemstone appears embedded into its hilt. Is this the source of his powers? Could that be why he can¡¯t be struck with a blade? Is that why the black flames ceased when I attempted to strike him?
Xaqilpa lords over Mexqutli, slamming his foot into the downed warrior¡¯s side for good measure. ¡°What lies did Tlexn¨ªn tell about me, hmm?¡± he snarls. ¡°Does she say that only she, not I, can hear the voices of the Itztecatl? They speak to only one spirit, the trueruler of Ulxa. They speak to me!¡±
¡°You claim to be the one true ruler of Ulxa,¡± Mexqutli says with a cough, ¡°yet you serve another, this ¡®Sunfire¡¯? You make no sense, you fool.¡±
This earns Mexqutli another blow to his stomach. Xaqilpa leans closer, his voice low and tinged with a fanatic¡¯s zeal, and I can barely make out what¡¯s being spoken. ¡°You misunderstand, ignorant dog,¡± he says as each word drips with contempt and conviction. ¡°I do not serve the Sunfire as a mere vassal serves his lord. No, our pact is of equals, united in a grand vision. The Sunfire wields the power to reshape this world, to undo the shackles placed by the Eleven and their ilk. And through the Itztecatl, the ancient spirits of our land speak of destiny, of a ruler strong enough to embrace the darkness and light alike. They speak of me, as the harbinger of a new age for Ulxa.¡±
He straightens, his gaze now far off, as if envisioning this future. ¡°The Sunfire seeks to dominate, yes. But under my rule, Ulxa will rise, transcending its past glories. This alliance is merely a step towards that end. Once the Eye in the Flame has purged the weakness from this land, the Sunfire and I will guide Ulxa to its rightful place¡ªat the pinnacle of Pachil, revered and unchallenged. And those who stand in our way,¡± he glances down at Mexqutli, ¡°will be but ashes beneath our feet.¡±
With that, Xaqilpa delivers another kick, this time more dismissive than angry. ¡°Ponder that in your final moments, warrior. You have witnessed the dawn of the ascension of Ulxa.¡±
While he¡¯s distracted, I determine that I must disarm him of that tumi knife. I crouch low and bring my hand back, brushing the fletching of¡ Wait a moment. There¡¯s only one arrow remaining! The last arrow crafted by Sachia. I pause, a pang of sorrow tightens my chest while I contemplate whether or not I should use this item I hold to be sacred. Sachia took such pride in his arrows, boasting of their strength and durability. How they could penetrate the thickest peccary hide. How they could travel clear through all of the Tuatiu jungle. Must I use this invaluable item? There must be another way.
But then, Sachia¡¯s laughter echoes in my memory, bold and unfettered, as if chiding me for my delay. ¡°What use is an arrow left unused?¡± I can hear him say.
There¡¯s no time to hesitate. If I am to stop this maniacal zealot from harming any more people, from seeing his plan to fruition, I must strike true. If he can¡¯t be pierced by my arrow, perhaps the gemstone embedded within the tumi knife can, or at least be dislodged. I must try¡ªQapauma, and Pachil, depend on it.
With an unwavering resolve, I notch the arrow and draw the string taut, trembling against my fingers. I steady my aim, maintaining my focus as I¡¯ve done countless times before. Both of my eyes are placed on the target, marking the vibrant coral stone that emits a sickening, black glow.
Long, slow breath in. Long, slow breath out.
Sachia, guide your arrow true, I whisper to the wind.
I loose the arrow, watching it seamlessly slice through the air. The moment stretches, with every heartbeat pounding in my ears. As it soars towards Xaqilpa, Pachil seems to hold its breath, the cacophony of battle fading into a hush.
Then, contact. For a moment, time halts, suspending the aftermath. Suddenly, with a burst that cleaves the silence, light erupts as my arrow collides with the gemstone. The horrifying glow extinguishes in an instant as the stone plummets to the ground. A dissonant wail, like the darkness itself is being torn asunder, reverberates through the grounds.
The man in the white robe looks down at his hand in stunned silence. Confounded, he frantically attempts to replace the gemstone back into the tumi knife. He tries to jam the lifeless stone back into the hilt, but it refuses to be embedded into the weapon, to succumb to Xaqilpa¡¯s corrupt power. He curses, shouting in the stilted Ulxa tongue, as he pleads with the ritual items to cooperate.
Then, he¡¯s brought back to the harsh reality of the situation. As though he¡¯s seen a demon spirit, he looks between me and Mexqutli with wide-eyed mortification. In the blink of an eye, he takes off, running toward the palace entrance in a hasty retreat.
¡°We must stop him!¡± I command, urgently alerting Mexqutli. He¡¯s too shaken, too exhausted and wounded to pursue in a hurried manner. Darting after Xaqilpa, the battlefield becomes a maze of clashing warriors and swirling dust. I weave through the combatants locked in their own struggles for survival, dodging blows meant for others. The urgency to catch the sorcerer fuels my evasion, slipping past swords and under raised arms, always keeping my eyes on the fleeting shape ahead. Struggling to his feet, Mexqutli calls after me, but his voice is lost in the clamor.
I push my muscles to their limit, my lungs burn with exertion as my breaths come in sharp, ragged pulls. The edges of my vision narrow as I focus solely on Xaqilpa. Yet despite my speed, he remains just out of reach, his form flickering at the periphery of the chaos like a specter.
In my fervent pursuit, I barely notice a warrior swinging wide. His blade slices through the air where I was just a heartbeat ago. I¡¯m forced to pivot sharply, using the momentum to propel me forward, further into the fray. I navigate the battlefield with an immense desperation, as each step seems to bring me closer and somehow still far from my quarry in equal measure.
The chase leads me toward the palace entrance. Yet as I round a corner, Xaqilpa¡¯s figure blurs and then vanishes as if dissolved into the air itself. I skid to a halt, my sandals scuffing the ground, eyes darting across the landscape. For a moment, the terrain seems to swallow him whole. A faint shimmer near a stone statue flanking the entrance catches my eye¡ªa trick of light, or perhaps a clever sorcery? Could he have used a reflective charm on his cloak, something that mirrors the surroundings to render him invisible?
With my heart pounding, I rush to the spot, scouring the ground and the air for any sign of what caused his disappearance. But it¡¯s too late; the illusion, if that¡¯s what it was, has already faded, leaving behind only the swirling dust and the faint traces of his footsteps. I kneel, touching the ground where he last stood, searching for any residue of magic or trickery that might explain his sudden get away.
The cold realization that the sorcerer of the Eye in the Flame has escaped washes over me, leaving no trace but the turmoil of battle in his wake. How had he vanished so completely? This question gnaws at me as I stand with uncertainty.
Exasperation clenches within me, but there¡¯s no time to dwell on the escape. The ground is littered with remnants of the fight¡ªweapons discarded in haste, the wounded seeking aid. The battle around me demands attention, as warriors of Qapauma and Tapeu clash with the invaders in a desperate bid to protect our land. Zealots in crimson and gray robes erupt upon the location, overwhelming the palace defenses. The fight for Pachil continues.
Turning back, I find Mexqutli has disappeared as well, lost in the chaos. Or, perhaps, did he chose this moment to flee? Fury rages inside me like an unbridled storm. A sense of betrayal, heavy and cold, settles in my chest.
As my eyes sweep the battlefield and the devastation, the vibrant coral gemstone catches my eye. The tumi knife lies abandoned on the ground, its once dark radiance now dim and fractured. Before it goes missing amidst the chaos of combat, I rush over to the ritual item. With agile steps, I dodge a swinging blade, feeling its breeze close enough to chill my blood. Ducking a wild, desperate thrust from a zealot¡¯s sword, I roll across the gritty dirt, pushing myself up just in time to evade a warrior¡¯s crushing downward swing. I sidestep another falling body, its weight hitting the terrain with a thump that resonates through my sandals.
Finally, I reach the tumi knife. Crouching low, I extend a hand, my fingers brushing the cold metal of the handle. The knife pulses as if alive, its warmth seeping into my palm. For a brief moment, I consider leaving the knife and the gemstone behind, not wanting possession of something containing such darkness and evil. Yet I convince myself that it¡¯s better to be in my hands than that of another cultist, and I secure the tumi knife into my harness.
I stand alone in the aftermath of my encounter with Xaqilpa, the gemstone clenched in my fist. All that¡¯s transpired bears down on me at once. Mexqutli¡¯s treachery. Xaqilpa¡¯s escape. The continued battle with the Eye in the Flame. It¡¯s as if the fractured pieces of the ritual tumi knife are a reflection of the tumult within me. What does this mean for our quest? For Pachil? Though both Mexqutli and the sorcerer have slipped through my fingers like smoke, the fight for the future of my land is far from over.
93 - Walumaq
As we burst into the open, the curling smoke fills my lungs¡ªa harsh reminder of the ruination that has enveloped Analoixan. Wooden houses crumble around us, becoming nothing more than charred skeletons. The last few drops of rain sizzle as they meet the scorched ground beneath our feet. It now falls in a gentle drizzle, as if the skies themselves have grown weary of weeping over the land¡¯s devastation.
Ahead, Tlexn¨ªn¡¯s silhouette cuts through the damp haze. She inspects the destruction that¡¯s ravaged her precious city, but it¡¯s difficult to tell what she feels with her ever-present stoicism. With her obsidian-tipped spear poised and ready, the blade subtly glinting in green, she signals to her warriors to follow our lead.
Beside me, Paxilche stirs, his gaze hardening as he takes in the desolation. He grips his weapon tighter, tensely clutching Ridgebreaker as his consciousness visibly claws its way back from the dark depths to which it had been banished. He and I flank the Ulxa leader, and with her warriors close behind to form a protective circle around us, I¡¯m taken by the sense that they¡¯re ready to reclaim what¡¯s theirs from the clutches of the Eye in the Flame.
Shattering the fleeting calm, a reverberant boom echoes through the ruins, sending a shockwave that vibrates in my chest. Glowing specks of fire coalesce in the distance, growing larger and more defined with every passing moment. Fire dogs charge towards us, and there is a far greater number of them now. Their bodies are wreathed in flames that cast an eerie light on the broken landscape, with their forms becoming massive and more menacing than before. Glowing with malevolence, their eyes fixate on us, as if we are the last obstacles standing in the way of their masters¡¯ conquest. Behind them, crimson-robed sorcerers of the Eye in the Flame emerge, witnessing the chaos with dark glee.
Tlexn¨ªn raises her spear, her jaw tightening as her gaze focuses on the approaching threat. ¡°This ends now,¡± she declares, her voice as sharp as an obsidian blade. Then, carrying over the tumult, she whoops a rallying cry that seems to stir something primal within me, within all of us, ¡°For Ulxa!¡±
As the beasts bear down upon us, their growls merging into a single, terrifying roar, I brace myself. I can feel the heat from the fire dogs before we even meet. But also, the amulets at my chest grow warm as the surge of power flows through my veins.
With his eyes narrowed, Paxilche steps forward, ready to unleash the fury of the storm that he commands. I can feel the energy pulsing through him, eager to be set free against our foes. A twinge of fear perks up within me, hoping that, this time, he will better control his rage, concentrating it only upon the true enemy.
The first of the fiery beasts leaps into the fray. With a thunderous thump, the ground around us trembles as it lands. Baring its blackened teeth, it snarls with a bellowing growl that resonates within my chest. In a swift motion, it pounces upon a group of Ulxa warriors, pinning them to the scorched dirt beneath its paws. They howl in pain, and if I didn¡¯t know better, I¡¯d believe the monster takes pleasure in its prey¡¯s suffering. It chomps down on its victims, splitting them in half with one gigantic bite.
Paxilche raises Ridgebreaker and shouts intelligibly to the heavens. Pounding thunder and blinding flashes of lightning reflect his anger. Bringing the war club down with a flourish, he strikes the ground with the weapon, causing the beast to be struck numerous times with electrifying bolts. The creature is able to resist, with searing shocks striking its body all over. That is, until Paxilche delivers a more intense barrage upon his target. The fire dog is disintegrated upon impact, shattering into millions upon millions of particles that scatter about the area.
But no sooner than when the monster is defeated, a dozen more appear in its place, hopping over debris to reach our location. The Ulxa charge at the beasts under Tlexn¨ªn¡¯s command, slashing fervently at the enemy with their obsidian swords. Though many only strike the fire dogs¡¯ hardened outer coat, some manage to pierce the vulnerable interior, sending the beasts into a cloud of swirling ash.
The fire dogs claw their way through scores of the Ulxa warriors, and we can¡¯t make any headway in reducing their numbers. Then, to make matters worse, a flurry of flames erupt around us. Emerging through the thick smoke, several dozen figures in red robes appear, advancing toward our location. The ruined homes are mere tinder for their destructive desires, bursting into massive columns of fire. The heat is suffocating, surrounding us and making me feel like capybara roasting for a ceremonial meal.
¡°Paxilche!¡± I call out in desperation. His head whips around, eyes wide and alert. ¡°I need water! I need rain!¡±
With a single nod, Paxilche closes his eyes and takes several deep breaths. Resting the top of Ridgebreaker onto the ground, he casts a single hand toward the dark storm clouds that hover above us. I feel as though I can hear his thoughts, calmly, peacefully praying to the skies to unleash their healing relief upon us. Within a few breaths, more frequent drops of rain descend, soon making it difficult to see the enemy before us. Yet the fire dogs, glowing in their terrible orange flames, make it visibly apparent where else danger looms. The sweltering heat becomes greater and greater, and I feel my throat closing up as the fire starts to consume us. We don¡¯t have much more time.
The water at my command is ready to quench the inferno. With a few abrupt motions of my hand, I focus on collecting the rain, gathering it into one singular, massive pool. My energy is already starting to wither, concentrating on manipulating such a significant amount. But I must fight through the exhaustion¡ªtoo much depends on this succeeding.
I manage nearly half a house full of water, accumulated and floating above the splintered remains of an Ulxa home. This will have to do, and I hope it¡¯s enough. I wave my hands parallel to the ground, emulating the soothing movement of a tranquil sea, and bring the waters through the burning skeletons of Ulxa houses. The water collides with the flames, gradually extinguishing them with each flick of my wrist.
The procedure takes too long, however. Though the fires begin to extinguish, and the ground waterlogged in their wake, the sorcerers only raise more flames in other nearby areas. It takes too much of my focus to put out the flames, leaving the warriors vulnerable to more attacks by the fire hounds. Too much effort, too much energy is required, and I drop to one knee. Between the exertion and the thickening smoke that surrounds us, I struggle to breathe. Yet I keep my hands lifted and maneuver the ever-shrinking ball of water over the threatening flames.
¡°Paxilche¡¡± I meekly cry out, but my words are practically whispers, nearly impossible to distinguish above the calamity around us. I can only barely extinguish the fires, but too many other threats remain. What more can be done? Will our fight not be enough? Will the Eye in the Flame claim victory?
The skies angrily unleash a fury of lightning, cascading about the grounds. Shouts in anguish erupt sporadically about the battlefield. Has he struck any more innocent Ulxa warriors? I¡¯m too weak to notice, and I fear what will be revealed to me if we survive this fight. Yet the flames become fewer and easier to put out, and the howls of fire dogs shrink and shrink. I can only hope it¡¯s our enemy who¡¯s been stopped by Paxilche.
A hand clutches my elbow, delicately trying to lift me up to my feet. ¡°Walumaq, are you alright?¡± a concerned Paxilche asks. His face is grave and solemn, telling me all I need to know about the appearance of my condition.
I cough puffs of ash from my lungs. ¡°I¡¯m¡ okay, I promise,¡± I respond weakly, trying my best to assuage his fears. I place a hand on the ground and attempt to push myself up, but only stumble forward, barely catching myself before falling prone.
He is less than convinced. ¡°We need to return you to the temple,¡± he says assertively, facing the enormous pyramid that towers like a mountain over all of Analoixan. But I place a hand over his, hoping to dissuade him.
¡°I¡¯m okay,¡± I try again. ¡°I just need¡ a moment to¡ regain a little more¡ strength.¡±
Paxilche looks around the scene for a moment, then shakes his head precipitously, as if some realization occurs to him. He reaches for the necklace around his neck, then removes the amulet and places it over my head until it dangles upon my chest. ¡°You need this more than I do,¡± he affirms. ¡°I¡¯ll be okay without it. But it will¡ªno, hear me out. It¡¯ll be more effective if the amulet is with you, given your understanding of your abilities.¡±
As soon as the precious gemstone touches my chest, I¡¯m filled with inexplicable warmth. My legs no longer tremble and shiver under the weight of supporting myself, and I feel resurgent almost instantaneously. Breathing becomes immediately easier, and my perception of the battlefield is clearer than before.
I look around, noticing the evolving situation. Ulxa warriors charge fiercely at the enemy, striking down the countless fire dogs with swift and fluid attacks. Tlexn¨ªn and a band of warriors have reached the red-robed sorcerers, cutting their numbers down with relative ease. There¡¯s a bloodthirsty gleam in the Ulxa leader¡¯s eyes, seeking more foes to quench her desire for sending them to a violent end. While I will never share in her lust for bloodshed, I can only sigh in relief to know that she is an ally.
The ground begins splitting all around us, releasing pillars of fire that climb toward the darkened skies. Many a hapless Ulxa warrior are immediately consumed by the flames or swallowed up into the crevasses and fall to their fiery fate. I search the scene, knowing there must be an Eye in the Flame sorcerer behind this cruel and evil display. Sure enough, a solitary figure in a deep crimson robe emerges through plumes of ashen gray smoke. My eyes strain to discern who would seek to do such a despicable deed, and then it becomes painfully apparent to me: I recognize the horrible source of this chaos.
He grins menacingly, and his eyes are fixed to mine unwaveringly. ¡°So,¡± he says unhumorously, his voice barely discernible through the din of discordance, ¡°the one with the blue and red feather, we meet again. I have been waiting to seek my revenge upon the so-called ¡®Champion of Xaqilpa¡¯ since Qespina. I will take much pleasure in your demise.¡±
I crouch low, preparing myself for the incoming attack. But before I can summon the water again, he¡¯s joined by two others in crimson robes. Something bright glows like a torch from their chests, yet it¡¯s an ominous, deep green hue, and I quickly realize they, too, possess amulets! The jarring sight sinks my hopes, knowing how terrifyingly effective they could be by obtaining such artifacts.
I must act quickly, before they can carry out their dreadful plans. Clutching the amulets at my chest, radiating a nurturing warmth in my palm, I concentrate all my attention on the storm clouds that drift above. Like wringing out wet cloth, I attempt to pull every drop of water from them that I can. Yet something is fighting me, preventing me from making any progress. What is causing the resistance? Could this be the work of the sorcerers and the amulets they have?
An unnatural green and purple glow pulsates from the clouds, twisting and contorting above. The sorcerers raise their hands toward the sky, and muffled chanting in the guttural Ulxa language pierces through the fracas of the surrounding chaos. Lightning streaks through the air, crackling and causing the hairs at the back of my neck to tingle.
Amidst the battle with the fire dogs, the Ulxa warriors drop to their knees as if struck by a blunt object simultaneously. Beside me, Paxilche winces and groans in pain, clutching his chest. He falls forward and barely catches himself before hitting the ground. I rush over to him and check to see what¡¯s causing his ailment, but there¡¯s no sign of any harm.
¡°My chest,¡± he utters in a strained voice. ¡°Something is¡ pressing a-against¡ my chest¡¡±
From my periphery, Tlexn¨ªn drops to the ground. Her proud headpiece tumbles before her, but she¡¯s in too much pain to notice or care. My heart leaps in my throat as I watch a fire dog charge at her, sprinting at full speed with its sharp, black teeth exposed. I go to call out to her, to warn her of the incoming danger. But she needs not my help. With her jaw clinched, she fights off her injuries and lifts herself up. She ferociously slashes at the incoming beast, her obsidian spear catching the creature¡¯s head and flinging it aside. As the beast regains its balance, she disjointedly scrambles over to it and, with a mighty roar, brings down her wide blade upon its neck. After a few hacks, she severs the dog¡¯s head, and its body disintegrates into ash.
Though victorious, the moment is fleeting. More beasts approach, and cultists in ashen gray robes also make their way here. Have they laid to waste my companions and the Auilqa outside the city walls? Is this a sign that the Eye in the Flame have nearly won this assault on Analoixan?
Everyone around me¡ªthe Ulxa warriors, Paxilche, Tlexn¨ªn¡ªstruggle to get up and defend themselves from the incoming attack. I look at Paxilche and see his skin turn a sickly white, almost translucent, as though all color is being drained from his skin. Then my gaze is drawn to the scenery around me, a completely disturbing sight on top of what was already grizzly and repulsive. As if the ruins weren¡¯t enough, Analoixan appears to be¡ decaying. There¡¯s no other way to describe it. The destroyed walls and structures begin falling apart and developing a black mold that grows and spread rapidly. The suffocating smell of death surrounds this place. It¡¯s like the city is a dying organism, rotting from within. Something is causing our people and the city to weaken, crumble, and deteriorate¡ but I¡¯m somehow unaffected?
Then I recall the obsidian and copper amulet dangling from my neck, the one that protected me from the sorcerer¡¯s might the last time we confronted one another. So thatmust be why I feel no ill effects. But the others possess no such ward, and I don¡¯t know how much longer they¡¯ll be able to resist the effects of the sorcerers¡¯ powers.
How can I utilize this amulet¡¯s powers to protect everyone in Analoixan? My other amulet¡ªthe one with jade and onyx¡ªseems to amplify my powers. Is there some way to combine them both, but to affect others without abilities like mine?
An idea strikes me like lightning from the ever-present storm. The sorcerer is joined by two other companions, so perhaps I¡¯ll fare better if I have people possessing abilities as I¡¯m able to, unifying our efforts against the enemy. Then, since one of my amulets can ward off dark powers, I might be able to utilize it to counter the effects unleashed by the sorcerers.
But I¡¯ll need to find Saqatli, and he¡¯s been lost to the fray outside the walls. Is he still alive? Has the arrival of the gray-garbed cultists to my location indicated that the battle outside of Analoixan is finished, and all that remains is their access of the palace? I can¡¯t allow that to happen.
I pick up the ailing Paxilche, straining to bring him to his feet. He comes to and slowly realizes what¡¯s happening. ¡°Where¡ are you taking me?¡± he asks in between gasping coughs.
Royal Road is the home of this novel. Visit there to read the original and support the author.
¡°We need to find Saqatli,¡± I say, practically dragging him away from the area. ¡°The Eye in the Flame¡¯s sorcerers are unleashing some dark force upon the city, but I think I have a way to stop them.¡±
Paxilche¡¯s expression is one of marked determination, understanding the urgency without hesitation. As best he can, he picks up the pace and runs with me toward the outer limit of Analoixan. The decay spreads like outstretched vines, gradually extending further and further from the sorcerer¡¯s position. Perhaps their powers aren¡¯t strong enough to affect all of the city yet, but it appears to be increasing little by little. This realization strengthens my resolve further, knowing that all is not lost if they can just be stopped in time.
The tendrils of rot follow us to the edge of town, bringing with it the acrid sweetness of decomposition that singes my nostrils. Frequently, I glance over to Paxilche, who withstands the pain to keep up with me. We press on, and the calamitous sounds of combat get louder and louder with each step. I hate to confess it, but I¡¯m almost relieved to hear the fighting, knowing it means the Eye in the Flame have not yet won.
When we arrive, the scene is despairing to look upon. Bodies, both of Auilqa and Eye in the Flame zealots, are strewn about like a farmer sewing his lands. The charred remains of the dead combined with the depleted perimeter walls tell me that the fire dogs were once here, though their repulsive presence is nowhere to be seen at the moment. I can¡¯t decide whether this fortuitous sight is an indication of something favorable or foreboding.
In the distance, the unmistakable colors worn by warriors of the Sanqo houses flicker and flash amidst the disorder of battle. I soon recognize Pomaqli, as well, joining in the fight alongside Atoyaqtli, Chiqama, and Naqispi. Close to them, Saqatli is tending to Pomacha, suffering from a terrible gash to his upper torso and left arm. While the wound looks severe, you wouldn¡¯t know from Pomacha¡¯s expression, fiercely staring at the ensuing battle, and evident he wants nothing more than to return to the action.
Paxilche and I hurry over to the pair, narrowly avoiding the combatants engaged in their fervent fight. There are numerous close calls, with blades and balls of fire wizzing past us dangerously close. The heat from the embers of ruined walls and homes rages on about us, casting the scene in a terrible orange glow amidst the gloom of the storm clouds.
Saqatli initially panics when we arrive, but lets out an exasperated sigh upon recognizing our faces. ¡°Praise Iolatl, you are alive!¡± he exclaims, his voice resounding in my mind. ¡°When I lost sight of you, I feared the worst!¡± His relief is palpable, pausing to take in the sight of our presence.
Yet there¡¯s another concerning observation I¡¯ve made. ¡°Where is your companion, Noch?¡± I ask. Though I hear his voice in my head, the ocelot is nowhere to be seen, and now it is I who fears the worst.
Saqatli smiles with pride. ¡°I have been tending to the wounded,¡± he answers, ¡°and she has been signaling me to them. If I run out of supplies to use for healing, she has collected them for me. It is something we have done when we have found animals wounded or ensnared in the traps of our hunters. You should know I would never put her in the way of harm!¡±
¡°And how are you¨C¡°
Before I can finish my question, he responds, his smile growing larger, ¡°I have enlisted the native hummingbirds to assist me, as well.¡±
While the thought is comforting about his companion, I¡¯m still a bit worried. But, there are other pressing matters that need tending to. ¡°Sorcerers of the Eye in the Flame have made their way to the palace,¡± I start to tell Saqatli, ¡°and they¡¯ve begun to¡¡± I find myself at a loss for words as to how I could describe such a horrific sight. Instead, I choose to be direct, telling him, ¡°They¡¯re using a dark magic to destroy Analoixan. But I believe I know how they can be stopped, which involves the others. I see them, but I don¡¯t know how I can reach them.¡±
¡°I will retrieve them,¡± Pomacha says in his deep, booming voice. He starts to stand up, but is in too much pain and thumps back to the ground. Clutching his chest, Saqatli quickly applies some type of ointment or herbal remedy to it, immediately soothing the valiant warrior.
¡°We¡¯ll need to find another way,¡± I say, hoping some inspiration comes to me. Instead, it¡¯s Saqatli who finds it, another proud expression washing over him.
¡°I already have the messengers we can use!¡± he says enigmatically. As if reading the question marked on my face, he explains, ¡°I can have the birds carry our message by¡¡± Something concerning abruptly brings Saqatli overwhelming disappointment as his gaze sweeps the scene. ¡°Wait, I cannot speak to them! They do not possess our abilities, so what if I cannot deliver a message with my mind?¡±
¡°Perhaps we could use this¡¡± I start to suggest, then begin ripping strips from my deep blue tunic, long enough to span the length of a forearm. ¡°If you could get the hummingbirds to carry these in their beaks, the Sanqo color could alert them to my presence. Have them get our allies¡¯ attention this way.¡±
A wide smile spans Saqatli¡¯s face, and he nods excitedly. Then, he closes his eyes, as if diligently concentrating on the plan. In an instant, a shimmer or movement catches the corner of my eye. A flurry of tiny hummingbirds in emerald and ruby feathers that catch the fire light, dart through the air. Even with the discordant noises of battle surrounding us, their wings buzz as they hover around the Auilqa boy.
Saqatli holds out the four strips of blue cloth, then looks at the hummingbirds individually, never uttering a word aloud. Suddenly, each bird takes off, carrying a strip of the clothing and weaving expertly through the chaos in a blur of dazzling colors. They soar to each of our allies, fluttering about and attempting to be noticed by the target while not being inadvertently struck.
I hold my breath, wondering how successful this gambit will be. Each warrior is engaged in an intense duel, with so much at risk. I begin to question if, instead, I should have utilized the other warriors allied to our cause. Knowing how difficult the communication would be, maybe this was the best¡ªand only¡ªcourse of action. Now, it¡¯s too late to turn back and try another approach. I can only pray to any deity who would listen.
It appears I¡¯ve been heard, as everyone quickly arrives to my location. Chiqama, however, grabs his leg and grimaces in pain. He¡¯s been gashed, bleeding profusely to where his entire side is soaked in blood. ¡°I got distracted by the bird!¡± Chiqama yells in response to Naqispi¡¯s probing inquiry. This elicits a laugh from the Sanqo warrior, much to Chiqama¡¯s chagrin, and Atoyaqtli also finds no humor in the matter. Before Chiqama can seek aid, Saqatli quickly tends to him, applying some herbal treatment and reaching for cloth to tie around his wound.
¡°Did you summon us, princess?¡± Atoyaqtli asks, concerned.
I nod. ¡°The Eye in the Flame are using dark magic to destroy the palace and all of Analoixan. But I have a way to stop them, and possibly turn the tide of this assault.¡±
With their attention fixed upon me, I relay my plan. ¡°The sorcerers have seemingly summoned something dark through their grotesque magic, which is causing the city and all warriors caught within its reach to weaken and decay, as if the life is being sucked out of them. The Ulxa warriors and their leader, Tlexn¨ªn, are trapped in that area, fighting off these treacherous fire dogs that are clearing the way for the Eye in the Flame to take over the palace.¡±
¡°So, what do you need from us?¡± Naqispi asks, as if I was never going to get to my point. He appears to want to ask more, but the turquoise-tailed ocelot leaps next to Saqatli, startling Naqispi and causing him to curse under his breath.
¡°I believe they¡¯re performing some ritual, some ceremony,¡± I resume my explanation. ¡°It was faint, but I could hear some murmuring. I possess an amulet,¡± I hold up the obsidian stone on the copper chain, ¡°that wards off dark magic. Their power is growing in strength the longer they go unimpeded in performing this ritual, but if they become distracted, I may be able to use this, in conjunction with the focused energy and powers of those possessing abilities, to stop whatever it is they¡¯re doing and reverse the spell they¡¯ve casted.¡±
Those present search everyone gathered to account for the magic users. The first two are obvious: Saqatli and me. The Sanqo exchange glances, questioning if the two of us¡ªone being a boy, on top of that¡ªwill be enough to execute this plan. It¡¯s after a long pause when Pomaqli, recognizing the confusion, and the answer to their unspoken question, states aloud, ¡°There¡¯s a third with such capabilities.¡±
He nods toward Paxilche, leaving everyone in confused silence. ¡°There are even more?¡± Naqispi asks, baffled. ¡°Well, now I have questions!¡±
¡°They will have to be asked another time,¡± Atoyaqtli responds. ¡°For now, we need to distract the sorcerers and clear a way for these three to disrupt their ritual. Let¡¯s make our way toward them and cut off the head of this snake.¡±
We all rush back into the city, with each healthy warrior supporting the injured or wounded as we hurry. The fire dogs have annihilated the grounds around the palace, scorching everything into embers. The scent of smoldering campfires mixed with pure rot overwhelms my nose, and I worry that we may be too late to rescue the Ulxa warriors and Analoixan. But then a war cry pierces the air just out of sight, and I recognize the fierce shouts of Tlexn¨ªn rallying her warriors. We still have a chance to vanquish this foe and save this city.
¡°Perhaps you can lead the enemy toward our allies,¡± I suggest. ¡°That way, you won¡¯t have to take them on yourselves and will have support.¡±
¡°What if they don¡¯t recognize us, and begin to attack?¡± A concerned Chiqama challenges.
¡°Don¡¯t put on a robe, and I¡¯m confident you¡¯ll be spared,¡± Naqispi declares with a smirk.
Paxilche, who has been slowly regaining his strength, and I lead them to the area we encountered the sorcerers. Everything in sight has deteriorated into decay, mold springing up upon every tree, every felled support beam, every item that once held life. We split up, with my Sanqo companions and Pomaqli rushing off, vanishing into the thin mist suspended over the scene of devastation. The battle rages nearby, and we leap over fallen timber and debris to get closer.
At the center of the decaying scene, the three sorcerers continue, their chanting having grown louder now and more hurried. A purplish black¡ I don¡¯t know how else to describe it other than ¡®radiance¡¯, though the aura that surrounds the cultists is of sinister intent and doesn¡¯t deserve such an awe-inspiring word. The intensity of the glow illuminates brighter than the surrounding fires that burn the homes to the ground, seemingly increasing in power.
¡°We don¡¯t have much time,¡± I shout to Saqatli and Paxilche. ¡°If they complete this ritual, all of Analoixan and all its people will fall to decay.¡±
¡°I hope the others can resist the effects of the sorcerers long enough to create a formidable distraction,¡± Saqatli says nervously, his wide eyes gazing upon the scene intently.
After a few too many heartbeats, a dense, thick fog curls about the area. Is this from the sorcerers? Is this part of the ritual? It envelopes the cultists, and I lose sight of them as they become shrouded in a sheet of gray and white. A few shouts and cries of pain spring up through the opaque scene.
I begin to fear the worst, believing the ritual to be nearing its completion. But then Saqatli points and grins widely. ¡°Look! It is them!¡± he cheers in broken Merchant¡¯s Tongue. Off on the other side, the five warriors emerge from the fog, their faces covered with some type of cloth mechanism. Chiqama supports Naqispi, who clutches his arm as they all run off. Atoyaqtli signals vaguely, gesturing toward the sorcerers¡¯ last known location. Then, they disappear into the ruins of the city under the cover of darkness. From behind them, a series of what I assume to be barked commands in the stilted Ulxa tongue rise above the calamity, and figures in gray robes wielding obsidian swords chase after our staggering companions. But, most importantly, I notice the chanting has ceased.
As the fog begins to settle, the three figures no longer appear to be standing where they once were. Where have they gone? I search the scene for their presence, but they¡¯re nowhere to be found. I don¡¯t trust my eyes, believing they must be close. Yet Paxilche has no reservations about what has played out before us.
¡°Now¡¯s our chance!¡± he remarks, and rushes over to where the zealots were. Saqatli and his ocelot companion follow, but I join them with excessive caution. Something doesn¡¯t feel right about this. It all seems a bit too convenient, too simple.
Suddenly, Paxilche crashes onto the ground, having been flung back by some invisible force. He shivers violently as if struck by lightning, and purplish-red bruises litter his arms, legs, and face. Saqatli crouches next to him, holding him gingerly while trying to sooth the ailing Qiapu.
¡°There must be some protective¡ shield, or ward,¡± I say, attempting to figure out what harmed Paxilche. Investigating the area, there¡¯s no indication of any physical barrier, no walls or unseen guardians. Could their dark magic be at work here? Perhaps this is why they felt comfortable departing the space, knowing the location of their ritual would be protected.
Paxilche comes to, confused about what happened to him. Saqatli calms him down, patting his shoulders gently, as I explain my theory. ¡°Makes¡ sense,¡± Paxilche wheezes before succumbing to a coughing fit. ¡°How do we get through it, though?¡±
Saqatli points to my chest, and within my head, I hear his voice ask, ¡°Does your jewelry always glow in such a manner?¡± I look down at the amulets hanging from my neck, glowing a vibrant green and otherworldly black as they release a warmth upon my skin. I recall how they¡¯ve done this before, how they glow and emit warmth on occasion. Though I¡¯ve never considered how this happens, Saqatli¡¯s mention of their glow gives me the belief that it must be related to something about this site, or something about the use of magic. While my initial plan was to harness my abilities through the powers of the amulets, perhaps it is the amulets that are the answer to this problem.
¡°The amulets¡± I say, simply and with great enthusiasm at the revelation. ¡°My obsidian amulet should ward off the dark magic, and the jade and onyx amulet should amplify its power. They seem to be affected by the use of magic, so they could be used to stop the effects of this ritual.¡±
¡°But how?¡± Paxilche asks, confused.
I stare long and hard at the site of the ritual, the area that caused Paxilche harm when he got close to it. Staring into it, there on the ground, are a series of patterns, along with numerous items placed among the designs. Obsidian daggers with ornate, gold handles glimmer from the surrounding fires. Small, copal incense burners release small wisps of dark gray smoke that twist into the air like gnarled claws. Jade figurines and gold ornaments are positioned in certain, seemingly strategic locations among the geometric shapes. Masks of snarling figures are made of turquoise with vicious, sharp teeth, appearing carelessly cast aside, perhaps as a result of being thrown once their ritual was disrupted. All this, all this effort, just to destroy the Ulxa out of spite.
Recalling my duel with the sorcerer in Qespina, it appeared that the obsidian amulet gave me the protection against his powers. Though he never possessed any of these items¡ªor, at least, none that I could see¡ªmy ability to stop his evil deeds rested on the power of the amulets. I was able to use the deep-purple-glowing obsidian gemstone to remove the dark magic that plagued the Qespina shaman, and the jade and onyx amulet to increase its power to reenergize him. Will the same apply here? Will I be protected from whatever ward is cast to protect their evil ritual?
As I move closer to where Paxilche was repelled, a cold prickle dances up my spine. The air grows denser, like wading through the deep sea. Each step feels heavier, and the glowing amulets on my chest throb in sync with my racing heart, casting eerie shadows on the ground. It¡¯s as though they are hungry for the dark magic that saturates this place, ready to devour and cleanse it.
Inhaling deeply, I brace myself against the fear gnawing at me. Saqatli looks on with great trepidation, fearing for my safety. I don¡¯t blame him¡ªeven I am unsure of the wisdom in what I¡¯m going to try. I slowly approach the space, extending my hand out as though reaching for the surface of the ward. But caution has little room left to maneuver here. With each tentative step, the pressure builds, an invisible storm brewing against my skin. Another step, then another, and I feel nothing. Have I stepped through the magical forcefield? Am I¨C
Then, a searing pain lashes out as I breach the boundary, a scream trapped in my throat. No sooner than when I believe I¡¯ve cleared the threshold, an overwhelming pain surges through my muscles and bones. Yet amidst the agony, a surge of clarity washes over me, a paradoxical comfort within the torment. The amulets at my neck pulse like living beings, radiating an intensifying warmth that penetrates the ice-cold dread clenching my heart. They glow fiercely now, each pulse sending waves of healing energy that counteract the jagged edges of pain seeking to tear me to shreds.
As the dark powers course through me, each thread in my body rebels, caught between destruction and renewal. I feel as if I¡¯m being torn apart and stitched back together by invisible hands, expert in their cruelty, yet gentle in their care. The darkness that envelops the ritual site seems to churn, reacting to the presence of the obsidian, jade, and onyx hanging heavily around my neck. I can almost hear a sizzling sound, like rain on hot coals, as the dark energy collides with the protective aura of my amulets. It¡¯s a battle within the air itself, visible in the swirling shadows that reach for me, only to recoil as if burned each time they near the glowing stones.
I press on, finding a strange kind of equilibrium that keeps me standing, keeps me moving toward the heart of the ritual. The threshold of pain and power blurs, and I am both lost and found within it. The edges of my vision dims as if the night itself descends upon my eyes. The urgent voices of Saqatli and Paxilche pierce through the encroaching darkness, pulling at my consciousness. The swirling shadows lash out with ferocity. My knees buckle, and I can barely keep myself upright.
¡°Paxilche! Saqatli!¡± I gasp, with each word like a blade in my throat.
I faintly hear Paxilche call out, ¡°We must help her take on this dark force, Saqatli!¡± Then, ¡°Walumaq, hold on!¡±
¡°This is not the way!¡± Saqatli¡¯s voice cuts through the discord within my mind. ¡°We can find another solution, one that does not demand such a sacrifice!¡±
Paxilche charges, ¡°There¡¯s no time, Saqatli! Every moment we hesitate, Analoixan crumbles further. It¡¯s the only way to break through. We have no other choice.¡±
Their voices swirl around me. I feel hands on my shoulders. Their hands, I think. I hope. With a final push, I channel all that I am into the amulets. Their glow becomes a blinding radiance. The ground beneath my feet vibrates. The world tilts.
¡°Walumaq!¡± is the last word I hear. Shouts blend with the thunderous howl of the encompassing tempest, as darkness claims me completely.
94 - Teqosa
The first step beyond the Maiu Hatun feels like crossing into another world. The air grows denser, heavier with the scent of damp terrain and wild greenery. The jungle canopy stretches endlessly above, painted in countless shades of green. Sunlight filters through in slanted beams, casting dappled patterns on the undergrowth that carpets the forest floor. Every step forward rustles with the sounds of unseen creatures, and the distant calls of exotic birds echo throughout the jungle, their songs both beautiful and foreboding.
Adjusting the strap of his satchel, Upachu casts a wary glance at the towering trees. ¡°It feels like the entire jungle is all some kind of living, breathing being,¡± he murmurs in both awe and apprehension.
¡°Not just any being,¡± I reply, feeling the oppressive watchfulness of the jungle intensify with each step, ¡°but one that doesn¡¯t particularly want us around.¡±
S¨ªqalat chuckles softly. ¡°Then let¡¯s make sure it finds us as charming and endearing as possible,¡± she says with a smirk, giving me the impression I¡¯ve been subtly slighted.
She leads the way, weaving through the thick bamboo stalks that rise like a barricade. Her attention is fixed on a barely visible path ahead, hacking a curved blade at the tangles of vines and roots of the Auilqa jungles that hinder our way forward. Her familiarity with this terrain is almost instinctual, moving with a rhythm that matches the jungle¡¯s own heartbeat, to maintain that analogy. Each step she takes is measured and deliberate, avoiding pitfalls that aren¡¯t visible until she points them out¡ªdeep animal tracks hidden beneath thick layers of fallen leaves, or sudden dips in the ground masked by overgrowth. Even as I struggle to keep pace, I marvel at her resilience and the ease with which she navigates this wild, untamed land.
Upachu follows close behind, guiding the llama along and wearing the newly purchased light garments he obtained in Chopaqte. Age spots and purple veins sprawl across his arms and legs, standing out against his pale skin that has likely seen hardly any sunlight in his dozens upon dozens of harvests on Pachil. It¡¯s bizarre to see him out of the thick, white robes I¡¯ve become so accustomed to seeing him wear, and he looks altogether like an entirely different person. Yet his age and frailty are more apparent now, and I grow more apprehensive about having him travel such a treacherous trek alongside me.
I scan the dense foliage, maintaining a position close to the cart for quick access to my glaive. I remain ever ready for the dangers that lurk beneath the beauty of the wilderness, knowing that every shadow could conceal a threat. It becomes immediately apparent why S¨ªqalat wears pants, as my bare legs become regularly nicked and scraped by the low, prickly foliage. She also appears unfazed by the choking humidity while I feel as though I¡¯m melting in the merciless heat that seems to stick to my skin. She moves with an ease that belies her knowledge of this land, unlike my cautious and measured steps that continuously negotiate with the terrain.
¡°So, S¨ªqalat,¡± Upachu begins, and I grow nervous about what his inquiry will be, ¡°you don¡¯t present yourself like many of the Achope I¡¯ve ever encountered.¡±
¡°That¡¯s because I¡¯m not like many of the Achope,¡± she counters, maintaining her focus on clearing the obstructing vines.
¡°I can see that,¡± Upachu says, undeterred, ¡°particularly with your marked arms and legs. You¡¯re not a typical Achope merchant.¡±
¡°That¡¯s because I¡¯m not an Achope merchant,¡± she says, continuing to toy with Upachu through her enigmatic answers.
¡°I can see that, as well¡ªI¡¯m not that old that my eyes have yet failed me,¡± Upachu remarks, occasionally out of breath from exerting himself on the challenging path as he makes his statement. ¡°What is your profession, dear lady? What allows you to maintain your pursuit of Pachil¡¯s finest libations?¡±
S¨ªqalat doesn¡¯t speak for a moment, perhaps deliberating how to best respond to the question. After a few more swipes and slashes with her curved blade, she finally says, ¡°The Achope are obsessed with profit, seeking to obtain it by any means, but I prefer to be fulfilled by exploration. I was once a trader, I will confess as much, but the Achope way of conducting business is unethical, to say the least. I could no longer abide by their tactics, but travel and discovery are greater passions of mine than profit. Thus, I became what the Achope disparagingly call a ¡®wanderer¡¯. Yet I wear the title with pride. I can¡¯t be ostracized by circles I no longer wish to involve myself.¡±
¡°A wanderer, or just aimless?¡± I question.
¡°Freedom may appear aimless to those with the rigid mind of a warrior,¡± she retorts pointedly.
¡°You said ¡®by any means,¡¯¡± I note. ¡°That sounds as though you¡¯ve witnessed this first-hand.¡±
¡°Of course, I have!¡± S¨ªqalat scoffs, her eyes narrowing as a memory seems to grip her. ¡°I have too many stories, too many such instances of which I could speak. In one example, there was a man in Chopaqte, a skilled potter with a small family. The more influential and rich of the Achope nobility forced him into ruinous trades that promised wealth, but were rigged to strip him of everything. He lost his home, his workshop¡ªhis dignity. I watched his world collapse for their profit. And that¡¯s not the only instance where the wealthy have taken advantage of those who are not in a position of power. With so many such accounts, I knew I could no longer partake in their greed.¡±
Her strokes become more assertive as she slashes at the dense vines. ¡°Besides, surely you know of the Achope history in the War of Liberation. They only act if there is wealth to be had¡ªit¡¯s their only motivation. If the act requires the use of deceit or treachery, they don¡¯t find such actions to be beneath them. It¡¯s rampant in Achope, taking advantage of those who lack the means to protect themselves. It¡¯s an injustice of which I desire no part. I would rather explore and learn about all the cultures and factions of Pachil, to celebrate what we have in common, rather than divide because of our differences.¡±
¡°So, it appears we found the one honorable Achope in all of their territory,¡± I remark.
¡°Teqosa!¡± Upachu scolds, looking offended. ¡°How can you make such a statement to the person who has willingly offered to guide us through the dangerous Auilqa jungles and lead us to the lagoon!¡±
¡°Because we¡¯re paying her,¡± I respond. ¡°She may conduct herself altruistically, but it¡¯s still for profit, for personal gain in some form.¡± Though I speak of our guide, it¡¯s Upachu who appears affronted. S¨ªqalat, however, looks indifferent.
¡°Not all rewards are counted in coin, Qantua warrior,¡± she declares. ¡°Some of us measure wealth in experiences and knowledge, in performing good deeds, in wanting to make Pachil better while we walk its lands.¡±
¡°And perhaps there¡¯s more honor in choosing one¡¯s path than following one laid out by tradition and obligation,¡± Upachu says. ¡°After all, isn¡¯t that what we¡¯re doing here?¡±
¡°Also, as your companion observes,¡± she says, ¡°how else am I to pursue the finest libations Pachil has to offer? Establishments don¡¯t exactly give away such exquisite delights for free.¡±
I roll my eyes at the comment. ¡°Perhaps there¡¯s merit in your wanderings,¡± I concede, albeit not earnestly, ¡°though I¡¯ll reserve judgement for when I see where they lead us.¡±
S¨ªqalat shakes her head and chuckles, keeping her attention in front of us. ¡°Fear not, oh brave and valiant Qantua warrior. I¡¯ve wandered enough to know when to find the right path, especially when it leads us to something worth discovering¡ªno matter how much I¡¯m being paid.¡±
Navigating the dense Auilqa jungles proves to be a relentless trial. The bamboo thickets are like an immovable and unyielding wall, with thick clusters that claw at our clothes and gear. My garments stick to my body, restricting my movement as I try to clear our way through this mess of vegetation.
S¨ªqalat¡¯s swings are precise, yet filled with the frustration of our slow progress. Upachu begins muttering under his breath about how the map of these lands on the clay pot do injustice to their treacherous reality. I have to interrupt him, reminding him to hold his tongue about such details. Our guide appears not to notice, not reacting to our exchange. Yet I don¡¯t trust her demeanor. Not until she proves to be trustworthy, which has yet to present itself.
Eventually, I trail behind, swiping at the sweat that beads on my forehead, feeling each droplet trail down like the many rivers we¡¯ve crossed. The deafening sounds of the jungle are unnerving. My alertness and focus are heightened upon hearing the howls and screeches from creatures unseen, and the rustling of leaves as something retreats from our intrusion. Perhaps due to exhaustion¡ªbut unlikely, given my conditioning and experience¡ªlandmarks of the jungle appear to repeat themselves. I begin to question whether our guide, in fact, knows where we¡¯re going.
¡°We¡¯re not lost, just momentarily disoriented,¡± S¨ªqalat assures, her voice carrying an edge of uncertainty that does little to soothe my rising anxiety. The green around us isn¡¯t just overwhelming¡ªit¡¯s oppressive, as if the jungle itself resents our presence.
The further we venture, the more the jungle seems to tighten around us like a noose. Visibility shrinks to mere steps ahead. Vines coil like serpents at our ankles, and the dense vegetation begins to blot out the midday sun, casting everything in perpetual twilight. Upachu stops abruptly, causing me to nearly bump into him.
¡°I learned about this once, from one of the generals back in Hilaqta,¡± he says, pulling a strip of cloth from his bag and tying it around a particularly gnarled branch. ¡°We need to mark our trail, or we might never find our way back.¡±
¡°We¡¯re not trying to go back,¡± S¨ªqalat states. ¡°If anything, we should hope to never see the marks, lest we find ourselves traveling in circles. Besides, the Auilqa already mark their paths.¡±
When she eventually turns back and notices the perplexed looks on our faces, she explains. ¡°As you have experienced, the jungles are dense and confusing to navigate. But the Auilqa have devised a way to identify important trails¡ªpaths to water, paths to hunting grounds, paths to locations containing bountiful fruits and herbs. Finding these markings will tell us we¡¯re close to an Auilqa village or encampment, and they can direct us to this lagoon you¡¯re so eager to reach.¡±
¡°Do we want to encounter the Auilqa?¡± I ask, questioning whether this is a result we seek. ¡°Everything ever spoken about them indicates they¡¯re hostile to outsiders. We may want to instead avoid engaging with them.¡±
¡°They¡¯re not so bad once you understand their ways,¡± she says. ¡°Just as with any faction, they, too, have a code by which they live. They¡¯re also quite advanced, if you¡¯ll allow your preconceived notions and biases to be challenged for once.¡±
I desire to respond to her presumed observations of my character, but the jungle¡¯s humidity saps all energy I have. Thus, instead, I choose to channel it into traversing this difficult land, one that seems to fight me with each step. And if we are lost¡ªwhich is seemingly becoming more and more likely¡ªI want to ensure I have the ability to get us to safety as quickly as possible.
S¨ªqalat pauses often, her eyes scanning for signs or indications that we¡¯re on the correct course. Despite her confidence, the jungle seems to fold in on itself, paths disappearing as quickly as they emerge. The path she chooses seems arbitrary to my untrained eyes, but there¡¯s a clear method to her madness¡ªor, that is what I tell myself for assurance, though doubt has begun to creep into my mind.
As we push deeper, the sense of isolation tightens around us. Our progress is slow, at best, with the density of bamboo and other vegetation too thick to clear. Undergrowth snags our sandals and boots, frequently tripping us as we trudge through the jungle. The feeling that the territory of the Auilqa does not want us here continues to grow the longer this journey takes.
Triumphantly, she points to a barely visible mark on a gnarled tree trunk. ¡°Aha!¡± she exclaims. ¡°I found a marking!¡± Her fingers trace seemingly invisible lines over the moss and bark of a tree. She studies the apparent etchings for a moment, then nods confidently as she concludes their meaning. ¡°A watering hole is nearby. It appears we should go¡¡± her head swivels as she attempts to identify the direction. Retrieving the items dangling from her neck, she inspects it, then pops her head up, repeating this numerous times before concluding, ¡°that way!¡±
She points in what seems like a random direction. Without further discussion, she begins marching off, clearing vines as though she¡¯s certain we¡¯re headed on the right path. Upachu unflinchingly follows, but I am more hesitant. I look over the place she supposedly sees markings, yet I find nothing. All I see is a patch of moss and the knotted bark of the tree¡¯s trunk.
The author''s tale has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.
¡°Are we sure this is correct?¡± I challenge. ¡°All because of some supposed markings and the mechanism that hangs around your neck, you¡¯re certain this is the way?¡±
S¨ªqalat halts, turns around abruptly to face me, and scowls. ¡°You hired me to navigate the jungles. And now, suddenly, you¡¯re questioning me? Would you like to ¡®go on your quest of discovery¡¯ by yourselves?¡±
¡°Erm, what my companion means to say,¡± Upachu stutters, ¡°is that, well, we¡¯re just not accustomed to such a place, and it¡¯s off-putting to be traversing such treacherous trails of which we¡¯re unfamiliar. So, we¡¯re eternally grateful for your wisdom and experience to guide us, despite our reactionary apprehensions.¡±
S¨ªqalat looks unconvinced, her eyes narrowed as they fix upon mine. With a humph, she turns around and resumes our trek into the thick jungles. Before he follows our guide, Upachu glares at me, wordlessly indicating to me to silence my tongue. If we continue to wander aimlessly, however, I doubt I¡¯ll be able to.
We finally reach a place in the jungle where the trees and underbrush begin to relent, giving way to a more breathable space. Though still thick with towering trees and draping vines, the area opens up enough to allow slants of sunlight to return, dappling the mossy floor. We can finally move more freely and take deeper breaths of the humid, aromatic air.
Relief is short-lived. A low rumbling resonates through the surrounding thicket. S¨ªqalat and I search the jungles for the source, finding nothing, but knowing the threat looms close by. Reaching behind her, S¨ªqalat retrieves a series of poles from a harness at her back. She carefully begins assembling the weapon, attaching the poles together, made from a dark palm wood that appears to be adorned with ornate carvings. The spearhead of polished obsidian glimmers even with the smallest amount of light, and at its base is an intricately carved piece of jade that subtly glows green. At the back, she mounts a hook crafted from bone¡ªcalled an atlatl, if memory from my time at the Maqanuiache serves.
I cautiously make my way to the cart and draw my glaive, my head on a swivel to brace for a surprise attack. Upachu posts up next to the llama, comforting the animal with gentle strokes along its neck in an effort to comfort himself, as well. We¡¯re all tense, steadying our breathing as if that is what will tip the predator to our location, like it hasn¡¯t spotted us already.
A tremendous roar catches me off guard, but before I can comprehend what¡¯s happening, I¡¯m struck and pinned to the ground by a ferocious jaguar, larger than any jungle cat I¡¯ve ever witnessed. The beast is larger than the brawniest man I¡¯ve encountered, with paws that take up my entire torso. Its claws dig into my shoulders, blood rushing down my chest and arms. There¡¯s a searing pain as if I¡¯ve been put into a fire, and I soon realize the jaguar has somehow slipped past my leather armor and pierced through my tunic, peeling back my flesh.
I swing my fists at the animal, but it leaps away from me. Has it a sense of mercy? Is it toying with me, playing with its prey? I look up to find S¨ªqalat thrusting at the beast with quick strikes from her spear. She narrowly misses with the tip of her blade as the creature contorts its body to barely dodge the incoming attacks, but it¡¯s enough to fend the jaguar off of me.
S¨ªqalat takes a few measured steps back, then lunges at the jaguar. I don¡¯t even see the spear leave her hands¡ªthe release is that quick. It soars toward the animal like lightning from the sky, striking the hind quarters of the creature. It looses a terrible yowl, baring its pointed teeth. To take out its frustration, it charges at the nearest prey: the llama that¡¯s strapped into a harness to pull our cart. With its limited mobility, the llama bleats in fear, watching as the predator furiously races at it. Upachu lets out a slight, panicked squeak of a holler, crouching lower and lower behind the wooden cart.
A whistling wind whizzes past my ears, and I see S¨ªqalat retracting her spear using some fantastical mechanism, pulling the spear back into her hands. With eyes narrowed, she focuses on the jaguar, then uses the atlatl to launch the spear once more at the jaguar. Once again, it pierces the back of the beast, knocking it off its course in pursuit of its prey. There¡¯s a warmth on my chest, and suddenly, I¡¯m overwhelmed by the sensation of knowing the jaguar is going to attack the llama no matter the cost. It¡¯s as though I understand its thoughts, if an animal can think in Merchant¡¯s Tongue, repeating them over and over and over. I will claim my prey. I will claim my prey. I will claim my prey.
With the animal disoriented, I rush toward it, spinning the glaive in my hands to point the tip of the blade at my target. With a quick thrust, I force my weapon forward, jamming it into the creature¡¯s side. It yowls once more, red pouring from the wounds to its body, but it fights through the pain, determined to continue its pursuit of the llama. I twist the blade, and the beast drops, crying out once more before succumbing to its wounds. It claws at the dirt a couple of times before, finally, ceasing.
I take a few deep breaths before I pull my glaive out of the jaguar¡¯s torso. I look over at Upachu, who points at me, mouth agape. When I look down and inspect my body, I notice that my shoulder and torso display no signs of having ever been struck. The lapis lazuli gemstone that¡¯s suspended from my neck glows an ethereal blue, as if it has a life of its own. My mind races to all the moments I¡¯ve suffered terrible wounds, yet have been able to walk away from the battle unscathed. Is this yet another instance? Is this a result of the gemstone¡ or something else?
I¡¯m not given a spare moment to reflect upon the events, as S¨ªqalat marches over toward the beast. She retrieves her spear, twirling it with a flourish before disassembling it and placing the weapon into the harness on her back. She investigates the felled jaguar, tilting her head to and fro as though the limp corpse is speaking to her and she¡¯s trying to understand what it says.
Then, S¨ªqalat sucks in air through her teeth. ¡°We need to hide the jaguar.¡± She says this as fact, abrupt and emotionlessly. Upachu and I look at one another curiously, and she explains herself. ¡°The marking was close, so this may be near the Auilqa hunting grounds, not their source of water. There could be¨C¡°
Before she can complete her statement, and before I can confront her about misinterpreting the invisible markings, there¡¯s a tremendous disturbance in the surrounding jungles. Too much movement, as if an entire army has swarmed around us. My pulse quickens, and I point the tip of my glaive here, there, and everywhere, looking for where the threat is going to strike.
I don¡¯t have a spare moment to comprehend how many warriors surround us. Something within me yells to duck. Not questioning the voice, I heed its warning. A spear nearly skims the top of my head, planting itself into the bark of a tree. S¨ªqalat immediately drops her weapon to the ground and raises her hands, then quietly suggests we do the same.
I¡¯m initially left confused, but once a few dozen figures emerge from the dense jungle, I comprehend the situation immediately. We¡¯re surrounded by dozens of warriors. They¡¯re hardly clothed, wearing only a slim loin cloth, and their bodies are painted in numerous bold swaths of red, blue, and yellow. Their headdresses are made from animal bone, obscuring their features. Though they¡¯re much shorter than the three of us, each person, both man and woman, are stocky and muscular. Their spears are pointed at our heads, and through their headdresses, their scowling, gnashed teeth heighten their intense presence.
¡°Whoa, whoa, whoa,¡± S¨ªqalat says, patting the air to abate the daunting warriors. Then she speaks in a foreign tongue, a language I¡¯ve never before heard. It¡¯s harsh and jarring, sounding ferocious, despite her calm and tranquil facial expressions. I¡¯m quickly reminded of Mexqutli, the Ulxa warrior accompanying Inuxeq. I begin to wonder if, perhaps, our water vessel took a wrong course, and we mistakenly landed upon the shores of Ulxa.
¡°What is happening?¡± Upachu dares to ask. ¡°What are they saying?¡± The warriors are not thrilled by his actions, jabbing the air around Upachu¡¯s face and shouting angrily. They test my patience, and I have to restrain my instincts to grab my glaive and defend my friend. I back down for now, but if they keep this up, I can¡¯t guarantee I¡¯ll remain peaceful and obliging.
After what I take to be S¨ªqalat asking them a question¡ªto which they nod curtly¡ªshe makes us aware that we are, in fact, in Auilqa, explaining, ¡°It seems we¡¯ve offended the nearby Auilqa tribe. They¡¯re already angry that not one, but three outsiders have appeared in their territory, and to add to it, they¡¯re incensed that we have killed on their land.¡±
Upachu chuckles. ¡°Well, that¡¯s an easy problem to solve! We don¡¯t want the jaguar, so we can just¨C¡°
Before he finishes his statement, several warriors jab their spears once more at Upachu. He winces and whimpers, cowering as he takes a few steps back. The restless llama loudly expresses its discomfort as the men and women close in on us, showing us the points of their blades. These warriors continue to test the limits of my patience, and they¡¯re about to discover what happens when it¡¯s been depleted.
¡°Inform them that, if they continue to threaten my friend, they will leave me no choice but to defend ourselves,¡± I snarl, my voice breaking slightly as I do my best to contain my anger.
S¨ªqalat speaks to them in Auilqa, her hands making large, expressive gestures. The warriors remain displeased, eventually cutting off her explanation to yell at her more in a sign of increased hostility.
Suddenly, a blue hue appears out of my periphery. I don¡¯t see anything that would cast such light, and I grow nervous that they¡¯ve cast some spell, or the area contains a ward that could cause us harm. S¨ªqalat and Upachu don¡¯t react, however, making me wonder what¡¯s actually going on.
But then, as I glance at the one Auilqa warrior who¡¯s predominately done the talking and interaction with S¨ªqalat, I start to sense what these warriors are planning, what their intentions are. If we make a false move, they¡¯ll attempt to thrust their spears at us¡ªthat much is obvious. Yet most of them appear reluctant to do so, instead adjusting their stance in a way to escape should anything bad happen. They would rather this encounter be over, if anything, positioning themselves to be as far away as they reasonably can without appearing to retreat. Something is causing them to suddenly fear us, though I can¡¯t determine what that is. Perhaps this is something we can use to our advantage.
I feel a warmth at my chest. Shocked and worried, the native Auilqa shout and point, raising their spears at me while cautiously backing away. Curious, I peek down and find the amulet is glowing, gradually pulsing a azure light. Could it be that this is the cause of their reluctance? And, is this what¡¯s causing me to comprehend their plan for interacting with us here?
S¨ªqalat begins to say something, her voice now sounding more confident and booming, as if she¡¯s making a pronouncement. The warriors still keep their spears raised, but now look upon me with¡ reverence? What has changed? Could the amulet really have turned this entire encounter in our favor?
More words are exchanged, and the Auilqa speak quickly, as if they¡¯re nervous about something. S¨ªqalat turns to me, holding out her hand like I¡¯m being presented to them. Then, almost under her breath, she mutters, ¡°I need you to make some boastful and proud declaration. I don¡¯t care what you say¡ªit¡¯s not as if they¡¯ll understand it¡ªbut you need to speak like you¡¯re a god.¡±
¡°And why would that be?¡± I ask, suspicious.
S¨ªqalat shrugs. ¡°It could be because I¡ said you were?¡±
¡°That¡¯s because he is!¡± Upachu exclaims. I glare at him, and he subtly shrugs. ¡°What? You are. You heal yourself, and¨C¡°
¡°Wait, you are a god?¡± S¨ªqalat asks.
Now I¡¯m furious at both the Auilqa warriors for threatening Upachu, at S¨ªqalat for this ridiculous lie, and at Upachu for encouraging it.
¡°Not. Now.¡± I demand, scolding them through my teeth. ¡°Focus on the matter at hand.¡±
¡°Right, well,¡± S¨ªqalat stutters, ¡°they¡¯re scared about the glowing amulet, and they can¡¯t figure out which deity you¡¯re supposed to be. They worry you may bring despair upon their hunt and harvest now.¡±
¡°They¡¯re not entirely wrong,¡± I say. ¡°Because I will bring despair upon them if they don¡¯t let us be.¡±
¡°Perhaps,¡± Upachu starts. He glances at the warriors, motioning as though to ask them if he can talk to me. After another curt nod from the Auilqa tribe¡¯s supposed leader, Upachu continues, ¡°We can use this to our advantage. Now, hold on, Teqosa! Hear me out! Maybe we can play on this idea that you¡¯re a deity, and¡ªI said, hear me out! We play on this idea, and let¡¯s perhaps offer the jaguar to them, presenting it as a gift. A blessing, if you will.¡±
S¨ªqalat contemplates this, then nods. ¡°It would be a way to show them you honor their land. Maybe they¡¯ll even direct us to your destination, this supposed lagoon you keep mentioning.¡±
The misunderstanding, the inability to communicate¡ªit makes me incredibly annoyed. There should be a simpler solution, one that doesn¡¯t play off the misguided perception that I¡¯m some god, some embodiment of Pachil¡¯s deities. The use of such deception bothers me, and I find it immoral to mislead these people.
However, our quest remains, and this is yet one more obstacle attempting to hinder our progress. If presenting this jaguar as some kind of gift will place us in the Auilqa¡¯s good graces, then perhaps it can be excused as a means to keep the peace. It could end hostilities while we search their land for the next location marked on the clay pot¡¯s map.
Swallowing my pride, I walk over to the felled jaguar. Hoisting its body up, straining my muscles to lift the oversized beast, I bring my arms out as if to present it to the Auilqa warriors. ¡°May this kill be a token of good faith and peace between our people,¡± I declare, trying to feign regality, even though I feel anything but.
The Auilqa look upon me with curiosity, inspecting the jaguar in my arms. S¨ªqalat speaks, what I presume to be a translation of my proclamation, though she does so with a bit more flourish than how I did so. The warriors exchange glances, mumbling something to one another. Curiously, I find myself overtaken by a sudden sense of calm. Then, eventually expressing their pleasure with wide grins, they accept, taking the hefty beast off my hands. It takes four of them to carry the creature away, as the others lower their spears and appear to swell with pride.
They¡¯re about to walk away with our kill when S¨ªqalat stops them abruptly. There¡¯s a lengthy exchange¡ªone that seems to irritate the Auilqa warriors. I become concerned, wondering if she¡¯s just squandered the good will that was so difficult to earn. After a long pause where the world seems to grind to a halt, one of the Auilqa warriors speaks in a lively and excited manner.
With our curiosity piqued, we can no longer remain in the dark. ¡°S¨ªqalat,¡± I command, ¡°what is happening now?¡±
She shushes me and waves me away, then continues her exchange for a while longer before the Auilqa warriors depart. They disappear into the jungle, vanishing like the morning mist in the harsh midday sun, leaving no trace, no footprints, to indicate they were even here. Was this all in my imagination?
S¨ªqalat beams. ¡°Well, gentlemen, I have just received directions as to how to get to this lagoon you¡¯re after. As long as we follow the blue markers with this symbol,¡± she draws in her palm what looks to be a long oval with the shape of a sun over it and two triangles, ¡°we will reach our destination. You are welcome!¡±
¡°What exactly did you promise them, S¨ªqalat?¡± I confront her. ¡°What words passed that you¡¯ve yet to share?¡±
She appears to carefully consider her reply, taking a heartbeat too long. Her smile flickers, and eventually, without responding, she turns to lead the way into the jungle, her steps silent against the soft ground. Upachu shrugs, grabbing ahold of the llama¡¯s reins and pulling the animal along to follow behind our hired guide.
As the last of the warriors disappear, a prickling sense of unease coils tight within me. S¨ªqalat¡¯s confident smile doesn¡¯t reach her eyes, and I wonder if she, too, senses the threads of fate tangling around us. All is not what it appears to be.
95 - Haesan
It¡¯s as if the very atmosphere of Qapauma itself has been drawn into our tense standoff. Here I stand, a lone island in a sea of turmoil. I draw gazes sharper than the obsidian blades clutched by warriors beyond these walls. Nuqasiq, my grandmother and a matriarch in every sense, stands firm with eyes ablaze. Across from her, Achutli, the Arbiter¡ªand, reluctantly, my father¡ªis clad in the vibrant orange and red of the Tapeu beneath his ornate bronze armor. His stature is imposing, yet his eyes betray a noticeable momentary flicker of uncertainty towards me. Anqatil lurks in the shadows, waiting, watching, her ambition as transparent as the waters of Haqu Minsa.
Anqatil¡¯s cold voice eventually breaks the long silence. ¡°And who is this, dressed as a servant among us? Skulking in the shadows to avoid my gaze? A fitting guise for a rat sneaking through our city¡¯s cracks. How very clever of you, Haesan.¡±
Nuqasiq steps forward, her presence commanding. ¡°We stand on the brink of ruin, our city under siege, and all you can muster is pettiness? Scorn for old grievances and false prophecies?¡± Her gaze then softens as she turns towards me. ¡°And you, child, have shown more mettle than many cloaked in finery.¡± She spits venom with those last words, glaring at Anqatil as they¡¯re spoken.
Sneering, Anqatil can¡¯t help but to add, ¡°The idea that she,¡± she points a scornful finger at me, ¡°could contribute anything of value is laughable. She should know her place.¡±
¡°This bores me,¡± Achutli declares, raising his voice. ¡°Our city burns while we stand here locked in a silent battle of wills. This is neither the time nor the place for familial disputes or past grievances.¡± He turns to look out toward the battle that looms on the horizon. ¡°Let us focus on the task at hand. We can settle our differences once the threat has been neutralized.¡±
Anqatil¡¯s gaze is piercing, and her lips are pressed into a thin line. She¡¯s baffled at how quickly Achutli is detaching himself from this engagement, almost incensed that he¡¯s allowing me to live. Unable to let her disdain go unvoiced, she mutters, ¡°If we survive this, justice for your treachery will not be forgotten.¡±
Whether she meant for me to hear this or not, I respond, ¡°I didn¡¯t expect to stand here, in the heart of our capital, under such circumstances.¡± My voice is steady despite the storm of emotions swirling within. ¡°But here we are, bound by blood, duty, and the imminent threat at our gates.¡±
¡°Enough,¡± Achutli says, his gaze shifting from one face to the next. ¡°We have a city to defend, lives to protect.¡± When his eyes meet mine, it¡¯s evident that, though he has plenty to say to me, he chooses to bite his tongue. While there is much about the man to abhor, I can at least respect his ability to prioritize.
¡°Then it is decided,¡± Nuqasiq proclaims, seeking to put an abrupt end to this encounter. Turning to Achutli, she says, ¡°May Iptanqa light your path, my son. And may the winds of Aqxilapu carry you to victory, for the sake of our people and the land that cradles us all. Return to us with honor.¡±
Emotionless, Achutli nods. Lifting his bronze sword toward the sky, he calls the attention of all nearby Tapeu warriors, and is quickly surrounded by a swarm of orange and red tunics. Sianchu lets out an impassioned yell, his gaze fixed adoringly on the ruler. It¡¯s a devotion so fervent, it borders on the theatrical, nearly crossing into the realm of parody. After Achutli commands his men and women, they rush off to battle, to defeat the invaders once and for all.
Before following her ruler, however, Anqatil delivers a parting scowl to me. Her glare attempts to intimidate, but I stand tall, chin raised, not giving her the pleasure of seeing me cower to my torturer. When she turns her back to me to join the fray, I release the breath I wasn¡¯t aware I was holding and collapse my shoulders.
Watching Achutli lead the Tapeu warriors into battle, Nuqasiq seems to vocalize my thoughts. ¡°How he has amassed such loyalty is something I will never fathom.¡±
The dissonant sounds of battle jar us back to alertness, snapping us firmly into the present. Close by, the Tuatiu warrior, flanked by her Qantua allies, mounts a ferocious counterassault against the invaders. Terrifying sights of gray, ghastly beasts that tower full lengths above the warriors that fight them, are quickly overshadowed by the valiance of those defending the palace. Armed with nothing but mere torches and flame-tipped arrows, they turn the tide with each monster they fell. Once as fearsome as their guttural roars, the creatures now echo howls of agony as the fire consumes them.
An explosion as bright as the sun forces me to shield my eyes. An enormous ball of flame erupts at the wall, demolishing it immediately upon impact. Two more fiery orbs hurtle through the air like smoking stars crossing the night sky. They maliciously smash into the palace, tearing down the structure¡¯s walls with the fury of a volcanic eruption, reducing them to rubble.
Emerging from the ash and debris by the front gates, figures in crimson robes stride onto the grounds. With their heads on a swivel, they search for something, or someone. Not wanting to discover what it is they seek, I clutch at Nuqasiq, urgently drawing her attention to the development.
¡°Queen Mother, we must seek shelter!¡± the alarmed palace guards shout to Nuqasiq. With eyes wide in panic, they search for any escape from the impending threat closing in on us.
¡°In the storage pits,¡± I state. ¡°There are servants and warriors recovering from their wounds there. It¡¯s underground, and the structure should maintain resistance to the impact of the collapsing buildings and walls around us.¡±
¡°There¡¯s a look in your eyes that tells me you¡¯re not intending to join,¡± Nuqasiq observes. She¡¯s correct, of course. Having been trapped inside a throne room before, I felt helpless and useless. I can¡¯t allow myself to be stagnant again¡ªnot when I could help defend the capital. Qapauma has many flaws, but the innocent people who call it ¡®home¡¯ deserve to be protected.
¡°I¡¯ll take care of myself out here,¡± I attempt to assure her. ¡°Standing idle isn¡¯t an option when every fiber of my being compels me to act. This is where I must be, where my heart and duty lie.¡±
Nuqasiq takes a moment to consider this, then nods, a hint of pride in her smile grace the corners of her mouth. ¡°Very well. That is a sound plan, regarding my protection, at least.¡± Then, to the palace guards surrounding her, she commands, ¡°Well, you heard my granddaughter! Get me to the safety of the storage pits, at once!¡±
¡°Yachaman is recovering there,¡± I add. ¡°Please, make sure she¡¯s okay.¡± Nuqasiq nods reassuringly, or providing as much reassurance as one can in such a moment. Having the Queen Mother look over my friend gives me confidence, knowing she will be well tended to and won¡¯t be overlooked.
Without further delay, they usher her toward the subterranean cache. As she departs, she gives me one long, solemn glance, before shifting her focus back to her escorted journey into the depths beneath the palace. I feel a lump form in my throat, but fight it back, knowing that I will see her soon¡ªI have to believe that in order to be strong enough to part with her yet again.
The sorcerers march into the courtyard, raising their hands and unleashing a flurry of flames upon the warriors engaged in battle. They show no mercy, not even to their own zealots, as both Tapeu warriors and gray-clad cultists are set alight. They chant something incomprehensible, something sounding like another spoken language, something like the jarring Ulxa, with its hissed and stilted words.
Swords lay on the ground from fallen warriors, but I know I¡¯m not strong enough, not capable enough, to hoist such a weapon. My efforts would be futile against the relentless attack of these sorcerers. No, I need to find another way.
Desperate for a more cunning solution, my gaze sweeps over the battleground. My mind races through every nook and cranny of the palace I¡¯ve come to know. There has to be a way to catch these invaders unaware, and utilize the palace to our advantage.
Then the thought of the secret underground tunnels beneath the throne room flickers in my memory. Yes, that might give us a way to stealthily outflank these attackers! But where does the tunnel lead? Are there more beneath the palace? If only I knew where it led or if there were more¡
My mind swirls with a dizzying array of thoughts, hoping to recall some clue. Then, the thought strikes me like an arrow: How did Onixem navigate her frequent escapes from the palace unnoticed? Does she know of the tunnels? It would explain the numerous times I¡¯ve spotted her at the weaving chamber, conveniently close to the throne room, and then she¡¯d suddenly disappear. Or how she seems to elude any guards monitoring her movements in and out of the palace. Could she know the pathways?
If Onixem has been using the tunnels to move undetected, then perhaps they can serve us just as well. I need to find her, to learn what she knows. Maybe this knowledge can turn our desperate defense into a surprise attack.
With no time to waste, I hurry to find Onixem. Debris and loose stone tumble around me. I swerve and dodge the combatants engaged in a brutal match of strength and ferocity. The dust kicked up by the fighters and falling stones makes it nearly impossible to find my way back to the palace. But I must persevere, not just to find Onixem, but to make sure she¡¯s okay.
I barely find the mouth of the palace, its entry hindered by fallen pillars and destroyed structures. The walls of the hall have caved in and collapsed, forcing me to crawl and climb about the huge boulders littering the pathways. Splintered wooden supports that now spring up among the debris snag my robe, hindering my progress. I can¡¯t afford to be delayed any further! With a great, determined tug, I rip it free, then sprint down the hall.
More booms rumble throughout the crumbling palace. More balls of flame must be striking the building. I don¡¯t have much time to find Onixem, and as the thunderous drumming continues repeatedly, I begin to question whether this was a good idea, entering a structure that¡¯s about to collapse at any moment.
As I explore the near ruins of the palace, my attention is drawn to a nearby storage chamber. The muffled commotion of some rustling and clamoring rise above the sounds of battle outside. I backtrack and discover that it¡¯s a weapons cache, its walls lined with spears, halberds, shields, and swords. Uniforms in orange and red lay in heaps on the ground, and tools such as rope and torches are piled on top of tables. And there, in the dimly lit back corner of the chamber, is a familiar figure.
¡°Onixem, is that you?¡± I call out. In one swift motion, she rises and twists around, pointing the tip of a dagger at me.
¡°Haesan?¡± she asks, confused. ¡°What are you doing here? I thought you had run off to find safety with the Queen Mother. It¡¯s too dangerous for you in here.¡±
¡°What are you doing here?¡± I ignore her question, in a routine she and I seem to regularly find ourselves, inquiring about what machinations the other is up to this time.
She returns to a crouched position, her arms flailing about wildly, as if she¡¯s gathering something. ¡°I¡¯m collecting supplies,¡± she responds with a grunt. ¡°I need to get out of this cursed place. I need to find those two. They need to be stopped.¡±
My mind retraces the scenes from earlier, from inside the throne room. There, Onixem¡¯s parents, Teqotlo and Aluxeqwel, performed malicious, gruesome deeds, slaughtering helpless nobles for some dark ritual. I assume that is whom Onixem speaks of, whom she hopes to stop. It¡¯s not lost on me that she no longer addresses them as her family, detaching herself from them and seeing them only as an evil force that must be defeated.
More thunderous booms echo throughout the palace. More wails and cries of those being slain outside these walls. More destruction, more chaos, is happening. More time is being wasted.
¡°Onixem,¡± I say with urgency, ¡°I need your assistance. There are sorcerers destroying the palace, and I believe if I can utilize the tunnels beneath this place, I can lead our warriors to a position to flank them and catch them by surprise. Do you know the tunnels of which I speak?¡±
¡°I don¡¯t have time for that,¡± Onixem growls, grabbing a series of daggers and swords, finding their sheaths and strapping them to her body. ¡°I need to find them and kill them¡ªsomething I should¡¯ve done long ago¡ªbefore it¡¯s too late.¡±
¡°You can have your revenge,¡± I say, cautiously approaching the ravenous girl. ¡°But we need to protect the innocents before they¡¯re slaughtered by these fanatics. You¡¯ve been able to escape the palace undetected¡ªI know this. You must know where the tunnels lead. Just tell me where they are, and you can return to your supply gathering.¡±
Onixem is unresponsive to my plead for her help. She carries on with her task, giving me a cold shoulder as she collects an arsenal of weapons¡ªarguably more than any one person could need.
The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.
¡°Look,¡± I charge, ¡°stopping the cultists now could prevent further atrocities, the same such atrocities your parents inflicted upon innocent lives. Helping me now might offer a more strategic approach to dealing with your parents later. Your knowledge of the tunnels can help the survival of Qapauma.¡±
¡°Why should I care about that?¡± Onixem yells, emphatically slamming the sword down. ¡°Why should I care about a city that doesn¡¯t care about me?¡±
I step closer, then gently place a hand on her shoulder. ¡°Because this city is more than the stone that make up its walls. I share your feelings about not being wanted by this city¡ªmore than you know. But it¡¯s about the people within who have suffered, who have lost, yet still dare to hope for a better tomorrow. It¡¯s about fighting because it¡¯s the right thing to do. And because, deep down, I believe you care¡ªmore than you¡¯re willing to admit right now.¡±
I take a breath, my gaze locking with Onixem¡¯s. ¡°Your knowledge of these tunnels can provide a lifeline for those of us fighting out there. It¡¯s a chance to outsmart those who seek to destroy what little we have left. We need you, and not just for the tunnels, but for who you are¡ªa fighter, a survivor, one of us.
¡°Your parents¡ they made their choice. But here, now, you have the chance to make yours. Help us save Qapauma, and perhaps in doing so, you¡¯ll find a grateful city that does care about you, a place you can call home.¡±
She scowls, as if fighting back the emotions welling up inside of her. Her fists clench and unclench at her sides, betraying the inner turmoil she tries to mask. For a moment, the harsh exterior cracks, revealing a glimpse of the vulnerability she seldom allows others to see. Onixem¡¯s gaze darts away, perhaps afraid of what it might reveal if it lingers on me for too long.
¡°The tunnels aren¡¯t safe,¡± she finally says, briefly glancing at me. ¡°Well, not all of them. Some contain traps.¡± Onixem returns to compiling an assortment of weapons, as if her statement is enough. When pressed further, she explains, ¡°They were built so the ruler could escape while ensnaring those who may be chasing him. Some of the tunnels have traps, ultimately to keep out unsuspecting intruders. Watch the floors for any loose stone tiles or trip wires¡ªthose will release the traps. Bring a torch to locate them, step around or over them, and you¡¯ll live.¡±
She stops for a moment, then, looking over her shoulder, says, ¡°In the gardens, across from the loom chamber where we met. It¡¯s hidden by some overgrown foliage, but there¡¯s a stone slab. It looks heavy, but with a slight nudge, anyone can shift it open. It leads to a secluded area within the courtyard on the palace grounds. You should be able to outflank the enemy that way.¡±
Onixem scoops up a large sack as its contents clatter about inside. ¡°I can¡¯t go with you. I need to find Aluxeqwel and Teqotlo, and find out if they¡¯ve done anything to my brother, if he¡¯s still alive. It¡¯s too important to me. But you¡¯ve shown you¡¯re stubborn and resilient. I¡¯m sure you¡¯ll manage on your own.¡± With a determined look, she nods. Before I can thank her, she takes off down the hall and into the ruckus.
The gardens appear unrecognizable upon my arrival. Large chunks of stone wall from the surrounding buildings have crumbled into the courtyard, crushing the once vibrant exotic flora that thrived in this place. With so many boulders scattered about, I start to doubt whether I¡¯ll be able to locate the stone slab of which Onixem had told me. Yet I resolve that it must be done, in order to protect this revered symbol of Pachil¡¯s unity.
I scale the tremendous rocks, straining to pull myself over the rugged terrain. This is made all the more difficult as I¡¯m carrying an unlit torch swiped from the storage chamber, fretting about my inability to see once inside the tunnels. But I have to find the tunnels first. My sandal slips as I climb, unable to get a good footing and support my weight as I lift myself up and over the stones. Though I wish to hurry, knowing the urgency of completing my task, I carefully and methodically take my time, not wanting to slide and fall¡ªI¡¯ll be no good to anyone if I¡¯m injured.
Eventually, I make it over the heaps of rock. But where is this overgrowth Onixem mentioned? Because of the utter destruction littering the gardens, everything appears disjointed and out of place. So ¡®overgrown vegetation¡¯? This will be much more difficult than I realized.
More loud booms, and the clattering of crumbling stones. It takes me an eternity, but eventually, I come across a dense patch of thick vines that scale the wall. They look out of place, given the stark contrast of neutral-colored stone that lines the perimeter of the area. With abated breath, I follow Onixem¡¯s instructions, giving the slab a soft nudge. Just as she claimed, it moves with the slightest touch, allowing me to slide it over and slip inside the cavernous hideaway.
At Onixem¡¯s mention of ¡®traps¡¯, I thought of a different plan to execute. Rather than lead warriors through a potentially perilous passage, I¡¯d instead lead the sorcerers through them. Why risk the lives of innocents when I could fell the enemy? That is, as long as Ican navigate them myself.
The torch proves difficult to light, thanks to the surprisingly damp and muggy conditions of this closed-off tunnel. Yet I refuse to walk this passageway without the ability to see. In my panic and urgency from hearing the relentless destruction, it takes me too many strikes of the flint to count, but fortunately, the torch comes to life. The width is extremely narrow¡ªbarely enough to walk forward without angling myself. The walls are slick from humidity clinging to the moss, smelling dank and moldy.
Sliding my feet across the ground, my toe catches the lip of a loose tile. Is this a pressure trap, something Onixem told me to avoid? I look down, locating a stone tile roughly a finger¡¯s width higher than its surroundings. Had I not been looking down or feeling for the tile, I would have easily stepped upon it without further consideration! I exhale a sigh of relief, then bunching up the bottom of my robe as I carefully step over the stone.
I carry on like this for a ways, narrowly avoiding releasing traps that will do Eleven knows what to the intruder. Eventually, I enter a wider space, though the uneven ceiling above is much lower, nearly scraping the top of my head, even at my height. For those much taller, this would be fairly cramped, but I can just walk upright relatively freely. My eyes dart about the space, inspecting every nook and crevice for any sign of a trap.
Below my ankle, a long, thin thread or rope extends the width of the tunnel. Is this another trap? Not wanting to find out, I cautiously step over it. Something inside me screams to be mindful where I place my foot. Hovering over my intended landing spot, I see it: another raised tile, followed by another thread. A trap within a trap. There¡¯s a slight opening along the wall, barely wide enough to tiptoe across. I gingerly step over the first string, then the second, relieved to have avoided something potentially dangerous.
The tunnel continues to twist and wind its way toward¡ somewhere. Have I been misled? There appears to be no exit, no signal that I¡¯m anywhere close to this courtyard of which Onixem spoke. Dust kicks up with each resonating boom occurring outside. I consider turning back, but press on, telling myself it will be just a little further.
After what feels like several harvests, the path seems to culminate into a solid wall, a dead end mocking my hope of escape. I¡¯m immediately disheartened at the sight, cursing at the Eleven for leading me down this way. Yet as I draw nearer, squinting through the dimness, a subtle anomaly catches my eye. The glow of the flickering torchlight reveals the outline of a door, so cleverly disguised within the rocky facade that I would have dismissed it as mere stone had I not scrutinized it closely. Relief washes over me, mingled with a surge of excitement at this hidden egress, mercifully offering freedom in this claustrophobic cavern.
I emerge, confused as to where I¡¯ve been led, my eyes struggling to adjust to the bright scene unto which I¡¯ve arrived. It takes me a moment to find my bearings, but I soon realize I¡¯ve arrived at a courtyard. It appears as though I¡¯m exiting the side of a mountain or cliff, the slab cleverly disguised as a huge rock embedded into the scenery, not giving away what exists behind it. To my left, the palace appears, withering away from the desolation and destruction. I don¡¯t have much more time to spare. I need to find those sorcerers, before they find Nuqasiq and Yachaman.
A sudden quake, and a deafening boom, alerts me to the disturbing events happening close by. I sprint toward the sound, anticipating the worst and fearing I may be too late. The sorcerers, hands cast in the dark red glow of an unnatural fire crafted within their palms, loose these malicious balls of flame at anyone in the Tapeu orange and red. The warriors are burned upon impact, set aflame in a terrifying instant. I have to stop this! My plan has to succeed.
¡°I am Haesan!¡± I shout. The sorcerers appear uninterested, continuing their destructive acts. In another section of the courtyard, the Tuatiu warrior fights with unmatched tenacity. I consider letting her handle the sorcerers, letting her prowess defeat our foes. But no, I must play my part. I don¡¯t need to be skilled in combat to defeat an enemy. At my feet lies a fist-sized rock. While I may not possess the greatest physical attributes on Pachil, I can only hope I can fling this rock far enough to grab their attention.
The rock feels gritty in my hand, rough and a bit heavier than I anticipated. Nevertheless, I coil back and release the stone. It flies in the air, soaring like a quetzal. I eagerly watch as it¡ falls short of my desired destination. Sun and sky! It tumbles about, rolling on the ground at the feet of the warriors engaged in battle.
Yet the Eleven or whichever deities one prays to show me mercy. To my good fortune, it¡¯s kicked about, eventually finding its way close to the sorcerers, enough that, while not plunking them in the head as I had wished, piques the curiosity of one of the crimson-robed cultists.
They turn to look, to find the source of the stone. I flail my arms about desperately. I lower my hood and yell, ¡°I am Haesan, daughter of the great Arbiter, Achutli! May the Eleven smite you where you stand, you cowards!¡±
Follow me, you halfwits, I think, swearing within my mind, and willing them onward. Hear my shouts, cease what you¡¯re doing, and come chase after the Arbiter¡¯s daughter!
One of them glances around the tumult surrounding us, then finally takes notice of me. They point, alerting the others, who then gradually begin making their way toward me. My pulse races. I got their attention, but I can¡¯t allow them to actually apprehend me¡ªotherwise, this would all be for naught! I run, faster and harder than I¡¯ve ever ran in my time on Pachil. This may be the wisest, or the dumbest, plan I¡¯ve ever concocted. But I¡¯ve got to see it through.
I find the passageway, but my pursuers aren¡¯t pursuing me. Where did they go? I need for them to know where I am, otherwise this will all fall apart. Then, a flash of crimson. My heart nearly leaps out of my chest as I see them pop out from behind the fallen debris near by. They¡¯re much closer than I realized! Mere steps away!
Panicked, I scurry into the tunnels. I feel their presence bearing down upon me. I can¡¯t stop now, and I can¡¯t let myself be guided by fear. I must be calm, steady, controlled enough to maneuver around the traps.
After the long, twisting path, I find the first part of the traps. Meticulously, I step over the threads, hopping and bouncing over the traps. The nearest sorcerer shouts in that jarring language¡ªis he alerting the others? No, it¡¯s a wail in agony! He¡¯s triggered the first trap, sending a humongous wall of spikes at the intruders. The trap catches a couple of the unsuspecting sorcerers, puncturing them into a bloody pulp.
¡°There are traps!¡± I hear some shout to one another, muffled by the wooden wall now a barrier between us. The panel begins to shift and move, hands emerge from behind the plank. They¡¯re pushing and pulling it aside, persistent in pursuing their prize. I can¡¯t stand here any longer; I must continue on, without any further hesitation.
I arrive at the narrow portion of the tunnels, sliding along gradually and minding my step. Just then, I feel a tug at the back of my garment. A hand clutches the hood of my robe.
¡°I have got you, daughter of the Arbiter,¡± he hisses in delight. ¡°You will not get away from¨C¡°
I remove my arm from one sleeve, then another, letting the robe slip off my shoulders. I¡¯m not proud to be left wearing nothing but a plain tunic, yet they leave me no choice. I must survive their pursuit.
A snarl in frustration is hurled at me as I continue slipping through the narrow passage. But I can no longer see¡ªupon releasing the robe off my back, I dropped the torch. It extinguishes, fizzling on the moss-covered ground. I¡¯ll have to navigate by feel for the rest of the way, hoping I don¡¯t set off a trap by accident.
I sneak a ways further, until my toe catches a raised stone. But how long was the tile? I hear the cultist¡¯s breathe, imagining the sensation of his stale breath on the back of my neck. I suppose I¡¯ll have to guess.
I take one long step forward, hoping it¡¯s enough. When I plant my foot, nothing jostles beneath. Did I succeed? Upon placing my trailing foot down, I breathe easier, knowing I¡¯ve cleared the first obstacle. With renewed motivation, I swiftly breeze down the rest of the tunnel, marking the traps with my feet as I go.
More screams of agony echo throughout the hidden tunnel. I¡¯m morbidly curious, eager to find out what fate awaited these evil deviants. But no, I must continue onward. I must concentrate and make it to the other side.
Exhausted, I finally reach the mouth of the cavern. I push the slab aside, revealing the devastated garden once again. I rush over to the rocks and start my climb, ready to reappear within the palace, prepared to¨C
A hand grasps my ankle, their nails digging into my skin. ¡°Not this time, you slippery snake,¡± they remark. They pull me backward, my sandals unable to give me enough leverage to push off of them and fling myself forward. I kick and kick and kick, trying to loose them from my foot. A second hand grabs mine, and I shriek as I¡¯m being dragged along the rocks. I call out for help, cry out that the Eye in the Flame has made their way into the palace. I shout that the granddaughter of Queen Mother Nuqasiq is in need of their help. Yet my shouts go unheeded, and I¡¯m left to fend off my assailants alone.
I pause, mustering up all the energy I can. Then, with one solid heave, I kick out, smacking my assailant in the face with my sandal. It slips off my foot, freeing me from their grip. I hurry over the large stones, falling onto the ground at the other side. I see salvation. I can see the loom chamber just ahead. I crawl, pushing myself onto my feet, then run over to the hallway. I shout for help, hoping someone can hear me. I look back to find a pair of crimson robes chasing after me. They¡¯ve made it over the rocks, and now they¡¯re running after me!
I sprint, my bare foot getting torn up from running over the debris and splintered wood. But I can¡¯t stop. I can¡¯t get captured. Not now. Not after all I¡¯ve been through.
Something wizzes by my face. Did they throw something? Are they loosing arrows at me? I look up and see Onixem standing at the end of the hall, a bow clutched in her grasp as she nocks another arrow.
¡°To your left,¡± she calls out. What does that mean? No time to think about it. I duck, and Onixem takes aim, then looses another arrow. There¡¯s a gasp and a gargle behind me. Onixem stands still. She¡¯s not notching another arrow. Am I safe?
Against my better judgement, I turn to look. Two men in crimson robes lay dead on the ground. I take deep, heaving breaths, bending over and clutching my knees as I try to steady myself.
¡°I¡ thought you¡ had gone¡ after your¡ parents,¡± I pant, seeing stars blink at the edges of my periphery. Onixem helps support me, wrapping my arm around her neck and carrying me off, out of the crumbling building.
¡°I had, until invaders appeared inside the palace,¡± she says. ¡°They hindered my progress because I had to fight them off. Anyway, you¡¯re looking very unladylike. Very indecent.¡±
¡°If I had any energy, I would punch you right about now,¡± I manage to get out.
Onixem chuckles. ¡°I heard shouting and rushed over. I didn¡¯t think you were actually going to use the tunnel like that!¡±
I try to think of something witty, some quip, but I¡¯m too exhausted to come up with anything. Instead, I thank her for being there in my time of need. She shrugs this off, carrying me toward the entrance of the building. The grand entrance is destroyed beyond recognition. Nothing is left of the structure, its walls complete leveled. We find another path leading out, maneuvering around the destruction and debris until we reach the large steps that descend down. Though the battle still rages in the distance, the palace appears to be rid of the invaders, for now. My mind wanders to the Tuatiu warrior, hoping she¡¯s survived the assault on Qapauma. But before I can think upon it for too long, Onixem interrupts my inner thoughts.
¡°So,¡± she says blankly, ¡°daughter of the Arbiter, huh? The Qente Waila will be very interested to learn of this.¡±
96 - Inuxeq
Without a clear direction for my next steps, I do the only thing I know: I will fight. I will fight the gray-robed followers. I will fight the crimson-robed sorcerers. I will fight the reanimated gray-skinned beasts. I will fight even as my muscles scream for respite. I will fight until not one enemy stands breathing. That is my unyielding vow.
The weight of the coral gemstone in my hand feels more significant than its slight heft suggests. After recovering it from the earlier encounter, I inspect its rough and imperfect surface that peculiarly pulses with a deep glow. With reverent fingers, I loop a strip of my tunic through it to form a makeshift pendant. Tying it around my neck, the stone rests against my skin. I¡¯m trepidatious about possessing an item that provided such power to the sorcerers of this evil entity. Nevertheless, I adjust the knot, securing the gemstone¡¯s place over my heart, believing it to be better served under my protection than that of these crazed cultists.
Two gray-robed zealots charge at me, brandishing short obsidian-embedded swords in the air. They both look young, fresh-faced with round eyes that give away their trepidation in pursuing a battle with me. They attack with the ferocity of a jaguar kitten that tries to lunge at you. As they rush toward me, they shout something in the jarring Ulxa tongue, reminding me of the despicable Mexqutli.
Mexqutli. That traitor. Thoughts of his treasonous act race through my mind as I dispatch of these enemies with ease. One brings down his sword, and I duck, causing him to slash the air above me. I land a powerful punch to his stomach, sending him stumbling backwards. My eye catches a glint from the golden handle of the tumi knife in my harness¡ªthe knife I retrieved from the ground after my encounter with Xaqilpa. Xaqilpa, who Mexqutli claimed he was seeking to apprehend. Perhaps that is still true, but his attempt to assassinate the Arbiter still tastes bitter on my tongue. That traitor.
While I¡¯m distracted, the other attacker swoops in, swinging his sword wildly toward my torso. I hop back, narrowly avoiding being sliced by the obsidian blades. He strikes at me again, bringing the sword back around for another chance at splitting me in two, forcing me to take many steps back in defense. His companion rejoins the fight, picking himself up off the dirt and sprinting at me. I suppose this wasn¡¯t as easy as I believed it to be.
Reaching at my side, I unsheathe the ornate obsidian dagger, the one that belongs to Mexqutli. Mexqutli. That traitor. He misled me the entire journey to Qapauma. What are his true intentions? What else is he lying about? Is he even Iqsuwa? Is he even Ulxa?
Focus, Inuxeq! The two cultists bear down upon me, raising their swords and slashing downward in one fluid motion. I spin out of the way, letting their blades thump into the dirt beside me. A confused expression crosses their faces, shocked that I could maneuver so quickly. They won¡¯t have a chance to learn from their mistake.
I spear the nearest cultist with the tip of the dagger, driving it through his throat. A stream of scarlet erupts from his neck as I remove my blade, a stunned look fixes itself permanently. The other swipes at me with his sword, but I twist around, my back facing him. His weapon narrowly misses striking Sachia¡¯s bow that¡¯s secured over my shoulder¡ªthat will be the last time I try this maneuver¡ªand crashes into the wooden shield I retrieved from the fallen warrior during the engagement with Xaqilpa. Xaqilpa, who Mexqutli claimed to seek out, to settle matters diplomatically. Liar. Traitor.
Scowling from the reoccurring thought, I twirl around and backhand the obsidian dagger into his side. He moans from the stabbing pain, loosening the grip on his sword. I bring the dagger back and strike him numerous times through his chest, taking out my frustrations with Mexqutli on this young, misguided boy. What a waste of a life.
Standing tall and recovering my breath, I look down upon the two assailants, wiping a spattering of blood that dots my cheeks. ¡°I assume you¡¯ve always wanted a crimson robe,¡± I say to no one but myself and the corpses at my feet. ¡°So, congratulations on your promotion.¡±
A series of shouting erupts by the palace grounds at the remains of what was once a lush garden. Vibrantly colored plants lay smashed beneath fallen stone structures, statues in honor of deities or rulers of the past are now crumbling heaps, barely recognizable. But it¡¯s not the ruins that I notice; there¡¯s a large commotion involving a slew of red-robed figures and another in a neutral-toned robe. Could it be¡ Maybe it is¡ the girl from before, the one responsible for getting me and the warriors into the palace grounds?
The robed figures chase after her, and I feel compelled to hurry over and help. Sheathing the dagger, I sprint, hoping to arrive in time to protect the girl who worked so valiantly to protect the palace she serves. Soon, she vanishes¡ªdoes she possess the same abilities as Xaqilpa? She then slips into a passageway with a few of the sorcerers trailing behind. They file in, yelling intelligibly at one another as they enter the secret chamber, eagerly hunting the girl.
Before the rest of them can follow in pursuit, I grab the shoulders of two red-robed followers. ¡°Hi, there,¡± I smirk. Grabbing the back of their heads, I smash their faces together with a loud thwap. Their cries in agony alert the others. While a few continue to chase her, the others turn around to face me, surprised.
I must act quickly. I bash the two faces together once more, their bodies dropping like stones. In a swift, fluid motion, I take three hurried steps back while reaching again for the dagger. The robed figures look around, bewildered. ¡°Where¡¯d she go?¡± two of them ask. Have I disappeared once again? How am I doing this?
¡°There!¡± one of them points at me. I suppose my ability to vanish is somewhat fleeting, if it occurred at all. Noted. Their hands begin to glow like embers, and I soon realize fire is engulfing them, a fire they casted themselves.
Alarmed, I dash to the side. A couple send balls of fire hurtling to where I once stood, but the others glance around, again confused. ¡°She keeps vanishing!¡± they remark, visibly frustrated. I must learn how I¡¯m achieving this feat. Is it when the rush of vitality courses through me from the dangerous situation I¡¯m encountering? How is this possible, and why has this only emerged recently?
Inuxeq! I scold myself. Not! Now! I shake the thoughts loose and concentrate on the enemies swarming around me. This group will be a particular challenge, especially with a single dagger and a beat-up and poorly-crafted sword that I swiped from the cultists¡¯ base.
A number of howls and wails come from within the secret tunnel. Has she lured them into a trap? Was that all part of her plan? Clever girl, I think to myself with a relieved smile.
More flames fly through the air. I duck low, almost hitting the dirt. Yet I remain on the balls of my feet, not wanting to lie prone and vulnerable. I fling myself at one of the Eye in the Flame followers, bringing by leg around and kicking the shins out from under him. He falls forward, unable to catch himself and drops to the ground. I attempt to bring the dagger around, but two more balls of fire race toward me. I have to leap back to get out of the way. The flames collide with the fallen cultist, setting him alight in an instant. He cries out in agony, then quickly succumbs to his injuries.
I need something more effective, something to put me back on the attack against these enemies, so that I¡¯m not continuously forced into a retreat. I search the space, hoping a weapon or some tool signals my attention to it. I leap again, dodging more incoming fireballs, feeling their intense heat seemingly singe the skin on my arm.
Then, there, next to fallen palace guards in their muddied orange and red tunics: a quiver beside the deceased archers. Having run out of Sachia¡¯s arrows, I¡¯ve been unable to replenish my supply. Praise the Eleven!
I lunge toward them, exerting all my energy into retrieving the quiver. The dirt crunches beneath me as I slide, extending my hand out to reach it. Fire whizzes over my head, nearly scorching my hair. But I place my hand on a few of the feather fletchings. Grinding to a halt, I pinch an arrow between my fingers and pull Sachia¡¯s bow from around my shoulder. The obsidian dagger tumbles, thudding all the way until it hits one of the corpses and stops abruptly. I better make sure to retrieve that when I¡¯m done here.
In one motion, I nock the arrow and loose it, sending it soaring until it pierces one of the enemies in crimson. He clutches at his stomach, dropping to his knees before bleeding out on the ground. From a crouch, I grab another arrow, nock it, and release, repeating the process rapidly. Grab. Nock. Release. Grab. Nock. Release.
Right away, I disparage the poor craftsmanship of these Tapeu-made arrows. They pale in comparison to those crafted by Sachia, and I recognize how spoiled I was to have such well-made arrows in my possession¡ªnow, no longer. These arrows hardly fly straight, curving or drifting a bit from my desired target. I loose as many as I can before the sorcerers start to close in on my position. Though some hit their mark, many float wide and miss, leaving plenty of enemies eager to end my life.
I grab for one more arrow¡ but the quiver has already been depleted. Sun and sky! I lift myself up and take off, running away from my pursuers. I¡¯m hoping to find another quiver of arrows, but at this point, I determine any weapon will do. I reach behind me to grab the dull cultist sword and toss it to the ground, immediately noticing the change in weight. The heavy sword was such a burden, and now I feel fleet of foot. Why hadn¡¯t I done this sooner?
Close by, a spear once belonging to a palace guard rests on the ground. I swoop down mid-stride to scoop it up, then slide as I brace myself to meet my pursuers. Giving the spear a few twirls, I observe that it¡¯s not incredibly well-balanced, and I question what on Pachil these Tapeu consider weapons worthy for use at the palace. However, this will have to do, I suppose.
The sorcerers stop in place, their hands gradually glowing like torches. I have to stop them before they can throw more balls of fire at me! Without haste, I charge at the gathering of red-robed foes. I contort my body and, while I¡¯m still running, chuck the spear at the nearest attacker. The spear skewers him, knocking him back as he grimaces in pain.
As he falls, I grasp the shaft of the spear and rip it out of his torso, releasing spurts of blood. Then, I ram the spear at the enemy to my right. He attempts to move out of the way, but the tip catches him in the ribs. I swing the blade out, slashing through his body to free the weapon. He grabs his side before collapsing into a pool of crimson.
Spinning the weapon above my head, I bring the spearhead down, striking the other Eye in the Flame zealot near me. I penetrate his shoulder, his clothes slowly becoming soaked in blood. He grabs the spear stuck into him and pulls, dislodging it. He flings the spear aside, briefly jostling me off-balance. He coils back, then thrusts a hand at me. A searing pain courses through my body, the immediate pain almost leaving me breathless, and I start to stumble. I glance down to find I¡¯ve been severely burned, a blackened hand print singing my green tunic. It¡¯s as if a jaguar is clawing at the flesh on my side. Black begins to form around the periphery of my vision. I fight through my body¡¯s effort to shut down, to fall unconscious from the intense burns.
The sorcerer swings another fist at me, but this time, I catch it on my aqitzal¡ªthe golden bracers protecting my forearms. I prepare for the metal to heat up, to burn my wrists and arm just the same, but no pain reaches me. I¡¯m relieved, curious of its mystical qualities, but I don¡¯t have the time to relish in it. My vigor is renewed all the same, and I punch the man square in the nose. I punch him again, and again, until he covers his face. I reach for the dagger, ready to put an end to this once and for all, and¨C
It¡¯s not there. I pat my hip a few more times, but it only confirms the weapon¡¯s absence. Where did it¡ Then, it hits me. I tossed it aside to loose the arrows! How could I have already forgotten! Do I rush back to reclaim it? No, there are three more zealots between me and the weapon.
My eyes sweep for another weapon, but between the chaotic scene of battle and the abbreviated amount of time I have to search, it¡¯s difficult to locate anything I can use. I try to figure out my next move, but I become fixated on one plan in particular. I just hope it works.
I shove the injured cultist aside, then run headlong at the assailants. They slow their pace, befuddled by my seeming recklessness. Their hands start to glow that ominous deep orange, but I¡¯m undeterred. I clench my jaw and nearly hold my breath. I wince, lowering my head as I prepare for impact. This is either the most clever action I¡¯ve taken, or the stupidest. I¡¯ll soon find out in a few heartbeats.
The cultists get closer and closer. The details of their garments become more apparent, and I notice the intricate gold hem lining their sleeves and the bottom of their red robes. There¡¯s a calming warmth that soothes my chest. Something is said in that disgusting Ulxa dialect. They coil back, hands emitting a blinding white light, ready to deliver me to a fiery fate. I think I feel their collective breaths upon my arms and cheeks.
And then I feel nothing at all.
My vision goes black, then suddenly there¡¯s nothing but the disorienting scene of battle taking place before me. I glance over my shoulder, and three red robed figures stand, facing the other direction. Did I¡ Did it¡ work?
The obsidian dagger is now just a few paces away with nothing interfering any longer. It must¡¯ve worked! I really must discover what is happening to me if I survive this.
I reach for the dagger, relieved when I feel the firm metallic handle in my palm. The chaotic blur of the battlefield narrows into sharp focus. Only my foes and their imminent threat at the forefront of my consciousness.
I rise, reassured by the the weight of the dagger in my hand. The closest cultist turns, his face a mask of confusion and rage, perhaps realizing his end. He¡¯s slow to react, still bewildered by my sudden disappearance and equally unexpected reappearance. I don¡¯t give him a chance to understand, nor do I wait for his hands to summon another of those cursed flames.
I close the space between us, and with a swift, practiced motion, I drive the dagger forward, aiming for a gap in his robe where the fabric meets leather belt. The blade slides in, easier than I¡¯d expected, and his eyes widen¡ªa mixture of surprise and the dawning of defeat. He collapses without a sound, a soft thud against the blood-soaked soil.
Stolen story; please report.
The remaining two are quicker to grasp the situation, their survival instincts kicking in as they witness their comrade¡¯s fall. They¡¯re hesitant now, their movements uncertain¡ªdo they charge or flee?
¡°Come on then!¡± I challenge, my voice louder than I intend. They glance at each other, and upon returning their attention to me, I know they¡¯ve decided their fate.
As they advance, a plan formulates in my mind. I grip the dagger tightly, remembering the brief connection I felt with the darkness, the momentary ability to vanish. Can I summon that power at will? I close my eyes, muttering a prayer or a curse¡ªI¡¯m not sure which.
I open my eyes to witness the sight of their confounded faces. I¡¯ve moved¡ªnot far, but just enough to flank them. They scramble to realign, but panic has set in, and their movements become clumsy. I strike, felling one with a vicious slash across the thigh, deep enough to incapacitate as a river of blood gushes down his leg.
The last cultist backs away, eyes darting between his fallen brothers and me, the unexpected specter of death. He¡¯s young, younger than I¡¯d realized, and fear radiates off him. My heart twinges with an unwelcome pang of compassion, but I stifle it. Mercy has no place here. Not now.
I step forward, and he stumbles back, tripping over his own feet. As he falls, his hands raise instinctively to shield himself, his magic fizzling out in a puff of harmless smoke. It¡¯s over quickly, the finality of the blade¡¯s descent silencing the last threat.
Breathing heavily, I look around. The battle rages on, but here in this small pocket of carnage, there¡¯s a brief lull. Instinctually, I wipe the dagger clean on the side of my tunic. As I sheathe the weapon, my mind reels as I consider what I¡¯ve become capable of. This power, this gift¡ªit¡¯s both exhilarating and terrifying. I am changing, evolving into something new, something formidable. And while I feel I should fear what I might become, there¡¯s a more prominent part of me that¡¯s eager to discover its origin and the limits of this newfound strength.
I look down at my chest and take in the sight of the coral glow. The gemstone pulses, brighter than when I first gazed upon it, matching that of my racing heartbeat. It steadily begins to decrease, fading until it peters out entirely. Could this gemstone be the source of my powers? No, I had supposedly been able to perform this vanishing act before I possessed it. Perhaps there¡¯s something more to this stone and its relation to this place. Maybe there¡¯s something mystical about Qapauma itself.
With a final glance at the fallen, I turn back to the fray. The sea of warriors in black and gold, and orange and red, have fought back the deluge of Eye in the Flame. The explosions have nearly ceased entirely, with many of the sorcerers forced to retreat into the devastated Qapauma streets. It¡¯s almost tangible, how I can feel the tide of this battle turning. We¡¯re on the cusp of winning, I can sense it. We just need one more push, one more tremendous effort to truly put an end to this invasion once and for all.
I search the grounds for any indication of Mexqutli¡¯s whereabouts. He¡¯s seemingly vanished into thin air, running away from the repercussions of his failed assassination efforts like a coward. I try my hardest to not allow myself to be consumed by this disgust I now have for him, but it keeps nagging me, persistent in returning to the forefront of my mind no matter how hard I cast it aside. Something keeps pulling the thoughts back to my consciousness, and I become enraged all over again. He must be punished for his attempted coup amidst a battle for the sanctity of Pachil¡¯s existence.
Though many of the combatants have now moved out into the city streets, I¡¯m alerted to two figures hobbling about the grounds. They wear crimson, though not the robes like many of the Eye in the Flame. No, these two wear formal attire, one in a tunic and the other, a dress, both tightly-fitting garments. They look around, attempting to grasp what¡¯s taken place here, seemingly seeking something. It¡¯s a peculiar sight, especially on what has been a battleground for the entirety of the day.
I approach them, obsidian dagger in hand and lowered at my side. The two are startled when they finally notice my presence, and I show them the palm of my free hand to abate their fears. ¡°Are you in need of protection?¡± I ask. Stepping closer, I notice the intricate designs sewn into their outfits. Gold trim and patterns line the edges of their clothing that shimmers in the dimming light of day. I¡¯ve never seen such material¡ªis it not made from alpaca?
I return my attention to the conversation. ¡°I can escort you to safety, should you need it. The Tapeu nobility should be in some safe house, I would assume. We can locate it together.¡±
I could be mistaken, but the pair look at me with utter disgust. They inspect me up and down, and I feel their judgement burning into me. ¡°We do not need your assistance, girl,¡± the woman says, as though I offended them.
I¡¯m stunned, almost at a loss for words. I¡¯m about to walk away, leaving them in this desolate place, but I just can¡¯t help myself. ¡°I am only trying to aid you, to bring you to safety,¡± I state, baffled by their reaction to me.
¡°Why would a Tuatiu warrior care for the safety of Tapeu nobles, unless she spies a chance to meddle where she does not belong?¡± the man questions.
Now I¡¯m completely confused, wondering where this hostility is coming from. ¡°Look,¡± I say, stepping closer to the couple, ¡°these palace grounds have been a battlefield, where the Eye in the Flame have endangered countless lives. Fighting is still taking place just beyond those decimated walls. If you won¡¯t accept¨C¡°
¡°Where did you get that gemstone, child of the jungle?¡± the woman demands forcefully. She glares, marching up to me. Then the woman reaches out to pull it from my neck, but I step away quickly, just out of her grasp.
¡°Why is it any of your concern?¡± I respond with a question of my own. I continue to step back, avoiding standing too close to these two. Something isn¡¯t right about this exchange, this situation. I grip my dagger tightly, switching my attention between the two and watching for any sudden movements. I begin to fear these are not helpless nobles after all, but, instead, two dangerous people whose path I may not have wanted to cross.
¡°Give that to me, now!¡± the man growls. I¡¯m flying backward in the air, almost level with the ground. I hit the dirt with a hard thwump, feeling as if hundreds of needles have pierced my back. I struggle to roll over onto my hands and knees, to stand up and defend myself. From a crouch, I reach for the obsidian dagger next to me when a swift kick pounds my stomach. I drop to the ground, trying to regain my breath.
¡°He said,¡± the woman snarls, punctuating each word as she speaks through clenched teeth, ¡°give that gemstone to us!¡±
As she reaches for the pendant around my neck, I lunge for the dagger, then swing it wildly at her. I just catch her arm, and she howls as she grabs at the wound. She says with ferocity, ¡°You little¨C¡°
I¡¯m flung along the ground, tumbling over and over until I eventually skid to a halt. The two are now dozens of strides away from me. Was her kick that powerful? Something supernatural is at play here, I know it. These two must be¡
¡°Eye in the Flame sorcerers,¡± I finish my thought aloud. The pair seem pleased by my revelation, as if I¡¯ve heaped praise upon them. Seeing me on the ground, they casually stroll in my direction, as though they don¡¯t expect me to retaliate. Little do they know¡
¡°There are more pressing matters than dealing with some child,¡± the man says. The woman, however, waves a hand at him dismissively as she continues to walk toward me.
¡°That gemstone belongs to the great Sunfire, Teqotlo,¡± she declares. ¡°She must not be in possession of it.¡±
If they want this gemstone so badly, they¡¯ll have to catch me first, I determine. Mustering all the energy I can, I force myself to my feet. It worked before, I think, so I hope it works again now.
I locate a place dozens of steps away from them, some place close to the destroyed palace gardens to the south. There¡¯s a warmth at my chest as I concentrate on that destination, hoping whatever I¡¯ve been able to do up until now will work once more. I run toward it, despite my legs putting up a resistance, and suddenly my vision goes black for a moment. Everything vanishes.
Then, I slide to a stop, just before colliding with the remains of a stone wall. I look around, trying to quickly assess the situation. And I realize, I¡¯ve done it again. I made it to my desired destination!
I look back, seeing a perplexed pair of Eye in the Flame sorcerers. The duo eagerly search for me, but I¡¯m not where they thought I was, where they expected me to be. I take delight in my evasive maneuvering, and, with this rare moment of reprieve, I search for a more useful weapon. It doesn¡¯t take much to find more quivers of arrows, but my eyes land on something far greater, laying next to a fallen warrior clad in an orange-and-red tunic with a black and white checker pattern painted on¡ªa Tapeu general.
I pick up the sword, immediately recognizing its expert craftsmanship. This sword is far different than those used standardly; the wood is much darker, and feels far sturdier, and the obsidian blades embedded in it contain streaks of silver that shimmer even in the low light. The handle is wrapped in the hide of a jaguar, providing excellent grip. I¡¯ve never seen a weapon of its equal, and I almost feel undeserving of possessing such a sword. Yet, while I usually favor my bow, I decide I want this confrontation to be up close and personal, and the weapon and I will serve each other well.
With renewed vigor, I dart toward the two nobles in crimson. I raise the sword up, and in a few long strides, draw closer to the man the woman called Teqotlo. I bring the weapon down, but he hears my footsteps. Noticing my fast approach, he turns and slips out of the way. The blades, sharp and well-maintained, catch his shoulder, slicing clean through his garment. I only know my strike was successful when I see his outfit slowly become soaked, and blood trickles down the sleeve.
I swipe at him again, narrowly missing his torso as he hops out of the way. But I persist, relentlessly swinging the sword again and again at my foe. He tries to step back, tries to evade my strikes, eventually tripping over himself and stumbling on his feet. The blade slashes him, tracing a long, diagonal gash across his chest and along his ribs. He yelps, wincing at the pain that courses through him.
But I¡¯m fighting two enemies, not one. This becomes apparent when, after my successful strike, I¡¯m thrown away from the man, as if something large, something heavy, crashes into my body, sending me flying into the air. I land on the sword, nicking myself on its sharp blades as I slide over it and onto the ground.
I look up, seeing the woman¡¯s hand cast toward me. She must be the one responsible for such events. I get up, pushing myself off the dirt. I spin the sword in my hand, feeling the jaguar¡¯s fur brushing against my palms, until it¡¯s back in its readied position. I steel myself, coiling back, then hurling myself toward my enemies.
She brings her arm back¡ªI assume for another invisible attack to fling me away. But this time, I¡¯m watching her. I¡¯m ready. Just as she whips her body forward, I look for a point beside her. I focus, focus on my desired location. I can do this. I can¨C
My body is pounded with another unseen barrage, as if I¡¯ve run into an invisible barrier. I drop to the ground, the breath knocked out of my chest. My vision is blurry, unable to see my surroundings clearly. A metallic taste overwhelms my mouth. There¡¯s a loud thrumming in my head, followed by an intense ringing. I try to lift myself up, but something is pinning me down. I feel stuck in place, unable to move. There¡¯s a vibration through my body, making it difficult to regain my breath, and my senses are entirely disoriented.
I hear a muffled voice, barely audible. ¡°¡ the stone¡ finish her¡¡±
Exhaustion. I¡¯m overwhelmed by exhaustion. No, the sensation is greater than that. It¡¯s as though I¡¯ve been wounded. But not physically. I feel my spirit being pulled away from my body. I spit out blood onto the ground as I gasp for air. I fight to stand, but I no longer have the strength to resist. Though my vision dims, I barely make out the man, hunched over but standing, his arm raised in my direction.
¡°¡ will be a¡ sacrifice¡¡± I hear the words spoken.
I have to get out. I have to leave this place. I need to get to somewhere safe, away from this torment. My eyes refuse to focus, and the world around me remains in a blur. A blob of a figure gradually approaches me, ripples shimmering through the air around them, and I know it must be one of them, one of my foes. I must act soon. But I can¡¯t concentrate well enough to try utilizing my abilities again. The pain is to immense, as if something is pressing against my ears.
¡°Mother! Father!¡±
Shouts draw my attention to the crumbled remains of the palace entrance. Out of the corner of my eye, a shadow moves¡ªswift and decisive. I shake loose the fogginess, straining my eyes to focus on what approaches now. Two young girls¡ªone wearing nothing but a thin, plain tunic, the other in a flowing, vibrant jade green dress¡ªstorm onto the battlefield. One of the duo looks familiar, even with my senses distorted. Something in her demeanor, the way she walks, the way she carries herself, like the servant who washed away the swarm of Eye in the Flame that surrounded the palace walls.
¡°What are you doing here, child?¡± the woman¡¯s voice rings out, echoing off the remnants of the stone walls. ¡°This does not concern you.¡±
¡°Enough!¡± the young woman shouts, her voice tinged with pain and vitriol. There¡¯s a fire inside her, something fueling this rage. ¡°All these years, you cloaked your treachery under the guise of loyalty to Pachil. You betrayed everyone, even your own children, sacrificing everything we stood for, all for what? Power? Recognition from the Sunfire?¡±
The woman recovers her composure. ¡°Onixem,¡± she says, her voice cold and dismissive, ¡°you were always too sentimental, too weak to understand the necessities of power. You think you stand on the side of righteousness, but you are just a child playing at rebellion.¡±
Teqotlo¡¯s eyes narrow, speaking in a low growl. ¡°We did what was necessary for our survival, for the survival of our ideals. You could have been part of something greater, but you chose to side with fools. We did what we must for the greater good¡ª¡±
¡°The greater good?¡± Onixem cuts him off, her voice rising. ¡°You call this destruction good? No, I understand perfectly. You manipulate and sacrifice without remorse. You are monsters wearing the masks of nobles.¡±
My vision gradually clears up. Seeing the two cultists distracted, I know this is my chance. If I can just gather the strength in my bones to lift this sword, I can put an end to their destructive ways. I take slow, deep breaths, doing all I can to attempt one more strike.
Onixem¡¯s hand tightens on her bow, her stance solidifying as she prepares to act. ¡°I choose to stand with those who fight for the truth, not those who hide behind lies and deceit. If this is what the ¡®greater good¡¯ looks like to you, I want no part in it.¡±
At this, I surge forward. The wooden sword slices through the air. My target is the woman, the closer threat, with her back partly turned to me as she faces her daughter.
Though my attack is meant to be silent and swift, it is anything but unnoticed. Teqotlo senses the disturbance as I approach the woman. ¡°Aluxeqwel!¡± he shouts urgently. With a swift motion, he spins, hand outstretched. The air between us crackles, and an invisible force slams into my chest, like being hit by a powerful and unyielding wave.
I¡¯m thrown back, the impact wrenching the sword from my grasp. My back hits the ground hard, knocking the air out of me. My body feels too heavy to lift myself up. As I struggle to regain my breath, my vision blurs again, and the figures of Aluxeqwel and Teqotlo merge into the darkening sky above.
¡°That gemstone belongs to the great Sunfire,¡± the woman, Aluxeqwel, declares. She snaps her attention back to Onixem, dismissing me as if I were nothing more than an annoyance. ¡°Get it back, Teqotlo.¡±
Crunching footsteps along the dirt grow louder as the man approaches. But then a solitary shout pierces the air, stopping everyone in place.
¡°You are no longer my parents, just filth to be cleansed.¡±
Onixem raises her bow, an arrow nocked and ready. With a swift maneuver, not one, but two arrows fly, striking each parent in quick succession. The first finds its mark in Teqotlo¡¯s shoulder, causing him to stagger, disrupting his spell. My breath mercifully returns. The second arrow strikes Aluxeqwel squarely in the chest, and a gasp escapes her lips. Aluxeqwel and Teqotlo drop back, eyes wide with surprise and betrayal as they collapse to the ground.
Teqotlo, wounded but not yet defeated, turns towards his daughter with a mix of pain and fury etched across his face. ¡°Onixem, how could you¡ª¡°
¡°Your reign of terror and deceit is over,¡± the one named Onixem says coldly, her face expressionless. She walks to him, unsheathing a dagger at her side. In one fluid movement, she swipes the blade across his neck. His eyes bulge from pure shock as his short, staggered breaths become wet choking sounds. Clutching at his throat, he falls forward into a pool of his own blood, lifeless.
There¡¯s no time to reflect upon what just occurred, as a low rumbling approaches us. Is it more enemies? Do I have the strength to carry on with the fight? Gasping for breath, I¡¯m barely able to steady myself as I look upon the scene. From one side, a swath of warriors marches to our position in front of the palace, approaching slowly, almost with hesitance. It¡¯s a swirl of varying colors: the black and gold is immediately distinguishable, but the bright jade and magenta catches me by surprise. I glance over at Onixem, realizing her garments match theirs.
From the other side, through the crumbled walls that shield the palace from the sea, an army of orange and red warriors head toward us. While neither side wears the gray or red robes of the invading enemy, my stomach feels unsettled by the sight, as though the threat has not been quashed. There¡¯s a terrible indication as to what will come from this meeting of sides, and more than ever, I fear what will come from being placed¡ªliterally¡ªat the center of it.
97 - Walumaq
My eyes snap open. The world sharpens gradually, emerging through a murky haze. Paxilche hovers above me, his face carved with lines of dread, while Saqatli peeks over his shoulder, showing both relief and worry. Noch is nestled by my side, purring faintly, though the vibration is noticeable enough against my tunic. Her warmth is oddly comforting against the chill that has seeped through my clammy skin and into my bones.
As I slowly regain consciousness, I feel as if a shadow has settled over my heart, pulsing with each beat. The moments before I apparently passed out slowly return to me. There¡¯s a dark energy that clings to me like a vicious cloak that threatens to suffocate my spirit. And there are harsh and insidious whispers that circulate in my thoughts, worming their way through the cracks in my mind, prying, pulling.
¡°Walumaq, can you hear me?¡± Paxilche¡¯s voice cuts through the fog, anchoring me for a moment against the pull of the hollow abyss. I manage to nod slightly, but the action takes more effort than it should, as though I¡¯m moving through tar.
¡°I¡¯m okay,¡± I respond, my strained voice barely climbing out from my throat.
¡°How are you feeling?¡± a concerned Saqatli asks.
¡°I feel¡ different, changed,¡± I say. The darkness isn¡¯t just around me¡ªit¡¯s within me now, woven into me. It feels like wading through a marsh where every step is a battle against the suction of mud, and each tug is filled with the urge to just give in, to sink, to let go.
The struggle is incessant. There are voices, dark voices, planting seeds of doubt, blooming fears, twisting my thoughts. It¡¯s as if I¡¯ve swallowed nightfall, and now the black blots out any and all reason.
The whispers intensify, morphing into recognizable voices. My imperious brother, Pahua, recklessly taunts me in a mocking tone, while my father issues stern warnings laced with malice. They twist their familiar tones into something spiteful, venomous, dredging up doubts and fears I¡¯ve long buried.
Are you strong enough, Walumaq?
Why strive so hard, sister? In the end, they''ll only remember your failures.
They all depend on you. Yet you will let them down.
Paxilche squeezes my hand. ¡°We¡¯re here, Walumaq.¡±
You fool yourself, believing to be something you¡¯re not.
Leadership demands sacrifice, daughter. Are you truly ready to bear that burden?
The voices claw at the walls of my mind. They seek to carve uncertainty into every conviction I¡¯ve ever had. I clutch at my head, trying to physically shake the whispers away.
¡°Talk to us,¡± Paxilche urges. ¡°What is happening?¡±
Saqatli frowns and watches thoughtfully with narrowed eyes. ¡°How can we help?¡±
Eventually, I sit up, rubbing my temples with my fingers while taking panicked, gasping breaths. ¡°I¡¯m not sure you can,¡± I confess, slowly calming myself. ¡°It¡¯s like I¡¯m caught in a storm of voices. They are from those whom I trust, but their words¡ they¡¯re trying to drown me in fear and uncertainty.¡±
Paxilche¡¯s eyes darken with worry, but he nods with understanding¡ªor trying to. ¡°We won¡¯t let that happen. You¡¯re not alone in this.¡±
I try for a smile, but it¡¯s like I¡¯m wearing a mask that doesn¡¯t quite fit. ¡°Thank you. I just need to¡ understand this. Master this.¡±
But how does one master a storm that uses your own memories and fears as weapons? The voices argue and persuade, a cacophony that threatens to fracture my resolve. They tempt, promising power, the strength to protect, to crush, to control. They promise to shield Sanqo, to bury my enemies beneath waves of shadow. Each offer is a gilded blade, seductive and sharp, if only I embrace the darkness.
The battle within is as fierce as any I¡¯ve faced on the battlefield. Each whisper of power entices me with an easier path, yet I know the cost of such power is too steep.
The battle just beyond continues, waiting for no one. Its clamor is a cruel reminder of the urgency of completing our mission. More shouts, more clashing of weapons, more cries of agony. As the voices of Pahua and Siunqi circle like vultures over dying prey, I steel myself.
¡°We must carry on,¡± I say, fighting through the pain that consumes me, emotionally, physically, spiritually. Paxilche and Saqatli¡ªand even Noch¡ªlook at me with skepticism, not trusting my words.
I attempt to smile, but it¡¯s like stitching a wound with frayed thread. ¡°I¡¯m fine,¡± I repeat lie, the falsehood is a heavy stone in my throat. I see the doubt in their eyes, the fear that I might not just be battling the Eye in the Flame, but also an internal darkness that could swallow me whole. How can I blame them? I don¡¯t even trust myself.
As I rise, the darkness coils tighter, like a serpent poised to consume me. It takes some effort to stand as my legs briefly forget their roles. Feeling gradually returns to my muscles, the tingling sensation slowly fading away. More of the scene comes into focus. The ritual site has been altered, disrupted. The items that were carefully placed in particular positions are strewn about, appearing to have been kicked and heavily disturbed. The ceremonial daggers are missing, the incense snuffed out into a smoldering heap, and the patterns etched into the dirt have been wiped away into smudges in the ground.
¡°I¡¯m rather proud of my work, too,¡± Paxilche says with pride, admiring the view.
¡°Our work,¡± Saqatli clarifies, the boy¡¯s voice resonating in our minds. It startles me, piercing through the fragile calm I had just managed to construct. For a heartbeat, the darkness seems to creep back at the edges of my thoughts, the twisted voices of my family murmuring once more. I clench my fists, shut my eyes tight, and force myself to breathe deeply. In, out. In, out. Slowly, the phantom whispers dissolve and the reality sets back in. It''s just Saqatli, I have to tell myself. I steady my nerves, reminding myself that here lies a friend, not foe.
The cold rain that hits the warm surface of the devastated landscape scarred by the scorching fires creates an eerie, otherworldly mist that cloaks everything in an opaque fog. Three silhouettes emerge from the gloomy haze, donning the dreaded crimson robes. There¡¯s a malevolence gleaming in their dark eyes and scowls.
¡°It appears there has been a brief disruption,¡± one of the robed men says, his voice sounding indifferent to the development before them.
¡°It is your feathered one,¡± another states, pointing in my direction. Have they discussed me? What has been shared between them?
¡°A minor annoyance that will be taken care of swiftly,¡± the third one charges, sounding greatly bothered by the ordeal. When he glares at me, I recognize him to be the sorcerer I¡¯ve previously dueled in Qespina, his silver and black hair peeking out from his hood.
The gemstones that hang suspended before their chests begin to glow an ominous green, and I immediately know something is about to be unleashed upon us. I shout to alert Paxilche and Saqatli, urging them to brace themselves and find cover. In an instant, a volley of green lightning bolts hurtle toward us. Mercifully, we¡¯re all able to avoid being struck, leaping out of the way to safety. I plunge to the moist stone ground, scraping my palms and knees. But I am safe. For now.
Streaks of energy crackle above me, raising the hairs on my head and neck. I crawl, then stumble to find cover behind a fallen stone statue, its stoic face staring blankly back at me like a corpse. Noch is pressed up against the structure, eyes wide in panic. I let out a series of gentle, soothing shushes and delicately stroke her soft fur with the hopes of calming her. The petting eases us both, and I regain my focus on the terrifying zealots attacking us.
The focus of the sorcerers¡¯ assault moves on to Paxilche and Saqatli, who have crouched behind a destroyed section of a stone wall, barely shielding them from the relentless attacks. Noch looks on worryingly at her companion, and I have to hold and grip her tightly to prevent her from darting off to him.
I search the area for any water, or anything I could use my abilities on to take the sorcerers¡¯ attention away from Paxilche and Saqatli, allowing them to escape. However, it appears the Auilqa boy has made plans of his own. Crouching low, he closes his eyes in deep concentration. Suddenly, a swarm of bugs¡ªmosquitoes, wasps, bees, and locusts¡ªfly from every which direction and hurl themselves around the cultists. The red-robed figures swat at and bat away the pests that tenaciously bite and sting them. Ants climb up their legs, causing the cultists to kick out and flail their limbs wildly. I perk up, seeing the success Saqatli is having by sending in these miniature invaders to give us some reprieve.
Unauthorized usage: this tale is on Amazon without the author''s consent. Report any sightings.
As the air thickens with the hum of the insect swarm, the sorcerers close their eyes. They clasp hands, then, after a synchronized, guttural chant, unleash a sudden pulse of energy that bursts from them, expanding in a violent blast. I feel the ripples pressing against me, even behind this makeshift shelter. Instantly, the insects are scattered away, their tiny bodies blown back by the force, leaving not a single one left to buzz.
The sorcerers¡¯ eyes snap open, glowing with a fierce light. With a synchronized chant, they thrust their hands forward, sending a wave of dark psychic energy rippling towards us. The force causes Paxilche and Saqatli to clutch at their heads, groaning in agony. And then it crashes into me like a wave. A searing pain rips through my head, as if something is scratching fervently within my mind. I can only focus on the pain and nothing more. Then, the voices of Pahua and Siunqi surge back.
You play the hero, but you''re just an imitator, Walumaq. A mere visitor to the concept.
You were never meant for greatness. Why do you fight your nature?
Your ambition will be your undoing, sister.
You seek to command the waves, yet you drown in your own doubts.
Why won¡¯t the voices leave me alone? This must be the doing of the sorcerers, their dark powers tapping something within me, tapping into my fears and anxieties. How can I stop this? How do I make the voices go away?
Instinctively, I clutch at the amulets that hang from my neck. Once again, they glow, emitting an almost comforting heat, a gentle, soothing warmth. Could this be the way? How do I channel their powers to heal me from the mental wounds being inflicted upon me?
I perform the only action I know how: I recite the mantra from my morning ritual, holding the gemstones firmly in my scratched palm and meditate. As I speak the words, I feel the world slowing down around me. The calamity of the battles in the distance, the discordant disturbances from the sorcerer¡¯s attacks, the voices of my family¡ªall of it vanishes from my thoughts. I hear what I can only describe as an emptiness, a hollow, serene quiet. I know there is fighting and danger surrounding me, yet I feel as though I¡¯m floating in the waters off the shores of Sanqo. I¡¯m overcome by a peaceful stillness, and I focus upon its healing powers. The warmth of the amulets now fills me, and I feel restored, rejuvenated. There¡¯s an indescribable clarity, as if all understanding reveals itself to me.
My ears catch more chanting. I glance over the stone barrier to inspect what¡¯s happening now, only to find the three figures lifting their hands to the skies. What are they doing now? With a flash, their amulets shine in a hideous green light. Then, a wave of darkness¡ªno, of shadows¡ªcrawls along the ground, twisting like seeking tendrils that reach out toward us. I immediately recognize what¡¯s occurring, having encountered it in Qespina.
¡°Watch out for the¨C¡° But my warning is too late. As if aware of our presence, despite our best to remain hidden, the shadowy tendrils dart at us like a striking serpent. It winds around and ensnares us, closing in and restricting us as if we¡¯ve been bound by rope. Yet what occurred in my previous engagement with the shadows doesn¡¯t happen, where our life is slowly drained from us. Instead, the world shifts and warps, distorting my vision.
The three sorcerers grow to immense size, taller than the trees of the jungle, or the temple of Analoixan. Have they performed some other defiant feat through dark magic? Or is this a trick of the mind? With resonate thuds, they stomp toward us, a smirk creasing the corners of their mouths.
I turn, glancing at Paxilche and Saqatli. The Auilqa boy¡¯s head twists and darts about frantically from one side to another, eyes wide with a terror from something that appears to threaten him from all directions. A silent scream is etched across his face as he recoils from unseen horrors that seem to swarm around him. Seeing her friend distressed, Noch risks her life to sprint over to him. With a few leaps, she dodges the incoming bolts of lightning that scorch the ground behind her. She nuzzles up to him, hoping to comfort the boy, but the horror from which he suffers causes his face to contort disturbingly as the shadows close in around him.
Huge obsidian spikes erupt from the ground around me. I shift this way and that, trying to avoid being speared by the spikes. They retract, leaving no trace, then reappear from the dirt. Curious, I defiantly try to touch one of the spikes while it stands sentient. My hand goes straight through, lost inside the structure seemingly made from shadows. Could this be in my imagination? Am I hallucinating these traps and spikes?
But as I ponder this, the shadow wraps around my wrists tightly, binding me to the ground. I pull and pull, trying to break free, but I¡¯m tethered by the dark tendrils that pin me in place. Soon, I find myself sinking, sinking into the soil. Is this not a figment of my imagination after all? Am I being plunged beneath the dirt? Panic sets in, and I struggle to loose myself from my bindings. More tendrils twist around my ankles and feet, and I feel the pressure of being sucked underground, slowly being buried alive.
There¡¯s a shout, then a swirl of clouds. Could this be Paxilche¡¯s doing, or more dark magic by the Eye in the Flame? I crane my neck as the shadowy vines continue to restrict my movement, barely able to see Paxilche. He stands, raising his arms skyward and shifting them about, as if maneuvering and shaping the clouds. A darkness sets in, cloaking the area in almost pitch blackness. I lose sight of him, coughing violently as dirt trickles into my mouth, gritty and suffocating, as I¡¯m relentlessly pulled under like I¡¯m caught in a riptide. The mineral taste invades my senses, the grains of soil coating my tongue as I struggle for air.
My eyes are forced close as a bright light blinds me. The restraints around my wrists and feet loosen, no longer feeling as if I¡¯m being pulled beneath the surface. I squint, and the scene gradually comes back into sight. Paxilche stands tall, arms spread wide apart, as beams of sunlight flood the area, which glows in the low mist. Even with the setting sun, the battlefield is washed in gold. The shadows hastily retreat, retracting back to the sorcerers¡¯ location and swirling around them in some sort of protective ward. Yet, importantly, we¡¯re now freed from our constraints.
With my hands unencumbered, I jut out my arms toward the cultists. While it may not be an entire body of water, perhaps I can control just enough of the mist and light rain that persists. I twist my hands one over another as if turning a wheel, whirling the mists into a spiral. I close my eyes, concentrating on channeling the powers of the amulets to help execute my plan. The warmth radiates on my chest, the gradually intensifying heat telling me the gemstones are ready to assist me.
Faster and faster, I twirl the mists and rain, generating a vortex that whooshes as it winds about the space. When I open my eyes, I see a tremendous, towering whirlpool or water spout that defies nature, eagerly awaiting my command. I clinch my hands as if grabbing it as it soars in the air, and a shimmering stream of otherworldly ultraviolet light flies to it from my chest, infusing itself within the rotating winds and water droplets.
I send the twisting whirlwind at the sorcerers. The near-cyclone smashes into their protective ward, yet stops abruptly. I gnash my teeth and tense my muscles, bracing myself to thrust the vortex through their dark barrier. A resonate rumbling shakes the ground, sending vibrations that ripple through the landscape, trembling with the might of the unleashed powers that causes cracks to spiderweb across the surface. The roar of two forces colliding intensifies, and I feel the resistance to my abilities fighting me every step of the way. Yet I persist, using all the strength I can muster to defeat their evil powers.
A hand rests on my shoulder and gives it a slight squeeze. I¡¯m startled until I turn to see Saqatli, his amber eyes meeting mine, followed by an assuring nod. He turns his attention to our foe, and suddenly there¡¯s an energy, a force, that joins mine. I feel more powerful, more in control of the vortex that yearns to take out the barrier and conquer our enemy. I can¡¯t give into the hate, I refuse to allow it to possess me and my intentions. Instead, I focus on wanting to safeguard, to secure Analoixan and protect it from this outside threat.
Concern and disbelief shrouds the sorcerers¡¯ faces, looking on as their magic holds no resistance to our combined efforts. From my periphery, Paxilche lifts a hand in the air. Thunder growls as lightning now streaks through the dimming sky, a storm amidst the serene evening. Returning my gaze to the Eye in the Flame, their amulets begin radiating their dreadful glow once more, building up to another terrifying feat of dark magic. They must be stopped before they can enact their terrible plan.
¡°The gemstones!¡± I shout, hoping to alert Paxilche. ¡°It¡¯s enhancing their powers! Strike the stones free!¡±
A searing bolt of lightning crackles, striking the barrier and deflecting off. I need to eradicate this ward, now. Releasing a primordial yell, I summon every drop of my spirit and will the surging vortex into the ward. My body rebels, every fiber of my being aflame with the toll of effort. I feel myself weakening from the exertion, but I have to succeed. Analoixan, and Pachil, depend on me.
With one more push, the vortex breaks through, smashing into the crimson robed foes. Then, another bolt forks and strikes them, singeing their garments upon impact. They scatter, flying backward and landing on their backs with a resounding thud. Laying dormant where they once stood, three fragments of emerald gemstones appear like extinguished torches on broken copper chains.
Another crack like a whip, and more bolts of lightning crash upon the slain sorcerers. I fear it¡¯s happening again¡ªPaxilche is giving in to his anger and rage. This is not the way! He must be stopped!
¡°We can¡¯t allow ourselves to be swayed by the darkness!¡± I shout at Paxilche. Ignoring my cries, he lifts his hands once more, ready to bring more lightning down upon the Eye in the Flame members before us. Hurried footsteps alert me to Saqatli, sprinting toward Paxilche. The boy tackles him, disrupting the terrible deed. Paxilche punches Saqatli, pushing him off, then picks himself up. Noch flings herself at Paxilche, clawing and scratching at him until he ceases.
¡°They are the enemy!¡± he declares. ¡°Look what they¡¯ve done to Analoixan, to us! They don¡¯t deserve mercy!¡±
¡°That is not our decision to make!¡± I reply, anger and frustration welling up inside me.
¡°Then whose decision is it, huh? Tlexn¨ªn and the Ulxa will just use them for their savage and disgusting ceremony. Is that the fate you prefer for them?¡±
I¡¯m speechless, uncertain how to respond. He¡¯s correct, of course, but we can¡¯t be the executioners, the ones to decide how justice should be dealt. Though I seek to protect all of Pachil, the Ulxa territory is not our land.
¡°I may disagree with their methods, but it should ultimately be up to the Ulxa to decide,¡± I finally conclude. But Paxilche refuses to listen, sending one final series of lightning down upon the zealots. They¡¯re scorched instantly, blackened into unrecognizable heaps where they lay.
¡°How could you!¡± I yell, furious at his actions, deliberately going against my wishes. He continues to ignore me, walking over to the gemstones, crouching down, and retrieving them. He inspects the emeralds in his hand for a moment, then closes his palm around them. He looks up, hearing the discordant sounds of the distant fighting still occurring.
Saqatli meekly approaches me, eyes cast downward as if he is the one responsible for the mayhem that just happened. Noch loyally walks closely alongside him, her turquoise tail flicking about behind her. He looks as though we didn¡¯t succeed in defeating the enemy, and, honestly, I feel the same. I extremely dislike what transpired, disagreeing with how justice was dealt and finding Paxilche¡¯s actions distasteful and mortifying. Who is he becoming? What else is he capable of?
I place a consoling hand upon Saqatli¡¯s shoulder, now being the one to comfort him. He forces a reluctant smile, hardly lifting his eyes to glance at me. With the sounds of war still raging, I know we can¡¯t sulk and wish for an outcome that can never be. We must return to the fray to put an end to this battle once and for all.
¡°Let¡¯s find the others,¡± are the only words I can muster to say, before we set off.
98 - Tlexn铆n
With a war cry that thunders across the battlefield, I drive my spear downward, cleaving through the armor of the enemy before me. Another invader collapses, his eyes widening in disbelief, mouth agape, as he grasps the finality of his defeat, as they always do. The copper scent of blood and the cries of the dying surrounds us. Some of my foes muster the strength to resist, their jaws clenched in futile defiance as they try to ward off the embrace of oblivion. Others plead, their voices cracking as they bargain for a few more desperate breaths. A few resign themselves to their fate, their expressions solemn as they prepare to meet Tlaloqa, the god who presides over the nine levels of the underworld. And there are those who curse me, spitting venomous words, praying their vengeful gods might smite me where I stand. Yet their efforts are in vain. They fall one by one, defeated by the hand of the one the Itztecatl chose to be leader of the Ulxa, ordained to restore her people to their rightful glory.
I seek out my next target, the next enemy that must meet the tip of my blade. These foul scum must be eradicated. There are shamans who remind me frequently of my mistake, a decision I have come to regret, though I will never confess this to anyone. I should have never allowed Xaqilpa and his kind to leave Ulxa. I should have never allowed them to live.
There is no use dwelling on this now. After battling the profound malady that once shackled me, I am reborn. My once-shallow breaths now roar with vigor. It is with this rekindled spirit that I must rise, casting down those who dare stand against the tide of my resolve.
In the distance, enemies in gray robes regroup at the edge of Analoixan. I call out to my warriors, ¡°with me! More invaders by the entrance!¡± With a deafening yell, my warriors sprint full speed toward our foes, weapons held high and proudly in the air. We race through the devastated streets, a gut-wrenching sight that fuels my rage. This blight on our land must be vanquished.
The invaders are immediately overwhelmed by our ferocity. Those in gray robes put up little resistance to our attack, fleeing to save their miserable lives. My warriors in Ulxa black and red easily overpower them, viciously swinging their obsidian swords and quickly cutting down the remnants of the forces of our enemy.
The invaders are immediately overwhelmed by our ferocity. Those in gray robes put up little resistance to our attack, cowering and running away from us. My warriors in Ulxa black and red easily overpower them, viciously swinging their obsidian swords and quickly cutting down the remaining forces of our enemy.
As we advance, the clash of obsidian against bone resounds through the smoke-filled air. A few call out to Eztletiqa, seeking His mercy, but they will find no clemency here. Each swing of the macuahuitls is precise and lethal, leaving behind a trail of fallen foes whose lifeblood seeps into the sacred soil of Analoixan.
To my right, one warrior rapidly ducks under a swung club. Her counterstrike severs the tendons of the knees belonging to her assailant. He collapses with a yelp, and with movements as fluid as the great rivers that carve through our lands, she finishes him with a calm, practiced ease, slicing his throat with a swift swipe.
To my left, another warrior leaps high into the air. His macuahuitl crashes down onto the shield of an enemy with such force that it shatters upon impact. The cultist beneath cowers, offering up his arms in futile defense as my warrior delivers an unhesitating end.
My eyes sweep over the field, noting how the remnants of the enemy scatter like chaff before the wind. Our formations are unbreakable, our steps unhindered by fear. We move like an unstoppable flood over the land, washing away the filth that dared to encroach upon our home.
Amongst the chaos, I spot a young warrior, her face painted with the sacred symbols of war. She drives her spear through the heart of a cultist, marking her face with the vibrant red of victory. His gurgling cry is cut short, lost in the roar of our collective battle cries. Around her, our warriors raise their weapons in salute. A wild cheer erupts from their throats as they witness the fall of more enemies.
Yet as I turn to rally them to finish the last of the rabble, I notice from my periphery a group in red robes gathering. A low hum of chanting reaches my ears, escalating over the din of battle. I begin to fear the worst. This must be a last resort of the Eye in the Flame.
A tremendous pounding quakes the ground beneath our feet. From the fires of the burned down homes, a creature emerges, blotting out the failing light as the sun dips below the horizon.
¡°Xochit¨®nal!¡± my warriors shout in panic. The creature of myth? No, that cannot be! Such a monster was spoken of generations upon generations ago, but it has not been seen since. Surely, they speak false.
Silhouetted against the flames, its ghastly form unfurls before our eyes: a colossal behemoth adorned with scales as dark and reflective as volcanic glass that shimmer with an ethereal, iridescent sheen against the darkening sky. Each movement sends shimmers of light beaming across its serpentine body. It towers over the ruins, releasing a slow, menacing hiss that reverberates through the hollowed streets as its body writhes along the rubble.
From its flanks, three grotesque heads rise, with malicious eyes like molten gold. Each head is crowned with a crest of jagged spikes, and its mouths are lined with rows of sharp obsidian teeth. From their jaws, the elements defy nature: one spews a gout of flame, scorching the already blackened ruins; another exhales a billowing cloud of choking smoke, obscuring the battlefield; the third emits a blast of scalding steam, singeing the air itself. Its spiked tail lashes out, demolishing what remains of the stone structures nearby.
My warriors falter back, some in horror, others in disbelief. The roar of the beast resonates in the marrow of my bones. Despite the dread that claws at my heart, I stand firm, gripping my spear tighter. Xochit¨®nal is no longer a tale to frighten misbehaving children. Yet fear is a luxury I cannot afford¡ªnot when the lives of my people hang in the balance.
¡°Form ranks!¡± I command. ¡°Shield bearers to the front! Archers, ready your arrows! We shall show the creature of our ancestor the mettle of the Ulxa!¡±
My warriors charge at the ancient beast, spears and swords held at the ready. Yet before we can reach the creature, it howls in a way that pierces my ears, though I hear no sound. Suddenly, large tendrils made from the surrounding dirt, as thick as tree trunks, emerge from the ground. They surge upwards, snatching the legs of the warriors. Screams from the men and women are abruptly snuffed as they are dragged into the ground and buried alive.
A blur of motion catches my eye. When I look, the outsiders accompanying the god and goddess burst onto the battlefield. Those in the garments of the Sanqo hack at the curling tendrils of dirt, bringing their weapons down with such ferocity. The blades slice through, causing the limb to crumble and disintegrate back into the ground, freeing the entangled victims.
But as soon as one tendril is defeated, two more sprout up from the ground, flailing wildly as they seek their next victim. The numbers of these limbs quickly overwhelms us, grasping scores of hapless warriors before we can get to the location of the beast. The situation looks grim, and we are left with too few options.
One of the Sanqo warriors shouts to me in the language I loathe to speak, this so-called ¡®Merchant Tongue¡¯. ¡°The sorcerers! They¡¯re empowering the monster! We must reach them, to stop them and weaken the beast!¡±
The disheveled one¡ªin fact, all the Sanqo appear disheveled and undisciplined¡ªwearing sea glass and garments in coral and green makes an astute observation. The sorcerers continue their chanting unimpeded, still gathered in the distance. We must put an end to them, to their chanting. Perhaps then we may have a chance.
I direct my warriors to carry out this plan. Without hesitation, they sprint toward the robed figures, not loosing any war cry so as to not alert the enemy to their approach. I watch attentively, waiting, hoping they are successful. The race to the sorcerers is seemingly at the pace of a sloth as I eagerly anticipate the results.
My hopes swiftly end. The warriors fall backward, shivering in pain as though struck by lightning. A near-invisible sphere around the sorcerers crackles and shimmers. My gaze meets that of the Sanqo warrior, and we exchange looks of bafflement and horror. What can be done now? How do we put an end to the dark magic of the sorcerers?
The three heads of Xochit¨®nal unleash more terrible roars toward the heavens. With one mouth, it spits fire upon unsuspecting victims, scorching the ground around it into smoldering ash. Warriors hurl their spears at the beast, but it is unperturbed as their weapons deflect off the shimmering scales. As more warriors arrive to attack, another mouth of the creature looses a thick, grayish-green smoke that shrouds the area until nothing more can be seen. Cries of agony and terror are the sounds indicating that this battle is quickly getting away from us.
The black clouds return above, circling in the darkened sky. Droplets pelt my cheeks and arms, becoming more intense. Booming thunder resounds over the noises of battle as wisps of lighting rip through the air. The rain gradually collects in the air, swirling around faster and faster as the cyclone gathers more mass. Is this the work of the sorcerers, bringing more havoc to an already devastating scene?
The vortex rushes at Xochit¨®nal with blinding speed. The barrage of water pounds the reaching tendrils, quickly severing almost simultaneously. When more begin to spring up, the whirling waters dispatch them abruptly, giving them no chance to harm more of the warriors on the battlefield.
I look to my right, watching the goddess, the one called Walumaq. Her eyes are closed as she waves her hands from side to side, seemingly controlling the swirling vapors and wind. It obediently moves at her direction, crashing through each tendril that emerges from the ground. Her chest glows with an intense green and light-swallowing black as she maneuvers the concentration of water. She then lifts her left hand. More water from the rain collects in a separate pool. They shift and contort into long, large walls that allow passage toward the beast.
This is our chance. I shout to my warriors, commanding them to charge. From the sky, bolts of lightning strike Xochit¨®nal, horrible roars in frustration and fury erupt from its three heads. The shimmer in its scales slowly dims like a fire being extinguished. The god from Qiapu, the one called Paxilche, raises his arms to the heavens, delivering a cascade of lighting upon the monster once again. The beast is weakened, giving us a chance to attack. Hope had let me down before, but it should not disappoint me now.
This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it
I lead my warriors through the barrier of water. The belly of Xochit¨®nal is exposed as the creature falls to its side. I hoist my spear, C¨¥y¨tl, the weapon blessed by the Tletlazotl, whose blade is forged from obsidian with subtle green flecks to indicate this is from our sacred quarries. A foul stench of rotting flesh and stagnant water hits my senses, but I clench my jaw and maintain the course of my pursuit.
I plunge my spear into Xochit¨®nal, piercing the creature between its immense scales. With the broad, split blade curved to resemble the opened jaws of a jaguar, it bites into the flesh, sinking deeply until I reach the gold and copper bindings along the staff. My warriors join me, submerging their blades into the belly of the beast. Streams of deep crimson burst from Xochit¨®nal, soaking the soil with its blood.
Furious, Xochit¨®nal whips its massive tail, flinging it about erratically until it deals blows to the many warriors surrounding it. I duck to avoid being struck, although the men and women next to me are not so fortunate. They hurtle through the air, some landing onto the ground while others are skewered by jagged debris of wrecked wooden homes. When the tail swoops back, I am pounded hard, the breath knocked out of my chest as I soar, landing onto the ground that has been mercifully softened to mud by the rain.
Each muscle throbs with fierce resistance as I force myself to stand. Xochit¨®nal, too, stands, enraged by the attacks made upon it. Lifting itself onto its hind legs, the creature slams its wide, meaty claws onto the ground, creating two expansive craters. Tremors quake the ground, knocking everyone off balance. More gnarled tendrils of dirt emerge, whipping around and striking down those who dared to cause it harm. My warriors are cut to shreds as they are severed by the savage soil.
Amidst all of this, amidst the devastation, the red-robed figures remain, their ritual undisturbed. It is then that the plan reemerges to the forefront of my mind.
¡°Goddess!¡± I call out urgently. ¡°The sorcerers! They must be stopped, but there is a barrier, some ward crafted by their dark magic!¡±
The one called Walumaq nods in understanding, her eyes not showing any panic, but rather a calm comprehension of what is at stake. She tells something to the one called Paxilche, and the two of them hurry in the direction of the cultists. The other, the young Auilqa boy, and the turquoise-tailed ocelot run from one wounded warrior to another. He places a hand upon them, and emits a bright light, as if his hand contained the light of the sun. He must be a god, as well, for in that moment, the eyes of the warrior suddenly open! The warrior coughs profusely, gasping for air as though he had been submerged underwater for too long a period. He has been given new life! New life given to him by yet another god! It is this sight that informs me all I need to know, that the ritual and our prayers have been answered by Wiqamasqa! The Ulxa have the blessings of the gods! We will emerge from this battle victorious!
Xochit¨®nal sees the one called Walumaq and charges toward her, all three mouths snapping and snarling as the beast picks up the pace. I fear for the goddess, wondering if she will be able to perform her miracle before the creature of ancient lore attacks her. The ground trembles with each stomp of the wide claws of the monster, moving faster than even a jaguar in pursuit of its prey. I must get my warriors to protect her, to help her ensure the Eye in the Flame will be stopped.
I do not have a chance to act. The powerful vortex collides with Xochit¨®nal, knocking the beast far and onto its back. Once again, the tendrils cease, the dirt falling back to the ground. The one called Walumaq resumes her course toward the sorcerers. We must slay the ancient creature while the opportunity is presented to us!
I dash toward Xochit¨®nal, spear raised and ready to strike. I glance over toward our gods, and once more, another miracle is performed. Though my warriors were incapable of penetrating the protective ward, the one called Walumaq walks through it, facing no resistance as the amulets that hang from her neck illuminate in an otherworldly glow! Sparks appear, like when metal strikes metal, and the one called Walumaq glows like a star in the night sky. The barrier begins to hiss as the flickering forcefield falters.
The one called Paxilche releases a flurry of lightning down upon the sorcerers, igniting them like making a fire. Their robes are set alight, and within a few heartbeats, the group of sorcerers are engulfed in flames. Their cries are not made from pain, but a sickening elation, as though this was always their desired means of death. They must believe this is the will of their god, the one whose meaning and purpose has become twisted and distorted by their misguided ideology. Though they are the enemy, I am disappointed to know that so many could be led astray, and I wish I could have done more to show them the light, to show them the correct path. But it is simply the fate they desired, nothing more.
The sound of a heavy impact shakes the ground beneath us. But it is not as I feared; no, instead it is Xochit¨®nal, stumbling over onto its side. The ancient beast is pelted with an endless stream of water, relentlessly pounded and unable to stand.
¡°Ulxa!¡± I shout, raising C¨¥y¨tl into the air. ¡°Now is our chance! Yaotl techiuh!¡±
My valiant warriors rush toward Xochit¨®nal, weapons held high and proud. We are ready to put an end to this demonic creature, this beast fought by our ancestors. Under my command, this generation of Ulxa will slay the monster once and for all, to be spoken about for as long as humans possess breath on Pachil.
A blur of warriors streak from the side of the battlefield and charges at Xochit¨®nal. The flurry of fighters wear strips of cloth at their loins in brown and dark green, and their arms and torsos are smeared in green body paint¡ªthe colors of the Auilqa. They swoop in, calling out to one another and positioning themselves around the beast, hacking and slashing at its exposed body.
Where have they been? Until now, I have seen nothing but my warriors and those of the Sanqo and Qiapu. I am to assume they have battled the enemy elsewhere, but I have not seen them when dire times have arisen. But now that the number of foes has been depleted, the sorcerers pose no threat, and the dangerous beast no longer causes havoc, they appear?
I will not allow them to steal my kill, the kill for the people of Ulxa. I exert all the energy I have, sprinting toward the ancient monster. I let out a furious roar, then thrust C¨¥y¨tl into the belly of the beast. I drive my spear deeper, deeper into the stomach, my hands covered in hot, viscous blood. I nearly enter the monster, forcing my weapon into its body further until the three heads of Xochit¨®nal do nothing more than whimper. It tries to snap its jaws around the attacking warriors, but the effort is half-hearted. The tail thrashes about, but this time in futility, as the muscles loosen and relax, and it staggers and falls limp.
The creature looses a mournful groan into the air as it begins to crumble. Beneath it, the ground that once summoned the beast trembles. The scales of the monster lose their glow, dimming into dull tones that blend with the shattered stones and charred wood around us. The form of Xochit¨®nal shudders, its life flickering like the last embers of a dying fire. With each labored breath it draws, the magic that birthed it dissipates, and its body slowly seeps back into the dirt from whence it came.
The silence that follows is the most unsettling sound of the entirety of the assault. All present exchange questioning glances, wondering if the battle has been won. Is this something that can be determined now? Does the enemy continue to lurk in the shadows, waiting for us to drop our defenses and strike once more?
No one celebrates. What is there to cheer? Analoixan has been destroyed. Many lives have been needlessly lost. We stand amidst desolation. For Analoixan to return to its former glory, the destruction will take ages to clear, as will the rebuilding of the city.
Yet I force myself not to despair. As the chosen ruler of the Ulxa, I cannot allow myself to fall to emotions of pity, of self-loathing, of sorrow, of uncontrolled rage. No, I must be calm like the morning sea. I must be strong like the obsidian that composes C¨¥y¨tl. I must be unwavering like the trees that resist the thrashing of the storm.
The clouds begin to part, exposing the starry night sky. Iolatl hopes to impart peace upon those who have survived this terrible trial with the gentle breeze that hugs us in reconciliation. I can see the discouragement and troubled looks on the faces of my people. I cannot allow them to worry, to become hopeless. Not when we have secured our freedom once again.
¡°Wiqamasqa has chosen us to be victorious on this day, not the evil that tried to conquer us. Look upon these ruins, my brothers and sisters, and see not the end, but the beginning. For it is in our blood, in the very soil of Analoixan, to rise again, stronger and more united than ever. We, the children of the great Iolatl, have faced darkness before and yet here we stand, unbowed and unbroken.¡±
I start to pace, my eyes meeting that of every Ulxa warrior. ¡°This is not the time for sorrow, nor for fear. It is the moment to harness our collective strength, to forge a future worthy of those who sacrificed their lives today. Let their memory guide us as we rebuild, for ourselves, and for generations of Ulxa yet to come.¡±
I look up at the heavens, basking in the sight, in the peace. ¡°Let the stars tonight remind us that light will always follow darkness. Today, we have faced such darkness itself, and yet here we stand, not merely survivors, but as defenders of our sacred land.
¡°So rise, warriors of Ulxa! Lift your heads and ready your hands. The path ahead is long and fraught with challenges, yet it leads to a dawn only we can greet. For we are the Ulxa, and we do not yield to the night. Onward, for our city, for our people, for the legacy we are yet to create!¡±
A renewed fire lights in the eyes of my people. Murmurs of agreement swell into shouts of solidarity amidst the smoldering remnants of our home. Even among the ashes of devastation, hope rekindles.
As I conclude, I am quickly swarmed by two, maybe three, dozen Auilqa warriors. A tall, toned figure marches directly toward me, the vibrant beads of his many necklaces rattle and clatter with each brusque step. Framing his stern face is a headdress, adorned with an impressive array of condor feathers, and the feathers on his shoulders ripple with each deliberate movement. Standing a few paces from me, he glowers, his beady, black eyes never leaving mine.
¡°In the name of the Great Xolotzi, He Who Commands the Path of the Jaguar, Who Shrouds the Sun of His Enemies, Wielder of the Obsidian Flame, Tamer of the Might of the Monsoon, and Protector of the Verdant Expanse, we hereby reclaim the lands soiled by the Ulxa to return to rightful ownership of the Auilqa.¡±
Do my ears deceive me? Did I hear this person correctly? After all the fighting and sacrifices made, these Auilqa decide to make a move to annex my land while our people are ailing?
¡°What is the meaning of this?¡± I demand. ¡°What makes you believe¨C¡°
Before I can finish my statement, I am shoved to the ground and apprehended. My hands are bound behind my back, and I am flanked by two Auilqa warriors, faces shrouded by a gruesome mask made from the bones of animals. Several Ulxa warriors resist, fighting the Auilqa captors. To my dismay, my warriors are quickly dispatched, put down by the savage Auilqa blades. The resistance is abruptly halted as soon as it began.
¡°As part of the agreement for assisting the outsiders in vanquishing the enemy, and for slaying the beast that threatened to destroy Ulxa and its people, the Auilqa have declared their dominion over this territory. This act restores what was taken from us, what the Ulxa have long denied,¡± the tall Auilqa warrior proclaims. ¡°Under the Great Xolotzi, the land will rise stronger, unburdened by the corruption and lethargy that have marked your leadership.¡±
Around us, the ground still quivers from the chaos of battle, the soil damp with fresh blood. My gaze sweeps across the faces of my warriors, my people, who watch helplessly as they are apprehended by the scores of Auilqa warriors, some with eyes wide in shock, others lowering their heads in resignation. The towering Auilqa figure before me stands resolute, unaffected by the destruction and death as far as the eye can see.
¡°Betrayal!¡± I spit the word out like venom. ¡°After we fought side by side against a common enemy, you turn on us like jackals at a carcass!¡±
The warriors tighten their grip on me. Unflinching, the leader steps closer, his shadow falling over me. ¡°It is not betrayal when it is reclaiming what is rightfully ours. Under your leadership, you allowed such an enemy to emerge and thrive, to weaken the land. Now, we simply take what strength you have squandered.¡±
The goddess called Walumaq and the god called Paxilche voice their vehement disgust in the events taking place. Auilqa warriors threaten them with swords, pointing the tips of their blades at them. In my heart of hearts, I believe this was not something the gods present had foreseen. The entire moment is foul and reeks of treachery.
As they take me captive, my spirit does not cower; it seethes, plotting, waiting. The Auilqa may think they have won, but my resolve is not so easily broken. This is not the end, I vow silently.
The voice of the Auilqa leader drifts as I am dragged away. ¡°In the light of dawn, the banners of Auilqa will fly over Analoixan. The blood spilled today sanctifies this transition. Resistance,¡± he pauses, his eyes narrowing to slits, ¡°will only spill more.¡±
99 - Teqosa
Save for the continuous noises of life in the jungle, the many days traveling to the lagoon is spent in silence between us. The birds and monkeys cheerfully call to one another, but there is no feeling of cheer among our group. The recent interaction with the Auilqa tribe leaves many questions lingering in the air. The distrust in our hired guide grows the longer she remains quiet, and I wonder what was exchanged between her and the native tribe. Has she made some deal with them? Are we or the contents of the chest to be handed over to the tribe if we survive its trials?
I channel my frustrations in hacking away at the endless sea of vines hindering our path. With the unrelenting and nearly unbearable humidity, I forget that it¡¯s winter elsewhere in Pachil, wondering if these jungle ever experience the merciful cold. Perhaps it¡¯s this continuous exposure to sweltering heat that is causing my mood to deteriorate. Either way, never have I missed the cool, dry winds of Qantua as much as I do now, while I wipe away yet more beads of sweat from my brow.
Sporadically, S¨ªqalat excitedly points to a blue mark with the supposed oval and two triangles, indicating that we¡¯re on the right path. I remain skeptical, though I¡¯m skeptical of much about S¨ªqalat. She claims to be a well-traveled guide, yet she led us directly into the hostilities of an Auilqa tribe. She pointed to a colored marker and stated it denoted a path to the Auilqa watering hole, yet she led us into their supposed hunting grounds, in direct confrontation with a massive jaguar.
I¡¯m of two minds: she could¡¯ve been mistaken and all incidents were by happenstance, or this is some elaborate ruse to relieve us of our valuables. Perhaps, on the day that we met her, she could have noted us as a mark, some target flush with riches of whom she could take advantage. It¡¯s not as though we disguised ourselves; we practically announced ourselves as outsiders, given Upachu¡¯s pale skin untouched by the sun, or my black and gold tunic and armor.
The memories of a moment in the early days of the War of Liberation come rushing back to me. I¡¯m reminded of my outfit, before I ultimately took command over it. Many were young, inexperienced. But they were full of vigor, ready and eager to defeat the Timuaq. What they lacked in experience, they more than made up for in vitality and energy, traits I would come to embrace from my squads until the end of the war.
We were camped in the Achope jungles, close to the Tapeu border. Our leader, Qencha, had plans to slip through the mountain pass and into Tapeu territory. We needed supplies, to ensure we could traverse the mountains and endure the strenuous conditions. He had worked out a deal with the nearby Achope village, Ilquitaa, who would gather and organize our supplies in exchange for protection. It seemed like a reasonable deal, and none in our group had questioned it.
It wasn¡¯t until we were awoken to the thunderous stampede of the titans storming our camp that we became aware we were being set up, betrayed. We lost many lives that day¡ªnearly two-thirds of the entire squadron¡ªand were forced to retreat, utilizing stolen merchant vessels and traversing the Maiu Qoli to safety. This was how we learned the hard lesson: the Achope would look out only for what¡¯s in their faction¡¯s best interests, not that of the entire continent. The Timuaq, we would later learn, had promised them significant wealth, plundered from the other factions, should they join their cause. The Achope are easily swayed¡ªno, they are easily bought, with riches being their main means of motivation. This knowledge was used to ultimately have them join the rebellion many harvests later, but everyone still looks at them with suspicion, even after the end of the war. Why I seemingly chose to ignore this conventional wisdom during our time in Chopaqte, I cannot say.
I kick myself for being so short-sighted. How could I not have realized we were setting ourselves up for being swindled? I gave in to her charms in Chopaqte, seeing her stand up to the tavern keeper and proclaiming to have some morals and a sense of justice. The entire moment could have been a ruse, some set up to sink her hooks into an unsuspecting victim likely to possess riches. It¡¯s this unpreparedness that gets one killed when you let your guard down for the slightest moment. There isn¡¯t much to do now but watch her attentively and make sure that she doesn¡¯t succeed with whatever she¡¯s planning.
Upachu seems unfazed by the matter. He takes in all the sights and sounds of the Auilqa jungle, grinning from ear to ear as he gazes upon the wonders of nature. Even amidst a heavy rain storm that drenches us from head to toe, he simply laughs in delight, finding humor in our misfortune. When we were helping the workers clear rubble at the Temple of the Titans, Upachu did so with a smile, humming a merry tune I hadn¡¯t heard since way before I could handle a practice sword. I wish I could be as blissfully unaware as he is. In a way, I admire his ability to enjoy the experiences of the journey despite the trials and encounters we faced, or the possibility of danger we¡¯re in now. I am too practical to be that na?ve.
It¡¯s likely S¨ªqalat is waiting for the right moment to rob and kill us when we¡¯re at our most vulnerable, isolated from anyone who could help us. Perhaps her initial plan was to leave us at the hands of the hostile Auilqa, known for their savagery and killing any outsider to their lands. Their misconception that I am a god to be feared must¡¯ve forced her to alter her plan, left to figure another way. No matter. I must ensure we¡¯re at the ready at all times, able to properly defend ourselves when the time comes.
I watch our hired guide with continued suspicion as we hack through the dense, lush vines. She carries on as though she holds no ulterior motive, no sinister plan. Could this be a fa?ade? Could I be over thinking the situation? These invasive thoughts are certainly occurring at a feverish rate the deeper we travel these jungles. For now, she acts as though she¡¯s on our side, striking the vines with aggressive determination to get Upachu and me to our desired destination. After numerous wordless days, she finally breaks the silence.
¡°So,¡± she begins without looking at Upachu or me, ¡°why do you want to go to this lagoon anyway? This so-called ¡®journey of discovery¡¯ can¡¯t be to simply wander around the humid jungles of Auilqa to be rained on and risk your lives to the hostile natives and beasts. What knowledge do you hope to ¡®discover¡¯?¡±
I respond to her question with a question of my own. ¡°You undertook this journey to guide us without question and without knowing our intentions. So why the sudden curiosity?¡±
She stops slashing at the thick foliage and turns around to face me. There¡¯s a look of disbelief in her eyes, as though she cannot understand why I¡¯ve asked something so offensive. ¡°Setting aside your consistent sidestepping whenever the inquiry of your journey¡¯s true purpose arises, you should be grateful someone has taken on the risks of trekking through Auilqa territory to get you both to your desired destination. I could¡¯ve let you aimlessly wander around the rainforest, but out of the kindness of my heart, here I am, leading you to this sacred lagoon¡ªwhich the Auilqa aren¡¯t thrilled about us going to, by the way.¡±
¡°Except you practically did let us wander aimlessly,¡± I rebut. ¡°And you¡¯re doing it for payment¡ªwe are paying you to be our guide.¡±
At this, she shrugs, which only angers me more. ¡°Confess!¡± I demand. ¡°You were uncertain how to get us to the lagoon until we encountered the tribe.¡±
¡°Oh, I knew how to reach it!¡± she remarks, stepping closer to me now, to where I can feel her warm breath and spittle on my face as she raises her voice. ¡°As you¡¯ve experienced, these jungles aren¡¯t exactly the easiest to navigate. But we would have arrived, Auilqa intervention or not.¡± She raises the device around her neck and jabs her finger at it, as though this gesture should prove her statement correct.
¡°But you announced to us that you obtained the directions to get to¨C¡°
¡°Eh, if I may,¡± Upachu interjects after a heavy sigh. He wedges his arms between me and S¨ªqalat, then expands them in an effort to separate us. It partly works, as she and I take a step back. But it doesn¡¯t prevent the glare exchanged between me and our guide. ¡°Let us not forget that we are all companions on the same path, albeit with different steps and different reasons.¡±
Upachu looks at me, though I resist breaking eye contact with S¨ªqalat. ¡°Teqosa, S¨ªqalat has indeed brought us closer to our destination, through terrains and encounters that would have bewildered and overwhelmed many. And S¨ªqalat,¡± he now looks at our hired guide, who also stubbornly refuses to look at him, ¡°Teqosa¡¯s caution is not without merit. The stakes of our journey are high, something that could determine the fate of Pachil. Not to speak in hyperbole.¡±
This elicits a scoff and an eye roll from S¨ªqalat. Upachu continues, ¡°I have always believed that transparency breeds trust, and trust is the strongest bond that can unite a group facing common adversities. Perhaps, Teqosa, it¡¯s time we share more about our intentions and fears. Not only to clear the air, but to strengthen our resolve as a unit.¡±
Now I glare at Upachu. ¡®A unit¡¯. He dares to try and speak my language, that of the military. Could he be truly suggesting such a thing? The possibility of including and involving someone outside of our circle could endanger our progress. We don¡¯t genuinely know this S¨ªqalat; for all we know, she could be working with the Eye in the Flame as some spy planted to undermine our mission. He is far too trusting to allow a relative stranger to learn what brings us to distant lands and perilous journeys.
Seemingly undeterred, he smiles gently, and a whimsical twinkle glints in his eyes. ¡°After all, if we cannot trust each other in the quiet moments, how shall we trust each other when the roar of danger surrounds us?¡± He seems oddly proud of that statement, as if he spoke wise words that will be repeated by every Great Librarian for as long as Qantua shall stand. I, personally, find it to be gibberish, and I¡¯m uninspired by his ramblings.
The jungle around us seems to quiet, as if listening in and waiting with bated breath for what will happen next, for how S¨ªqalat and I will react. Upachu glances between the two of us expectantly, likely wondering why we both still remain silent. I remain skeptical, not inclined to divulge anything. Yet, looking upon the elder¡¯s eager expression, I dislike disappointing him by not going along with his ideal plan.
¡°Fine,¡± I say, my voice low and measured. I feel the muscles in my face tense, trying my best not to scowl as I deliver the information. ¡°We seek something hidden away from prying eyes and those with evil intent. It is vital to preserving the balance of Pachil, to protect it from those who would seek to disrupt it. That is all I can share at this time.¡±
This doesn¡¯t appear to appease Upachu nor S¨ªqalat. What more do they expect me to say? If information of our journey gets to the wrong people, we could be in grave danger.
After the silence that lingers, and the urging stare from Upachu, I continue, albeit uneasily. ¡°Fine,¡± I snap. ¡°Our journey isn¡¯t just about exploration or understanding the myths of Pachil. We¡¯ve found clues leading us to believe that there are artifacts that may decide the fate of wars, of factions, and that one such artifact lies at the lagoon. But thatwill be all I share, for now.¡± I give S¨ªqalat a pointed look, making it clear that this is my compromise¡ªa not-so-small truth, but still holding back the full depth of our quest.
She listens intently with an unreadable expression, one that remains guarded. After a moment, her shoulders drop slightly. ¡±Does it have anything to do with what¡¯s dangling around your neck and those strange objects in the cart?¡± S¨ªqalat asks. My pulse quickens, and I glance at the stone-faced Upachu. Sensing my discomfort, she explains herself. ¡°I saw them when I was setting my belongings on the back of the cart. Bales of straw? You know, if they¡¯re supposed to be some guarded secret, you could hide them better than that.¡±
You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.
Upachu cracks a defeated smile like a child caught stealing sweet breads from the kitchen. He raises his hands to concede, to which S¨ªqalat chuckles. I have yet to find the humor in any of this exchange.
¡°It¡¯s fair to expect a bit of honesty,¡± she then says, brusquely. ¡°Thank you for trusting me with this. The tribe didn¡¯t speak of anything pertaining to artifacts or Pachil-altering revelations. Only old prophecies speaking of trials contained within the walls of the pyramid that rests on an island in the middle of the lagoon. And they dislike outsiders trekking to their sacred place, though they believe your amulet indicates you are one who is marked and allowed to pass its threshold.¡±
¡°Marked?¡± I ask.
She doesn¡¯t clarify, instead continuing with her explanation. ¡°You should know, the path we¡¯re on, the final steps to the lagoon and into the tomb? It¡¯s fraught with indescribable dangers. Something that, they say, no one has lived to talk about. That is what they expressed to me¡ªwith much trepidation, I should add.¡±
Delighted, Upachu smiles. ¡°There we are! Now we can proceed as allies!¡± He places an arm around each of us, squeezing our shoulders together. S¨ªqalat and I both resist being brought together, though reluctantly accepting his embrace. The top of his head barely clears our shoulders, but it seems to me his pride in this moment makes him stand as tall as giants.
We return to venturing deeper into this jungle, hacking and slashing at the impeding vegetation. S¨ªqalat occasionally looks down at the mechanism hanging from a necklace, though I¡¯m doubtful at how much it¡¯s aiding her navigation of the rainforest. The deep, resonant calls of distant creatures through the trees blends with the subtle rustle of leaves stirred by a gentle breeze. A hidden waterfall grows louder, the steady thrum of its relentless flow underscoring our footsteps. The air is thick, almost tangible, and filled with the scent of an impending rain that threatens to flood us out once again. Yet we persist, zigzagging around the vast number of trees, with only the occasional fallen logs or broken stumps that barely open up into a path for us to traverse.
Clearing the dense thicket, the path opens onto a vista that steals my breath. Before us stands an ancient pyramid towering above the lush jungle, its massive stone face bathed with the fiery hues of a dying sun. The vivid colors of the sky cast a surreal glow over the scene, with the tomb¡¯s intricate carvings glowing like gold. Vines cling to its weathered surfaces, and flanked by verdant foliage, a broad, red staircase leads up to its grand entrance, though the base of these steps are shrouded by a thick mist that hovers above the lagoon.
With an arrogant smirk, S¨ªqalat splays out her arms as though presenting the scene to us, announcing, ¡°See! I told you I knew the direction we were heading was correct!¡±
¡°Even the wildest river still finds the sea,¡± I remark, earning a smack on the shoulder from Upachu.
The pyramid appears to float above the trees, as a heavy fog cloaks the bottom of the stone building. There¡¯s a question as to how we should approach, with no bridge or water vessel to get us across. And, should we attempt to traverse the waters, it¡¯s uncertain where we could even dock, or how far we need to go.
Up until the edge of the mist, I can see the bottom of the lagoon, and I wonder if it¡¯s shallow enough for us to walk through. When I propose this to the group, S¨ªqalat immediately dismisses the idea. ¡°Do you know what¡¯s swimming around in those waters?¡± she asks. Shaking my head, as I have no idea, she says, ¡°I¡¯ve heard stories of the treacherous fish with sharp teeth like small daggers that will shred your skin in a few heartbeats! Or large anacondas that will wrap around you and suffocate you before swallowing you whole. And those are just a few of the stories! What¡¯s actually in there? I don¡¯t want to find out.¡±
I sigh, exhausted by the excessive amount of caution exercised over stories and folklore. However, Upachu looks gravely concerned by this, petting the llama profusely. ¡°We can¡¯t endanger the llama, or ourselves, Teqosa. We¡¯ll need to fashion a raft, or some means of getting across.¡±
Another sigh. When I ask for help, Upachu begins clutching his lower back. ¡°Ooo, at my age, and with how much further we¡¯ve got to go on this journey, I¡¯m not certain that¡¯s a good idea,¡± he says through a strained voice. When I remind him of the rubble and debris he helped clear at the Temple of the Titans, he slyly responds, ¡°That¡¯s probably what caused my back pain, then!¡±
For better or worse, S¨ªqalat offers her assistance, eager and energetic. Lacking the proper tools to make a raft, we use our respective weapons¡ªher borrowing the obsidian sword and me using the glaive¡ªto chop down the thick trees and cut them into sizable pieces. There isn¡¯t much hemp twine available to bind them together, leaving us with a problem of getting everyone, and everything, on board.
S¨ªqalat jumps with excitement. ¡°I¡¯ve got it! It¡¯ll be slow, but we¡¯ve already taken a good portion of the day, so what¡¯s a little more time? We can go back and forth, bit by bit, until we eventually all make it across. I¡¯ll start with an exploratory trip over, to see where we can land, and I can take the cart with me. Then, I¡¯ll return to¨C¡°
Without hesitation, I begin to protest this plan as I rush over to the cart and retrieve my glaive. ¡°We cannot leave that cart out of our sights. There are too many valuable items contained within to risk something happening to them.¡±
¡°I¡¯ll hold onto the papyrus and the other two clay pots,¡± Upachu states. ¡°If some predator damages the others, well, we¡¯re already here, so there¡¯s no harm if they get broken.¡±
After considering this, I grunt in reluctant acceptance, though I¡¯m still not entirely on board with this plan. It takes us most of the day to craft a water vessel, but upon completion, S¨ªqalat volunteers herself and the cart to explore the possible island in the center of this lagoon. We watch her slowly disappear into the ceaseless fog, fading out of sight as does her rhythmic paddling.
¡°How can you trust her so unconditionally?¡± I ask Upachu while S¨ªqalat remains out of range. ¡°Do you not believe she could possibly possess ill intentions? She could be a robber, for all we know, seeking the perfect opportunity when we¡¯re at our most vulnerable and abandon us.¡±
¡°While I admire your ability to always find the good in people, your continuous distrust and cynicism is unfounded here,¡± he says. ¡°If she really wanted to rob us, or worse, why wait until we travel deep into dangerous Auilqa territory to do so?¡±
¡°Because there could be valuable riches contained within this place, and she is letting us lead her to it, only to betray us in the end!¡± I exclaim. I hear my voice echo across the waters, and I quickly lower my voice to a near whisper. ¡°We need to be mindful of her actions, watching her every move.¡±
Upachu chuckles heartily. ¡°My friend, I¡¯m not certain what has changed between now and Chopaqte, but I believe you need to be a bit calmer, especially when it comes to matters involving our hired guide.¡±
S¨ªqalat¡¯s journey takes an excruciating amount of time, given me too long to mull over Upachu¡¯s overly-trustful sentiments. He tries his best to distract me while I wait, but I¡¯ve become tired of his topics of conversation. My mind cannot focus on anything else, and it¡¯s fixated on the potential betrayal awaiting us at S¨ªqalat¡¯s hands. Or, perhaps, it has already happened, and she has left us on these banks of the lagoon while she seeks the valuables contained within the tomb on her own.
It isn¡¯t until I hear the gradually increasing sounds of our makeshift ores piercing the waters when I grow just slightly relieved. Only she returns, giving me the impression she¡¯s found a place for us to land on the island. She grins from ear to ear, puffing her chest out with pride.
¡°You¡¯re going to believe this,¡± she exclaims, ¡°but I, the great S¨ªqalat, have found the island. It¡¯s¡ tricky to get to, with plenty of rocks protruding from the surface¡ªnearly took myself out by a few of those sneaky ones! But I believe I¡¯ll get better at navigating them with the next few trips!¡±
Her enthusiasm only infects Upachu, chuckling along with her. Unamused, I remind her, ¡°we still must have all of us cross the lagoon some way or another.¡±
¡°Of course!¡± S¨ªqalat remarks. ¡°So, hop aboard and¨C¡°
I cut her off. ¡°I refuse to leave Upachu vulnerable to the dangers of the Auilqa jungles.¡±
Leery, S¨ªqalat says, ¡°Okay¡ so, then, he can travel with me first, and¨C¡°
¡°And allow you to murder him on the island? Not a chance. Upachu and I will travel to the island first. Then I will return for the llama. Then you.¡± I declare.
S¨ªqalat smacks the sides of her legs, exasperated. ¡°But you don¡¯t know where to go,¡± she says.
¡°I will find it,¡± I reply. ¡°If you were able to do so, I can do so.¡±
¡°Teqosa,¡± Upachu says, gently placing a hand on my shoulder. ¡°You are being needlessly difficult right now. We just talked about trusting one another, didn¡¯t we? Well, you need to put some trust into her. She returned, after all. Weren¡¯t you worried about that moments ago, eh?¡±
I frown, letting out a frustrated snort. He may be correct in this moment, but it doesn¡¯t mean he couldn¡¯t be misguided about trusting her. She¡¯ll still need to be minded.
¡°Fine,¡± I concede, finding myself doing so too much during this journey for my liking. ¡°Cross with Upachu first. Then, the llama. Then, me.¡±
The other two nod and accept this proposal. And so, as the pair paddle away, I¡¯m left with nothing but the lapping water and my churning thoughts. Is this what the path has made of me, a warrior combating phantoms even in the light of day? I can¡¯t entirely fault her for not disclosing everything when I refuse to do so myself. Perhaps Upachu¡¯s unwavering optimism is not naivety, but a strength I¡¯ve allowed the shadows of past betrayals to steal from me.
When she returns, S¨ªqalat looks exhausted, warily rowing to the landing. She attempts to play this off, pretending to still possess a day¡¯s worth of energy, but she and I both know she must be tired from all the travel and rowing. I extend my hands, offering to paddle the remainder of the way, but she pauses. It¡¯s as though she¡¯s not accustomed to relinquishing control, even for a little bit, and she wrestles with the idea of doing so internally. After a brief moment of consideration, though, she calmly obliges.
The waters are calm, almost peaceful. Once more, we travel in silence, quietly taking in the little of the environment we can see. S¨ªqalat points out the approaching rocks¡ªthe only words exchanged between us¡ªgiving me ample time to push off and navigate around them. As we approach the shores of the island, Upachu awaits with a wide, knowing grin and shrugs his shoulders, as if to indicate to me that he was right about trusting her.
From the banks of the island, the swampy ground is soft from the mud and stagnant water. The aroma of wet stone emerges as we draw nearer, mixing with the vegetal smell of moss that clings to the tomb¡¯s weathered steps. The base of the large pyramid finally comes into view, and it¡¯s apparent we¡¯ll need to climb the steep steps in order to enter.
I look between the llama and the stairs, questioning what we should do about the animal. Do we leave it outside the tomb, exposed to possible dangers of the rainforest? Upachu, however, attempts to reassure me. ¡°This is a sacred place, protected by the creator of all things, Iolatl. She will ensure the llama is safe. Besides, predators are more common in the dense jungles than this lonely isle. Come, let¡¯s make our way up these steps.¡± Though S¨ªqalat nods her agreement, it¡¯s only because of Upachu¡¯s confidence in the creature¡¯s safety, given his admiration for the animal, that makes my decision to leave it behind easier.
Mountains have easier grades to scale than these steps, requiring us to climb up and lift ourselves to the next platform. S¨ªqalat jumps to the stair¡¯s ledge with ease, swiftly pulling herself up and over. She turns back, extending a hand to help catch Upachu. I lock my hands together and hoist him up, heaving him high above my shoulders. The guide catches his wrist and hauls him to the platform. With a leap, I lift myself up, straining the muscles in my arms and barely able to swing my leg around to allow my foot to catch the edge. Once I roll onto the stone surface, I exhale, lying on my back, and uncertain how many more of these stairs I¡¯ll be able to climb.
Upachu has a hearty laugh at this. ¡°I thought they trained you better at the Maqanuiache, Teqosa!¡± S¨ªqalat smirks, seemingly enjoying the sight of me being exhausted after one step. Maybe it¡¯s a means to ease my stress, but I find myself briefly joining in the laughter.
As we continue our ascent, the trek grows increasingly precarious. Each step is a labor, more daunting than the last. The wind begins to howl the higher we climb, and the ominously darkening sky makes it difficult to distinguish safe footholds from treacherous ones.
S¨ªqalat nimbly scales another massive step ahead of us. Before she turns around to expectantly reach for Upachu, however, her confidence seems to falter for a moment as she tests the stability of the next stone with her foot.
¡°Careful,¡± she calls back to us. ¡°These stones aren¡¯t as solid as they look.¡±
Upachu nods as he nervously examines each foothold before stepping forward. I watch, holding my breath as I await his signal that the way forward is safe before following behind. I lower myself and prepare for him to place his sandal onto my balled-up fists to hoist him up. S¨ªqalat crouches down and extends her hand.
Suddenly, there¡¯s a sharp crack¡ªthe sound of stone breaking under strain. With a startled yelp, S¨ªqalat¡¯s foot finds air as the stone beneath it crumbles in an instant. The rocks fall and fall, cascading down into a never-ending abyss as black as the night. The cavernous pit goes on forever, and the stones make no clattering noise, as they never appear to reach a bottom.
With a gasp, she scrambles, her arms flailing for anything to halt her descent. She manages to grab onto a jutting piece of the adjacent stair, her fingers whitening as they desperately clutch at the rough surface. Her breaths come in sharp gasps, as her body swings out over the void.
¡°Teqosa!¡± she cries out, her voice slicing through the wind.
I secure Upachu against the stairwell, ensuring he¡¯s out of immediate danger, then rush towards S¨ªqalat. My heart pounds as I see her hanging there, looking up at me with pleading eyes full of fear. I reach the edge just as another part of the stair gives way, dust and small stones tumbling down.
Her grip slips further, her fingers scraping against the stone. ¡°Please,¡± she gasps, barely audible over the wind as she strains to hold on, ¡°don¡¯t let this be my end. This is not the sacrifice to be made.¡±
For a moment, the world seems to freeze as I brace myself to pull her up. I stand over her as she dangles over the abyss, my mind racing. Do I trust her? Do I save her?
I place one boot across her fingers.
100 - Legido
You lock eyes with Lander, both frozen in place as he¡ªshe?¡ªis left holding the bandages that were being applied all around their torso. No words pass between you two, staring and left standing stupefied; the only sounds resonating within this secret place are of the creaking ship and commotion of the busy workers walking above deck. Your mind scrambles, trying to figure out what you should do. Do you alert somebody? Do you run away, never to speak of this again? You do neither of those options, instead gaping at the sight in this hidden compartment within the ship by the kitchen.
Lander clutches the bandages to their bosom, then reaches for the oversized hat. Their long hair, save for the shaved sides of their head, cascades over their shoulders, but other than that, you can¡¯t discern any features that would¡¯ve tipped you off to Lander¡¯s true identity. Or, perhaps, this is the true identity; you can¡¯t determine.
¡°I-I can explain,¡± Lander stammers. You¡¯re uncomfortable, feeling like you¡¯re imposing. Lander has been a tremendous ally during your time on this ship, and you¡¯re compelled to back away, to leave Lander be and pretend you never saw anything. Although, in the back of your mind, you know you¡¯ll always know, and this can never be unseen.
You start to apologize for your intrusiveness, but your efforts are waved away. ¡°No,¡± Lander sighs, ¡°it¡¯s okay. I suppose someone was going to find out sooner or later. I just hoped my secret would¡¯ve lasted a bit longer than this. But, if someone was going to discover it, I¡¯m relieved it¡¯s you.¡±
Lander secures the bandages around their chest with a clip, then gradually begins putting on their loose, white shirt. ¡°My name is actually Landera,¡± they say, relaxing their shoulders and sounding somewhat relieved, as if the burden they¡¯ve been carrying has been lifted a bit.
¡°Everything I¡¯ve said is true,¡± Landera says, thrusting their other arm through the shirt sleeve. You make sure the secret door behind you is shut and secured, then sit crosslegged on the floor next to them. ¡°I am from Luzigar, and my father is a shipbuilder there. Well, was. He was receiving contracts from the wealthy nobility. Except one day, he fell ill. It started out small, an uncontrollable, sporadic coughing fit, something he could work through. But then it got worse. He became too weak, too exhausted, to work long enough to meet demand. Doctors didn¡¯t know what was the cause, or how to cure it. But he remained undeterred, and kept working.¡±
Landera¡¯s gaze falls to the floor, stopping their progress of getting dressed. Spots of red are already starting to show through the bandages near their ribs. You look around for a needle and thread, and tell them to lift up their shirt so you can stitch them back together. At first, Landera looks reluctant to allow this, and you can tell they would rather tough it out, much like their father with the shipyard work. Upon further reflection, however, they change their mind, and gingerly expose the wounded area.
Next to Landera is a spool of thread, but a needle is absent. Being some kind of storage area for the kitchen, you find the bones of fish and other disposed food items lying about. Taking one of the fish bones, you recall the procedure your aita taught you, turning the bone into a needle. Doing this for the first time on your own, your craftsmanship is lacking, to put it nicely, but it¡¯ll have to do. The gash is still bleeding, though not as profusely, and you¡¯re able to start sewing the wound together, albeit while progressing methodically.
¡°He couldn¡¯t keep up with demand, and then business began slowing down,¡± Landera continues while you work. ¡°It became difficult to pay the workers at the shipyard, so my father was offered a loan from a local merchant. I warned him not to do it¡ªit seemed too obvious that he was making a deal with someone with bad intentions. Sure enough, that turned out to be a costly mistake.¡±
Landera sighs, grimacing occasionally as you work the makeshift needle through their side. Or is the grimace from the story they¡¯re telling? It¡¯s difficult to discern which. ¡°The man demanded repayment seemingly right away, and at an exorbitant rate. Of course, my father couldn¡¯t repay. Just as I had warned him. The stress only compounded the illness, and soon, he was too sick to work. To pay off the loan, the merchant seized the business. My father is able to do the odd job here and there around town, but it¡¯s hardly enough to sustain himself. And¡¡±
Landera drifts off, lost in thought. You don¡¯t want to disturb them, so you continue sewing. They suck in air through their teeth from a sharp pain, as you accidentally drive the needle through a tender area of the wound. You go to apologize, but again, Landera waves you away with their free hand.
This brings Landera back to the present, back to this room. ¡°I knew I had to do something. When I heard rumors about an expedition, I knew I had to join. The riches we could obtain could not only buy back my father¡¯s business, but expand it! Except¡¡± Their voice trails off, and they¡¯re overcome with a look of shame or disappointment. ¡°I had to leave my father behind. There¡¯s no one there to care for him. I worry that¡ maybe I will be too late. That I won¡¯t get the riches in time to save the business, and to help him live comfortably, to pay for the medical attention he needs. I worry¡¡±
Even in the dim light of the lantern, their hazel-green eyes shimmer brightly, and a tear trickles down Landera¡¯s weathered cheek. You pause your work, placing a consoling hand upon their shoulder. You can only imagine the pain they¡¯re going through, knowing full well what it¡¯s like to leave family behind in undesirable conditions. After a few sniffles, and wiping their hand across both cheeks, Landera takes a deep breath and nods, assuring you they will be alright.
¡°Anyway,¡± Landera says after a couple more sniffles, their voice still slightly shaky, ¡°from what I¡¯ve overheard at the shipyard, I knew life on a ship is no place for a girl. Most expeditions subject women and girls to the worst treatment¡ªboth in the tasks they are assigned and¡ in the conduct they endure. I know enough about ships, even as a girl, thanks to being around my father so much. So I figured I could pass myself off as a boy, disguising myself as a means of protection.¡±
Listening to Landera¡¯s tale and of the difficulties her family faces, you think of your own family¡¯s struggles along with hers. It feels like life on Legido has been hard on nearly everybody. Well, everybody who isn¡¯t a noble, of course. It makes you wonder why more people aren¡¯t joining on this expedition. Why all of your homeland hasn¡¯t boarded a ship and set sail in hopes of a better life, leaving that place behind. Surely, whatever you find in the new world can¡¯t be worse than Legido.
With a few more stitches from the fish bone needle, you sew up Landera¡¯s wound completely. She tests out the sutures, twisting and contorting her body, moving her arm about. She seems content with the work done, nodding in approval.
¡°You won¡¯t have to worry about me exposing your secret,¡± you say, hoping to put Landera at ease. Though still looking uneasy, she eventually accepts your well-intended assurances. Allies are difficult to come by, you find, and you¡¯re determined to make sure you do nothing to ruin the bond you have with Landera.
¡°We should probably get back to the crew,¡± she notes, sounding slightly hesitant, but resigned to the fact that you must rejoin your shipmates, ¡°before anyone starts to suspect something.¡±
You agree, knowing that, though the ship might be large, word and gossip can travel quickly. After collecting the rest of her belongings, the two of you discreetly slip out of the hidden closet. You shield Landera¡¯s exit, making sure nobody sees you leave together, and you seamlessly mix in with the rest of the crew.
The two of you separately find your way to your beds, with nary an eyebrow raised upon your arrival. The crew and travelers are focused squarely on their routines, their nightly rituals. Switching into their sleeping garments¡ªor simply undressing down to their undergarments¡ªtucking their young children into bed and telling them tales to help them fall asleep, saying prayers to Xiatli, passing around a bottle of whichever libation is available.
You start to drift off, reflecting on the events of the day. There¡¯s a part of you that feels betrayed, wondering why Landera had never come to you with this before. She¡¯s been your only ally on board, and you value her camaraderie, especially as she showed to have your back during the aftermath of the storm. Have you not proven to be trustworthy? Then again, if life on a ship is truly that cruel, who could blame her for guarding her secret so closely. Perhaps, as your friendship grew to be more than great acquaintances, she would¡¯ve confided in you, especially once the ship arrives at its destination¡ªor adestination, so it would seem. That she¡¯s telling you now, you know she¡¯s placing her trust in you. And you know you will do whatever it takes to protect her secret.
The commotion from the deck finally stirs you awake the following morning. Lander is¡ wait, you mean to say Landera¡ She¡¯s nowhere to be seen. Her belongings are still by her bed, giving you a bit of relief, but you still fear for her safety. As you make your way up, the fresh ocean air and usual bustle of crew activity invigorates you. It¡¯s been countless days, weeks, even months since you¡¯ve been aboard, but you¡¯re finding yourself settling in with life at sea, becoming more comfortable with the lifestyle. You may not want this to be your life permanently, of course, but you¡¯re no longer nervous nor fearful of facing the challenges it brings.
Repairs to the ship are nearly complete. The masts stand proudly once again, sails snapping rhythmically against the wind¡¯s insistent pull. Large patches made from scraps of broken barrels and crates cover the gaping holes punctured into the hull. Your nose feels the acrid sting of fresh tar that seals the wood against the relentless sea. Above, the rigging has been tightened, creaking softly under the strain as it holds firm against the waves.
This alone would be enough to lift spirits aboard the ship. But it¡¯s the excited shouts from the lookout that brings the crew into a near festive mood. An overwhelming surge of energy and excitement takes over the bow. Crew and travelers mob the area, whooping and pointing at the sky.
You push your way through the dense crowd, sneaking underneath legs and squirming between the pressed bodies. After fighting to get to the front, there it is¡ªthe most wonderful sight you have ever seen: soaring majestically above the waves, a grand bird unfurls its vast wings. The bird swoops and ascends again, its underwings flashing a brilliant white against the slate-grey feathers that stretch as wide as ship sails. Riding the tumultuous air currents, it seems to be a master of the skies as it glides effortlessly.
This tale has been unlawfully obtained from Royal Road. If you discover it on Amazon, kindly report it.
Everyone aboard knows what the sight of this bird implies¡ªone doesn¡¯t need to be a seasoned sailor to understand. Yet it doesn¡¯t stop the people from enthusiastically exclaiming it anyway. ¡°A bird! We must be close to land! We¡¯re nearly there!¡±
People hug one another, exchange kisses on cheeks, and lock arms to dance a few jigs. Soon the entire ship is in celebration, flooded with the sweet sounds of instruments brought from below deck. Strains of a plucked guitar mingle with the rhythmic tapping of hand-held drums, called tamborils. The lilting melody of a pair of txistus weave through bright, joyful playing of bandurrias. The click-clacking of castanets snap in time, and even the vibrant music of a trikitixa fills in the gaps.
From across the bustling deck, you spot Gartzen. Though still a bit stern, his expression is less guarded than usual as he takes in the festive scene. Your eyes eventually meet, and his gaze sharpens¡ªa flicker of recognition? Maybe something deeper? It¡¯s gone before you can read it, and he abruptly turns his attention to something off to the side. You take a deep breath, preparing to cross the deck and bridge the gap between you two, feeling a bit of both apprehension and determination. But almost as if on cue, a boisterous crew member barrels into him, dragging him into the lively dance, and effectively pulling him away before you can reach him.
Laughter rings out, melding with the music that fills the ship from bow to stern. As the music vibrates through the planks under your feet, you can¡¯t help but be swept up in the excitement. The collective relief is palpable after all this time of uncertainty at sea.
As you tap to the rhythm of the tamborils and lose yourself in the harmony, there¡¯s an unexpected and loud crack, followed by a sudden lurch of the ship. The music falters, and a discordant note hangs in the air as the laughter dies down. The ship groans ominously, and the deck tilts slightly under your feet. Usually it¡¯s so responsive to the helm, so what could be happening?
¡°Did we hit a rock?¡± one of the sailors shouts, but is swept away by another crew member as they rush off.
Captain Lema¡¯s voice cuts sharply through the sudden quiet, his usual calm demeanor replaced by an edge of urgency. ¡°To your stations!¡± he barks out, and the festive atmosphere evaporates as quickly as it had formed.
¡°Brace yourselves!¡± the first mate yells as the deck shifts once again. Cries of alarm ring out amidst the rush of sudden activity.
You follow the scrambling crew members, and there¡¯s an overwhelming sense of foreboding as they hurriedly work to assess the problem. The captain stands at the helm, his hands gripping the wheel tightly with a furrowed brow in concentration. ¡°The rudder¡¯s not responding!¡± he shouts over his shoulder to anyone who can hear. His hands fight against the helm that now spins with a disturbing freedom, unguided by the usual resistance. ¡°We¡¯re drifting off course!¡± Below deck, the sounds of hurried footsteps and shouted instructions echo as the reality sets in: the newly repaired ship is still in a fragile state.
Gartzen approaches with a grim set to his mouth. ¡°Need all hands checking the rudder ties,¡± he commands. Despite the residual chill between the two of you, the emergency melds every individual¡¯s tensions into a singular focus. ¡°Come on, we need to make sure it¡¯s nothing a quick fix can¡¯t settle.¡±
You trail behind the grizzled sailor to the aft of the ship, where the world seems to tilt more aggressively. This is supposedly where the rudder mechanism is housed, you recall. A few other crew members have already gathered, their faces etched with concern.
¡°Alright, first thing¡¯s first,¡± Gartzen barks. ¡°We need to check the tiller ropes. If they¡¯re frayed or snapped, we¡¯re adrift.¡± His arm swings out, fingers pointing at the thick ropes that you now know to be the lifelines between the wheel and your steering control. Your learning on this long voyage has been a patchwork of necessity and observation, but terms sometimes escape you like slippery fish.
Inspecting the ropes becomes a communal probe. Your hands run over the fibers, seeking any weaknesses. And there it is¡ªa rope fraying at the edges. ¡°Gartzen!¡± Your voice cuts through the murmuring sea, directing his attention to the damaged ropes. ¡°Over here!¡±
Gartzen strides over, his eyes narrowing as he assesses the situation. ¡°That¡¯s our culprit,¡± he declares, his eyes scanning the damage before setting into motion again. ¡°Fetch the spare ropes. No time to dally.¡±
While one crew member rushes to fetch the spare ropes, Gartzen directs the rest of you to start untying the damaged rope. The task is made more difficult by the ship¡¯s constant movement, tossing you to and fro just when you believe you¡¯ve got your footing, but you manage to keep your balance and work swiftly.
While a crew member is sent scrambling for supplies, Gartzen orchestrates the removal of the compromised rope. The ship bucks like a live creature beneath you all, testing your sea legs while you work to untie the threatening strands.
¡°Check the pintles and gudgeons,¡± Gartzen orders another, who nods and moves to the joints that hinge the rudder to its post. ¡°If those pins are loose or damaged, the whole rudder could come off.¡± These terms are more foreign, but you diligently pay attention, taking in every bit of information you can in case something like this should happen again.
The crew member carefully inspects some metal fittings near the sternpost, then eventually nods. ¡°They¡¯re holding,¡± he calls out, a breath of relief in his voice.
¡°Right, let¡¯s thread this new life into her veins,¡± Gartzen says as you all pull the replacement rope taut, grunting while securing it to the wheel with hurried hands. It¡¯s a strenuous task, requiring all the strength and coordination you can muster, but you set your jaw and give it everything you¡¯ve got. You refuse to allow another crisis on your watch.
With a final tug, the rope is declared fit. Gartzen allows a rare nod of satisfaction. ¡°That should hold us for now. Back to your posts. Keep her steady,¡± he orders. As you disperse, the crew is relieved and claps each other on their backs and enjoy muted celebrations.
Your respect for Gartzen deepens like the sea beneath you, how calmly he handled such a near catastrophic event. You wish you could have a more engaging exchange, returning back to the relatively friendly dynamic you once had. Yet, knowing the divide that¡¯s formed between you both, you opt to keep the exchange simple.
¡°Hey, great work back there,¡± you say with a meek smile. ¡°That could¡¯ve been much worse, I bet. It¡¯s a good thing you¡¯re around to keep everything under control.¡±
Gartzen snorts, but to your surprise, he appears to accept your compliment. He bows his head as a way of saying ¡®thanks¡¯, before reaching into the inner pocket of his weather-beaten coat to retrieve a pipe. It¡¯s an old, well-used briar with a bit of a dark patina from years of handling.
¡°T¡¯was just doing my job,¡± he says in a gruff voice as he pulls out a small leather pouch that¡¯s worn soft from years of use. Focusing on the activity instead of having his eyes meet yours, he loosens the drawstring to reveal a supply of crumbly, dark tobacco. He pinches a small portion, carefully packing it into the bowl of the pipe.
¡°Well, still,¡± you respond, trying to think of something, anything, to say just to keep the conversation going a little bit longer. All you can think of is, ¡°It¡¯s a good thing you know how to do your job so well. Handling a busted rudder can¡¯t be easy. I mean, you figured out the problem so quickly!¡±
You start to kick yourself internally, hearing how child-like your excessively enthusiastic compliment sounded. Gartzen doesn¡¯t appear to notice, tamping the tobacco down gently into the pipe with a small metal tool. He checks the draw by pulling air through the pipe, inspecting it with a discerning look.
¡°I¡¯ve seen worse,¡± he mumbles. He doesn¡¯t seem satisfied with the pipe, so he adds a bit more tobacco, packing it less firmly this time. ¡°We were sailing around the Cape of Ice many moons ago, Captain Lema and me. I was young¡ªbarely had my sea legs under me. And Captain had only sailed between Valendur and Luzigar. It was his first real expedition. Just following the coastline. Wasn¡¯t supposed to be long, but the shore kept going and going.¡±
Gartzen strikes a match, shielding the flame from the brisk sea air with his other hand. Is he¡ actually speaking to you? And in a friendly manner? You tell yourself to stay calm, biting your tongue and focusing on attentively listening to him recount this tale.
¡°Hardly had enough supplies to make the journey,¡± he grunts, holding the flame just over the packed tobacco. He draws deeply, and the tobacco begins to smolder. ¡°Sailing around nothing but ice, we considered heading back. But Captain is a stubborn man, a determined man. That is, until the rudder snapped.¡±
He puffs a few times to get a good light, then pitches the matchstick to the ground and promptly stomps on it to snuff it out. ¡°I followed the first mate down there and could only stare at the mass of ropes,¡± he says, and you think you hear him chuckle. Or perhaps it was a cough. ¡°So many ropes, spanning every which way. The first mate smacked me upside my head to get my attention. Ended up telling me what to look for. Just like what I done with you earlier. We managed to find the problem, but not before getting bucked about like the ship done turned into a bronco. Ship nearly capsized, we took so durn long to fix the thing. My bones were sore for weeks after.¡±
Gartzen settles the pipe in the corner of his mouth, and a thin wisp of smoke curls up to mingle with the salty breeze. He turns his attention to you with the pipe steady between his lips. ¡°I studied them ropes for days, seeing where each one was connected to what. Never wanted to go through something like that again, ever.¡±
He removes the pipe and points it at you, as if to punctuate his statement. ¡°Learn things like that, observe like that, you¡¯ll be the most indispensable person in a crew. Too many people walk around like they know everything, but the sea? The sea will humble you. Learn you that you don¡¯t know nothing. It¡¯s all about watching, taking in everything that goes on around a ship, and respecting the sea.¡± His gaze lingers on you for an extended period, and you think he¡¯s trying to tell you something, trying to teach you something. You nod, knowing this is not a lesson he gives out to anybody.
After a few more puffs from his pipe, with the smoke gently floating into the salty air, he nods, then abruptly walks off, heading above deck. The moment feels like a summer storm, one that approaches suddenly and without much notice, hits you with an inordinate amount of rain, then vanishes almost as quickly as it came, leaving you confused in the sunshine.
You return above deck, as well. The sea air tastes sweet, not its usual brininess, and you chalk it up to the successful solving of the rudder issue. Or maybe you¡¯ve simply grown accustomed to it by now. You gaze overboard into the deep bluish green waters that splash into the side of the ship. The rhythmic sounds lull you into a daze as your thoughts drift off, thinking about home. How¡¯s your family doing? How¡¯s the farm? How¡¯s the harvest? Well, you know the answer to that one, given how hot and dry the summer was, and how little rain you received.
You wonder how long this expedition is going to take, how soon you¡¯ll find the riches that will help support your family. Same for Landera and her father back in Luzigar. You hope it¡¯s not long. Even though you¡¯re likely to be reprimanded by your aita and ama, you miss them and want to take care of them. You want to make sure they never have to worry about a poor harvest ever again.
As you consider what occupations you and your family can do, once you obtain your wealth, you spot something peculiar. Something floats on the water¡¯s surface. It looks like someone¡¯s thrown wilted lettuce overboard, and you wonder why food is being wasted in that manner. It¡¯s not until you¡¯re joined by someone else on board, some sailor taking long drags off a poorly crafted, hand-rolled cigarette, when you learn what it actually is.
The sailor nearly drops his cigarette into the water at the sight. He wordlessly points at it for a moment, his jaw practically on the deck. He stares at you, shocked. Is this a good thing? Something bad? You can¡¯t tell. He quickly runs off, grabbing a few other sailors and telling them something loudly and excitedly. When they return, he shows them, pointing to the same wilted lettuce in the waters. Now, there are several long strands of it, and you begin to suspect there¡¯s something more to this spectacle.
¡°Kelp!¡± they exclaim. They begin hugging one another, then pointing back at the stuff. ¡°It¡¯s kelp! I can¡¯t believe it!¡±
A sudden commotion stirs at the bow. Voices rise, fingers jab towards the horizon. You narrow your eyes against the glare of the sun, the sea spray cool on your face. At first, what appears to be a series of large, dark clouds looms ahead. But as your eyes adjust, a startling clarity takes hold: those aren¡¯t clouds. They¡¯re colossal mountains, their dark silhouettes brooding and majestic against the skyline.
¡°Land, ho!¡± The lookout¡¯s shout echoes from the mast, piercing through the murmur of the crew as he emphatically points ahead.
Your heart races, pounding like a tamboril. The end of your long journey is in sight.
101 - Haesan
What¡¯s done is done, yet my mind struggles to grasp the pandemonium before me. I can only look upon Onixem with pure shock. Though, should I be surprised? It¡¯s something she¡¯s stated she has wanted to do countless times before. But for her to actually go through with it, to actually kill both of her parents? I¡¯m at a complete loss for words.
I wrestle with the idea of committing such an act against my father, the Arbiter of Pachil. There are so many reasons for me to despise him, to want him deposed of his position, to answer for his sins. It¡¯s why I wanted to work alongside the Qente Waila, after all. And there¡¯s the supposed prophecy which foretells that Achutli will fall, slain by his own blood. Knowing this destiny binds me to a dark future, I struggle with this calling, this curse.
Yet when I think about doing what Onixem has just done, I can¡¯t envision myself ever killing my father, no matter how much I loathe him and want to see him fall. What hatred must I possess in my heart to carry out such violence? At least Achutli had the decency to give me to two people who could raise me as if I were their child, instead of simply casting me away in the middle of the jungles of Achope. That being said, there has got to be a way for him to suffer for what he¡¯s done¡ªto me and to those innocent lives of Pachil¡ªto seize on the opportunity to only enrich himself at the expense of those he deems lesser.
Exhausted and battered, the Tuatiu warrior peels herself off the ground and struggles to her feet. Dust and dirt cling to her sweat-drenched skin as she steadies herself. Her eyes sweep across the quiet chaos around her, remnants of her clash with Onixem¡¯s parents. Our gazes eventually meet, though hers is one overcome with weariness. What was her name again? Too much has taken place between her arrival and now for me to recall such a thing. However, it appears she recognizes me, as she lowers her head in a solemn bow.
She takes only a few steps toward me before we hear it. Like a rolling thunder, the approaching footsteps of hundreds of warriors thud their way to our location. My heart leaps into my throat, fearing it¡¯s the Eye in the Flame closing in around us. When I see the orange and red tunics of the Tapeu, I¡¯m only mildly relieved; while I¡¯d be more than happy to never see the crimson or ashen gray robes of those cultists ever again, I¡¯m uncertain if Achutli achieving victory is a good sign, either. How will he assert his rule, now that the sun has risen anew in his favor?
As the dust settles, the Tapeu warriors emerge, encircling us. Leather armor hangs heavy on their shoulders, scored by blades and arrows from the day¡¯s brutal encounters. With their edges caked in dried mud, sandals and boots shuffle silently over the scattered debris about the palace grounds. Their faces are streaked with sweat and grime, yet their eyes give no hint of surrender. These men and women are a storm worn thin, yet nowhere near broken.
From behind the line of the Tapeu warriors, an unmistakable figure detaches itself, striding forward with the setting sun crowning him in a brutal halo. His bronze armor clinks with a rhythmic clang of metal that echoes over the battlefield like the ominous tolling of a bell. Red and yellow feathers fan out from his back like the flames of a pyre. It¡¯s him¡ªAchutli, the Arbiter, draped in the orange and red tunic of the Tapeu that¡¯s been speckled and splattered with blood.
He doesn¡¯t see me, or perhaps he chooses not to. His eyes in narrow slits search the horizon for threats. There¡¯s a grace to him, I¡¯ll grant him this much, as he gestures with the bronze spear that extends from his fist. The geometric gold on his turquoise sash glimmers. Upon seeing this, I can only view it as a symbol of the false promise of richness and prosperity under his rule. To Pachil, he is the Arbiter, the unyielding guardian of the land. To me, he¡¯s nothing but a stranger clad in the guise of a father, a man who fears his own blood more than the enemy before him.
Scowling next to him, The Falcon, Anqatil, stands. Though less ornate than the Arbiter¡¯s armor, hers still carries the marks of her high station: deep blues and vibrant reds woven into the fabric beneath her breastplate, which itself is embossed with the stylized image of a swooping falcon, wings outstretched in predatory grace. Lining her shoulders and cresting her helmet are shorter feathers of a less ostentatious plumage, in a mix of dark browns and muted golds.
She moves through the ranks of warriors with a swift, calculated precision. The moment her sharp gaze lands on me, it hardens like the obsidian edges of the twin daggers strapped at her waist. There¡¯s a simmering disdain in her eyes, as if I were the sole blemish on the battlefield. She exercises restraint, opting not to charge and slice me with her blades on sight, but instead stands vigilantly by Achutli¡¯s side.
¡°Secure the area,¡± Achutli barks his command, pointing in all directions around the grounds. ¡°We must be certain the enemy has been vanquished. Check the palace, and leave no stone unturned.¡±
Dozens of men leap at the chance to heed the orders, scurrying about the once vibrant terraces and ceremonial courtyards. To think, a celestial celebration had occurred here not long ago, moments before the assault to Qapauma. Now, there¡¯s nothing but desolation everywhere I look.
Achutli looks on at the destruction, as well. He remains expressionless, analyzing the scene without showing any reactions to the devastation. Is he simply putting on a brave mask, or does he genuinely feel nothing for this place?
¡°Watch the girl, too,¡± Anqatil instructs, pointing to me with the tilt of her head. ¡°If she tries anything, report to me immediately.¡±
What ever does she mean by that? I¡¯m confounded by her assertion, and I want to storm over there to confront her. She doesn¡¯t make any other gestures, instead sticking to the hip of Achutli as he walks around the grounds. The watchful eyes of several palace guards feel like restraints around my wrists and ankles, holding me in place for fear of upsetting the wrong person, namely Anqatil. Would she strike me where I stand if I make a gesture she deems threatening?
¡°You there,¡± Achutli shouts, looking at the Tuatiu warrior. ¡°From your colors, I see you are Tuatiu. What is a girl of your faction doing so far from the jungles?¡±
Still woozy, the Tuatiu warrior starts to stagger toward him. However, several of the palace guards bear down upon her position, drawing their halberds as a signal for her to come no closer to their leader. To her fortune¡ªor, should I say instead, to theirs¡ªshe halts her progress.
¡°Arbiter of Pachil, I am here along with warriors sent by the Qantua council to protect the capital,¡± she says, slightly out of breath.
Anqatil looks around exaggeratedly and splays her arms out wide for showmanship. ¡°I see none of your brethren. Nor do I see the Qantua. Have they all perished in battle? Or have they somehow vanished into the air?¡±
¡°I was too busy slaying the minions and sorcerers of the Eye in the Flame to keep track of the dozens upon dozens of warriors I brought to your aid,¡± the Tuatiu warrior says bitingly. She then smirks, adding, ¡°Perhaps you¡¯d prefer I had left some for you to handle?¡±
Achutli bursts out laughing, something of which I never thought he¡¯d be capable. To hear it, especially amidst the scene around us, is¡ jarring. ¡°I like this one!¡± He walks over to the Tuatiu warrior, chuckling the entire way. His amusement only deepens Anqatil¡¯s scowl.
¡°What is your name, warrior?¡± he asks. Now he addresses her as ¡®warrior¡¯ and not ¡®girl¡¯ as he had just moments ago?
The warrior looks as equally wary as I am. ¡°Inuxeq,¡± she responds with a tinge of caution. ¡°From Iantana. I have been sent by the Tuatiu leader, Haluiqa, along with the council at Hilaqta.¡±
¡°You come highly entrusted by several entities, then,¡± Achutli remarks, clapping her on her shoulders in what I believe to be some strange show of affection. This entire moment feels surreal to me, how he can treat this relative stranger so warmly, but not his own daughter.
¡°Was Teqosa included in the decision?¡± Achutli asks, tilting his head slightly.
Inuxeq nods. ¡°It was he and I who made our case to¡ inform the council of the Eye in the Flame¡¯s threat upon the capital.¡±
Oddly, Achutli pauses for a moment¡ªperhaps imperceptible to most, but something of which I take note¡ªbefore saying, ¡°I¡¯m grateful to still have allies in Qantua.¡± This statement, and the polite smile he flashes after making it, is even more alarming to me.
¡°But what about the slain quraqas before her, Sapa,¡± Anqatil asserts, pointing to Onixem¡¯s dead parents. ¡°They have been struck by arrows, and this one,¡± she points accusatorially at Inuxeq, ¡°possesses the likely weapon.¡± Now facing Inuxeq, she shouts, ¡°Explain yourself, Tuatiu girl!¡±
¡°It was I who killed them, Sapa,¡± Onixem declares, stepping away from my side and approaching Anqatil. ¡°They were my parents who massacred quraqas as we sought protection in the throne room, upon their many other misdeeds in service to the Eye in the Flame. They needed to be stopped, so I put an end to them, before they caused any more destruction.¡±
¡°You?¡± Anqatil says, perplexed, her words and gestures more exaggerated and pronounced than usual when in the presence of Achutli. ¡°Killing your own parents? What evidence do you possess as proof? If anything, you could have killed them in the name of our enemy, attempting to claim innocence for such a heinous act!¡±
¡°I was witness to their treasonous acts,¡± I say as I force the nervous lump down my throat. ¡°They were performing a ritual in the name of the Sunfire and their god, Eztletiqa. They were sorcerers, and¨C¡°
¡°We¡¯re to believe you?¡± Anqatil says, now jabbing the air at me. ¡°The one who¡¯s to betray their own father? Is this some kind of sick joke?¡± She now turns to Achutli, ¡°Sapa, surely you don¡¯t believe this nonsense!¡±
Inuxeq steps forward. ¡°They were, indeed, sorcerers for the Eye in the Flame. While I am not privy to the events inside the throne room, they were seeking to attack anyone they considered an enemy to the Eye in the Flame. It is also true that this one,¡± she points to Onixem, ¡°was brave enough to stand up to her parents and stop their terrible acts by killing them.¡±
Achutli looks piercingly at Inuxeq, then at Onixem, eyes narrowed as though he¡¯s trying to stare through them, trying to look into their spirit. Then, as if the gods or the Eleven or whomever suddenly strikes him with a conclusion, he snaps his head up and smiles. ¡°If the one called Inuxeq declares it so, then it is so. There is no reason to doubt her claim.¡± When Anqatil goes to object, Achutli repeats himself with added emphasis, ¡°There is no reason to doubt her claim.¡±
Anqatil appears incensed, not wanting to drop the matter. She scoffs, then shuffles to his side and mutters something inaudibly to him. Achutli, however, has already moved on, stepping away from us and walks toward the desecrated ceremonial courtyard where the nobility once festively gathered. Anqatil stands there, stunned, as he leaves her behind.
He doesn¡¯t make it far before another stampede rumbles, gradually growing in intensity. Achutli stops and turns, investigating the disturbance along with the rest of us. Before I notice anything, the guards have their weapons drawn, pointed toward the demolished gates of the palace grounds. Achutli¡¯s bemused face suddenly turns to scorn as he looks on to see who approaches
Marching between the remnants of the gate, two armies arrive in the courtyard. One wears the familiar black and gold, the colors of the Qantua warriors, looking bruised, beaten, and battle worn. These are the warriors who are led by Inuxeq and her Ulxa companion. Though, of note, the red and black of the Ulxa is nowhere to be found at present. My heart sinks, hoping he hasn¡¯t been killed in battle, but fearing the worst for him.
If you encounter this story on Amazon, note that it''s taken without permission from the author. Report it.
The other army¡ªa matter of great concern¡ªis the arrival of the Qente Waila, their prominent jade green and magenta flamboyantly paraded among their numbers. Some hold magenta banners with a green hummingbird stitched into the middle, waving defiantly overhead. Weapons held at their sides, they exude an air of triumph, chins proudly raised and chests puffed out. I¡¯m taken aback at the sight. These are rebels, seeking to depose Achutli, yet they stride into the palace grounds with such confidence, unafraid of any repercussions they could face?
One of the leaders is Texani, a face I haven¡¯t seen since we began planning for preparations of the impending assault. He looks around, taking in the destruction of the palace, yet he doesn¡¯t seem to notice Onixem nor me. Maybe he¡¯s pretending not to know me, his lack of acknowledgement being an effort not to expose my intentions or mission with the Qente Waila¡ªa mission that has been completely cast aside, now that there¡¯s been an assault on Qapauma.
The palace guards begin to charge at the Qente Waila. Achutli calls out to them, demanding that his men stand down. Anqatil follows his command by instructing them to remain ready at the first sign of trouble, which seems to annoy Achutli. Does he find her to be overstepping?
¡°So, the rebels have decided to reveal themselves, have they?¡± Achutli shouts, his throaty voice raises to a high pitch, defying the commanding presence he seeks to exude. ¡°The factions of Pachil are grateful you have decided to turn yourselves in, after your poor attempts to depose my rulership.¡±
A burly figure with broad shoulders standing beside Texani laughs heartily, setting off a ripple of laughter among the others, like stones cast into still water. ¡°You seem to misunderstand the situation, Achutli,¡± the man says, his wide grin stretches across his boxy, square jaw. By not using his title, Achutli is visibly agitated. ¡°We¡¯ve spent the whole of the day defending this great city and your pathetic palace.¡±
¡°The palace that lay in ruins? That palace?¡± Achutli asks, pointing behind him at the crumbled remains of the structure. ¡°Clearly, you were working in tandem with the Eye in the Flame to make sure Qapauma was destroyed!¡±
The burly man laughs once again. ¡°Quite the imagination, Achutli. I¡¯m not surprised to hear you say anything to save face, since your feeble efforts to defend your precious throne failed catastrophically. Did you forget there are civilians who live beyond the palace walls? The people you¡¯re supposed to defend, yet left to be slaughtered by the Eye in the Flame? Fortunately for Qapauma, the Jade Hummingbird was at the ready, fighting for the people.¡±
The Qente Waila gathered at the courtyard lift their weapons and let out a fierce battle cry. The whoop is so loud that it causes the Tapeu warriors in the distance to stop their search around the palace grounds and look at what¡¯s happening here. The Qantua warriors, meanwhile, look visibly uncomfortable, exchanging nervous glances with one another and uncertain what they should be doing, or whose side they should be on. They fought alongside the Jade Hummingbird, both parties defending the city valiantly. Yet they were brought here under the pretense that they were protecting it in the name of the Arbiter.
While Anqatil looks enraged, Achutli is unamused. ¡°You don¡¯t fight for the people; you only seek to destabilize Pachil. Your so-called rebellion only brings more chaos and suffering.¡±
Texani takes a step forward, thrusting his sword to emphasize his point. ¡°When the historians at the Great Library of Hilaqta speak of this day, they will speak of the Qente Waila rescuing the land from tyranny¡ªthat of the Eye in the Flame, and that of you!¡±
¡°The only tyrants are the rebels seeking to depose the one stabilizing entity of this land,¡± Anqatil shouts in response.
Irritated, Inuxeq storms to the front, placing herself between the two combative sides. ¡°This is madness,¡± she shouts, reprimanding the two groups. ¡°There is a bigger threat that seeks to destroy all of Pachil. Unless one of you brainless stalks of maize defeated their leader¡ªthe one called ¡®Sunfire¡¯¡ªthey will come back, and with more of those gray beasts. And if you idiots keep fighting amongst yourselves, we¡¯ll all be dead before we even have a chance to defend our homes!¡±
Leaders from both sides take offense to Inuxeq¡¯s harsh words. I feel the need to step in, to defend her position, before the two sides unify in their dislike of her and imprison her for contempt. But Achutli won¡¯t listen to me, and I¡¯m not confident the Qente Waila won¡¯t consider me inconsequential.
The Jade Hummingbird and Achutli¡¯s loyal defenders start up their spat once again. The accusations fly¡ªeach calling the other tyrannical, or a threat to Pachil, or corrupt, or na?ve. They slowly come together, mere steps from one another. The Qente Waila intimidatingly thump their wooden shields with their weapons. The palace guards thrust their weapons in short jabs toward those in jade green. The Qantua stand back¡ªwisely, I would say¡ªwatching the calamity unfold.
¡°You will lay down your arms and face justice, or be crushed under my heel like the cockroaches you are!¡± Achutli demands, glaring at the Qente Waila and pointing his bronze spear threateningly.
The rebels refuse, shouting back, ¡°We will never bow down to a tyrant who harbors cultists!¡±
Achutli looks baffled by this accusation, and Anqatil scoffs, making a show of how utterly offended she is. ¡°You accuse falsely,¡± Anqatil derides them, ¡°just as everything that¡¯s come out of your mouths has been lies.¡±
¡°Then what say you of Xaqilpa?¡± Texani yells over the discordant shouting. ¡°Is he not a member of your council, oh wise and all-knowing Arbiter? Because he has been seen on countless occasions colluding with the Eye in the Flame! You have allowed those cultists to infiltrate your throne room! Did you not think us capable of discovering this information?¡± I hold my breath, hoping he doesn¡¯t explain further how he came upon this news. Will he reveal his source? Am I to face swift repercussions?
To my relief, Texani says nothing more of this, asserting, ¡°You are corrupt, Achutli, and you must step down, or prepare to be deposed!¡± The Qente Waila¡¯s unified shouts of ¡®corrupt! corrupt!¡¯ ring throughout the courtyard. Tapeu warriors and palace guards begin shoving the rebels, who shove back in turn. A skirmish breaks out, as both sides use their shields to push their opponents to the ground. Inuxeq barely escapes, somehow appearing far from the clash and next to the Qantua warriors a safe distance away, much to my astonished relief.
¡°Enough!¡±
The yelled words reverberate over the din of the fighting. Aside from the stray, occasional shove, the Tapeu warriors and rebels stop abruptly. Their heads swivel from side to side to see who made such a loud pronouncement.
From the corner of the courtyard, Nuqasiq briskly approaches the gathering. Flanked by a slew of guards in orange and red, her face is a mask of pure rage. With just her gaze alone, I¡¯m certain she would burn these petulant children to ash.
¡°Look what this conflict has wrought!¡± she remarks, commanding attention from all sides. ¡°Our home lies in ruins, and our people suffer while we tear each other apart. Is this the Pachil we fought for? Is this the legacy we wish to leave for our children?¡±
¡°This infighting must end. We face threats that seek to destroy everything we hold dear. They do not care for your allegiances, your titles, or your lands. They will annihilate everything if we continue down this path of division. If their leader lives, the Eye in the Flame will return stronger than before. We cannot afford to be divided when the true enemy lurks in the shadows.¡±
She pauses, her gaze sweeps over the rebels and the loyalists, before continuing with a more deliberate tone. ¡°In our moment of need, we must have a leader who can unite us, someone who understands the true essence of Pachil. We need a leader who can bring hope through wisdom and compassion.¡±
Nuqasiq now stares at Achutli. ¡°If you are not fit to unite the people of Pachil, perhaps it is time for new leadership, indeed.¡± She now looks among all who are present. ¡°But this decision must not come from violence and chaos. It must come from a shared vision for our future¡ªa future where we stand together against the true darkness that threatens us.¡±
One of the Qente Waila leaders smirks. ¡°Your words are honey, Queen Mother. You ask for unity, for mercy. Yet do you believe your son would offer such kindness upon those who see his corrupt ways for what they really are? How can we work alongside in unison with one who harbors the enemy within his court?¡±
¡°Your son only seeks to enrich the quraqas within his own circle,¡± Texani shouts, ¡°while everyone else is left to starve, to work their hands to the bone only to support his corrupt ways¨C¡°
¡°Do you not think I don¡¯t know this?¡± Nuqasiq states. There¡¯s a pause, as we¡¯re all too shocked by this to speak. Has she actually acknowledged, actually confessed, her own son¡¯s corruption? Has she just expressed disappointment in her own son and made clear her desire to have him step down?
She continues, ¡°It is because of this that I plead with him, with my son, to end his corrupt ways, and make amends with the people he¡¯s sworn to serve by helping the Tapeu find a leader we all can stand behind. We must all work together, help each other, or else evil like the Eye in the Flame, like the Timuaq, will see us into extinction.¡±
There¡¯s not a closed mouth in the entirety of the palace grounds. Stunned, we can only stand frozen in place. Achutli glares at his mother, astonished that she would cast her own son into the fires of chaos. His voice shaking from fury and vitriol, he spits out his words to her, ¡°So you¡¯re the ¡®blood¡¯ that betrays me! I always knew you did not want me to be Arbiter!¡±
Then, like a wave crashing into the shore, the Qente Waila resume the skirmish, shouting at Achutli, ¡°You are the destroyer of Pachil! Your reign must end!¡±
I want it all to stop! I want the fighting to cease, and the sides to reconcile! But they¡¯re engaged in battle, two sides that sought to protect Qapauma, now fighting one another. Over and over in my head, I repeat the words, Stop! Stop this insanity! Stop! Yet no one heeds my call.
I now plead aloud, ¡°Stop! Stop this insanity!¡± I know I must possess the power to influence everyone here¡ªI was able to stop Teqotlo and Aluxeqwel¡¯s horrific sacrificial slaughtering in the throne room. Why is it not working? Then, doubt creeps into my mind. That was my doing¡ wasn¡¯t it? I wonder to myself.
Something tugs at my arm. I look over, and Onixem has clasped my right arm.
Confused, I ask, ¡°What are you doing?¡±
Onixem ignores me, calling to Texani and the Qente Waila leaders, ¡°I have Haesan! She is the daughter of the Arbiter!¡± She begins pulling me toward them. Is she¡ apprehending me?
I ask¡ªno, I demand an answer from Onixem, ¡°What are you doing!¡± Once again, she doesn¡¯t respond. I do my best to resist, dragging my feet and pulling away from her. I try to wrest my arm free, but she latches on, locking her arm around mine. She goes to grab me with her other hand, but I spin away, struggling to break free.
You don¡¯t want to do this, I think, pleading inside my head for Onixem to stop whatever plan she thinks she¡¯s enacting. I¡¯m not the enemy! I¡¯m trying to help!
For a brief moment, I feel as though I see doubt seep into Onixem¡¯s mind. It reminds me of the moment in the throne room, when her parents were mercilessly killing the nobles for their dark purposes. Am I having an effect here, now?
I keep repeating the near mantra over and over in my head. I¡¯m not your enemy, Onixem. I can help, but I can only do so if I¡¯m free. You don¡¯t want to do this.
I feel her grip on my arm loosen slightly. Whether this is my doing or the result of her own internal battle with guilt, I can¡¯t be certain. All I know is, this is my chance. I yank my arm free, her hand now grasping at air. I go to run, but another pair of hands grabs my shoulders. It¡¯s another member of the Qente Waila, her look is severe and resolute.
¡°I¡¯ve got her, Sister Onixem,¡± she says. She¡¯s siding with Onixem? ¡°We can bring her to the leaders, see what they want to do with her. We can use her capture as a means for negotiating with Achutli.¡±
¡°Or with the Queen Mother, at least,¡± another one chimes in, joining this misguided plan.
¡°Don¡¯t call her that!¡± the other one scolds. ¡°That¡¯s acknowledging their power!¡±
All the while, Onixem looks dazed, staring blankly at nothing. Is she confused as to what she should do? Is she conflicted about going through with this plan?
The two members of the Jade Hummingbird drag me away, toward the skirmish taking place in front of the ruined palace. A few shouts cry out above the muddled noises of fighting, sounding as though the rebels look to retreat, to regroup. I¡¯m being yanked away from the palace now, and I can see we¡¯re all confused about what¡¯s happening. Where are they taking me? What¡¯s going to happen to me? I thought I was part of the original plan, seeking to help them depose Achutli, but now I¡¯m captive? Was this their intention all along?
In an instant, my vision goes black. The world is nothing but muffled sounds of yelling and a sharp ringing in my ears. I feel myself cringe at the noise, but¡ am I actually cringing? Am I still alive? Have I been knocked unconscious?
The scene suddenly reappears before my eyes. I gasp as though I¡¯ve been holding my breath for an extended period underwater. Everything around me is blurry, and my eyes have to adjust to the brightness, even during the setting sun. The fighting sounds to be a ways in the distance, far from wherever we are. I can finally hear the breeze that brushes against my cheeks.
¡°I wasn¡¯t sure that would work,¡± a woman¡¯s voice says next to me, sounding a bit amused. She¡¯s clutching my arm tightly, and we¡¯re both walking toward a mass of bodies, standing at attention.
¡°Onixem?¡± I squeak out my question, trying to wrestle out of her grip. I look at the figure, squinting to see who¡¯s apprehending me. The shade of green is difficult to distinguish, but when I notice her height is shorter than that of the Tapeu noble, I realize I¡¯m no longer being held captive by the Qente Waila.
She snickers. ¡°You want to go back to them? No, no. I could see they had ill intentions once it was announced that you¡¯re the Arbiter¡¯s daughter. It seemed to me it was best that we all got out of that mayhem. I ordered the warriors to the city¡¯s north, to relocate and regroup. Figure out what on Pachil we¡¯re to do now.¡±
We approach the awaiting Qantua army, standing in a field just outside the now mutilated city walls. They¡¯ve begun collecting their belongings, preparing for a long march away from this desolated place. The waters of the Haqu Suquinoq gently wash upon the shore. A wind rustles the tall reeds as it sweeps the grassy dunes. The sun dips behind the mountains far in the west, coating everything in hues of blues and purples. The serene setting is nothing like what we experienced just moments earlier¡ªor for the entire day, for that matter.
¡°So,¡± Inuxeq asks, now that I¡¯ve finally caught my breath, ¡°where do we go from here?¡±
102 - Teqosa
It would be easy. Just step, then kick out. She would plummet into the abyss. One problem gone.
I look down upon S¨ªqalat, my leather boot resting on top of her whitening knuckles that strain to keep her from falling. I think Upachu calls out to me, but I can¡¯t be certain; muffled sounds that could be from someone shouting is barely discernible to my ears. All I can focus on is the empty, black void behind her, beneath her, surrounding her. Her feet dangle, swaying in the emptiness.
Just one step, I think to myself, kick out, and then she¡¯ll be gone.
It¡¯s her eyes that make me change my mind. I expect her to show fear, or alarm, or anger, or sorrow. I expect her to plead for her life, for me to spare her. Instead, there¡¯s a resolute calm, a serenity, an acceptance of her fate. Without speaking, it¡¯s as though she¡¯s telling me, ¡°do what you must.¡± Why is she not resisting?
Do it, my thoughts continue to say. Be rid of her.
Something inside me snaps. It¡¯s as though I¡¯ve been awakened from my slumber, from a bizarre dream. I look down at my foot in horror. What am I doing? How could I do such a thing?
Without hesitation, I drop to the ground and grasp her forearms. Her copper bracelets clatter together as I do my best to hoist her up and over the cliff edge. With her waist just above the ledge, she swings her leg out, stretching her toes until they touch the flat stone surface. Together, she¡¯s lifted to safety, catching her breath in sharp heaves.
¡°Sun and sky, Teqosa!¡± Upachu exclaims. ¡°What on Pachil were you doing?¡±
¡°I¡ I don¡¯t know,¡± I answer, honestly unsure what came over me. My mind is in a fog, questioning how I got to that position. ¡°I was overwhelmed by a voice in my head, telling me to do it. I¡¡± I find myself at a loss for words, unable to process what happened. It sounds farfetched¡ªthere¡¯s no way I would believe someone who was telling me the same excuse. But, while I may have my disagreements and suspicions about S¨ªqalat, I would never allow myself to commit such a horrible act. Then again, seeing what just occurred, doubt creeps into my mind. Would I do such a thing? Am I capable of going through with something like that?
I turn to S¨ªqalat, looking over to her to make sure she¡¯s okay, both physically and mentally. Once again, there¡¯s a steadiness in her demeanor. She¡¯s not reacting like someone who was suspended over the edge of an abyss, with her life on the line. Was she¡ expecting this?
Upachu shuffles over to her. ¡°Are you alright, child?¡± His eyes are wide and filled with concern. He seeks to comfort her, hunching over and leaning in to more closely inspect her for wounds. Eyes cast to the ground, she pats his consoling hand.
¡°I¡¯ll be okay,¡± she says breathlessly. She licks her lips as if she¡¯s considering whether or not to say something. After a pause, she starts to pick herself up, dismissing Upachu¡¯s offer to assist her.
We eventually make our way to somewhere we hope is safer, walking toward the large mouth of the cavernous tomb. Inside, it¡¯s surprisingly cool, with moss clinging to nearly every surface at the entrance. Our feet slip on the slick floor, while the cold, damp air sticks to my skin and clothes, much like the surrounding moss to the stone. When we determine the ground beneath us is perhaps unlikely to drop into a never-ending void, we take a brief moment to collect ourselves, to figure out what happened.
S¨ªqalat seats herself onto a patch of moss, looking down toward her feet. I can tell she¡¯s preparing herself to speak, to impart some unfortunate news. ¡°The Auilqa tribe,¡± she begins. ¡°They¡ warned me of the potential challenges we could face. They spoke of spirits that tempt you to act on your most base desires and horrific notions¡ªthe primal, immoral instincts lurking in the recesses of your mind. Toying with your insecurities, your doubts, fears. Something you normally wouldn¡¯t even consider beyond being a fleeting thought. That sort of thing.¡±
¡°And you didn¡¯t think to tell us of this before we arrived to the tomb?¡± I ask, my irritation evident.
¡°I didn¡¯t think it was true!¡± she remarks defensively. ¡°I thought it was just some old Auilqa legend or lore. I mean, the Auilqa are more clever and intelligent than the other factions give them credit for, but there are some tales that are too far-fetched to be believable. I thought what they were saying was along the lines of stories told to children.¡±
¡°You still should have told us,¡± I snarl. ¡°That should be up for us to determine, not you and you alone, S¨ªqalat.¡±
¡°I get that now,¡± she says meekly. ¡°I¡¯m sorry. I¡¡± She slouches, and her shoulders sink. Upachu walks over to her and reaches down to pat her on the back. I just shake my head, annoyed, but relieved that nothing terrible ended up resulting from the moment.
¡°Is there anything else to which we should be privy?¡± I ask.
S¨ªqalat frowns. ¡°Not until we make it into the center of the tomb.¡±
¡°And what happens there?¡± Upachu inquires, leaning in with anticipation. His eyes widen with a childlike curiosity, belying his age. ¡°What secrets does the heart of the tomb hold? What challenges lie in wait?¡± I would find the moment humorous if it didn¡¯t involve the possibility of our death.
S¨ªqalat takes a deep breath. ¡°A sacrifice is to be made when we reach the center.¡±
Upachu gasps. ¡°A sacrifice?¡± he parrots. ¡°Like the savage ceremonies of the Ulxa? We must kill one of our own?¡±
¡°They didn¡¯t specify,¡± she replies downheartedly. ¡°I was trying to get them to explain themselves, but that¡¯s when they abruptly walked away from us. I¡¯m not sure what happens when we get there, what that moment looks like. And I don¡¯t know what¡ªor who¡ªgets sacrificed, or how that gets determined.¡±
The memory comes flooding back to me. ¡°Is that why you mentioned ¡®this not being the sacrifice¡¯?¡± The words hit me like an arrow, suddenly occurring to me. But the events just took place only moments earlier, so why does it feel like a long-buried memory?
S¨ªqalat nods solemnly. ¡°Other than occurring when we arrive¨Cno, I mean it, when we arrive at the chamber, I don¡¯t understand what it could mean, to have to make a sacrifice.¡±
We finally pick ourselves up and resume our trek to the center of this pyramid. We move in silence for a time, each lost in our thoughts. Upachu walks ahead, his excitement tempered by the grim revelation of what awaits us. S¨ªqalat trails behind him with her head bowed, clearly troubled by the unknowns that lie ahead. I find myself walking beside her, stealing a glance at her. I note the slump of her shoulders, the way her eyes are fixed on the ground as if searching for answers in the moss and dead leaves that swirl around the tomb.
It strikes me then, how harsh I was with her. Yes, she made a mistake, but haven¡¯t we all? Haven¡¯t we all misjudged a situation, acted on incomplete information?
¡°S¨ªqalat,¡± I begin, my voice softer than before. Apologies have never come easy to me, especially in the midst of such tension. She looks up, surprise flickering in her eyes. ¡°About earlier¡ I shouldn¡¯t have snapped at you like that. This whole journey has us all on edge.¡±
She nods slowly, her expression guarded. ¡°I understand, Teqosa. It¡¯s just, I wanted to protect you all. I thought I was doing the right thing by not alarming you with what I believed were just legends.¡±
¡°I know,¡± I reply, a touch of regret seeping into my voice. ¡°We¡¯ve all got our burdens to bear. I want us to be prepared for whatever we might face. And that means knowing everything, even if it seems trivial.¡±
She still looks burdened by something, reluctant to share. Eventually, she says, ¡°You know, I, too , heard a voice.¡±
My expression is of both surprise and concern. ¡°What did it say? Did it want to betray us, like mine sought me to do?¡±
¡°No, nothing like that,¡± she says solemnly. ¡°But it did play off insecurities. It¡ was unpleasant. And unkind. When I was suspended over the ledge, it was telling me how I¡ how I¡¯m¡¡±
She looks pained as she reflects upon the voice. If it spoke as mine did, the realization of what could have possibly happened is unsettling. I don¡¯t wish for her to relive those moments, so I nod and leave the conversation at that. The air between us feels slightly less tense, though the awkwardness lingers. However, we walk on, side by side.
We begin to descend inside the tomb, with the air getting colder and danker the further we go. The faint light from the outside barely reaches us now. The damp conditions means it takes me several strikes with the flint to light the only torch among the three of us.
¡°Where are we to go?¡± Upachu asks, sounding a bit nervous.
I think I see S¨ªqalat shrug. ¡°I¡¯m not certain. The Auilqa villagers didn¡¯t provide me with any directions other than how to get to the tomb. They seemed to make a point of reminding me that those who have entered have not returned.¡±
I sigh, trying my best to not blame her for not receiving the instructions. She got us to the tomb¡ªthat is what we paid her to do¡ªso I can¡¯t fault her for our current situation. I reconcile with feeling unsettled and prevent myself from expending that anxious energy by casting blame. I suppose when there¡¯s not much to look at externally, amidst this I can only look internally.
After wandering aimlessly within the cavernous tomb, I find that we¡¯ve traveled in circles. The narrow, stone passageways all look familiar, and it appears the path we¡¯re traveling on leads right back into places we¡¯ve already been. One would think we¡¯d be able to notice when we¡¯ve rejoined an old route, yet the paths appear to seamlessly blend in with one another. How is this possible?
I look back on the previous challenges with which we¡¯ve been confronted¡ªat Wichanaqta and the living labyrinth inside Qantua¡¯s territory. There always appeared to be some test of our ingenuity, something that dared us to solve something if we wanted to venture further and reach our desired destination. Maybe there¡¯s something we have yet to spot, something that could clue us into a solution to this never-ending loop we¡¯ve walked.
¡°Perhaps,¡± Upachu says, ¡°we can mark the walls, to see if we truly are traveling the same path.¡±
¡°Sure, we could do that,¡± S¨ªqalat says with hesitation, ¡°however, the markings might not stay visible. The moss and moisture here are constantly changing, constantly growing. Any mark we make could be covered up or erased in a few moments. Plus, if this tomb uses illusions or magical tricks, like the ones playing with our minds, those marks might not even show up where we expect them to.¡±
Upachu frowns, considering her words. ¡°So what do you suggest?¡±
¡°I think,¡± S¨ªqalat replies, glancing around and stroking her chin, ¡°we need to look for something inherent to the tomb itself¡ªsomething that can¡¯t be manipulated or erased. A symbol or pattern built into the stone that guides us or shows us the way forward.¡±
¡°Amidst all this moss?¡± Upachu questions. He¡¯s not wrong¡ªevery surface is coated in slick moss, despite the lack of any sunlight.
It¡¯s that thought that gets my mind racing. ¡°Despite the lack of any sunlight,¡± I mumble aloud, which startles Upachu and S¨ªqalat; up until now, I¡¯ve been relatively silent. ¡°The walls, the paths¡ªthey all look the same, but there must be something unique hidden among the uniformity. Perhaps there¡¯s something already there, shrouded by the moss.¡±
My eyes search the familiar walls once more, my gaze lingering long on the moss. The single torch casts flickering shadows, and I notice something peculiar about the way the moss grows. It¡¯s not uniform¡ªsome areas seem to have a slight indentation, as if the stone underneath is not flat.
I step closer to one of these indentations, brushing aside some of the moss. Dirtying my fingers, I trace the grooves of a spiral carving, previously hidden by the thick growth.
¡°These spirals,¡± I say, stepping even closer to the wall until my face is practically planted into it, ¡°they¡¯re hidden by the moss.¡±
S¨ªqalat tilts her head, intrigued. ¡°What do you mean?¡±
I run my fingers along the carving, feeling the subtle, weathered grooves. ¡°The moss is growing over the spirals, but you can see where the stone dips. If we find all of them, we might reveal the true path.¡±
Upachu looks puzzled, examining another section of moss-covered wall. ¡°But as you observed, there¡¯s no natural light here. How can the moss be growing?¡±
I think for a moment, overcoming the frustration that¡¯s starting to grow within me. ¡°Maybe there¡¯s a way for light to seep in. Maybe if we follow the spirals, they might lead us to a part of the tomb where light can reach us.¡±
¡°Like a map, to show us the right path!¡± S¨ªqalat exclaims. Upachu and I nod, hopeful to have found the answer.
We move through the passageways, searching for the remaining spirals and clearing the moss to reveal them. There doesn¡¯t seem to be a consistent way these spirals appear; some have the tail of the spiral start at the bottom, some at the top, and others in various points between. Could it be positioned based on where we are within the pyramid? I¡¯m uncertain of the significance of their placement, yet I note it nevertheless.
The three of us continue making our way, progressing slowly while following the faintly visible spirals. The chill is almost equal to a winter in Qantua, with a breeze freezing my bones. Upachu isn¡¯t wearing the thick robes of the Great Library, and his frail body is noticeably shivering. I remove my fur shawl that lines my armor, handing it to Upachu for warmth. He¡¯s grateful, graciously accepting it. The armor is stiff and rough upon my shoulders, but I¡¯ll handle the uncomfortable conditions if it means Upachu won¡¯t freeze to death in a tomb in the Auilqa jungles¡ªa possibility I never would have considered.
Stolen story; please report.
Something about the path we¡¯re on gives me a quiet confidence that we¡¯ve made positive progress. The torch starts to flicker, as though a gust of wind occasionally tries to blow it out.
¡°We must be near a place that has access to the outside,¡± I declare, growing eager to find our way out. No sooner than I make the observation, we arrive at a significantly larger spiral, as tall as a couple of people placed on each other¡¯s shoulders, with the moss etched deeply within the crevasses of this stone wall. Small notches sporadically mark around its edge, yet they¡¯re big enough to slip my fingers into. Could these be grabbed? Does this spiral turn or move?
When I inspect the holes, there¡¯s a faint glimmer of light seeping through the cracks around the stone. I point at it emphatically. ¡°The light source must be behind this stone!¡±
¡°But how do we access it?¡± S¨ªqalat wonders, staring inquisitively at the surface.
I place my fingers within the notches and begin to tug and pull at the spiral. However, it doesn¡¯t budge. I strain my muscles to move it, trying to open this door to allow us to pass through, yet it remains still.
Frustrated, but not defeated, I step back, investigating the spiral and hoping a solution will leap out at me. I think back to the smaller spirals on our way to this location, recalling the position of each spiral¡¯s tail. I mention this to the others, talking out what I¡¯ve noticed.
S¨ªqalat frowns. ¡°So they¡¯re all different. What does it mean? Is there something significant about that?¡±
¡°Maybe it¡¯s a sequence,¡± I note. ¡°Each spiral¡¯s position might indicate a step in the process to align the larger one.¡±
¡°So, we have to travel all the way back to determine the sequence?¡± S¨ªqalat complains. ¡°Do you know how many spirals we¡¯ve seen? We could be here for the rest of our lives!¡±
I shake my head. ¡°Let¡¯s think about it. There must be a way to determine the sequence without retracing every step.¡±
Upachu examines the notches closely. ¡°Look here¡ªthere are faint markings next to each notch, almost worn away, but still visible if you look closely. I¡¯d say they match the positions we saw on the smaller spirals.¡±
I nod. ¡°That¡¯s what I had thought. The sequence isn¡¯t random¡ªit¡¯s been laid out for us. We just need to match the notches to the positions we remember.¡±
We try turning the larger spiral, thinking back to the positions I noted from the smaller ones. I start by aligning each notch in a certain sequence¡ªone where the tail starts at the top, then at the bottom. Nothing happens. I try a different position to start, and still, nothing happens. After a few more attempts with little results, I begin to wonder if the solution I¡¯ve observed is leading us down a false path.
Sensing my frustration, S¨ªqalat steps forward and squints, placing her face close enough that her nose grazes the moss. She makes a few grunts and mmhmm as she stares at the spiral. When she suddenly jolts and jumps with excitement, she startles me and Upachu.
¡°The notches are different sizes!¡± she exclaims. ¡°I would bet the next several rounds of chicha that the sequence involves spinning the spiral to position the tail, starting from the smaller notch and going to the larger notch! Or the other way around. Whichever. But still!¡±
Upachu and I shrug. It¡¯s worth a try, most certainly. Starting with the smaller notch, I use all my might to turn the spiral until the tip of the tail points to it. Nothing happens, but I¡¯m undeterred. I move on to the next-largest notch, fighting the stone that¡¯s resisting my efforts to move it. The muscles in my arms burn as I struggle with the large structure, but I persist, clenching my jaw as I force the stone to turn.
Once the tail meets the second notch at the bottom, light seeps through the cracks. I feel my breath shorten from excitement¡ªit¡¯s the first positive, encouraging sign. Locating the next notch roughly at the upper right quadrant, I twist the spiral around and around. Moving it has gotten much easier, and when it reaches the next mark, the light intensifies, seemingly growing brighter with each correct alignment.
After the fifth position, the smaller stones around the spiral symbol begin to shift. The dimly lit passageway is bathed in a bright, otherworldly light, forcing us all to shield our eyes. A concealed door slides open, revealing a passage that is entirely a blinding white. It¡¯s as though we¡¯re entering the sun or the heavens, as the floor nor the ceiling is visible¡ªjust an endless room or space that is all light.
We look at one another nervously, considering whether or not to cross the threshold. When I return my gaze to the bright light, I find it surreally and inexplicably comforting. It¡¯s as though the light calls out to me, welcoming me in. Having had the intrusive thoughts before, I question whether this is another trick of the tomb, some illusion toying with my mind. But staring into the white void, my thoughts travel to the peaceful moments when I¡¯m visited by Entilqan, as though whatever lies beyond is something lovingly crafted by the gods. Not a threat, but a greeting.
I take one deep breath, exchanging a glance at Upachu and S¨ªqalat, then step through the newly revealed passage. As I enter the space, I¡¯m filled with an inexplicable warmth, as though I¡¯ve been wrapped in a dozen blankets, or I¡¯ve entered my home on a warm summer day. I turn to look at my companions, who stare back at me with a look of wonder fixed to their faces.
S¨ªqalat smiles. She extends her hand, reaching out for Upachu. He clutches her hand, and together, the two enter this empty space in which I find myself. We all take in the beauty of this vast, warm light that extends on forever. A peace settles within me, and I feel a comfort I haven¡¯t felt since¡ I don¡¯t think I can say. Since I was a boy, in my mother¡¯s arms?
A scene comes in focus before us: jagged columns of crystal-clear ice rise from the floor, shimmering like frozen spears of light. The air is crisp and biting, each breath creating a visible plume of vapor. Ice sculptures of warriors line the walls, and the floor beneath is a patchwork of glistening ice and stone, both treacherous and beautiful.
But the scene suddenly turns to one that is startlingly disquieting. Before us, clad in a tattered, hooded cloak made from an aura of relentless frost, a deity exudes an imposing chill that seeps into the marrow of my bones. Jagged shards of ice form a mask over their visage, obscuring all features except for piercing, glacial eyes. Their form is encased in what appears to be a mantle of perpetually falling snow, each flake sharp as a dagger.
¡°Itzatlix,¡± Upachu says with wonder. Could it be? The ancient deity formed from the union of Wiqamasqa and Iolatl? But¡ how? In the Tomb of Inqil, surrounded by the lagoon in which Iolatl formed all living beings, why is Itzatlix present?
The glowering, massive figure looms over us. At the sight, Upachu immediately drops to his knees and bows down, casting his gaze to the ground. Confused, S¨ªqalat and I eventually bow, as well, though the image of this superior being leaves me baffled. Am I actually seeing what¡¯s before me? Is this an illusion, another trick of the mind?
¡°Rise,¡± the voice rumbles, a low, trembling sound that reverberates in my chest¡ªso deep it¡¯s almost inaudible. We follow the being¡¯s command, still fixing our eyes to the floor. ¡°Why have you infiltrated the ancient pyramid in the lagoon of the goddess, Iolatl?¡±
Upachu attempts to speak, visibly trembling, ¡°Great Itzatlix, we seek¡ we seek the knowledge, and¡ to protect Pachil¡ the amulets... to¨C¡±
¡°Silence,¡± Itzatlix interrupts, the command resonating with an air of finality. Upachu falters, his usual composure shattered by the presence of the divine being.
Seeing Upachu struggle to find the words, I realize that this moment requires a courage that, possibly, no human could ever possess. My heart pounds as if it¡¯s trying to escape my chest, to escape Itzatlix¡¯s presence, but I know I must speak. I take a deep breath, stepping forward, and meet Itzatlix¡¯s gaze.
¡°Itzatlix, we have come here with pure intentions,¡± I say, trying my best to steady my voice. ¡°Our land is threatened by those who seek to corrupt and destroy Pachil. We seek to understand the legacy left by Sualset and the Eleven, to protect our world from the growing threat at all costs.¡±
Itzatlix¡¯s eyes narrow, studying me intently with an unyielding glare. ¡°And what makes you worthy of such a burden, mortal?¡±
I take a another deep breath and step closer, feeling an otherworldly chill nearly numbing my bones to the marrow. ¡°We are not perfect, and we do not claim to be. But we are determined to protect Pachil, to honor the legacy of the Eleven, and to ensure that the power of this amulet is not misused. We stand here, ready to face whatever you set before us, to prove our worthiness.¡±
At this, I retrieve the lapis lazuli amulet, displaying it over my tunic for the being to see. I can only hope Itzatlix knows of Sualset¡ªI would hope, being formed from the union of Pachil¡¯s two creator gods, it would know of Sualset and the Eleven. If it recognizes me as being worthy of possessing this item, perhaps it will allow us to pass. To where would it grant us entry? Who¡¯s to say.
Itzatlix remains silent for a moment, and I feel his eyes inspecting me and the lapis lazuli amulet on my chest. ¡°To prove your worthiness, a sacrifice must be made.¡±
Upachu¡¯s face pales. ¡°A sacrifice? You mean one of us must die?¡±
The guardian¡¯s gaze shifts to Upachu. ¡°No, mortal. It is something personal that each of you must offer, something of yourself that holds deep meaning and significance. Only then will you show your worthiness.¡±
Relief washes over Upachu, and a crack of a smile creases his mouth. Sacrificing a personal item? What have we brought with us that would be worth sacrificing to this guardian? Would Itzatlix view it as an acceptable sacrifice? My mind tries to search through our possessions to find something that could be delivered as a sacrifice, but nothing comes to my mind. Other than our lives, what could we give that would not be taken as an insult, and lead us to our doom?
Upachu takes a deep breath, then reaches into his satchel and pulls out the precious papyrus we¡¯ve been safeguarding. ¡°This... this is what I offer. It contains knowledge of great importance for our journey and understanding our past. They contain the wisdom and secrets of Sualset, a guiding light in our journey and a key to understanding the history and destiny of Pachil. For a seeker of knowledge from the Great Library of Hilaqta, these are my guide, my purpose.¡±
I gaze at him, wide-eyed. ¡°You¡¯re willing to part with that? But what if we need it, to decipher any of Sualset¡¯s clues?¡±
Upachu nods solemnly, his eyes never leaving the papyrus. ¡°This sacrifice is not made lightly, Teqosa. But we must part with what we hold most dear. My life has been devoted to the pursuit of knowledge, and this papyrus represents the pinnacle of that pursuit. To surrender them is to surrender a piece of myself. Yet I believe that in making this sacrifice, we demonstrate our unwavering commitment to our cause and our trust in the greater path laid out before us.¡±
He turns to Itzatlix, holding the papyrus with both hands. ¡°I offer this gift of knowledge out of reverence and faith. May this act of devotion prove our worthiness to receive your blessing and guidance, and may it pave the way for the answers we seek.¡±
Itzatlix nods, acknowledging and accepting the offering. ¡°Your sacrifice is received.¡±
The daunting figure now stares at me with a hardened look. What do I possess that would be accepted? I can¡¯t allow myself to concede the amulet; it is too powerful and must be used to protect Pachil. Besides, Itzatlix said it must be a personal sacrifice. It accepted the papyrus from Upachu¡ªwas there something personal contained within the glyphs?
Shaking my head, I return to the present moment. Suddenly, the item to be sacrificed occurs to me. It will be painful, knowing its history with me and my family, but it is all I have to give that would be worthy.
I step forward, unfastening the glaive given to me by my father, Xiqa. The weapon feels heavy in my hands, and I gaze upon it one last time. I place it before Itzatlix. ¡°Before departing for the Maqanuiache, this glaive was given to me by my father. It¡¯s been in my family and passed down from father to son for generations. It is what helped me achieve victory on many battlefields, including that of the War of Liberation, allowing Pachil¡¯s freedom. I offer it now to protect Pachil once again.¡±
The spirit¡¯s eyes flicker with understanding as he extends his enormous hands, radiating an ethereal glow that forces me to squint from its intense brightness, and accepts my offering. ¡°Your sacrifice is received.¡±
Itzatlix now looks upon S¨ªqalat. She steps forward hesitantly, drawing a plain obsidian sword from the harness at her back. ¡°Here, I offer this mighty blade that has been in my family for generations. It¡¯s what I used to learn how to fight as I was taught by my father.¡±
The towering Itzatlix¡¯s expression darkens. ¡°You lie!¡± he shouts, pointing an accusatory finger at her. ¡°Do not mock the sacred act of sacrifice. This item holds no personal value to you. You all shall perish at her insolence!¡±
Upachu and I exchange worried glances. Has she compromised our mission? Are we to be struck where we stand for her attempt at deceit? Hoping it¡¯s not too late, I step forward, placing a hand on S¨ªqalat¡¯s shoulder. ¡°This is about proving our commitment to Pachil. You must offer something that truly matters to you. It¡¯s the only way.¡±
¡°But I have nothing to give!¡± she pleads, her eyes wide with concern. ¡°All I have is this sword, and the other weapon is one I purchased in Qiapu. I don¡¯t have anything that is ¡®personal¡¯, I swear!¡±
Upachu frowns. ¡°What is that, there?¡± He points to the large disc dangling from her neck. The compass, the item she regularly regards as she seeks our destination.
¡°Yes, what about the compass?¡± I ask.
¡°It¡¯s another item I purchased,¡± she says. ¡°From Achope. Again, no personal items! So what else do I give but the sword from my father?¡±
Her voice quivers, and I detect her nervousness isn¡¯t from disappointing a supernatural being¡ªwhich, I would think, would be the aspect that would cause myself to be worried. No, this is the result of something personal, something close to her. She is worried about the significance of losing such an item.
¡°S¨ªqalat,¡± I say, softening my voice, ¡°what is the importance of the compass?¡±
Her lips form a tight line, chin quivering from suppressing a sob. With eyes cast downward, she answers, ¡°It¡¯s all I have of¡¡± Her voice trails off as she¡¯s flooded with the somber thought. ¡°It¡¯s stupid,¡± she eventually says. ¡°I just can¡¯t.¡±
Upachu leans over, hugging her with one arm. ¡°It¡¯s not stupid, my dear. It holds a personal meaning to you. Sometimes, the things we cherish most are the hardest to part with, but they are also what make a true sacrifice.¡±
S¨ªqalat hesitates, her eyes brim with unshed tears. ¡°But it¡¯s all I have left. I don¡¯t know if I can¡¡±
Upachu nods, his expression kind and understanding. ¡°I know it¡¯s difficult. But this is about showing our dedication, proving that we are willing to give up something precious for the greater good of Pachil. By offering it, you show your true commitment to our mission and to the future of our world.¡±
She looks longingly at the compass. ¡°But without it...¡±
¡°You have us,¡± Upachu says gently. ¡°We¡¯ll find our way together. You are stronger than you realize, and your strength doesn¡¯t come from the compass, but from within you.¡±
I step closer to her. ¡°Upachu is right. We¡¯re in this together. We will help each other find our way, no matter what.¡±
S¨ªqalat¡¯s eyes dart around, noticeably searching for an escape. Finally, with a heavy sigh, she looks down. She reaches for the compass around her neck. Her fingers tremble as she unfastens it from around her neck and holds it out. ¡°This compass¡ belonged to my father, Nahuilin. It¡¯s my last connection to my family, and has guided me through all of my journeys. I offer it now.¡±
Understanding the difficulty of her sacrifice, I return a consolatory hand to her shoulder. ¡°We¡¯re all in this together, and your strength will honor your father¡¯s memory.¡±
S¨ªqalat nods solemnly. I¡¯m sure it¡¯s not what she wants to hear right now, with the relinquishing of something precious wounding her deeply, but I am confident she will be stronger having made this sacrifice.
Itzatlix¡¯s gaze fixes to the compass as he collects the item. ¡°Your sacrifices are accepted. May you carry the wisdom and resolve to protect. Proceed, and may your path be guided by the strength of your hearts.¡±
The guardian¡¯s form shimmers, then fades, leaving us standing in the frozen chamber. Slowly, another passage of blinding light beckons us toward it. Cautiously, we approach the newly revealed opening. Though a little suspicious, we step through the threshold. As we cross it, our breath catches in unison as the ethereal garden reveals itself. Inside the heart of the pyramid, a lush and verdant world thrives, bathed in an otherworldly glow. Vegetation from every corner of Pachil mingles in a chaotic harmony, each leaf and petal pulsating with life. Vines thick with emerald hues twist around ancient stone pillars, while flowers of every imaginable color¡ªcrimson, violet, and sapphire¡ªbloom in rapid succession. The sweet scent of blossoms mingles with the aroma of rich, damp soil.
Above, the ceiling of the pyramid appears to vanish, replaced by a colorful sky that shifts between dawn and dusk, casting everything in a surreal light. The tranquil waters¡ªperhaps the actual lagoon from which Iolatl birthed life itself¡ªsparkles with an iridescent sheen. Within the lagoon, lilies and lotus flowers drift serenely, their petals opening and closing in a rhythm that mimics the breath of the garden. Time here moves differently, seasons changing with each step, leaves falling and sprouting anew in a perpetual cycle of rebirth.
At the center of this verdant paradise stands a grand tree, its bark shimmering with a silvery luminescence. Its branches stretch outward like welcoming arms, adorned with a variety of fruit that glows faintly¡ªmara?on, pitahaya, chirimoya, lucuma, guayaba, papaya, and granadilla, all appearing on the same tree. Beneath its canopy, the grass is a carpet of green that¡¯s softer than any bedroll.
At the base of the tree, there¡¯s a familiar sight to Upachu and I that greets us: a chest, made from lumuli wood, carved with intricate shapes and symbols. They don¡¯t appear to be glyphs like that from the papyrus nor the other locations, but I¡¯m certain they must be of particular significance. The two of us revere the prized item, staring at it in awe.
Confused, S¨ªqalat glances at us as though we¡¯ve lost our minds; perhaps we have. ¡°So, you¡¯ve traveled all this way for a box?¡± she asks, perplexed. ¡°I¡¯ve seen better craftsmanship from the Aimue, and they¡¯re simple farmers. What¡¯s so special about¨C¡°
Ignoring her, Upachu opens the chest. On a golden chain is an ornate turquoise stone, carved into the shape of a bird¡ªa condor? An eagle? More papyrus fill the container, and Upachu clutches at them as though he¡¯s in possession of precious stones. We share a smile, relieved to discover the contents after such an arduous journey.
As soon as the amulet is in my grasp, there¡¯s a tremor at our feet, just moments before the floor of the garden begins to drop around us.
103 - Paxilche
At the sight of Tlexn¨ªn being forcibly detained, I can feel the storm raging within me. The sky growls like a jaguar, reflecting my brewing anger. As if I couldn¡¯t distrust them more, the Auilqa have gone and done this? Was this part of the agreement between Xolotzi and Walumaq?
Saqatli must see the fury building within me, because he rushes to my side and places a consoling hand on my arm. Something brushes up against my leg, startling me. I quickly recognize the turquoise tail, watching the boy¡¯s ocelot companion nuzzling my calf.
I take a few steps back, pointing accusingly at the Auilqa boy. ¡°This is the fault of yourpeople!¡± The boy¡¯s eyes grow large with fear, and he holds up his hands to try and placate me. But I persist. ¡°You¡¯re in on this scheme, aren¡¯t you? Sent by your ruler to spy on us! To lull me and Walumaq into a false sense of security, all while he sends his goons to¨C¡°
¡°Paxilche,¡± the boy says inside my head in that disturbing way he does. There¡¯s a slight wonder in his voice, or whatever it¡¯s called when he speaks inside my mind. ¡°Your eyes... They¡¯re glowing white!¡±
¡®Glowing white¡¯? What does he even mean? Besides his amber-colored eyes, Walumaq¡¯s blue eyes, and the green eyes of the Auilqa, I hadn¡¯t thought anyone¡¯s eyes could be anything but brown.
Walumaq approaches, looking at me with expressed caution and worry. ¡°What is¡ happening to you? Why do you look¡¡± She can hardly finish her thought, switching between staring at me and looking up toward the darkening sky as though she¡¯s piecing together the series of events.
¡°Is this,¡± she points up to the night sky shrouded by an impending storm, ¡°you¡¯re doing? Are you about to strike down the Auilqa?!¡± She sounds shocked, mortified, exasperated. She clutches my arm tightly as if squeezing the juice out of a lucuma. ¡°By the sea, Paxilche!¡±
¡°They¡¯re about to do gods know what to an ally!¡± I shout, incensed that Walumaq thinks I¡¯m in the wrong all of a sudden. ¡°We¡¯re just going to allow this to happen?¡±
¡°Of course, we¡¯re not allowing it to happen,¡± she says. ¡°But we¡¯re not going to go on some senseless rampage because of it. We need to be strategic, before we have an entire nation at war with the eight of us! Your recent destructive attitude has been shocking, and, frankly, revolting. What has gotten into you? Who are you becoming?¡±
I look around at the scene, noticing how the Auilqa appear to have the numbers over the remaining Ulxa warriors. It¡¯s possible I could have succeeded in smiting them all, but after taking a few breaths, I realize now that, perhaps, I may have endangered more lives than saved them with my possible actions.
¡°I don¡¯t know what I was thinking,¡± I begrudgingly concede, casting my eyes downward.
¡°You weren¡¯t thinking,¡± Walumaq scolds, ¡°and that is the problem. You need to control your powers and your anger.¡±
Still emotional from seeing Tlexn¨ªn¡¯s capture, I sound more intense than I intend. ¡°But this wasn¡¯t what was agreed upon! They can¡¯t get away with this!¡±
¡°They won¡¯t,¡± she responds, ¡°but violence will only create more violence. We must be smart about this, not merely attacking everything in sight. Otherwise, we¡¯re no better than the Timuaq.¡±
I slump my shoulders. ¡°I¡ I apologize, Walumaq.¡± But before I can finish, she brusquely walks away toward the Ulxa temple. Saqatli frowns, then follows closely behind her, along with Noch.
The Auilqa bind the Ulxa warriors and villagers, then lead them off, likely to some prison encampment. Those who resist find a spear driven straight through their stomachs without hesitation, left to bleed out upon the ashes of their home village. Recalling how we were initially treated, the Auilqa are prepared to inflict a dismal and despairing scene upon the people of Analoixan, one in which the captives will be brutally mistreated for being viewed as ¡®lesser¡¯.
The lesser of two savages, I think to myself.
I search for Pomaqli and the Sanqo warriors, looking for the distinct traits in which to identify them¡ªand among the nearly naked Auilqa, wearing only their loin cloths and war paint on their bodies, my companions should be fairly easy to locate. Yet there is not a visible trace of them. I grow curious as to where they went, wondering if they¡¯ve been lumped into the group of Ulxa being captured, or perhaps they¡¯ve run off to regroup after witnessing the disastrous aftermath that occurred once we vanquished the ancient beast that sprung up from the ground by the hands of the Eye in the Flame.
I¡¯m left to stand alone, in the middle of a ruined Ulxa city. I look down at my hands, the instruments of both chaos and destruction. With all that¡¯s taken place since Auilqa, I haven¡¯t reflected upon coming into these powers.
I remember when I first felt the surge of power coursing through me, like molten metal breaking free from its mold. The ability to summon storms, to command the skies, it felt like a blessing and a curse all at once. I remember the sky darkening as if reflecting my anger, my frustration. It was exhilarating, intoxicating even, but also terrifying. The storm I created didn¡¯t just respond to my will¡ªit seemed to feed off my emotions, growing wilder and more uncontrollable.
Why me? And why now? Was this power always inside me, waiting to be unleashed, or did something in Auilqa awaken it? This was never something I asked for, even upon witnessing Walumaq¡¯s abilities on the roads in Tapeu. The questions gnaw at me, each one a thorn in my mind, pricking at my sense of self and purpose.
My thoughts drift to Limaqumtlia. Did he possess powers, too? Is this why Saxina had my brother killed? Did he know about these powers within me, or was it something more sinister, a way to ensure I stayed silent, stayed weak? I remember my brother¡¯s face, the way he looked at me with both pride and worry. He wanted something better for me, for all of us in Pichaqta, in Qiapu. And now, in his absence, I¡¯m left struggling to understand what it all means.
Walumaq¡¯s words echo in my head. You need to control your powers and your anger.She¡¯s right, of course. My emotions are a tempest, and my powers are the storm they conjure. I glance up at the dark sky, feeling weighed down by my anger, my fear, and my sorrow. I want to strike down the Auilqa, to avenge Tlexn¨ªn, to protect those who can¡¯t protect themselves. But what if I had? What if my storm had raged out of control, harming those I sought to save?
I think of Walumaq. I think of her strength, her wisdom. She¡¯s always been a beacon, guiding me, grounding me, reminding me of who I am beyond the storm. I care for her deeply, more than I¡¯ve allowed myself to admit sometimes. She believes in me, sees something in me that I often fail to see in myself. The thought of her seeing me as a threat, as a danger, is almost too much to bear. I don¡¯t want to disappoint her, but I¡¯m afraid of this power, afraid of what it makes me capable of. Can I control it? Should I even try?
What sense can I make of these past few moon cycles, the battles, the losses, the fleeting moments of peace? Each encounter, each struggle, has tested me, pushing me to my limits. Now, standing amidst the ruins, I question everything. What understanding can I make of my power? Will it save those I love, or will it destroy them?
I close my eyes and breathe in deeply, noting how the scent of blood intertwines with the thick smoke surrounding us. I try to center myself, forcing myself to focus on the present. I clench my fists, feeling the storm within me slowly subsiding. I need to understand this power, to master it, and to not let it master me. I need to find a way to use it without becoming a monster, without losing myself.
Vowing to control my abilities, I seek out Walumaq. My path to the temple is dimly illuminated by the smoldering heaps of rubble and ruined houses that are slowly extinguishing. A gentle rain trickles from the starless sky, and I question if this is from my doing, seeing as I genuinely wish to help put out the fires, or if it¡¯s by happenstance. Perhaps it¡¯s a bit of both.
Flanking either side of the demolished entrance that leads to the Ulxa pyramid, two brooding Auilqa guards watch me approach. They eye me suspiciously, likely wary of what I could potentially do to them. It would be easy to summon bolts of lightning, to strike them where they stand. But I resolve that I¡¯m above using such tactics here¡ªI need not resort to those means¡ yet.
I give them a knowing nod, never once breaking my stride. For a brief moment, they glance at one another, uncertain about what to do. Ultimately, they do nothing; without making any sudden movements, they allow me to pass unimpeded. I release the breath I didn¡¯t realize I was holding as I walk by them, sighing in relief that matters didn¡¯t have to come to blows.
The Ulxa temple has remained undisturbed. The statues and bronze pillars still stand tall, the embellishments of turquoise and jade remain in place. No destruction has occurred here, not even by the occupiers, the Auilqa. Although their code is questionable, at best, I¡¯m surprised to see that even they respect the sacred ground upon which they walk.
My gandering and gawking ceases the moment I hear the shouts. Several people are yelling at once, all in the disjointed language of the Auilqa. I walk through the winding pathway that leads to the tremendous courtyard surrounding the pyramid, the shouts getting louder as I draw near. My stomach twists into knots as I begin to fear for Walumaq¡¯s safety.
Unsurprisingly, standing before the tall Auilqa figure wearing a headdress adorned with condor feathers, is Walumaq. Saqatli and his animal companion are at her side, while Pomaqli and the four Sanqo warriors are a few paces behind her, weapons at the ready. The Auilqa man stands on the lower step of the pyramid, surrounded by over two dozen warriors to either side of him, the butt of their spears planted into the ground. Though her back is mostly to me, I can see her chin raised in defiance, her gaze never leaving that of the leader.
The Auilqa warriors suddenly draw their weapons, tips pointed at me. The men and women in the back are positioned and ready to hurl their spears. Though I know I don¡¯t need to hold a weapon to be a danger to these treacherous scum, I raise my hands, hoping to show I¡¯m no threat. The others turn around, and either they¡¯re not alarmed to see me or they mask it well¡ªeither way, their faces show indifference to my arrival.
I place myself next to Pomaqli, who looks unamused to see me. ¡°How kind of you to join the rest of us, Paxilche. Have you finished pouting?¡±
Ignoring the verbal jab, I ask him about Walumaq, ¡°How is she faring?¡±
¡°I don¡¯t speak Auilqa, but it doesn¡¯t sound good,¡± he states.
¡°Well, that doesn¡¯t mean anything¡ªthe Auilqa always sound angry,¡± I note, trying to lighten the otherwise tense mood.
Pomaqli doesn¡¯t have any patience for my attempt at humor. ¡°If Walumaq says the wrong thing, they¡¯ll behead Tlexn¨ªn before we step foot off these grounds. From what I¡¯ve gathered, they¡¯re prepared to execute her as a sacrifice, these savages.¡±
¡°They can¡¯t do that!¡± I exclaim, perhaps a little too loudly, as the proceedings appear to stop after I make the remark. Walumaq glares at me¡ªthe angriest I¡¯ve ever seen her. I hold my tongue, though reluctantly, as I¡¯m not expecting any progress to be made from dealing with this self-assured Auilqa leader, who glowers at those of us standing before him.
The ¡®dialogue¡¯ between Walumaq and this Auilqa leader goes on for quite some time, though I can tell by Walumaq¡¯s posture that it isn¡¯t productive. Even without knowing what¡¯s being said, the proceedings frustrate me. The man shouts down at her, Saqatli translates his condescending words, then Walumaq makes a declarative statement that is translated by the boy, only for the cycle to repeat itself.
I lean in, hoping to catch a little of what¡¯s being exchanged between Saqatli and Walumaq¡ªas though my physical proximity will allow me to better receive a discussion made through their minds. Whether the maneuver actually works or it¡¯s from merely homing in on the conversation, their voices gradually morph from being murky and mumbled, as if they were speaking underwater, to a clarity that resonates within my own head.
¡°He is not wavering from his position,¡± I hear a boy¡¯s voice say. ¡°He is insistent that the Ulxa leader remains in their captivity due to her potential for endangering the Auilqa.¡±
¡°But these were not the terms that were agreed upon,¡± Walumaq¡¯s voice says, notably irritated. But she tries her best to remain calm, despite events working against her. ¡°We can¡¯t allow them to execute Tlexn¨ªn at any cost.¡±
¡°So, what do we do?¡± Saqatli asks trepidatiously. ¡°They are planning the sacrificial ceremony soon! They view her death as an offering of the highest honor to the gods, since she is a ruler of a rival faction.¡±
Stolen story; please report.
I see Walumaq pause, her mind racing in contemplation of what to do. With my mind¡¯s ear, I hear her muttering indiscernibly, working through her plan in her thoughts. What could she possibly be plotting? For me, I would storm their makeshift prison and, though I may disagree with her people¡¯s cultures entirely, I¡¯d free the Ulxa leader. The Auilqa have betrayed our trust, and in my mind, they¡¯re not worthy of respect in kind.
But Walumaq is more calculating than that. Given her background as the daughter of nobles, she¡¯s likely to be more¡ ¡®diplomatic¡¯, let¡¯s say. Her approach will be more refined, knowing the nuances of political maneuvering. Though the Auilqa have wronged the Ulxa and betrayed us, taking a moment to reflect upon the matter rather than react emotionally, I can understand that this development is more complex, requiring a more complex solution.
¡°We propose a grander ceremony,¡± Walumaq finally says, her voice steady and commanding, unlike that of Saqatli, who appears either uncertain or apprehensive of what¡¯s being said. ¡°One that truly honors the gods and showcases our unity. My Sanqo and the Qiapu have fought alongside the brave Auilqa in a noble battle, and it would be our honor to be a part of the ceremony.¡±
The Auilqa leader appears displeased by this, exchanging glances with his neighboring warriors. Then again, to me, he always looks displeased. Either way, they deliberate between themselves for a moment, before the leader ultimately responds.
¡°He says there is no need,¡± the boy translates, sounding hesitant and nervous. ¡°He says the contributions of the Sanqo and Qiapu have been recognized by the Great Xolotzi and the Auilqa people. He says your factions will always have the Auilqa¡¯s respect. He does not sound like he is going to give in, Walumaq.¡±
Walumaq steps forward, undeterred. The Auilqa warriors do not flinch, continuing to stand at attention. ¡°This rushed execution will not do justice to the gods¡¯ expectations. Although we respect the honor bestowed upon us by the Auilqa, we, too, would like to honor the gods. For we seek their recognition and blessing¡ªfrom bringing the Ulxa leader to you, after all¡ªso that our factions may be as prosperous as the Auilqa.¡±
Saqatli translates her words with urgency. The Auilqa leader pauses, considering her proposal. A murmur spreads through the gathered Auilqa, and finally, the leader nods. ¡°He says, ¡®very well¡¯,¡± Saqatli translates. ¡°He says that this will provide them with the opportunity for a grand feast, one that is truly worthy of a blessing from the gods. He says you have until dawn, when the sacrifice of the Ulxa¡ heathen¡ will be the gift to the gods.¡±
Walumaq smiles warmly, an act I find slightly disturbing. ¡°We are grateful for the honor you bestow upon us. May our factions be united and blessed by the gods for thousands of harvests.¡±
They bow deeply, and eventually the two sides part ways. When Walumaq, Saqatli, and Noch return to us, her face is grave and her eyes grow wide with urgency, as though she signals us to leave with haste. We do as she intends, surrounding her as we depart the pyramid grounds.
When we¡¯re finally a fair distance away from having any Auilqa warrior present, I express my extreme objection to Walumaq. ¡°We¡¯re not only going to allow this barbaric ceremony to happen, but now we¡¯re going to participate in it?! This is ludicrous!¡± The imposing Sanqo warriors glare at me disapprovingly, surrounding me intimidatingly. It¡¯s then that I realize I have grabbed Walumaq¡¯s arm with a severe intensity, a manner I wasn¡¯t intending. I immediately release her, taking a few steps back and away from them.
¡°We cannot allow them to go through with¨C¡°
¡°Clearly,¡± Pomaqli interrupts me, his voice hinting to me that I should stand down from my confrontational actions, ¡°the Sanqo princess has a plan regarding the Ulxa leader, if you¡¯d just give her a moment.¡±
Walumaq nods, to which Naqispi remarks, ¡°the impatient Qiapu man does make a fair point, princess: what is our intentions in joining their sava¨C I mean, their traditional ceremony?¡±
¡°I sense a daring rescue,¡± Chiqama says, unamused. ¡°One that will put our lives in danger, no less.¡±
¡°You¡¯re more than permitted to leave,¡± Atoyaqtli states. ¡°In fact, if you want to travel back to Haqiliqa and inform Siunqi why you¡¯ve returned with no princess, be my guest. My only request is that you ensure a witness is present who can recount your babbling excuses upon my return.¡±
The grizzled Sanqo leader narrows his eyes and scowls, making sure to address each other Sanqo present. ¡°You just survived the worst assault since the War of Liberation, battling creatures only spoken of as legends, against an enemy as ruthless as the Timuaq. Yet you¡¯re cowering at the thought of freeing a wrongly imprisoned ruler? Why? Because she¡¯s Ulxa? Because you find them lesser, with no evidence to support your biases? Because you disagree with their traditions? Do you know what the Sanqo used to do before the arrival of the Timuaq? Nine hells! Do you know what I had done while you were still in swaddling clothes? Whatever your thoughts on the culture and traditions of the Ulxa, they do not deserve to suffer such betrayal after valiantly defending their home land from evil.¡±
¡°So we¡¯re left to fix the princess¡¯ mistake?¡± Naqispi retorts, shaking his head in disgust. ¡°Because she was misguided and na?vely believed the Auilqa could serve as allies, now we have to clean up her mess?¡±
Atoyaqtli¡¯s gaze hardens. ¡°We do not serve the princess out of convenience or when it suits us. We serve her because she is our leader, and it is our duty. Our mission is clear. The Auilqa have betrayed our trust, and as such, we do not abandon those in need. The Ulxa leader fought valiantly against a common enemy. If we allow her to be sacrificed, we betray the very principles we fought for during the War of Liberation.¡±
He takes a step closer to Naqispi, his voice dropping to a low, aggressive tone. ¡°We do not turn our backs on our allies, no matter how dire the situation. This is a test of our resolve and honor. The princess has made a calculated decision, and we must support her. Our objective is clear: rescue Tlexn¨ªn and ensure the Auilqa understand the consequences of their treachery. Complaining about the situation will not change it. Action will.¡±
Turning to address the rest of us, Atoyaqtli continues, ¡°We have faced worse odds and greater threats. This is no different. We do not cower, we do not shirk our responsibilities, and we do not question our loyalty in times of crisis. We rise to the occasion.¡±
Naqispi winces, as though the idea behind Atoyaqtli¡¯s words sting. He snorts, then nods his head in acceptance. With that, we turn to Walumaq, waiting expectantly for her to impart her plan upon us. She gestures her thanks to the trusted general.
Walumaq gets right to it, addressing us all. ¡°We need to determine where she¡¯s being held, how many Auilqa warriors are watching her, and the layout of where she¡¯s being kept. I trust you all to use your expertise to discover any weaknesses, any vulnerabilities we can exploit. Paxilche, Saqatli, and I will eavesdrop on their leadership, seeing if we can find out if there are plans for reinforcements and what their next moves are, now that Analoixan is under their control.¡± She looks up at the sky, then finishes her thought. ¡°It¡¯s already well into the night, so we don¡¯t have much time until dawn. We reconvene here as soon as possible.¡±
Everyone nods, accepting this plan. Without hesitation, we all begin to move out, hoping to learn what we must, and quickly. Saqatli and I stay back, ready to escort Walumaq to a position near the Auilqa leader, to figure out what they¡¯re planning.
As we depart, Atoyaqtli places a hand on my chest, stopping me for a brief, private word. ¡°Your anger is justified, but direct it where it belongs¡ªtowards our true enemies, not our allies.¡±
I nod, finally accepting and embracing this sentiment. Though his words earlier may have been spoken to Naqispi and his Sanqo warriors, they were words I took to heart, as well. I may have my disagreements with how the Ulxa conduct themselves, but that is no reason for their leader to be imprisoned and ultimately sacrificed after defending her home. If any actions should be declared ¡®savage¡¯, it should be that of the Auilqa, who, although they fought with us to vanquish the Eye in the Flame, leaped upon an opportunity when their rival was at their most vulnerable. As Atoyaqtli said, this is not what we fought for in the War of Liberation. To be fair, the Auilqa themselves didn¡¯t fight in the war, and as such, their values should be the ones in question.
We gather just outside the encampment constructed by the Auilqa. Our group crouches down low and looks out upon the makeshift fortifications the invaders have erected. The area is barely illuminated by a series of torches, creating plenty of shadowy corners for us to hide within. Utilizing the large, fanning palm tree leaves and the fallen timber that somehow hasn¡¯t been destroyed, they¡¯ve also crafted improvised homes that will suffice while they occupy the city¡ªhopefully temporarily.
Along with the others, I gaze intently upon the location, studying it closely. It¡¯s just as the others had described it when we met up to solidify our plan. The barricades have been constructed quickly, leaving large gaps between the walls. The numbers of acting guards are sparse, and they¡¯re positioned haphazardly, creating numerous weak points for us to infiltrate. I agree with Walumaq¡¯s sentiments, wishing they were more clustered together so that, when she and I enact our part of the plan, more warriors would be influenced.
¡°How did it go with your¡¡± Pomaqli hesitates his mumbled question to me, using his head to nod and point at Saqatli, ¡°mission?¡±
¡°It was a bit revolting, to be honest,¡± I tell him slightly under my breath. ¡°The boy was using¡ bats.¡± Pomaqli gives me a confused look. ¡°He talks to animals, but I hadn¡¯t thought of¡ bats.¡± Just saying the word makes me want to wretch.
¡°Well, my understanding is that the Auilqa, Ulxa, and even the Achope revere the creatures,¡± Pomaqli informs me. ¡°I¡¯ll stick to condors and eagles, thanks.¡±
Walumaq gets our attention, then crouches low as we huddle around her. She begins to speak in a hushed tone, but my thoughts are stuck on what happened during our reconnaissance mission. While we waited on Saqatli to put the creatures into position to listen in, I felt myself trying to talk to Walumaq, wanting to apologize for my brashness and losing control of my emotions. Yet every time I attempted to speak, I found the words caught in my throat. When I was finally able to, my effort came out as a croak, causing her to shush and scold me for nearly breaking Saqatli¡¯s concentration. Disappointing her once again, I resorted to keeping my mouth shut.
¡°So the sneaky scum had planned this all along?¡±
Naqispi¡¯s whispered words snap my attention back to the discussion. Walumaq winces. ¡°It appears they had come to this plan while we were off fighting Quetzelotl. If we survived, they would use us to infiltrate Analoixan, letting us do most of the fighting, and they would do just enough to give the appearance they were fighting alongside us. They¡¯ve already dispatched messengers to send word of their successful capture of Analoixan.¡±
¡°We cleared the way for their takeover,¡± Pomacha grunts, slamming a fist into his open palm in frustration. We collectively shush him, hoping the loud smack didn¡¯t alert anyone to our presence.
¡°It took us nearly a moon cycle to get here from there,¡± Atoyaqtli reminds us. ¡°It will be some time before they return, likely with reinforcements. Did they have any plans in place, should they be successful?¡±
¡°Fortunately, no,¡± I finally chime in. ¡°From what we could hear, they were uncertain what the result of the battle would be, and whether they would need to form an alliance with the Eye in the Flame, should those cultists be the winners instead. It seems to me that they would declare it a victory as long as Analoixan fell, regardless of how.¡±
Pomacha snarls and punches his palm once again. We shush him once again, then look around frantically to make sure our position hasn¡¯t been compromised. Ultimately, though, a silence overcomes us as we absorb the news. I should¡¯ve known something was suspicious the moment Xolotzi became suddenly amenable to Walumaq¡¯s wishes. How could we not see this coming?
There¡¯s nothing we can do about it now. We just have to flawlessly execute the plan we discussed earlier. Along with the others, my focus is solely on freeing Tlexn¨ªn.
I spot the three guards standing in front of where the Ulxa leader is being kept. The weapons they hold are down at their sides, and their wooden shields are well out of reach, strewn about the ground among the splintered wood that once made up Ulxa homes. Their posture is relaxed, casually chatting to one another without a care in the world.
With an exchanged nod, I raise my hands to the night sky. The clouds had parted once the battle ended, yet I¡¯m able to pull them back over Analoixan. I feel an indescribable energy tingling at my fingertips as the light storm slowly swirls above us. It isn¡¯t much, but we don¡¯t need much; just enough for Walumaq to create a fog that will hide the presence of the others as they sneak into the fortification.
The fog rolls in, silent and thick. It weaves through the shattered remnants of Ulxa homes, creeping over the ground and rising to obscure the guards¡¯ vision. Walumaq molds the fog with delicate precision, shaping it to cloak our warriors.
They move like shadows within the mist, stealthily and unseen. Atoyaqtli leads the way, while Pomacha and Naqispi flank him. Chiqama and Pomaqli bring up the rear, weapons drawn and ready to protect their companions. The fog makes them specters, slipping past the guards who remain oblivious to the danger drawing close to them.
Before he even realizes the threat, the first guard falls silently after a swift strike from Pomaqli renders him unconscious. Atoyaqtli and Naqispi efficiently take down the remaining two, their forms blending seamlessly with the mist. There¡¯s a brief moment of stillness, as the fog swallows the sounds of the guards¡¯ collapse. Soon, our warriors return to signal that the path is clear.
We move quickly, shrouded mercifully by the mist, as we close in on Tlexn¨ªn¡¯s prison. As Walumaq and I hold our positions and maintain the veil, I watch our warriors work with urgency. Tlexn¨ªn is startled, and her head whips up to see what¡¯s happening, eyes in wide alarm. She relaxes once she can verify it¡¯s us through the dense fog, breathing a visible sigh of relief.
They hurry to dismantle the barriers, but once we enter the domain, they suddenly halt the moment they arrive at the Ulxa leader. Our warriors look at one another, perplexed. Then, I see what is causing the confusion: thick ropes bind her wrists, and her feet are placed in heavy wooden stocks, securing her in place. She looks at up with a desperate desire for us to free her.
Our warriors spring into action, muscles straining as Tlexn¨ªn¡¯s constraints squeal and creak. Pomaqli¡¯s fingers work quickly at the knots, while Pomacha and Naqispi stand guard. Their eyes scan the perimeter with every sense on high alert while searching search for a tool, anything sharp enough to sever the ropes.
Pomaqli curses under his breath at the unforgiving ropes, and Atoyaqtli joins him, examining the stocks. The wood is thick and sturdy, not something that can be easily broken. Tlexn¨ªn winces as the ropes bite into her wrists, but she doesn¡¯t cry out. Her gaze flicks to me, a silent plea mingled with the fierce resilience of a leader. We¡¯re here. Hold on.
Time stretches, each passing moment is like a drawn-out beat of my heart. Atoyaqtli and Chiqama leverage their weight against the stocks, trying to force them open. It groans in protest, but they press on, sweat mixing with the mist on their brows.
At last, Naqispi finds a jagged piece of metal, likely discarded from some past skirmish. He hands it to Pomaqli, who starts furiously sawing at the ropes. The rough edge digs in, fraying the thick strands. Walumaq¡¯s grip on my arm tightens; we¡¯re all bound by the same urgent need to succeed.
Finally, the ropes give way. Pomaqli pulls them loose from Tlexn¨ªn¡¯s wrists. Then, the stocks break open with a splintering crack, and the Ulxa leader¡¯s legs are freed. Tlexn¨ªn stumbles forward, relief flooding her face. But it¡¯s short-lived.
It¡¯s as if the air itself changes, shifts. The fog starts to disperse, despite my best efforts to maintain it, and a chill seeps into my bones. Then, from the dark shadows of the night, movement catches my eye, and they emerge.
I turn to see the imposing figure of an Ulxa shaman, tattoos winding like serpents across his bare chest and arms, symbols and patterns connected by crisscrossing lines. Pendants of bone and jade jostle around his neck, forming some sinister rhythm. Flanked by dozens of Auilqa warriors, they form a hostile, unbroken line.
The shaman¡¯s eyes fix onto ours, dark and unreadable. He raises a hand, and the warriors halt, poised and ready to strike at a moment¡¯s notice.
104 - Legido
As you take in your surroundings, you¡¯re overcome with both a sense of awe and¡ disappointment? Confusion? Curiosity? You¡¯re unsure what you were expecting, but it certainly wasn¡¯t this.
The dramatic coastline is made of rocky cliffs and narrow, dark-sanded beaches. You notice the sparse vegetation, hardy shrubs clinging to the mountainous terrain, and the occasional splash of color from wildflowers that brave the elements. Just beyond the horizon, forests in deep green¡ªalmost black in their density¡ªlinger past the beige grasslands that stretch on seemingly forever in all directions. Looming above the trees, snow-capped peaks rise majestically, scraping the brilliant blue sky.
You can taste the tang of the salt in the air as the brisk wind bites at your exposed skin. It¡¯s much cooler here, colder than the humid climates to which you¡¯re accustomed. Already, you find yourself shivering, and you start to question if this is the paradise promised to you by Xiatli and the great explorers. Perhaps you wanted to see something lush, something vibrant. These lands, they¡¯re vibrant and magical in their own way¡ªbut certainly nothing like the regions of Legido.
The steady, constant roar of the sea crashing into the rocks brings you back to the moment your ship cautiously approached the shore the day before. You remember standing at the bow of the ship, eyes squinting against the harsh sunlight reflecting off the endless expanse of water. The lookout kept repeatedly exclaiming, ¡°Land ho!¡±, but at first, you thought they were mistaken, seeing nothing but the vast sea.
And then, there it was: breaking the monotonous horizon, a jagged coastline emerged. The land appeared rugged, untamed, and the beaches looked dark and narrow. But it was the first land you had seen since departing Auruma Xosta, so nothing was going to interfere with your excitement. You felt triumphant, ecstatic, like the long wait and all that you endured was finally worth it.
The crew was elated, as well. Captain Lema shouted, ¡°Prepare for landfall!¡± But the command could have gone unsaid, as the deck was buzzing with activity before the words left his mouth. Everyone sprung into action: Sails were furled, anchors were dropped, and ropes were secured. You could feel the ship lurching as it slowed, giving you a brief scare until you watched everyone else moving about as if nothing terrifying occurred.
Having never witnessed a ship making landfall before, you looked on curiously, wondering if and how you could jump in to help. The crew anchored the ship a fair distance from shore, then loaded up the smaller longboats with a number of supplies. Captain Lema assigned a few crew members to comprise a small scouting party to send ashore. You¡¯d be lying if you said you weren¡¯t relieved not to be one of the few chosen.
Everyone watched with bated breath as the scouts made their way ashore. People begun making morbid wagers on whether the scouts would return, or what they¡¯d find should they reappear. Though you could¡¯ve used the distraction, you didn¡¯t partake in the ¡®festivities¡¯. The waiting was excruciating, but you reasoned that it would be even more agonizing to have traveled all this way and found the land inhospitable.
Once the scouts returned with the good news, mentioning the fresh water river that flowed just beyond the hills, the main landing began. Many were eager to get to the shore, wanting off the ship right away. There was a lot of pushing and shoving as people jockeyed for position. Along with Gartzen, the first mate, and a few other trusted crew members, Captain Lema managed to keep everyone in line, organizing the landing party swiftly and without any deliberation. This time, you were extremely disappointed not to be selected, feeling your heart sink as the others began to board the boats.
You felt a tug at your sleeve and saw Lander¡ªerr, you mean Landera¡ªdirecting you with exaggerated movements of her eyes and pointing with her head. The two of you crouched low and snuck between the legs of the other crew members and travelers milling about. Before anyone noticed, you both quickly slipped onto the boat and took your places, masking your elation as you tried your best to nonchalantly assist the others with loading the vessel with supplies.
The longboat cast off, and you and Landera exchanged a look and sigh of relief, grinning mischievously at your audacity. Those aboard were none the wiser. You did it! You managed to be stowaways!
The rowers steered the vessel around the cape at the direction of the scouts, who pointed them up a wide river and toward a landing further inland. Getting closer to land, you could smell the distant pine trees mingling with the damp terrain from a recent rain. You were curious about what they found, but you were impressed at how quickly they were able to find this far destination. You figured it was your excitement and anticipation that wanted to hurry the boat along and reach what they called ¡°the beachhead¡±.
Your anticipation immediately turned into regret after you landed. You struggled to pull the longboat ashore along the uneven ground of the pebble beach. As if that didn¡¯t exhaust you enough, you helped unload the longboats of their goods, and discovered that ¡°establishing the beachhead¡± meant a ton of strenuous labor. Tents were set up, supplies got secured, and many of the crew went off to create a perimeter for defending your location. You never realized how much exhausting work went into constructing such a site.
The next day¡ªearlier this morning¡ªCaptain Lema organized scouting parties to explore the area around you all. With fresh water located, it was time to seek out sources for food and resources to make a permanent camp inland, a bit further from the danger of the coast. You watched as Gartzen trudged off with a crew of young, overly eager boys no older than Landera, following him around and speaking to him at blistering speeds. Had you been like that when you first arrived onboard the ship? You cringe at the likelihood of that possibility.
All morning, you¡¯ve stayed back with Landera, the two of you continuing to help secure the goods up to this point. You figured life on the farm would give you the ability to handle such labor-intensive work, but you find yourself exhausted from exerting yourself. It¡¯s when you see Dorez and Benicto returning with a team sent to survey the land that you feel a twinge of jealousy. Their smug expressions don¡¯t appear to be directed at anybody, yet you can¡¯t help but believe yourself to be their target.
But when you see them empty-handed, and their confident strides faltering, you can¡¯t help but feel a wave of relief and a touch of vindication. There¡¯s a satisfaction in knowing they found nothing more than mapped terrain. You exchange a knowing glance with Landera, feeling a quiet triumph in your small, unnoticed victory.
The rest of the day is relatively uneventful. You, Landera, and the rest of the colony are hard at work, continuing to create what would be everyone¡¯s home while you¡¯re in this foreign place. The labor has been intensive, but you feel yourself putting your mark on the settlement, something that ties you here and swells yourself with pride as you see the steady progress.
The name for the colony that goes around is ¡°Aitzabal¡±. To pass the time, workers dream up names for what the settlement should be called. This will ultimately be Captain Lema¡¯s decision, of course, but it doesn¡¯t hurt to dream. There are a few who think he¡¯ll name this place ¡°Lemador,¡± aggrandizing his name into that of the settlement. Many dismiss this idea, not viewing the captain as that egotistical, that narcissistic. Besides, ¡°Aitzabal¡± brings together the words for ¡°rock¡± and ¡°shelter¡±. When you glance around the terrain, admiring the rocky shores and the tall mountains that stand sentinel, as if they¡¯re watching over you to make sure you¡¯re safe and secure, the name feels perfect.
Storm clouds hover over the horizon as night starts to overtake the day. You all fear the torrential rains and high winds that will likely sweep the area and potentially wreck the shelters you¡¯ve constructed. Shouts erupt throughout the camp, instructing everyone to tie down and secure their homes, and secure the crates of goods so that they won¡¯t blow away or get swept out by the deluge of water. People scurry about, putting up barriers to help curb the tempest and do the best you all can to weather the storm.
When the storm comes, it moves at a glacier¡¯s pace¡ªso very different than the intense weather you experience in Legido. The rain is steady, certainly, but you all are not overwhelmed by any extreme gusts or flash floods. To your surprise, many step out from their homes and actually start dancing in it! You never would have imagined people celebrating the rains! It¡¯s a relief, and you start to believe Xiatli¡¯s claims that this is, in fact, paradise. Though the clouds still linger, you determine that, perhaps, your time here won¡¯t be so bad after all.
The following morning, Captain Lema gathers everyone to address you all directly. His face is stern, looking only at the ground as he paces with his hands folded behind his back. The nights are freezing here, and the days are not much better. So everyone is shivering as they stand around, and you try to huddle with the others in an effort to keep warm while awaiting the captain¡¯s announcement. Some declare they¡¯ve begun making tea, but you don¡¯t detect the herbal aroma of the beverage anywhere. You quickly realize they¡¯re trying to make light of the fact that there¡¯s not enough tea to go around¡ªthe tea inventory has been reserved to only be consumed by expedition leadership. Thus, it¡¯s pure, heated water for the rest of you.
A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.
¡°Everybody,¡± the captain says without any fanfare or introduction, ¡°I understand we have just arrived to the new world. However, we must be prepared to rejoin the other crews. We are not certain where they have landed, so we will need to send teams of scouts to search for them. In discussions with my navigators, it is estimated that they are north of here, given the direction we found ourselves sailing after getting knocked off course.¡±
You feel the stare of others burning into you, likely cursing or muttering obscenities under their collective breaths. You try your best to keep your gaze upon the captain, not wanting to meet the eyes of any of those who judge you or wish you ill, though you can sense the hateful stares from the periphery of your vision. Worst of all, you can¡¯t help but glance¡ªjust a quick glance off to the side¡ªand find Benicto scowling at you. Dorez tries to get him to knock it off, but he persists in glaring at you.
¡°Before we set off to find them,¡± the captain continues, ¡°we should ensure we are placed in the best position possible to survive and succeed while we await word on their location. Let us continue our efforts to establish ourselves here, and once we¡¯ve achieved a firm settlement, we will seek the others at once.¡±
A few protests spring up, questioning the strategy of delaying our search for the other crews. Others remark how little our rations are, and a few of those sent on scouting missions note the scare resources like trees for wood and the expansive plains that are silent from the lack of game to hunt. However, the concept of the captain¡¯s plan makes sense to you, in a way. Establishing a central location for all to gather, and ensuring everyone is able to sustain themselves with adequate food and water, seems like the correct course to take. After all, if the other crews are out looking for you all, you don¡¯t want them to only find bones and corpses, as morbid as that sounds.
He then organizes the crew into teams and delegates tasks, as it seems he¡¯s set to do each morning. After several are designated to working on constructing the settlement or sewing warmer garments, you start to get a tiny inkling of hope that something might be different about today. He points to a few men and women, including Landera, then searches the group, eyes narrowed as he concentrates.
¡°You,¡± the captain eventually points at you, ¡°are with Gartzen¡¯s scouting party. Find fresh water and food. We need to establish a camp and secure this area.¡±
This is it! This is your moment! Your heart could take flight, you¡¯re overjoyed. The task of scouting will most certainly be just as exhausting as securing goods and constructing homes, but the change of fortunes is most welcomed. Anything to break up the monotony of your daily tasks. Just the possibility of seeing something new, something different, fills you with indescribable excitement.
You stride toward Gartzen, nodding merrily at Landera. Except you notice a grave look on her face. Has something happened to her? Has someone outed her identity? You¡¯re about to ask her what¡¯s wrong when¡ you see it.
¡°Well, well, well,¡± Benicto¡¯s smug voice pierces your ears, pierces your soul. ¡°It¡¯s oilaskoa, come to join the adults for a little day trip.¡±
¡°Benicto,¡± Dorez¡¯s voice is sharp, cold, ¡°I have warned you, we are not doing this to them anymore. I am healed, I have been saved, all thanks to the one you taunt as oilaskoa, and no thanks to you.¡±
Benicto appears incensed at Dorez¡¯s remark. ¡°You wouldn¡¯t have gotten the injury if that oilaskoa hadn¡¯t sent us directly into that storm! Or did you bump your head in addition to your injuries that day? You are being foolish if you¡¯re lifting up this peasant and praising them as a saint.¡±
Dorez rolls her eyes. ¡°Come,¡± she directs you, her face lacking any expression. ¡°Let us meet up with Gartzen and seek out food and materials for the settlement.¡±
¡°And try not to get lost,¡± Benicto snarks. ¡°It would be a real shame if you happened to go missing.¡± He gives you a hard shove with his shoulder, forcing you onto your back feet for a moment as you briefly stumble.
Landera is there to help steady you, making sure you don¡¯t fall backward. ¡°Ignore him. Some people will forever be ungrateful. And people like Benicto, they¡¯re born in the port and believe they¡¯ve sailed the ocean. It¡¯s best to not let people like that get under your skin.¡±
The gruff Gartzen speaks mostly in grunts, giving directions strictly by pointing, as though you¡¯re expected to understand his thoughts. A number of those in the group exchange confused looks, which angers Gartzen until he only glares at everyone. You recall that he pointed toward the mountains¡ but maybe he wasn¡¯t pointing at the mountains so much as he was pointing in the direction of the river that flows from the snowy peaks.
¡°I think,¡± your voice squeaks as you muster up the confidence to translate Gartzen¡¯s instructions, ¡°he wants a party to search the river, to¡¡± Now you¡¯re uncertain why he would want to explore an area the settlers already know presents fresh drinking water.
Landera completes your thought. ¡°To look for any wildlife that may be nearby. We can hunt the game for food and use their pelts.¡±
This gives you an idea. ¡°Also,¡± you say, with more poise now, ¡°the wildlife may be consuming edible plants. Watch for them and seek out anything we can forage.¡± A few shared glances turn into subtle nods that ripple through the group as they catch on to the instructions.
You stand on the edge of a rocky outcrop, gazing out at the vast expanse before you. The land is a patchwork of greens and browns, dense forests giving way to open meadows, with jagged peaks rising in the distance. The air is crisp, and the scent of pine mingles with the faint brine of the sea.
The dark and heavy clouds linger ominously above, like a shroud waiting to descend. Your senses are on high alert, observing how the stillness of the air contrasts with the turmoil brewing overhead. Captain Lema¡¯s words echo in your mind, urging caution and vigilance. But there¡¯s a deceptive tranquility to the environment that lulls you into a false sense of security.
Landera and Gartzen lead the way, their forms small against the sprawling landscape. You trail behind, keeping an eye on Dorez and Benicto, who bring up the rear. Despite her initial hostility, Dorez has softened somewhat since you tended to her wound. Benicto, on the other hand, remains an enigma, with intentions as murky as the gathering storm clouds.
You press on. The terrain becomes increasingly rugged, covered in a layer of loose gravel and fallen leaves. Every step requires careful concentration as you traverse the uneven ground. The wind picks up, carrying with it a chill that causes your teeth to involuntarily chatter.
Suddenly, a low rumble reverberates through the air. You glance up, watching as the clouds shift and churn, darkening with each passing moment. The first raindrops begin to fall. The gentle patter quickly intensifies into a relentless downpour. The wind howls, whipping through the trees and sending branches crashing to the ground.
¡°Take cover!¡± Landera¡¯s voice cuts through the chaos, but the words are barely audible over the roar of the storm. You scramble for shelter, your movements frantic and uncoordinated. The rain stings your skin, and the wind threatens to knock you off your feet.
Visibility drops to near zero as the storm unleashes its fury. You lose sight of Landera and Gartzen, as their figures get swallowed by the curtain of rain. Panic sets in, your heart pounding to escape your chest. You shout their names, but the wind snatches the words from your lips, scattering them into the void.
Desperation drives you forward. Your steps falter as you traverse the treacherous terrain. You stumble, your foot catching on a root. You fall hard, the impact jarring through your body. Pain flares in your ankle, but you force yourself to stand. There¡¯s no time to lose. You must find your companions.
The storm is unrelenting. The rain falls in sheets, and the wind howls like a wild beast. Your clothes cling to your body, drenched and heavy. Your breath comes in ragged gasps while the cold air burns your lungs. You shield your face with your arm, peering through the rain in search of any sign of Landera or Gartzen. But all you see is the relentless downpour and the swaying silhouettes of trees.
The ground becomes a quagmire, with each step becoming an arduous struggle. Your willpower pushes you on. The roar of the storm is deafening, drowning out all other sounds.
You slip again, falling to your knees in the mud. For a moment, you consider staying down, letting the storm wash over you. But the thought of your companions drives you to rise once more. You have to find them, to make sure they¡¯re safe.
You find a large, overhanging rock that offers some semblance of shelter. You collapse under its meager protection, as the relentless rain still finds ways to seep through. The wind continues its assault, shrieking around the rock. Time loses meaning in the relentless fury of the storm. Minutes stretch into hours, which stretches into eternity.
The rain eventually begins to let up, though its mercy is minimal. You catch your breath, and the reality of your situation sinks in. Anxiety from the uncertainty of what lies ahead gnaws at you. The storm shows no sign of abating, and your companions are nowhere to be seen.
You close your eyes, trying to gather your thoughts. The harshness of this new land is overwhelming, and you now wish for the relative safety and security of the campsite. You think of Landera and Gartzen, wondering if they have found shelter or if they are out there, battling the storm as you are.
You struggle to your feet and cling to the nearby rock, your body aching from the cold and the strain. Your eyes sweep the area, and your heart sinks as you realize you are alone. The quiet is oppressive, and the absence of your companions¡ªof anyone from your scouting party¡ªmakes the alarming silence a gut-wrenching reminder.
¡°Lander! Gartzen!¡± you call out, your voice hoarse. There¡¯s no response, only the faint echo of your own voice. You clench your fists in both frustration and fear.
You look around, hoping to see a familiar face, a sign of Landera or Gartzen¡¯s presence. But the landscape is empty. The storm has swept away any trace of them, of anyone.
When the storm finally begins to subside, you feel a fleeting sense of relief. The rain lessens, the wind dies down, and the world starts to come back into focus. Now¡¯s your chance, you determine. You cautiously emerge from your makeshift shelter, your body stiff and sore. But you refuse to give up.
You begin to search the immediate area, your eyes searching for any sign of movement. The mud threatens to pull you down with each step. But you need to find your comrades.
You hear a faint noise, a murmur of voices carried on the wind. Hope surges within you as you move towards the sound, your heart pounding in your chest. You emerge from the trees, running, stumbling toward them. Could this be? Have you reunited with the scouting party?
You fight through the low-hanging branches claw at your face, nicking and scratching any exposed skin. Mud and damp water fills your beaten shoes, soaking your soggy socks. You¡¯re too excited to care, adrenaline coursing through your veins.
Then you hear a familiar voice, dripping with disdain, and your heart sinks immediately.
¡°The only other person we can find is oilaskoa? We¡¯re doomed," Benicto says to Dorez. She¡¯s helping Benicto to his feet, both of them looking worse for wear. His words are a dagger to your already bruised spirit. And though silent, the look she gives you tells you that Dorez appears to share his sentiment.
105 - Haesan
The march north is made almost entirely in silence. Everyone is still trying to process what on Pachil we faced, and what took place after we thought the battle was over. But we¡¯re too worn down, too tired to think, let alone think and drag our feet at the same time. The exhaustion is palpable, hovering around our ranks like an unwelcome guest who refuses to leave. We had thought the battle was over, that victory was in our grasp, only to be thrust into a nightmare that left us questioning everything.
Despite our weariness, the only decision we all knew for certain was to get as far away from Qapauma as possible. With the infighting occurring in the Pachil capital, the Qantua warriors expressed how they were not certain for whom they should be fighting, or which side to choose. Now, they seem adrift, caught between loyalties and a future they cannot predict. Inuxeq tried her best to assuage their fears about what this all means, but I can tell the warriors were less than convinced by her efforts.
I, too, fear what this signals. We¡¯re hardly a harvest removed from the end of the War of Liberation, and already, there are those seeking to depose the ruler. The uneasy peace we thought we had secured now feels like a fragile dream, shattering at the slightest provocation.
I walk the familiar road, with the Gates of Ipa towering ahead. Their massive stone formations cast long shadows over the surrounding golden fields. I¡¯ve walked this path before¡ªonce in desperation, fleeing the chaos of Qapauma, and again with hope, driven by the desire to aid the Qente Waila. Now? I¡¯m uncertain how I feel. However, this time, I¡¯m accompanied by the Qantua and Inuxeq, and I walk with purpose, no longer that scared girl who passed through here before.
Inuxeq strides beside me, her presence a steadying force. As I gaze upon her, my mind tries to comprehend how I was able to make such a daring escape, all thanks to her. How was that possible? Until my encounter with the Eye in the Flame, I felt that all magic vanished once the Eleven sacrificed themselves to vanquish the Timuaq. Now, I don¡¯t know what to believe anymore.
My eyes inspect the coral stone hanging from her neck, the gemstone that sporadically glows. She catches me staring at it, and I do a poor job of pretending I wasn¡¯t gawking at the improvised necklace. Fortunately, she doesn¡¯t appear annoyed or angered, instead looking at me curiously.
¡°I can¡¯t tell you much about it. The gemstone, that is.¡± She answers the question I hadn¡¯t asked, but intended to. ¡°One of the Arbiter¡¯s advisors, Xaqilpa, was in possession of it. I assumed it would be best kept in my possession until I can find out what it is, rather than someone with ill intentions happening upon it.¡±
¡°Xaqilpa,¡± I recite the name as if testing it on my tongue. ¡°I recall Achutli speaking to him in the throne room once. He was angry at this Xaqilpa, if my memory serves.¡±
Inuxeq looks at me as though she¡¯s judging or questioning me, a look she displays often that makes me feel I¡¯m being doubted or scrutinized. Uncertain what she finds issue with, I return her look, expecting her to explain herself. After our wordless stare down, it appears I¡¯m the one to break first, asking her, ¡°what is the look for?¡±
Judging by her reaction to this, Inuxeq must not have been aware of her expression, looking taken aback by my question. ¡°You appeared upset at something I said,¡± I explain myself once more. I¡¯m exhausted physically from the conflict in Qapauma, but now I¡¯m mentally exhausted at trying to figure out what is going on between us.
Fortunately, my clarification seems to resonate with her. She says, ¡°you don¡¯t call him by his title? Are you not Tapeu? And¡ are you not his daughter?¡±
¡°It¡¯s¡ complicated,¡± I respond. Once again, she makes this face of bewilderment, but I decide that, right now, I don¡¯t have the time¡ªnor patience¡ªto go into my history with the man. Instead, I say, ¡°Personal matters aside, I refuse to honor his title when he only seeks what is in his best interests, not that of Pachil.¡±
¡°And that¡¯s why you joined the resistance?¡± she asks. ¡°To depose your father? Because he is selfish?¡±
¡°In a way,¡± I say hesitantly. ¡°As I said, it¡¯s complicated. However, Achutli cannot even keep his house in order, let alone an entire continent of nine factions. There must be a ruler who wants all of Pachil to prosper, not those that he favors because they have bought his loyalty.¡±
Inuxeq nods in understanding, seeming to accept this answer. ¡°To be honest, I don¡¯t know what to think about the Arbiter,¡± she says disheartenedly. ¡°The Tuatiu are taught loyalty and to respect one¡¯s leaders. We are raised to embrace unity and unwavering support for those in command, believing that a cohesive society stands stronger against any adversary.¡±
¡°I believe, to receive respect, one must earn respect,¡± I reply. ¡°Blind loyalty can lead to ruin if the leaders themselves are corrupt. It¡¯s crucial to hold them accountable to truly uphold the values we as a society cherish.¡±
Inuxeq grunts in acknowledgement. ¡°After what I witnessed in Qapauma, I¡¯m undecided whether he has earned my respect. On the battlefield, he fought valiantly, not backing down from any enemy, as a good leader should. But he sent his advisor, Sianchu, to utilize our warriors for a campaign against the Ulxa, which, I come to discover, is based on misinformation. He shouldn¡¯t be attacking the Ulxa; he should be attacking the Eye in the Flame. Except, he doesn¡¯t seem to care about the distinction, seeking to destroy all whose origin is Ulxa.¡±
¡°It¡¯s likely his ear was poisoned by Xaqilpa¡¯s words,¡± I say. ¡°From my studies of Pachil¡¯s history, the Tapeu and Ulxa have never gotten along. But I believe Achutli was working with the Ulxa councilor for some means of consolidating his power. From what I had overheard, he seemed keenly aware of the Eye in the Flame, yet he wanted them contained, not eliminated.¡±
Inuxeq scowls at this information. ¡°Working with the cult? I was under the impression of such a possibility, as unlikely as it would seem, but it¡¯s infuriating to find it to be true, especially given¡¡± She appears upset, grimacing at the thought, before completing her statement, ¡°the source who spoke to me of the matter.¡±
She lets those words hang in the brisk Tapeu air, shaking her head in disbelief. There¡¯s something underlying her comment, but I¡¯m hesitant to press her to tell me more. It appears to be a bitter topic, something that eats away at her, and I sense there are unsettling feelings of shame and regret behind this.
In our silence, I note how, though she¡¯s a relative stranger, I feel a certain confidence that I¡¯ve deduced the situation and her feelings precisely. It¡¯s reminiscent of the sensation I felt at figuring out Onixem¡¯s intentions, or the moment in the throne room when, I believe, I prevented Aluxeqwel and Teqotlo from conducting further gruesome slayings in the name of the twisted version of their god. But was that a result of my influence, or simply my intuition or wishes? Is this some special capability I possess, or is it all purely coincidental?
In that vein, what do I make of Inuxeq? Once again, my thoughts return to this notion of magic¡ªhow obsessed over this have I become? Still, there are many questions that need to be answered. And our trek north is long.
I try my best to hide my uncertainty and lack of confidence, but I don¡¯t know how to start this conversation with Inuxeq. Will she find me to be a lunatic? One susceptible to believing in tall tales and legends like a child? Nevertheless, I fill my chest with a deep, calming breath, and dive into the question head-first.
¡°Inuxeq,¡± I say, already hearing¡ªand loathing¡ªthe nervous tone in my voice. She grunts an acknowledgement, her eyes still surveying the horizon. ¡°Back there, in Qapauma¡¡±
¡°What about it?¡± she mutters, her attention not fully on our conversation.
¡°How did we¡ How were we able to¡¡± My mouth can¡¯t form the question, as my mind is unable to grasp what even happened.
As though she was stating an obvious, mundane fact, Inuxeq answers, ¡°The disappearing thing.¡± It¡¯s said as if she mentions how the grass is green, or how water is wet.
¡°So, you have done this before?¡± I inquire, curious about this nonchalant manner in which she is speaking about this supernatural phenomenon.
She shrugs. ¡°Not at all.¡± Due to her seeming indifference with regards to her abilities, this response and how it¡¯s delivered catches me by surprise. She continues, ¡°Upon my arrival, beyond these Gates of Ipa in Qapauma, was the first moment I observed these powers. Or, rather, it was observed by others.¡±
¡°You¡¯ve only had experience with this ability for a day?¡± My remark sounds as though I don¡¯t believe her, but it¡¯s because of how she appears unaffected by this realization that I¡¯m completely caught off guard. To add to this notion, she simply responds to me with her characteristic shrug and grunt in acknowledgement.
¡°How were you made aware you had the power to¡¡± I can¡¯t determine how, or what, to ask with my follow-up question. What did Inuxeq do? Did she make us disappear and reappear at a destination of her choosing? Were we running invisibly and undetected to the location? Did she stop time for a few heartbeats to have us relocate, and for the action to resume once we were in relative safety? Just what happened when the world went black for that brief moment?
Once again, Inuxeq shrugs, her eyes still fixed to the horizon, as if this conversation doesn¡¯t interest her. ¡°I don¡¯t know what happens. When I did it, several warriors were trapped by the gray creatures of the Eye in the Flame. I wanted to create a diversion, to distract the beasts and give them a chance to escape. They were about to be slaughtered, and after that, the monsters would turn their ire toward us. We were all ill-equipped to handle them, especially in such narrow streets with no room to maneuver. I didn¡¯t know what else to do. In my mind, I saw the place I wanted to go, and I ran for it, thinking I would draw the gray creatures¡¯ attention to me. Instead, I found I was behind them, and they hadn¡¯t noticed me. Those who saw me say I vanished one moment, then reappeared the next.¡±
Inuxeq pauses for a moment, her attention focused on something out in the amber plains. She momentarily clutches the hilt of the dagger at her hip as her eyes narrow to assess what it is. When she realizes whatever phantom she saw isn¡¯t a threatening presence, she resumes her recounting of events. ¡°Your flooding of the streets helped us gain an opportunity to get into a better defensive position to protect the palace.¡± She nods, which is perhaps the biggest sign of gratitude she can exude.
I look down at her coral amulet, curious about its significance. ¡°Do you think the gemstone provides your abilities?¡±
Inuxeq shakes her head. ¡°What happened to me was before I obtained this,¡± she briefly looks down at the gemstone before returning to attentively looking out for potential threats. ¡°It was on Xaqilpa, that scum of a councilor to the Arbiter. Secured inside a tumi knife. At the time, I believed it was what gave him his powers. I dislodged it with my arrow, and he seemed terrified of that, running away like a coward. I chased him, but then he disappeared at the palace. I think his abilities extended beyond the gemstone.¡±
¡°I believe I know what may have happened,¡± I say, wincing. ¡°There are a series of underground tunnels and secret passageways beneath the palace, leading to various locations throughout the grounds. I don¡¯t know where they all start and end, but I used one to get a group of sorcerers to vacate a location where they could have completely annihilated the palace forces.¡±
Inuxeq scowls, visibly seething at this realization. She punches a fist into her open palm, shaking her head in frustration. Hoping to distract her and calm her down, I attempt to divert the conversation. ¡°If you obtained abilities without the need of a gemstone, then I wonder if I, too, possess capabilities. Well, I can¡¯t speak confidently that I do.¡± Hearing the words leave my lips, I immediately feel foolish.
¡°You can vanish, as well?¡± She glances at me momentarily. This suddenly piques her interest.
My memory traces back to the throne room and the horrifying rituals, the grizzly scene caused by Aluxeqwel and Teqotlo. ¡°For me, it was during these horrific sacrifices as the two Eye in the Flame sorcerers were slaughtering a slew of nobles in order to perform some dark ritual. I felt this overwhelming desire for them to stop, wanting them to see the disgusting cruelty in their ways. They perked up, as if they were listening to something, and then they¡ stopped.¡±
Inuxeq chuckles at this. ¡°You wished them away? It could be happenstance.¡±
¡°That¡¯s what I thought,¡± I say, trying not to sound defensive, because I genuinely am not certain what took place in that room. ¡°But then, when Onixem apprehended me¡ Yes, she¡¯s the one who killed her parents, those sorcerers. Anyway, I thought it again, wishing she would let me go, repeating over and over in my head how I was not the enemy, pleading with her to not go through with this plan. And just like her parents, she appeared as if she was listening to something, to someone speaking to her. Was it me? I can¡¯t be certain. But I find it coincidental for her to follow through with what I was asking her to do.¡±
If you stumble upon this tale on Amazon, it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it.
At this, Inuxeq¡¯s eyes narrow, calculating some plan in her mind. I watch her search the clouds above for an answer, mulling over ideas in her head. Suddenly, she turns to me with a determined look. ¡°Alright, Haesan. If you have the ability to influence thoughts or actions, or wish them away or whatever, we need to see it. Let¡¯s start simple.¡±
Inuxeq points to a group of Qantua warriors, dragging their feet as they march on exhaustedly. They share a stale loaf of bread, likely one of the last remaining food items they¡¯ve brought for the excursion to Qapauma. ¡°Try to get one of those warriors to do something they wouldn¡¯t normally do,¡± she dares me. ¡°Maybe get one to give you his weapon or share his rations.¡±
¡°I don¡¯t think they would give me their weapon,¡± I say nervously. ¡°They hardly know me.¡±
¡°That¡¯s the point, isn¡¯t it?¡± Inuxeq responds, looking at me with bafflement. ¡°Look, that group over there? They¡¯re skeptical¡ªthey¡¯ve been questioning this mission since we departed Hilaqta¡ªand they¡¯re unlikely to help without reason. Getting one of them to do something out of character would perfectly prove you¡¯re not just willing something to happen; you¡¯re actually affecting someone in the way of your choosing.¡±
¡°I¡¯m¡ not sure how to do this,¡± I say hesitantly. ¡°Wouldn¡¯t they¡ª¡°
¡°Just walk up there, making sure they don¡¯t notice you¡ªif they see you staring at them, they might take pity on you and hand you their bread unprovoked. So walk a little behind them and, I dunno, have them toss the bread over their shoulder to you or something. You¡¯re smart; you¡¯ll figure it out.¡±
I take a deep breath. ¡°Okay, I¡¯ll try.¡± I reluctantly approach them, doing as Inuxeq said and making sure they don¡¯t notice my presence. I stare intently at the back of the head of one of the warriors, practically studying every follicle of black hair that lightly traipses his shoulders. Attached to his back is a short obsidian sword, its handle and paddle nicked and scratched from being in numerous battles. In the diffused light, the black obsidian still glimmers, well kept and maintained.
I¡¯m not sure I can do that, asking for a weapon. It feels intrusive, like a betrayal of trust. Yet he doesn¡¯t know me¡ªoutside of being someone rescued by Inuxeq, the Qantua warriors are unlikely to know who I am.
I still can¡¯t bring myself to demand his weapon, so instead, I focus on the bread.
Give me the bread, I think, narrowing my eyes as I focus on him. What am I even trying to look at? His mind? His skull? I feel absurd. If anyone was watching me along with Inuxeq, they¡¯d think I have gone mad.
Give me the bread, I say forcefully inside my mind. I feel my mouth contorting, my facial muscles straining as I will him to give me the dried piece of bread. The warriors don¡¯t respond, carrying on with their jovial conversation.
Come on! Now, I¡¯m practically pleading. Just, please! Give me the bread! Even just the heel, something!
Still no reaction. I turn to look at Inuxeq, feeling hopeless. She motions her head as if she¡¯s wordlessly urging me on. Does she think I haven¡¯t been trying? Perhaps I don¡¯t have abilities after all. Perhaps it was all coincidental. Perhaps Onixem, Teqotlo, and Aluxeqwel happened to have a change of heart, realizing the error of their ways on their own.
I replay the events in my mind, hoping something stands out. What did those two occasions have in common? What could it be? What could it be? I remember that, in both instances, I essentially pleaded with them, trying to appeal to them to let me go, or let the nobles go. Perhaps I need to do the same to these warriors. If I can influence just one of them, that should be enough.
I take one more deep breath. Warrior, I say, speaking sweetly with the voice inside my head. I would like for you to give me the bread, please. I¡¯m in desperate need of it, and only you can help me. Please¡
I feel my heart genuinely ache at the thought of this effort failing. I hadn¡¯t thought about it, but deep down, I eagerly want this to succeed. I¡¯m more than willing it to happen; I completely desire success with every fiber of my being.
Please¡
The warrior holding the bread stops walking. He cuts off his conversation with the others immediately, looking around as though he hears a voice. Is he hearing my voice? Slowly, he turns around, finding me standing before him, draped in an overside black and gold tunic from when Inuxeq had one of the warriors lend me so I can stay warm.
Then, as if the entire situation suddenly makes sense to him, he smiles warmly at me. ¡°Ah, you there,¡± he says cheerfully, extending his hand that holds the chunk of bread. ¡°You look like you need this more than I do. Here, take it.
My eyes grow wide in surprise. I turn to look at Inuxeq, who, with mouth agape, nods and urges me to accept it. Cautiously, I take the piece of bread, bewilderedly thanking him. The other warriors look at him in disbelief.
¡°Hey!¡± they shout. ¡°Why¡¯d you give her our bread? That¡¯s all we have left, you idiot!¡± They begin striking him in annoyance, yet he continues to gaze at me, unfazed. As he¡¯s being smacked and walloped, he nods, smiling as though we¡¯re longtime friends, like he¡¯s proud to have done such a feat.
Inuxeq sprints over. ¡°Hey, you fools! Knock it off! Here, you animals¡¡± She unties a pouch at her side and pours out pieces of dried figs into her hand before tossing the bag to one of the angered warriors. ¡°Take this, as an expression of my gratitude for your generosity to the poor servant girl.¡±
Confused, the warriors stare at the pouch curiously, then look back to Inuxeq to make sure this isn¡¯t some trick. She looks at them as though she can¡¯t believe they aren¡¯t grasping the situation, shooing them with her hand and saying, ¡°Okay, then. Run along now. Go!¡±
The warriors squabble over the dried figs, pulling the other warrior along with them as he finally seems to come to, like awakening from a deep sleep. I hear him inquiring about what happened to the bread they were sharing as they all walk away. I turn to Inuxeq, who is as equally as shocked as I am.
¡°Alright, I will confess,¡± she begins, a smile slowly creasing the corners of her mouth, ¡°I did not expect that to actually work. Sun and sky, Haesan! What on Pachil did you do!¡±
We share a laugh in stunned amazement, giggling like two children realizing they got away with stealing some freshly-made amaranth cakes. What did I do? I, too, can¡¯t believe that worked, astonished that¡ª
¡°Wait a moment.¡± This feels like a recent, past experience I¡¯ve shared with her. Realizing this, I ask Inuxeq, ¡°When you saw me being apprehended by the Qente Waila, you said afterwards that you weren¡¯t certain that gambit would work. Were you also unaware of the extent of your abilities?¡±
She grins coyly. ¡°Well, during a battle I had with Xaqilpa and the two Eye in the Flame sorcerers, I was able to vanish from one place and reappear in another of my choosing, where I focused my attention. All items I possessed¡ªmy weapons, my satchel, my empty quiver, this gemstone¡ªeverything came with me.¡±
I gaze upon her warily, wondering where this conversation will go¡ªand largely anticipating an answer with which I¡¯ll be less than thrilled. She continues, ¡°When I saw you being accosted, I tried to look for the best way to escape, to have you get out of there without the need to fight anyone and potentially kill someone, which would cause more unrest. I thought about running in there and dragging you out, hoping I could get you to the Qantua warriors waiting just beyond the walls; they had been wisely backing away from the skirmish as the other two sides came together. So, I put my head down, and¡¡± She makes a poof explosion gesture with her hands, as if that should wordlessly explain everything.
To me, it does not. ¡°So you ran in there on a whim?¡± I ask, perplexed. ¡°You had no idea if it would work, but you tried it anyway? What if it hadn¡¯t? What if you ran in there and they apprehended you, as well? They could¡¯ve deemed you an accomplice to whatever Onixem claimed I was doing! You could¡¯ve endangered lives by doing that! What¡ª¡°
Inuxeq shushes me. Curious eyes of the nearby Qantua warriors wander over to us, checking to see what the commotion is about. In a hushed tone, Inuxeq says, ¡°I know it sounds reckless, Haesan, but I assessed the situation quickly, and decided that saving you was worth the risk. I saw the Qantua warriors nearby and knew they would intervene if needed. I didn¡¯t act without thought, okay? I¡¯ve been in countless battles, and I¡¯ve learned to trust my instincts¡ªthey¡¯ve kept me alive this long, after all. And in that moment, I trusted that my powers would help us. I couldn¡¯t just stand by and do nothing while you were in danger. If I had hesitated, you might still be in their custody, or worse.¡±
¡°Besides,¡± she continues, ¡°I needed to know if my abilities were reliable in a real situation. Now we both do. And look, it worked, didn¡¯t it? We¡¯re both here, safe, and now we¡¯ve both confirmed something crucial about our abilities.¡±
I scoff, looking away in exasperation. She stops me, grabbing my shoulders, and her eyes soften as she looks at me. ¡°I would never recklessly endanger anyone intentionally, and I did what I thought was necessary to keep us safe. I¡¯m doing my best to keep us all alive. But if you need more assurances, I¡¯ll be more careful and plan more thoroughly next time.¡±
I sigh. I know she means well, that she wants to protect those fighting for the right side of history, fighting for Pachil. She¡¯s a warrior through and through, taking on daring challenges head-on. It¡¯s in her nature. Who am I to tell her to go against that?
¡°I suppose,¡± I start to confess, unable to meet her eyes as I speak my truth, ¡°I don¡¯t find myself worthy of being saved. Already, I¡¯ve had my life endangered because of my actions, and in all of those instances, I¡¯ve needed someone to rescue me from peril. I feel as though I¡¯m causing more harm than good. I¡¯m not used to someone caring for my safety, especially that of a relative stranger.¡±
Inuxeq frowns, then rests a consoling hand upon my shoulder. ¡°Listen, Haesan, I don¡¯t know you well, but I can see you have a strong spirit. We¡¯ve all been thrown into this fight, facing dangers we never imagined. You¡¯ve done things none of us thought possible. You saved lives in Qapauma, and that¡¯s not something to dismiss lightly. We all need saving sometimes. That doesn¡¯t make you weak¡ªit makes you human. You¡¯re a part of this because you matter, because you have the strength to make a difference. Don¡¯t doubt that.¡±
She ducks her head low so that I¡¯m forced to meet her gaze. ¡°We¡¯re now in this together, whether you like it or not,¡± she says with a smirk, ¡°and we¡¯ll keep each other safe. So, next time you think you¡¯re not worthy of being saved, remember that you already have saved others.¡±
Inuxeq looks upon me with warmth, giving me a reassuring nod. I eke out a small, partial smile, appreciating the sentiment. To go from not having anyone care for me for nearly all of my life, and now happening upon not only Nuqasiq and Yachaman, but also Inuxeq? Someone whom I just met sees value in me? Reflecting upon this causes me to fight back the lump forming in my throat.
¡°Alright,¡± I say through a few sniffles. ¡°We¡¯ve been aimlessly heading north, but we should formulate a plan. We need to figure out what to do about Qapauma, and these Qantua warriors of yours.¡±
¡°And the Eye in the Flame,¡± Inuxeq adds. ¡°And Mexqutli, that double-crossing snake, that¡ª¡°
¡°All of it,¡± I interrupt, before she spirals into a state of fury and frustration.
The dying sun reminds us of how long we¡¯ve journeyed from Qapauma. The cool evening air begins settling into the plains. I start to grow despondent, knowing Nuqasiq and Yachaman remain in the capital city, trapped and at the mercy of the civil war brewing there. There must be something we can do, something that merges the needs of both Inuxeq and myself, so that precious time is not being wasted.
An idea comes to mind. ¡°Okay, so hear me out,¡± I begin, growing encouraged as the plan slowly forms in my mind¡¯s eye. ¡°We need to track down the Eye in the Flame, making sure they¡¯re vanquished for good. And we need to find this Mexqutli fellow, too. I also would like to ensure Nuqasiq and my dear friend, Yachaman, are safe.¡±
¡°With the war heating up between the Achutli loyalists and Jade Hummingbird,¡± Inuxeq notes, ¡°we won¡¯t be able to walk in there without a huge army behind us. I¡¯m talking some serious numbers, some ¡®you have to listen to us¡¯ kind of numbers.¡±
I nod in agreement. ¡°And we shouldn¡¯t endanger the Qantua warriors needlessly if we can help it. They didn¡¯t join to be a part of some internal Tapeu squabbles.¡±
¡°I wouldn¡¯t ask them to, certainly,¡± Inuxeq says. ¡°They¡¯re here to defeat the Eye in the Flame.¡±
Now I see the plan, seeing everything falling into place. ¡°If the surviving zealots traveled north, they¡¯ll be in Aimue territory. And I believe the Aimue be inclined to join us. They¡¯ve been oppressed twice over¡ªonce by the Timuaq, and through Achutli. Adding the Eye in the Flame into the mix will only encourage them further. If they¡¯ve already suffered at the hands of the cultists, they will be more than inclined to aid us in defeating the evil that plagues our lands. That can be our army!¡±
Inuxeq winces. ¡°They¡¯ve also been assaulted by the Eye in the Flame. Their numbers have taken a devastating blow. Besides, training a bunch of farmers will take some time.¡±
My heart aches at the thought of yet more people who have suffered at the hands of these cultists. If their population has been depleted, there may not be enough to accumulate into a large army. Unless¡
A new wrinkle to my plan develops. ¡°Fighting against their oppressors should expedite that. If we present it as a fight for their freedom, for their very existence, we can ignite a fire within them. We can show them that they¡¯re not alone in this struggle, that their fight is our fight, too. The Aimue are resourceful and resilient. With proper leadership and training, they could become a formidable force. We need to appeal to their sense of justice and survival.¡±
Inuxeq considers this. ¡°They have nothing to lose, certainly. And a lot to gain. It¡¯s not the worst idea I¡¯ve ever heard.¡±
¡°We shall go to Qelantu Loh,¡± I declare. ¡°There are Qente Waila loyalists there, which makes me uneasy, to say the least. Yet, with your support and that of the Qantua, we may be able to unite the Atima refugees under a common cause.¡±
Inuxeq raises an eyebrow. ¡°Atima refugees? I didn¡¯t know they still existed. You think they will fight? A bunch of scholars?¡±
¡°They have been displaced and oppressed for so long,¡± I explain. ¡°The Timuaq, as well as many rulers who¡¯ve sat on that throne in Qapauma, have taken so much from them. They have been seeking a chance to restore their honor and place in Pachil. With their knowledge, combined with the strength of the Qantua and the resolve of the Aimue, we can form a formidable alliance.¡±
Inuxeq nods slowly, considering the plan. ¡°Alright, that could work. If we can convince the Atima refugees and the Aimue to support us, we might have a formidable force. But we need to be strategic about it. And we need to show them we¡¯re capable and serious.¡±
I nod. ¡°Agreed. We need to ensure we approach the right people and build trust slowly. The Qantua warriors can act as our guardians while we make our case to the leaders of the camp. Once we secure their allegiance, we can march to Aimue and present our united front. The combination of Atima knowledge, Qantua strategy, and Aimue numbers will make us a force to be reckoned with.¡±
Inuxeq¡¯s skeptical gaze softens slightly. ¡°And you believe they¡¯ll listen to us? As you¡¯ve said, they¡¯ve been oppressed and betrayed before.¡±
¡°They will listen,¡± I assert, ¡°because they¡¯ll see the truth in our cause. We¡¯re not fighting for power or territory; we¡¯re fighting to rid Pachil of malignant forces that threaten us all. The Eye in the Flame must be eradicated, and the Pachil that was fought for in the War of Liberation must be recognized and achieved. And the only way to do that is through unity.¡±
¡°So we¡¯re liberators, then?¡± Inuxeq asks rhetorically. ¡°Fighting for our freedom once again.¡±
¡°It¡¯s a tale as old as time itself, sadly,¡± I say. ¡°But we have to take back our lands and make an earnest effort to restore peace.¡±
Inuxeq smiles a vulpine grin. ¡°I don¡¯t generally support such idealism and na?ve optimism. But maybe your powers are at work here. You¡¯ve convinced me. Let¡¯s regroup in Qelantu Loh and build ourselves an army.¡±
I smile, feeling a renewed sense of purpose. We march onward, leaving the Gates of Ipa behind and head towards Qelantu Loh. The cool evening air fills my lungs, and for the first time in a while, I feel a glimmer of hope, delicate yet undeniable. The path ahead is laden with obstacles, yet it¡¯s clearer than it has ever been.
106 - Walumaq
We stand rooted to the spot, our breath caught as the cold, unyielding stares of the Ulxa shaman and the Auilqa warriors pierce through us. The shaman points at us accusatorially, with the eyes of the turquoise serpent tattoo that wraps around his arm glinting malevolently. Though the shaman is Ulxa, his arrival flanked by Auilqa warriors sends a shiver of foreboding dread through me.
Tlexn¨ªn scowls. ¡°You,¡± she practically spits the words at him. ¡°Are you aligned with them? Those who have betrayed us when we are at our most vulnerable? Are you responsible for the captivity of our people?¡±
¡°The Auilqa seizure of Ulxa territory is only until you are deposed,¡± the shaman says cooly. ¡°There have been whispers of your desire to cease Ulxa traditions and rituals. You have allowed a treacherous enemy to gain strength and nearly wipe out our people. It is evident that you have gone mad, and you must be stopped.¡±
¡°You would go against the Itztecatl?¡± Tlexn¨ªn asks, incensed. ¡°I have been chosen! Do you not believe, then, that it is the will of the gods to seek out rituals and traditions that honors the gods and values human life?¡±
¡°The Itztecatl,¡± the shaman replies with a sigh. ¡°Perhaps that is the tradition that needs to be changed.¡±
Tlexn¨ªn tries to storm up to the shaman, but is stopped by both the imposing presence of the Auilqa warriors and Atoyaqtli and Pomacha holding her back. It doesn¡¯t, however, stop her from expressing her disdain for the person. ¡°You dare to insult me by challenging my vision for a better, stronger Ulxa by questioning the rituals you claim to hold sacred?¡±
The shaman raises his voice slightly, growing impatient. ¡°The rituals we have practiced for generations upon generations are what has curried favor from the gods, what has protected us from danger and kept the Ulxa strong and prosperous.¡±
¡°The same favor and protection that has led to our captivity?¡± Tlexn¨ªn snaps back. As one could imagine, this does not please the Auilqa warriors standing nearby, waiting for any excuse to strike the Ulxa leader. They snarl, taking another step or two closer to Tlexn¨ªn, though she does not relent as she glares at the shaman.
I feel Paxilche¡¯s eyes boring into me. Saqatli¡¯s, too. I know they watch me, anticipating my interjection, but I¡¯m uncertain how to de-escalate the situation. This seems like a matter to be settled among the Ulxa, debating traditions and ceremonies that honor their ancestors and the gods while showing that human life should be valued, too. It doesn¡¯t feel like it¡¯s my place to interfere, yet I know, deep down, that leaving a resolution to be made between these two parties could bring less than desirable results.
Before the shaman can signal the Auilqa warriors to recapture Tlexn¨ªn, I take a measured step forward. ¡°If I may,¡± I state. All parties involved¡ªfrom Tlexn¨ªn to the shaman to the waiting Auilqa warriors¡ªare not entirely receptive to a third party attempting to insert themselves into this conflict. But it is something I anticipated, and thus I am not deterred.
¡°I understand the grievances of both sides,¡± I say, alternating my glances between the shaman and Tlexn¨ªn. ¡°For you, respected shaman, Tlexn¨ªn¡¯s desire to change Ulxa traditions must feel like a betrayal of everything you and your people hold sacred. The rituals and ceremonies you uphold are the lifeblood of your culture, passed down through generations as a testament to your people¡¯s resilience and devotion. To see these traditions questioned or altered is to feel your ancestors¡¯ voices being silenced, which is a profound pain that I can only imagine.¡±
¡°And you, Tlexn¨ªn,¡± I continue, turning to the Ulxa leader, who is listening intently, ¡°your desire to move away from practices you see as harmful is also rooted in a wish for a better future. You envision a path where the Ulxa can thrive without the necessity of rituals that may no longer serve the people. You seek progress and enlightenment, hoping to guide your people towards a future where they are no longer bound by what you see as outdated customs.¡±
Tlexn¨ªn''s expression softens slightly, and her posture becomes less confrontational as she relaxes her shoulders. I pause and carefully choose my next words. Taking another step forward, I make sure to sincerely address the two sides.
¡°We must find a way to honor both the past and the future. There is wisdom in tradition and in evolution. These are difficult waters we navigate, where respect for our heritage must meet the necessity of change. If we allow ourselves to be torn apart by these differences, we will only pave the way for our enemies to exploit our divisions.¡±
I look around at the assembled warriors and leaders, maintaining my compassionate gaze. ¡°Both of you are fighting for the heart and spirit of your people, for the preservation of your identity and the promise of a future. But this division weakens you, making it easier for external threats like the Eye in the Flame to exploit and conquer. They thrive on discord and the fractures between us. Have we not learned from battling the Timuaq? If we remain fractured, we will fall. But if we unite, respecting both traditions and the need to adapt, we can stand strong. Let us not allow our differences to weaken us. Instead, let us forge a new path together, one that honors the ancestors while embracing the future.¡±
The shaman¡¯s eyes narrow. ¡°Words are easy, Sanqo. What do you know of our pain, our struggles? Our gods demand respect, and Tlexn¨ªn seeks to strip that away.¡±
I nod. ¡°I may not know your specific struggles, but I do know that the Eye in the Flame is a threat to all of us. They have ravaged our lands, manipulated our people, and now seek to control us all. The attack on Analoixan was just one part of their plan to sow discord and division among us. Witnessing the devastation they have brought to your people only proves the urgency defeating them, to ensure my people, and all people of Sanqo, are safe.¡±
Skepticism etches every line of the shaman¡¯s face. ¡°You speak of unity, but how do we know you truly understand our plight and are not just another outsider looking to impose your will?¡±
I meet his eyes, my gaze unwavering. ¡°I understand your doubt. Words are fragile threads, easily broken. To ensure the safety of Tlexn¨ªn and that of all people of Pachil, I am willing to prove my commitment to diplomacy and unity with actions, not just words.¡±
The shaman steps forward, and his weathered hand points to the mountain that looms over the horizon, its peak shrouded in the distant swirling mist. ¡°If you are sincere and truly seek to unite us, you must prove it. Undertake a trial, one that honors our traditions and demonstrates your commitment. You will face the Tepey¨llotl. Scale the mountain, and light the signal fire at its peak. Only then will we believe your words hold weight. Complete it, and we will grant Tlexn¨ªn temporary freedom to discuss terms.¡±
¡°No!¡± Paxilche¡¯s voice rings out, sharp and immediate. ¡°This is madness! She has nothing to prove to you!¡±
Though silent, Tlexn¨ªn shakes her head, anger simmering just beneath the surface. ¡°This is unnecessary. The goddess called Walumaq has already proven herself¡ª¡°
I raise a hand to quiet them, my gaze locked with that of the shaman. ¡°If this is what it takes to show my commitment, then so be it. I accept your challenge. I will undertake the Tepey¨llotl and light the signal fire. Through this trial, we will bridge our differences and stand united against the true enemy.¡±
The gathered Auilqa warriors murmur among themselves, uncertain and concerned. The shaman, meanwhile, nods. His expression remains hard, but there¡¯s a flicker of something in his eyes¡ªrespect, perhaps, or maybe curiosity. ¡°Very well,¡± he says. ¡°Prepare yourself, Sanqo.¡±
The Ulxa landscape is a perplexing wonder, seemingly changing from one step to the next. When we first arrived to the territory, we traversed a tropical rainforest. This eventually gave way to a more disparate landscape, an abrupt difference to our first moments in their lands. Now, we once again move through dense jungle, as the hot and humid air sticks to my skin.
The morning light filters through the thick leaves above, casting scattered patches of brightness on the ground. Each step is a challenge, with the ground containing a mix of mud and twisted roots that threaten to reach up and trip us. The smell of damp foliage and decay mixes with the sharp scent of sweat. Ahead, the imposing figure of a massive mountain rises as we draw closer, watching our progress.
¡°You do not have to do this, goddess,¡± Tlexn¨ªn informs me. ¡°We can find another solution to this situation. You do not need to interfere with the petty squabbles of the Ulxa.¡±
I rest a hand on her shoulder, much to the chagrin of the frowning Auilqa warriors standing guard around her. ¡°We weren¡¯t exactly given much of a choice, once we were caught in the act of helping you escape. It seemed like an apt distraction at the time. But I¡¯ve endured trials before, and I will prove myself once more.¡±
¡°The Ulxa leader is right, you know,¡± Paxilche now chimes in. ¡°This is ludicrous.
¡°I would rather choose diplomacy over war,¡± I assert, growing more and more impatient with Paxilche¡¯s warmongering ways. Where has the reluctant man gone, the one who wanted nothing but a quiet, peaceful life in the shadow of his brother, the Tempered?
¡°What¡¯s to say they won¡¯t go back on their word the moment you complete this trial?¡± Paxilche questions. This is a fair point, one that I¡¯ve been considering during our trek to the base of this lone mountain in the middle of the Ulxa hillside. The Auilqa have betrayed us before, and there isn¡¯t anything stopping them from doing so once again.
¡°I believe in showing strength through unity and diplomacy,¡± I declare flatly. ¡°If we want to forge a new path, one where the factions can coexist and thrive, we must be willing to take risks. If we let fear dictate our actions, we will be no better than the ones who seek to divide and conquer us.¡±
There¡¯s a doubt and disbelief in Paxilche¡¯s eyes. ¡°Diplomacy will mean nothing if we¡¯re all dead or enslaved.¡±
I study the mountain that seems to beckon me to it. ¡°War only leads to more suffering. The path we are on is fraught with dangers, but it is also one that can best lead to lasting peace.¡±
Paxilche clenches his fists, looking away with a frown. ¡°I hope you¡¯re right, Walumaq. But if they betray you, if they betray us, I will not hesitate to make them pay.¡±
I look back at Paxilche. ¡°If the Auilqa go back on their word, then we will face that challenge when it comes. But for now, I must show them that we are sincere in our desire for peace and cooperation. I must show them that we are allies.¡±
When we arrive at the base of the mountain, the Ulxa shaman gathers us together ceremoniously. Tlexn¨ªn stands proudly by his side, planting her weapon firmly into the ground and staring straight ahead at our group. I find this act remarkable; considering their harsh disagreement earlier that nearly came to violence, their ability to honor this ritual despite their differences speaks of the value the Ulxa place in these ancient traditions.
To their credit, the Auilqa warriors show their respect for the proceedings, solemnly bowing their heads and holding their weapons down low, rather than at the ready. The Sanqo warriors, Saqatli, and Pomaqli follow next, awkwardly standing in a way to express their compliance, though uncertain where to position themselves or what to do. It¡¯s Paxilche¡¯s demeanor that infuriates me, folding his arms and scowling at the two Ulxa distrustingly as though he¡¯s eager to pick a fight. I¡¯m about to scold him for his immaturity when the shaman makes a pronouncement.
¡°The Tepey¨llotl is a sacred trial that tests one¡¯s endurance, courage, and reverence for our gods and the spirits of the land. Created by Wiqamasqa at the dawn of Pachil, this ancient ritual has been conducted by our people since time immemorial. It signifies the final measure of an initiate, proving they are ready to defend Ulxa and join the ranks of our honored warriors.¡±
This story is posted elsewhere by the author. Help them out by reading the authentic version.
Lifting his hands and staff toward the sky, he looks up and shouts, ¡°Though this ritual is meant for the Ulxa, today we open this sacred trial to an outsider for the first time in Ulxa history. May Wiqamasqa and Iolatl witness our act of goodwill and grant us Their blessing on this day. If the spirits of our ancestors deem the Sanqo princess worthy, may they look upon her with favor and guide her steps to the summit.¡±
If not for the shaman pointing out a narrow gap made from cut down trees, I would never have seen the path that is shrouded by the thick vegetation. Other than the clothes on my back and the amulets around my neck, I¡¯m given no tools, no supplies, as I¡¯m sent off to scale the mountain. I must endure all this mountain subjects me to, braving its untamed wilderness, fierce elements, and unseen dangers.
Saqatli and Noch look on nervously, as the boy clutches his ocelot companion closely to console him. Pomaqli and the Sanqo warriors watch me with curiosity, wondering if I will actually go through with such a trial. So, too, does Tlexn¨ªn, stunned to see an outsider partake in the traditions of her people. Yet there¡¯s a sense of pride exuding from them all, watching a princess, someone who has spent the majority of her life in the comfort of noble confines, undertake such a challenge.
Paxilche glowers, refusing to make eye contact with anyone present. I understand why he may view this as unnecessary, as some meaningless, fruitless endeavor. The Auilqa have given us no indication that they can be trusted, and the Ulxa will be interlocked in an internal quarrel of which we need not be a part. But neither side wants to see the complete destruction of Pachil, to see every faction kneel before the Eye in the Flame. They are the true enemy, the ones we should be fighting. So if my actions today bring us one step closer to unity, I cannot believe this is all for nothing, as he does.
If I can find any amusement or enjoyment at all in my journey, it¡¯s that the beginning of this trial is surprisingly peaceful. The jungle around the mountain is pleasingly serene, as I¡¯m serenaded by the multitude of birds that fly high from branch to branch, from tree to tree. Though hot and sticky, the air is sweet, smelling of the lush vegetation that surrounds me. While deep down I understand that there are treacheries abound that await me, I appreciate this quiet, calm moment¡ªsomething that is all too rare since my departure from Sanqo.
As I begin my ascent, the world grows quiet around me. The only sounds are the crunch of my footsteps on the rocky path and the whisper of the wind. For the first time in a long while, I find myself alone with my thoughts.
My mind drifts to my family back home in Sanqo. I think of my father, the stoic leader who always believed in me, even when I doubted myself. I remember my mother¡¯s gentle strength, a quiet but powerful force that guided me through the toughest times.
I recall the Sanqo warriors who have stood by my side through every trial. Loyal, brave, and unwavering, they have been my constant companions on this journey. So, too, have I found comfort in Saqatli, Noch, and Pomaqli. Though there have been moments that have tested our collective resolve, their faith in me has been a source of strength, pushing me to persevere even when the odds seemed insurmountable.
A small smile touches my lips as I think of our camaraderie, the shared laughter, and the unspoken bond that ties us together. They are more than warriors¡ªthey are my family, my tribe. Their support means everything to me, and I am determined not to let them down.
After a while, my delightful stroll up a gradual incline through the rainforest becomes immediately perilous. The vegetation begins to tighten around me like a noose, closing in tighter and tighter as a dense thicket of thorny vines claw at my clothes. I struggle to get free, as my tunic snags on the branches. I try to shield my face, but the thorns mercilessly scratch my arms.
I fail to find a way out. I¡¯m surrounded by the thick vines that wrap around my feet. The sharp thorns dig into my ankles each time I tug to break loose. They refuse to let me go, trying to hold me in place. My tunic tears as I move, and each pivot of my head is met with more prickles that slash my cheeks.
My amulet catches one of the vines, and my neck is stuck in place. I¡¯m caught, unable to move. It¡¯s as though the vines seek to strangle me, pulling the necklace tight around my throat. My breaths become panicked gasps. I can¡¯t breathe. Each move I make seems to bind me tighter and tighter. Blood trickles down from my forehead into my eyes. The bird calls are mocking laughter. I must find a way out. Soon.
My hand clasps my amulet. Then, my mind clasps an idea. If there is enough humidity here, perhaps I can create some kind of barrier. Perhaps I can collect enough moisture to slip free of these vines. Perhaps I can escape.
I concentrate on the environment around me. My fingers tingle as I feel myself connecting to the small droplets of water entrapped within this jungle. My skin cools as my sweat mingles with the humidity. Vapor swirls around my body, and I feel the grip of the vines loosening. I take one step forward, and my foot slides through the thicket. I take another step. Then, another. The dense growth begins to concede, the moisture softens the thorns, and I¡¯m able to slip through the thick vegetation, finally free.
I breathe a sigh of relief, the cool air filling my chest. Looking back, I see nothing but a blanket of verdant green. Is that where I came from? How will I get back? Must I endure this to return to the group? A pit starts to form in my stomach, but I shake it off, determined to focus on this later and carry on with the trial. There¡¯s no turning back now.
The sound of rushing water disrupts my concentration as I travel over the increasingly rocky terrain. It grows louder as I near what I soon find is a river cutting through the landscape. Through the trees, I barely see the melting ice caps above at the mountain¡¯s peak, which appears to feed this large stream. The currents of the clear water are swift and powerful, creating a white foam as they crash against the rocks.
Searching the area, the way up the mountain is more manageable if I can cross this river. The side I¡¯m on rises sharply, and the face of the cliff is smooth with minimal places to put my hands and climb up. There¡¯s a danger in crossing it, though, as the width and chaotic currents pose an equally difficult challenge.
I attempt to calm myself and focus my mind. However, the sound of the water is deafening, making it hard to hear myself think. Nevertheless, I draw my attention to the water. I extend a hand, channeling my abilities to manipulate it, and aiming to settle the turbulent currents for a safe passage across.
The water responds to my command. Bit by bit, it starts to rise and form a path, making footholds for me to step on and cross. It¡¯s not what I expected, acting as if the water has a mind of its own, but it will do. I inspect the platform, making sure it¡¯s stable. When I determine it¡¯s safe, I cautiously place my foot onto it. The water quickly resists, sinking as the river starts to split and drift away in various directions.
I cast my hand out again, concentrating more and harder this time. Something is fighting me, I feel it. Something senses me, viewing my efforts as an intrusion. I look around, yet nothing comes into sight. I clench my jaw, my other hand gripping the amulets¡¯ gemstones, and I impose my will onto the water. The steps emerge, this time holding steady, enticing me to walk upon them.
Still leery, I step onto the newly formed path. Then, the doubts and fears whisper into my mind. It¡¯s the voices of my father and brother once again, reminding me of the burden I carry by taking on this challenge, and telling me that I will fail.
Do you think you can lead, little sister? You, who always followed?
Every mistake you make tarnishes not just your name, but our people¡¯s legacy, Walumaq.
Those voices again. Making me question myself. Causing doubt to seep into my thoughts. Why have they chosen my father and brother? I can¡¯t give in. I refuse to allow them to take ahold of me.
You are the Princess of Sanqo. Failure is a luxury you cannot afford.
Look at you, playing the hero. When will you learn? Heroes are just martyrs in disguise.
I am fighting for truth. For unity. For the good of the people of Pachil. I will not give in. I will persevere.
With each step, the path solidifies. The water embraces my feet, guiding them across. I go to place my next foot, and the water rises to meet it. The voices slowly begin to fade. The river¡¯s current flows violently beneath me, cold water splashing around me, but I¡¯m unperturbed. I move steadily, finding my confidence growing with every stride.
The water slowly lowers me to the other side of the river. My feet squish along the muddy bank. But I¡¯ve made it! I¡¯ve reached the other side! The water carries on, flowing down toward the sea. I can¡¯t help but grin, knowing I¡¯ve made it past one more challenge.
My eyes seek out the remainder of the mountain, looking ahead to see what more awaits me. The sun has begun its descent, slowly arcing back down toward the ground. The rocky surface is tinged with gold, and the snowy peaks glisten in the sunlight. At one point, it was difficult to breath due to the dense humidity, but now I struggle with the thin air and drastic change in altitude.
I take a deep breath and start the climb. The first few steps are easy enough, with a gentle incline of packed dirt and stone. But I¡¯ve witnessed the mountain¡¯s deceptive nature before, and soon, the path narrows and steepens, with barely a ledge carved into the steep slope.
I grip the cold, jagged rocks with trembling fingers. Each placement of my feet sends a jolt of pain through my calves. The sacred mountain silently judges my every move. Every gust of wind threatens to send me plummeting into the abyss below. I can¡¯t afford to slip. Not now. Not after all I¡¯ve overcome.
Loose rocks skitter away beneath my boots, the sound echoing among the howling winds. My breath comes in ragged gasps, and each inhale struggles with the thin, biting air. A fierce burst of wind whips past, nearly knocking me off balance. I reach out instinctively, my fingers brushing against the rough surface of the rock. Yet the grip is not there, and I begin to stumble down the face of the mountain. Somehow, I¡¯m able to cling to a sharp rock, scraping my hands and knees as I barely manage to hang on. My heart pounds, and I wait for the wind to die down and catch my breath.
As I pause, I press my forehead against the cold stone. Continuing to climb this mountain will be impossible without any sturdy handholds. My eyes sweep the area, searching for any indentions or crevasses in the surface, but none appear. How am I going to scale this icy mountain?
The idea comes to be in a flash. It¡¯ll be risky, but what part of this trial hasn¡¯t been? I close my eyes and concentrate once more. I reach out, feeling the cool, familiar currents of water around me. Water condenses from the air, pooling around my hand and solidifying into a slick, icy handhold. I grasp it and haul myself upward, straining my muscles to pull me along the unstable, makeshift route.
The climb is relentless. My fingers are numb, hardly able to grip any of the handholds, but I push on. I repeat the process, creating a path where there was none, exerting myself as I continue to scale the mountain. The path narrows even further, barely enough room for my toes. I flatten myself against the rock, my breath shallow, and edge forward. My foot slips, sending a shower of pebbles and ice down the mountainside, and I catch myself just in time. My heart races, fear clawing at my insides, but I force myself to move. One step at a time. One handhold at a time.
The summit is close, so close I can almost touch it. But the path is unforgiving, forcing me to climb over boulders, pull myself up sheer faces of rock, and squeeze through narrow crevices. My hands are raw, my fingers bleeding, but I don¡¯t stop. I reach another smooth section, and again, I call on my power, creating handholds where there were none.
The final stretch looms before me: a daunting, near-vertical ascent up a wall of loose stones and treacherous gravel. My fingers scrabbling for purchase on the unstable surface. Every successful clutch of a handhold feels victorious, but the stones shift treacherously under my weight, threatening to send me plummeting back to the abyss below. There¡¯s no time to relax and celebrate.
My mind is a fog of fatigue as the biting cold gnaws at me. But I force myself to focus, to find the next precarious grip. Sweat mingles with the frost on my skin, as each breath becomes a cloud of vapor in the frigid air.
My fingers brush against a ledge, and I grip it tightly. My knuckles turn as white as the surrounding ice with the effort. The chilling winds howl around me, relentlessly sapping all of my strength. I slowly pull myself upward, my feet searching for any semblance of support.
As I near the summit, my vision blurs. The world is reduced to a narrow tunnel. My hand finally grasps the edge of the summit, fingers digging into the icy rock. With a final, monumental effort, I heave myself over the edge, muscles trembling with the strain.
I collapse onto the flat, icy surface. My chest heaves with ragged breaths. My bones are numb from the cold, yet my limbs burn from exhaustion. For a moment, I just lie there, staring up at the vast expanse of sky. The stars above gradually appear, distant and indifferent.
But I¡¯m rejuvenated and overcome with emotion as I see the tall pyre standing before me, unlit. With my legs shaking, I drag myself to my feet and make my way to it. It¡¯s a simple structure of wood and kindling, but to me, in this moment, it¡¯s one of the most beautiful sights I¡¯ve ever laid eyes upon.
I fall to my knees beside the pyre. The flint lies nearby, partially obscured by a thin layer of frost. My fingers, clumsy and numb from the cold, fumble as I reach for it. I rub my hands together, trying to coax some warmth back into them. But the chill bites deep, making even the simplest movement require tremendous effort.
I grasp the flint, feeling its frozen surface against my raw skin. I try to wipe away the ice caked onto it, but my fingers are stiff, uncooperative. Frustration wells up inside me, a desperate fear that I might fail at this final hurdle. I close my eyes for a moment, willing myself to stay calm.
I strike the flint against the steel. Sparks fly, but the kindling remains stubbornly unlit. The ice seems to mock my efforts. Again and again, I try, my hands shaking more with each failed attempt.
On the fifth, maybe the sixth, or maybe the seventh try, a spark finally catches. It¡¯s small at first, a fragile flicker, but I nurture it, shielding it from the wind with my body. Slowly, painstakingly, the flame grows, licking at the edges of the kindling. The moment stretches, each heartbeat an eternity as I watch, barely daring to breathe.
Then, with a sudden rush, the pyre roars to life. The fire bursts upward, bright and fierce against the cold. I stagger back, staring up at the flames, my heart pounding with a mix of exhaustion and elation. I stand there, feeling the warmth on my face as I watch the flames leap and dance, smoke rising to the sky. For what feels like the first time, I feel a sense of accomplishment. I¡¯ve done it. I¡¯ve reached the summit. The wind howls around me, but I stand firm, my head held high. I am strong. I am worthy.
107 - Teqosa
There¡¯s a deep, ominous grumble, like a warning growl from the tomb itself, as if it knows we¡¯ve taken what it cherishes, what it swore to protect. Dust rains down from the vanished ceiling¡ªI had nearly forgotten we¡¯re still within a pyramid, not in an actual garden outdoors. Amidst the calamity, my fingers tingle as I barely manage to clutch the turquoise amulet. Suddenly, the floor beneath us shudders violently. The stones begin to give way, falling into an endless abyss below.
I barely have time to think. My instinct kicks in¡ªUpachu! Debris crashes down around us, clattering on the stone before dropping into the void. The grand tree possessing fruits from all over Pachil disappears into the black pit. Beside me, Upachu stumbles, his old bones unsteady on the shifting ground.
The floor beneath Upachu¡¯s feet cascades into the darkness below. He wavers, teetering on the brink of the abyss. I leap towards him. Our fingers brush briefly before I manage to seize his wrist. My muscles strain as I heave with all my might, fighting against the pull of the void. As the ground beneath him gives way entirely, I tighten my grip on his arm, refusing to let him fall.
"Hold on!" I shout, my voice barely audible over the deafening noise of grinding stone and collapsing rubble. Upachu¡¯s eyes widen with fear, but he clutches my arm, his grip surprisingly strong for an old man. His weight drags me down, and for a terrifying moment, I think we¡¯ll both go over.
My heart drums in my ears. I shift my position, digging my heels into the crumbling stone. As I pull, the amulet slips from my grasp. It glints in the dim light, tumbling as it falls through the dust-choked air.
With a desperate lunge, I stretch out my free hand, fingers grazing the amulet. The stone crumbles further, and I fear all will be lost into the endless pit. Still gripping Upachu, I lunge again, my other hand darting out to catch it. My heart lurches as I fumble, the amulet nearly slipping beyond my grasp. With one last effort, I manage to hook it with the tips of my fingers, pulling it back from the precipice. Relief floods through me as my fingers close around its cool surface.
But it¡¯s short-lived as the ground trembles more violently. It¡¯s as if the tomb is enraged by our intrusion. The floor is still plunging into the vast sea of black. We need to go. Now.
¡°We have to move!¡± I bark, hauling Upachu to his feet. He looks dazed, stunned, but nods while catching his breath.
¡°Head for the platform!" S¨ªqalat shouts, pointing towards the only stable ground in sight. She¡¯s already on her feet, her eyes searching for the safest route. She shouts something else before dashing through the chaos. But her words are lost in the din, as the walls now tumble around us.
We scramble, leaping from one collapsing stone to the next. The abyss yawns beneath us, a dark maw ready to swallow us whole. Just as we reach the platform, the floor gives way, cracking and splitting behind us. We sprint, my feet barely catching solid ground as we make it to safety. Only a gaping void is left where we had just stood.
There¡¯s not much further to go. The exit is in sight. As we reach a narrow passage, the ground gives one last heave. A loud crack splits the air, and the corridor begins to collapse behind us. We run, reaching a flight of stairs and scramble up them, not daring to look back. As we approach the top, I push Upachu forward, diving after him, and the three of us barely find firm footing
We collapse on the floor. Panting, I glance at my companions. Upachu is shaken but safe, and S¨ªqalat is already catching her breath.
¡°What is with this tomb and its floors?¡± S¨ªqalat mutters, her voice strained.
I clutch the amulet, feeling its power pulse through me. ¡°Let¡¯s keep moving,¡± I say, my voice steadier than I feel. ¡°We have to get out of here before this tomb decides to bury us for good.¡±
We press on, the passageway constricting around us. The air grows thicker, more oppressive. My chest burns, and I struggle to draw a full breath. It appears as if the ceiling is lowering down upon us. This place isn¡¯t finished with us yet.
¡°Over there!¡± S¨ªqalat urgently points to an open stone doorway on the far side of the room. We hurry, uncertain whether it will lead to safety or more danger, but not feeling as though we have much of a choice.
The doorway opens into a vast chamber, with walls that are lined with intricate carvings. The air is cooler here, and I can finally breathe with ease. The rumbling fades behind us. It feels like a rare reprieve, though we all suspect it¡¯s only a matter of time before its true nature reveals itself.
Upachu shuffles over to a stone wall. In a slow, deliberate motion, he lowers himself to the ground, his back resting against the cool, rough surface. He closes his eyes for a moment, his breath coming in shallow, labored gasps.
Regrets begin seeping into my mind, questioning why I brought him along. I can¡¯t shake the feeling that I¡¯ve made a grave mistake, a terrible miscalculation. This nagging notion that I¡¯ve needlessly endangered him is unrelenting, never giving me a moment¡¯s peace.
A whisper, barely audible but unmistakable, slithers into my thoughts. You brought your old friend here to die, to sacrifice him for your own ambitions.
I look around the chamber, glancing at Upachu and S¨ªqalat. They¡¯re both exhausted, too tired to do anything more than sit in place. Neither appears to react to the voice, groggily gazing at the ground.
My heart races as the voice continues, tireless and insidious. You think you can lead, but you are nothing more than a misguided child. Your approach to completing your mission will be the death of you all.
I grind my teeth in frustration, trying to shake off the words. But they burrow deeper, bringing with them images that flash in my memory. Scenes that I don¡¯t recall ever occurring, yet they feel real, as though I¡¯ve experienced them before. I¡¯m overcome by the sensation of letting my family down, lacking the foresight to ensure Upachu is kept safe. Everything we¡¯ve encountered¡ªhere in Auilqa, but also in Wichanaqta and the assassin in Hilaqta¡ªcause me to question my ability to strategize, to plan.
The worst of the visions is when I see Upachu struggling, his strength waning. In it, we¡¯re traversing these same Auilqa jungles¡ªis this a premonition of events to come? His steps stagger, his progress slows, and he reaches out to me for help before collapsing onto the ground. I can do nothing to save him. I¡¯m the cause of his demise. And for what? This sensation gnaws at me as though its likelihood during this journey is inevitable.
The voice hisses, repeating itself over and over and over again. I claw at my head, at my ears, urging the voice to cease, to go away. Yet it continues to remind me of my shortcomings, of my poor decisions, of my futility.
Against the stone wall, Upachu starts to whimper. His eyes are full of sorrow, tears welling up inside, and turning red after he fitfully rubs them. ¡°Perhaps¡¡± he meekly mumbles¡ªis it actually his voice that speaks? It appears so, but the whispering voice fills me with doubt. ¡°Perhaps it would have been better if I had stayed behind, Teqosa.¡±
The voice twists his words. Yes, you are a burden, an old man slowing us down. I feel the hissing voice planting these words in my mind. You should have stayed behind.
Upachu clasps his head in his hands, slowly cradling back and forth. Is he struggling with voices, too? Are his whispers telling him something different?
My fists clench, nails digging into my palms. ¡°No, Upachu,¡± I mutter, shaking my head, resisting, refusing to give in. ¡°You are not a burden. You are our seeker of truths, our wisdom. Without you, we are lost.¡±
¡°But I¡¯m one more obligation you must look after,¡± he says, his voice trembling. ¡°Just another liability you must chaperone. You¡¯d be better off without me. Everyone would. Your family would¡¯ve been better off if I never existed. I¡¯m the reason your father¡ your sister¡¡±
Upachu convulses with heaving sobs. He collapses to the ground, tears streaming down his face in torrents. He writhes in anguish, shaking uncontrollably as he gives in to his overwhelming grief.
I start to approach him when the voice in my head is suddenly replaced by a crippling ringing. It¡¯s a discordant noise that causes an unbearable pain, forcing me to my knees. I grimace, covering my ears with my hands as if that will block out the sound. Yet it persists, as though whatever force or spirit that fills this place does not want me to console him.
I fight through the aches and suffering, slowly crawling over to Upachu. A horrible ringing floods my ears. The sound intensifies with each effort. I yell involuntarily, unable to hear the screams leaving my mouth.
Where is S¨ªqalat? In all this, she¡¯s nowhere to be found. I search the chamber for her, but she¡¯s vanished. Has something happened to her? Or, worse, has she left us here to perish? I gnash my teeth in anger, realizing the voice from earlier was right.
She is not to be trusted, the voice says, sounding in my voice. You should never have allowed her to lead you to this place. You will die here, all thanks to her. Are these my genuine thoughts?
They can¡¯t be. When S¨ªqalat was hanging on at the edge of the cliff, there was a force compelling me to let her fall. I had nearly succumbed to the voice urging me to stomp on her fingers, to shove her off. I may have had my doubts about her trustworthiness, but they escalated the further into the Auilqa jungles we went. The closer¡ we got to the lagoon, to this tomb. Is there some connection to this place and the voices we¡¯re hearing?
¡°S¨ªqalat?¡± I call out, my voice echoing off the stone walls. Panic begins to well up inside me. Has she been hearing a voice, as well? Has she surrendered herself to it? Did she venture out into the collapsing tomb?
From what appears to be a dense wall of vines, I hear a faint, trembling voice. ¡°Leave me alone... I¡¯m not... I don¡¯t want to be abandoned again.¡±
¡°S¨ªqalat!¡± I shout, my eyes sweeping the chamber. She must be hidden behind the vines.
I push through the tangled greenery, parting the curtain of leaves and tendrils. Within a narrow passageway, just wide enough to slip through sideways, stands S¨ªqalat. She slides along the tight corridor, occasionally covering her ears and crying out in pain. She repeats, ¡°Leave me alone! Leave me alone!¡±
¡°S¨ªqalat!¡± I call out once more. The ringing in my ears reverberates my skull. This relentless, piercing agony overwhelms me. My vision blurs as I push forward. I grit my teeth, determined to reach her despite the torment.
I latch onto her shoulder, trying to halt her in place. She shrugs me off, continuing to advance down the passageway. But I persist, grabbing her arm and calling out her name until she cranes her neck to view me from the corner of her eyes.
¡°Just let me leave,¡± she sobs, her voice barely audible through the ringing in my ears. ¡°I¡¯m no good to you. You just¡ don¡¯t understand.¡±
She tries to slip through my grasp, but I manage to hold on. There¡¯s a pain in her voice, something that extends much further than this journey to the tomb. Uncertain what to do, I simply say, ¡°You¡¯re not alone,¡± and stroke her shoulder in these tight confines, hoping to reassure her.
The ringing stops abruptly. I look around, as if the source of the noise is, for some reason, here with us. Of course, it¡¯s not, but it¡¯s the shock of the sudden silence that causes me to glance around with curiosity.
I snap my attention back to S¨ªqalat. Her lips press together tightly, quivering as she struggles to hold back the sob. She looks down at the stone wall lined by verdant vines. ¡°They always leave,¡± she mutters. ¡°Always. It¡¯s just¡ easier this way.¡±
¡°Who? Who left you?¡± I ask, trying my best to keep my voice gentle.
Her eyes dart away, now focusing on a point down the passageway beyond. ¡°Everyone¡ They all left. It¡¯s just better if I leave first. No more broken promises.¡±
I move my hand to rub her closest shoulder to me, but she recoils, pressing herself tighter against the stone wall. ¡°You don¡¯t have to do this alone, S¨ªqalat. I know I haven¡¯t been kind. I accused you unfairly, that you¡¯d likely abandon us here in this tomb. I almost let the voices get to me and let you fall into the abyss. But I was wrong. We¡¯re not just paying you to guide us. You¡¯re part of this team. You¡¯re our friend.¡±
As the words escape my mouth, I find that I genuinely do believe her to be a friend. What started as a purely transactional relationship has grown into something more¡ªI¡¯ve come to like her. She¡¯s not only a capable fighter, but I enjoy her wit, her humor. She may possess a hardened exterior, but there¡¯s a caring individual hidden away in there¡ªa vulnerability I can certainly relate to.
She shakes her head, her eyes glistening with unshed tears. ¡°You say that now, but when things get tough, when I¡¯m no longer useful¡ You¡¯ll see. They all do.¡±
¡°No, we¡¯re different,¡± I insist. ¡°We¡¯ve come this far together, haven¡¯t we? We¡¯ll face whatever comes, together.¡±
Her gaze finally meets mine, and for a moment, I see the depth of her pain and fear. ¡°I can¡¯t¡ I can¡¯t go through it again.¡±
¡°You won¡¯t have to,¡± I promise. ¡°We¡¯ll find a way. Just come back with me, please.¡±
Slowly, she reaches out, her hand trembling as it meets mine. Together, we make our way back to the main chamber. I hear the voice continuing to wedge between us, but something feels different now. The effect seems faint, the voice sounds distant. Like a half-hearted effort.
Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.
Upachu is sitting up now. He¡¯s slouching over, arms resting on his knees. S¨ªqalat and I approach him, and I lower myself to a crouch. With one hand, I rest it upon his shoulder, taking my other hand and lifting his chin so that his eyes meet mine. I crack a subtle, consoling smile.
¡°Whatever these voices are, they can¡¯t take away what we¡¯ve accomplished, together,¡± I say. ¡°We would never have made it this far if we didn¡¯t face the challenges together. Our strengths go beyond covering for our weaknesses. And that includes you, Upachu. That¡¯s why we¡¯re going to succeed, no matter what is thrown at us.¡±
My old friend nods¡ªat first, reluctantly, but then, assuredly. ¡°I have taught you most of what you know,¡± he says with a smirk. I roll my eyes, and I can¡¯t help but chuckle.
¡°Sun and sky!¡± S¨ªqalat remarks. ¡°I didn¡¯t think you knew how to laugh!¡±
I shake my head in mock annoyance, then stand up and extend my hand to Upachu. Lifting him up to his feet, the three of us look around the hollow chamber. The light is dimming inside this room, and when I look around, I see no source. Yet something instinctually tells me this place, this tomb, doesn¡¯t need torches; there¡¯s something supernatural at work here. Is it something of which to be concerned? Judging by the vitriolic voices we¡¯ve been hearing, perhaps so.
¡°Let us leave this place,¡± I say. ¡°S¨ªqalat did some advanced scouting and may have found our way out, just there beyond those vines.¡±
S¨ªqalat snorts. ¡°And cracking wise? What has your time in this tomb done to you, Qantua?¡±
We slip down the narrow passageway, following a steady stream of cool air that flows from the other side. The vines occasionally snag our garments, but we¡¯re too determined to depart this place to care. We slide our feet along cautiously¡ªif this place has taught us anything, it¡¯s to always remain alert, knowing that not everything is as it appears.
To our fortunes, the path leads us to a grand chamber. The air thickens with the scent of incense that mingles with the fresh moss encasing the ancient stone. All around us, the walls are adorned with vivid murals, their colors vibrant and alive under the wavering light. From the ceiling, heavy drapes of crimson and indigo silk ripple softly as if moved by an unseen breeze. Piles of gleaming treasures spill across the ground¡ªgolden idols, intricately woven textiles, and polished gems.
¡°What is this place?¡± S¨ªqalat asks, gazing around the room with fascination. She excitedly skips over to one of the golden crowns laying lifelessly upon the floor, beset with emeralds and turquoise. It frequently slides off her head as she looks for a reflective surface in which to admire herself.
¡°The Tomb of Inqil,¡± Upachu states. ¡°Though¡ I don¡¯t see¡¡±
¡°There is no tomb,¡± I note. At the far end, torches cast a soft, golden glow upon a throne of jade and gold that rises majestically from the floor. It¡¯s guarded by towering stone carvings of jaguars, teeth snared and claws splayed out threateningly, and eyes that seem to track our every move.
¡°Then, what makes it a tomb?¡± Upachu wonders. ¡°Was it a misinterpretation? Perhaps it was a mistake in translation from Auilqa to Merchant¡¯s Tongue.¡±
The entire room trembles, dust kicking up off the ancient stones and drapes. S¨ªqalat immediately tosses the crown onto the floor, then reaches for her weapon, hurriedly assembling it. Upachu shrieks, cowering and shielding his head with his arms. Instinctively, I go to retrieve my glaive, but soon realize it has been sacrificed to Itzatlix.
I stand frozen, my breath caught in my chest as the air around me thickens, shimmers. Materializing out of the very shadows that clutch at the stone walls is an apparition, a regal, female form larger than life. The throne accepts her as if she belongs, her skin glowing like polished bronze under the flickering torchlight. Feathers and gems cascade from the majestic headdress made from bone that covers her straight, black hair, while her fierce gaze pins me to the spot.
¡°Who dares enter my chamber?¡± her booming voice reverberates, quaking the entire room. Upachu drops to his knees and bows his head. Panicked, S¨ªqalat does the same, placing her forehead onto the ground and splaying out her hands in front of her. Uncertain what I should do, I opt to drop to a single knee, as I would for the great kings who once ruled Pachil.
¡°Oh, great spirit,¡± Upachu begins, his voice trembling like the room we¡¯re in. ¡°We seek to understand¡ª¡°
¡°I am no spirit, you insolent fool!¡± the figure berates us. Suddenly, the stone statues begin to crack and splinter, and the two beasts flanking the throne come to life. Their fur glistens like polished onyx, and their eyes burn with the intensity of molten gold. The jaguars¡¯ claws, sharp as curved daggers, extend menacingly. Their fangs gleam as they snarl savagely, muscles rippling beneath their sleek coats.
¡°We are three travelers,¡± I humbly proclaim. ¡°I am Teqosa, and this wise elder beside me is Upachu, of the Great Library in Hilaqta. And this is S¨ªqalat, great adventurer of the Achope. We are on a quest to seek understanding of the knowledge left by Sualset, great champion of the Eleven. We¡ª¡°
¡°Sualset?¡± the figure asks, furrowing her brow in confusion. ¡°You speak of her as if she were a distant legend. She is my friend, my confidant. What knowledge do you seek that would bring you to desecrate my resting place?¡±
Upachu gawks at the figure, speaking with reverence and awe. ¡°Inqil, herself!¡±
I take a step forward, my voice steady and confident. ¡°We seek the truths buried in the past, the remnants of a time when the Eleven stood against the darkness. We did not come to desecrate, but to learn, to understand the sacrifices made and the wisdom left behind.¡±
Her voice carries a mixture of sorrow and curiosity. ¡°I do not understand. Why would the legacy of Sualset lead you here? What is it that you hope to find among these walls?¡±
¡°In Wichanaqta, we learned of powerful items that would protect Pachil, should the time arise,¡± I state. ¡°I fear that time may already be here.¡±
Inqil¡¯s form wavers slightly, as if grappling with her own memories. ¡°Sualset... she was always the seeker of truths, the one who looked beyond the immediate to see the threads that bound our world. If she entrusted something to my tomb, it must have been of great importance.¡±
¡°You are unaware of what¡¯s been left in your tomb?¡± S¨ªqalat asks, then covers her mouth in embarrassment.
S¨ªqalat¡¯s confusion is understandable. Sualset ensured that the amulets were protected, and could only be retrieved by someone truly worthy, should the need ever arise. It took a lot of ingenuity and insightfulness to determine the locations, likely a safeguard should evil find its way to them. Yet for the amulet to be in a tomb, to be protected by an entity that wasn¡¯t aware it was present and needed its power to secure it? It¡¯s a peculiar situation, to say the least.
Then, I consider the construction of this tomb. It would have been made after Inqil¡¯s passing, after the Eleven sacrificed themselves to defeat the Timuaq. So, was¡ Did the amulet¡ How else could¡
¡°Sualset had buried the amulets before they went to defeat the Timuaq,¡± I declare, astonished. ¡°They went to fight the titans with different amulets than the ones she left behind.¡±
¡°The amulets?¡± the figure of Inqil asks. ¡°We wore them to fight and defeat the Timuaq, indeed. How could we¨C¡±
¡°Great Inqil,¡± I say, growing more confident as the realization hits me. ¡°I am the brother of Entilqan. We have discovered Sualset¡¯s hidden amulets and the wisdom she left for future generations.¡±
¡°Teqosa!¡± Inqil exclaims. ¡°It is you! Entilqan spoke highly of you during our travels.¡±
¡°I am greatly honored that a hero such as my sister would praise me so,¡± I say, genuinely flattered. In fact, I feel my cheeks start to flush at the thought.
Inqil pauses, her eyes narrowing as she suddenly scrutinizes us. ¡°Very well, travelers. Though I hold deep respect and love for your sister, I cannot concede any valuables Sualset determined to be precious and vital to the security of Pachil so easily to anyone. If you are indeed here to honor her memory and seek her wisdom, then you must prove yourselves worthy of such a quest. Speak truthfully, and let your intentions be pure. What is it that you seek to do with the knowledge you uncover?¡±
I take several steps forward, much to the displeasure of the jaguars. Inqil shushes the beasts, stroking their obsidian fur to calm and sooth them. I pull out the lapis lazuli amulet suspended around my neck, then retrieve the turquoise amulet found here in this tomb. At the sight of the amulet of the turquoise bird, Inqil¡¯s eyes grow wide with shock. ¡°My amulet!¡± she remarks. Her eyes darken, growing suspicious of us and our intentions. ¡°How did you come into possession of it?¡±
¡°My sister¡¯s spirit guides me, and I seek to understand the true nature of these artifacts to protect Pachil from the threats that still linger,¡± I respond. ¡°When I last¡ spoke? Dreamt? When I last encountered Entilqan, I was wearing this lapis lazuli amulet. She immediately recognized it, just as you recognize your own. She, too, was confused by its existence, assuming it had come with her into the afterlife. I feared these may be forgeries created by someone who pillaged the lumuli chests in which they were stored. Yet there have been moments when it has surged with an inexplicable energy, something that has given me a power I can¡¯t comprehend. Thus, they must be real, which only confuses me as to what was worn by the Eleven in your battle with the Timuaq.¡±
Inqil looks just as perplexed as I feel, though she doesn¡¯t appear angry. ¡°My connection to the others of the Eleven is not what it once was,¡± she says somberly. ¡°If I could, I would inquire with Sualset as to what she has done. I am afraid I can be of no help in that matter.¡±
¡°However,¡± she says, suddenly perking up, ¡°to hear that there are others with capabilities¡ Indeed, it means that a threat to Pachil looms. From what we discovered, the gods only bestow such powers if there is an entity that seeks to destroy our world. That you have been bestowed such a gift is no surprise, seeing that you are the brother to the great Entilqan. You must have an insight into the matter that has deemed you trustworthy of possessing such a power. The gods have blessed you¡ªyou should be honored.¡±
The news stuns me. Do I possess powers? Perhaps that is what the glowing amulet indicates¡ªa signal to the gods that someone is worthy of being their champion. However, I have now discovered another amulet, when all I was seeking were answers through the glyphs written on the papyrus. Are there others with such powers?
As though she reads my thoughts, Inqil answers, ¡°Each one of us was crafted an amulet, a means of harnessing and increasing our capabilities. That you have found another indicates the gods will bestow gifts to others, as well.¡±
¡°How many would there be?¡± Upachu asks, his voice sounding like that of a specter in its near whisper.
¡°We were told there would be one champion for each faction,¡± Inqil states. ¡°Who they are? I am afraid I also cannot be of help in this matter.¡±
Another realization suddenly comes to me. ¡°Now I believe this amulet was not left for Itzatlix to protect alone, but perhaps Inqil would be an extra measure of security, should Itzatlix be bested or defeated.¡±
Inqil smiles wide. ¡°Indeed, I would not allow someone unworthy of possessing myamulet. Nor would Itzatlix. It seems Sualset knows us well.¡±
¡°If what you state is correct,¡± Inqil abruptly announces, ¡°and you have encountered Itzatlix, I am to believe you have sacrificed something of great value to enter the lagoon, yes?¡± We nod, uncertain where this conversation is going.
¡°In Auilqa tradition, sacrifice is the ultimate testament of our devotion and commitment,¡± she says. ¡°It is believed that only through offering something of profound personal significance can one achieve favor with the gods and reveal greater truths. Our ancestors taught us that the greater the sacrifice, the greater the reward, and thus, we hold sacred the acts of offering that bind us to the divine.¡±
Inqil bows her head respectfully. ¡°It must have been something precious if you were to make it to this point, to sacred grounds. You would have been sent to your deaths otherwise.¡±
I struggle to comprehend this. Hadn¡¯t the tomb collapsed around us, trying to kill us? Weren¡¯t we faced with voices that sought to drive us insane? To me, it would seem we were sent to our deaths, likely thought to not survive and arrive here.
Then, it strikes me¡ªanother revelation. The trials we faced were not meant to kill us outright, but to test our resolve and worthiness. The collapsing tomb, the maddening whispers... they were challenges designed to see if we would falter or press on. Itzatlix and the spirits sought to prove our dedication and sacrifice. Only by facing these ordeals and surviving did we demonstrate our worth to stand before Inqil.
Inqil raises her head, a solemn expression on her face. ¡°You have proven your worth by enduring the hardships and emerging with your spirit intact. Your resolve has been tested, and you have not faltered. As such, you are deemed worthy to receive these gifts.¡±
¡°Gifts?¡± This has gotten S¨ªqalat¡¯s attention. ¡°What¡ gifts?¡±
Inqil closes her eyes for a moment, and is wrapped in a celestial glow. She smiles warmly, then snaps to attention as if some realization has just come to her. As she opens her eyes, she spreads her arms out in front of her. ¡°To Upachu, wise and esteemed keeper of the Great Library of Hilaqta, I give you the gift of insight. Many languages have been spoken on Pachil, and you shall now understand them in all their forms. With this knowledge, you will be able to invoke the wisdom of the land in which you step, and understand the historical events and forgotten rituals of those who lived upon them.¡±
Upachu bows deeply. ¡°Thank you, Inqil, for this gift with which you honor me. I will make the best use of it for the rest of my days.¡±
¡°To the valiant warrior, and brother to the great Entilqan, I present to you this.¡± The air crackles with energy, a palpable shift that raises the hairs on my arms. Before me, the air around me seems to ripple. And then, like a vision emerging from the depths of a dream, it appears¡ªa weapon unlike any I have ever seen.
The haft, carved from the sacred wood of the ancient lumuli tree, gleams with an ethereal light. Intricate glyphs etched into its surface pulse with life, glowing softly in the dim chamber. The curved and graceful blade is forged from a type of iron of which I¡¯ve never seen¡ªits surface reflects a spectrum of colors that dance and shift as I move about to inspect it.
I reach out, fingers trembling. In response, the glaive hums a resonant tone that vibrates through my bones. Lifting it, I feel a surge of power that courses through me, as if I¡¯ve formed a connection to the very heavens. The blade feels alive in my grasp, its weight perfect, its balance impeccable.
Pleased, Inqil then turns to S¨ªqalat. ¡°For you, S¨ªqalat, who has sacrificed much to arrive at this point, allow me to bestow upon you this gift.¡± What I observe to be particles of dust descending from the high ceiling, I soon realize they are forming a stone disc the size of one¡¯s palm. The particles form peaks and valleys, as if creating a landscape atop its surface. As S¨ªqalat holds it, she rotates from side to side, and the shapes upon the disc shift and contort, like they¡¯re following along with her movements.
¡°Allow this compass to be your guide, great wanderer,¡± Inqil says. ¡°May you always find your way.¡±
The monumental figure sits back into the throne, gazing long upon the three of us. ¡°You have much more to travel in your journeys to come,¡± she says. ¡°I wish you well, that you will discover the knowledge you seek. The gods have entrusted you with significant responsibility. Protect Pachil¡ªdo not let Them down.¡±
With that, she bows her head, causing the feathers of her headdress to rustle and the bones to clatter together. The jaguars lower themselves beside Inqil and return to their stone statue form. The champion of Auilqa gradually fades, her figure flickering as she starts to vanish.
¡°Wait!¡± Upachu shouts urgently. ¡°We have many more questions! What about¡ª¡° But before he can ask his questions, Inqil disappears from sight.
Upachu lowers his head in disappointment, wincing at the missed opportunity. S¨ªqalat rests a hand on his shoulder. ¡°Those you revere always conveniently time their departure when you need them most.¡±
The sound of grinding stone jolts us. Panicked, we leap to attention, searching for the source of the commotion. Two large stone doors slide open, revealing a blindingly bright light, as though we¡¯re staring into the sun. As my eyes adjust, I better understand what¡¯s happened: to my relief, a passageway has been revealed to us, exiting into the jungle amidst the daytime.
We emerge from the tomb, battered and breathless, and the sun greets us. I blink away the harsh light, adjusting to the world outside and the suffocating darkness we¡¯ve left behind. Upachu leans heavily on me, his breaths ragged but relieved. S¨ªqalat wipes the sweat and dirt from her face as she looks out over the shimmering waters of the lagoon.
I have to squint to make out the familiar silhouette of our llama. It stands there, placid and indifferent, munching on tufts of grass as if we haven¡¯t just faced death and despair. It hardly notices us, uninterested in our sudden appearance. Some personalities never change.
I pat the llama¡¯s neck, feeling the coarse fur beneath my fingers. ¡°We made it,¡± Upachu whispers, more to himself than anyone else, joining me in stroking the llama¡¯s back. S¨ªqalat nods while her gaze remains fixed on the horizon.
She and I take the raft, leaving Upachu, the llama, and the cart behind. The water laps against the sides of our makeshift vessel, the wood creaking under our weight. The ripples from our oars catch the light like fragments of a shattered mirror along the surface of the lagoon. I¡¯m thankful that we¡¯ve survived, and can continue our journey to the next destination.
We hop off as the raft scrapes against the shore, the murky mud shifting beneath our feet. S¨ªqalat stretches, her eyes narrowing as she surveys the landscape. She¡¯s about to collect her possessions before I return to retrieve Upachu when a rustle from the surrounding shrubs and reeds alerts us.
Dozens upon dozens of Auilqa warriors, bodies cloaked in warpaint, emerge from the foliage, their presence as sudden and overwhelming as a summer storm. They stand tall in a semicircle, forming an impenetrable wall and leaving us no escape. Their fierce, dark glares are intensified by their painted faces. They hold their drawn weapons at the ready, pointed at me and S¨ªqalat.
108 - Legido
There¡¯s a part of you that wishes you simply got isolated by the storm. Not only have you been separated from your only allies on this journey, but now you¡¯re also stuck with the two people who have done nothing but antagonize you from the start. Seeing the faces of Benicto and Dorez makes you want to run off deep into the forest or up to the mountains, never to be heard from nor seen again. You start to wonder how this could possibly get worse, but you don¡¯t want to tempt the gods into torturing you any further.
As if reading your mind, Benicto sneers and breaks the uneasy silence. ¡°Great. The only other person we can find is oilaskoa? We¡¯re doomed.¡±
Dorez stands a few paces behind him, her arms crossed tightly over her chest. She looks like she wants to say something but holds back, her eyes darting between you and Benicto.
He narrows his eyes, then lights up as though he¡¯s spotted something upon which to pounce. ¡°What¡¯s the matter? Missing your little friends already?¡± He steps closer, his eyes glinting with malice. ¡°You¡¯re just dead weight, you know that? If it weren¡¯t for us, you¡¯d be lost out here.¡±
You nearly grind your teeth down to a powder, biting back a retort and trying to steady your nerves. You¡¯ve learned by now that engaging with Benicto usually only makes things worse.
¡°Look,¡± you say, trying your best to not escalate matters, ¡°we¡¯re all in this together now. The storm has scattered everyone, and the only way we¡¯re getting out of this is by working together.¡±
Benicto laughs, a harsh, grating sound. ¡°Working together? With you?¡± He spits on the ground in contempt. ¡°You¡¯d just slow us down.¡±
Dorez shoots Benicto a look, her eyes a mix of frustration and anxiety. ¡°Benicto, this is not the time,¡± she mutters, but her voice lacks conviction. Her head hangs low, almost as though her neck struggles to hold it up, while she clutches herself tightly. She¡¯s clearly shaken by the separation from the rest of the group and the ordeal of the storm.
Benicto waves her off dismissively. ¡°No, it¡¯s exactly the time. We need to figure out what to do, and I don¡¯t want oilaskoa here slowing us down.¡± He turns his glare back to you. ¡°Do you even know what to do in a situation like this?¡±
¡°We need water,¡± you say, keeping your voice calm and measured despite the rising anger. ¡°That should be our first priority. And shelter. If we want to survive, we need to find both. Standing here arguing isn¡¯t going to help anyone¡±
Dorez nods, seemingly grateful for the practical suggestion. Benicto, on the other hand, rolls his eyes, but doesn¡¯t argue. ¡°Fine, we look for water. But don¡¯t think I¡¯m going to carry you if you collapse, oilaskoa.¡±
You swallow your pride and nod. ¡°Let¡¯s just focus on surviving.¡±
The forest around you feels oppressive. As you move through it, the towering trees and thick underbrush seems like they¡¯re closing in, mirroring the suffocating tension between the three of you. Every rustle and snap of a twig sets your nerves on edge. But you force yourself to keep moving. Your mouth feels dry with thirst, and you keep your eyes peeled for any signs of a stream or river. The sooner you find water, the sooner you can address the other immediate needs: shelter and food.
¡°Over there,¡± Dorez says suddenly, pointing ahead. You follow her gaze and see a slight depression in the ground, leading downhill. ¡°If we follow that, it might lead us to water.¡±
You nod and take the lead, with Benicto grumbling, but following behind. Dorez stays close, her eyes darting around nervously. As you make your way down the slope, you can¡¯t help but feel a small spark of hope. If you can just find water, maybe you can start to turn this dire situation around.
The journey downhill is treacherous. The ground slick with mud from the recent storm, and the unmarked path is steep and uneven. The cold, wet terrain seeps through your worn, leather shoes. Several times, you nearly lose your footing, and your arms flail to maintain balance. Every stumble is met with Benicto¡¯s derisive snorts. His contemptuous laughter cuts through the sound of your labored breaths. Yet you press on, determined not to let him get to you.
As you push through the tangled woods, your stomach growls in protest, a gnawing reminder of how long it¡¯s been since your last meal. Only the occasional crackling of leaves and the distant calls of unseen creatures breaks the stillness. The longer you walk, the more isolated you feel within this vast, untamed place, especially while traveling alongside Dorez and Benicto.
Dorez suddenly stops, her eyes scanning the underbrush. She kneels and gently parts the foliage, revealing a cluster of berries. ¡°These look familiar,¡± she murmurs, picking a few and examining them closely. ¡°They¡¯re similar to what we have back home.¡±
You watch as she cautiously tastes one, waiting a moment before nodding. ¡°Yup, safe,¡± she says as she chews. A small smile of triumph slowly grows on her face. She picks more, offering some to you and Benicto, but he steps away, inspecting or searching for some indiscernible item.
¡°How do you know what¡¯s safe to eat?¡± you ask, curiosity getting the better of you.
Dorez shrugs, handing you a handful of the berries. ¡°I learned to forage from my mother. She taught me to look for certain signs. These berries, for instance, are slightly bitter, but not toxic. They grow in clusters, and the leaves have a distinctive shape that¡¯s similar to what we¡¯re used to back home.¡± She glances around, spotting another familiar plant. ¡°And these,¡± she says, plucking a few leaves, ¡°can be brewed into a tea that helps with fatigue.¡±
¡°That¡¯s quite a skill to have,¡± you say, genuinely impressed by her knowledge. ¡°Seems like you¡¯re good at this, knowing what to look for. I wish I knew how to forage like that.¡±
She gives a small, self-deprecating laugh. ¡°It¡¯s come in handy more times than I can count. We might be in a new land, but nature often has patterns and signs. Similar leaf patterns, colors, smells¡ It¡¯s not an exact science, but it¡¯s better than starving.¡±
As you sit and eat, you feel the tension between you and her easing slightly. Noticing that Benicto has wandered off somewhere, you seize the moment to ask, ¡°How did you and Benicto end up on this expedition?¡±
Dorez hesitates, a look of discomfort settling on her face, then shrugs. ¡°Same as everyone else, I guess. Adventure, a chance to see new lands, make a name for myself. Not much to it. This expedition seemed like the perfect opportunity.¡± She pauses, her eyes growing distant, and her voice softens. ¡°You know, Benicto... he¡¯s had a hard life. Lost a lot. It¡¯s made him... well, you¡¯ve seen.¡±
You nod, understanding the implication. ¡°Unfortunately, it¡¯s not been easy for any of us,¡± you say softly.
¡°No, it¡¯s not,¡± she says solemnly. ¡°But we all have our reasons for being here.¡±
Before you can ask more, Benicto¡¯s voice cuts through the relative calm. ¡°Enough chit-chat,¡± he snaps, glaring at both of you. ¡°We need to keep moving. Who knows what¡¯s out here watching us.¡±
Dorez sighs, but stands, brushing off her hands. ¡°He¡¯s right. We need to find water and shelter before nightfall.¡± Her tone is now brisk and business-like, and her expression hardens as she promptly turns away from you.
The three of you continue your trek. The land becomes darker, with shadows growing longer as the sun dips lower. Like the waning light, the brief connection you felt with Dorez slips away, replaced by the ever-present tension of your predicament.
Finally, you hear it: the faint sound of running water. Your heart leaps, and you quicken your pace, leaving the others to follow close behind. You break through the underbrush and find yourself at the edge of a small, burbling brook. The clear water is beyond a welcome sight.
¡°There!¡± you exclaim, gesturing to the gently flowing stream. ¡°We have water!¡±
Benicto grunts in acknowledgement, his usual sneer tempered by the sight of the water. ¡°At least you¡¯re not completely useless.¡±
You ignore his remark and move to the edge of the stream, cupping your hands to drink. The cool water is a relief, washing away some of the exhaustion and frustration. As you drink, you feel a small sense of accomplishment. It¡¯s a small victory, but a victory nonetheless¡ªsomething you desperately need after these trying times.
Dorez kneels beside you, drinking deeply as well. ¡°We should rest here for a bit,¡± she says between gulps, ¡°then figure out our next move.¡±
You nod, finally feeling rejuvenated as the chilled water rushes down your throat. With a renewed vigor, you prepare to find some shelter for the night. Will you need to construct something? Is there a natural formation that you could use for the time being? With the sun sinking low beneath the tree line, your opportunity to find such a location is quickly slipping away.
You glance at Benicto, whose scowl seems permanently etched into his face. ¡°We need to figure out where to sleep tonight,¡± you say, trying to mask your own uncertainty.
Benicto crosses his arms, his eyes narrowing into slits. ¡°And I suppose you know how we¡¯ll achieve that, oilaskoa?¡±
Heat rises in your cheeks, but before you can respond, Dorez cuts in. ¡°Do you?¡± she challenges, her tone sharp, and her eyes flash with a defiance that dares him to deny his ignorance.
Benicto glares at her. It¡¯s clear he doesn¡¯t have the faintest idea, yet he remains standing in stubborn silence, offended to be confronted by her. The two lock eyes, refusing to break or give in.
Taking a deep breath, you decide to break the tension. ¡°We need branches and leaves. Something to cover us from the elements.¡±
Benicto scoffs low and derisively, but he follows your lead. The two of you begin searching the forest floor and gathering anything you presume could be passable shelter-building materials. Ever practical, Dorez points out sturdy branches and shows you how to lash them together with vines. The three of you work, focused on the task at hand, with only the rustle of leaves and snap of twigs underfoot disturbing the uneasy silence.
As the structure begins to take shape, it becomes painfully clear that none of you have the skills of a true builder. The shelter is flimsy at best, a haphazard assembly of branches and leaves that barely hold together. You can feel Benicto¡¯s eyes boring into you, his frustration simmering just below the surface in constant, silent accusation.
¡°Great job, oilaskoa,¡± he mutters sarcastically, his voice dripping with contempt. ¡°This sure will keep us safe.¡±
Once again, you resist starting a fight with Benicto. You are all tired and anxious, and additionally, Dorez¡¯s words about his unfortunate past echo in your memory. While it doesn¡¯t excuse his treatment of you, it makes your decision to let his poor effort at riling you up roll off your back. For now.
Sensing the rising hostility, Dorez steps between you two. ¡°We did the best we could,¡± she says firmly. ¡°None of us know how to build a shelter, but we need to work together if we¡¯re going to survive long enough to find the others.¡±
Benicto opens his mouth to argue, face twisted into a grotesque snarl. But then thinks better of it, seemingly sensing the futility. With a final glare, he turns away, muttering something under his breath.
The three of you huddle under the makeshift shelter as the first drops of rain begin to fall. The sound is a soft, insistent tapping on the leaves that you find soothing amidst the rigors of your arduous journey. It¡¯s certainly not perfect, but it will have to do. You find this place to be a temporary reprieve from the constant bickering, as the rain¡¯s steady cadence soothes your fears and begins lulling you to sleep.
In the dim light, you catch Dorez¡¯s eye. She offers a small, weary smile, as if to silently acknowledge your shared struggle. Despite the flimsy shelter and the relentless challenges, you feel a spark of hope. The rain may fall, the night may close in around you, but you are not alone. Perhaps you can find a way to work together and survive this ordeal after all.
The rain intensifies, drumming on the leaves above with increasing intensity. The shelter creaks and sways under the assault of the wind, but somehow holds. You can hear Benicto¡¯s breathing, a steady, angry rhythm that matches the pounding of the rain. His frustration is palpable, a storm within a storm.
This book is hosted on another platform. Read the official version and support the author''s work.
¡°Tomorrow,¡± you begin, your voice barely audible over the rain, ¡°we¡¯ll find a better spot. Maybe there will be better materials, and¡¡± You pause, recognizing how your heart feels heavy with hope, ¡°maybe we¡¯ll find some sign of the others. They might have taken refuge near another, greater source of water after the storm.¡±
Benicto doesn¡¯t respond immediately. This doesn¡¯t surprise you, and you brace yourself for when he inevitably scolds you for your wishful thinking. Finally¡ªto your astonishment¡ªhe merely grunts in acknowledgment.
Dorez shifts beside you, her body a warm presence in the cold night. ¡°We¡¯ll make it,¡± she says softly, more to herself than to either of you. ¡°We have to.¡±
The rain continues its relentless percussion. You close your eyes, letting the sound wash over you, drowning out the doubts and fears that wrack your mind.
Time passes, and the rain eventually subsides, leaving a lingering dampness in its wake. The forest around you stirs with nocturnal life. Creatures unseen and unknown call out with a haunting lullaby. You drift in and out of uneasy sleep, the shelter barely more than a fragile cocoon against the night. You hope that the new day will bring with it a sense of renewal, that your fortunes will change, and you¡¯ll find a way through¡ªperhaps to your companions, to Gartzen, to Landera. You hope.
You¡¯re awoken from a fitful night¡¯s sleep to the sound of a low rumbling. Could your stomach be growling from hunger again? You rise slowly, stiff and sore from the night on the hard ground. Benicto and Dorez follow you, groaning from their exhaustion and reluctance to get up.
The morning air is crisp, and looking out from your shelter, you take in the faint glow of the dawn¡¯s orange and pink hues. Still weary from the previous day¡¯s ordeal, you, Benicto, and Dorez set out in search of food. With a perpetual scowl, Benicto takes the lead. His distrustful eyes sweep the underbrush as if expecting the forest itself to leap out and pounce upon him. Dorez and you follow closely behind, on the lookout for anything edible.
Each step forward is cautious and uneasy. The ground beneath you is damp from the night¡¯s rain, making your progress slow. But even as you look upon your surroundings with skepticism, you still admire how the forest awakens around you. Birds call to each other as leaves suspended on the gnarled branches rustle in a gentle breeze like waves crashing upon the shore. The liveliness of nature is a small comfort, though it¡¯s not enough to distract you from the overwhelming hunger in your stomach.
Dorez halts suddenly, her keen eyes catching sight of something amidst the green. A cluster of wild berries and some roots peek through the foliage, looking tantalizingly familiar. You try to recall what you learned from your brief discussion with her yesterday, picking up how she was able to discern what she was foraging. She crouches down to inspect them, and a hint of a smile breaks through her usually stern expression.
¡°These look safe,¡± she declares, picking a few berries and popping them into her mouth. The moment stretches, and you watch her closely. Finally, she nods. ¡°We can eat these.¡±
Relief washes over you. You and Benicto join her, collecting as many berries as you can carry. As you do, Dorez abruptly rushes over to an old and weathered tree, which you think might be an oak, judging by its leaves. She crouches down, her fingers gently brushing away the top layer of soil to reveal a cluster of roots.
¡°These look promising,¡± she murmurs, more to herself than to you or Benicto. Her eyes light up, and she excitedly points at them. ¡°I¡¯ve seen these before! They¡¯re like the ones we used to find back home!¡±
You kneel beside her, examining the roots she has uncovered. They¡¯re thick and knobby, with a mottled brown skin. Dorez carefully pulls one from the ground, investigating it closely before breaking off a small piece and tasting it. She chews thoughtfully, then nods.
Always the skeptic, Benicto crosses his arms and watches from a distance with a deepening scowl. But he doesn¡¯t protest. The sight of edible food is enough to quell even his doubts, if only temporarily. The three of you begin to dig up the roots, working methodically to grab as many as you can.
A rustling noise catches your attention. Benicto motions for you and Dorez to stay quiet. You peer through the brush and spot a small herd of rodents scurrying about, plump and sleek, with deep brown fur that blends seamlessly with the forest floor. Each one is about the size of a rabbit, with whiskers that twitch as they sniff the air. While the idea would make you squeamish any other day, you realize this is a potential source of much-needed protein. Hunger sharpens your senses, and the sight of the small game stirs a primal drive within you.
¡°We need to catch them,¡± you whisper, eyes fixed on the scampering creatures.
You, Benicto, and Dorez quickly set to work, trying to devise a plan. Having never attempted to capture anything, the first attempts are rudimentary. You fashion makeshift traps from branches and vines, placing enticing berries upon them, then setting them carefully in the rodents¡¯ paths. Benicto directs with a low and authoritative voice, while Dorez¡¯s hands move with practiced precision.
However, the traps prove ineffective. The rodents easily evade the crude snares with their quick reflexes and sharp senses. You watch in frustration as one by one, they slip through, their small bodies darting away into the shadows.
¡°Aizue!¡± Benicto curses, his scowl deepening. ¡°How are these stupid creatures eluding us!¡±
You take a moment to regroup. Dorez examines the edible roots you gathered earlier. Suddenly, she jumps up with excitement. ¡°We can use these as bait,¡± she suggests, holding up a root. ¡°If we can lure them into a confined space, we might have a better chance.¡±
With renewed motivation, you set up a more elaborate trap. Using the roots, you create a trail leading into a narrow pathway lined with rocks and branches, forming a sort of funnel. The plan is simple, and hopefully effective: draw the rodents in and then corner them where they have nowhere to escape.
Benicto positions himself at the entrance of the pathway with a makeshift spear in hand, ready to strike if needed. You and Dorez flank the sides, ready to block any attempts at escape. Looking at your positioning, you¡¯re cautiously optimistic at this plan¡¯s chance of success.
Finally, you¡¯re ready. Every heartbeat stretches into an eternity. Your muscles are coiled, ready to spring into action at the slightest movement. The forest around you seems to hold its breath, the usual cacophony of sounds muted by the intensity of the moment.
Then, you see it. Drawn by the scent of the roots, the first rodent cautiously approaches. It¡¯s soon followed by another, and then another. Slowly, they edge their way into the pathway, noses twitching, whiskers quivering. Your heart pounds in your chest as you urge them closer, closer to the roots.
¡°Now,¡± you whisper, the command barely audible.
In a flurry of movement, you and Dorez spring into action, blocking the exits with branches and rocks. The rodents panic, darting back and forth, but the pathway holds. Benicto lunges forward and aims his spear with precision. The first rodent falls, and then another, while you and Dorez urgently work to secure the rest.
The moment is chaotic, filled with the sounds of struggle and the frantic scurrying of the trapped creatures. But then, it¡¯s over. You stand there, panting. At your feet lie enough small game to feed you all, and the sight lifts your spirits. You actually did it! You all pulled it off!
Benicto¡¯s scowl actually softens with a rare look of approval in his eyes. ¡°Good work,¡± he says, his voice grudging, but sincere.
Dorez smiles with a genuine expression of relief. ¡°We did it,¡± she says, her eyes meeting yours.
Feeling a sense of accomplishment, you all make your way back to the rickety shelter by the stream. As you approach, the forest seems eerily and unsettlingly silent. Your instincts prick up, and you raise your hand, signaling for the others to halt.
A low, rumbling growl echoes through the trees. This time, you know it¡¯s not your stomach anticipating breakfast. You look around, trying to pinpoint the source of the noise. The underbrush rustles, and a large, shadowy figure emerges¡ªa puma, eyes gleaming with hunger, muscles rippling under its sleek coat.
¡°They have pumas here?¡± Benicto remarks with a slight quiver. Dorez and you are too stunned and full of fear to respond.
The puma sizes up its prey, circling you with a deepening growl. Benicto brandishes the makeshift spear from earlier, trying to appear threatening. With your head, you point toward the shelter. Dorez and you hold your ground, backing slowly towards it, hoping to use it as a barrier.
Without warning, the puma lunges. Benicto thrusts his spear, managing to graze the predator. But it¡¯s not enough to deter it. The predator snarls, enraged at the audacity. Thinking quickly, Dorez places the small game near the flames and grabs a burning stick from the remnants of your fire. She waves it at the puma, hoping the weak flames will be enough to scare it off and dissuade it from eating your prized hunt.
The predator snarls, momentarily hesitating. You seize the opportunity, grabbing a rock and hurling it at the puma with all your might. The rock strikes the beast on the nose, causing it to yelp in pain and back off slightly.
Taking advantage of the puma¡¯s distraction, the three of you retreat to the shelter. Benicto and you hold the entrance, with spear and rocks in hand, while Dorez fans the flames, making them as large and threatening as possible.
The puma circles the shelter, its eyes glowing in rage. The beast starts to lunge at you, swiping its paw with a lightning quick strike. The claws graze Benicto, slicing through his clothing. He shouts in pain and looks down, noticing that he¡¯s gotten off lucky: the creature only ripped through his clothing, just missing his flesh.
Now the beast searches for a way to reach you, looking for where to strike next. But the smoke and flames frighten it, causing it to back away. You and Dorez wave sticks aglow with fire, shouting at the top of your lungs to frighten it away. The animal is unamused, baring its long fangs.
After a few more laps, you decide to make a compromise with the puma. Despite Benicto¡¯s protests, you take one of the rodents and fling it at the predator. At first, the creature is confused, growling fiercely toward you. But once it sees the rodent¡¯s lifeless body nearby, it snatches up the prey and casually departs the area.
Breathing heavily, you watch as the puma slinks back into the forest. The three of you remain still, delaying any celebrations until you all feel confident that the beast has left. After what you hope is enough time passing, you finally relax, exchanging relieved glances as you lower your provisional weapons. Benicto laments his torn garment and declares that the rodent you tossed was your meal, but Dorez quickly reminds him of the reality of his circumstances: that he was spared being mauled. The adrenaline slowly ebbs away, leaving you shaky, but alive.
Realizing you cannot stay in one place for too long, especially with predators around, you quickly gather your belongings. The memory of the puma¡¯s fierce eyes still haunts you. With your small game secured and the threat of the puma still fresh in your minds, you decide to move on and search for the rest of your party.
The sun has already begun its descent by the time you depart. The hunt and the encounter with the puma took more time out of the day than you realized. Now, you grow concerned that you won¡¯t be able to find either your companions nor a more secure shelter. Or, worse, your way back to the settlement.
Benicto looks up at the sky, appearing to mutter some type of calculations to himself. He points in a seemingly random direction. ¡°That should be the way back to Aitzabal,¡± he proclaims.
Dorez scoffs. ¡°How can you be so certain?¡±
¡°Based on the positioning of the sun, and the direction of the stream, obviously,¡± he confidently states. You look around the environment, wondering how he¡¯s making such determinations. You may not be an expert in scouting, but something in his deduction doesn¡¯t sit well with you. If it were as simple as he makes it out to be, you believe you all would¡¯ve found your companions by now, at least.
¡°When did you become an avid explorer?¡± she teases. You notice there¡¯s an uneasiness to her smile, as though she¡¯s trying not to get on Benicto¡¯s bad side. But you feel as though she isn¡¯t confident in his assessment, as well. However, you know that any protest you make will be quickly dismissed and met by his ire. You¡¯re not sure how to navigate this situation, but you expect this journey will not go well if you can¡¯t figure out the correct way to go, and soon.
Under any other circumstances, you¡¯d find your trek through these foreign forests to be pleasurable, soaking in the sights and relishing in the new environments. But now, everything in this treacherous landscape feels like it¡¯s threatening you. Every step, every noise, every shadow plots your demise. After wandering the land long enough until the sun begins to settle into the horizon, the three of you realize that finding your way back is not as simple as you once believed.
Eventually, you all have no choice but to establish another temporary shelter. The construction of this one is shoddier than the last, hastily thrown together and built while exhausted, hungry, and becoming increasingly frustrated. You want so badly to criticize Benicto, belittling him for his poor navigational skills. For likely having you all travel further away from the settlement, and endangering your lives.
But you think better of it. He¡¯ll only become defensive, making an already tense journey even more so. It¡¯ll also upset Dorez, who, you can already see, is furious with him, but is also refraining from chastising him. Most of all, it won¡¯t accomplish anything. You¡¯ll all still be lost, still aimlessly wandering these forests, and cause further division, when you all need to be working together now more than ever. It doesn¡¯t stop you from making a determination on your own, however: first thing in the morning, you decide, you will try and figure out the direction you should be going, and contemplate leaving these two behind in pursuit of your fellow Legido explorers.
The breaking morning sun hits your face, waking you up and reminding you that you¡¯re still lost in these woodlands. Grumpily, you move about the shelter, collecting your items as you plan to leave. You¡¯ve had it with Benicto, and though you feel tensions lifting between you and Dorez, you simply cannot allow yourself to be misled any further. You just hope that you can slip away before either of them notices.
As you grab your satchel, a rustling in the nearby bushes alarms you. Not again, you think, hoping the puma hasn¡¯t been tracking you all this way. There¡¯s no food inside this camp; what else could it want? A small part of you hopes it¡¯s more of the rodents you hunted yesterday. You never would¡¯ve thought such a creature would taste good, and maybe it¡¯s due to your hunger, but you found them savory and delightful once Dorez got the fire pit working and roasted them, sharing a part of her portion. Sure, cleaning them was a chore, but¡ª
More rustling. It¡¯s tremendous, sounding like it¡¯s from some creature much larger than a rodent. Your heart sinks. You don¡¯t want to have to fight off yet another predator. But it¡¯s giving you no choice. You¡¯ve made it this long. You will continue to do whatever it takes to survive.
You¡¯re about to wake up the other two, to bring in more support in defending the shelter. But as you tiptoe toward where they are both sleeping, you listen for the cadence of the footsteps. It¡¯s not as if the creature is lurking in the underbrush, stealthily stalking its prey. No, this sounds like a lumbering beast. Perhaps this isn¡¯t a predator, but instead, it¡¯s prey.
You pat the ground behind you, and your fingers land on Benicto¡¯s makeshift spear. You could be a hero. You could find your group¡¯s next meal. Maybe this will get Benicto off your back, if only temporarily. This could make traversing the rest of these untamed lands a little more bearable, at least for today.
You clutch the splintering branch in your palm, then hold it out in front of you. With steady, careful steps, you approach the rustling sound. It¡¯s still clumsily traversing about, just out of sight. You see hints of the figure just beyond the bushes that separate you. This is it. You¡¯re going to slay this beast. Glory is just within reach. All you have to do is¡
Something about this animal strikes you as peculiar. It¡¯s not a hairy monster, nor a typical woodland creature. It has hair on its head and¡ clothes? It¡¯s shorter, pudgier than anything you¡¯ve seen so far. And then, it turns to face you, wide eyed with terror. But you immediately recognize that face.
¡°Iker?¡± you shout, confused, startled, surprised, and relieved.
109 - Inuxeq
I struggle to understand how anyone could live out here in these lands. The Tapeu plains north of Qapauma are sparse, with little-to-no means for establishing a sustainable settlement. There have been no trees, hardly any game to hunt, and the soil is dry and rocky, completely incapable of being farmed. The closest source of water of which I¡¯m aware is the salty sea of the distant Haqu Suquinoq.
I¡¯ve grown more and more to dislike these lands.
My first trek through these lands were fairly uneventful, save for the warped and scorched lands just south of Taqeipacha. After crossing the Maiu Antumalal, the landscape left much to be desired. The gnarled trees, the barren and lifeless soil, the dying, cloudless sky. I worried we were entering into someplace truly cursed by the Timuaq before they departed our world. Yet Sianchu was over the moon with arriving to this land. And after Taqeipacha, I could understand why, with the life gradually returning to this place.
It all made me miss Tuatiu, however. His palpable joy in returning home only made me miss my own. Now, seeing the displaced Atima establish their settlement far from their lands, I feel a pang of empathy and longing.
I remember the morning mists that blanket Iantana, the smell of wet soil and the calls of the birds greeting the dawn. My home is a place of endless green, where the towering and ancient trees create a canopy above that shields us from the harsh sun, and the jungle floor is filled with vibrant life.
Yet, somehow, there is a sprawling campsite at the base of the barren mountains, stretching as far as the eye can see. Approaching the collection of blue and beige tents among a small patch of trees is surreal. Even though Haesan spoke of such a place existing, I still had trouble believing it.
But now, seeing that it is, in fact, possible, I pause as I take in the unbelievable perseverance of the Atima and the people of Pachil. The camp is a symbol of endurance, but it also stands as a reminder of what has been lost and what must be regained. It is a place of temporary refuge, but it is not home. Home is where the heart finds its true belonging, where the spirit feels at peace. Yet even in these relatively harsh lands, and all that they have gone through, it gives me hope that the Atima will continue to thrive, no matter how the gods challenge them.
The villagers are tense and on high alert as we arrive. They halt all activity as they watch us draw closer to their home. A gathering of men in mismatched, worn leather armor eye us suspiciously, their hands gripping a jumble of poorly maintained weapons, though they¡¯re ready for anything. I can¡¯t blame them for their unease at our presence¡ªthese are displaced people making do with what they have. So to have an army marching toward them would be unsettling, to say the least.
Haesan hurriedly steps in front of the group of warriors, making sure her appearance is foremost. She raises both hands as she walks up to them, hoping to ease their fears. The men cast wary glances at the figure in a neutral-colored robe as she approaches them, drawing their weapons and crouching into a stance as if readying themselves to strike.
It¡¯s only when one of the men guarding the entrance to this camp points out who she is that the rest begin to relax slightly. Noticing some of the Qantua have drawn their swords in response to the raised weapons of the Qelantu Loh guards, I quickly order our warriors to stand down. Tensions gradually ease, and I begin to hope this is a rare good sign.
I watch attentively as the man steps a few paces forward, grinning welcomingly. ¡°You¡¯re the companion of Chalqo!¡± he remarks. I find the name peculiar and amusing, but Haesan appears to recognize it, returning the warm smile.
¡°Indeed, through Lady Nuqasiq,¡± she says with a bow of her head. ¡°Has he returned from Qapauma?¡±
The man frowns and shakes his head. ¡°The musicians traveled there for Chasqa Quimi, but they have not yet returned. We¡¯re concerned as to what this may mean. Do you bring news of their status? Based on your¡ entourage¡¡± the man reluctantly waves his hand to point to the vast army behind me, ¡°something terrible must have taken place there.¡±
Haesan grimaces. ¡°Unfortunately, I arrive without any information regarding Chalqo and the musicians. There was an assault on the capital by a treacherous cult called the Eye in the Flame¡ª¡°
¡°We know of those monsters,¡± another in the party of Atima guards states disapprovingly.
¡°I last spoke to Chalqo moments before the assault occurred,¡± Haesan continues. ¡°I had hoped he and the others would have escaped and returned here. I¡¯m saddened to discover that is not the case.¡±
The first man nods with a reassuring smile. ¡°If I know anything, it¡¯s that that old coot is resilient. He¡¯s too stubborn to die, so I don¡¯t doubt his return to Qelantu Loh is merely delayed.¡±
¡°I hope you¡¯re right,¡± Haesan says, sounding not nearly as confident.
I step forward, marching up next to Haesan. ¡°Unfortunately, we don¡¯t have time to dwell on uncertainties,¡± I interrupt. ¡°The Eye in the Flame won¡¯t wait for us to find our friends. We need to focus on our mission and rally support. Every moment we spend in idle conversation is a moment lost.¡±
This draws wary glances from the Atima men. They stand stiff and uncomfortably, shifting their weight from foot to foot and avoiding eye contact. Are they really this taken aback by my bringing light to the matter at hand?
Haesan appears surprised initially, eyebrows raised slightly at my remark. However, to her credit, she quickly regains her composure and nods in agreement. ¡°Inuxeq is correct,¡± she says firmly. ¡°We need to secure allies and gather our strength¡ªit is why we have traveled north and away from Qapauma. The Eye in the Flame remains a threat to all of Pachil, and we must be prepared.¡±
Though they¡¯re still cautious, the Atima guards exchange long glances, hoping one of them will determine what they should do next. A few shrug, but we¡¯re mostly met with silence. It tests my patience, fretting we¡¯ve spent long enough on indecisions.
¡°We need to speak with your leaders,¡± I assert. ¡°We need to unite our forces and prepare for what¡¯s to come.¡±
Finally, the man nods, motioning for us to follow. ¡°Come, we will take you to the elders. They will want to hear what you have to say about the Eye in the Flame.¡±
Haesan, a few Qantua leaders, and I follow the Atima guards, making our way through the camp. I instruct the other Qantua warriors to set up camp just beyond the limits of the village while we¡¯re away, which they do without hesitation. Not needing any additional command, the well-trained warriors begin setting up perimeter patrols, ensuring all within the campsite will be protected from external threats. A few others pair off with some of the Atima to help hunt for food and gather resources. I feel a kinship with their likemindedness, searching for ways to be productive instead of loitering, reminding me much of the mentality of my people.
The blue tents are vast, spreading out among the golden plains of northern Tapeu territory. Many of the villagers watch our approach with suspicion and curiosity. Their outfits are simple tunics and huipil dresses, all wearing deep blue and silver¡ªwhich, having never met an Atima before, I assume are the colors of their people. A couple of the ladies curtsey when Haesan passes through. Do they show their respect as a result of knowing Haesan¡¯s relation to the Queen Mother? What influence does Nuqasiq have here, in a refugee camp of a faction that is not even of her own people?
We pass a spacious area where many have gathered to eat. The open space is lined with numerous carts made from wood, which carry a wide variety of fruits and root vegetables, a tremendous assortment the likes of which I¡¯ve never before seen. There are items possessing colors I never knew to be possible from grown food! How did these people come upon such a bountiful harvest among these desolate lands?
Upon our arrival, the Atima villagers who are present quickly end their jovial conversations, monitoring us as we walk by. Children hurriedly run to their parents for protection, and others greet us with cold, tone-faced expressions. I suppose that respect and trust must be earned¡ªunderstandable coming from a people who have faced frequent betrayal and devastation in their history. However, I still find it to be off-putting, to be blunt, continually being distrusted and looked upon as external threats.
Two of the men escorting us pull open large flaps of the enormous tent. We¡¯re waved inside, and follow the remaining Atima guards into a torchlit space. Before us, several elders sit crosslegged in a semicircle atop woven rugs on the ground. If not bald, the men and women seated here have their heads nearly shaved short in its entirety, save for a single braid that trails down their cheek. Many contain the weathered faces of those who have seen and suffered through much.
The elders study us carefully, some with piercing stares, others with thoughtful and curious gazes. One with a more gentle expression asks, ¡°We hear you come with some urgent matters to discuss. What brings you to our humble campsite?¡±
Haesan and I exchange a glance. I clear my throat, trying to ignore the knot of anxiety tightening in my chest. ¡°We¡¯ve come to seek your support against the Eye in the Flame. Our people face annihilation if we do not unite.¡±
Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.
One of the elders narrows his eyes while stroking his chin. ¡°We¡¯re familiar with the Eye in the Flame. Word of their destructive nature has traveled by way of merchants from far distant lands.¡±
Another elder, this one with a scarred face, leans forward and eyes us with a skepticism that could cut iron. ¡°They seek to destroy the Tapeu, who have a tremendous army. Why should we risk our lives for a cause that does not concern us directly? We¡¯ve survived by remaining isolated. We do not need to insert ourselves into the affairs of others. We have enough to handle here on our own.¡±
¡°Your isolation won¡¯t protect you forever,¡± I retort, feeling the anger pulsing through my veins. ¡°The Eye in the Flame wish to see every faction kneel to them. Qapauma fell despite its fortifications. We must stand together or fall separately.¡±
¡°Though she speaks very directly, there is truth to what my companion is saying,¡± Haesan adds, her voice much softer and more controlled than mine. ¡°While Qapauma was able to live to fight another day, their defenses have been greatly reduced. We fear the Eye in the Flame will regroup and return to finish what they set out to accomplish while the Tapeu are recovering.¡±
An elder with a long, silver braid that drapes over her shoulder looks at me somberly with bright, hazel eyes. She begins to speak, her voice soft yet resonant. ¡°We have known suffering, far beyond the reach of memory,¡± she says, her eyes distant, as if seeing a time long past. ¡°Much like the Ulxa dozens of generations ago, the Timuaq brought destruction to our lands, scorching our fields, and crumbling our homes and sacred temples. They cursed our lands, seeking to erase our history, to break our spirit. But we endured. Our people have always been resilient, finding strength in our shared sorrow and our collective hope.¡±
The elder¡¯s voice softens even further. ¡°We have learned to live with less, to cherish each moment of peace, and to nurture the seeds of tomorrow. Our isolation has been our shield, allowing us to heal, but we have been kept from reaching out and reclaiming our place in the world.¡±
She pauses, shifting her gaze as if looking to the mountains in the distance through the canvas tent walls. ¡°I dream of the day when our children can walk freely in the lands of our ancestors, without fear. A day when the Atima can stand proud and unbowed, our hearts open to the possibilities of tomorrow.¡± She falls silent, her words hanging in the air.
The elder with the scarred face shifts on his rug, his eyes narrowing. ¡°Sweet words and hopeful dreams do not feed our people or protect our homes,¡± he grumbles.
He leans forward, resting his elbow upon his knee, ¡°I repeat, what concern of that is ours? When the Atima were forced out of our lands at the hands of the Timuaq, we were able to salvage what we could and settle here. Being away from the fighting has allowed us to regain our own strength and begin our path to prosperity. There is no need to fight someone else¡¯s battles.¡±
I feel the emotion welling up inside of me. I choose not to tame it, saying, ¡°You act as though other factions don¡¯t suffer. My people were cut down at the hands of the Eye in the Flame, while still rebuilding from what was done to us by the Timuaq. What are the Tuatiu to the war for the throne? These cultists do not discriminate; they view everyone who don¡¯t follow their misguided and distorted beliefs as the enemy, and they will strike down all who refuse to join them. There is nothing to prove the Eye in the Flame won¡¯t come after the Atima.¡±
The elder glances away. I must¡¯ve struck a nerve. I persist, stepping forward and looking directly at the elder who has been so dismissive as I continue. ¡°While Iantana recovers, my people fight. If Qapauma falls to the Eye in the Flame, they will hold the seat of power and see to it that their disgusting plan of persecuting all they view as inferior is seen through to completion. What would the Atima do then, huh? Wait and see if this happens?¡±
Haesan places a hand on my shoulder, trying to calm me. My heart is racing too quickly, too intensely to be soothed. I snarl at the dissenting elder, my expression challenging him to state that I¡¯m wrong.
Another of the elders¡ªthe contemplative one¡ªlooks at the Qantua warriors beside me. ¡°And what of the Qantua?¡± they inquire. ¡°Why have they joined this fight?¡±
¡°I¡¯m afraid the threat is greater than any one faction,¡± one of the Qantua warriors steps forward and addresses him. ¡°We¡¯ve seen the destruction firsthand. We have traveled through the Aimue territory and discovered the Eye in the Flame had destroyed Xaqelatun, leaving very few survivors.¡±
¡°The Aimue are simple farmers,¡± I include, ¡°seeking nothing but a simple, peaceful life after being subjugated by the Timuaq. What are they to the throne? This is further proof that the cult does not discriminate, and they can come for Atima at any time.¡°
Haesan nods solemnly. ¡°This is not just the Tapeu¡¯s fight, nor that of the Aimue; it¡¯s all of ours.¡±
¡°And what of this Eye in the Flame?¡± the elder with the scar asks. ¡°You said they retreated to regroup after their failed assault on Qapauma. What makes them a concerning force, now that their numbers have also been diminished? Do we know what their true strength is? Or are you simply being alarmist?¡±
Does he think we speak false? Why is he so quick to dismiss our concerns? I grind my teeth in frustration, enraged that he appears to not take us seriously, even with an army at our back.
Fortunately for him, Haesan presses a hand on my chest, holding me back from charging at this man¡¯s willful ignorance, and addresses him directly. ¡°We¡¯ve faced their forces and barely survived. They have powers that can tear through our defenses with ease. There are sorcerers in their midst, using some form of dark magic thought to have been vanquished upon the defeat of the Timuaq. And the creatures the Ulxa supplied to the titans pale in comparison to the nearly indestructible beasts they can spawn now. This is no ordinary enemy.¡±
¡°This sounds grave, indeed,¡± one of the elders says. Her leathery face looks upon the others with great concern. ¡°Even if the cult does not find us right away, it may be only a matter of time before they ultimately do.¡±
¡°But how are we to fight them?¡± another elder says, the contemplative one. ¡°Through sparse trade engagements, we have barely amassed enough weapons and armor to outfit a handful of our men. If the Eye in the Flame possess magic wielders and creatures of great destructive abilities, we will not stand a chance!¡±
¡°That is why we ask that you join our numbers,¡± Haesan says. ¡°We can provide your people with weapons and armor, and the Qantua are excellent warriors who can train your people. Given the urgency of the situation, we can send messengers to request additional provisions and supplies. If we fight together, we form a much greater opposition than if we fight individually. We were only able to stave off their initial effort at conquering Qapauma because we united with the Tapeu. But with their numbers heavily depleted, we won¡¯t be able to resist the enemy when they strike again.¡±
The scarred elder has had enough. ¡°Other. People¡¯s. Wars.¡± He emphatically emphasizes each word with his fist pounding the open palm of his other hand. ¡°And it¡¯s all speculation. The Eye in the Flame could be licking their wounds right now, rolling over and exposing their belly to the first warriors ready to vanquish them. Instead of blabbering on here, you could¡¯ve taken that army of yours and wiped them off the face of Pachil for good. But you¡¯re choosing to jaw with us, wasting valuable time. We should refuse their¡ª¡°
A series of shouts call out in the distance. Heavy footsteps thump past the closed flap of the tent, running off toward the yelling. The Qantua warriors and I draw our weapons, prepared to engage in a fight. This may be the circumstances of which we tried to warn these slow-footed Atima elders. It may be too late to spare this settlement of sure annihilation.
I plan to sprint toward the commotion, but quickly cease. I look for Haesan, realizing that, while I am ready to bring the fight to the enemy, I must prioritize her safety first. But I don¡¯t need to search for long; right by my side, she follows, a fierce look of determination fixed to her face. She must want this scum to fall as badly as I do.
Before we proceed, I stop her. She looks at me, concerned and confused. I reach for the obsidian dagger sheathed at my hip, then plant it in her hand. ¡°Take this,¡± I command. ¡°It¡¯s a dagger that has been blessed, capable of defeating the gray creatures with a single stroke. I¡¯m going to assume you know how to use a blade.¡±
She shakes her head in short bursts. ¡°Not at all. But, I suppose, I will have to learn as I go.¡±
Those are not exactly the words I had hoped for. But, they will have to do. With reluctance, I nod and resume my sprint.
We dash through the maze of blue and beige tents, weaving through the dirt paths to seek out the approaching threat. Many curious onlookers peek their heads out from their tents, while others stand to gawk at the disturbance to their otherwise peaceful lives. Some men and women collect their weapons, or items to be used as such, prepared to defend their homes.
Dozens of Atima have gathered along with the Qantua warriors, standing between the village and the strangers on route toward the campsite. In the distance, countless specks head our way. Is it another army seeking to rest and regroup before marching onward to Qapauma? Or is it the Eye in the Flame, preparing to conquer Qelantu Loh and use it as a new base of operations?
Haesan and I make our way to the front of the group. A few Qantua warriors flank me, spears and swords held at the ready. I squint, trying to make out the shapes in the distance. The sun is low, casting long shadows that play tricks on my eyes. The figures are still too far away to discern any details, but they move with purpose, like a well-trained unit. My heart races. This could be it¡ªthe moment we feared.
The Atima elders arrive alongside us at the front, exchanging worried glances. The Qantua warriors grip their weapons tighter, muscles taut and ready to leap into action. A tense silence hangs in the air, each side bracing for what might come next.
A low murmur spreads through the crowd as the figures draw closer. I can hear the heavy clank of armor now, and the rhythmic thud of boots on the ground. I glance at Haesan, who stands beside me, watching the silhouettes tentatively. Her knuckles turn white as she clutches the obsidian dagger, and there¡¯s a fire in her eyes that I hadn¡¯t seen before.
As the figures come into clearer view, I catch the glint of bronze armor. The orange and red tunics of the Tapeu are unmistakable, but I cannot let my guard down. My mind races through the possibilities. If they are from the Tapeu palace, they could be allies. But could the Eye in the Flame be disguising themselves to catch us off guard? Or warriors loyal to the Arbiter, Achutli, seeking to apprehend Haesan for perceived slights? There appears to be a complicated history between them, one that makes me question their true intentions and heightens my sense of unease.
The silhouettes draw closer, and I can make out their faces now. Among them, a regal figure stands out, her presence commanding and unmistakable. She makes no effort to disguise her status as a noble, adorned with a gold crown embedded with turquoise and lapis lazuli. Her flowing, bright purple dress glimmers under the weight of countless gold jewelry pieces that drape from her ears, neck, wrists, and fingers. Her familiar form is surrounded by the stoic palace guards. My mind races, trying to piece together why she would be here, so far from Qapauma and leading a group of palace guards.
Before I can process my thoughts, Haesan¡¯s face lights up with recognition. The crowd parts slightly as she leaps forward, breaking into a sprint. I reach out to stop her, to pull her back into the safety of our ranks, but she¡¯s already moving, her voice breaking through the tense silence.
¡°Nuqasiq!¡± she shouts, her tone a mix of relief and joy.
110 - Malinaxochi
As I tread the hallowed ruins, I cast my gaze upon the so-called leaders, my heart swelling with a profound and righteous disgust.
¡°Gather those who have failed us,¡± I command. ¡°Place them in the chambers and lock them into the stockades. They will need to seek penance for what they have done¡ªor, shall I say, for what they did not do.¡±
They look upon me with their cold, stoic faces, and nod, addressing me only by title. Their demeanor is businesslike¡ªsomething I have come to expect of them. We are in a war for the heart of Pachil, after all.
¡°Before you go,¡± I interrupt their departure, ¡°Tecuani, Ihuitli, please stay behind. There is a grave matter I would like to discuss.¡±
The others exchange confused stares, perhaps questioning why their names have not been spoken. In due time, should they be the ones to fail me, as well. They shuffle out of the dilapidated chamber, their boots swishing along the dusty, dirt-covered floor.
The eyes of the two leaders who remain are fixed upon me, watching as I stalk about the area, rhythmically patting the hilt of the dagger sheathed at my hip. After the door is shut behind the others, I wait several heartbeats, to see if either will be foolish enough to speak before I do. I find a thrill in the tension that rests in the silence. I know what is about to happen, what the outcome of our meeting will be. Perhaps, if they are astute, they will know, too. However, because of the reason they are here, I will deduce they are both completely oblivious.
Once I have finally grown bored, I begin. ¡°Tecuani, you stand before me with the shadow of failure looming over you. Victory was within our grasp, yet you allowed it to slip through your fingers.¡±
Unwavering, his eyes meet mine. ¡°I take full responsibility, and I will accept whatever punishment you deem fit.¡±
¡°Indeed,¡± I say. ¡°Responsibility is a noble trait, is it not? But, unfortunately, responsibility does not redeem failure.¡± I try to best maintain my composure, though, admittedly, it is difficult to do, especially as The Voice speaks to me, continuously reminding me to show no mercy.
¡°And you, Ihuitli,¡± I say, turning to the other leader. Sweat begins to bead at his forehead, and his eyes dart about the room. ¡°Do you understand the consequences of failure?¡±
The nods of this leader are more like a nervous spasm of the head. ¡°Yes, I understand,¡± he stammers. ¡°Failure is not an option. To succeed in fighting for our cause, there is no room for error.¡±
My lips form a tight smile. ¡°Strong words. Correct words. But words alone also do not redeem failure. A shame.¡±
The two leaders stand still, awaiting what this means for their fate. Tecuani, as he is one to do, stands tall and proud, his presence always commanding. Ihuitli, however, slouches, his shoulders weighed down by the immense regret he feels. He has always been attuned to the emotions of others¡ªan admirable trait for a leader.
¡°I commend you, Tecuani, for your willingness to acknowledge your failure,¡± I say, praising the leader. ¡°You are loyal, and you understand that the lives of loyal warriors are mine to command.¡±
Then, I turn to Ihuitli, who lowers his head in shame. I can see that he understands his fate. My fingers fidget with the hilt, channeling my simmering energy. ¡°Ihuitli, I will show you the true meaning of loyalty and acceptance.¡±
Tecuani looks to Ihuitli, whose eyes are cast down to his feet. I feel the surge of energy roaring through my arm. My head is bowed as I walk over to the two leaders, stopping just short before I am face-to-face with them.
After one solitary breath, I nod, not looking at either man. Then, in a flash, I unsheathe my dagger. Before my victim can react, the slash is complete. I stand poised, dagger extended. Beside me, I hear the victim fall. The sound of his collapse shatters the silence in the room.
With my jaw clenched, I take deep, heaving breaths. The fire that once raged within me slowly subsides. Casually, I untwist my body to once again stand, facing forward. My eyes meet those of the sole survivor.
¡°As you can see, Ihuitli,¡± I tell the stunned leader, ¡°mere acceptance of punishment is not enough. Loyalty without competence is worthless. Come.¡± I wave for the man, who has been shocked into silence, to follow me.
Tecuani clutches hopelessly at his throat as blood spurts through his hands and pours onto the ground. The once-great leader has been reduced to nothing more than gurgling breaths. I step over him as he writhes like a fish out of water, and make my way to the exit. Ihuitli scurries close behind me. Perhaps he looks back at the dying leader in pity, or in shock. Perhaps he does not. It makes no difference to me.
These decimated ruins were once a thriving village that sprouted from the soil of fertile lands. All structures were borne purely for necessity, lacking lavish ornamentations. Each building had a purpose, nothing more. A home was merely a home. A granary stored grain. The quarters of the potter crafted pots. The blacksmith made only tools. Pragmatic. Sensible.
The people prospered, their lives entwined with the land they so dutifully tended. I admired that about their people¡ªtheir practical mentality and way of life, their unwavering dedication to being caretakers of this place. They could have been excellent subjects, had they simply not resisted. We offered them a choice. They made their decision. Now, well¡ All I can say is that it is a shame for them.
With many buildings reduced to rubble, we had no choice but to convert the granary into a temporary holding camp for captives. It is the only space large enough that does not demand new construction. In due time, we will reshape this place to better suit our needs. But for now, tents and repurposed facilities will suffice.
After walking through the dimly lit paths, we arrive at my humble quarters. It is a structure that once belonged to the leader of this village, or so I believe. The entrance is flanked by torches, with flames that dance in the evening breeze.
The nervous leader enters behind me. His head swivels from side to side, eyes flickering, searching for any sign of an approaching threat. With nonchalance, I stride into the center of the room. After believing no danger awaits him, he relaxes just a touch.
Inside, I have tried my best to ensure the interior reflects my personal tastes and vision. Rich tapestries that each tell a story of our conquest and power adorn the walls, woven with intricate patterns of red, black, and gold. Even in the low light, their majesty is undeniable. The floor is covered in furs and woven mats, providing a semblance of comfort amidst the chaos that exists outside.
¡°Please, sit,¡± I instruct, splaying out a hand to present the offering.
A large, ornately carved wooden table dominates the center of the room, with a couple of similarly decorated chairs placed around it. It is covered with ceremonial daggers, idols and figurines that have been crafted from obsidian and jade, and a variety of exotic plants¡ªpossibly poisonous, though I am working on discovering their true nature¡ªstored in clay pots.
Leery, Ihuitli watches me with suspicion. He begins to make his way to one of the chairs, then decides against it, answering, ¡°No, I am fine. I will stand. Thank you.¡± His gaze drifts about the room, taking in the sights many do not get to see.
A modest bed, draped in fine linens and furs, rests in one corner. In another corner, an altar covered in offerings and ritualistic items. The faint scent of incense lingers in the air from my earlier prayers this morning.
Ihuitli wanders over to the shelves that line another wall, admiring how it is filled with treasures looted from conquered lands. There are golden goblets encrusted with precious stones, necklaces and other jewelry taken from fallen enemies, and elaborate headdresses adorned with vibrant feathers, all trophies of our victories.
¡°Ah, you see the many spoils of our successes,¡± I note with pride. ¡°Though we have only just begun, already we have won many battles. We have known glory, yet the recent victories we have earned are mere steps in the larger plan for liberating the throne from the repressive ruler who sits upon it.¡±
I walk to the shelf and stand beside him, inspecting the items. ¡°These,¡± I pick up one of the necklaces, its silver chain and amethyst gemstone meekly glint from the torchlight, ¡°are just trinkets. No, Ihuitli, what we seek is something far greater than tangible items.¡±
We stand next to the trove of treasures, absorbing the sights of the worldly riches. ¡°Have you pondered our origins, Ihuitli?¡±
¡°From the waters of the lagoon in Auilqa,¡± he answers hollowly, lacking conviction. ¡°From Iolatl, after the union with¡ª¡°
¡°No, my dear Ihuitli,¡± I interrupt. ¡°Our origins.¡±
The leader looks confused, uncertain how to respond. He shakes his head slowly, then converts it into a trepidatious nod. This annoys me, so before he mindlessly recites more rehearsed responses, I proceed to answer my own question. ¡°Everyone knows of the origin of Pachil. But once the twelve factions were created, that is when the real history of Pachil begins.¡±
Ihuitli turns to face me. He maintains a perplexed look, unable to determine where this discussion is heading. The Voice wants me to slash this stupid expression right off of his face. Or smash it with the heavy goblet until all I have to look at is an unexpressive, bloody pulp. Tension rises in my arms, and I feel my lips purse as I fight back the anger.
Through my nose, I take long, slow breaths. Repeating this a couple times, the fury eventually subsides. No, I will not resort to violence. Not at this time. I would like an audience as I recount our history. Why we are who we are. Why we do what we do.
¡°Do you know, Ihuitli, what separates a sovereign from a mere subject?¡± I ask, not expecting a genuine answer. Before he stammers something stupid, I say, ¡°It is not birthright, nor wealth, nor even the favor of the gods. It is the unyielding will to impose the vision one has upon the world. History is a testament to this truth: there will always be a sovereign and those who are subjected to their will.¡±
I stop inspecting the precious items on my shelves and face Ihuitli. ¡°Look at the world around us. Look at the rise and fall of empires. The Tapeu, the Timuaq, the Ulxa¡ªeach had their moment of ascendancy. And why? Because they had leaders who understood the fundamental truth of existence: that power is an illusion, a construct of the mind. The real power lies in the ability to shape that illusion, to convince the masses to follow, to submit, to obey.¡±
I start pacing, enjoying how the cadence of my footsteps matches the rhythm of my words. ¡°The masses, Ihuitli, are like the maize fields stretching beneath the mountain, ripe for cultivation. They yearn for a hand to guide their growth, direct their paths, and harvest their allegiance. This is why they erect their sovereigns, why they worship their rulers, why they bend their knees and offer their lives in service. It is not out of love or loyalty, but out of a deep-seated need for order, for structure, for meaning.¡±
I pause, gazing up as though I can see the stars forming in the night sky through this roof. ¡°And the sovereign? The sovereign must be unyielding, ruthless, and visionary. The sovereign must see the world not as it is, but as it could be, and must bend reality to match that vision. This is the burden of leadership, the curse of the throne. To wield power is to understand that it is both fragile and absolute, that it must be seized and defended with equal ferocity.¡±
I turn to face Ihuitli once more, my voice lowering to a near whisper. ¡°You see, Ihuitli, I am not just a sovereign. I am a force of nature, an embodiment of destiny. I have seen the truth of this world, and I have embraced it. My will shall shape the future, my vision shall become reality. And those who oppose me? They will be crushed beneath the weight of their own insignificance.¡±
I step closer, my eyes locked onto those of Ihuitli. ¡°So, I reiterate: In all of existence on Pachil, there is but one truth¡ªthere will always be a sovereign. And everyone else¡ is but a subject.¡±
The eyes of Ihuitli grow wide with concern, with fear. His body trembles as he stands before me, with the flickering torchlight casting unsettling shadows on his face.
¡°Do you remember what you said earlier, dear Ihuitli?¡± I inquire, my voice measured. ¡°You spoke of failure not being an option. You declared that there is no room for error in our fight for the cause.¡±
Stolen novel; please report.
I step closer to him, my shadow falling over his quivering form. ¡°You were right. Failure is indeed not an option. And yet, here we are, faced with the consequences of your failures. There is a price to be paid.¡±
The lips of Ihuitli begin to quiver, and I can see the realization dawning on him. He knows what is coming. His breath quickens, and without warning, he bolts for the exit.
But he is too slow. I lunge forward, grab him by the arm, and yank him back. He struggles, but my grip is unyielding. I throw him to the ground, and he lands with a grunt, the delicious fear in his eyes even more pronounced.
¡°There is no room for error, you said. And I agree,¡± I continue, my voice now a low growl. ¡°In our quest to reshape Pachil, to reclaim what is rightfully ours, we cannot afford to tolerate weakness or incompetence.¡±
Ihuitli tries to speak, to plead for mercy. I unsheathe my dagger, the obsidian blade gleaming in the dim light. The Voice urges me to do it, do it, do it. ¡°Your failure is a stain on our cause. And to ensure that our mission remains pure, I must cleanse that stain. The path to greatness is paved with the bones of the unworthy.¡±
With a swift, precise motion, I plunge the dagger into his heart. His eyes widen in shock and pain, a gurgled gasp escaping his lips. I twist the blade, watching the light fade from his eyes.
As his lifeless body slumps to the ground, I use his sleeve to wipe the blood from my dagger and turn to leave the room. ¡°Failure is not an option,¡± I mutter to myself, and to The Voice. ¡°And I will ensure that everyone understands that truth.¡±
My march to the holding camp is discomforting. My trusted leaders have failed me, and now I am left with a void to fill. We should have been completely victorious by now, yet we must continue the fight. This is not where we should be in the execution of the plan.
¡°It is just a small setback,¡± The Voice reassures me, echoing within the confines of my mind. The tone is soothing, almost paternal. ¡°The world has felt our wrath and licks their wounds, while we are building strength as we speak.¡±
But should they have not already capitulated to our will? Everything was going according to plan. We had the forces, the power. How were we stopped?
¡°Do not fear,¡± The Voice tells me. ¡°You have done well, and you have purged those who hindered progress of the cause. Once you complete the ritual, the world will feel our might.¡±
The Voice has always been with me, guiding me, reassuring me in times of doubt. Yet there is a lingering uncertainty that gnaws at the edges of my consciousness.
You must remain strong, I remind myself. The stakes are too high, the consequences too dire to falter now.
¡°You question your strength?¡± The Voice taunts, and I feel a hint of mockery seeping into the words. ¡°Have I chosen the wrong person to lead us to glory?¡±
¡°No! No!¡± I call out to it. ¡°I am worthy. I am the one who will bring our people justice, who will return us to our rightful rule.¡±
¡°Remember who you are,¡± The Voice says. ¡°Your will is unbreakable, your power unmatched. Doubt is a weakness you cannot afford.¡±
The words ring in my ears. I straighten my posture, pushing aside the creeping doubts that threaten to undermine me.
¡°Yes,¡± I murmur, this time more to myself than to The Voice. ¡°I am the sovereign. And I will see our enemies fall.¡±
I quicken my pace toward the holding camp. The ritual must be completed, and the world will witness the true extent of our power. Failure is not an option. Failure is not an option.
Awaiting me are over a dozen who are secured by the stocks. Their expressions vary greatly¡ªconfusion, rage, terror. All of these emotions infuriate me.
¡°Failure is not an option,¡± The Voice reminds me.
¡°Yes, I know,¡± I snarl aloud, annoyed. I am met with more perplexed looks. Insolence! Do they all wish to die?
My breath is shaky as I try¡ªonce again¡ªto subdue my anger. Focus on the matter at hand, Malinaxochi, I think to myself. It has been a long time since I have heard my name.
I stand before the captives, my eyes landing upon each one with cold detachment. Then, at the side of the large room, my gaze falls on an unexpected guest. I feel the wide smile stretch across my face, and a deep satisfaction blooms within me.
I stride over to him, and he lifts his head to meet my eyes. ¡°Are you here for the performance?¡± I ask. He nods with a smirk. His arrogance has always bothered me. I get the impression he believes he is of a higher importance than me. No matter. His position within the organization will be clarified in due time.
I casually stroll to those who have been imprisoned. Their faces are a delicious mixture of fear, anger, and hope. They should know that failure is not an option. Not to me, not to Eztletiqa, not to our mission. This is an act of mercy.
I get right to the point. ¡°You are gathered here because you have failed me. This will not stand, and thus your punishment must be served swiftly.¡±
I pace among the captives. Some begin fighting their restraints, those fools. This is for their own good. Do they not realize I am sparing them of a terrible fate? That I am providing them a clemency they are, perhaps, unworthy otherwise of receiving?
¡°However, I give you one path to redemption,¡± I continue. ¡°For Eztletiqa is merciful to those who faithfully follow His path. If you still serve the cause, you will give your life to the one true god.¡±
I snap my fingers. One of my servants holds a large wooden bowl containing seeds the size of the tip of my fifth finger. The seeds are black, and coated with a thin film that gives it an oily sheen when held up to the light. I followed the instructions given to me by The Voice, to prepare these seeds as Eztletiqa willed it to be. I inspect the small kernel, gazing upon the swirl of colors and admiring how such a tiny item can possess so much power.
¡°Before you, I hold the item that will redeem you in the eyes of the one true god, Eztletiqa,¡± I tell them. ¡°This seed harbors unimaginable potential and strength. Consume this seed, and you will be the most formidable being ever seen on Pachil.¡±
Those in the stocks look upon me with curiosity. Inside me, I grow enraged that they do not see I offer these futile followers an opportunity to correct their mistakes, to vindicate themselves after committing such disgraceful failures. But I calm myself, believing they will make the correct decision¡ªthe only decision.
The guest from Qapauma looks on, eyes narrowed, likely wondering what is soon to take place. That is because he does not possess the power and might that I possess. He thinks he is my equal, yet he does not understand that I, and I alone, have been chosen. I am the one to whom The Voice speaks. I am the one who will bring us glory.
I nod, signaling to the other servants to enact the plan. Each person plucks a seed from the bowl, then walks over to the captives. Though there are a few who dare look upon my gift of mercy with hesitation, there are others who recognize that this is their only choice to reconcile for the errors they have committed.
A couple of the prisoners open their mouths like fledglings awaiting food from their mother. Their acceptance pleases me, pleases Eztletiqa. I hear His voice speaking to me with great pride. ¡°We will turn the tide of this battle for the heart of Pachil,¡± The Voice says. ¡°My will shall be done.¡±
They swallow the seed. Good. At first, there is stillness. I watch attentively, questioning whether I prepared them correctly. Patience is difficult to maintain. The prisoners look at one another expectantly, wondering if this is all that is supposed to happen.
Then, the transformation finally takes place. The first person jolts back, arcing backward and contorting his body. His arms, legs, and hands twist like gnarled limbs of a dead tree. Then another wails in pain, the sound otherworldly. Then another. Through their tanned skin, a luminescent blue races through their veins. Their muscles begin to bulge, ripping through their tunics. The color of their skin shifts to a grayish blue, and all of their hair immediately falls out. Fingernails lengthen and become ivory claws, sharp and lethal. Roars fill the granary, and cautious servants slowly step backwards, away from the mutating captives.
The cowards sitting beside them in the stocks panic. Many claw and dig at their restraints, desperately trying to break free. They tug and pull, blood dripping from their bound legs and wrists and pooling onto the ground. Embarrassing.
I decide to put an end to their pathetic display. ¡°The seed is your only path to redemption,¡± I remind these fools. ¡°If you do not accept this gift of mercy, you will die.¡±
Only two cease their futile efforts of releasing themselves. The others continue to struggle with their confinements. Very well. They have made their decision.
With a single nod, I notify my faithful warriors to enact my will. They approach the captives and unsheathe their obsidian daggers. ¡°From Pachil, we were born,¡± I say. ¡°And to Pachil, we return.¡± I speak the prayer of the one true god, so that the blood about to be spilled is not in vain. In a single, clean stroke, my warriors slash the throats of these insolent wretches. With haste, the servants are sure to place the chalices at their necks to properly collect the blood. Although these acolytes have failed me in our pursuit to reclaim what has been taken away from us, their abilities with sorcery has proven too valuable to the strength of our cause. As such, we cannot afford to allow a single drop to go to waste. It will be put to better use through a vessel that will not allow such a gift to be squandered.
There are a few remaining who have not made their choice, whether to accept the seed or accept death. I look to the servants, then tilt my head, questioning why they have ceased. Nervous, they reach for another seed. The warriors walk to the prisoners, placing their hands on the chin and nose of each captive. Though they attempt to resist, the warriors pry open their mouths. The servants force the seed down their throats, and the warriors hold closed the mouths, tilting the head back to ensure the seed is swallowed. Some have their necks broken amidst the struggle. Unfortunate. They were likely unworthy of receiving the gift anyway.
The transformation is almost complete. The stockades are no longer able to restrain the newly-formed creatures, bursting and splintering as the monstrosities nearly triple in size. The bones in their legs shift, bending and warping in a way to resemble those of a puma, no longer than of an inferior man. Fangs hang from each side of the mouth, long and curved. Their eyes glow a glorious blue, like sapphires illuminated in the midday sun.
I approach the guest from Qapauma, who looks upon the display with awe. ¡°Was this¡¡± He is in too much shock to complete his ridiculous question.
¡°I had been studying various flora from throughout Pachil,¡± I say. ¡°Eztletiqa blessed me with the wisdom to find the precious seed, grown only in the savage lands of Tuatiu, and utilize its power to create what will be the means for us to crush our foes.¡±
The blue creatures stand at attention, looking forward with stoic faces. I look upon them with pride, seeing their might on full display. There is a hint of terror in the expression of the guest. Perhaps he finally realizes he is not equal to me, after all.
¡°The gray creatures served their purpose,¡± I say, pacing around the guest, ¡°but in order to seize the throne that is rightfully ours, we need a weapon that will ensure our victory. While the dead will provide an almost infinite supply of warriors for us to use by forming the gray creatures, we need something more powerful. By the guidance of Eztletiqa, I was able to understand that our acolytes can wield great capabilities, and it is through them that I would generate a mighty warrior that will see us reach our aspirations.¡±
I gaze upon the wondrous beasts, as still as statues, and marvel at my work. ¡°Combined with their ability to harness the strength and magical energy Pachil provides, these new servants to the one true god are more powerful than anything that has been created in these lands. More powerful than what the Timuaq could ever dream to muster.¡±
¡°Truly inspiring work,¡± the guest says. I sense jealousy in his voice, as though he is bitter that The Voice does not call to him to produce such grand spectacles. Perhaps it is time to put his mind at ease, and to put his abilities to use.
I place a hand upon his shoulder, squeezing it warmly. ¡°Do not be upset, Xaqilpa. We all have our uses for the cause, our purpose. You infiltrate the ranks of rulers and the nobility to provide loyal followers from positions of power. Mine is to lead us to the glory that has been promised.¡±
He seems wary of where this conversation is going. I am but a jaguar toying with its prey. ¡°The Arbiter was manipulated long enough to let down his guard and allow us to strike. We spread his forces thin enough that he would be ineffective to defend both Qapauma and the Ulxa capital, Analoixan. He would have to choose one to defend strongly while leaving the other to burn, or defend both insufficiently, giving us a chance to capture both.¡±
I turn to face him. ¡°Reports are coming in from Analoixan, but it appears that, though the city has turned to ruins, it has not capitulated to our might. Instead, it was successfully defended.¡±
Xaqilpa looks questioningly at me. ¡°But, there were neither Tapeu nor Qiapu forces that¡ª¡°
¡°So this leaves Qapauma,¡± I interrupt, continuing my discussion. ¡°The Tapeu defense was unprepared for our assault, as our forces were able to storm the palace walls. It would be more difficult, but given our numbers and strength, we should have been able to easily take possession of the palace, despite the concentrated numbers of the Tapeu army.¡±
I draw my face closer to his, my eyes narrowing. ¡°But that is not what happened, is it?¡±
He furrows his brow, his eyes darting from side to side. I lean in just a bit more, my voice a near whisper. ¡°No. Instead, the Arbiter lives, and our numbers were forced to retreat.¡±
Before he can react, I land a decisive punch to the side of the head of Xaqilpa. He staggers back, but two warriors are present to catch him before he drops to the ground. They hoist him up to his feet, apprehending him and holding him in place by each of his arms.
¡°How was this possible?¡± I shout, spitting in his face. ¡°We were to be victorious! I was to be seated upon the throne, not wallowing in the ruins of an Aimue village! I was to be heralded as the great ruler of Pachil! The factions were to bend the knee to me! Instead, I am festering away in this forsaken pile of refuse? Me? The one blessed by Eztletiqa to return our people to the glory we once basked in before the treacheries of the Tapeu took that away? How could you allow this to happen?¡±
Xaqilpa looks meekly at the ground. I coil my arm back to strike him again, much to the pleasure of The Voice. My hand begins to glow from the fire forming around my fist. I grind my teeth like seeds in a mortar and pestle. But I take several heaving breaths, watching the pained expression on the pathetic face of Xaqilpa. The flame slowly extinguishes, as does the rage building up inside me. The Voice wants me to carry on with my aggression, to make Xaqilpa pay for his insolence. ¡°Do it!¡± Eztletiqa desires. ¡°Do it!¡± He urges me. But I have to remind myself that he will, just not in this manner.
Through a calm voice, I say softly, ¡°We must regroup before we can complete what we started.¡±
His face now shows a mixture of defiance and fear. Good. It will make what comes next all the more satisfying.
¡°You,¡± I say, my voice dripping with mockery. ¡°Xaqilpa, my trusted counselor. You have failed me in Qapauma, and you have failed me in Analoixan. I should be enraged. I am, in fact. Yet your abilities are undeniable.¡±
He nods, uncertain of the direction in which this discussion will go, yet there is a glimmer of hope in his eyes. ¡°I will do better, Sunfire. Give me another chance, and I will not disappoint you.¡±
I smile with a cruel twist of my lips. ¡°Indeed, your talents are invaluable. Your knowledge and your connection to the Arbiter... such useful tools.¡±
I let the words hang in the air, savoring the moment. The hope in Xaqilpa grows, his chest puffing out slightly as he anticipates a reprieve. I turn my back on him, addressing the other warriors.
¡°But remember this,¡± I say, raising my voice for all in the granary to hear. ¡°Failure is not an option. It is not merely a setback; it is an unacceptable flaw.¡±
I snap my fingers, and my servants move with swift precision. Xaqilpa is grabbed by the two warriors at his side, his eyes widening in terror as he realizes his fate. He struggles, but they hold him firmly. There is a delightful panic in his eyes, fearing what is to come.
¡°Your use must be repurposed,¡± I say, my voice cold and final. ¡°To serve a greater purpose.¡±
With a swift motion, I snatch a seed from the wooden bowl and force it down his throat. He chokes, his eyes bulging as the transformation slowly begins. I watch in delight as his body contorts and shifts, the power of the ritual consuming him.
I step back, gazing with satisfaction as the new, terrifying creature emerges. This will be the fate of all who fail me, the Sunfire. The world will soon know the true power of the Eye in the Flame.
111 - Walumaq
Upon my return to the group, navigating a narrow path that descends the mountain¡ªwhich I nearly missed due to my exhaustion¡ªI was met with jubilation from those gathered. Well, nearly all who were gathered.
¡°You know this won¡¯t free Tlexn¨ªn, right?¡± Paxilche asks.
My companions, the Ulxa shaman, and Tlexn¨ªn looked upon me with pride. Even the Auilqa warriors¡ªwho were prepared to execute the Ulxa leader should I fail¡ªnodded in acknowledgement of my achievement. The Ulxa shaman declared me to be chosen by the gods. My fellow Sanqo warriors beamed. Saqatli looked relieved. Everyone rejoiced at my accomplishment.
Everyone except Paxilche.
As we prepare to make our way back to the remnants of Analoixan, his skeptical words, spoken moments after my arrival, gnaw at me. A seed of doubt begins to take root. Was my victory hollow? Did I merely delay the inevitable? Despite the celebrations, Tlexn¨ªn¡¯s fate still hangs in the balance. What have I truly accomplished?
Casting aside the uncertainty, I focus on the plan upon our return to the decimated city. It¡¯s still under Auilqa control, and they will be resistant to surrendering the leader of their faction¡¯s rival. Putting it kindly, we¡¯re on our way to rejoin a hostile environment. Taking on the Tepey¨llotl may have been only a brief reprieve.
However, my achievement may have earned us valuable allies. Witnessing my feat, the shaman appears inclined to grant Tlexn¨ªn her freedom, albeit temporarily. Perhaps we can utilize this dynamic to our advantage, negotiating from a position of newfound strength. I must harness this momentum, channel it into strategy and action. If we are to free Tlexn¨ªn, it will require more than just brute force or divine favor¡ªit will demand cunning, diplomacy, and perhaps a touch of ruthlessness.
Time is of the essence. This moment is fleeting, but it¡¯s ours. The tides of fortune have shifted ever so slightly in our favor. We must use the momentum of my triumph to broker a truce, secure Tlexn¨ªn¡¯s release, and forge a path forward. The journey is fraught with peril, but hesitation now could unravel all we¡¯ve fought for.
Steeling myself, I am prepared to confront this challenge head-on. Paxilche¡¯s doubts may linger, but they will not dictate my path. I will not allow this opportunity to slip through our grasp.
Our next move must be decisive. There is no room for error.
I stand before the shaman and the Auilqa warriors, their faces hard and unforgiving as they apprehend Tlexn¨ªn. I need to act now. I take a deep breath, my heart pounding in my chest, and address everyone present. ¡°Let us speak, warrior to warrior,¡± I begin. ¡°We seek the release of Tlexn¨ªn. She has been wrongfully imprisoned and deserves her freedom. This act of goodwill could mend the rift between the Ulxa and Auilqa.¡±
The lead Auilqa warrior, a stern-faced man with eyes as dark and cold as the obsidian of his blade, narrows his gaze at me. ¡°We have our orders. Tlexn¨ªn remains our prisoner until her execution. Your trial may have impressed some, but it does not override our command.¡±
I sense the rigidity in the Auilqa warrior¡¯s stance, his unyielding nature. But I also see a glimmer of uncertainty, a crack in his armor. I take a step closer, lowering my voice to a near whisper. ¡°By holding her, you are prolonging this conflict. Release her, and we can work together to rebuild what has been destroyed.¡±
The jungle around us suddenly goes silent, as if it listens in and awaits his response. The Auilqa warrior hesitates, a flicker of doubt crossing his angular face. He looks back at his fellow warriors for support, but their expressions only mirror his uncertainty.
I seize the moment. I step even closer, and now my voice is a plea wrapped in obsidian. ¡°This is a chance to end the cycle of violence. Show mercy now, and you will be remembered not as executioners, but as peacemakers.¡±
The lead warrior¡¯s grip on his spear tightens, his knuckles turning white. He turns to the shaman, seeking guidance. The shaman nods slowly and deliberately. The warrior¡¯s eyes return to mine, and the coldness melts away to reveal a man caught between duty and conscience.
¡°This outsider has completed the trial at Tepey¨llotl,¡± the shaman reminds him. ¡°She has been chosen by the gods. They have deemed her path to be noble and true. You must respect her wishes, lest you desire to have the gods strike you down where you stand!¡±
I can see the internal struggle playing out on his face. The muscles in his jaw tighten, then relax, his eyes flicker with doubt, then harden again. I take a step back, giving him space to process, hoping that the humanity in my words¡ªand the assertiveness of the shaman¡ªwill reach him.
Unable to contain his frustration, Paxilche abruptly steps forward. ¡°Enough talking!¡± he shouts. His voice is raw, his rage primal. ¡°We don¡¯t have time for this!¡± He retrieves Ridgebreaker, the club¡¯s mixture of gold and copper glinting menacingly in the dappled light. His nostrils flare as his eyes blaze with anger.
This sudden move alarms the Auilqa warriors. They react instantly, their own weapons drawn in a synchronized motion. The sharp tips of their spears are quickly pointed at their assailant, and they are ready to defend their orders. Storm clouds slowly form overhead, and I feel the bristling potential for more needless violence.
My heart sinks like a heavy stone in my chest. The delicate balance we had achieved is now teetering on the edge of collapse. I raise my hands, palms open, in a gesture signaling peace. ¡°Paxilche, stand down!¡± I command. ¡°We can still resolve this without bloodshed!¡±
Paxilche¡¯s eyes meet mine. For a moment, I see a hint of recognition, a reminder of the bonds we share. He hesitates, the club wavering in his hand, and the fire in his eyes dims just slightly, but enough to give me hope.
Still poised for battle, the lead Auilqa warrior watches our exchange closely. The grip on his spear loosens just a fraction, his stance less rigid. The shaman steps forward, placing a hand on the warrior¡¯s shoulder, providing a calming presence with his touch.
¡°Paxilche,¡± I continue, now urgently pleading, ¡°we must show them that we are capable of peace, of mercy. Lower your weapon. I beg you.¡±
Bound and guarded by the Auilqa warriors, Tlexn¨ªn steps forward as much as her restraints allow. She addresses the Auilqa leader, her voice shaking with fury. ¡°You know this is not right. The Sanqo goddess completed the trial of Tepey¨llotl. Are you foolish enough to ignore this feat? The Eye in the Flame are the true enemies, and the Auilqa seized an opportunity when we were at our most vulnerable, when all we wanted was to fight for our chance to live, to survive. Do what is just, what will have the gods look down favorably upon you and your people, before it is too late.¡±
I wince at Tlexn¨ªn¡¯s accusations, the words cutting through the fragile peace we had been trying to forge. This is not what we needed, not when the warrior¡¯s armor began showing cracks. I see the resolve harden in the lead warrior¡¯s eyes, his jaw clenching as a scowl forms at the edge of his mouth.
¡°We should have never allowed this farce to happen this long,¡± the warrior remarks. ¡°We should have done what we intended to do from the start: the traitor should be put to death!¡±
Staring Tlexn¨ªn down, he reaches for something at his side. This causes my companions to hastily draw their weapons. As a reaction, so, too, do the Auilqa warriors. Everyone stands at the ready, blades pointed at their presumed foes.
¡°Stop!¡± I desperately call out. ¡°Stop this at once! It needn¡¯t come to this!¡±
The Auilqa guard retrieves what appears to be a long, conical horn. It¡¯s made from some type of bone, some horn of an animal, intricately carved with figures and patterns. At the narrow end, the tip is encased in gold, gleaming faintly in the dim light. As he raises it, a hush falls over all who are present.
¡°That horn,¡± the shaman says. ¡°Its sound is known to carry throughout the entirety of Auilqa territory. From here, it could be heard across vast expanses, reaching far beyond the horizon. Blowing that will alert the Auilqa in Analoixan that a threat looms. They will know something has gone awry, and our position will be exposed! We will be swarmed by merciless Auilqa warriors within moments!¡±
My eyes grow wide. I splay out my hands, gesturing for him to calm himself. ¡°Good warrior, you do not need to act upon misconceived threats. There is no need to do anything rash.¡±
Despite my efforts to defuse the situation, the Auilqa warrior is too on edge. His eyes dart around, assessing the threat. His eyes connect with Tlexn¨ªn, and there¡¯s something in their exchange that sets him off. In my mind, I scream for him to not go through with what he¡¯s about to do. But I know, deep down, that it is too late.
To my chagrin, he makes a quick, decisive motion. He hurriedly presses the horn to his lips and blows. Its haunting, mournful wail cuts through the jungle and echoes far into the distance. The deafening sound must certainly have reached the ears of the distant guards at Analoixan. It will be a call to arms that cannot be ignored.
I glance at Paxilche, Pomaqli, and the Sanqo warriors, seeing the realization dawn on their faces. Now fully alert and ready for combat, the Auilqa warriors tighten their grips on their weapons, glaring at us as they carefully watch how we respond.
I take a deep breath, the reality of our situation crashing down on me. My mind races, weighing our options, and knowing that, as I greatly fear, retreat is not one of them. I make a quick decision, and with a commanding voice, I declare, ¡°We fight our way out. Protect Tlexn¨ªn at all costs!¡±
My Sanqo warriors move into position, forming a protective circle around the Ulxa leader. Paxilche steps forward, his club ready, his eyes blazing with a ferocious hunger, as though this is all that he¡¯s wanted. Pomaqli and Atoyaqtli flank him, their own weapons drawn. The others fan out, prepared to confront any challengers that step their way.
The Auilqa warriors advance, their spears casting sharp reflections in the fragmented sunlight. The lead warrior steps forward, his eyes locked onto mine. There is a moment of stillness¡ªa brief, unsettling silence before the storm.
With a fierce cry, the Auilqa warriors charge. The jungle erupts into catastrophe, blades and weapons flailing about wildly. I duck and weave, narrowly avoiding a spear thrusted toward my side. From my left, a blur of turquoise and coral darts forward. It¡¯s then I see Chiqama plunging his dagger into the painted torso of the Auilqa warrior. The warrior before me staggers back, giving me a brief moment to catch my breath.
Amid the calamity, I see Tlexn¨ªn struggling against her restraints. She kicks out at one of her captors, using the limited freedom of her bound limbs to create space. Paxilche moves to her side, swinging his club in wide arcs to fend off attackers.
The Ulxa warrior¡¯s head swivels frantically from side to side, searching for anything that can cut through the ropes binding her hands. Just then, her gaze meets that of an Auilqa warrior. Recognizing her vulnerability, he charges at her. Tlexn¨ªn¡¯s eyes grow wide with panic. She looks for any weapon in which to defend herself. But her search discovers nothing.
A loud roar erupts out of nowhere. Pomaqli swings his sword, blocking the Auilqa warrior¡¯s strike. He maneuvers around, sweeping the warrior¡¯s legs, but only kicks at air as the Auilqa leaps out of the way.
Another thrust of the warrior¡¯s spear hurtles toward the Qiapu fighter. A sharp groan in pain pierces through the air. Pomaqli briefly looks down, seeing the streak of red at his ribs. Enraged, he swings his sword wildly, forcing the Auilqa warrior back. Desperately trying to defend the incoming blows, the warrior twists and turns, holding up his spear. But his efforts are futile. Pomaqli brings down his sword, slashing the Auilqa warrior across the torso. As his foe is hunched over in pain, Pomaqli swings the sword once more, slicing the Auilqa warrior¡¯s throat.
Unauthorized usage: this tale is on Amazon without the author''s consent. Report any sightings.
Saqatli and Noch race toward Pomaqli. ¡°You are gravely injured!¡± he says in alarm.
¡°I¡¯ll be fine,¡± Pomaqli says through his teeth, wincing in pain. ¡°We must defend Tlexn¨ªn.¡±
¡°The others can do that. We must tend to your wound.¡± Saqatli insists. The Qiapu warrior considers this, then shakes his head in refusal. But the pain is too great, and he sucks air through his teeth as he attempts to move. Eventually, he concedes, allowing the boy and the ocelot to guide him to safety.
I crouch down low, swooping in and grabbing a spear from the felled Auilqa warrior. With a blade in hand, I rush over to the Ulxa leader. Paxilche protects us both, fighting back the approaching warriors. Tlexn¨ªn quickly recognizes my intentions, positioning herself to use the blade to free herself from her restraints. She writhes her wrists back and forth along the blade¡¯s edge, growling in frustration at the slow progress. But after fighting long and hard against the bindings, the spear finally slices through. Tlexn¨ªn and I exchange relieved glances. We will get through this. We will survive.
Through the haze of battle, I glimpse the Ulxa shaman standing at the edge of the clearing, his eyes watching the unfolding battle with a mix of sorrow and inevitability. Then, there¡¯s a motion from the corner of my eye. Instinctively, I hold the spear up with both hands. Through pure instinct, I block a strike aimed at my head with the shaft. I shake off the feeling of shock, and deliver a swift kick that sends my opponent sprawling. As he hits the ground, his spear skitters away. With her hands now freed, Tlexn¨ªn picks up the weapon, then drives it into the downed warrior. Blood spurts from his mouth as he wheezes from the wound. She watches him die with a cold expression across her face, twisting the spear for good measure.
Pomacha stands firm beside Tlexn¨ªn, his mighty axe deflecting blow after blow targeting the Ulxa leader. As the Auilqa warriors recoil to attempt their effort again, he strikes with precision. He maims one with a clean slash that severs their left arm, then rips through the stomach of the other.
Two more Auilqa warriors storm Pomacha¡¯s position. The burley man fends off one, swiping away the incoming spear, but the other jabs him in the thigh. The Sanqo warrior silently gnashes his teeth, watching the stream of crimson trickle down his leg. Undeterred, he swings his axe, forcing his foes back, back, back and away from us.
At this, the lead Auilqa warrior charges at me and Tlexn¨ªn, thrusting his spear forward. I barely parry the blow, as the impact reverberates up my arm. His attacks are well-practiced and precise, and I struggle to counter his movements. My inexperience with the spear is greatly evident in my awkward defenses. I manage to deflect another thrust from the leader, but the spear¡¯s tip grazes my arm. The pain flares through my limb, causing me to almost drop my weapon. The leader smirks as he draws back the spear, ready to lunge at a defenseless Tlexn¨ªn with a finishing strike.
There¡¯s a shout, then, suddenly, a scream pierces the air. Before me, I see the Ulxa shaman struck by an errant spear from the Auilqa leader. The weapon lodges in his side, and he collapses to the ground. His eyes are wide with shock and pain. My senses are filled with both grief and rage. My heart lurches at the sight of the shaman, who now lies lifeless on the jungle floor.
The moment fuels me. Fighting through the pain, I parry another strike from the leader, and tighten my grip on the spear. With a final, desperate effort, I push him back, creating enough space for our group to maneuver.
¡°Move! Now!¡± I shout, signaling our retreat.
Naqispi and Chiqama overwhelm the warrior with a flurry of blows. They slash at him from all directions, causing him to tumble onto his back. They lift their weapons high into the air, prepared to bring them down upon the helpless foe. The downed warrior shows no sign of fear, only looking upon them both with a raised chin.
¡°No!¡± I yell. ¡°Spare him! He is only doing his duty!¡±
Confused, the two Sanqo warriors look at me as though I¡¯ve spoken another tongue. I understand why they¡¯re baffled by my desire for mercy, but I never wanted bloodshed. I only sought peace between the warring sides. I wanted this conflict to be resolved diplomatically, amicably. Yet somewhere, something became lost, misunderstood. But it doesn¡¯t have to end with more needless deaths.
To my relief, the two men lower their weapons, though they watch the leader vigilantly. They have done as I commanded, yet they don¡¯t expect the Auilqa warrior to reciprocate the gesture. They back away slowly, cautiously, suspiciously, their backs never turning to their opponent.
A rumbling of thunder trembles the jungles. Storm clouds begin forming overhead in the darkening sky. There was no such weather when we arrived¡ªonly clear skies since embarking to this place this morning. It¡¯s then that I understand what¡¯s about to come, and my body goes cold immediately.
¡°Paxilche!¡± I exclaim. I turn to the Qiapu man, whose eyes have begun to ominously glow white. ¡°Do not do what you are about to do!¡±
¡°The enemy threatens us all!¡± he yells. He casts an arm up toward the sky as flashes of light beam across the clouds. ¡°We should have never placed our trust in these savages! You should have never been so na?ve as to trust these vile creatures!¡±
¡°Paxilche, listen to me!¡± I shout, my voice trembling. ¡°You cannot unleash your power here. You¡¯ll kill us all, including our own people. Is that what you want?¡±
Still glowing white, his eyes lock onto mine with a fierce intensity. ¡°They betrayed us, Walumaq! They betrayed the Ulxa, and they betrayed us! The trial was supposed to mean something, yet they spit in our faces. They deserve nothing less than total annihilation!¡±
I take a step closer to him, feeling my racing heart trying to rip through my chest. ¡°But at what cost? Why also threaten the lives of innocents? That includes these warriors, who are only carrying out their orders. It¡¯s not them with whom you should be angry, but their leaders. And we will find a solution for their deceit, I promise.¡±
For a moment, Paxilche¡¯s expression falters, the storm in his eyes gradually subsiding. ¡°But the Ulxa, they¡ they deserve justice.¡±
¡°Yes, they do,¡± I say, my voice softer now, trying to reach the part of him that still cares. ¡°But not like this. Not with blind rage. Not in a way that destroys everything and everyone around us. We need to be smart, to strategize. This is not the way to achieve justice.¡±
Paxilche¡¯s arm lowers slightly, and the storm clouds above us slowly begin to dissipate. ¡°But they¡¯ll just betray us again. How can we trust anyone after this?¡±
I place a hand on his arm, feeling the tension in his muscles. ¡°We don¡¯t have to trust them blindly, but we need to be united. You are a protector, that much is evident. Use your strength to guide us, not to destroy us.¡±
His eyes lose their glow, and the rumbling in the sky fades. He looks at me, his face a mixture of anger, confusion, and a hint of shame. ¡°I¡ I don¡¯t know if I can control it.¡±
I squeeze his arm, trying to convey all the urgency and sincerity I can muster. ¡°You have to. For all our sakes. We need you, Paxilche. But we need you to be the man who fights for us, not against us.¡±
Paxilche takes a deep breath, nodding slowly. ¡°I¡¯ll try. But they will pay. One way or another.¡±
¡°They will,¡± I assure him. ¡°But right now, we need to protect Tlexn¨ªn and get out of here.¡±
He nods again, more firmly this time. Before anything else can happen, I signal for us to move out. Saqatli aids the wounded Pomaqli, carrying him safely away. Eyeing the remaining Auilqa warriors skeptically, the Sanqo keep their weapons at the ready, and we slip into the rainforest under the cover of the incoming night.
As we break through the clearing and into the jungle, the discordant noise of pursuit echoes behind us. The horn¡¯s alarm sounds once more, and I know we are far from safe. But we have no choice other than to press on.
The dense foliage provides some cover, but it also slows us down. We push forward, every step taking us further from the clearing, further from the place where everything went so wrong, so quickly.
The sound of pursuit grows fainter, but we can¡¯t afford to be complacent. Paxilche takes the lead, his sharp eyes sweeping the terrain for a potential hideout. Atoyaqtli stays close to Tlexn¨ªn, constantly searching for any looming threats.
¡°There,¡± Paxilche whispers, pointing to a rocky outcrop partially concealed by a thicket. ¡°That should provide some cover.¡±
We make our way to the outcrop. After a quick inspection, we find a small cave. It¡¯s not much, but it¡¯s enough to shield us from prying eyes and offer some much needed respite.
As we settle inside, Tlexn¨ªn collapses onto the ground, her exhaustion evident. I kneel beside her, examining her wounds. ¡°We need to tend to these,¡± I say softly.
Saqatli nods, already rummaging through his tiny satchel for supplies. ¡°I will take care of it,¡± he says.
¡°But you are already doing so much,¡± Tlexn¨ªn notes. ¡°I will be fine. Take care of¡ª¡°
¡°No, great Ulxa warrior. With the help of Noch, I can take care of you both,¡± Saqatli insists. Tlexn¨ªn nods in respect, letting the boy work on healing her wounds.
I take a moment to assess our grim situation. Paxilche stands guard at the cave entrance, and the Sanqo warriors inspect the surroundings.
¡°I¡¯m afraid we can¡¯t stay here long,¡± I say, addressing the group. ¡°The Auilqa will be searching for us, and they¡¯ll likely find this place sooner or later.¡±
¡°Indeed, we need a plan,¡± Tlexn¨ªn says. ¡°We cannot let the Auilqa maintain control of territory in Ulxa. We have to regroup the Ulxa forces.¡±
"We need to go to Qiapu,¡± I suggest. ¡°While Saxina is no friend to Paxilche nor our group, perhaps we can find allies in Qiapu who are willing to support our cause.¡±
Paxilche¡¯s face is stricken with confusion. ¡°I¡¯m not sure that¡¯s a good idea. Saxina¡¯s influence is strong, and I can imagine he¡¯s using the Eye in the Flame assault to rally supporters. I don¡¯t know if we¡¯ll find many friends in my homeland.¡±
Tlexn¨ªn frowns, shaking her head. ¡°And what about my people? The Ulxa who are still imprisoned and suffering under Auilqa rule? We cannot abandon them. Not now.¡±
¡°I understand your concern,¡± I say, addressing the Ulxa leader, ¡°but we can¡¯t save them without a strong force behind us. I still believe we can rally support in smaller villages around Qiapu and gather our strength. It¡¯s the only way to ensure a successful rescue mission."
Tlexn¨ªn looks between us. ¡°But how can we be sure we will find allies in Qiapu? The factions have their own interests and might not see the plight of my people as their concern.¡±
¡°We can offer them something in return,¡± I say, trying to think quickly. ¡°We can promise to support them in their fight against the Eye in the Flame, ensuring that their lands are protected and that the Eye in the Flame¡¯s influence does not spread further.¡±
Atoyaqtli adds, ¡°And we can highlight the threat the Auilqa pose to all factions. If they can occupy Ulxa, they can spread their influence further. It¡¯s in everyone''s best interest to stop them now, before they are invaded.¡±
Tlexn¨ªn shakes her head fervently. ¡°No, this plan does not please me. We must free my people from Auilqa rule before those invaders latch onto Ulxa land and become difficult to eradicate.¡±
Paxilche nods. ¡°I don¡¯t see us getting much help from the Qiapu. Not right now, not with Saxina in charge.¡±
¡°There are other villages throughout Ulxa we can travel to, and they will support us and supply warriors,¡± Tlexn¨ªn states. ¡°When they learn that Analoixan has been taken, they will do what is necessary to reclaim our capital.¡±
¡°It appears it¡¯s decided, then,¡± I say reluctantly. ¡°Let us find a more secure location to set up camp for the night. Then, we head out to Ulxa villages before the break of dawn.¡±
We gather our possessions and move out as stealthily as we can. No words are exchanged as we quietly traverse the jungle at night. The only footsteps I hear are ours, and I start to gain hope that the Ulxa pursuit may be far behind us. Yet we press on anyway, not taking any chances.
We trek well into the night. The moon soars above, dimly lighting our way. At some point, Tlexn¨ªn determines we should be safe, and declares we find shelter. Perhaps it¡¯s her exhaustion that influences the decision, but we are all too tired, too battle worn to dissuade her. Without hesitation, the Sanqo warriors begin building a makeshift shelter, while Saqatli tends to the wounded Pomaqli and Tlexn¨ªn.
After ensuring Tlexn¨ªn is as comfortable as possible, I join Paxilche, who is collecting an assortment of leaves to make a temporary and uncomfortable-appearing bed. ¡°How are you holding up?¡± I ask him.
He glances at me, his expression a mix of frustration and determination. ¡°We can¡¯t let them win, Walumaq. The Auilqa, the Eye in the Flame¡ they can¡¯t be allowed to destroy everything we¡¯ve worked for.¡±
¡°We won¡¯t,¡± I say. ¡°We¡¯ll find a way to stop them.¡±
I believe Paxilche senses the disappointment in my voice, because he says, ¡°Listen, I understand this is not the path you would have taken. But if we can rally enough support and retake Analoixan, we could use this army to fight off the remnants of the Eye in the Flame. I know this isn¡¯t an ideal situation¡ª¡°
¡°None of it has been ideal,¡± I respond. ¡°None of this has gone according to plan, and I don¡¯t know what to do next. Despite my good intentions, I feel like everything I do has led to disaster. And now we¡¯re on a course to clean up the mess I¡¯ve made, not make any progress with the real matter we should be addressing.¡±
Paxilche grimaces, then nods slowly and stands up. He says nothing further, allowing the conversation to drop there before walking away. I¡¯m left to deal with my thoughts, alone.
As night falls, we take turns keeping watch. The sounds of the jungle our only company. In the quiet moments, I reflect on our journey so far. While we''ve gained valuable allies, we¡¯ve lost so much.
I think back to Analoixan, the city we fought so hard to protect. In our struggle to save it from the Eye in the Flame, we cleared the way for another threat. The Auilqa¡¯s occupation is a bitter tea to swallow, a reminder of the price we pay for every victory.
Sitting alone, under the dim canopy of stars barely visible through the thick foliage, I¡¯m haunted by the faces of those we¡¯ve lost. Their memories weigh heavily on my heart, each one a ghost of my failed promises. I question every decision, every step that led us here.
I glance over at Paxilche, his silhouette rigid against the faint glow of our campfire. He¡¯s driven by a fire I can¡¯t seem to muster anymore, his gaze fixed on a horizon I can¡¯t see. His resolve is a double-edged blade. His passion and determination cut through our enemies with ruthless precision, but they also leave wounds among our own ranks, severing bonds and sowing distrust. His unwavering focus sharpens our fight, yet it also blinds him to the cost of his actions. Where he sees a path to victory, I see only a trail of sorrow and sacrifice.
In the darkest hour before dawn, I¡¯m left grappling with the enormity of our mission. We are warriors without a home, champions of a cause that seems to slip further away with each step. Within the quiet moments, I allow myself the luxury of doubt, even as I prepare myself for the battles to come.
112 - Teqosa
S¨ªqalat and I throw our hands up as the Auilqa warriors close in, their weapons leveled at our chests. Their shouts blend into a discordant swirl of unintelligible commands. We¡¯re met with countless snarling faces and burning eyes. The skies begin to darken, as black, ominous clouds slowly creep above us. The warriors jab their spears through the air dangerously close to our faces.
¡°Okay, okay,¡± S¨ªqalat says, sounding annoyed. Two of the warriors apprehend her, grabbing her arms and flinging her inland. She puts up minimal resistance, shrugging off their efforts to contain her, and walks toward the warrior with the largest headdress.
I follow close behind, watching the glowering figure before us. His square jaw is lined with the bones of his headdress, covered at the crown in a colorful plumage of red, turquoise, and yellow feathers. His green eyes are shrouded by the elaborate embellishments, but his unwelcome demeanor is unmistakable.
After a series of grunts and vitriolic-sounding sneers, S¨ªqalat translates the man¡¯s words for me. ¡°The leader accuses us of desecrating their sacred place. He says that no outsider is permitted to enter the Tomb of Inqil, and that we are to face a punishment of death for trespassing.¡±
¡°That¡¯s preposterous!¡± I exclaim. This action angers the warriors, who brandish their spears closer to my face. Then, through gnashed teeth, I ask her, ¡°Could you tell them to stand down, before I escalate matters? Please?¡±
With her hands still raised, she shouts something to the leader, who doesn¡¯t take kindly to her words. Her stance remains defiant, chest puffed out and chin held high while never breaking eye contact with him. After a brief exchange, the man grumbles and ultimately waves away the warriors, allowing me to finally breathe a little easier.
¡°Tell him,¡± I say to S¨ªqalat, ¡°that we respect the sacred tomb and only entered to seek answers to allow us to protect all factions of Pachil, the Auilqa included.¡± I expect he won¡¯t initially appreciate this response, and I will have to continue pleading our case.
She relays this message, which is met with much fury and disgust¡ªas I anticipated. I don¡¯t need to know what he said to understand he still finds our actions abhorrent. Thus, before S¨ªqalat can translate, I continue with my explanation.
¡°I have been guided by members of the Eleven to discover how we can unite our people against a common enemy. This journey is not one we undertook lightly. We sought the wisdom and strength that only the ancient spirits can provide, to safeguard Pachil from the threats that seek to destroy us all.¡± S¨ªqalat looks at me skeptically, but with a nod, I encourage her to speak to him.
This elicits a hearty laugh from the man after she repeats my words. When the leader responds, she winces as though his remarks wound her. She turns around to inform me of what he says, but once again, I don¡¯t need to know that he still speaks to us derisively.
¡°I understand your skepticism,¡± I say, taking a step forward despite the hostile stares of his warriors. ¡°We understand the sanctity of your traditions and the reverence you hold for this place. Our intent was never to desecrate, but to honor and seek guidance.¡±
I pause, watching his expression for any sign of softening. There is none. ¡°Please, allow us to explain further,¡± I urge. ¡°Take us to your elders, to those who can understand the significance of our mission. Let us prove our sincerity and our respect for your ways.¡±
The leader¡¯s eyes narrow, and his grip on his weapon tightens. It¡¯s clear he remains unconvinced. I can see it in his eyes, the distrust. I know this is not enough, but I hope it¡¯s enough to prevent immediate violence.
S¨ªqalat conveys my words with urgency, and I hold my breath, waiting for the leader¡¯s response. He snaps a command to his warriors, who swiftly move to apprehend us. I comply, unwilling to provoke any further conflict. As the warriors attempt to confiscate the gifts bestowed upon us by Inqil¡ªmy glaive and S¨ªqalat¡¯s compass¡ªI hear yelps in anguish. Turning to look at the disruption, the warriors wince and hold their hands as though they were severely burned by touching the items. Could there be a blessing cast upon them? The leader angrily yells a command at us, demanding we retrieve our items. S¨ªqalat chuckles, and when I ask what is amusing about this situation, she states that the leader believes our items are cursed by some evil sorcery.
¡°We are so doomed,¡± she laughs uncomfortably. ¡°Not only are we outsiders, but now we¡¯re evil sorcerers.¡±
As we are being bound, I quickly explain through S¨ªqalat that Upachu, our companion, as well as the llama and our cart of supplies, are on the other side of the lagoon. The leader hesitates, suspicion etched into his features, especially after the debacle with the magical items. But after a tense moment of deliberation, he begrudgingly orders a few of his warriors to escort us back to retrieve our belongings. They eye us warily, ready to strike at any sign of treachery.
¡°What on Pachil is happening?¡± Upachu shouts, noting the Auilqa water crafts ferrying us to and from the tomb. ¡°What do the Auilqa want with us?¡±
I sigh. ¡°It¡¯s as you would imagine: they think we, as outsiders, have desecrated their sacred tomb by entering it. I managed to convince them to allow us to speak to their elders.¡±
¡°Well, this is preposterous,¡± he scoffs. I¡¯m too exhausted from the perils of the pyramid to exert anything more than a shrug.
The jungles are dense, and the humidity suffocating. At great pace, we¡¯re escorted into parts unknown, onward toward a mysterious destination. Occasional booms of thunder rumble, and the wind begins to pick up intensity. We walk in silence¡ªthe warriors focusing on the path ahead while us three outsiders are too nervous to speak. Will they lead us to their elders? Or are we being marched to our deaths in some secluded area of the rainforest?
After walking for nearly an entire day, we eventually arrive upon a small village that is built in a way I have never before seen. Above me, sprawling treehouses twist and coil around ancient trunks, their wooden bridges that connect one structure to the next, swaying from the swirling wind. The buildings are both chaotic and harmonious, constructed of jagged timber that seamlessly blends in with the verdant growth of the village¡¯s surroundings.
As we move further in, I see villagers going about their day¡ªchildren darting across the rope bridges with effortless agility, despite the strong winds, while adults diligently tend to chores. The wooden walkways creak underfoot, the sound blending with the murmur of conversation and the occasional burst of laughter.
I try to focus on these details, but apprehension lingers. Every sound, every movement makes me flinch. My captors¡¯ grips tighten slightly as we approach a central clearing. I don¡¯t know if they¡¯ll let us plead our case to the elders, or if this walk through their hidden world is my last.
Our captors coax us to march up toward a large treehouse in the middle of the village. Upachu protests, not wanting to leave the llama and cart behind. The Auilqa are uneasy about this, suspicious about splitting up the three of us in any way. Yet, after S¨ªqalat speaks to them for a length of time, she manages to convince them to allow Upachu to tend to the llama. Escorted by two younger warriors, he leads the animal and the cart in tow to a patch of grass, upon which the creature casually grazes, as though we¡¯re not at all involved in a tense, dangerous situation.
The rest of us scale a long, wooden platform that winds around the base of a thick tree, leading up to a structure painted in various hues of blue, pink, and yellow. There are no walls to this place, only a round roof made from pointed planks of wood to shield the area from the elements. It¡¯s a peculiar place, made from a peculiar people, something to the likes of which I¡¯ve never witnessed.
Around the tree are three elderly men, sitting cross-legged with heads bowed¡ªare they praying? With eyes closed, they don¡¯t appear to awaken or notice our approach, despite our heavy footsteps, trembling thunder, and the creaking of the wooden platform. Each has their faces and wrinkled, withered bodies painted, individually colored entirely in yellow, blue, and pink, like the colors on the structure. Other than simple loin cloths, the three men wear no other clothing, and no other symbols of their significance among the tribe. It¡¯s a tremendous contrast to the warrior who apprehended us, with all the regalia and the elaborate headdress.
The three elders rouse from their hazy stupor after the leader shouts some kind of announcement to them. Too distracted by the scene and our surroundings, S¨ªqalat doesn¡¯t translate what¡¯s said, as she gazes around our location. The three men look wearily upon us, slowly piecing together what¡¯s taking place.
Once they turn to face us, S¨ªqalat begins to speak. The three men look stunned that an outsider is speaking their language, exchanging glances with one another to make sure the others are witnessing the same event. To her credit, S¨ªqalat doesn¡¯t make a remark regarding this, carrying on with confidence¡ªa trait the Auilqa appear to strongly admire and respect.
Not long into her speech, however, S¨ªqalat is interrupted by the leader who apprehended us. He speaks loudly over her, drowning out her words with boorish behavior. Some of the warriors standing by look put off by this, as though this is something they frequently deal with and are displeased by his coarseness. At this, S¨ªqalat remains standing tall, though the tone of her voice turns to one of pleading. This doesn¡¯t appear to be going well at all.
One of the elders¡ªthe one painted pink¡ªbegins to speak with a weathered, strained voice, as though his throat has not spoken in ages. The one in blue seems to agree, nodding solemnly. I¡¯ve had enough by now. I need to know what¡¯s going on, so that I may react and respond to it.
I touch S¨ªqalat¡¯s shoulder and inquire about what¡¯s happening. She sighs. ¡°I repeated what you said about us seeking answers inside the tomb, but then this rotten maize husk of a leader goes on about us desecrating the sacred tomb again. It appears the elders agree, that outsiders don¡¯t belong there, and that we¡¯ve committed a terrible act. I don¡¯t know what else to say, Teqosa. I don¡¯t think they¡¯re going to believe us about being led by dead members of the Eleven and whatever elaborate explanation we come up with. I¡¯m at a total loss.¡±
If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it.
I glance at S¨ªqalat, seeing the strain in her eyes. She¡¯s done all she can, but now it falls to me. I need to find the words that will bridge this chasm between us. But what can I say to make them understand? How can I make them see that our actions were driven by a profound respect for their customs, rather than a desire to defile them?
Then it comes to me¡ªan understanding that a heartfelt plea for empathy might. The Auilqa are a proud people, deeply rooted in their traditions and beliefs. They value strength and resilience, but they also hold their ancestors and their wisdom in the highest regard. If I can connect with that, show them the sincerity of our quest and the reverence we hold for their ancient spirits, perhaps we stand a chance.
I step forward, meeting the gaze of each elder. ¡°Honorable elders,¡± I begin. ¡°We did not take this journey lightly, nor did we seek to desecrate your sacred grounds. We came seeking guidance, driven by a deep respect for the wisdom of the ancients. We know that the tombs of the Eleven are places of great power, and we approached with the humility and reverence such places deserve.¡±
I pause, searching their faces for any sign of softening. The leader who apprehended us sneers, but I press on. ¡°The world is in turmoil,¡± I continue, ¡°and dark forces are rising that threaten us all. They seek to plunge our lands into chaos and suffering. We have seen the devastation they bring, and we cannot stand idly by while Pachil falls into darkness. That is why we sought the knowledge that only the ancestors of the Auilqa could provide, with their renowned capabilities that can help us defeat this evil.¡±
One of the elders, the one in blue, shifts slightly, his eyes narrowing. Is he listening? ¡°In our quest, we have been guided by the spirits of the Eleven,¡± I say, and I see some eyebrows raise. ¡°They led us to your tomb, not to defile it, but to seek the strength and wisdom needed to unite our people against this common enemy. It is only through unity that we can hope to stand against such a threat.¡±
I take another breath, feeling a glimmer of hope as I follow S¨ªqalat¡¯s example, standing tall and proud while I speak. ¡°I understand that our presence here is an affront to your traditions. For that, I apologize deeply. But know that our actions were born of desperation and a desire to protect all the factions of Pachil, including the Auilqa.¡±
The elder painted in yellow leans forward slightly. His eyes are sharp, assessing. ¡°And what proof do you have of this guidance?¡± he asks, his voice measured. He speaks Merchant¡¯s Tongue?
I shake off the disbelief and focus on the matter at hand, nodding to S¨ªqalat, who produces the items we received from Inqil. ¡°These were given to us by Inqil herself,¡± I declare. ¡°These items are sacred, bestowed upon us to aid in our quest. They are a testament to our sincerity and the truth of our words.¡±
The elders exchange glances, and I can see the wheels turning in their minds. The leader opens his mouth to speak, extending his hands out as if to warn them about the items¡¯ embodiment of evil, but the elder in yellow holds up a hand to silence him. ¡°You speak with conviction,¡± the elder in yellow says contemplatively. ¡°And the items you present are indeed of great significance, items that could only be crafted by and for the gods.¡±
He looks at the other elders, who nod in agreement. ¡°We will consider your words and the evidence you have provided. For now, you will remain under our watch until we have reached a decision. But know this: your fate, and perhaps the fate of Pachil, rests on the truth of your claims.¡±
We¡¯re led back to Upachu, and then temporarily confined to the empty clearing by the large treehouse. We¡¯re surrounded by dozens of warriors under the intense sun. S¨ªqalat finds the overabundance of security amusing, but with their spears pointed at us as the fierce look in their eyes, I fail to find humor in our situation.
After explaining the exchange with the elders, the three of us remain in silence. Rain begins lightly pelting us while we wait, tapping the leaves and dotting the ground. Upachu paces the limited space, his face etched with worry. S¨ªqalat sits cross-legged, her brow furrowed in deep thought. I occasionally glance up at the treehouse, as if my stares will hurry up the elder¡¯s decision.
Upachu finally breaks the silence. ¡°What do you think they¡¯ll decide?¡± he asks, his voice barely above a whisper.
I shrug, trying to mask my own anxiety. ¡°I don¡¯t know. We¡¯ve presented our case as best we could. Now, it¡¯s in their hands.¡±
Upachu stops pacing and looks at me intently. ¡°And what if they decide we¡¯re a threat?¡±
¡°We have to be prepared for that possibility,¡± I admit. ¡°But we also have to trust that our intentions will shine through.¡±
S¨ªqalat nods slowly, her expression softening slightly. ¡°I hope you¡¯re right, Teqosa. I really do.¡±
The sky darkens further, clouds roiling with a near sentient anger. Rain falls in heavy sheets. Without warning, a jagged flash of lightning splits the sky, illuminating the village in a harsh, white light. The accompanying thunderclap is a roar of fury, shaking the very ground we stand on.
A massive bolt strikes a tree at the edge of the village, igniting it instantly. Flames leap up, hungrily consuming the dry wood and underbrush. Fueled by the storm¡¯s winds, the fire spreads rapidly. Villagers scream, scrambling to douse the flames. A thick smoke moves through the village like a stalking predator, and the air fills with the smell of burning wood.
The fire spreads with a relentless hunger, leaping from one structure to the next. Fueled by the wind and the dry, wooden huts, the flames crackle and roar. I can feel the heat even from a distance, and I watch as the orange beast devours everything in its path. I exchange knowing glances at S¨ªqalat and Upachu; we all understand there¡¯s no time to lose. We need order. We need a plan.
I grab the nearest villager by the shoulders, his eyes wide with fear. ¡°We need to form a bucket brigade, now! Spread the word!¡±
At first, the villager looks at me, confused. Right, he doesn¡¯t speak Merchant¡¯s Tongue, I suddenly realize. Albeit clumsily, I do my best to gesture for water and dousing the flames. He nods, his fear momentarily replaced by determination, and he begins to relay my instructions to the others. I spot Upachu and call out to him, ¡°Use the llama and cart to bring water! There must be buckets or pots around here so you can transport to a river or spring to collect water!¡± He nods, then guides the llama as he searches for a source of water.
The storm¡¯s rain is heavy, but it¡¯s not enough to quench the voracious flames. We need every drop of water we can muster. S¨ªqalat is already moving, herding villagers into a rough line, instructing them on how to pass the buckets quickly and efficiently. I join the line, my muscles straining with each handoff as they are filled and passed along. The heat is oppressive, the smoke choking, but there¡¯s no time to think about discomfort.
The heat is suffocating, and the air is thick with smoke. I can barely see through the haze, but the desperate cries of the villagers cut through the chaos. I¡¯m drawn to the yells of anguish, as if someone is in need of help. My eyes eventually lock onto a mother and her young child, trapped within the burning confines of their home. Their panicked faces are covered with soot and dirt, searching for any way out.
"Get back!" I shout, but the words are swallowed by the deafening roar of the fire. I reach the hut just as the beam gives way and collapses. My hands shoot up, catching the heavy wood before it can crush the helpless pair. The weight is immense, and I struggle to hold the beam. But my eyes catch a pulsating glow at my chest. Looking down slightly, I notice the turquoise stone emitting an ethereal light, and an overwhelming power courses through me. The energy feels warm, healing, and I no longer feel exhausted from carrying this wooden beam. I lift it high above my head with ease, then urge the mother to escape.
The mother¡¯s eyes meet mine, wide with fear, but also gratitude. ¡°Go!¡± I shout, my voice strained. ¡°Take your child and go!¡±
She hesitates for a heartbeat, then grabs her child and scrambles out from under the beam. The fire spirals around me, causing me to suffocate from the immense heat. But I hold on until I see them clear of the wreckage. With a final grunt, I heave the beam to the side, letting it crash to the ground.
But now I¡¯m surrounded, as flames lick at my heels. I pivot, seeking a path to safety. The fire is everywhere, a wall of orange and red. I can feel the heat searing my skin, the smoke stinging my eyes. I can barely see a few feet ahead. I need to stay calm, to think clearly. Panic will only make things worse.
I spot a narrow gap between two burning huts, a small opening that might lead to safety. It¡¯s a tight squeeze, but it¡¯s my only option. The fire crackles and hisses, the flames reaching out like fingers trying to grasp at me. I dash forward as the heat presses against me. The gap is narrow, but I push through, the flames grazing my skin.
On the other side, the fire is still spreading, consuming everything in sight. I need to find more water, to keep fighting the blaze. I spot Upachu with the llama and cart, and the villagers form a line around him. They move with purpose, working hard to extinguish the flames. I rush to join them, grabbing a bucket and passing it along the line.
Water splashes onto the fire, creating hissing clouds of steam. The fire tries its best to resist our efforts, but we are relentless in snuffing them out. But even as the fires slowly start to fade, we are running out of water to fight the remaining flames.
One last idea occurs to me, as my eyes fall on the piles of dirt and ash surrounding the village. I demand an empty bucket. ¡°Start using dirt and ash!¡± I shout, grabbing a nearby villager and showing them how to scoop the soil and soot into the buckets. ¡°It will suffocate the flames! Hurry!¡±
The villagers quickly adapt. We pass bucket after bucket of dirt and ash, throwing it onto the flames. The effect is immediate. The dirt smothers the fire, while the ash helps to dampen the heat.
The flames hiss and sputter, fighting against us, but ultimately succumb to our unfaltering efforts to extinguish them. The embers glow one last time before going out, and the rain begins washing away the last remnants of the fire.
We catch our collective breaths, surveying the damage. Smothered by dirt and ash, somehow the village stands. While a number of homes were destroyed by the fire, many more were saved as a result of our teamwork. Chests heaving, S¨ªqalat and Upachu look on with relief.
Perhaps due to exhaustion, I almost don¡¯t notice the woman I saved approaching, her child clinging to her leg. She speaks rapidly in the Auilqa language, her voice filled with awe. S¨ªqalat steps forward, translating her words for me, though her expression shows she¡¯s struggling to believe them herself.
¡°She says you are a demigod,¡± S¨ªqalat relays. ¡°She saw the way you lifted the beam, how the amulet glowed. She thinks you have been sent by the gods to save them.¡±
I glance down at the amulet around my neck and its faint, steady glow. The villagers¡¯ eyes are on me, looking upon me with reverence. At this, a pit begins to form in my stomach.
Another voice speaks up, this time from the elders painted in pink. He steps forward, his gaze fixed on me with a mixture of curiosity and something deeper, something that looks almost like¡ worship.
¡°You have shown great bravery and strength, outsider,¡± he says through S¨ªqalat¡¯s translation. ¡°We questioned your presence here, your intentions. But now, seeing what you have done, perhaps the gods have indeed guided you to us.¡±
I can see the change in the villagers¡¯ faces, the shift from the distrust and hesitance we were initially met with upon our arrival, to one of admiration. They murmur amongst themselves, nodding and gesturing towards the amulet. I feel S¨ªqalat¡¯s eyes on me, and when I meet her gaze, I see a glimpse of something I hadn¡¯t seen before: genuine belief.
¡°Maybe it¡¯s not just a story,¡± she mutters, almost to herself. ¡°Maybe you really are meant for something greater.¡±
The expression causes me great concern. Although I may be viewed as something more to these people, as a symbol or beacon of hope, I know that I am just a warrior, someone trying to do what is right for Pachil. I was doing what anyone would do when faced with a dire situation: help those who are in need. There is nothing more to my actions than that.
The elder painted in blue speaks next, a prideful smile spreading wide across his face. ¡°Your actions have shown your true nature. We will listen to your story, and we will consider that you were indeed meant to enter the tomb.¡±
¡°Well, let¡¯s hope that is the end of that,¡± S¨ªqalat says with a smirk while clapping me on the back. ¡°I don¡¯t want to have to go through any more trials while we¡¯re in Auilqa territory!¡±
Suddenly, a mighty horn blast reverberates through the village, shaking the trees and sending birds into flight. The elders¡¯ faces harden, their eyes narrowing in suspicion and concern.
¡°This horn,¡± one elder says slowly, ¡°signals that our lands are threatened by outsiders, by intruders.¡±
The other elders turn to me, their previous expressions of approval now replaced with wary scrutiny.
113 - Legido
¡°Is that really you?¡± Iker gasps, clutching your hand like a lifeline. ¡°I... I didn¡¯t think I¡¯d ever see you again, or even anyone familiar out here.¡±
The pudgy figure in front of you stumbles backward, tripping over a root and landing with a thud. You rush forward, extending a hand to help him up. His face is dirty, his clothes torn, and his eyes dart around wildly, as if he¡¯s seen ghosts.
¡°What happened to you?¡± you ask, glancing around to ensure no danger lurks nearby. ¡°Why are you out here alone?¡±
Iker takes a deep breath, trying to steady himself. ¡°It¡¯s Xiatlidar,¡± he says, his voice trembling. ¡°The settlement. With the Great Xiatli Himself. Everything¡¯s gone wrong. Xiatli¡ He¡¯s¡¡±
You motion for him to lower his voice and pull him closer to the fire pit where Dorez and Benicto are still sleeping. ¡°Let¡¯s wake the others. You can tell us everything.¡±
As you rouse your companions, Iker plays with the hem of his shirt, glancing into the shadows as if expecting another threat to emerge. Dorez is the first to wake, her eyes widening when she sees Iker. Benicto follows, his usual scowl softening slightly in the presence of a new, Legido face.
¡°Who is this?¡± Dorez wonders aloud, her voice froggy from being stirred awake.
Iker casts his eyes to the ground. He mumbles something¡ªyou believe it¡¯s his name¡ªand draws circles into the dirt with the tip of his worn leather shoes. His shoulders hunch forward, as if trying to make himself smaller, to disappear from the attention.
¡°This is my good friend, Iker,¡± you announce. Benicto smirks, but before he can crack wise, you continue, ¡°He was on one of the other ships, led by the Great Xiatli. He has information on how we could rejoin the party, to journey to their settlement with the great leaders.¡±
You hope this news prevents any harsh treatment of Iker, sparing him from Benicto¡¯s berating. Dorez looks on, her curiosity piqued. All of you sit closely together, gazing at Iker attentively.
¡°Alright, Iker,¡± you say, once everyone is gathered around the fire. ¡°Start from the beginning. What are you doing out here, alone? It¡¯s dangerous out here, after all.¡±
¡°Well, I¡¯m not exactly alone,¡± he mutters. ¡°I traveled here with a search party. We had to spread out to cover more ground. We¡¯re looking for food, water, medicinal herbs¡ªanything we can find to bring back to Xiatlidar. Anything that can help us survive.¡±
Benicto perks up. ¡°You¡¯re traveling with others? We can be rescued! We can finally return to civilization! Praise Xiatli!¡±
Iker shrinks at Benicto¡¯s statement, which is not lost on Dorez. Eyes narrowed, she stares at Iker, as if studying his expression to glean any hidden meaning. When he doesn¡¯t speak, she observes, ¡°What are you not telling us about your companions?¡±
He continues staring at the ground. ¡°There¡¯s nothing wrong with the members of the search party,¡± he says, then nothing more.
You note what is being left unsaid, and the enigmatic manner in which your longtime friend speaks. You decide to get to the bottom of what is going on. ¡°You mentioned earlier about Xiatlidar. What has been happening there?¡±
Iker swallows hard, meekly looking each of you like a wounded animal, before speaking. ¡°Xiatli¡¯s gone mad with power. He¡¯s enforcing his rule with an iron fist, and Captain Criato and Atelmaro Ulloa¡ well, they¡¯re no better. They¡¯re brutal, forcing everyone to work without rest, punishing anyone who steps out of line. People are struggling, and the morale is shattered.¡±
Dorez leans forward, her brow furrowing. ¡°Why would they do that? What are they hoping to achieve?¡±
¡°I don¡¯t know,¡± Iker replies, his voice cracking. ¡°But it¡¯s as if they want to break us, to mold us into something else. They talk about ¡®purifying¡¯ the settlement, making us stronger, but it¡¯s just cruelty at the end of the day.¡±
¡°¡®Purifying the settlement¡¯,¡± you echo, trying to determine what that means.
¡°Well, we have all been reborn in His Great¡¯s image, after He saved the Legido and showed us the way to prosperity,¡± Dorez says, words that have been recited in the schoolhouse since as far back as you can remember. ¡°Perhaps He is declaring that the lands upon which the settlement has been constructed need to be purified, to ensure our prosperity.¡±
You find her explanation to be a bit of a reach. Judging by her troubled expression, you don¡¯t think even she believes what she¡¯s saying. ¡°If it were that simple,¡± you reason aloud, ¡°I don¡¯t believe my friend would look so gravely concerned.
The fire crackles, filling the silence that follows as the four of you contemplate the situation. Even in the dim early morning light, you can see the worry etched on Dorez¡¯s face, the same worry you feel gnawing at your insides.
Benicto disrupts the quiet, asking, ¡°So, what do we do? Do we go to Xiatlidar? They must have more supplies than Aitzabal. We could really use their help.¡±
Iker shakes his head vehemently. ¡°You don¡¯t understand. They have eyes everywhere. If we don¡¯t return with something useful, they¡¯ll punish us. We¡¯re all being watched.¡±
¡°¡®Something useful¡¯?¡± You find yourself parroting Iker¡¯s statement again, as he continues to speak in riddles. ¡°What¡¯s more useful than medicinal herbs, food, and water? They sent a search party, but for what? Something more useful than that?¡±
Iker looks at the three of you furtively, whispering with a trembling voice, ¡°There are tales being spoken among the settlement that Ulloa and Criato seek precious metals, gems, anything that can be useful for crafting weapons.¡±
¡°Weapons?¡± you say, alarmed. ¡°Why would we need to craft weapons? Is there something threatening the settlement?¡±
¡°I¡¯m not sure,¡± Iker says, patting the air to signal to you to keep your voice down, as if the creatures of this forest will pass along word of what¡¯s being said among you. ¡°But considering the urgency in which they¡¯ve deployed search parties, I can fathom something is definitely of great concern to them.¡±
Dorez clenches her fists, tight enough that her knuckles turn white. ¡°And we¡¯re supposed to just walk into that?¡± she charges, glaring at Benicto. ¡°We need to think this through.¡±
¡°We can¡¯t go there, to Xiatlidar,¡± you state. ¡°Not if it¡¯s as bad as Iker says. We need to know what¡¯s really going on, and we can¡¯t do that alone. We need to find our companions from Aitzabal and figure out a plan.¡±
¡°But we need supplies, too,¡± Benicto counters, shaking his head in frustration. ¡°You remember how much we all were struggling for supplies in Aitzabal. If Xiatlidar is the only place with resources, we might not have a choice. And it can¡¯t be that far if¡¡± He lets his statement drop, the implications already severely wounding to Iker¡¯s physical conditions. You maintain a level head, not allowing yourself to get baited into such an argument with a known tormentor and bully.
¡°We¡¯ll find another way,¡± you insist. ¡°We can search for our own supplies while we look for our lost companions. Going to Xiatlidar sounds like a death sentence.¡±
¡°We can¡¯t just wander around the forest aimlessly!¡± Benicto exclaims, incensed.
¡°Like we have been for the past few days?¡± Dorez snaps, still glaring at Benicto. ¡°We find ourselves in this situation all because you have the navigation skills of a blind shepherd in the Cores Altas fog.¡±
Benicto appears wounded by Dorez¡¯s remark. Yet she persists, saying, ¡°We have drifted too far from our companions, and I¡¯m starting to believe we would be better served if someone else led the way.¡±
¡°You can¡¯t seriously expect¡ª¡°
¡°Iker¡¯s words cannot be ignored,¡± Dorez cuts off Benicto. ¡°We need to be smart about this. By traveling to Xiatlidar, we would be trading off one awful scenario for another, possibly worse one. At least we now know where we can collect supplies for Aitzabal.¡±
Benicto¡¯s perpetual scowl returns to his face. Iker looks nervous about this, but sputters, ¡°Whatever you all think is best. I shall inform my party that¡ª¡°
¡°No,¡± Dorez says abruptly. ¡°They may try to get us to return with them to Xiatlidar, which is what we don¡¯t need. If you don¡¯t go back, they will assume you¡¯ve gotten lost and may not search for you for long, leaving us to travel back to Aitzabal in peace.¡±
Iker¡¯s shoulders sag from her harsh words. His head hangs low as tears begin welling in his eyes. You attempt to comfort him with an arm draped around his shoulders, but he looks inconsolable, taking her words hard.
¡°Let us find our way back to Aitzabal,¡± you declare. ¡°Upon our return, we can inform Captain Lema of the good news that the other crew is safe and has formed a settlement. But we can speak of what¡¯s taking place there, as well. We will let him decide what to do.¡±
The others appear uncertain about the latter part of your plan, but nod in silent acknowledgement. You know the journey ahead will be fraught with danger and uncertainty, but it¡¯s a journey you must take together. You gather your belongings, leaving the makeshift shelter roughly in place, silently thanking it for the protection it provided.
Your group moves cautiously, and the soft, damp ground muffles your footfalls as you navigate the unfamiliar terrain. Draped with moss and vines, the towering trees block out most of the sunlight, offering much-welcomed relief. The constant buzz of insects provides an unsettling accompaniment to your travels. Your feet ache from days of walking, and your spirits are low, snapping at one another constantly. But you push on, driven by the need to find your way out of these uncharted lands.
Benicto insists that, prior to Iker¡¯s arrival, you have been heading in the right direction all this time. This causes you to pause. Dorez begins arguing with him, but his confidence is unwavering. You ignore this, deliberating with Iker to help recalibrate your bearings. He points out the direction of the sun¡¯s movement, the angle of shadows, and the growth patterns of the moss on the trees. Combining this with the sparse knowledge of the terrain you¡¯ve gathered along the way, it becomes clear¡ªa southward direction would lead you back in the direction you seek.
Convincing the others is no small feat, especially the headstrong Benicto. But the signs are undeniable. In tandem with Dorez, the realization slowly dawns on Benicto, and with a mix of reluctance and relief, the course is corrected. As you begin to forge ahead, a sense of cautious optimism starts to replace the earlier tension.
The thick underbrush snags at your clothes, and the uneven ground threatens to trip you up. Your stomach churns with hunger, and the sparse game and foraged roots provides little sustenance. Yet despite its best efforts to thwart your progress, the forest seems less oppressive, now that there¡¯s hope of finding your way.
The days-long journey has been brutal, and the weight of your supplies grows heavier as time passes. You wipe sweat from your brow as your eyes sweep the surroundings for any sign of Gartzen or Landera or any settler of Aitzabal. The forest feels endless, as each step seems to blend in with the next.
To pass the time, you turn to Iker, who is struggling to navigate these lands. You tell him all about your journey, the storm your ship weathered, and what it was like to reach this new land. ¡°So,¡± you say to him after completing your tale, ¡°what happened after we were separated at the docks? One moment, you¡¯re behind me, and the next, I find you gazing up at the ship I thought we both boarded.¡±
He shrugs his shoulders. ¡°You pushed ahead so quickly, I was unable to keep up. I couldn¡¯t squeeze between the crowd, who were surging up the plank onto the ship.¡±
¡°Not surprising,¡± Benicto snarks. This earns him a smack over the back of his head by Dorez. She then insists Iker continues the recounting of his journey.
¡°One of the other ships was also beginning to push off the docks, leaving a single ship remaining,¡± he continues. ¡°While the crowds were hollering for the ship to hold on for a moment longer, so that they could board, I rushed over to the other ship as fast as I could. I was astounded that no one was trying to board this ship, and I was able to grab my belongings and easily board.¡±
¡°Quite the resourcefulness!¡± you exclaim, clapping Iker on the back.
Iker, however, does not look as enthralled by his quick thinking. ¡°Well, the reason nobody was boarding it was because it was the ship Xiatli was on. People feared being part of the crew responsible for getting Him to the new land. Only the most arrogant and overly confident dared board¡ªeveryone else didn¡¯t want to mess up in front of the Great Xiatli.¡±
Love what you''re reading? Discover and support the author on the platform they originally published on.
You take a moment to process this revelation, glancing at Iker. The implications of being on the same ship as Xiatli are not lost on you. Your stomach twists into knots as you imagine what life on that ship must¡¯ve been like.
Dorez¡¯s eyes narrow as she also considers this. ¡°So, you ended up on the same ship as Xiatli? That must have been¡ an experience.¡±
Iker nods somberly, his gaze distant. ¡°It was terrifying. Most of the crew was on edge the entire time, afraid of making even the smallest mistake. Xiatli¡¯s presence was like a heavy cloud over everyone. There was no laughter, no camaraderie. Just fear and tension.¡±
¡°And what about you?¡± you ask, concerned. ¡°How did you manage?¡±
¡°I kept to myself as much as possible,¡± he replies quietly. ¡°I tried to stay out of sight, out of mind. But there were times when Xiatli would summon the crew for inspections. He would walk among us, His eyes investigating every face. It felt like He could see into my very soul. I was always terrified He would find something wrong with me, some reason to punish me and throw me overboard.¡±
Benicto scoffs. ¡°Maybe He should have. Sounds like you were just being a coward. If you¡¯d stood up straight and looked Him in the eye, maybe He would have respected you.¡±
Dorez shoots Benicto a withering glare. ¡°It¡¯s easy to talk about bravery when you¡¯re not the one facing the danger. Besides, Xiatli is not some stallion to be tamed with a glance. Iker did what he had to do to survive.¡±
¡°The journey itself was rough,¡± Iker continues, his voice a bit steadier now. ¡°The seas were choppy, and many of the crew got sick. We were tossed around like rag dolls. At times, it felt like the ship would be torn apart by the waves. I remember clinging to my bunk, hoping and wishing that we would make it through the maelstrom.¡±
You nod, encouraging him to go on. ¡°And then? What happened when you finally reached the new land?¡±
¡°The landing was chaotic,¡± Iker says, shaking his head. ¡°Xiatli ordered the crew to set up camp immediately. He was impatient to start exploring and claiming the land. We worked day and night, setting up tents, building fires, and scouting the area. There was no rest, no relief. And the whole time, Xiatli was watching, always watching.¡±
Dorez¡¯s expression softens. ¡°It sounds like you¡¯ve been through a lot, Iker. I can¡¯t imagine how hard that must have been.¡±
Iker nods, his eyes downcast. ¡°It was. But it got worse. The work was non-stop. People were collapsing from exhaustion, but Xiatli, Criato, and Ulloa wouldn¡¯t let up. They kept pushing us, demanding more. It was like they were trying to break us, to see who could survive under the harshest conditions. Anyone who didn¡¯t meet Xiatli¡¯s unspoken expectations was punished severely.¡±
You exchange a worried glance with Dorez and Benicto. ¡°Punished how?¡± you ask cautiously.
Iker hesitates, his voice barely above a whisper. ¡°Beatings, public humiliation, even execution. Xiatli has no mercy for those who fail Him. Captain Criato and Ulloa are just as bad. They enforce His will without question, using fear and brutality to keep everyone in line.¡±
You glance at Iker, feeling a surge of empathy for your friend. ¡°Well, we¡¯re together now, and we¡¯ll figure this out. We¡¯re not going to let Xiatli¡¯s madness break us.¡±
¡°Thanks,¡± Iker says, managing a small smile. ¡°I just hope we can survive long enough without Xiatli¡¯s support.¡±
As the days pass by, the four of you continue onward. Always the most brash, Benicto curses under his breath as he stumbles over yet another gnarled root. Trailing just behind, Iker half-heartedly mutters words of encouragement, though his voice wavers with fatigue. Dorez swings her small dagger with precise movements, managing to carve a narrow path through the relentless foliage. You admire her determination, even as the forest pushes back against your efforts to tame it. You search the surroundings for any sign of familiarity in the landscape, hoping to identify the area as a place you¡¯ve stepped foot before.
Then, through a break in the dense trees, you think you see it¡ªa glimpse of something that quickens your heart. Squinting against the shafts of sunlight piercing the gloom, you catch sight of a structure, a hint of civilization amid the wild. Could it be? The possibility fills you with a renewed sense of urgency, of hope. You call out to the others, pointing toward the faint outline of what you believe is your settlement. Their weary faces light up, and together, you push forward. This just might be the last stretch of your grueling journey.
The trek seems endless as you hurry your way toward the sight. The shadows stretch long in the dimming light, and the air grows cooler as you pick up your pace. You hear the crunching of dead leaves as the footsteps of the others jog behind you.
The forest opens up suddenly, revealing a clearing where the nascent settlement stands. It¡¯s a patchwork of rough-hewn structures, some barely more than frames. The sound of workers lifting and carrying lumber or supplies grows steadily louder as you draw near. You never thought you would see this place again. Your heart flutters, and you feel as if you could take flight.
Upon your return to Aitzabal, Dorez and Benicto immediately part ways with you. Despite enduring such a brutal and punishing journey together, it appears they would rather return to being your tormentors. It¡¯s fine, you think to yourself. You¡¯ve got your friend, Iker. What more do you need now?
¡°Praise Xiatli!¡± You hear a familiar voice through the clamor of construction and labor. ¡°You¡¯ve returned!¡±
The smiling, boyish face of Landera pierces through the crowd. She races toward you, giving you a huge hug that nearly takes the breath out of you. ¡°I thought you were lost forever in the wilderness! I was so worried!¡±
She glances at Iker, then her cheeks flush red with embarrassment. ¡°Oh, I apologize,¡± she says. ¡°Who is your friend?¡±
¡°This is Iker,¡± you announce proudly. ¡°We grew up together on the farms in Rexurdir.¡± Iker waves meekly, head hung low and barely making eye contact with Landera. You turn to your longtime friend, introducing him to your ally from the ship. ¡°And this is Lander¡ª¡° You catch yourself just in time, almost calling her by her full name.
¡°So, what happened to you, after the storm?¡± Landera asks with wonder oozing from her voice. ¡°I want to know everything you endured. And how you came back with another person! You must have traveled far!¡±
¡°Actually,¡± you say with a bit of regret, ¡°we should go to Captain Lema first. Iker is from the other expedition¡ªthe ship that carried Xiatli to the new land. He knows where their settlement is.¡±
Landera¡¯s face bursts with excitement. ¡°We can rejoin the crew! This is wonderful news!¡±
¡°Well,¡± you say with a cringe, ¡°according to my friend here, conditions are apparently awful. They¡¯re driven to the point of exhaustion and collapse, and punished harshly for not meeting exceedingly high demands¡ªeven by execution.¡±
¡°Oh,¡± Landera¡¯s smile suddenly drops, and she¡¯s flooded with concern. ¡°That sounds awful. Maybe we don¡¯t tell Captain Lema, then.¡±
¡°We can¡¯t!¡± Iker exclaims. It¡¯s the most impassioned you¡¯ve seen him since reuniting. He doesn¡¯t say any more, doesn¡¯t clarify. However, the panicked look on his face says it all.
¡°Maybe we ask Gartzen,¡± you suggest. ¡°He would know what to do.¡±
Landera nods, while Iker continues looking gravely concerned. But it¡¯s the clearest option you can think of, the one that makes the most sense. Gartzen is a trusted member of the captain¡¯s crew, someone whose opinion he would respect. Perhaps he can persuade Captain Lema to not venture to Xiatlidar, and a better solution can be reached.
You approach the clearing where Gartzen has set up camp among the unfinished construction of his home. You¡¯re struck by the smell of freshly cut wood. His broad shoulders are hunched over as he meticulously sharpens his blade. A rough-hewn table, scattered with tools, sits nearby, and a fire crackles softly, sending up wisps of smoke. Landera walks beside you, while Iker nervously trails behind. You take a deep breath, steeling yourself for the conversation ahead.
Gartzen looks up as you enter the clearing. His face reveals a brief, almost imperceptible sign of relief. Sheathing his blade, he stands. ¡°You¡¯re back,¡± he says, his voice gruff but not unkind. ¡°Didn¡¯t think I¡¯d see you again.¡±
¡°I¡¯m tougher than I look,¡± you reply, trying to keep your tone light. Flashes of what you endured over the previous days creep into your mind, but you push them aside for now. ¡°We need to talk.¡±
Gartzen¡¯s eyes narrow slightly, but he sets down the tool and nods. ¡°Alright. Let¡¯s hear it.¡±
Landera steps forward. ¡°This,¡± she presents your friend with a wave, ¡°is Iker. He¡¯s from the other settlement. He has news about Xiatlidar, the other Legido settlement. It¡¯s¡ not good.¡±
Gartzen¡¯s gaze shifts to Iker, who looks like he wants to shrink into the ground. ¡°Well, speak up, boy.¡±
Iker takes a deep breath, his hands clenching at his sides. ¡°Xiatli¡¯s gone mad. He¡¯s enforcing his rule with an iron fist. Criato and Ulloa are just as bad. They¡¯re making everyone work without rest, punishing anyone who steps out of line. People are starving, morale is shattered. It¡¯s like a nightmare.¡±
¡°That¡¯s life on every ship,¡± Gartzen remarks. ¡°Those who aren¡¯t used to the work always find it oppressive.¡±
¡°That¡¯s not like what¡¯s happening in the settlement,¡± Iker says. ¡°This is far, far worse, I assure you.¡±
Gartzen¡¯s expression hardens, but you can see the concern in his eyes. ¡°And what do you propose we do about it?"
You step in, trying to gauge his reaction. ¡°We believe Captain Lema should be made aware of the new settlement, but we need to be cautious when we do. We need to figure out a plan, and we need your help.¡±
¡°We need to approach this delicately,¡± Gartzen begins with a low rumble. ¡°Captain Lema won¡¯t take kindly to hearing that Xiatli and His men have lost their minds¡ªhe¡¯s unlikely to believe it¡¯s true. But news of the oppressive conditions at Xiatlidar should raise concern, as well. We need to present the facts carefully, without sounding like we¡¯re inciting rebellion.¡±
Landera nods. ¡°We can emphasize the suffering of the people. If we highlight how desperate the situation is, Captain Lema might see reason. He may have a strong adoration of Xiatli, but he¡¯s not heartless. He might be more willing to listen if he understands the human cost.¡±
Gartzen¡¯s eyes meet yours. ¡°What do you think?¡±
You take a moment to gather your thoughts. ¡°I agree. We need to be strategic. If we just come out and say Xiatli¡¯s a tyrant, it could backfire. We need to make it clear that we¡¯re concerned for the well-being of everyone¡ªat Xiatlidar, but also of Aitzabal. Maybe we can suggest that Captain Lema send a small group to investigate, to see the conditions for themselves.¡±
Iker shifts nervously. ¡°And what if Captain Lema sides with Xiatli? What if he thinks we¡¯re trying to undermine the leadership?¡±
Gartzen¡¯s jaw tightens. ¡°That¡¯s a risk we¡¯re going to have to take. But if we play our cards right, we can minimize that risk. We need to be careful, but united in our message.¡±
You nod, feeling a steely resolve settle in your chest. ¡°Agreed. We¡¯ll start by presenting the facts, emphasizing the suffering and the need for humanitarian aid. If that doesn¡¯t work, we¡¯ll need to reassess and figure out our next move.¡±
Gartzen stands, his imposing figure casting a long shadow in the firelight. ¡°Alright. Let¡¯s get some rest. Tomorrow, we¡¯ll approach the captain and hope for the best. But be prepared for the worst.¡±
As you lie down on your bedroll, the upcoming conversation with Captain Lema presses on your mind. The forest around you hums with the sounds of nocturnal creatures, but your thoughts are consumed with the challenges ahead. You know that the fate of Xiatlidar, and perhaps even the entire expedition, hinges on the decisions made in the coming days.
Morning comes all too quickly. As the first light of dawn filters through the trees, you wake with a tightening in your chest. As you rejoin your companions, each of you are lost in your thoughts as you make your way through the camp. The faces of your companions are etched with great worry and fatigue. Their movements are deliberate and slow, as if burdened by some unseen forces.
The settlement is abuzz with activity. The sight of familiar faces from the ship brings a momentary sense of relief, but reflecting upon your mission quickly pulls you back to reality. Laughter and chatter fill the air, yet beneath the surface, the looming challenges are impossible to ignore. As you navigate through the bustling crowd, the lively atmosphere does little to ease the knot in your stomach. Every cheerful greeting and busy worker reminds you of what is at stake, emphasizing the seriousness of your task ahead.
You approach Captain Lema¡¯s quarters, with Gartzen leading the way. He pauses at the entrance, turning to face you and the others. ¡°Remember, stick to the plan. Present the facts, emphasize the suffering, and suggest an investigation. He fervently worships Xiatli. We need to tread carefully.¡±
With a nod, Gartzen pushes open the door that lets out a faint creak. You all step inside, hoping you¡¯re ready to face whatever comes next.
The newly-created quarters reflect both the haste and necessity of their construction. Rough-hewn wooden walls enclose the space, with gaps where the wood hasn¡¯t settled entirely. The roof, made from overlapping palm fronds, offers basic protection from the elements. The furnishings inside are sparse, but functional: a sturdy wooden desk cluttered with navigational tools, a simple cot with a thin blanket, and a small chest for personal belongings. Candles from makeshift holders cast a dim light over the room. A brass sextant and a compass rest prominently on the desk, along with a half-finished letter to someone back home. Despite the rough surroundings, a sense of order and purpose permeates the space.
Captain Lema looks up from his desk, his expression stern, but surprised to see his trusted right-hand man. ¡°What is it, Gartzen? You look as though you have an urgent matter to discuss.¡±
Gartzen steps forward. ¡°Captain, we have significant news. We encountered a survivor from the rest of the expedition. The others have established a settlement called Xiatlidar.¡±
At this, Captain Lema¡¯s eyes widen slightly. ¡°Survivors? Where is this settlement?¡±
Gartzen gestures to Iker, who steps forward hesitantly. ¡°This is Iker. He¡¯s from Xiatlidar. He can tell you more about what¡¯s happening there.¡±
Iker looks nervous, taking a deep breath, but only giving a small wave. ¡°Captain,¡± Gartzen continues, seeing that Iker hasn¡¯t picked up the signal to speak, ¡°From the moment Xiatlidar was established, things have taken a dark turn. Xiatli¡¯s turned into something of a tyrant, and Criato and Ulloa are just as ruthless. Folks are being driven to the bone, with no rest, and any sign of dissent is met with brutal force, even execution. Spirits are crushed, and the people are in misery."
Captain Lema¡¯s expression darkens. ¡°And where did you get this information?¡± he asks skeptically.
Iker steps forward, his voice trembling slightly. ¡°I saw it myself, Captain, sir. The conditions are terrible. People are starving, and the atmosphere is oppressive.¡±
Lema scoffs, dismissing Iker with a wave of his hand. ¡°And we¡¯re supposed to take the word of a child? This is ridiculous. Xiatli is our leader. He knows what¡¯s best for us.¡±
Landera steps in, working to keep her voice calm and firm. ¡°Captain, with all due respect, this isn¡¯t about undermining Xiatli. This is about the well-being of our people. We suggest sending a small group to investigate the conditions at Xiatlidar. See for yourself what¡¯s happening, and have them report back.¡±
Captain Lema leans back in his chair, shaking his head. ¡°You don¡¯t understand the weight of your words. Xiatli is god. He is the savior of Legido. Questioning his methods is questioning the very foundation of our existence. And besides, this is coming from a child who barely understands the situation.¡±
Gartzen¡¯s jaw tightens, nostrils flaring, but he remains relatively composed. ¡°Captain, we are not questioning Xiatli¡¯s authority. We are concerned about the implementation of his directives. If the people are suffering, it reflects poorly on our ability to execute his vision.¡±
Captain Lema¡¯s eyes flash with a momentary blaze of anger and annoyance, but he swiftly steadies himself. ¡°You¡¯re playing a dangerous game, Gartzen. You all are. If this is a ploy to undermine Xiatli, there will be consequences. And I don¡¯t see why we should trust the word of a boy who might not even understand what he¡¯s seen.¡±
You feel the tension in the room escalate, but you press on, feeling the situation slipping away from you all. ¡°Captain, we¡¯re not suggesting anything drastic. Just an investigation. If the conditions are as dire as my friend, Iker, says, we need to know. If they¡¯re not, then we¡¯ve lost nothing by checking.¡±
Captain Lema stands, his expression resolute. ¡°Enough. We will not question Xiatli¡¯s rule. We will not entertain baseless claims from a child. We will travel to Xiatlidar. We will go to support Xiatli and ensure His vision for the new land is carried out.¡±
Gartzen¡¯s eyes widen slightly. ¡°Captain, please reconsider. This is about the well-being of our people. If we¡ª¡±
Captain Lema¡¯s gaze hardens. ¡°My decision is final. We leave for Xiatlidar at dawn. Anyone who refuses to follow will be left behind, and left to endure the wrath of Xiatli. Do I make myself clear?¡±
You nod reluctantly, the burden of the decision settling over you. A pit forms in your stomach at the Captain¡¯s declaration. Something doesn¡¯t sit well with you, about being forced to travel to a destination Iker explained was experiencing such brutal leadership. All you can do now is brace yourself for the unknown.
114 - Inuxeq
The regal figure of Nuqasiq strides forward, her golden crown catching the dying light, transforming her into a spectral queen draped in ethereal luminescence. She moves with a measured, purposeful grace as she approaches. The dozen or so palace guards escorting her fan out, heads on a swivel to vigilantly seek out any possible threats.
¡°Nuqasiq!¡± Haesan shouts, her tone a mix of elation and disbelief.
Nuqasiq¡¯s eyes find Haesan, and a rare, soft smile touches her lips, transforming her austere face into something almost maternal. ¡°Haesan, my dear child,¡± she replies with an undercurrent of affection. The Qantua warriors around us relax slightly, though their grip on their weapons remains firm.
I feel a growing unease twisting in my gut, like this feeling that a storm looms on the horizon. I search the area, looking for anything that might explain this unexpected visit, or any threats chasing down the Queen Mother, yet nothing appears. Despite this, something about Nuqasiq¡¯s sudden appearance doesn¡¯t sit well with me, and I can¡¯t place my finger on why.
Haesan¡¯s excitement falters, her steps hesitant as she stops a few paces short of the regal woman. ¡°What are you doing here?¡± she asks, eyes wide with a spectrum of emotions.
¡°We had to escape,¡± Nuqasiq replies, her tone suddenly somber. ¡°Qapauma is in chaos. The Qente Waila have loosed a full-scale assault on the palace. Achutli¡¯s forces are holding them off, though for how much longer, I cannot be certain. I no longer felt safe inside the capital¡±
¡°I see you wisely traveled with a small, nimble force, to be fleet of foot,¡± I note, observing the paired down group of warriors with which she travels. ¡°But why come here to Qelantu Loh?¡±
Nuqasiq steadily meets my gaze. ¡°Yes, I brought what I could. The palace was under siege. We had no choice but to flee with what little we could carry, and the reduced size allows us to move covertly. As for coming here, I knew this place would be a haven, and I hoped to find Haesan here. Chalqo, a trusted ally and old friend, often spoke of Qelantu Loh as a safe refuge.¡±
¡°I¡¯m afraid Chalqo and his band of musicians have not yet appeared in Qelantu Loh,¡± Haesan says, her head drooping and shoulders sagging.
The Atima elders exchange uneasy glances, shifting their weight from foot to foot. Concern and skepticism etch their weathered faces. They¡¯re shaken by Nuqasiq¡¯s sudden arrival and grave news regarding Qapauma.
¡°Well, no matter,¡± Nuqasiq says, disrupting the morbid silence. ¡°I trusted in the gods to guide my steps. And it seems they led me to the right place.¡±
Haesan and Nuqasiq exchange warm smiles. It¡¯s as though I can see Haesan¡¯s heart swell in front of me, how she beams with all the brightness of the sun at the mere presence of this elderly woman. Nuqasiq reaches out, gently clasping Haesan¡¯s hands. Their eyes lock in a silent conversation, one filled with deep admiration and love, as if the world around them has momentarily faded away.
¡°Tell us exactly what happened,¡± I interject, my voice harsher than intended amid their sentimental reunion. ¡°From the beginning. Please.¡±
Before Nuqasiq can respond, Haesan steps forward. She places a hand upon my shoulder, then looks from me to Nuqasiq. ¡°We should speak in private,¡± she insists with an understated urgency. ¡°We don¡¯t want to alarm anyone unwittingly until we can determine what is occurring. Chalqo¡¯s tent is nearby. It will give us the space and privacy we need.¡±
I nod in agreement, my senses returning to me. Speaking away from the gathered Atima refugees, not wanting to worry them further, is clearly the correct decision. Nuqasiq inclines her head, signaling her assent. Together, we make our way through the dirt paths of the camp, keeping our gazes fixed on the ground. We exchange only cursory nods with the curious onlookers, their eyes following us with a mix of suspicion and hope.
Entering Chalqo¡¯s tent, we find a modest but well-kept space. It¡¯s filled with the faint scent of dried herbs and a subtle aroma of wood smoke. Against one wall rests a carefully arranged variety of instruments. Nuqasiq¡¯s eyes catch sight of a particular instrument: a flute carved from a light wood, adorned with intricate patterns. She pauses, her expression softening as she admires the delicate item.
¡°This quena,¡± she murmurs, reaching out to gently touch it. ¡°I recall Chalqo telling me it belonged to his mother. She used to play it during the harvest festivals.¡± Her voice carries a rare warmth, a glimpse of a side of her I¡¯ve never before seen.
Standing nearby, Haesan lovingly watches her grandmother. I feel a twinge of regret at having to disrupt their reunion, but there¡¯s no time to waste. ¡°Queen Mother,¡± I softly urge. ¡°Tell us what occurred in Qapauma after the clash between Achutli¡¯s warriors and the Jade Hummingbird.¡±
Nuqasiq nods, her fingers lingering on the quena for a moment longer before she turns to face us. ¡°Very well,¡± she begins, her tone now more serious. ¡°It started with a surprise attack. After the initial clash, the two sides separated in what appeared to be a tentative truce. But then two days later, the Qente Waila unleashed a full-scale assault on the palace. We were caught off guard. The warriors at the palace fought bravely, resisting the surging rebels, but I and the guards I was with were outnumbered and overwhelmed.¡±
I watch Nuqasiq closely. As she speaks, I note the slight tremor in her hands, and the way her eyes flicker ever so slightly when she mentions the attack. Is it fear, or something else?
¡°We managed to hold them off long enough to secure an escape route,¡± Nuqasiq continues. ¡°Achutli stayed behind to lead the defense. He insisted I take palace guards and leave, to find allies and regroup. The small group of warriors and I made our way here, knowing it was our best chance of survival.¡±
I¡¯m astonished by how close they must have come to death. ¡°The city must have been difficult to navigate. How did you manage to escape the city amidst such chaos?¡± I ask, wondering how they managed to leave Qapauma with their lives.
¡°I had a small group of loyal guards who knew the hidden passages of the palace,¡± she says. Haesan nods along to this, as though she knows what Nuqasiq describes. ¡°We used these secret routes to avoid the main battle areas and slipped out under the cover of night.¡±
¡°That must have been terrifying!¡± Haesan remarks, leaning in closely as Nuqasiq recounts the events of her escape.
¡°Yes, I was fortunate that the confusion of the battle worked to my advantage,¡± Nuqasiq says, her face solemn, eyes fixed in a distant stare. ¡°I kept my head down and moved quickly, using the calamity as my shield.¡±
I frown slightly, sensing a discrepancy. ¡°You mentioned using hidden passages to escape. But now you say you moved through the calamity of the battle. Which was it, Queen Mother? Were the passages not as secure as expected?¡±
Nuqasiq¡¯s eyes flicker momentarily, and she offers a tight smile. ¡°Both, in a way. The passages allowed us to bypass the initial onslaught, but there were moments we had to navigate through the mayhem above ground, through the streets of the city. The situation was fluid, and we had to adapt quickly.¡±
I nod slowly, though not entirely convinced. Before I can press further, Haesan intervenes. ¡°It must have been harrowing. I¡¯m so glad you¡¯re safe, grandmother.¡±
I make my way around the long table at the center of Chalqo¡¯s tent, collecting a thin layer of dust and dirt as I trace my finger along its surface. ¡°When you departed, what was the state of the palace?¡± I ask. ¡°Is the Arbiter holding his ground?¡±
¡°Achutli is holding the palace with an iron grip,¡± she replies proudly. ¡°The Qente Waila are attacking with an otherworldly ferocity, but are struggling to make any headway. I would hope that this petty feud will be over soon enough.¡±
I pause, a bit surprised. ¡°Oh, so if the palace is secure, and the Arbiter is mounting a formidable defense, why did you feel the need to flee?¡±
¡°His security does not extend to those he deems expendable,¡± Nuqasiq says with some restraint. ¡°I had to leave to ensure my safety and to rally support from outside.¡±
¡°So, you¡¯re dispensable now?¡± I remark. ¡°I thought you said the Arbiter provided you with security before you fled. You¡¯re the Queen Mother, after all. It¡¯s inexcusable of him to otherwise be so dismissive of your safety.¡±
¡°Achutli does not hold any loyalty to family,¡± Haesan says bitterly. The history behind those words reveals everything I need to know about the Arbiter and his morals. I want to delve deeper, but upon noting the scowl forming across Haesan¡¯s face, I decide it¡¯s best to drop the matter for now.
¡°I see,¡± I say, now pacing back and forth alongside the table. ¡°Aside from escaping to Qelantu Loh, did you leave Qapauma with any specific plans or goals in mind?¡± I ask. Haesan glances at me with confusion and growing irritation. Am I treating Nuqasiq harshly? I genuinely want to understand the Queen Mother¡¯s story.
¡°My immediate concern was survival,¡± she says, before abruptly adding, ¡°And to find Haesan and ensure her safety, of course. I didn¡¯t have time to formulate a long-term plan as I fled.¡±
¡°Survival is understandable,¡± I say, slightly confused, ¡°but as a leader, wouldn¡¯t you have at least a rudimentary plan? Something you and the Arbiter considered, should anything take a downward turn, such as this rebellion in Qapauma?¡±
Nuqasiq shifts her posture uncomfortably, then decides to sit on a rickety stool, which groans and creaks as she lowers herself upon it. ¡°In the heat of the moment, my only thought was to get to safety. Now that I¡¯m here, I can begin to plan more strategically.¡±
I frown, not entirely convinced of Nuqasiq¡¯s explanations. But I¡¯m unable to ask any further questions. Haesan has now approached Nuqasiq, massaging her grandmother¡¯s shoulders.
¡°You must be exhausted from the ordeal and the long journey,¡± Haesan says, though she looks at me as she speaks. I have a nagging suspicion that I¡¯ve done something wrong, yet I know not what I could have done to offend. Her gaze lingers, silently reprimanding me, which deepens my unease.
¡°Let¡¯s get you to a bed,¡± she continues. ¡°You can reside in Chalqo¡¯s tent while you¡¯re in Qelantu Loh. Here¡¡± Haesan gently guides Nuqasiq to the bedroll made from tall grasses. I find the gesture bizarre¡ªNuqasiq has shown she¡¯s anything but frail, yet Haesan persists in treating her with such gentle care. It¡¯s a peculiar moment, considering this is the same woman who bravely defended the palace walls from the Eye in the Flame. The contrast between her formidable strength and this tender treatment of her grandmother reveals an unexpected depth to her. Perhaps there is more to Haesan that I must learn.
Before Nuqasiq can rest upon the bedroll, we hear a disruption taking place outside Chalqo¡¯s tent. More shouts and commotion occur, just beyond the perimeter of the campsite. We each look at one another nervously, bracing for whatever events are happening.
A heavy silence hangs over Qelantu Loh, thick as the mist that has started to roll in from the nearby mountains. The atmosphere is tense with an unspoken dread and foreboding, the kind that coils around the spine and prickles the skin. Shadows dance erratically in the light of the dusk, casting elongated, sinister shapes against the walls made of tanned animal hides.
As we depart the tent to investigate, faces emerge from the tent flaps, eyes wide and searching for threats. A sharp and jarring cry from the far distance pierces the air, echoing through the stillness. The noise grows louder and more frantic, as the murmurs morph into calls of alarm. The Qantua warriors stand alert and ready, tightly gripping their weapons.
Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings.
By the time we arrive at the disturbance, the matter appears to be under control. Several Qantua warriors surround a captive, who is bound by the ankles and wrists at his back. The apprehended person occasionally puts up fits of resistance as he is being dragged by two of the warriors. He¡¯s just a boy, his young face streaked with dirt and sweat, and his wide eyes search for an escape that isn¡¯t there. But the disturbing sight that causes my heart to leap into my throat are the ashen gray robes he wears.
¡°We caught this one sneaking around the perimeter,¡± the warrior announces, shoving the captive to the ground before us. ¡°Claims he¡¯s a simple hunter, but along with his garments, we found markings on him that indicate he¡¯s from the Eye in the Flame.¡±
For good measure, I deliver a swift kick to his stomach, forcing a groan to leave his lips. ¡°That¡¯s for Sachia,¡± I scowl. Haesan pulls me back before I can deliver another one for Iantana, another for Qapauma, and several more for all the lives needlessly lost at their maniacal hands.
¡°We caught this one while we were conducting our patrol,¡± one of the young Qantua warriors says, proudly displaying the cultist as if he were a prized trophy from a successful hunt. ¡°He was out wandering the plains alone. We¡¯ve got a few other teams out looking to make sure there aren¡¯t any others.¡±
¡°Bring him to the storage tent,¡± one of the warriors commands. ¡°We can question him in there¡ªwe don¡¯t want to turn this into some spectacle more than it already is.¡±
I clap the warriors on their backs, congratulating them for a job well done, and follow behind the cultist being carried off by the Qantua. Nuqasiq remains stoic, an expression likely well-practiced given her long exposure to the world of politics. Haesan, on the other hand, looks concerned, fidgeting with and picking at her fingernails.
¡°What could the presence of this cultist mean?¡± she asks me in a near whisper on our way to the storage tent. ¡°Are the Eye in the Flame close to Qelantu Loh?¡±
¡°We will have to discover the truth for ourselves,¡± I grunt.
¡°But what if he doesn¡¯t give us the answers we seek?¡±
¡°Oh, he will give us the correct answers,¡± I respond. I feel a smirk forming at the corner of my mouth. Haesan doesn¡¯t look pleased by my reply, but it¡¯s of no consequence to me.
I step into the dimly lit storage tent, shadows flickering across the walls from a single torch. The scent of food supplies mingles with the acrid odor of the cultist¡¯s blood and sweat. My eyes immediately lock onto the captive at the center. Bound at the wrists and ankles, his ashen gray robe seems to meld into the shadows. Bruises and cuts mar his face, clear evidence of the Qantua warriors¡¯ rough handling. The sight of his wounds causes a subtle smile to cross my lips.
The temperature begins to drop, as the tent flaps occasionally rustle in the cool dusk breeze. Haesan stands beside me, biting her lip and wringing her hands, while Nuqasiq remains a silent observer with an unreadable expression. The two Qantua warriors, clad in their gold and black tunics, stand guard near the entrance. Their eyes never leave the prisoner, hands resting lightly on the hilts of their weapons. Every sound¡ªevery breath¡ªis amplified in the stillness.
I step forward, the sound of my boots against the packed dirt floor breaking the heavy silence. I feel the eyes of everyone in the tent on me, waiting to see what I will do. The captive looks up, chest heaving with labored breaths. The lone torch catches the sweat on his brow, illuminating his scars. His fear betrays the mask of defiance he tries to wear.
¡°You know why you¡¯re here,¡± I say in a low, measured tone. ¡°Speak, and perhaps you will leave this tent with your life.¡±
The captive remains silent, pressing his lips together tightly. Outside, the camp continues its quiet evening routines. But within the confines of this tent, the world is reduced to this moment, this confrontation.
Even in the dim light, I can see the captive smirking at me. That smug look ignites something fierce within, and I decide to do something about it. I stride forward with a grin spreading across my face as I approach. The bound prisoner¡¯s eyes widen just a fraction too late. With a swift, unrelenting motion, my foot connects squarely with the center of his face. The impact reverberates through the room in a sickening crunch. Both the captive and Haesan shriek, their voices intertwining discordantly in shock and pain, stunned by the inevitable strike.
¡°Tell us what we want to know, now!¡± I command. The cultist spits his blood out onto the ground, wiping his mouth into the collar of his robe. Haesan rests a hand on my shoulder, then stares at me intensely, eyebrows raised. I shrug off her effort to pacify me, my anger too fierce to be tempered by her silent plea for restraint.
Haesan takes a step closer to the cultist. Speaking softly, she says to him, ¡°Tell us what we need to know. The Eye in the Flame¡¯s plans, their next move. We can end this before more blood is shed.¡±
A few paces back, Nuqasiq observes the exchange with keen eyes. Slowly stepping forward with a commanding presence, she calmly says, ¡°Your silence will only lead to more suffering, for you and your brethren. Choose wisely.¡±
The captive¡¯s gaze shifts between us. He¡¯s measuring our resolve, calculating the possibilities and likely outcomes. The shadows seem to close in around him. The flickering torch casts ghostly images at the edges of his vision, playing tricks on the mind. His shoulders sag slightly, as though the fight is draining from him, replaced by a weary resignation.
Sensing this shift, I lean in, my voice barely above a whisper but as sharp as a blade. ¡°Start talking. Now.¡±
The torch¡¯s flame wavers, teetering on the edge of extinguishing. The young prisoner swallows hard, which sounds jarringly loud in the stillness. He continues to defy our demands, remaining silent, testing my patience. We need immediate answers, and I¡¯m starting to believe this boy doesn¡¯t have them, which would explain his lack of response.
¡°I know nothing!¡± the child lies. He speaks quickly, too quickly, obviously only fearing for his life. I am not here to play games.
I¡¯ve had enough. ¡°If you¡¯re not going to tell me anything useful, you clearly have no use for your tongue,¡± I tell the boy.
I turn to the Qantua warrior and extend my hand. ¡°Warrior, hand me your dagger. I¡¯m going to have this boy¡¯s tongue.¡±
Haesan gasps. ¡°Inuxeq! You wouldn¡¯t!¡±
The warrior hands me his blade. It feels awkward and poorly balanced, too heavy at the hilt. But it will do. Perhaps I can have my revenge for Sachia at the expense of this useless cultist.
The boy grimaces, anticipating the dagger¡¯s cold touch. Haesan¡¯s pleads to me are muted and blend in with the wind. But the child gives us no other choice, and I fail to see the good that will come from sparing his life and allowing him to return to his people.
I take a few more steps toward him, extending the blade out and preparing to carry out my spoken promise. ¡°O-o-okay!¡± he finally shouts. ¡°What is it you want to know?¡±
¡°Why were you sent out here, alone and so far from your main force?¡± I begin.
The boy doesn¡¯t look at me as he answers. ¡°I was sent to scout for any threats to the Eye in the Flame, and to find villages we could¡ use.¡±
¡°What do you mean by ¡®use¡¯?¡± I charge. ¡°What exactly were your orders?¡±
He hesitates, searching the ground for a response. ¡°To find places where we could convert the inhabitants into warriors for the cause.¡±
¡°The gray creatures,¡± I mutter. I feel the blood coursing through my veins, and the drumming of my heart swells in my ears as my anger grows. Before I unleash my rage and strike the child, Haesan takes a step closer to the captive.
¡°How are they creating the gray creatures?¡± she asks. ¡°I thought magic in Pachil was supposed to have vanished when the Eleven vanquished the Timuaq.¡±
Now the boy smirks. ¡°There is a ritual performed by the Sunfire. With the beating of the Huetloia, the one true god, Eztletiqa, speaks through the Sunfire and converts the dead into warriors, giving them redemption. A new life, a new purpose.¡±
¡°Is there a way to stop the transformation? Or reverse it?¡± Haesan¡¯s brows furrow as she tries to better understand.
¡°No one has ever come back from it,¡± the boy replies. ¡°Once they change, they are redeemed forever, obedient to the Sunfire and the will of Eztletiqa.¡±
I could have told Haesan all of that, having learned of the process through my discussion with Mexqutli. Mexqutli¡ Just the thought of his name enrages me. However, I must focus on the present, on the interrogation at hand. ¡°Are there more scouts like you?¡± The boy nods. ¡°How many scouts are out there, and where are they?¡±
¡°I do not know how many, but there are others,¡± he says. ¡°We were sent in different directions to cover more ground.¡±
¡°Your numbers,¡± I say, stepping closer as I interrogate him further. ¡°How many of you are left? Where are they regrouping?¡±
The boy starts shaking. ¡°I do not know the exact number. We are regrouping and waiting for Eztletiqa to tell us the right moment to strike. There is a village to the north, in Aimue territory, in the hills just beyond the Maiu Antumalal. It is where the Sunfire is planning something big, waiting for the new moon, though they do not tell lowly scouts like me everything.¡±
I sense a lie being told. I raise my fist, ready to strike the boy with the back of my hand. ¡°What is he planning, boy?¡±
The captive whimpers, cringing and lowering his head. ¡°I do not know!¡± he yells. ¡°I am being honest! If I return from my scouting mission with news, I am to be promoted. Maybe then, I will know more. But I do not know anything the great Sunfire is planning¡ªit was only something I overheard during one of our meals. I swear to you!¡±
Haesan places a hand on my shoulder. ¡°That is enough, Inuxeq,¡± she says, her soothing voice hoping to calm me before I carry out any violence. I let this go, for the moment.
¡°The new moon,¡± Nuqasiq repeats¡ªI nearly forgot she was still present. ¡°That is not long from now.¡±
¡°Where do they plan to strike first?¡± I ask. ¡°Is Qapauma the main target?¡±
¡°Yes, Qapauma is the main target,¡± he says. ¡°Before the new moon, the Sunfire will look to convert more villages to our cause. But Qapauma is believed to be the heart of power, and when we take it, the rest will fall.¡±
¡°We have gotten all we can out of this boy,¡± I say, done with this conversation. Haesan looks upon me with great concern. The young captive¡¯s eyes are struck with fear as he realizes what¡¯s to come. I toss the dagger to the Qantua warrior and retrieve Sachia¡¯a bow, raising it and pointing it at the cultist. I nock an arrow, its metallic tip glints in the dim light, ready to deliver justice for my fallen friend and all those lost to the Eye in the Flame¡¯s cruelty.
¡°Wait!¡± Haesan¡¯s voice rings out, urgent and pleading. She steps between me and the prisoner, holding out her hands to stop me. ¡°Inuxeq, we need him. He might know more, and killing him now won¡¯t bring back the dead.¡±
I pause, my heart pounding. I¡¯m overwhelmed by the need for vengeance, the need for justice. I see the earnestness in Haesan¡¯s eyes, her misguided belief that there¡¯s another way.
¡°This is for Sachia,¡± I whisper, my voice trembling with emotion, before delivering a swift kick to the captive¡¯s ribs. He groans, doubling over in pain, but still alive.
Turning to Haesan, I lower my bow, the anger simmering, but controlled. ¡°We will keep him alive,¡± I say through my gnashed teeth, ¡°for now. But he will not escape justice forever.¡±
The Qantua warriors exchange a glance, then nod curtly. They step forward, taking hold of the captive more firmly.
¡°We¡¯ll take it from here,¡± one of them says, his tone cold and final. ¡°He won¡¯t be a threat to anyone.¡±
I nod, feeling a mixture of relief and unease. As they drag the captive away, I catch a final glimpse of the young boy¡¯s terrified eyes. The warriors¡¯ silent, knowing exchange with one another lingers in my mind. But I can¡¯t watch over the prisoner all night when I¡¯ve got important matters to discuss with Haesan.
As we step out of the tent and make our way to Chalqo¡¯s residence, the cool night air rushes over me. I catch Haesan¡¯s eye, her relief palpable, but a shadow of worry still darkens her face. She looks down toward the ground and fidgets with her fingers.
¡°Nuqasiq is right,¡± she says nervously. ¡°The new moon is not long from now. We may not have enough time to gather an army in Aimue and return to defend Qapauma. This might be for nought.¡±
I stop and turn to her, my voice edged with frustration. ¡°We can¡¯t just abandon the plan to gather support in Aimue. Without a proper force, we won¡¯t stand a chance against the Eye in the Flame.¡±
Haesan¡¯s eyes flash with desperation. ¡°But if we don¡¯t act quickly, Qapauma will fall! We need to prioritize what¡¯s most urgent.¡±
Previously trailing behind, Nuqasiq steps forward. ¡°Haesan has a point, Inuxeq. Time is of the essence. Perhaps we should consider a more direct approach. A smaller, elite force could strike at the heart of the Eye in the Flame¡¯s operations, disrupting their plans before they come to fruition.¡±
I glare at Nuqasiq, her calm demeanor infuriating me. ¡°And how do you propose we do that with the limited numbers we have? We need more than a handful of warriors to take on the Sunfire and his cult.¡±
Nuqasiq smiles slightly with a crafty glint in her eyes. ¡°There are ways to fight that do not always rely on sheer numbers. We could use the element of surprise, guerrilla tactics, and strategic sabotage. It has worked before in other battles.¡±
Haesan looks between us, torn. ¡°We can¡¯t ignore that Qapauma is in immediate danger. If we lose it, we lose everything. The Eye in the Flame will use the city¡¯s resources to strengthen their position even further.¡±
I shake my head, trying to stay composed. ¡°If we don¡¯t gather more support, we risk being overwhelmed. Qapauma faces two dangers: one of the Jade Hummingbird and the other of Achutli¡¯s loyalists. The Aimue are already suffering under the Eye in the Flame¡¯s raids. If we can rally them, we not only gain allies, but we can also put up a strong resistance to weaken the cult¡¯s influence in the north, and a band of warriors to help for the battles to the south.¡±
Nuqasiq steps closer to Haesan. ¡°Think of the people, Haesan. Every moment we delay, more lives are lost. We can¡¯t afford to wait.¡±
I take a deep breath, struggling to maintain control. ¡°And if we rush into this, we risk everything. We need a balanced approach. Rallying the Aimue will give us the numbers and the moral high ground.¡±
Haesan pulls away from Nuqasiq, facing me directly. ¡°But what if we don¡¯t have time for a balanced approach? The capital is not only under duress by the internal struggles of the Tapeu, but the looming Eye in the Flame, as well. What if Qapauma falls before we can gather enough support?¡±
Nuqasiq¡¯s eyes narrow slightly. ¡°Inuxeq, your strategy is sound, but it¡¯s not adaptable to the current urgency. Sometimes, the best plans need to be flexible.¡±
I feel a surge of anger, but force myself to remain calm. ¡°Flexibility is one thing, recklessness is another. We can¡¯t let panic dictate our actions. If we do, the Eye in the Flame will exploit it.¡±
Haesan¡¯s face hardens. ¡°And what if being overly cautious leads to our downfall? We need to find a way to act swiftly and effectively.¡±
Nuqasiq¡¯s gaze locks with mine, her expression inscrutable. ¡°We must weigh our options carefully. A decisive, bold move could save many lives, but hesitation could doom us all. Let us find a way to merge our strategies. Speed and strength. Precision and power. Together, we can forge a path to victory.¡±
We stand in a brief moment of silence, mulling over the decision that needs to be made. The scout¡¯s revelations hang over us like a dark cloud. The urgency of the new moon¡¯s approach presses down on us, forcing us to question every move.
Haesan¡¯s voice trembles with emotion. ¡°I respect your leadership, Inuxeq, but I need to know you¡¯re willing to adapt. We can¡¯t afford to be divided in our purpose.¡±
¡°I understand," I say, clenching my fists. ¡°But now I must question, what is our purpose?¡±
More silence. More discomfort. The debate is far from over, but we must find a way to move forward. The fate of Qapauma, and perhaps all of Pachil, depends on it.
115 - Saqatli
We march through the exotic Ulxa jungles in silence, as a gloom hangs heavily over us. Nothing has gone according to plan, and morale feels as if it is lower than the deepest depths of a cave. Paxilche is brooding, likely from having his plan rebuffed. Tlexn¨ªn is angered by the loss of the capital of her people. The Sanqo are upset from being away from their homeland for so long. But it is Walumaq whose despondency is the most alarming. In the short time I have known her, she has been the one full of hope and optimism. What has caused her such distress?
I approach the Sanqo princess, though she is not aware of my presence. Her attention is on the ground in front of her, her face solemn, lost in her thoughts. Noch assists me in getting her attention, rubbing along the legs of the princess. To my relief, this elicits a warm smile from her, albeit a tiny one. But it is a victory nonetheless.
¡°What seems to be the problem, Sanqo princess?¡± I inquire, my voice resonating within our respective minds.
She looks around, then her gaze meets mine. ¡°I¡¯m beginning to believe we¡¯re straying too far from the path,¡± she thinks.
¡°But we are walking to the next Ulxa village, as we all discussed,¡± I respond, confused by her statement.
She shakes her head. ¡°No, I mean the path to defeat the real evil¡ªthe Eye in the Flame. I fear we¡¯ve become distracted from our real goal. That, and the trust I have seemingly misplaced in others. And¡¡± Her voice trails off inside my mind, but I can tell there is something greater¡ªeven greater than all of the issues she has just expressed¡ªthat is causing her much grief.
After a pause, she sniffles, wiping her nose hurriedly. Then, she continues, ¡°I fear that this mission to rally support for Ulxa to regain Analoixan is important, but it¡¯s allowing the surviving Eye in the Flame time to regroup and gain strength while we¡¯re only weakening the forces that could resist them. And Paxilche¡ I worry about him. His emotions often override his rationality. I fear what he is capable of, and I worry I won¡¯t always be present to quell his basest desires.¡±
Noch moves closer to Walumaq, rubbing her head gently on the calf of the Sanqo princess. The soft, comforting purr seems to calm her somewhat. I step closer, my heart aching for her.
¡°Sanqo princess,¡± I begin, trying my best to choose my words carefully, ¡°your concerns about the Eye in the Flame are valid. We must remain vigilant and not lose sight of our ultimate goal. I believe our course, though it may appear to be diverging, will lead us back to the fight against true evil. But as for Paxilche¡¡±
Noch looks up at me, as though she is telling me to speak from my heart. ¡°The emotions of Paxilche are strong, yes,¡± I continue, ¡°but they stem from a place of deep care and passion. It is not easy to balance such intense feelings, especially in times of conflict. Your presence does help him, more than you realize. But you are right to worry. It is important to guide him, to remind him of what is truly at stake. Perhaps, in those moments of anger, try to reach the part of him that cares deeply. It is in those moments that his true strength can be found.¡±
The eyes of Walumaq soften slightly, and she nods again, more resolutely this time. ¡°I will try,¡± she says.
Despite the slight relief, I can see that the worry in her eyes does not fade entirely. There is still something weighing heavily on her heart.
I do not know how to address it. Maybe I am not the person to whom she should be speaking. Maybe I am not capable enough of aiding her with carrying her burdens. Maybe I am not worthy to be in the presence of a goddess.
Sensing my uncertainty, Noch nudges my leg with her head. She purrs softly, looks up at me with her wise, amber eyes, and then glances back at Walumaq, as if urging me to say something more. She always seems to understand more than I do, possessing an intuition I can only hope to one day obtain.
I take a deep breath, gathering my courage. ¡°Perhaps,¡± I say, my voice hesitant and cracking subtly, ¡°it is not just the path that worries you, but something deeper, something more personal? After all, you have mentioned misplaced trust. Is it in your companions, or¡ in yourself?¡±
Walumaq pauses for a moment, and I can see the struggle within her. She looks away, her face etched with pain. ¡°It¡¯s not just about the path or the people around me,¡± she thinks, her voice filled with sorrow. ¡°It¡¯s about the¡ prophecy.¡±
¡°Prophecy?¡± I ask, intrigued.
¡°Yes, a prophecy given to me by an old crone in the Tapeu city of Chalaqta,¡± she explains. ¡°However, I¡¯m beginning to think it was all a mistake.¡±
¡°What was told to you?¡±
Walumaq takes a deep breath, her shoulders slumping as if the weight of the world rests upon them. ¡°She said I was the great uniter, the one who would either save or destroy Pachil. That it was my choice. I was to stop the destroyers, and I believed them to be the Eye in the Flame. But now, I¡¯m not so sure. What if I¡¯ve put too much faith in a false prophecy? What if I¡¯m not a uniter? What if¡ what if it was all a lie?¡±
¡°Prophecies can be mysterious and often difficult to interpret,¡± I say softly. ¡°But I believe in your strength and your heart. The path may not be clear, but your intentions are noble. We all have doubts, especially when the stakes are so high. What matters is that you continue to fight for what you believe in.¡±
Walumaq looks down at Noch. ¡°Thank you, Saqatli,¡± she whispers aloud, her voice breaking. ¡°I just¡ I worry that I¡¯m not enough. That I can¡¯t save Pachil.¡±
¡°You are more than enough,¡± I reply, my voice firm yet gentle. ¡°And you are not alone. We are with you, every step of the way.¡±
Her gaze softens, and she seems to consider my words. Noch purrs again like a sound of approval, as if to say that we are on the right path.
¡°You have already inspired many,¡± I continue, feeling more confident. ¡°Look at the warriors who now follow you, from different factions and different walks of life, the people who believe in your cause. That is not misplaced trust. That is your power as a uniter.¡±
She looks at me, tears welling in her eyes. But a small smile begins to form on her lips. ¡°Perhaps you¡¯re right,¡± she thinks. ¡°Maybe it¡¯s not about a strict path, but about the overall journey that the gods have set out for me to travel.¡±
Noch leaps into the arms of Walumaq¡ªsomething I have never seen her do to anyone but me. But her presence seems to comfort the princess, who strokes the soft fur of the ocelot. ¡°Thank you, Saqatli,¡± she thinks. ¡°I needed to hear that.¡±
Relieved, I smile back. ¡°We all need reassurance sometimes.¡±
Trekking through the Ulxa jungles is a curious experience, you should know. Though there is a tangle of vines and shadowed paths, the leaves above are not as thick, allowing beams of sunlight to pierce through and illuminate the vibrant, yet less imposing, greenery below. The trees are tall and ancient, but their branches do not intertwine as densely as in my homeland. Here, the underbrush is navigable, paths winding like serpents through the lush forest.
Back home, the jungles of Auilqa are a different beast. There, the air is thick and humid, like wading through warm water. The trees are giants, with their trunks covered in a thick layer of moss, and their branches home to countless birds and insects. The ground is soft underfoot, often muddy, and the foliage so dense, it can be like walking through a wall of green. Here, in the Ulxa jungles, it is quieter, almost reverent. The paths are clearer, the underbrush less aggressive. It is a world apart from the chaotic, vibrant life of Auilqa, and yet, in its own way, just as formidable.
We arrive at the first village, Acatzinco, located within a marshland. The mosquitos are relentless, swarming us as we make our way through. Small, wooden huts with straw thatched roofs dot the area, scattered randomly among the tall trees. The villagers look upon us warily, watching a group of outsiders from a wide variety of factions approach. It is only when they see Tlexn¨ªn that they shout to one another, announcing the arrival of their revered leader.
Tlexn¨ªn remains stoic while receiving a barrage of greetings and salutes. A path is cleared for us, flanked by Ulxa warriors in loincloths and spears held with their tips pointing skyward to the heavens. The Ulxa leader strides toward a large hut, bigger than three homes combined, with walls painted in bright colors of pink, yellow, and blue.
An elderly man emerges from the large hut, utilizing a long tree branch to assist him as he hobbles toward us at a near leisurely pace. His dark, tanned skin is weathered, having endured many dozens of long solar years on Pachil. Curiously, unlike the villagers and warriors, he does not show any warm expression toward the renowned leader.
The elder looks at Noch suspiciously, but I reach down and pet the ocelot, signaling that her presence is welcome. With eyes narrowed, he faces Tlexn¨ªn, stating, ¡°It is never a good sign when the ruler of the Ulxa appears at a village as small as this.¡±
Tlexn¨ªn grunts an acknowledgement. ¡°The Auilqa have attacked Analoixan when it was vulnerable, defending an assault made by a maniacal cult. We need to rally warriors to fight and reclaim our sacred capital.¡±¡¯
¡°And how did Analoixan become uncharacteristically vulnerable?¡± the elder questions.
Tlexn¨ªn snarls. ¡°We were under attack by a maniacal cult, the Eye in the Flames, who worship a demon-possessed version of Eztletiqa.¡±
¡°I am afraid that is not a concern with which we can help,¡± the elder says, frowning. Though I can only understand his words through the assistance of Noch, the tone and meaning behind his words is evident: he only feigns disappointment, but genuinely feels none. ¡°We are a small village, with hardly enough warriors to defend it. Any warrior sent for your mission weakens our ability to protect ourselves.¡±
¡°You would defy a direct order from your ruler, the one chosen by the Itztecatl?¡± Tlexn¨ªn charges, incensed.
The villagers appear gravely concerned, muttering to one another. She is about to storm up to the elder, but is mercifully held back by Naqispi. ¡°Perhaps it¡¯s best for the cause if you don¡¯t kill the leaders of your people¡¯s villages, hmm?¡± he says.
¡°He is disobeying the ruler of his people!¡± she remarks. ¡°The capital of his homeland, our people, is under duress, yet he refuses to aid in reclaiming it from invaders?¡±
Walumaq approaches, her face soft as she speaks gently. ¡°His position is understandable. He doesn¡¯t want to leave his village vulnerable to the same threats that attacked Analoixan. Perhaps there is a bigger village with a larger army that can help us, no?¡±
Tlexn¨ªn scowls. She is not pleased by being denied her request. Though I do not blame her, I can also understand the position of the elder. I am relieved that such a matter is not up for me to decide.
Noch begins purring once again, rubbing against my leg. Is she attempting to get my attention? For what purpose? I look down at her, her turquoise-tipped tail flicking about. She lifts up a paw and looks someplace to my left, as if she is pointing in that direction. Curious, I turn my head to see what she is referencing, wondering what she has spotted that we are overlooking.
You should know how relieved I am to be led away from the tense confrontation between Tlexn¨ªn and the elder. I find such conflict unsettling, and it makes me nervous. Perhaps Noch realizes this and is taking me some place more peaceful. She is so perceptive like that.
Noch suddenly darts off without a word, weaving through the gathered villagers. I yell for her to wait, desperately trying to keep up with her as I make my way between the small huts and through narrow paths. Villagers look at us suspiciously, but I make no eye contact with them, instead focusing on following Noch, and hoping no one picks a fight with me, being an outsider with amber eyes.
The ocelot suddenly stops at the edge of the village, her nose twitching as she sniffs the air. ¡°I smell something¡ over here,¡± she says. Then, she begins to paw at a seemingly innocuous pile of dried leaves and brush.
¡°What is it, Noch?¡± I asks softly, crouching down to inspect the area. Brushing aside the leaves, I reveal a cleverly concealed trapdoor. Though it is heavy and requires all of my strengthI lift the door. It takes a moment for my eyes to see, but I find a small, hidden cellar.
¡°How did you find this place?¡± I ask, bewildered. She only looks at me blankly.
Slowly and carefully, I descend into the cellar. The light of the sun barely reaches inside this chamber, but once my eyes adjust, I begin to gradually see what is stored here: weapons and supplies of all kinds! Spears, bows, and arrows are neatly stacked and in excellent condition, along with crates of preserved food and medical supplies.
¡°You smelled the food, did you not?¡± I tease Noch. She says nothing, only giving me a cheeky look, but I am certain this must be the reason.
If you come across this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.
We race back to the group to tell them what we discovered. I try to announce the presence of the cellar, but Tlexn¨ªn and the elder are too embroiled in their battle to notice me.
Turning to Walumaq, I ask for her to help me. ¡°Noch found something I believe will be of great benefit! But I cannot get their attention.¡±
The Sanqo princess nods, then approaches the quarreling Ulxa. She mutters something, and then I feel their eyes burning into me. My heart wants to leap out of my chest, their expressions are fierce. I calm myself with steady breaths, then wave them on to follow me.
A gathering of villagers begin swarming around us, staring into the cellar with stunned expressions. I hear the group of my companions deliberate, but it is in The Tongue of Merchants, and Noch is too distracted by the preserved foods to translate for me. After much convincing by me, she finally focuses on the discussion.
¡°You possessed all of these weapons, yet would deny me of warriors to help reclaim Analoixan?¡± Tlexn¨ªn chides the elder.
The elder raises his hands. ¡°I did not know this was here!¡± he confesses. Tlexn¨ªn does not look as if she believes him, marching toward him in disgust.
Before she can continue to scold the village leader, Walumaq interferes, stepping between the two. ¡°The weapons appear dusty, and though the food is dried and well-preserved, it is certainly not fresh. Perhaps this was left during the War of Liberation, or someone diligently stored these, but passed away before anyone else could be informed. We may never know. But the important thing is that we¡¯ve discovered them now, and we can put them to great use.¡±
¡°With these supplies,¡± one of the Sanqo warriors speaks, ¡°the villagers can arm themselves. They can defend the village while your warriors join us, to help Tlexn¨ªn reclaim Analoixan.¡±
The elder still does not appear convinced. ¡°But these are villagers,¡± he responds. ¡°Simple farmers and gatherers. It takes a lot of work to cultivate anything from these lands. Not only that, they do not possess the skill to fight and defend our village. You can give them all the weapons in Pachil, but they do not have the capabilities of our trained warriors who completed the Tepey¨llotl.¡±
One of the villagers steps forward. ¡°We will learn. For too long, we have burdened our warriors to be the lone protectors of our village. If there is an outside threat powerful enough to weaken Analoixan, we must be ready.¡±
Another villager, this one not much older than me, speaks, ¡°If we are taught how to properly use these weapons, we will help carry the burden of defending Acatzinco.¡±
Walumaq looks at the elder. ¡°One of the warriors¡ªyour best, most experienced warrior¡ªcan lead the way and instruct them. Then, you will not only have a few dozen warriors to defend your village, but instead, an entire village that can defend itself!¡±
A stern, serious-looking man with broad shoulders, and a torso painted in green and yellow, steps forward. His square jaw is raised as he speaks with confidence. ¡°For generations, my family has lived in Acatzinco. It would be a great honor to teach our people the ways of combat, to defend the village that my family has called ¡®home¡¯.¡±
¡°Then it is settled,¡± Tlexn¨ªn announces abruptly¡ªand coldly. ¡°Your remaining warriors will follow us to Analoixan, and you will have newly-trained warriors that come from your own village.¡±
The elder continues appearing reluctant, but ultimately concedes. ¡°Very well,¡± he says, slightly somberly and defeated. ¡°I will allow them to join your efforts to reclaim Analoixan. May the light of Wiqamasqa shine down upon you favorably.¡±
With that, we depart for the next village, with nearly a dozen Ulxa warriors marching alongside us. ¡°I hope we find more success in the next village than the last,¡± Noch remarks. ¡°And a place that is a little more amicable.¡± I could not agree more.
I continue to be astounded by the Ulxa landscape. We were once in a marshland not moments before, and now we arrive in a hilly countryside. It is far from any designated path, and we traverse rugged terrain for an extended period of time. The trees offer little respite, providing hardly any protection from the harsh sun, and sources for water become fewer and far between. Yet we press on, determined to rally support quickly to dispel the intruders from the Ulxa capital.
Pomaqli fights through the wound from which he is suffering. We have tried to mend it as best we could, contacting healers at every village at which we stop, hoping they will be able to cure him of his ailments. Unfortunately, no remedy has been found. Every so often, Walumaq checks with the Qiapu warrior, questioning whether he should carry on in his condition. Yet he persists, insisting that we will need his sword for the battle to come.
After nearly a full day of traveling, another village emerges from behind the rolling hills. ¡®Tepexic¡¯, Tlexn¨ªn says it is called.
¡°These Ulxa names are so much harsher than the names of other faction¡¯s cities,¡± Chiqama notes. ¡°There¡¯s something about that sharp sound in your language that just feels so rough and unsettling to me.¡±
¡°The name of the village means ¡®Place of Stone¡¯,¡± Tlexn¨ªn explains. ¡°It is a strong name.¡±
¡°And ugly-sounding name,¡± Naqispi rudely remarks.
You should know that it is true, the names are more distinct than those of cities in other factions that I have heard. Yet they are not too far from the names of Auilqa cities and villages, as well. Our languages have more abrupt and prominent sounds, certainly. Perhaps this is a common trait among the factions in what I understand to be the southernmost location of the continent, I do not know.
Needless to say, the next villages are much more receptive to the requests of Tlexn¨ªn, to the relief of both me and Noch. Though Tepexic could only offer a few more than a dozen warriors, the next village, Cuatepec¡ª¡®Eagle Hill¡¯, according to Tlexn¨ªn¡ªgranted us nearly three dozen warriors. It is encouraging to see our numbers swell, admiring how the army grows significantly in size, as we travel from village to village.
To Tlexn¨ªn, however, our numbers are completely insufficient.
One night, while taking a much-needed rest before traveling to the next village, the Ulxa warrior leader gazes upon the gathered army in disgust. ¡°We should be more than twice this size,¡± she laments. I look at the almost five dozen warriors, and am impressed that we managed to rally this much support in so little time.
You should know that figures in a position of authority intimidate me. I do not like confrontation, and generally avoid any situation that involves the potential for conflict. Yet seeing the dejected ruler, someone who is seemingly never lacking for confidence, was upsetting.
Seeing her in such a state, however, I feel a pang of sympathy. We had all endured so much, and leading her people back to freedom appeared to weigh heavily upon her shoulders. I feel the need to speak to her, to offer words of encouragement. But the language barrier is a significant obstacle.
I approach Walumaq, who sits quietly by the fire. ¡°Walumaq,¡± I begin, already regretting my disruption of her peaceful enjoyment of the warmth of the flames. ¡°I need your help to speak with Tlexn¨ªn. She seems so¡ disheartened. I want to help lift her spirits, but I do not know her language, nor the Tongue of Merchants, well enough.¡±
Walumaq looks up at me, and a small smile plays on her lips. ¡°Of course. What do you want to say to her?¡±
I glance over at Tlexn¨ªn, who stares into the night with a deeply-etched frown on her face. ¡°I want to tell her that she has accomplished so much already. That these warriors we have gathered are ready to fight, ready to reclaim Analoixan. I want her to know that¡ her leadership is inspiring, and that we believe in her. Even if our numbers are not what she hoped for, the strength of her spirit and the loyalty of her people will make up for it.¡±
Walumaq nods thoughtfully. ¡°Those are quite the wise words. I think she will most certainly appreciate your encouragement.¡± She stands and walks with me to where Tlexn¨ªn was sitting. As we approach, Tlexn¨ªn looks up, her eyes narrowing slightly in curiosity.
Walumaq speaks softly to her, conveying my message in the Tongue of Merchants. I watch Tlexn¨ªn¡¯s face as she listens, her expression shifting from one of stern disappointment to one of quiet contemplation.
When Walumaq finishes, Tlexn¨ªn looks at me, her gaze intense. You should know that the look makes me feel as though I have made a grave error in assessing the situation. I want to run and hide, never to return to Ulxa. But then she speaks, and Walumaq translates.
¡°She says that she understands your words and appreciates them,¡± the Sanqo princess says to me. ¡°She is frustrated because she feels she is failing her people. But your encouragement means a lot to her. She is grateful for your support and will continue to fight with renewed vigor.¡±
I nod, feeling a sense of relief wash over me. ¡°Tell her that we are all in this together. That we will fight alongside her until Analoixan is free.¡±
Walumaq translates my words, and, surprisingly, Tlexn¨ªn¡¯s expression softens. She places a hand on my shoulder, a rare gesture of camaraderie. She speaks again, and Walumaq smiles as she translates.
¡°She says that together is the only way we will reclaim Analoixan. And that with friends like you, she feels more confident in our success.¡±
The following morning, our journey becomes beyond pleasant. Perhaps I am perceiving matters from a position that is too optimistic, too positive, but it appears to me that each step we take is with more energy, more determination. There is more confidence, and our spirits have been lifted. But again, perhaps I am thinking wishfully. Noch says I tend to do that from time to time.
The final destination before turning back toward Analoixan is a great village, Ixtelocan. Since our time in the Ulxa capital, this is perhaps the largest village we have encountered. Located next to a vast crater lake from what I am told is an inactive volcano, the village is surrounded by farms that enjoy the rich soil; my feet sink quickly when stepping in the soft and fertile ground. The air is crisp and pleasant, and the clouds occasionally block the sun for a brief moment of relief.
We receive quite the attention¡ªpossessing an army the size of ours tends to have that effect. Everyone stops what they are doing to watch us approach and enter their village. At first, they hurry to retrieve weapons stored nearby, fearing they must defend their homes from foreign invaders. However, upon seeing Tlexn¨ªn stride through the village, an expressed relief washes over them, as they shout their admiration for the revered ruler.
A large wooden structure rests in the center of the village, surrounded by humble homes. While it possesses many similarities to other Ulxa structures¡ªcomprised of jagged pieces of wood with points like spears¡ªit is not painted like other prominent Ulxa buildings. No, this one is draped in vines that cover the walls of the six-sided structure.
We are greeted by a man of small stature, with a soft, rounded chin and a slight gut. I believe he has started to go bald, though it is difficult for me to discern this with the elaborate headdress he wears, made from such a number of feathers that I grow concerned with the amount of birds that had to be killed to create it. Much like the purported name of the village¡ª¡®The White Place¡¯, Tlexn¨ªn indicated is its name, which elicited much snickering from Naqispi¡ªthe feathers and loin cloth that comprise the garments of the distinguished man are purely white, with no other colors.
He smiles widely, exposing a few missing teeth that have been replaced with that of a light wood. Tlexn¨ªn expresses no emotion regarding the greeting, instead offering a fist over her heart and a slight bow of the head.
¡°To what do we owe a visit from the chosen one of the Itztecatl and her grand army?¡± the man says with great flourish, eyeing the army that stands behind her, trying to mask his nervousness.
Tlexn¨ªn wastes no time with niceties. ¡°We need to rally warriors. The Auilqa have attacked and claimed Analoixan while we were defending it from an assault made by a maniacal cult. We must fight and reclaim our capital.¡±
The smile never leaves the face of the village leader. ¡°But of course!¡± he exclaims. ¡°Anything for the¡ª¡°
¡°Ixtelocan is a mighty village, with hills to aid in defending it,¡± Tlexn¨ªn interrupts. ¡°I would¡ hope¡¡± She emphasizes this part while looking at Walumaq, as though Tlexn¨ªn is showing that she is making a concerted effort to be more diplomatic, ¡°that you can grant us your invaluable warriors for the cause.¡±
¡°But of course!¡± the village leader repeats. ¡°Anything for the chosen one of the Itztecatl!¡±
¡°I do not care for this fellow,¡± Noch says to me. ¡°He makes me want to pluck the wooden pieces crowding his other teeth.¡± I hold a hand to my mouth to stifle a laugh.
¡°Then the matter is settled,¡± Tlexn¨ªn announces. ¡°You honor me greatly. We are grateful for the valiant warriors of the great village of Ixtelocan.¡±
In only a few heartbeats, the Ulxa warriors begin to assemble. It takes me a while to count, but if my calculations are correct, nearly three dozen join our ranks, putting our numbers close to one hundred! And that does not include the Sanqo warriors, the two Qiapu, and Walumaq! My heart swells as I see the accumulation of warriors gathered, and the strength of our army. Tlexn¨ªn strides with confidence as she inspects the warriors, visibly pleased by the display.
¡°No! No, this will not do!¡± The village leader suddenly remarks. He hurriedly rushes up to one of the warriors and attempts to pull the tall boy away from the line of warriors. He appears to be my age, perhaps younger, with a fierce look in his eyes. Despite the antics of the village leader, the determination never leaves the face of the boy.
¡°What¡¯s going on?¡± Paxilche asks. Noch retreats behind my legs, occasionally peeking out to observe the disruption.
¡°I apologize, Great Tlexn¨ªn, but my son will not be joining your war efforts,¡± the village leader declares.
Tlexn¨ªn looks wary of this. ¡°He is a capable warrior, is he not? You would not have him fight to protect and defend the capital of his homeland? You do him a dishonor.¡±
The boy nods vehemently. ¡°The great leader is correct, father. I am a better fighter than most in this land, and I am ready to prove it. This is my chance, and I do not want the opportunity to escape me.¡±
¡°Then it is settled,¡¯ Tlexn¨ªn says, though the expression on the face of the village leader seems to disagree.
¡°He will not go anywhere beyond the limits of Ixtelocan,¡± he says. ¡°He has not partaken in the Tepey¨llotl. He has not shown that he is ready for such a campaign.¡±
¡°I have not participated in the trial because you do not allow me to leave the village, father!¡± the boy exclaims. Noch cowers behind me, feeling embarrassment for the intense exchange. You must know that I, too, feel uncomfortable. However, I confess I also feel saddened, knowing that my family would never want me around in the manner of this village leader and his son. I am rejected by my own parents, but this warrior does not suffer the same in regards to his father, who wants his son to remain close and within the limits of the village.
¡°You are the heir to my rule here in Ixtelocan, and I will not see you needlessly risk your life so that I lose my only heir!¡± the father and village leader shouts.
Tlexn¨ªn has clearly had enough of this exchange. ¡°You two will settle this matter on your own time. I have a capital that I need to reclaim. I do not have time for familial quarrels.¡±
She immediately walks away, leaving the father and son to talk among themselves. The rest of us are most definitely uncomfortable, and we slowly remove ourselves from the situation. I feel as though I should say something, but it is not my place to intervene. I can only hope that they come to an agreement, but compromise typically does not leave both parties feeling satisfied.
Thankfully, we begin our march out of Ixtelocan. The village leader does not bid us farewell, as is a general practice we have seen from the leaders of these villages. But given the circumstances, I understand, and it appears Tlexn¨ªn does not take offense to this otherwise perceived slight.
We do not make it far before Noch perks up, alarmed by something. I ask her what she hears, but she does not respond, instead looking behind us. I alert Walumaq that Noch senses danger, and she subtly gets the attention of Atoyaqtli to help us investigate the disturbance.
We wave on the others, indicating that we will signal if we are in any trouble. While the others, such as Paxilche, do not seem pleased by this, they continue on, not wanting to needlessly concern everyone if the matter turns out to be nothing. They are not far, yet I feel isolated and alone, standing with Walumaq and Atoyaqtli.
A rustling in the bushes causes me and Noch to jump. She hisses, standing with her back arched and claws out. Atoyaqtli draws his sword, and I stand behind Walumaq, who takes cautious steps toward the noise. My breath comes in quick, short bursts as I nervously watch the developing scene. Could it just be another animal, perhaps a bird? Or is it something more dangerous, more predatory?
Before I can reach out with my abilities to speak to the creature, a man leaps from the bushes, frantically wiping himself off from something clinging to his loincloth. His sword clatters with his armor as he brushes away leaves and twigs stuck to his sweaty skin. When he turns around, I immediately recognize who this is.
¡°You,¡± I say, unable to get many other words out in the Tongue of Merchants.
Atoyaqtli points his sword at the boy. But I try to calm him and indicate the boy is not a threat, gesturing to put away his sword. Thankfully, Walumaq understands my gestures and appears to verbally relay this to her trusted Sanqo warrior. As he sheathes his sword, I hear Walumaq ask, ¡°who might you be?¡±
¡°I am Noyolotzi,¡± he introduces himself. ¡°I am here to provide my sword to the one chosen by the Itztecatl.¡±
¡°You¡¯re¡¡± Walumaq slowly pieces it together. ¡°You¡¯re the village leader¡¯s son, aren¡¯t you?¡±
116 - Tlexn铆n
¡°What is he doing here?¡± I ask, surprised to see the son of the village leader from Ixtelocan.
The Sanqo goddess and her honorable warrior gain my attention as I lead my warriors from the front, only to present the boy without speaking. The young Auilqa boy who speaks to animals stands meekly behind them, like a coward, peeking out to gauge my reaction.
¡°I am Noyolotzi, and I am here to provide my sword to the one chosen¡ª¡°
¡°If I recall correctly,¡± I interrupt the boy, ¡°your father did not want you to join my army. Yet here you stand, in defiance of his command.¡±
The boy squares his shoulders, confidently meeting my gaze. ¡°The commands of my father are driven by fear for my safety. He believes I should stay protected within the village, but I cannot stand by while our land and people are threatened. I have trained with the village warriors and honed my skills. I want to fight for our freedom and our future.¡±
¡°I do not want warriors who blatantly disregard orders, simply because they disagree with them,¡± I state. ¡°That shows a disobedient warrior. Why would I want someone joining my army who is known to disrespect his elders, his superiors, those who give commands?¡±
The eyes of the boy flash with a resolve that only comes with the inexperience of youth. ¡°My defiance is not born of disrespect. It is born of necessity and a desire to protect my people with all of the strength I possess. The fear of my father cannot keep me from doing what is right. I want to prove my worth¡ªto you and to my village.¡±
There is something inside of me, something instinctual, that does not want me to allow this boy to defy the wishes of his father and join my army. Yet I recall a time when I was his age, once long ago, seeking the respect of those I held in high regard. I, too, wanted to prove my worth and value to my people, to honor the gods with my skills and defend the Ulxa. Though I may disagree with how this boy has attempted to join my army, I cannot disregard the noble motivation behind it.
¡°You are foolish to go against the orders of your father,¡± I say, causing the boy to feel despondent¡ªand rightfully so. ¡°However, these are desperate and dire times for Ulxa. We will need every brave warrior to eliminate the threat that has invaded our land and stolen our capital.¡±
With that, I make my way back to the front of the marching army. Apparently, my decision does not please the Sanqo goddess. To capture my attention, she dares to touch my shoulder in a manner that is far too comfortable, and looks up to meet my eyes.
¡°While I greatly respect your opinion,¡± the Sanqo goddess says in a near whisper, ¡°I don¡¯t think it¡¯s wise to bring the boy along with us into the dangerous situation we¡¯re about to enter. I¡¯m not sure he has enough experience, and it will be potentially perilous. Perhaps we should¡ª¡°
¡°This is a matter that concerns you not,¡± I charge, looking at her questionably. ¡°The boy has made his choice, and if he is old enough to hoist a spear, he is old enough to be of great use to our cause.¡±
¡°But his father doesn¡¯t want him to join,¡± the Sanqo goddess says, sounding weak as she pleads with me. ¡°I don¡¯t think he¡ª¡°
¡°It is not a decision in which your thinking is required,¡± I inform her. ¡°I am the ruler of the Ulxa, and this is an Ulxa matter. If he honorably fights for our cause, the gods will ensure that he is protected, as we all will be. Or, he dies an honorable death¡ªone that guarantees his spirit ascends to the heavens where fallen warriors are celebrated for their valor and sacrifice.¡±
The Sanqo goddess appears unhappy about this. I am confused. ¡°Perhaps you do not understand that to die in combat is the greatest honor bestowed upon an Ulxa warrior,¡± I attempt to explain, believing she is simply unaware of Ulxa tradition. ¡°Should he die in battle, he will sit gloriously among the gods. I do not understand why you continue to appear upset.¡±
At this, the Sanqo goddess walks away, shaking her head. I was under the impression the Sanqo also value battle, deeming themselves great warriors. I would have thought they would respect how we, in turn, respect and value our warriors should they die in war. Because of this, her attitude confuses me. However, I refuse to concern myself with it, as there are more pressing matters to which I must tend.
The terrain begins to flatten, and the appearance of trees returns to the landscape. We have traveled further from the hilly countryside of Ixtelocan and are getting threateningly close to Analoixan. The time for battle draws near, just as the sun is halfway finished with its journey across the sky.
The leader of the Sanqo warriors suggests we set up a camp out of sight of Analoixan, giving us an opportunity to strategize. He speaks wisely, so I command my warriors to follow his instruction, and then I join him and the outsiders to craft a coherent plan.
Since the assault on Analoixan, my trusted advisors and leaders have either been captured or killed. It has been difficult to replace them, but the Sanqo warriors and the one named Pomaqli have been valuable resources and a wealth of information. Discussing tactics with them has been enlightening, learning new techniques and strategies. But they are too valuable to send on a scouting mission.
As such, I gather the most experienced warriors from the various villages. Though fewer in number from what I am accustomed to, these warriors have a deep understanding of the land and the instincts needed for such a task. They know the terrain, and their loyalty to the Ulxa cause is unwavering.
The enlisted warriors are about to depart when I am startled by a blur rushing towards me. The warriors hold their swords and spears at the figure, ready to strike down the threat. But they quickly lower their weapons upon recognizing the warrior.
¡°Great Tlexn¨ªn,¡± the young boy speaks. Upon recognizing the voice, I am immediately irritated. Yet he continues, ¡°I would like to join the scouting effort, if it pleases you. It would be a great opportunity to expand upon my skills in regards to such an operation.¡±
Reflexively, I roll my eyes. ¡°You lack the experience to be an effective scout, and the risks are too great to send out someone so unseasoned.¡±
¡°That can be corrected if I join them,¡± he responds eagerly. I find his excitement grating. ¡°I wish to learn from the skillful warriors to be of better service to you. I will never leave their side, and diligently follow their direction.¡±
I would respect and admire the determination of this boy if I did not find it so tremendously annoying. He is overly motivated and excitable, which can only mean he will not have the required patience and level head to be effective in this mission. But during the trek to Analoixan, and while we traveled from village to village to rally more warriors, I learned of how experienced these warriors are, and how much wisdom they could impart on such a warrior. They could pass down invaluable knowledge upon this young warrior, who has displayed that he is eager to learn.
With a single grunt and a nod, the boy understands I have, against my better judgement, accepted his request. To his praise, he does not hint at any emotion, nodding in acknowledgement, then awaits his orders. One of the veteran warriors from Tepexic volunteers to take him under his wing, and the young warrior follows behind vigilantly.
With everyone gathered, I start the meeting without haste. ¡°We should overwhelm their numbers at the gate. We know the city well, and can use this knowledge to best direct our warriors to attack key weaknesses in the defenses of the city.¡±
The Qiapu warrior named Pomaqli frowns, considering my proposal. He carefully holds the bandages of his wounded ribs as he speaks. ¡°Overwhelming them would be effective at one key location. But if their forces are located at various places around the city, they could close in on our single location and counterattack more effectively.¡±
¡°Not if they are taken by surprise,¡± I counter. ¡°If they are not expecting our assault, we can catch them at their most vulnerable. Strike swiftly, strike efficiently, and we cut through their warriors before they have a chance to mount a defense.¡±
Pomaqli shakes his head. ¡°But if we focus all of our efforts on one location, and move through the city as a single unit, that leaves us exposed to attacks from various points. Until the scouts return, we won¡¯t know where their defenses are posted. If they¡¯re spread far and wide around the city, our concentrated forces could be vulnerable to attacks from all sides.¡±
¡°Then what do you propose?¡± I scoff, my patience wearing thin.
¡°We should establish certain points where we can ambush the unsuspecting enemy,¡± he suggests. ¡°We can use ranged attacks to draw the enemy out to us, then strike from positions we determine and from a place of advantage.¡±
¡°Consider the swarm of wasps,¡± I say, now pacing about the space. ¡°Individually, a wasp may sting, but it is when they swarm together that they become truly formidable, overwhelming any adversary with their relentless and coordinated attack. If the wasps were to scatter, their strength would be diluted, their sting less effective. We must embody the spirit of the swarm. By striking together, we become a fierce, unified force, capable of breaking through any defense with the precision and power of a single, unstoppable entity.¡±
Pomaqli nods slowly, clearly still thinking through the implications. ¡°I understand what you¡¯re trying to say, but if we strike in one place, we risk becoming trapped and surrounded. And our numbers are too small to withstand such an attack. An ambush allows us to dictate the terms of engagement. We sow chaos, making them believe we¡¯re everywhere.¡±
The Sanqo warrior named Atoyaqtli steps forward, stroking the stubble on his chin. ¡°Both of you have valid points. But what if we cut off their supply lines first? Starve them of resources, create internal strife. This would weaken them significantly before we even launch an attack.¡±
¡°Cutting off supply lines would indeed weaken them,¡± I agree, ¡°but it might take time for the results to appear¡ªtime we may not have if they can fortify their positions.¡±
¡°And we may not need to sever supply lines if we attack quickly enough,¡± Pomaqli adds.
The Sanqo goddess now steps forward. With knitted brows, she says, ¡°What if we join all our ideas into a single, cohesive plan?¡±
¡°What do you mean?¡± Pomaqli asks.
¡°Well,¡± the Sanqo goddess begins, a bit hesitantly, ¡°I am no combat strategist, and I lack the combined experience of those around the table by dozens of harvests. But¡ given our limited numbers, what if we ambush them, but ambush their supply line, when they send out people to hunt or gather food? We use that attack to draw out the enemy, as a means of enticing them to investigate what is happening. Then, we use guerrilla tactics to strike their unsuspecting targets. Once we¡¯ve weakened them, we overwhelm their now-vulnerable defenses that have just suffered a blow to their numbers, using our knowledge of the city¡¯s layout for targeted attacks.¡±
Atoyaqtli considers this, then nods. ¡°A coordinated effort like this could work. We weaken them first, then hit them hard and fast. It¡¯s a risky plan, but it might be our best option.¡±
The others murmur among themselves, then eventually nod in agreement. Our strategy seems sound, one that should give us the best possibility of success.
As we are about to part ways for the evening, the scouts return. They show no expression, maintaining a stoic demeanor. From appearances alone, I cannot tell whether their mission was successful, or if they encountered trouble that hindered any progress. But from a cursory glance, it appears all have returned, praise be to the gods.
This content has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.
¡°Great Tlexn¨ªn,¡± one of the veteran warriors¡ªI believe his origin is Cuatepec¡ªaddresses me. ¡°We were able to identify numerous locations of the warriors guarding the perimeter. They appear to rotate periodically, with a limited number on patrol, leaving brief moments where their position is vulnerable.¡±
¡°Additionally,¡± another warrior speaks¡ªthis one from Acatzinco, ¡°the Auilqa have begun constructing makeshift walls to fortify their positions. However, the construction is new, and they are not as secure as appearances imply.¡±
¡°Excellent,¡± I remark. ¡°We will use this information to coordinate with our ambush of the supply lines.¡±
¡°There is one significant issue,¡± the young boy named Noyolotzi interjects. Though I find it rude that he speaks above his superior, there is an urgency in his stance that I cannot ignore. I signal for him to speak, after which he says, ¡°We identified the existence of enslaved Ulxa villagers among the guards. I believe they are using the presence of these slaves as a barrier, should they be under attack.¡±
I feel my lips form an involuntary scowl. ¡°So they are using our people as a shield,¡± I state rhetorically. ¡°The Auilqa invaders have no honor. They must pay for their cowardice.¡±
¡°I don¡¯t think this takes away from our main plan,¡± the one who typically remains silent called Pomacha says. ¡°In fact, it presents us with an opportunity.¡± Seeing our confused faces, he explains, ¡°We will be unable to attack with reckless abandon. However, if we can free the enslaved villagers, we can expand our ranks, adding more capable fighters to aid us in reclaiming the city each instance we release them from captivity. Even those lacking experience or skills can be useful, helping us to free more enslaved villagers.¡±
We nod silently, absorbing his words. ¡°That is a bold and unexpected suggestion,¡± I say, slightly admiring this proposal. ¡°It will require careful precision and coordination, but if we can coordinate a rescue mission to free the enslaved villagers, it could turn the tide in our favor. However, we need to ensure that their safety is our top priority.¡±
¡°I agree,¡± Atoyaqtli chimes in. ¡°We can use the terrain to our advantage and stage a diversion to draw the guards away from the villagers. While they¡¯re distracted, a smaller, agile team can move in to free them.¡±
¡°As long as we¡¯re cautious and act swiftly, their liberation could cause chaos within the Auilqa ranks,¡± Pomaqli notes. ¡°That will make it easier for our main force to strike.¡±
The Sanqo warrior named Naqispi smirks. ¡°Well, look who¡¯s got a brain behind that quiet exterior,¡± he playfully jabs.
¡°Very well,¡± I conclude, after rolling my eyes from the remarks that come from Naqispi. ¡°After the ambush and upon overwhelming the Auilqa warriors at the city limits, we will divide our forces. Atoyaqtli, you will lead the diversion unit. Since this was your plan, Pomacha, you will guide the rescue team with Walumaq and Saqatli. Pomaqli, coordinate with the scouts to ensure we move at the right moment. Let us show the Auilqa what true strength looks like.¡±
We wait until nightfall to strike. Though I wanted to attack in daylight, when the enemy would least expect it, the others determined it would be wiser to utilize the cover of darkness due to our limited resources and number of warriors. I am frustrated, but only because I know they are logical and correct in their assessment, and I want to execute the plan, liberating Analoixan, as soon as possible.
Analoixan lies deep within Ulxa territory, far from Auilqa reach. Still, a winding path snakes through the jungles, leading east to the Maiu Atiniuq that splits our lands. It takes nearly a dozen days just to reach the river, with more days ahead to find the nearest Auilqa village.
Likely, they are gathering resources around Analoixan, waiting for reinforcements. I know these lands, where they would hunt or fell trees for lumber. I point in the direction I expect their workers to be, ready for confrontation. Most of the army stays behind to guard our rear. Shrouded by night, the rest of us slip toward the hunting grounds.
Laughter and jovial conversation betray their position. As anticipated, a score of Auilqa¡ªperhaps a little over a dozen¡ªclean the hides of their latest kill. They are nearly finished with their task, and will return to their people soon with their bounty. We must act quickly. I signal a team of warriors to move in silently. I hang back, watching them close in on the enemy, ready to pounce.
Silence shatters as they strike. The warriors move like shadows, swift and deadly. A spear flashes in the moonlight, finding its mark in the chest of an Auilqa warrior. He falls without a sound. Another warrior lunges, a dagger gleaming before it slices through the night, through flesh. The faces of the enemy shift from joyous to horror in an instant.
With a blade in each hand, one of our warriors leaps from the underbrush, carving a path through the confusion. I advance, my focus narrowing on a tall figure who seems to be shouting orders, trying to rally his men. With a calculated timing, I hurl my dagger. It spins through the air, embedding itself in his shoulder. He staggers, cries out, and crumples to the ground. Soon, he is met by two Ulxa warriors, who finish the task and end the warrior¡¯s life.
The night is alive with the clash of obsidian on leather armor and the desperate cries of the Auilqa. Our warriors press the advantage, driving the enemy back, deeper into the darkness. Soon, the ground beneath us is stained with blood, the scent of its metallic tang thick in the air. The Auilqa who thought to carve our lands for their needs now lie broken and defeated. We spare no enemy warrior, not wanting them to flee into our jungles. Our message has been sent. Now, to see how the Auilqa respond.
We return to the rest of the army, hidden in the depths of the jungles. There has been no new events or any sudden, alarming changes in their movements, they inform me. The routines of which our scouts learned appear to continue unimpeded. All is going according to plan.
Exercising patience, we hold our positions, waiting for the Auilqa to realize their companions have not returned. Surprisingly, it takes most of the night for them to figure out something is amiss. Have they let down their defenses, believing the battle was won? Little do they know, it is far from over.
Once they eventually¡ªfinally¡ªdiscover that their comrades have gone missing, a small band of warriors emerges from their partially constructed confines. The walls appear flimsy enough for us to destroy when we storm their fortifications. However, we must properly execute the next stage of our plan first.
As the moon casts a silvery glow over the decimated city, I crouch among the tangled vines and dense foliage. The makeshift fortifications of the Auilqa loom like grotesque creatures against the skeletal shadow of what was once our beloved city. But tonight, the tide turns.
The Auilqa emerge, a small band venturing out, unsuspecting of the ambush awaiting them. I signal to Paxilche, who raises his hands to the sky, summoning dark clouds that rumble ominously. Thunder cracks like a war drum, masking the rustle of our movements as we get into position.
Atoyaqtli motions to his Sanqo warriors. We move quickly, surrounding the unsuspecting Auilqa. Pomacha and Chiqama move with feline grace, slipping through the shadows to flank the enemy. Naqispi and Atoyaqtli wait for my command, blades gleaming dully in the moonlight.
¡°Now!¡± My voice, a fierce whisper, cuts through the rumbling thunder. We surge forward, a tidal wave of fury and vengeance.
Pomacha strikes first, his axe a blur as it finds its mark. The Auilqa warrior crumples without a sound. Chiqama rains down arrows, while Naqispi and Atoyaqtli engage the remaining scouts in a flurry of steel and blood. Caught off guard, the Auilqa fall quickly, their cries swallowed by the storm. They never stood a chance.
We move on to the flimsy walls of their fortifications. The rest of my warriors surge forward, breaching the barriers with ease. With the walls unprotected, we storm into the heart of the enemy camp. Now fully alerted to our presence, the Auilqa scramble to mount a defense.
As we press forward, I catch sight of the enslaved Ulxa villagers, huddled together. Rage boils within me at the sight of their broken spirits, how the Auilqa could do this to my people. As we were informed, they are tied together and being used as human shields. They are placed between us and the Auilqa archers, who loose arrows in our direction.
I motion to Pomacha, directing him to free my people. He, along with the Sanqo goddess and Saqatli, with Noch faithfully by his side, break off from the main group. They disappear amidst the calamity of battle. I say a silent prayer to the gods to guide and protect them.
I focus on the battle at hand, slicing through Auilqa warriors like overgrown vines. Paxilche unleashes his fury, the storm intensifying as lightning strikes down enemies in blinding flashes. There are some Ulxa warriors caught in the maelstrom, jolted by an electrifying current. May the gods protect and heal them. Meanwhile, the remaining Sanqo warriors fight alongside us. Their movements and coordinated strikes are well practiced, and I envy the seamlessness in which they fight together.
I charge forward, my spear a natural extension of my body. My warriors fight beside me, their vibrant battle cries unleashing a fury that strikes fear into our unsuspecting foes. I thrust my spear into the torso of one enemy. I pull it back, then slash to my side. My swipe catches my next attacker just in time. As she brings her sword down, her body is met by my blade, ripping through her painted, exposed chest. I twirl the spear in my hands, lifting the shaft high, then ram it forward upon the felled foe.
There is a shout. Someone calls my name. I look over my shoulder. A blur of movement rushes toward me. There is no time to think. I grab the obsidian sword of the fallen Auilqa warrior, then contort my body and hastily raise the weapon up. It shields my face from the incoming attack. The Auilqa warrior slams down his sword. It trails down my weapon, down to the hilt, slicing my hands.
I grimace in pain, my knuckles shredded into a bloody mess. But my attacker is vulnerable. He is twisted down and away from me. Seizing the opportunity, I gnash my teeth and fight through the anguish, bring the sword up, and thrust it at his exposed ribs. The black blades slice through his body, leaving a trail of scarlet all the way to his spine. He writhes in agony, but I show no mercy. With a mighty swing, I slash his neck. His warm lifeblood spurts out onto my arms and face as he falls to the ground.
Through the melee, I catch glimpses of Pomacha and the others working to free our people. The Sanqo goddess twirls her fingers in the air, drawing water from the very terrain to create a barrier that shields the villagers from the fray. Saqatli and Noch move swiftly, appearing to speak softly to the frightened captives in an attempt to calm and reassure them. Moving with lightning speed, Pomacha cuts through the bindings that hold our people captive.
¡°Push forward!¡± I command, and my warriors rush toward the great temple. We drive the Auilqa back, step by agonizing step. The ground beneath us is slick with rain and blood, but we do not falter. Analoixan will be ours again.
I retrieve my spear, C¨¥y¨tl, and fight my way through the throng of enemies. I move with the agility of a jaguar, pouncing on every warrior who dares challenge me. Each Auilqa warrior that falls is a step closer to victory.
The Auilqa regroup. They retreat to a gate that guards the great temple. I am joined by the Sanqo warrior leader, who looks upon the scene with grave concern. ¡°That will be much more difficult to get through,¡± he laments.
¡°The Ulxa have built the fortifications to be tough and sturdy,¡± I agree, ¡°but the Auilqa do not know how to properly defend it.¡± A knowing smirk forms on my lips. The one named Atoyaqtli looks at me questioningly, and I wave for him to follow me.
¡°Hold the line!¡± I shout, signaling to my warriors to keep the focus of the Auilqa on them. They nod, then begin loosing spears and arrows at the enemy. The Auilqa are forced to take shelter, haplessly trying to shield themselves from the incoming onslaught.
¡°What are you doing?¡± the Qiapu named Paxilche asks, curious.
I say simply, ¡°You will see.¡± Along with a vulpine grin, I point to my warriors, commanding, ¡°Do what you must to protect the Ulxa and keep the Auilqa focused on you. When you see the gate open, have the warriors rush through.¡±
Paxilche appears confused, but I trust he will understand when the time comes. There is no time to spare. Atoyaqtli and I sprint to the side of the gate. Arrows fly toward us, descending from above. We zig and zag, dancing around the grounds until we reach the wooden wall.
¡°Take out the archers,¡± I instruct him. He nods, then hurtles a spear up toward the top of the wall. The blade finds its target, and the Auilqa archer tumbles from the sky, landing beside us with a tremendous thunk. It is a jarring sound, but also one of relief; that is one fewer threat that could hinder my success.
The mechanism by the wooden gate is an array of gears and levers, designed to withstand an assault. Massive wooden beams are interlocked with iron cogs that were constructed in Qiapu, connected to a central pulley system that controls the movement of the gate. Large stone blocks act as counterweights, suspended by thick ropes. This balances the massive weight of the gate, making it possible to lift or lower it.
I approach the mechanism, my hands steady despite the chaos surrounding me. I unsheathe the sword of the fallen archer. With swift, decisive strikes, I sever the ropes supporting the counterweights. It takes several tries, but eventually, the stone blocks crash to the ground. The gate shudders as the balance is disrupted. But now, the Auilqa are drawn to the sound, and my pulse quickens, fearing the barrage of arrows we are likely to face.
I must act fast. I move to the gears, jamming the blade of the obsidian sword between the cogs. I wrench it sideways, the metal shrieking as the gears grind to a halt. The massive wooden beams begin to shift. I call to Atoyaqtli to aid me in this final step of the plan. With one last push, we disable the main lever, causing the gate to groan and slowly descend. It falls to the ground, shattering and splintering from the sudden impact. But the gate is open, exposing the temple beyond.
There is another resounding war cry. The ground trembles, but it is not from the thunder crafted by Paxilche. No, it is the storm of Ulxa warriors, flooding the gates and rushing onto the grounds of the temple. There is no where else for the Auilqa to run. Their resistance crumbles quickly, and there will be no reinforcements to aid them when the battle is over¡ªwe have made certain of this.
The Ulxa warriors dispatch all remaining Auilqa. As they do so, I guide our motley assembly, a patchwork of individuals from disparate factions, onto the sacred grounds of the temple. No enemy can remain in Analoixan. We must ensure that the city is ours once again.
In the short time of their abbreviated rule, the Auilqa have already begun desecrating our sacred temple. Emeralds, turquoise, and jade that once decorated the grounds have been removed, likely stolen as spoils of war. A number of the terracotta tiles have been smashed to pieces. My blood boils at the sight of this destruction, and I am eager to make the Auilqa pay.
But as we move deeper into the temple grounds, something feels¡ off. An unnatural, flickering blue light dances in the distance. Then, I hear it: an ominous chanting in a dark tongue. The hairs on the back of my neck stand up. The realization dawns on me slowly, and a creeping dread settles in my bones.
¡°We have walked into a trap,¡± I mutter, my grip tightening on my spear.
Shadowy figures in dark crimson robes emerge from the depths of the temple. The real enemy stands before us now, ready to unleash their worst upon us. The Eye in the Flame is here, and the true battle is about to begin.
117 - Teqosa
The horn sounds again, its discordant, sorrowful call echoing through the jungle. The haunting tone reverberates through the village, drawing the suspicious eyes of the Auilqa villagers to me, S¨ªqalat, and Upachu. The elder had warned that the noise signifies a threat from outsiders. Given the unfortunate timing of our arrival, we suddenly find ourselves unwelcome, cast in the role of potential intruder.
S¨ªqalat is visibly frustrated, shaking her head in disbelief. ¡°We just rescued their village from a great fire, but a horn blasts, and now we¡¯re the enemy again?¡±
¡°Let¡¯s speak to the elders,¡± Upachu suggests, ¡°and see if we can¡¯t reason with them.¡±
¡°The last time we tried that, they still regarded us as a threat,¡± S¨ªqalat reminds him. ¡°It wasn¡¯t until we helped extinguish the flames that threatened to consume their entire village that they even considered listening to us. These people can¡¯t be reasoned with!¡±
¡°But we have to try,¡± I say. ¡°We can¡¯t let this devolve into violence.¡±
Though S¨ªqalat looks at me with understandable skepticism, my desire for diplomacy in an otherwise hostile environment feels like the wisest course of action in this circumstance. We must tread carefully to avoid further conflict. These people may distrust us at the moment, but I believe they will listen to reason.
I go to approach the elders gathered in the clearing. Before I can make it two steps, they begin to cower, looking to the villagers to help protect them. A number of villagers stand between us, and I can see that this will not be as straightforward as I had hoped.
¡°If you will grant me just a moment to speak,¡± I call out to them over the sound of the wailing horn and the anxious shouts of the villagers.
One of the elders¡ªthe one painted blue¡ªpoints at me accusatorially and yells, ¡°You are the invaders seeking to destroy our village!¡±
¡°You have got to be kidding me,¡± S¨ªqalat remarks. She turns to me, her eyes blazing and jaw clenched, ¡°This is all complete nonsense! A total waste of time! I told you, they cannot be reasoned with.¡± I understand her frustration, but we must show patience and persistence.
¡°Wise elder, you are mistaken,¡± I say with great effort to keep my voice calm. ¡°If we wanted to destroy your village, we would have allowed the fire to burn everything it touched. Instead, we worked diligently to save it¡ªsomething an invader would not be inclined to do. Do you not agree?¡±
The elder hesitates, then glances at his companions. Another elder, painted yellow, steps forward, one eyebrow raised and lips pressed into a thin line.
¡°And why should we believe you?¡± he asks. ¡°How can we be certain that you are not deceiving us?¡±
¡°Because we have offered our help instead of hostility,¡± I explain. ¡°Because our actions should speak for themselves. When the fire broke out, we risked our lives to to extinguish it. You witnessed us fighting the flames alongside the villagers. Our intentions are of cooperation.¡±
There¡¯s a brief silence while the elders contemplate among themselves. I take a deep breath, encouraging S¨ªqalat to do the same, so that we allow them the necessary time to deliberate. The elder painted blue lowers his hand slightly, giving me hope that they are considering the evidence, rather than being consumed by irrational fears.
Finally, the elder in yellow speaks up. ¡°Very well,¡± he says, almost grudgingly. ¡°But be warned, any deception will be met with severe consequences.¡±
I bow my head respectfully. ¡°Thank you, wise elders. I assure you, we only seek to help and to understand.¡±
S¨ªqalat smacks her thighs and lets out an exasperated sigh. ¡°Great. With that unnecessary confrontation settled, can we get back to finding out why that awful horn is being sounded?¡±
¡°Yes, what is the purpose of the alarm being raised?¡± Upachu asks. ¡°How much danger are we in?¡±
¡°And what outsider would be attacking a small Auilqa village?¡± I wonder. ¡°Why would another faction seek to attack tribes of an isolationist faction, when their concerns should be rebuilding their own homelands?¡±
¡°The tribes of Auilqa,¡± S¨ªqalat begins, ¡°they don¡¯t operate like the rest of Pachil. In their world, it¡¯s not just about survival¡ªit¡¯s about ascendancy. It¡¯s common to see frequent skirmishes over rivers, fertile land, and hunting grounds. But it¡¯s more than just fighting for resources. For the Auilqa, from what I know, these conflicts are rites of passage, deeply embedded cultural practices that reaffirm their power and establish hierarchies. Each conflict between tribes is a declaration of vitality and dominance. It¡¯s harsh to our understanding, but to them, it¡¯s the very essence of their societal structure, ensuring they remain vigilant and robust.¡±
¡°One could argue that this occurs with the other factions, indeed,¡± Upachu states. ¡°It¡¯s just that the other factions are not as¡ direct.¡±
I urgently make my way to the elders. ¡°How can we help? What can we do?¡± I ask them.
A steady drumming¡ªtoom, toomtoom¡ toom, toomtoom¡¡ªgradually grows louder and louder.
¡°War drums,¡± Upachu observes, sounding nervous and grim.
¡°It is the sound of an Auilqa war band approaching,¡± the elder painted yellow says. ¡°We must prepare for battle.¡±
The combat style of the Auilqa is foreign to me. Because of their seclusiveness, not much is known about their faction. They didn¡¯t fight alongside the rest of Pachil in the War of Liberation, and nothing was taught about them to the students at the Maqanuiache. Battling against the Auilqa will be a battle with the unknown.
Villagers retreat into their homes. Before I can question what is happening, they all quickly reemerge, having armed themselves with a bevy of weapons. They are prepared to defend what remains of their village.
¡°Those are the Auilqa I¡¯m familiar with,¡± S¨ªqalat remarks with a prideful grin.
The pounding of the drums becomes louder and louder, quickening to a near frenzied pace. Upachu¡¯s concern soon becomes unbearable, frantically running for cover behind the cart. I rush over toward him, retrieving the enchanted glaive bestowed upon me by Inqil herself. Upon placing my hands on the weapon, the blade and etchings faintly glow with a blue light. Under normal circumstances, I would leave the glaive be, fearful for what this might signal. But these are not normal circumstances.
I tighten the grip on my weapon as the enemy emerges from the shadows of the jungle. Their peculiar appearance becomes clearer with each step: unlike the other Auilqa we¡¯ve encountered, the bodies and faces of these warriors are painted a disturbing shade of blood red, and draped over their shoulders are long cloaks of crimson¡ªan odd choice of clothing for a faction that predominately wears simple loincloths and hip cloths in the oppressive humidity of the rainforest.
¡°Upachu,¡± I mutter to my companion behind the cart, ¡°remind me what the Auilqa colors are again.¡±
¡°Well, that would be brown and dark green,¡± he replies in a near whisper. ¡°They paint their torsos various colors based on tribal designations, but in general, the clothing would be the colors found in the jungles, even between different tribes.¡±
I pause, growing concerned as the realization starts to come to me. ¡°So there is no red in their faction colors, correct?¡±
¡°The Ulxa wear red and black, and the Qiapu, white and red,¡± he says, curious where this conversation is going.
¡°But neither paints their bodies, even in a time of war,¡± I say, piecing together the dreaded explanation for who is approaching us.
¡°No, that¡¯s an Auilqa trait,¡± he says. ¡°The Ulxa have tattoos, and the Qiapu don¡¯t mark their bodies other than for ceremonies. Why do you¡ª¡°
¡°The Eye in the Flame approach,¡± I respond. ¡°But¡ the warriors are Auilqa.¡±
An arrow whizzes past my head, embedding into the wall of a nearby home with a solid thwunk. An intense and overwhelming war cry follows. The rumbling of footsteps causes the ground to tremble. Bursting from the foliage of the jungle charge dozens of warriors, holding their paddle-like obsidian swords aloft.
More shouts, this time from the villagers. They bravely rush at their attackers, raising swords, spears, and farming tools. Dirt and dust kicks up into the air, mixing with the humidity to create an opaque haze over the battleground. The clattering of blade against blade, the yells, grunts and groans of combat¡ sounds I have heard far too often in my time on Pachil.
A swarm of red-painted warriors surround a few hapless women and children. That is where I¡¯m needed urgently. I sprint over, spinning the glaive in my hands, then stab the nearest enemy in his right shoulder with an overhead lunge. I slash down along his back, then sweep his legs with the flat of my blade. He¡¯s flipped onto the ground, and an opening appears. I shout for the women and children to escape, to run away, but they can¡¯t understand the words of Merchant¡¯s Tongue, and only stare at me with fearful eyes.
The attackers move toward me, one to my left, another to my right. I step back, spinning the glaive to reposition it in my hands, while the nearest attacker slides in my direction. He brings his sword up, prepared to strike down with it. Without hesitation, I thrust forward. My blade enters his stomach, quicker than he was prepared for, and the warrior loosens his grip on his weapon.
The attacker to my right sees me as vulnerable and hurries over. The women and children remain huddled together and terrified, my urgent shouts to plead with them to run to safety go unheard. I step to the side to avoid the incoming attack. But the warrior¡¯s blade catches my right shoulder, trailing a large gash down my arm. Aggressively, I swing the glaive at his feet. He sees this and attempts to jump over it, but his reaction is too slow. The glaive catches his trailing foot, and he stumbles to the ground. Bringing the glaive around, I slam the tip of the blade into his chest, then twist, watching the life drain from him.
The women shriek, then scurry away, desperately shielding the children as they move to the homes close by. Through the fog of battle, S¨ªqalat mounts the atlatl¡ªthe hook made of bone¡ªto her spear, then hurtles it at a large warrior with a sweeping red cloak. The spear pierces right through his torso, the head of the blade poking out from his back. The warrior¡¯s momentum causes him to tumble forward, landing on the spear and driving it deeper into him.
S¨ªqalat curses, struggling to pull a cord mechanism to retrieve her spear. But her weapon is stuck, lodged into the corpse of the fallen warrior. Behind her, two more Auilqa warriors in red run for her, obsidian swords held high. I don¡¯t think she notices them, too focused on getting back her spear.
This story has been unlawfully obtained without the author''s consent. Report any appearances on Amazon.
I hoist my glaive up to my waist, then hurry over to her. My chest begins pulsating with a warmth while I run. The amulet. But this time, it¡¯s both the blue and turquoise amulets, the combined greenish blue hues illuminating my upper torso. It¡¯s then that I can clearly anticipate the enemy¡¯s moves. Where they are going to strike. How they plan to take down S¨ªqalat.
Time slows to a crawl. I can see who will strike and how, whose attack I should stop first. I adjust the position of the glaive, ready to deflect the first attacker¡¯s blow. As his sword comes down, I grip my weapon tightly, hoping I can resist his incoming attack and hold onto the glaive. If I cannot, the other attacker will get a free attempt at an exposed S¨ªqalat.
Neither warrior gets a chance to attack her. When the blade meets the shaft of my glaive, a blue light emanates upon impact. Immediately, the two assailants are flung backward into the air, sailing away from me and S¨ªqalat. Unmistakable burns cover their bodies, as if struck by lightning or met with a torch and set aflame. Yet no fire has touched them, nor are they set alight as they soar above the ground. I¡¯m left standing baffled, wondering what on Pachil just happened.
The two attackers lie dead on the ground, their bodies now burnt husks. But I don¡¯t feel any pain. I look down at my hands, and they remain unscarred. No burns, no blisters¡ They are perfectly fine. In fact, when I glance at my shoulder, it, too, appears as though no blade had come in contact with me. Could it be¡ the power of the amulets?
Stunned, S¨ªqalat turns around. Relief immediately washes over her as she realizes how close she came to death. ¡°Thank the golden scales that you were nearby! I would¡¯ve been skewered!¡± She plants a foot on the fallen foe, then heaves upward, finally loosing her spear. She wipes the blade clean on the dead warrior¡¯s red cloak. ¡°Now, where were we?¡±
S¨ªqalat attaches the atlatl while searching for the next target of her ire. Shouts made in horror draw her attention. Another brawny Auilqa warrior dashes toward the elders, teeth bared, wielding a sickeningly long paddle nearly the size of his body, studded with dozens of obsidian blades.
Just as he closes in on them, however, he¡¯s knocked over onto his side. He rolls several times until his lifeless body slides to a halt. The pole stands up defiantly out of the warrior¡¯s head. I turn to S¨ªqalat, who looks over to the downed warrior with a prideful smirk. Almost casually, she jogs to retrieve her spear, flicking the cord mechanism to loose it, then inspects the warrior¡¯s large paddle with curiosity. She lifts it off the ground, shakes loose the dirt resting on the wooden handle, then tests its weight.
¡°It¡¯s a bit too heavy for me,¡± she remarks over the discordant sounds of battle, before tossing it back to the ground. ¡°But it¡¯s pretty nice, if you¡¯ve any interest.¡± Unamused, I shake my head. She shrugs. ¡°Suits yourself.¡± Without another word, she bolts back into the fray, spear in hand.
I check on the elders, making sure they haven¡¯t been harmed during the skirmish. They wave me away. ¡°We will be fine,¡± the one in yellow says. ¡°We need to return to the hut in the trees, for safety.¡±
I look at the series of bridges and planks that span from tree to tree. The intricate web stretches high above the rainforest floor. A group of villagers loose arrows from their high vantage point of the bridges. Now I understand why they construct their dwellings in such a way, keeping themselves off the ground and away from predators, or predatory Auilqa tribes.
I help them to their feet, then check for any incoming threats. The battle surges around us. So many dead, all of this unnecessary. All while these Auilqa have seemingly succumbed to the influence of the maniacal cult. What occurred that converted these otherwise isolationist tribesmen into zealots for their cause?
There is no time to dwell on this. I must get these three to safety. Upon determining the best route, I wave them on to follow me. We avoid most of the combat, finding an alternate path to the long, wooden plank that leads to the platform in the trees. Their movements are agonizingly slow. Each step is a cautious shuffle as they struggle against the urgency of the situation. My fingers rap the shaft of my glaive in frustration and impatience, urging them on while keeping a wary eye on the unfolding calamity around us.
By the time we reach the plank, a sudden rush of rival Auilqa warriors close in on our position. They look around for an enemy, then locate us during our attempt to flee to safety. Seeing this, I stand between the elders and the attackers, ready to defend them from these assailants.
¡°Hurry!¡± I command the elders. ¡°Run up to the platform. I will make sure these pursuers never reach your location.¡±
From the corner of my eye, I see the elders nervously nodding before they begin to ascend the plank. I hold my glaive at the ready, rotating the tip of the blade to point at one attacker, then the other, then the next, and then the other. Shifting my weight, I take a wide, defensive stance, watching them all closely to see who will strike at me first. My amulets flicker and come to life. The shaft of the glaive pulsates blue once again, ready for the coming fight.
Then, a terrible rumble quakes the ground beneath all of us. We¡¯re jostled off-balance, losing our footing as the terrain shifts and trembles under our feet. The low growl of the tremors quickly escalate into a violent roar. The trees of the village sway precariously, their branches thrashing against the sky. I leap for the platform, and with one hand, I grip the nearest support while clinging to my glaive with the other.
Structures and wooden platforms creak and groan under the pressure. Amidst the screams of alarm and terror, I see a mother clutching her child, huddling under a sturdy beam. A section of walkway gives way, plummeting to the rainforest floor below, but the main bridges hold firm.
The battle turns frenzied amid the quaking ground. A red-cloaked warrior lunges at his opponent. The tremors make their movements erratic. They attempt to maintain their balance with each desperate strike and parry. But eventually, their bodies collide with a force that sends them both tumbling to the ground.
One of the Auilqa invaders sees an opportunity to attack me. With his sword, he swings wildly, wishful that his strike will land. But he loses his footing, stumbling as a violent tremor rips through the terrain. He¡¯s sent sprawling, and I seize the moment. I reluctantly release the support, then swiftly adjust my stance. In a quick motion, I bring down the glaive upon the fallen enemy, slicing a long, deep gash along his body. The other attackers prioritize their stability, backing up and eagerly trying to steady themselves.
A particularly strong jolt sends a treehouse tilting dangerously. I watch in horror as its supports buckle, the walls caving inwards. Miraculously, the occupants scramble out, their panicked faces streaked with soot, just before it crashes to the ground.
Dust and ash fill the air, making it hard to see, hard to breathe. My eyes sting as I search the village, taking in the scene of destruction. The elders huddle together within the treehouse, their worried faces gazing out into the village. Warriors from both tribes stumble and fall. The battle is momentarily forgotten as they fight to stay upright. Yet even amid the quakes, their eyes remain locked on each other, untrusting of the other.
A loud crack suddenly splits the air. I turn to see one of the larger trees splintering at its base. The trunk fractures under the relentless shaking and starts to topple. Shouts of warning ring out. People scatter, clearing the path of its descent. It crashes down with a thunderous impact, sending a shockwave through the ground, but sparing the heart of the village.
The tremors finally begin to subside, and the ground¡¯s rage ebbs into a gentle tremble. Warriors from both sides rise to their feet. There is an eerie silence in the air, thick with the scent of smoke, ash, and blood. The invaders are visibly shaken, and their confident stances are now replaced with wary glances and uneasy shuffles. Battle has been momentarily suspended in the aftermath of nature¡¯s fury.
Upachu emerges from behind the cart a few paces away, eyes wide with a sudden determination. He moves with a purpose that seems foreign to him, a man driven by something beyond his usual meekness. S¨ªqalat tentatively steps closer, and we both watch him with curiosity and concern.
He extends his arms wide, palms facing the ground, and begins to move them in slow, sweeping motions. The villagers and invaders alike watch him with a mixture of interest and caution. Upachu closes his eyes, and I can see his lips moving, though no sound reaches me. It¡¯s as if he¡¯s invoking something, someone. His movements are deliberate, almost ritualistic, and I can see the confusion on the faces of the gathered Auilqa.
Standing nearby, S¨ªqalat whispers urgently to me. ¡°If my translation is correct,¡± she pauses, tilting her head as she tries to make out the words, ¡°it sounds as if he¡¯s calling upon the¡ spirits of the land? He¡¯s invoking the wisdom of Pachil itself, asking for their guidance.¡±
I nod, not fully understanding but sensing the profundity of the moment. Upachu¡¯s gestures grow more animated, his hands tracing intricate patterns in the air. The ground seems to respond to his movements, as a faint hum resonates beneath our feet. It¡¯s as if he¡¯s communing with the very heart of the Auilqa jungle.
A low murmur rises from the invaders. Their initial hostility gives way to a reluctant awe. Some of them begin to lower their weapons, uncertainty clouding their faces. They recognize the significance of Upachu¡¯s actions, even if they don¡¯t understand his words.
Upachu drops to his knees, pressing his hands flat against the ground. He bows his head, and for a moment, it¡¯s as though everything around us stands still. When he looks up again, his eyes are different¡ªbrighter, almost with a surreal glow. He lifts his hands and begins to call out to all gathered.
¡°Now he¡¯s speaking to the Auilqa in their own tongue,¡± S¨ªqalat translates to me. ¡°He¡¯s recounting the history of their ancestors, explaining the true rituals that honor the land, not the distorted practices preached by the Eye in the Flame.¡±
The invaders are transfixed, their attention wholly captured by Upachu¡¯s words. They all glance at each other, doubt creeping into their eyes. So, too, do the villagers, shifting uncomfortably, yet mingling with what I gather to be a newfound respect.
Upachu rises to his feet, his voice growing stronger. He points to the ground, then to the sky, seemingly invoking the spirits of Pachil and heavens. His gestures are fluid, confident, as though this is something he¡¯s done a hundred times before. He steps forward, closer to the invaders, his tone imploring yet authoritative.
¡°Now he reminds them,¡± S¨ªqalat continues telling me, ¡°that the Eye in the Flame seeks only to corrupt and destroy. He tells them that they do not honor their ancestors; in fact, they desecrate their memory. Upachu asks them to remember the true spirit of the Auilqa, to stand against those who would use the Auilqa traditions for their personal gain.¡±
A few of the invaders lower their weapons entirely, stepping back in reverence. The leaders among them nod slowly, their hardened, stern faces softening. If I didn¡¯t know better, Upachu¡¯s words¡ªsomehow speaking to them in their own tongue¡ªhave reached them, stirring something deep within. I can only hope that he has shown them a path back to their roots, away from the corruption of the Eye in the Flame.
One of the elders, the one painted in blue, steps forward. His eyes are narrowed, but there is a light in them that wasn¡¯t there before. He speaks softly, his words directed at Upachu, though I can only catch fragments through S¨ªqalat¡¯s hurried whispers.
¡°He says¡ you speak truth¡ ancient ways¡ remember who we are.¡±
The elder¡¯s voice rises, addressing his people. His words are passionate, filled with a fervor that stirs the crowd. They listen, some nodding, others still wary but clearly affected by Upachu¡¯s display. He locks eyes with Upachu and speaks a few words to him, then turns to face the Auilqa invaders. S¨ªqalat translates, her eyes glistening with hope.
¡°He¡¯s asking for¡ a truce to discuss the future of their people.¡±
Upachu nods, bowing his head in respect. He gestures for me, S¨ªqalat, and the other villagers to approach. The tension eases, replaced by a tentative understanding. Weapons are lowered, and the warriors on both sides step back, their stances relaxed and no longer ready to pounce.
The village elder in pink extends a hand to Upachu, something I take to be a gesture of goodwill and recognition. Upachu takes it, his grip firm but gentle. A leader from the invading Auilqa steps up to them with a solemn face. He speaks for a brief moment, then joins his hands with those of the village elders. They all stand together, signaling a possible reconciliation, their hands clasped in a promise of peace.
I let out a breath I didn¡¯t realize I was holding. As I watch, I feel a sense of awe at what Upachu has accomplished. He has somehow given us a chance to bridge the divide, to find common ground in the face of a greater enemy. It¡¯s a start, a tentative step towards a peace that at one point seemed almost impossible.
In a show of solidarity, the invading Auilqa warriors shed their scarlet cloaks, tossing them into a pile in the center of the village. Unflinchingly, they set them alight, standing before the flames with pride. What was once a dangerous encounter, now the two villages have been unified. From what I¡¯ve been told of Auilqa society, this may only be temporary. But for now, they are united under a common cause.
S¨ªqalat returns from speaking with one of the Auilqa leaders. Judging from her pleased expression, it¡¯s clear she has good news to share. Her eyes gleam with a mix of triumph and relief as she approaches us.
¡°We¡¯ve got ourselves an escort through the rest of Auilqa territory,¡± she announces, her voice filled with pride. ¡°They¡¯ve agreed to guide us safely to the border of Qiapu.¡±
¡°You¡¯ve done well,¡± I remark, pleasantly surprised by this development. ¡°How did you manage to convince them?¡±
She smirks, with a hint of mischief in her eyes. ¡°I reminded them of our shared goal to protect our lands from greater threats. Upachu¡¯s invocation of the land¡¯s spirit and wisdom helped them see reason. They realize now that the Eye in the Flame is a danger to all, and for such an isolationist faction, they are eager to stand with us. They understand that our mission could benefit all of Pachil, including the Auilqa. Or, that¡¯s what I reinforced with them, anyway.¡±
Upachu nods with a thoughtful expression. ¡°The land speaks to those who listen,¡± he says sagely. ¡°And they heard its call.¡±
S¨ªqalat continues, ¡°They¡¯ve informed me that we¡¯ll be stopping by Qasiunqa, the Auilqa capital in the heart of Pachil, before crossing into Qiapu. It should be a straightforward journey from there.¡±
118 - Legigo
All around you, the unfinished settlement of Aitzabal stirs with a nervous energy. The dawn is a thin line of light barely slicing through the thick veil of night. Haphazardly constructed huts lean into each other for support. The ground is littered with tools and materials, remnants of projects abandoned in the rush of preparation for the journey ahead.
The settlers grimly move about the camp, anxious about what awaits them. Even the animals seem to sense the shift in the atmosphere. The restless movements of the horses and livestock mirror the unease that permeates throughout the settlement. Every heartbeat is a countdown to the moment when you will leave the relative safety of Aitzabal and step into the wild, marching toward the unknown of Xiatlidar.
The bedroll next to you rustles as Iker finally rises. Throughout the night, your longtime friend snored and slept soundly¡ªsomething you feel he hasn¡¯t been able to do since arriving to this new land. While the noises of his slumber kept you awake for most of the night, you feel you were unlikely to sleep much anyway.
The looming trek to Xiatlidar kept you up and staring at the stars. The talk from Iker about what¡¯s occurring in the other settlement has your stomach tied into knots. ¡®Tyrannical rule¡¯? ¡®Criato and Ulloa just as brutal¡¯? ¡®People forced to work without rest¡¯? ¡®Low morale and people suffering¡¯? This does not sound like a place anyone should want to travel to willingly.
Yet Captain Lema is adamant about heading north, to reunite with the other Legido explorers. To him, Xiatlidar represents a vital link in the chain of command and survival. The tales of oppression and hardship do little to deter him¡ªif anything, they fuel his drive to establish order, to impose the will of the Legido upon these lands, no matter the cost. It¡¯s in the way he speaks of Criato and Ulloa with a hint of camaraderie and understanding. They are cut from the same cloth, men who believe in the mission above all else.
Iker sits up, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes as the morning in Aitzabal comes into focus. ¡°We¡¯re really going to go to Xiatlidar?¡± he asks. You have no response. You¡¯re just as disappointed about this as he is.
It takes you no time to collect your belongings. You haven¡¯t had a chance to establish much of a home here, yet you feel mournful about leaving it. You¡¯re not sure what kind of reception you all will receive upon your arrival, but you fear what you¡¯ll find when you get there. If it were up to you, you¡¯d stay here, even if the creation of the settlement has gotten off to a rocky start.
The sun hasn¡¯t made much progress, barely peeking over the horizon before you all depart. The cheerful birdsongs and stirring creatures¡ªthe sounds so different from the animals of your homeland¡ªstand in sharp opposition to how you all feel inside. The only one eager to travel to Xiatlidar, Captain Lema urges everyone from atop one of the few horses to pick up their pace, even before you¡¯ve left the settlement behind. His excitement is reminiscent of the moment land was discovered after what felt like an eternity at sea. Yet no one else seems to share in his enthusiasm.
The settlers move in a somber procession. The early morning light casts long shadows, stretching across the terrain like gnarled fingers. Each step feels labored, the soil beneath your feet seeming to pull you down. Faces are drawn, eyes fixed on the ground, as if seeking solace in the familiar texture of the dirt and leaves.
Captain Lema¡¯s commands slice through the stillness, but they feel hollow, like the echo of a bell in an empty hall. His fervor is a lone flame in the encroaching gloom, but even his spirit cannot lift the pervasive sense of dread. The trek ahead is a march toward an uncertain fate¡ªevery settler seems aware of this.
As the journey north continues, there¡¯s an unease settling over you and Iker like a heavy fog. The oppressive silence only heightens your anxiety. Ever perceptive, Landera decides to break the tension.
¡°Let me tell you a story,¡± she says, her voice is like a gentle current in the still morning air. The sweetness of her tone draws you in like a lifeline in the misty dawn. ¡°It¡¯s a tale from our homeland, a legend of the sea and stars.¡±
You walk closer to Landera, the early morning light filtering through the trees and casting dappled shadows on her face. Her eyes gleam with the light of the story she¡¯s eager to weave. The forest around you awakens with the soft rustle of leaves and the distant calls of birds, a serene backdrop to the tale unfolding.
¡°Long ago,¡± she starts, ¡°in the days when our ancestors sailed the vast oceans, there was a sailor named Aitor. He was known far and wide for his bravery and skill, but also for his insatiable curiosity. Every tale of uncharted waters, every whisper of distant lands, filled his heart with an unquenchable thirst for adventure.¡±
Iker¡¯s shoulders relax slightly as he keeps pace, his eyes fixed on Landera. Dorez, too, watches out of the corner of her eye as Landera tells her tale. Even Benicto, typically sour and uninterested, edges closer, pretending not to care while straining to catch every word of the story. The path beneath your feet is uneven, roots and stones jutting out, but being drawn to the narrative, the group moves as one.
¡°Aitor sailed further than anyone had dared, seeking the edge of the world. His ship, the Ardent Star, was sturdy and swift, cutting through the waves with ease. The crew trusted Aitor implicitly, inspired by his unwavering confidence and his limitless loyalty to his crew.
¡°One night, under a sky glittering with stars, he suddenly found himself in the middle of a powerful storm, appearing out of nowhere. The waves towered like mountains, the wind howled like a thousand spirits, and the sea churned with a fury that seemed intent on swallowing the Ardent Star whole.¡±
Landera¡¯s voice rises and falls with the tale, mimicking the storm¡¯s fury. You can almost feel the salt spray on your face, and the deck rock beneath your feet. The trees around you sway gently with the morning breeze, but in your mind¡¯s eye, you see the tempest that Aitor faced.
¡°But Aitor was not afraid. He steered his ship, his eyes on the horizon. Though they were terrified, the crew found strength in his courage, doing all they could to fight the raging seas. In the heart of the tempest, he saw a light that cut through the darkness. It was a soft, ethereal glow, unlike any star or lighthouse they had ever seen. Guided by this light, Aitor sailed into calm waters, where the sky met the sea in a perfect embrace.¡±
Landera¡¯s words wrap around you like a comforting blanket, bringing warmth to the chilly dawn. Everyone¡¯s gaze is fixed to storyteller, waiting to find out what happens next. You¡¯re too captivated by the tale to remember what was bringing you anxiety in the first place.
¡°Legend says that Aitor¡¯s ship was found many years later, abandoned but intact. No bodies were found on board, and no one knows what became of him or his crew. Some believe Aitor found a hidden paradise, a place so enchanting they all chose to remain, forever separated from our world. Others think he sailed into the night sky to forever become one with the sea and stars.
¡°But they say that on stormy nights, when the waves crash and the winds howl, a bright, steadfast light can be seen shining in the distance. It¡¯s believed to be Aitor, embodying the bright light that brought him and his crew to a realm of peace and tranquility, where time seemed to stand still. His spirit forever guides those who dare to dream beyond the horizon, a beacon for those brave enough to face the unknown.¡±
Landera pauses, letting the story settle over the group. You feel a sense of calm, a glimmer of hope igniting in your chest. The journey ahead still holds its uncertainties, but the tale of Aitor reminds you that there is strength in perseverance, light in the darkest of times. Now, the forest seems less daunting, the obstacles ahead a little less intimidating.
¡°But how does anyone know that Aitor wrestled with the waves and made it to those safe seas?¡± Benicto asks skeptically. This earns him a smack upside the head from Dorez, and Benicto allows his inquiry to go unanswered.
Iker sighs, and a small smile plays at his lips. ¡°That was a good story, Lander.¡±
Landera nods, her eyes meeting each of yours in turn. ¡°We are like Aitor, facing our own tempest. But together, we can find our way, no matter how fierce the storm. The light we seek is within us, guiding us through the darkest nights and the roughest seas.¡±
The group walks in reflective silence for a while, the early morning light growing stronger, illuminating the forest with a golden hue. Occasionally, a light rain turns into a soft mist, then back to a persistent rain, even as the sun shines through the clouds. As you continue, the sound of a distant stream reaches your ears. It¡¯s a soothing reminder of the life and beauty that persist even in the most difficult times. The legend of Aitor stays with you, lighting your path through the unknown.
The light drizzle suddenly transforms into a torrential downpour. Rain lashes down relentlessly, each drop like a tiny hammer against your skin. As thick as it is, the forest canopy does little to shield you from the deluge. Water streams down the tree trunks and collects in muddy pools along the path. The air is saturated with moisture, making each breath feel like you¡¯re inhaling water. You can barely see the next settler ahead of you through the sheets of rain.
Your clothes become heavy, clinging to your body. The ground beneath your feet turns to slick mud. The settlers huddle together, their spirits dampened by the relentless storm. Once again, Captain Lema¡¯s voice cuts through the rain, barking orders to keep moving, to not lose heart. His horse struggles on the muddy path, its hooves sinking and sliding with each step.
Night falls, but the rain does not relent. The group sets up a makeshift camp in the best shelter they can find, which is little more than a cluster of trees offering scant protection. Tents are hastily pitched, though many collapse under the weight of the waterlogged fabric. You and the others gather beneath the flimsy cover, shivering as the cold seeps into your bones. The constant drumming of the rain on the canvas above you is deafening, like a war drum has been placed directly next to your ears.
Sleep is sparse, at best. The storm shows no signs of abating, and every gust of wind threatens to tear down the tents. Water seeps in from all sides, soaking through blankets and provisions. You lie awake, listening to the howling wind and the occasional snap of branches. Your stomach churns and your hands tremble as you imagine the storm continuing to rage, its relentless fury threatening to unravel everything.
The next morning, the rain still pours down in surging sheets. The camp is a muddy quagmire, and everyone looks exhausted and disheartened. Yet there is no choice but to press on. Captain Lema rallies the group, urging them to muster what strength they can. There¡¯s a sinking feeling inside you that knows the worst may still be yet to come.
You push forward through the dense foliage, the air growing damp and heavy as you approach the narrow pass. The scent of wet soil and vegetation clings to you, mingling with the sweat on your brow. Captain Lema rides ahead, his eyes vigilantly sweeping the terrain. There¡¯s an ominous, distant rumble that puts you on edge immediately. You occasionally glance back at the weary faces of the settlers trailing behind. Among them, Gartzen rides close to some of the group, his expression habitually stern. Iker looks upon the landscape nervously, while Landera strides forward with confidence. Dorez and Benicto march silently, their uneasy gazes fixed on the path ahead and the uncertainty of the terrain.
Reading on this site? This novel is published elsewhere. Support the author by seeking out the original.
As you navigate the slick, muddy ground, the distant rumble grows louder, more insistent. The rain continues to batter you from all sides, turning the path into a dangerous mire. Your boots quickly sink into the muck, and you fear that any misplaced step is a potential slip into disaster.
The first sight of the mountainside brings a tightness to your chest. Recent rains have turned the ground unstable, and the path ahead is littered with loose stones, glistening in the scant light. The mountains loom like silent sentinels, their peaks obscured by a swirling mist that moves like haunting spirits across the ridge¡ªcould those be the spirits of travelers who have died trying to traverse this terrain? Captain Lema signals for a halt, his hand raised high. The settlers gather, their anxious murmurs blending with the distant rumble of the shifting terrain.
The narrow pass ahead is a ribbon seemingly carved into the mountainside, barely wide enough for a single file of people and horses. On one side, a sheer rock face rises, pocked and scarred from years of weathering, its surface slick with moss and rain. On the other side, the ground falls away into a yawning abyss, a steep drop into a chasm where the sound of rushing water echoes up. Every inadvertent glance down is a terrifying reminder of the danger below. The path itself along the ledge is strewn with jagged rocks and patches of loose gravel that threaten to give way underfoot without a moment¡¯s notice.
¡°We must navigate this pass carefully,¡± Captain Lema announces, his voice steady and authoritative. ¡°This is the only viable route to Xiatlidar.¡±
Your eyes sweep the landscape, and you question if Captain Lema¡¯s assessment is correct. Upon returning to Aitzabal, you never came across such a location. And you imagine that Iker and his search party never did, either.
Nevertheless, Gartzen nods in agreement, his eyes narrowing as he assesses the unstable path. ¡°We¡¯ll need to move slowly and keep the horses in line. Can¡¯t spook them. Any sudden movement could trigger a slide.¡±
A man steps forward, his face lined with worry and exhaustion. ¡°Captain, this pass is too dangerous. We should find another way.¡±
Captain Lema¡¯s jaw tightens, but he remains calm. ¡°We don¡¯t have time for detours. We move through here.¡±
The man doesn¡¯t back down, and his voice rises in desperation. ¡°And what if the path gives way? We¡¯re already stretched thin as is.¡±
Gartzen steps in, cutting through the confrontation with his low and firm voice. ¡°If we delay, we risk running out of supplies before we reach Xiatlidar. We do as the captain commands. We move through here.¡±
You see the tension ripple through the crowd, like a stone cast into still water. Landera moves up beside you. ¡°We¡¯ll have to be quick and careful,¡± she murmurs. ¡°No room for error.¡±
Captain Lema begins organizing the crossing. The settlers form a line along the narrow path. The few atop horses grip the reins tightly. You take a deep breath and follow, the loose stones shifting underfoot like traps waiting to ensnare the unwary.
The path is narrower than it looks. It winds precariously along the mountainside, and the steep drop below makes your heart pound, as though it wants to leap out of your chest and back to safety. You focus on each step, your hands planted onto the face of the mountain for balance. Landera continues to remind you to not look down, never look down. The ground beneath you feels unstable, ready to give way at any moment. The oppressive silence of the mountains is broken only by the occasional clatter of dislodged stones.
Suddenly, a cry pierces the air. You look up, just in time to see a cascade of rocks tumbling down the hillside, driven by the relentless downpour. The ground shakes, then a section of the mountainside gives way. Settlers scramble to avoid the debris. You barely have time to react, to get out of the way.
You dive ahead, narrowly avoiding a boulder that crashes down where you stood moments before, hurtling down the steep cliff. The others scramble for cover, their screams mingling with the thunderous roar of the slide. Panicked, you look around for your companions, Iker and Landera. But there¡¯s too much calamity, too much rain and dirt and haze to see through.
Captain Lema shouts orders, his voice barely audible over the tumult. ¡°Stay together! Keep moving!¡±
Gartzen moves swiftly, guiding those closest to the slide. ¡°Keep moving! We¡¯re almost through!¡±
A woman loses her footing and is nearly swept away by the falling rocks. You watch helplessly as she struggles to regain her balance. Panic spreads, and the line falters. You grind your teeth and push forward while the ground shifts dangerously beneath you.
Landera reaches out, steadying a young boy who¡¯s about to be pulled off his feet. ¡°Hold on! We¡¯ll get through this!¡± she shouts, her voice strong and reassuring, cutting through the calamity. The boy looks on, silently pleading for her help, as Landera carefully guides him along.
Captain Lema calls out from his position at the front, his voice carrying over the wind and rain. ¡°We¡¯ve faced worse! We can do this!¡± Have you faced worse than this? His words echo down the line, trying to bolster the resolve of those struggling to navigate the path.
But the mountainside shows no mercy. Another section of the path gives way, sending a fresh wave of rocks crashing down. You choke on the dust and debris, but you don¡¯t let go. You pull yourself forward, driven by sheer will and the knowledge that turning back is not an option.
Behind you, you see an elderly man fall, the rocks swallowing him almost immediately. A woman nearby screams at the terrifying sight. But her cry is cut short as she, too, is overtaken by the slide. The relentless force of nature claims more victims, their bodies disappearing beneath the rubble. The loss is staggering, each life extinguished in an instant, and you are powerless to stop it.
Amidst the chaos, you spot Landera as she helps an injured settler to safety. Iker is not far behind, his eyes searching the carnage for any hopeful sign of living explorers. You push on, the ground beneath you now slick with mud and blood that coats your soaked and soiled garments.
Captain Lema and Gartzen work tirelessly to persist, to make it through. Their voices are hoarse from shouting, their bodies battered by the falling debris. They guide the last of the settlers through the path, their eyes darting around for any signs of the missing.
Finally, you reach a safer section of the path. You collapse onto the ground, gasping for breath. One by one, the settlers emerge from the danger zone, their faces pale and drawn, etched with the trauma of the ordeal. Captain Lema and Gartzen help the last stragglers, checking for injuries and offering words of reassurance.
The man who questioned Captain Lema¡¯s decision steps forward, his face contorted with rage, and the veins in his neck bulging. ¡°I warned you this was a mistake! We¡¯ve lost good people because of you!¡±
Captain Lema¡¯s eyes flash with both grief and resolve. ¡°We did what we had to. Every delay brings us closer to failure.¡±
Gartzen steps between them. ¡°We move forward. We honor the fallen by continuing the journey.¡± He says this in a manner that is so cold and practical, it¡¯s unsettling. Perhaps, you hope, he¡¯s merely attempting to mask the pain he feels for the number of fallen from the rockslide.
As the group drags what remains of their belongings and themselves away from the treacherous cliffs, the day¡¯s disaster hangs over you like a storm cloud refusing to break. The last rays of sunlight disappear, leaving the world bathed in the dim, uncertain glow of twilight as your group decides to warily set up camp for the night.
The camp is set up quickly, but it¡¯s done in silence with the unspoken grief for those lost. The settlers move with a mechanical efficiency, their minds numb from the ordeal. You sit by the fire, hoping to warm your bones, yet you feel an overwhelming chill from the emptiness inside. The night is eerily quiet, the usual sounds of the forest muted, as if the world itself mourns the fallen.
Nearly one hundred people, battered and bruised, shuffle into some semblance of order, trying to find a spot to rest their weary bodies. The horses stand restless, sensing the tension that permeates the air. You hear the soft murmur of discontent ripple through the settlers like a low tide, threatening to rise into a wave.
¡°How many did we lose?¡± a voice whispers nearby, tremulous with fear and exhaustion.
¡°I counted at least twenty,¡± another replies grimly. ¡°And that¡¯s just the ones we know of.¡±
Another voice cuts through the grumbling, louder and filled with frustration. ¡°What are we even doing out here? We¡¯re marching to our deaths!¡±
A chorus of agreement follows, the settlers¡¯ fear and anger simmering just beneath the surface. ¡°We should have never left Aitzabal,¡± someone else mutters. ¡°This is madness.¡±
¡°We trusted Captain Lema, and look where it¡¯s gotten us,¡± a woman says bitterly, clutching a child close to her.
Voices rise, the discontent swelling. ¡°How much more are we supposed to endure?¡± one man snarls. ¡°When will this end?¡±
Without warning, Gartzen appears, stepping up beside him. ¡°Captain Lema is doing everything he can to keep us safe,¡± Gartzen adds in a rumble of a voice. ¡°We need to work together and stay strong.¡±
A scoff comes from the edge of the circle. You turn to see a man, his eyes hard and his expression cynical. ¡°Safe?¡± he repeats. ¡°We barely escaped with our lives today. And for what? We¡¯re no closer to our goal than we were when we started.¡±
Gartzen narrows his eyes at the man. ¡°And what would you suggest we do? Turn back? Give up?¡±
The man steps forward, his face grimly illuminated by the firelight. ¡°I suggest we stop blindly following orders that lead us to death,¡± he snaps. ¡°Captain Lema doesn¡¯t know what he¡¯s doing. We need someone who can actually get us to Xiatlidar in one piece.¡±
There¡¯s a murmur of agreement from a few others around the fire, and you feel start to feel panic course through your veins. The seeds of dissent are being sown, and you can see the tension rising.
Gartzen¡¯s eyes flash with anger. ¡°Captain Lema has led us this far, across dangers waters and settling in a new land. He deserves our loyalty, not our doubt.¡±
The man¡¯s eyes darken. ¡°That¡¯s rich. How were we faring back in Aitzabal, eh? No, no¡ Loyalty won¡¯t keep us alive. Competence will.¡±
Before the argument can escalate further, Captain Lema himself steps into the circle. His face is drawn, but his presence commands attention. ¡°Enough,¡± he says, his voice firm yet weary. ¡°We¡¯ve all had a long day. We need to rest and regroup. Tomorrow, we¡¯ll figure out our next steps. For now, let¡¯s just get some sleep.¡±
The tension doesn¡¯t dissipate, but the conversation dies down. People slowly disperse, finding places to lie down and try to rest.
Restless, you make your way through the camp, weaving between clusters of people huddled around dwindling fires. The glow of the flames flickers on faces fraught with fear and fatigue. You find Iker sitting on a rock, his eyes wide and troubled. He clutches his knees to his chest, rocking slightly. You find a spot next to him and tentatively sit down.
¡°Iker,¡± you say, gently placing a hand on his shoulder. He startles, clearly lost in the overwhelming thoughts that consumed him. ¡°How are you holding up?¡±
He looks up at you, his face pale in the dim light. ¡°I¡ I don¡¯t know,¡± he stammers. ¡°I keep seeing the rocks falling, hearing the screams¡ It was chaos. Why did we go this way? Are we even going to make it to Xiatlidar?¡±
¡°Well, we can¡¯t afford to lose hope now,¡± you reply, trying to be reassuring to both Iker and yourself. ¡°We¡¯ve come too far to let this break us.¡±
¡°Do you think he¡¯s right?¡± Iker asks quietly. ¡°Gartzen¡ about Captain Lema? I heard him tell someone before we broke camp about the captain doing what he can to keep us safe, but¡¡± His voice trails off as worry overtakes him.
You glance around, making sure no one is within earshot. ¡°I don¡¯t know,¡± you admit. ¡°But we can¡¯t afford to fracture now. We need to stick together, even if we don¡¯t always agree.¡±
Iker nods slowly, but you can see the doubt in his eyes. You lie down, staring up at the sky, the stars blurred by exhaustion and worry. Slumber doesn¡¯t come easily, and when it does, it¡¯s fitful and haunted by dreams of falling rocks and desperate screams.
Unable to sleep, you decide to take a walk. You feel that you need a moment away from the others to collect your thoughts, and hope that the cool night air will clear your mind. The camp is quieting down as the group tends to their injuries and settles in for a restless night. The moonlight casts a silver glow on the rocky landscape, and you pick your way carefully through the camp.
As you round a large boulder, you hear hushed voices. You freeze, straining to make out the words. The tone is urgent, filled with a mix of anger and desperation.
¡°I¡¯ve had enough of Ux¨ªo¡¯s incompetence,¡± a voice hisses. Ux¨ªo¡ Ux¨ªo¡ Is he talking about Captain Lema? ¡°He¡¯s going to get us all killed if we keep following him.¡±
¡°We need to take control before it¡¯s too late,¡± another voice agrees. ¡°But we have to be smart about it. We need to get the others on our side.¡±
Your heart races as you realize what you¡¯re hearing. Mutiny. The group is already fragile, and this could tear you apart. You take a step closer, compelled to hear more without being discovered.
¡°Tomorrow, we¡¯ll start talking to the others,¡± the first voice continues. ¡°We need to make sure they understand the risks. Ux¨ªo can¡¯t be trusted to lead us to safety.¡±
You feel a cold sweat on your brow. This is worse than you thought. If the dissent spreads, you won¡¯t make it to Xiatlidar, let alone survive the journey. You know you should turn back and warn someone, but your feet feel rooted to the spot, unable to move.
Just then, a twig snaps under your foot, and the voices go silent. You hold your breath, praying they didn¡¯t hear you. After a tense moment, the conversation resumes, quieter this time, and you take the opportunity to retreat.
As you slip back into the camp, you know that everything is about to change. Your mind races with the implications of what you¡¯ve just heard. The cracks in Captain Lema¡¯s leadership are widening, and if you¡¯re not careful, you¡¯ll all fall through.
119 - Inuxeq
I wake up with the first light, shaking off the remnants of restless sleep. The cold dew of the grass clings to my skin, and a stiff ache settles in my bones. Swaying gently in the early morning breeze, the endless expanse of the plains stretches out around me and past the blue and white tents. My mood matches the grey sky, sour and brooding, still simmering from last night¡¯s argument.
I sit up, rubbing the sleep from my eyes, and glance around the campsite. Clad in tunics and shawls colored in their faction¡¯s signature deep blue and silver, the Atima are up and about, starting their day well before I have. I watch as families emerge from their homes, faces touched by the early morning glow.
The settlement is already buzzing with activity. Men head to the fields to gather beans, squash, and other native plants. Hunters set off in search of small game and birds. Craftsmen are at their stations, the rhythmic sound of tools sharpening and hammers striking clay filling the air as they shape pottery, weave textiles, and craft tools. The smell of baking clay mingles with the morning breeze.
Women bustle about, carrying on jovially with one another as they prepare food just outside their homes. Older children help with lighter tasks, while younger children stay close to home, enthusiastically engaged in play. Alpacas are checked on and fed, adding their soft bleats to the rest of the sounds of morning activity.
Rituals to honor the gods and ancestors begin, led by the village elders in chants and offerings. Smoke rises from small altars, carrying prayers to the sky. Men work on the construction and maintenance of homes, shaping adobe, wood, and thatch into sturdy shelters. The community works in harmony, each person contributing to the vibrant life of Qelantu Loh, their spirits intertwined with the land and each other.
The cheerful hum of their morning routines only deepens my scowl.
What I would give for a jug of chicha right about now.
¡°You slept outside, in the cold of the approaching winter? And without a bedroll?¡±
The familiar voice carries an unmistakable note of concern, but I also catch a slight hint of judgement. There¡¯s a faint scent of something sweet¡ªperhaps honey? And some kind of flower. It seems to be coming from her.
I sigh, already exhausted from the expectation of what¡¯s to come of our interaction. I always knew we¡¯d have to meet again and speak sooner or later, but I wasn¡¯t expecting it to be this much sooner. I¡¯ve barely had any time to mull over our previous discussion, let alone prepare for a new one.
I twist around to face Haesan, rustling the grass as I maneuver. ¡°I feel more at peace underneath the stars, if that makes sense. And the grass is no different than a bedroll¡ªit¡¯s what comprises a bedroll anyway. Why are you drylanders so concerned about how and where I sleep?¡±
Haesan looks at me with a confused expression, but there¡¯s no time to explain. ¡°How can I be of service, Lady Haesan?¡± I ask, exaggerating my cordiality.
She frowns at my remark, arms folded. ¡°I understand your frustrations, but we need to determine our next steps and act quickly. Time is running out. We cannot afford to be indecisive.¡±
¡°Indecisive?¡± I echo, irritation flaring. ¡°I¡¯m not being indecisive. I¡¯m being strategic. If we don¡¯t gather more support, we risk everything.¡±
Haesan¡¯s eyes narrow. ¡°And if we waste time chasing after support that may never come, we risk losing Qapauma entirely. The city is already on the brink of collapse. We need to stabilize it before it¡¯s too late.¡±
I shake my head, feeling my pulse quickening. ¡°You¡¯re thinking short-term. We need a strong, united force to stand against the Eye in the Flame. Rushing back to Qapauma without proper support will mean certain death.¡±
¡°You think I don¡¯t know that?¡± Haesan snaps, her voice rising. From the corners of my eyes, villagers uncomfortably go about their business, pretending to be uninterested in our debate¡ªthough not doing so very well.
¡°Every moment we delay, more lives are lost in the capital,¡± she continues. ¡°If we allow the infighting to continue, the Eye in the Flame will pick apart whoever remains in Qapauma and easily claim the throne. We need to act now, not later.¡±
¡°And you¡¯re going to what? Walk between the quarreling sides and broker peace?¡± I ask incredulously.
¡°Something must be done,¡± she charges.
I take a deep breath, trying to keep my frustration in check. ¡°And what if we act now and fail? What if our small force gets overwhelmed by either of the bickering sides because we didn¡¯t take the time to build our strength?¡±
Haesan steps closer, her expression fierce. ¡°Sometimes, the right action isn¡¯t the one that guarantees immediate success, but the one that prevents immediate disaster. Qapauma is our heart, our center. If it falls, everything else falls with it.¡±
I pick myself up off the ground and lock eyes, glaring back at her. ¡°And if we don¡¯t rally more support, we risk losing not just Qapauma, but everything. The Aimue need us. They¡¯ve suffered under the Eye in the Flame¡¯s raids, and according to that scout, more raids are coming. If we can rally them, we gain allies and grow our army, while weakening the cult¡¯s influence in the north, perhaps even preventing their march to Qapauma.¡±
Haesan¡¯s face tightens with emotion. ¡°I respect your perspective, but we can¡¯t ignore the urgency. We need to find a balance, a way to address both threats.¡±
¡°And what do you suggest?¡± I ask, my tone sharper than intended. ¡°That we split our forces and risk weakening both efforts?¡±
Haesan hesitates, but she eventually finds the words she seeks. ¡°Yes. We can split our forces. You go to Aimue and gather support. I shall return to Qapauma and try to stabilize the situation. We can cover more ground that way, given the urgency and shortness of time available.¡±
I feel a surge of anger, my jaw tightening and my heart pounding in my ears. But I force myself to remain calm. ¡°And how do you propose we communicate and coordinate our efforts?¡±
¡°We will find a way,¡± Haesan says firmly. ¡°We have to. This isn¡¯t just about us. It¡¯s about the future of our people.¡±
Is that it? ¡®We will find a way¡¯? I clench my fists, struggling to keep my voice steady. ¡°And what if we fail? What if we¡¯re both overwhelmed by the enemy¡¯s forces because we didn¡¯t stick together?¡±
Haesan looks at me with a mix of frustration and pleading. ¡°Then we¡¯ll deal with it. But we can¡¯t stand still, paralyzed by indecision. We have to act. You carrying on to Aimue to rally support, while I return to Qapauma makes the most sense.¡±
¡°Why? So you can run away again?¡±
Haesan looks at me, shocked. ¡°I beg your pardon?¡±
¡°If I recall,¡± I say pointedly, ¡°you escaped Qapauma to the safety of Qelantu Loh, only to return again. And then, you required another escape, thanks to me! Personally, Lady Haesan, I don¡¯t think the Eleven want you in the capital city.¡±
Haesan takes a deep breath, then speaks, her voice surprisingly steady and controlled. ¡°I understand your frustration, Inuxeq. It is true that my path has been winding and chaotic¡ªnothing of which I desired and found to be ideal. But every decision I made was to protect our people. What we are facing now is a natural part of rebuilding. It¡¯s a challenge we must endure to create a better future.¡±
I scoff, but Haesan continues. ¡°We can¡¯t lose hope or give in to despair. Our ancestors fought hard for our freedom, and we ourselves have fought for our freedom. It is up to us to ensure that freedom endures. We need to adapt, to find new ways to unite our people and overcome the trials we face. The Eye in the Flame is a threat, but so is our own disunity. We must be wise, we must be strong, and above all, we must be united in our purpose.¡±
I sigh, as the enormity of what we have to decide is almost suffocating. ¡°Alright. We will split our forces. But we¡¯re taking a huge risk here. And we¡¯ll have to live with the consequences if we fail.¡±
Haesan nods, her expression resolute. ¡°I understand. And I¡¯m willing to take that risk. Failing in either of our quests mean we fail all of Pachil. I cannot allow that to happen, and I know you feel the same way.¡±
Every part of my being screams that splitting up is the wrong move. It¡¯s not that I don¡¯t respect Haesan¡ªI¡¯ve seen her bravery firsthand¡ªbut this feels like cutting ourselves in half when we need to be a single, unstoppable force.
My thoughts churn with frustration. How can she be so sure that this is the right call? The threats are multiplying like shadows at dusk. The Eye in the Flame, the civil war in Qapauma, Achutli¡¯s loyalists¡ªthey¡¯re all looming over us like a storm ready to break. How can we fight them on two fronts and hope to come out victorious?
Time is slipping through our fingers like sand. We¡¯ve got the new moon approaching, and with it, the Eye in the Flame¡¯s attack. Haesan¡¯s right about one thing: every moment counts. But her plan feels like taking a risk we can¡¯t afford.
As we prepare to part ways, an elder from Qelantu Loh approaches us. His posture is hunched over due to his advanced age, but the expressed nervousness likely adds to it. A single, silver braid gently drapes over his shoulder and over his deep blue tilm¨¤tli. He fidgets with his fingers, while a grave expression washes over him. Great. Just what we need. Another problem to solve.
¡°I beg your pardon,¡± he interjects, but I couldn¡¯t help but overhear your deliberations. I have¡ª¡±
¡°Do you always make a habit of eavesdropping on conversations that don¡¯t concern you?¡± I snap, my voice dripping with irritation. ¡°Or is this a special occasion?¡±
Haesan holds up a hand, stopping my tirade. ¡°Please, good sir. Tell us what is on your mind.¡±
He nods cautiously, meekly. ¡°There is recent news that may aid your decision,¡± he says, almost warily.
¡°Well,¡± I say, still annoyed. ¡°go on, then, since you feel it¡¯s important enough to interrupt our conversation.¡±
¡°Again, my apologies,¡± he says, bowing his head slightly. ¡°Rumors have surfaced of an Iqsuwa nearby, one who moves like a shadow, unseen and unheard, with the ability to blend into any environment and strike with unparalleled precision. And being Iqsuwa, he is also erudite. If it is skilled warriors you seek, perhaps this Iqsuwa possesses the skills to help infiltrate Qapauma.¡±
I feel a jolt of adrenaline, as if lightning had struck my heart. Could this Iqsuwa be Mexqutli? Could this be where he vanished, escaping to the north of the capital? Yet, I also feel a pang of irritation. How much of our conversation had this elder overheard?
Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.
I open my mouth to scold him, but Haesan¡¯s eyes catch mine, silencing my reprimand before it begins. Her expression mirrors my own intrigue. ¡°An Iqsuwa?¡± she asks, startlingly calmly. ¡°Where?¡±
The elder nods. ¡°Not far from here¡ªfurther into the mountains, close to an ancient village long abandoned before even the beginning of the Timuaq rule. The ancient Tapeu built a village inside the cliffs of the mountains, right by the river¡ Well, before the river dried out, and most of the game ventured off. It will require exerting oneself to reach the cliffs, but perhaps you should investigate before finalizing your plans.¡±
¡°And how long will this trek take?¡± I ask, trying to disguise my insatiable interest in tracking down this person who could be Mexqutli.
The elder considers this, then replies, ¡°Nearly a day¡¯s journey, there and back. Maybe less, if you¡¯re fast enough.¡±
My heart races like a royal messenger with urgent news. I look at Haesan, who nods in agreement. ¡°Alright,¡± she says. ¡°If it will only take a day, we shall look into this rumor. Perhaps this Iqsuwa can help¡ªit might change everything.¡±
I glance up at the sky, observing the sun that barely peeks out from behind the distant mountains. ¡°Yes, if I depart now, I might be able to reach this location and return within the day, maybe two, depending on how it goes.¡±
Haesan contemplates for a moment, then nods. ¡°We should leave, then. The two of us. I refuse to allow you to travel alone, especially with the Eye in the Flame looming.¡±
¡°I can handle¡ª¡°
Haesan gently places a hand on my shoulder¡ªI very much dislike being touched like this. But she follows this by saying, ¡°You are most capable, indeed. Which is why I will be grateful for your skills if we encounter any danger.¡±
¡°But what about the Queen Mother?¡± I ask. ¡°You will be leaving her behind, without notifying her where we are going?¡±
Haesan pauses, then looks to the elder, who returns a knowing nod, as if he understands the meaning behind the wordless exchange. ¡°We are grateful that the two of you are helping Qelantu Loh by gathering food and supplies for us in the vast plains,¡± he says.
At first, I¡¯m confused by his statement¡ªwe are not gathering food nor supplies. But then, slowly, I catch the hidden meaning. Though I still dislike Haesan endangering herself in this way, I reluctantly agree to have her join me. Nevertheless, we bow our heads and part ways.
We set off right away, on the path that winds through the beige plains of northern Tapeu, heading to the mountains. Only the rustling of the tall grass breaks the silence as we travel side by side. Occasionally, I glance at Haesan, who is lost in her own thoughts as she stares blankly out toward the horizon. It gives me a quiet moment to myself to reflect. Who is this Iqsuwa? Is it Mexqutli? Each step feels like a heartbeat, pulsing with anticipation the closer we get to our destination.
My mind wanders to Mexqutli, that scum. The last time I saw him, he was fighting Xaqilpa, the treacherous councilor to the Arbiter, Achutli. Worse, he tried to assassinate the Arbiter in the middle of our battle against the Eye in the Flame at Qapauma. And then he just disappeared. All the deception, all the betrayal. I trusted him, and he abused that trust multiple times. The thought of seeing his face again fills me with a mix of anger and anticipation. If this Iqsuwa turns out to be him, I don¡¯t know how I¡¯ll react. Perhaps it¡¯s wise that Haesan joined me in this journey, to have someone restrain me from slicing Mexqutli¡¯s head off when I see him.
As we trudge along the rocky path, the silence stretches on, heavy and awkward. I can see that Haesan wants to say something, but each attempt results in us carrying on quietly. Finally¡ªunfortunately¡ªshe breaks the silence.
¡°You know,¡± she begins softly, ¡°when I was a child, I used to spend hours exploring the jungle around our home in Achope. My parents¡ªwell, my adoptive parents¡ªalways worried about me getting lost, but I never did. I had this favorite spot, a hidden grove with the most vibrant flowers and a small, crystal-clear stream. It was like my secret sanctuary.¡±
I fold my arms, trying not to give in to her offering of peace. But the sincerity in her words draw me in despite myself.
¡°There was this one time,¡± Haesan continues, a smile lighting up her face, ¡°I must have been about seven or eight harvests old, I found a baby capuchin monkey there. It had been separated from its troop, and it was so scared and hungry. I couldn¡¯t just leave it there, so I brought it home. My parents were furious at first. My father, Suntu, even threatened to force me to live in the jungles with it. But eventually, they saw how much I cared for the little fellow. Together, we named him Chasqa.¡±
I try to fight back the smile that begins creeping up the corners of my lips. Why is she telling me this story? Reluctantly, though, I feel my expression soften slightly at the mention of the capuchin. Even I can¡¯t deny the adorableness of a monkey companion.
¡°Chasqa became my constant companion. He¡¯d sit on my shoulder while I did my lessons and follow me around everywhere. I remember teaching him to fetch small fruits and how he¡¯d mimic my every move. He was more than just a pet; he was a friend, someone who made me feel understood in a world where I often felt out of place.¡±
Haesan pauses, and our eyes meet. There¡¯s a sincerity in her gaze that I can¡¯t ignore, as much as I try to. ¡°Looking back, I realize that Chasqa and that grove were my way of connecting with the wild, with the part of me that didn¡¯t quite fit into the pampered life my parents wanted for me. It was my way of holding on to something real, something that felt truly mine.¡±
She lets out a small laugh, and I can¡¯t help but feel a touch of empathy. ¡°Of course, Chasqa eventually grew up and returned to the jungle. But those memories¡ they remind me that no matter how luxurious my surroundings were, there was always a part of me yearning for something more, something authentic.¡±
I uncross my arms, letting the story melt away my toughened exterior. Despite everything, the image of a young Haesan with her monkey friend warms a small corner of my heart.
¡°We had such different upbringings,¡± I say with a chuckle. ¡°For the Tuatiu, our connection to our surroundings defines us. We are taught at an early age that we need to thrive within the dangers of the jungle in order to survive. When we are young children, the elder warriors used to test our skills, preparing us for the rite of passage that occurs later on in our lives.¡±
We reach a particularly challenging climb up the steep face of a mountain slope. I leap, catching the edge of a cliff and pull myself up. Haesan can only stare at the ledge, her face overcome with concern. I extend my hand, ready to pull her up. Her first attempts at jumping to reach my arm fall short, and I have to stifle a laugh so as to not discourage her or make her feel embarrassed.
¡°You got this, Lady Haesan,¡± I say, part encouragement, part playful gibe.
Her face scrunches up as she readies herself for one more, determined attempt. With a tremendous leap, her hands clasp onto my forearm. I reach down with my other hand and secure her, then pull her up. She braces herself onto the cliffside with her feet, using them to lift off the rock face and climb over the ledge. She¡¯s overcome with a sense of accomplishment, grinning from ear to ear. I nod a silent congratulations, then dust off my green tunic as I stand up.
We continue our trek along narrow ledges and steep slopes. After a short period, Haesan asks, ¡°So what do the Tuatiu do to test the skills of a young child?¡± When I look at her in confusion, she clarifies, ¡°Your story. You never got to tell me what tests the Tuatiu endure to prove they can be self-sufficient in the jungle.¡±
¡°Well, there is one night where the elder warriors will blindfold a child and set them loose in the jungle. The task is to return to the village without being seen nor heard. For me, I was creeping through the underbrush until the break of dawn, listening to the sounds of night, feeling my way back. It had taken me all night, but I had made it back, faster than the other children who were sent out at the same time. When they told me I had passed, it was one of the proudest moments I can remember.¡±
¡°That sounds a bit cruel,¡± she comments. ¡°abandoning children in the jungles like that.¡±
¡°I don¡¯t see it that way,¡± I reply. ¡°And they watch us¡ªit¡¯s not as though we¡¯re completely left on our own. That¡¯s what the blindfold and time of night are for: so you don¡¯t see that the warriors are watching over you. You believe you¡¯re alone, so you believe you can only rely on yourself. It¡¯s a test of trust and self-reliance. The jungle is dangerous, but it¡¯s also our home. We have to learn to navigate it, to respect it, and to survive in it.¡±
Haesan nods slowly, processing my words. ¡°I suppose we both had to prove ourselves in different ways. You with your skills and stealth, me with¡ well, finding my place in a world that always felt like it was trying to mold me into something I wasn¡¯t.¡±
There¡¯s a moment of silence as we continue walking. Then, Haesan frowns, looking down at the ground in front of her. ¡°I would like to just say that¡ I regret how we left matters in Qelantu Loh, and I wanted to apologize for my demeanor. You are a valued ally, and I dislike causing you to be angry with me.¡±
Another sigh escapes my lips. ¡°You didn¡¯t make me angry,¡± I assure her¡ªalthough, if I¡¯m being completely honest, I was a little upset with her before we departed Qelantu Loh. ¡°The entire situation bothers me, and I¡¯m uncertain what the best course of action is. There are too many dangers, too many foes, and I fear we don¡¯t have enough time to stop one threat, let alone two.¡±
She nods subtly, then glances at me solemnly. ¡°These are most certainly trying times,¡± she says.
¡°I assumed such times would cease once the Timuaq were defeated,¡± I say, sounding whinier than I intended. ¡°Back then, the decisions were obvious: fight against the titans, stop their tyranny, save our people. Now, everything is murky. We¡¯re facing threats from everywhere¡ªfrom outside and within¡ªand I¡¯m uncertain whether we¡¯re truly better off now than when we were under the rule of the titans. Frankly, I¡¯m not certain we¡¯re capable of ruling ourselves.¡±
This elicits a chuckle from Haesan, something sounding like the flittering of a thrush. ¡°It¡¯s normal to feel overwhelmed by the complexity of the choices before us.¡±
I grunt skeptically. ¡°Easy for you to say. And you sound like one of those elders.¡±
For a moment, there¡¯s another flittering chuckle, but then Haesan¡¯s smile fades, and her tone grows serious. ¡°The challenges we face now are a testament to our freedom. It was easy to have clear enemies and obvious goals when the factions fought against the Timuaq. Now, we must navigate the complexities of our own choices, our own conflicts.¡±
She leans in closer, speaking softly. ¡°That uncertainty you feel? It¡¯s the price of autonomy. We are better off because we have the chance to find our own path, even if it¡¯s fraught with difficulty. True strength isn¡¯t found in only overcoming an oppressor, but in building something better in its place.¡±
¡°Do you think we will build something better?¡± I ask.
Haesan flashes a faint smile. ¡°We have to try.¡±
After scaling the slopes a little while longer, we reach a small clearing among a plateau. A few windswept trees tilt decrepitly amidst the arid setting. The sun is nearly at its apex, shining down harshly upon us and casting short shadows along the reddish brown dirt. But a short distance away, it illuminates part of a wall made from mud bricks that follow along the edge of a cliff, with another rocky overhang above.
¡°This must be the abandoned dwelling,¡± Haesan observes. ¡°This must be what the elder at Qelantu Loh spoke of.¡±
¡°We should proceed with caution,¡± I warn her. ¡°We must assume Mexqu¡ªI mean, the Iqsuwa, does not want to be found, and could be hostile.¡±
I draw Sachia¡¯s bow and nock an arrow, steadily clutching it by my chest. Haesan retrieves the dagger I handed her, awkwardly holding it out in front of her with both hands. We take small, careful steps as we approach the ancient habitation, watching for any signs of movement.
The wind picks up, circulating dirt in the air and obscuring my view. A couple of stones tumble down the rock face. We both shift to face it, eyes wide as we inspect the source of the sound. Did the Iqsuwa misstep, errantly kicking pebbles and exposing themselves? No, instead, a large crow had leapt from the spot, knocking the stones loose as it took off, now soaring past the cliffside.
Haesan lets out a nervous chuckle. ¡°But of course. At least it got the blood flowing.¡±
As her laughter fades, a heavy silence descends. I catch a faint, rhythmic crunch¡ªfootsteps, careful but unmistakable, advancing through the gravely dirt. My pulse quickens, bowstring taut against my fingers. I motion to Haesan, and we freeze, our ears straining to catch the subtle sound of what approaches.
There it is again, closer this time. Each step is deliberate, as if whoever or whatever it is knows the terrain intimately. I tighten my grip on the bow, eyes peeled for the threat. The sun blazes above, but an icy dread grips my heart.
Time stands still. Neither of us move. I don¡¯t even breathe, too self-conscious that it may give away our position. My eyes bounce from location to location, checking for any movement. Only the wind dares to make a noise, rustling the dried shrubs and swaying the leafless branches.
Long, slow breath in, I have to remind myself. Long, slow breath out.
Then, my eye sees it, just at the edges of my vision. Without hesitation, I leap for Haesan, tackling her to the ground. Just above us, something small, something quick, whooshes as it flies in the air. It knocks on the dead tree behind us a dozen paces away, then falls to the ground with a paltry thud. A dart. The tiny feathers of its fletching are radiant, a bright turquoise.
Those aren¡¯t the feathers of any Tapeu birds, I think. Those must come from a jungle bird. But, where?
A few heavy steps crunch the nearby gravel and dirt. A large, daunting figure with sun-scorched skin emerges from behind a boulder. He wears a long, dark turquoise tunic paired with fitted trousers, and dons a flowing cloak of a vibrant achiote, all adorned with intricate ivory patterns. Even the leather armor on his chest and bracers have been treated and dyed to a dark turquoise, engraved with more ivory patterns and symbols upon them. He holds a blowgun the length of his forearm in his hands, and an obsidian sword remains sheathed, dangling at his hip.
His gaze locks onto us, and a slow, predatory smile spreads across his boxy, weathered face. ¡°Impressive reflexes,¡± he says with a low, resonate voice.
He takes a step closer, and I can better see his simple, gleaming helmet, crowned with the iridescent turquoise feathers of a quetzal. His eyes seem to measure us, studying us and waiting to see what we might do. When we remain still and silent, he gives a curt nod, and a slight sound of acknowledgment escapes his lips.
¡°I am Xelhua,¡± he proclaims, ¡°and you have just entered my domain. Now, tell me, what brings you here¡ªbefore I decide if you are worth keeping alive.¡±
120 - Sanqo
From where Siunqi sat at the head of the long, ornate driftwood table, the voices blended seamlessly with the sound of the tides. It was another interminable meeting, another day of listening to the Tapeu emissaries carry on about terms for new trade routes. The Sanqo were being called upon to secure them, and the leaders of the island faction¡¯s houses were throwing tantrums about what was being asked of them.
But none of this mattered to Siunqi while his daughter remained missing.
The Sanqo ruler began to lose track of how many moon cycles Walumaq had been away, vanishing from view as his ships set off to return to Haqiliqa. What has it been now? Two? Three? Only Iaqa knows. With no word yet from Atoyaqtli, all he could do was sit and wait.
Siunqi hated to sit and wait.
His fingers absently traced the smooth contours of a polished coral pendant hanging from his neck, a gift from Walumaq when she was a child. He fondly remembers the day she had found the coral on the beach. How her stunning blue eyes¡ªtheir brilliant hue that seemed to hold the endless depths of the ocean, so unlike anyone else¡¯s he¡¯s ever met¡ªlit up as she marveled at its intricate patterns and vibrant array of deep reds and oranges, shaped by the relentless sea. How she had treasured it, turning it over in her hands to admire its otherworldly beauty, and the way it seemed to glow in the sunlight. He had it crafted into a pendant, as a token to keep her close even when he was far away.
¡°¡security for the trade routes must be ensured,¡± one of the Tapeu emissaries insisted, their words snapping with impatience as they gripped the edge of the table. ¡°We need assurance that our goods will reach Qiapu safely.¡±
¡°But the compensation you offer is insufficient,¡± retorted one of the Sanqo leaders. ¡°We demand a significant share of Qiapu¡¯s weapon production. Our own armaments are outdated. Without proper defenses, how do you expect us to protect your goods? For the scale of protections we¡¯re providing, this is the only adequate payment.¡±
¡°Great Siunqi,¡± a voice called, jarring him back to the present. He forced himself to refocus. ¡°What say you?¡±
¡°Yes, what is your ruling? Because we will be left with nothing if¡ª¡°
¡°We are taking ships away from our own protection to secure your trade routes,¡± another Sanqo leader interrupted. ¡°It¡¯s only fair that we are adequately compensated for¡ª¡°
¡°And now you want to weaken us further by taking our weapons?¡± a Tapeu emissary quickly countered. ¡°This is unreasonable! We cannot afford to leave ourselves defenseless just to appease your demands.¡±
Siunqi raised a hand, signaling for silence. He took a moment to collect his thoughts, the pendant cool against his skin. ¡°Both sides present valid concerns,¡± he began, his voice calm and measured. ¡°The Tapeu need secure trade routes to maintain stability. The Sanqo must foster trust with Achutli, but also require better armaments to ensure our protection and capability.¡±
He paused, allowing his words to settle. The men around the table waited to see what he would say next. After a long moment, the separate parties muttered within their group, wondering where this was going.
As the murmuring started to pick up in volume, he spoke again, raising his voice over the din of discussion and debate. ¡°I propose a compromise. The Sanqo will provide the necessary security for the Tapeu trade routes, using a smaller portion of Qiapu¡¯s weapon production, sufficient to upgrade our defenses without straining Qiapu¡¯s resources. The remaining majority of the weapons will continue to go to the Tapeu. Additionally, Qiapu can supply the Sanqo with a reasonable amount of their mining resources at a reduced rate, which will help compensate for the costs of this protection for their goods. I believe this arrangement benefits all factions and fosters goodwill.¡±
There was a murmur of contemplation around the table. He looked around the table, seeing the calculation in the eyes of both parties. Siunqi continued, ¡°This way, the Tapeu gain the security they need, the Sanqo enhance our defenses, and Qiapu sees increased trade and resource exchange. It is not everything either side wants in full, but it is a fair compromise that strengthens our alliances and prepares us for the challenges ahead.¡±
The Tapeu emissaries and Sanqo leaders exchanged looks, weighing the proposal. A few outbursts sprung up, which were quickly quelled, and a more amenable deliberation followed.
As Siunqi prepared to speak again, the door to the council chamber burst open. A guard rushed in, his face flushed with urgency. ¡°Great Siunqi, there¡¯s a disturbance outside in the courtyard. The Aqu¡¯ala and the Qisiaqu houses have come to blows again. It¡¯s escalating quickly.¡±
¡°Those two again?¡± someone shouted from somewhere among those gathered at the table. ¡°Will they never settle their petty squabbles? There are more pressing matters! This is obnoxious!¡± Siunqi couldn¡¯t see who was speaking, but judging by the voice, it was likely Tuqalo, someone who always likes to hear himself speak more than contributing anything meaningful.
The Tapeu emissaries exchanged confused glances, asking one another what was going on. The blustering and round-bellied man sitting beside Tuqalo, Qlochupi, looses a cynical laugh. ¡°Those two houses have been warring with one another generations before we were exiled to this forsaken island,¡± he says, answering the unasked question between bites of his roasted lamb shank. ¡°I don¡¯t think they even remember what they¡¯re fighting about!¡±
¡°Their whole families should be tossed in the sea, so we can finally be done with them,¡± Tuqalo adds unhelpfully. ¡°I don¡¯t see why we don¡¯t just cast them off Sanqo and divide their lands among those who know how to get along. We¡¯d be much more productive using their lands than they ever were.¡±
This generated a few ¡°hear, hears¡± and nods of agreement from those gathered around the table. Siunqi¡¯s eyes narrowed, but he remained composed. ¡°Excuse me, gentlemen,¡± he said to the council members. ¡°This matter requires my immediate attention.¡±
With swift, purposeful strides, he left the council chamber. The echo of his footsteps loudly resounded off the polished stone walls of the grand hall. Even from the hallways, he could hear the shouts and jeers of the two warring houses. He sighed and shook his head, wondering to himself what set them off this time. If he recalled correctly, the last incident was from an imagined slight where one of the two leaders¡ªwho could say which one it was, at this point¡ªclaimed the other had swapped their chairs at the driftwood table. Three warriors between the two houses died that day.
The yelling grew louder and louder with each step, until Siunqi arrived at the courtyard. It¡¯s a fairly empty space, large enough to conduct combat drills atop the white sands that made up the ground. A few benches lined the perimeter walls for anyone to spectate or rest. Otherwise, the area contained only a few vines brave enough to scale the tall walls, which gave the place its only non-beige color.
It didn¡¯t take long for Siunqi to see the clashing sides. On one side were the Qisiaqu, in woven tunics and tight trousers of ocean blue and bright yellow, leather chest pieces and arm guards with intricate designs resembling the scales of eels, featuring a blend of teal and yellow, and short cloaks in bright yellow worn over one shoulder. On the other side were the Aqu¡¯ala, with the unmistakable tattoos of piranha teeth that frame their mouths and cheeks, creating an impression of perpetual, predatory grins, while wearing traditional tunics and loincloths of a silver and blue with accents of fiery red along the edges, hardened leather chest plates and bracers dyed teal with silver fish-scale patterns, and bright red sashes worn around their waists.
The two sides were chest to chest, shouting into the faces of their foes. There was so much yelling that it was difficult for Siunqi to figure out what caused the fighting to break out this time. But once a member of the Aqu¡¯ala drew their obsidian sword¡ªprompting everyone else present to draw their weapons¡ªhe wasted no time, positioning himself between the rival houses.
¡°Enough!¡± he bellowed, his voice cutting through the chaos. ¡°This is not how we conduct ourselves in Sanqo. Lay down your weapons and speak your grievances, or face my wrath.¡±
The warriors on both sides hesitated, glancing at each other before slowly lowering their arms. Siunqi¡¯s stern gaze met each of theirs, ensuring they understood the severity of his words. After a long pause, the Sanqo ruler was uncertain either side would yield and sheath their weapons. Both sides continued to glare at one another, waiting to see which one would blink first. But finally, fortunately, the leaders of both houses simultaneously returned their weapons to their scabbards, though their scowls remained.
Siunqi turned his attention to the leaders of the two houses. ¡°Aqu¡¯ala, Qisiaqu, your dispute threatens the very fabric of our society. We will resolve this here and now, with words, not weapons.¡±
Unsurprisingly, it was the hot-headed Anaqu of the Aqu¡¯ala who spoke first. ¡°They stole our banner!¡± he declared, pointing accusingly at the Qisiaqu leader, Isuma, who rolled his eyes and laughed in disbelief.
¡°What makes you say this?¡± Siunqi questioned.
¡°Our ceremonial banner was proudly displayed among the others in the great hall, and now it is missing!¡± Anaqu said this so quickly, it was as if it was all one word.
¡°This is purely false and crafted in the dull one¡¯s mind,¡± Isuma retorted. ¡°It is not a secret that our two houses dislike each other¡ª¡° This warranted an exaggerated scoff from Anaqu and the generals standing beside him. ¡°¡yet there is nothing positive to be gained by stealing that disgusting and frightful banner.¡±
¡°You want to exert your dominance in a garish display!¡± Anaqu shouted accusatorially.
¡°I wouldn¡¯t degrade my wine bearer by soiling their hands with the removal of such a revolting banner,¡± Isuma replied.
At this, Anaqu lunged forward, but was mercifully restrained by his generals. Isuma, meanwhile, released a pitying laugh and a shake of his head. ¡°Do you see this, Great Siunqi? These savages have no right to call themselves ¡®Sanqo¡¯ with such an embarrassing display.¡±
¡°If you don¡¯t return our banner to its rightful place, I will see to it that we burn down your entire fiefdom!¡± Anaqu proclaimed.
¡°That is enough!¡± Siunqi yelled. ¡°I will not see two of my houses at war over something so trivial!¡±
¡°Trivial?!¡± Anaqu exclaimed, incensed.
Before he could bluster anything else, Siunqi continued, ¡°If the banner is not found by sunset, we will have another recreated in its place. I will have my finest weavers work on it tirelessly through the night to ensure it will be hanging by sunrise, before you and your house departs Haqiliqa.¡±
Anaqu maintained his snarl, but threw off the hands that held him back. ¡°Fine,¡± he conceded with a growl. ¡°But I will have you know that any more such atrocities will notbe tolerated.¡±
If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.
With a wave of his hand, Anaqu signaled for his men to promptly leave the courtyard. Isuma, however, remained. ¡°You¡¯re going to give in to this petulant child¡¯s whining?¡± he asked, baffled by Siunqi¡¯s ruling. ¡°He will never be pleased¡ªyou know this, correct? You will weave their banner and he will claim that you did his house an injustice by not making the reds bright enough, nor the teeth of the stupid fish sharp enough. He is going to¡ª¡°
¡°You are fortunate I do not have your tongue for questioning my ruling, Isuma,¡± Siunqi said in a low, threatening rumble. ¡°Where you see petulance, I see an unwavering tenacity. Your house would do well to stop provoking such a vitriolic house. Return the banner at once. I don¡¯t care how it¡¯s done, but I expect it to be hanging before the break of dawn.¡±
Isuma looked bemused. ¡°You accuse me of¡ª¡°
¡°For someone so critical of another¡¯s heightened emotions, you might want to work on masking your own,¡± Siunqi said, turning to the Qisiaqu leader. ¡°Your enjoyment of his venomous accusations betrayed your efforts to appear innocent. It seems to me you believe yourself to be cleverer than you actually are.¡±
Realizing he had been bested, Isuma conceded with a simple nod, and a knowing smirk. He turned to leave without saying another word. And with that, the Qisiaqu warriors strolled out of the courtyard, walking opposite of where the Aqu¡¯ala departed, of course.
Siunqi was left with his thoughts. He would never admit it aloud, but dealing with the two warring houses felt like managing squabbling children, their constant bickering testing his patience. And speaking of which, the deliberations inside the council chamber were likely to take the rest of the day¡ªif not longer¡ªas the two sides picked apart his proposed ruling on the matter. No, he would not return there any time today, he decided. He would come back to it when he didn¡¯t feel so exhausted.
The Sanqo ruler was met with a series of thumping and thudding as the warriors pounded their chests in salute. He walked past them with a cursory nod, on his way to the terrace that overlooks the Haqu Suquinoq. I need some time to myself, he decided. Time away from the burdens of rulership, for once.
He practically collapsed on the waist-high walls upon his arrival, resting his hands on the cool stone as he took in the rhythmic crashing of the waves. Each deep inhale was filled with the briny sea air, chilling his lungs with every breath. Winter will be arriving soon, he thought to himself. With the change in season, the seas will become rougher as the currents shift, and the trade winds weaken.
His hand reflexively touched the coral pendant. Would this mean Walumaq may have to wait to return home? Will she be stuck on the mainland until spring? With the whispers of a rebellion in Tapeu, will his daughter be trapped among the internal conflict?
Siunqi sighed. He had tried for so many moon cycles to reclaim the honor of the Sanqo, to redeem them in the eyes of the factions of Pachil. But up to now, his efforts had gone nowhere. The debacle in Chalaqta had likely only made matters worse. What had caused the turmoil in the Tapeu city? No one had explained to him how the fires were started, or who was responsible for the riots in the streets.
Pahua continued to refute any indications of his involvement, but Siunqi knew. Despite Pahua¡¯s vehement denials, Siunqi couldn¡¯t shake the nagging suspicion that his son had a hand in it. Pahua was rash, reflexive, short-sighted¡ªtraits that too often led to disaster. His son cared little for the history of the Sanqo, for what it took to get to where they were, or for the struggle to rebuild a sullied reputation. Yet Siunqi knew that if Pachil was to prosper, it would require all factions working together, unifying under a common purpose.
To his recollection, nothing like that had ever been achieved. Sure, it¡¯s been dreamed of, wished for. Pachil has always had a history of idealists. People will always believe theyare the ones to do the unthinkable, that their vision is what will bring stability and peace to the land. A tale as old as time itself.
Perhaps he was being na?ve to think that change is possible. Perhaps, Siunqi lamented, he was never going to restore the Sanqo reputation, turning them into a well-respected faction once again. If it weren¡¯t for Xipai¡ Siunqi always wondered what made that ruler decide to turn the Sanqo into a faction full of raiders and pirates. What drove him to go against the peaceful accord enjoyed by all on the mainland? How could he not see the wrath his decision would wrought on generations upon generations of people? What makes someone so starved for power to be blinded by the inevitability of their greed and lust for domination?
A hand gently placed on Siunqi¡¯s shoulder startled him. ¡°My apologies,¡± his wife said sweetly. ¡°I didn¡¯t realize you were so deep in thought.¡±
He turned to face Cheqansiq, smiling warmly at the sight of his loving partner. The smile grew even wider when he noticed the chalices of wine in her hand. ¡°I heard about the council chamber, so I assumed you could use a drink.¡±
After taking the chalice and drinking a heavy swig from it, he placed his free hand on top of hers, giving it a quick, loving squeeze. ¡°I fear the Sanqo will forever be at war with the factions of the mainland. Somehow, the life of heartless raiders has been woven into the tapestry of our people, and I don¡¯t know how to undo what¡¯s been done.¡±
¡°Ah, so your usual lamentations, then?¡± she said with a cheeky grin. Siunqi snorted out a laugh and shook his head, pivoting it to take in the nearby waters. Cheqansiq then sighed deeply, joining her husband in looking out over the neighboring sea. ¡°I do not envy your position of leadership, that is for certain. But you are resourceful, and determined¡ªit¡¯s what makes you a worthy ruler of the Sanqo.¡±
Siunqi sighed once again, lowering his head and frowning. He glanced at the wine, but decided against taking another sip¡ªhe was too distraught to drink. ¡°But what if my efforts aren¡¯t enough to change the course we¡¯re on? What if the Sanqo are destined to remain trapped in this cycle of conflict?¡±
After setting down her chalice atop the wall, she drew Siunqi¡¯s face to look at her, then held his shoulders, squeezing them softly. ¡°Unfortunately, these matters take time. I know you hate the word ¡®patience¡¯, husband, but you must practice it, I¡¯m afraid. You are working to undo generations of history. A sturdy ship isn¡¯t crafted in one night.¡±
¡°You and your Puqia sayings,¡± Siunqi teased, trying¡ªand failing¡ªto hide his smile. ¡°The dolphin are too playful for their own good.¡±
¡°But you know I¡¯m right,¡± she said, stepping in closer and wrapping her arms around the ruler¡¯s neck. ¡°My house is very wise, which is why it was wise of you to marry into it.¡±
Siunqi playfully mocked being offended. ¡°I married into your house? Are you forgetting the bloodline of my family? How we¡ª¡°
A commotion brought their conversation to a halt. Two of the palace warriors stepped aside at attention as a clattering of metal clinked discordantly. A burst of air rushed from Siunqi¡¯s nostrils at the sight, his lips tightened into a thin line.
¡°Have I interrupted something? Is this what you¡¯ve been up to, as opposed to your duties as ruler?¡± Pahua asked, taking a big pull of chicha from his metallic cup and tossing it aside, letting it clatter along the stone ground. He flung his teal and bronze cape around to cover his right shoulder as he leaned against a point in the wall a few paces from Siunqi, stumbling slightly before regaining his balance.
¡°What is it that you want, boy?¡± Siunqi barked his question.
Pahua¡¯s eyes narrowed, and a scowl slowly curled his mouth. ¡°I heard you decided not to rejoin the council, father. Is that because your knees grew tired from groveling to the Tapeu?¡±
¡°By the sea, Pahua,¡± Siunqi remarked, exasperated. ¡°You don¡¯t know the first thing about generating and maintaining diplomatic relationships.¡±
¡°That¡¯s because they shouldn¡¯t exist with inferior factions,¡± Pahua retorted. ¡°The Tapeu are on the cusp of a civil war, and we are doing nothing to capitalize on it. Why should they be allowed to rule over the entire land when they can¡¯t even get their house in order? If we¡¯re going to allow¡ª¡°
¡°You¡¯ve come all this way to disrupt my peace just to waste your chicha-tainted breath over the Tapeu?¡± Siunqi interjected. ¡°At the end of the War of Liberation, the factions got together in Chalaqta to decide that¡ª¡°
¡°The factions are only out for themselves!¡± Pahua remarked. ¡°They place a carved idol on the throne, one that speaks not with its own voice, but with the words of those who placed it. All so they can do as they please within their own territories.¡±
¡°That is the entire point, you foolish child!¡± Siunqi scolded. ¡°The Arbiter was chosen to oversee the reconstruction of Pachil while distributing resources as needed. In turn, each faction is allowed to rule their lands and their people as they see fit.¡±
¡°All so they can return to conspiring against one another and plot out their wars,¡± Pahua charged, slurring his words a bit. ¡°These factions, like the Arbiter, seek out only what will benefit them. If we don¡¯t do the same and look out for the Sanqo, we will be taken advantage of until our people are run into the ground!¡±
Siunqi shook his head in disbelief. But before he could speak further on the matter, Cheqansiq placed her hands upon his chest, trying to tame the wild beast that raged within. ¡°Boys,¡± she chided, alternating her glances at both men, ¡°this bickering is counterproductive. You only seek to divide our home by such talk. It would be best to leave these matters to rest.¡±
She turned to Pahua. ¡°Your father is ruling with the guidance and wisdom Iaqa provides. If the foresight shown to him by the Eleven indicates that diplomacy will lead to peace and prosperity for the Sanqo, then he is wise to listen.¡±
¡°Such misguided idealism will lead us to our doom,¡± Pahua countered. He reached for his metallic mug, only to find its presence missing.
Siunqi left Cheqansiq and followed the wall to where his son propped himself up. Standing not even a hand¡¯s distance from Pahua¡¯s face, he muttered in a near whisper, voice shaking with restrained fury, ¡°It¡¯s your ignorance that makes me relieved Walumaq was born first.¡±
¡°And where is this exalted heir?¡± Pahua questioned, mockingly looking around as if searching for his sister. Then, pretending the answer suddenly arrived to him, he stated, ¡°Ah, that¡¯s right! She¡¯s off galavanting around the mainland, skirting her duties as an heiress. All because you failed to protect her, just as you fail to protect Sanqo.¡±
Siunqi clasped the collar of Pahua¡¯s tunic. Through gnashed teeth, he snarled, ¡°I would give my life to have the two of you trade places. I would rather you be lost to the sea or ravaged by the creatures of the continent, if it meant I could have her returned to me alive.¡±
¡°Enough, husband!¡± Cheqansiq desperately tried to pry Siunqi off their son, but he violently shrugged her off. She tumbled to the ground, her face marked with scrapes from the ragged stone wall.
Standing so close that he could feel Pahua¡¯s breath, Siunqi hissed, ¡°You have never been, and never will be, fit to rule.¡±
Pahua struggled to break free of his father¡¯s grasp, fighting to pull Siunqi off of him. But the Sanqo ruler¡¯s grip was too tight. He pinned Pahua in place, pushing his son to where his back arced over the edge of the wall.
In a desperate attempt to free himself, Pahua¡¯s hand reached up, gripping his father¡¯s wrist, trying to loosen the iron hold. A few weak strikes with his free hand went unnoticed by the Sanqo ruler. The argument between the two grew louder, drowning out the incoming tide that collided with the wall and the rocks below.
¡°Let go!¡± Pahua shouted, his voice breaking with a mix of fear and anger. He could feel the rough stone edge digging into his back. His chest was getting compressed, and he had difficulty finding breath. The struggle became more frantic, with each movement bringing them dangerously close to the edge.
In a final, frantic surge of energy, Pahua reached forward, planting a hand upon his father¡¯s chest. He let out a distressed yelp and pushed with all his might. Caught off guard by the sudden force, Siunqi lost his balance. The eyes of the Sanqo ruler widened in shock, his grip slipping.
Pahua watched in horror as his father teetered on the edge, his hands grasping at empty air. Siunqi¡¯s body tipped backward, and with a look of betrayal etched on his face, he fell over the precipice of the wall.
The world seemed to freeze for a moment. Only the rushing wind and the distant crash of waves against the cliffs below dared to make a sound, carrying on as though this wasn¡¯t happening. Pahua¡¯s heart leapt into his throat as he stared at his hand, realizing he was clutching the coral pendant that Siunqi faithfully wore around his neck. The delicate piece now felt like a heavy burden in his palm.
Cheqansiq¡¯s scream pierced the air, shattering the moment of stunned silence. The sound of Siunqi¡¯s fall echoed up from below, followed by a sickening thud. Pahua¡¯s breath came in short, ragged gasps as he stared at the pendant.
¡°What have you done!¡± his mother shrieked. ¡°By the sea, Pahua, what have you done!¡±
A flurry of blows pounded Pahua¡¯s chest. An inconsolable Cheqansiq punched and punched her son, unleashing all the grief and anger and sorrow and horror she felt in that moment. Pahua tried to stop the incoming attacks, tried to grab ahold of her flailing wrists. The fists came from all angles, striking him in the face and shoulder and arm and ear and nose. As he shielded himself, his shoulder knocked a chalice to the ground with a loud clank.
¡°Mother, I¡¯m sorry!¡± Pahua pleaded. ¡°I didn¡¯t mean to! It was an¡ª¡°
It didn¡¯t matter what he said, how he apologized. Cheqansiq wasn¡¯t hearing any of it. ¡°How could you do such a thing! You insufferable fool! How could you! How could you!¡±
¡°Mother, stop!¡± he yelled, his voice cracking. Pahua searched for anyone who could help, any guard or servant who could restrain her, but no one was present. He grabbed her wrists, his grip tightening as he pushed her back. ¡°Stop, you don¡¯t understand!¡±
But Cheqansiq¡¯s screams only grew louder, more frantic. ¡°Murderer! You¡¯ve killed him! You¡ª¡±
In that split second, fear overtook him. His eyes locked onto his mother¡¯s for a brief, heart-wrenching moment. Her voice cut off as Pahua, acting on pure, misguided instinct, thrust her away from him. With a desperate, impulsive shove, Pahua flung his mother over the edge.
Her eyes widened in shock and betrayal, mirroring those of Siunqi¡¯s just moments before. Her scream mingled with the rushing wind as she fell. Pahua¡¯s heart pounded as he watched his mother plummet, her arms flailing to grab ahold of anything, only to grasp air. The realization of what he had done crashed over him like a wave, too late to stop what¡¯s been set in motion.
121 - Saqatli
The sickening sound of dark, ominous chanting as the shadowy figures in red robes emerge seems to wrap around my chest, constricting tighter with every step they take. The ethereal blue light glowing behind them casts eerie shadows that writhe and twist like the powerful eels in Auilqa rivers. My stomach churns as I imagine the completion of their ritual, its dark power poised to unleash unspeakable pain and torment upon the people of Pachil.
¡°What do we do?¡± is all I can muster from my lips. Yet, because no one else speaks the Auilqa tongue, only Noch responds. She hisses, arcing her back and prepared to fight. I plead for her to not do anything reckless, and to wait until a plan is formed.
Tlexn¨ªn snarls at the sight. ¡°They have lured us in,¡± I hear her say, thanks to Noch staying behind, much to my relief. ¡°We must bring the fight to them and put an end to these blights on Ulxa.¡±
¡°Wait,¡± Walumaq urges, holding out a hand. ¡°We can¡¯t rush in there yet until we know what we¡¯re about to face. What is that blue flame? And what terrible feat does the chanting precede?¡±
¡°Tlexn¨ªn is right,¡± Paxilche says, stepping forward and looking ahead at the grim scene. ¡°If we don¡¯t disrupt whatever it is they¡¯re doing, they could bring forth something disastrous and insurmountable.¡±
¡°Look at them,¡± Tlexn¨ªn insists with a growl. ¡°They are too focused on performing the ritual. We have the element of surprise!¡±
The eyes of Walumaq narrow as she studies the cultists. ¡°Surprise won¡¯t mean much if we don¡¯t know how to counter their magic. That blue flame¡ it¡¯s not natural. It could be a protective ward, a signal¡ or worse.¡±
Paxilche clenches his fists as his jaw tightens. ¡°Then we need to find a way to disrupt them without getting ourselves killed. Maybe we can cause a distraction, something to break their concentration.¡±
We investigate the scene, looking for any clues to lead us to a solution that will stop this maniacal chanting. But our search is cut short when a terrible rumbling quakes the ground beneath us. We exchange nervous and terrified looks between ourselves, silently questioning what is happening.
¡°We are too late,¡± Tlexn¨ªn snarls.
She and the band of Sanqo warriors lead a group of Ulxa warriors sprinting toward the source of the disturbance. Startled by this abrupt act, Paxilche and Walumaq take off, while Noch and I hurriedly chase after them.
Another tremor nearly knocks us all off balance and off our feet. The intense chanting grows louder and louder, the horrendous sounds stealing my breath. Flashes of orange spring up from the temple, blending in with the blue glow to make the air itself shimmer with unnatural hues. The terrain beneath us feels alive, pulsing in rhythm with the chanting, as if the very grounds of Analoixan are being awakened by the ritual.
Beyond the temple, unseen forces stir. The trees sway violently despite the still air, and the remnants of buildings in the city seem to groan in agony. Shadows dance and bend in the periphery, hinting at forms too terrible to fully comprehend.
Tlexn¨ªn refuses to let the disturbance disrupt her desire to storm the temple. She raises her spear high, shouting something that draws deafening war cries from her fellow Ulxa, briefly drowning out the guttural chanting. Undeterred, they race toward the sound, weapons raised.
You should know that I follow behind reluctantly, my heart hammering with each step. Sweat beads on my forehead, trickling down as the ground quivers beneath my feet. My breath comes in shallow gasps, my mind racing with images of unspeakable horrors. The voice of Noch reaches my ears, likely offering words of encouragement, but they are overwhelmed by the roaring fear that grips me. The chants of this dark cult reverberate through my chest, and I can barely hold my focus.
When the temple appears in my view, the scene is worse than what I had been imagining as I ran behind the warriors. Members of the Eye in the Flame stand in an enormous circle, surrounding the remains of a stone structure. From where I stand, I can see a gaping hole in the center, its jagged edges resembling the maw of a gigantic beast that is ready to devour the remnants of the temple whole.
The ground shudders violently as the chanting of the cultists reaches a fevered intensity. From the ruined depths of the temple, a monstrous figure claws its way up. A towering behemoth of molten rock and volcanic stone ascends, its body glowing with the ferocity of a thousand fires. Lava seeps through fissures in its hardened exterior, the black volcanic rock jagged and sharp. Eyes of pure flame cut through the darkness, burning with the intensity of a midday sun. A serpentine tail armored in scales of cooled lava thrashes behind it. As it rises to its full height, the air thickens with blistering heat, making it even harder to breathe in my already panicked state.
But you should know there is a terror that surpasses the mere presence of this unfathomable abomination. From within its molten form as its body squirms and contorts, the faces of tormented souls twist and writhe, their mouths open in eternal screams. The cacophony of their wailing fills the air, a relentlessly suffocating barrage of agony that pierces the mind. Their cries are a grotesque blend of sorrow and rage, each sound striking with the force of a war club. I clutch my head, trying to block out the noise. But it seeps into my very bones, driving me to the brink of madness. Around me, once-brave Ulxa warriors falter, their resolve crumbling. Eyes wide with terror, they drop their weapons and cover their ears. Some collapse to the ground, crippled by the overwhelming horror as sanity slips through our fingers like sand.
¡°What is¡ How¡¡± We try to formulate words, but are left speechless at the horrific sight.
¡°What do we do?¡± Walumaq asks, her wavering voice barely above a whisper, eyes searching for an answer that seems beyond reach.
Tlexn¨ªn stares down the creature, nostrils flaring as a fiery rage burns inside of her. ¡°We take the fight to this evil and eradicate them once and for all.¡±
The Ulxa warriors charge at the Eye in the Flame, spears and swords held aloft. Initially, the cultists are surprised by the sudden appearance of the enemy. But they shout something at the approaching warriors, something like a taunt, jeering and smirking.
The hands of the zealots begin to glow a fiery hue as flames form from the tips of their fingers. Radiating a white hot light, they thrust their arms forward, hurling balls of fire at our warriors. Though many are able to avoid being struck, a few are not so fortunate, igniting immediately upon impact. Their screams merge with those emitted by the molten, gnarled faces on the body of the serpent beast.
The ground beneath the remains of the sacred Ulxa temple splits open with a thunderous roar. Molten lava spews forth and illuminates the night with a frightful glow. The monster lunges forward. Its massive, blackened claws rip through the ranks of Ulxa warriors. Each swipe sends warriors flying, their armor and flesh shredded by the sheer force. The serpent-like tail whips around, smashing into the ground and causing tremors that topple the others who initially managed to stay on their feet. From the cracks within the body of the creature, lava seeps out from the wailing mouths, igniting everything it touches in a blaze of destruction.
¡°We need to help them!¡± Walumaq shouts, pointing toward the melee.
Paxilche clutches her shoulders and looks directly into her eyes. ¡°We can do that by defeating this monster.¡±
¡°But what if the cultists¡¯ ritual is the source of this creature¡¯s power?¡± she questions. ¡°Just like the fight before, if we can disrupt their ritual, we can¡ª¡°
¡°Tlexn¨ªn and the Ulxa have already disrupted the ceremony,¡± he notes, pointing to the melee. ¡°And the beast still exists. We are the only ones with capabilities that can stop it. That is how we can help.¡±
Walumaq does not look certain nor confident about the plan Paxilche has laid out. Her eyes dart over nervously at the fighting taking place between the Ulxa warriors and those of the Eye in the Flame. The furrow in her brow deepens, and she bites her lip as she contemplates the situation. Her hands tremble slightly as she grips the edge of her deep blue tunic, wrestling with the decision as to what we should do.
The creature does not wait for her choice. In its fury, the monster does not discriminate between friend and foe. Standing too close to the beast, one Eye in the Flame cultist is caught in the path of its sweeping claws. The scream of the cultist is swallowed by the roar of the flames as he is incinerated upon impact, his robes turning to ash in an instant. Another cultist attempts to direct the creature, only to be impaled by the spiked tail, his limp body thrown aside like a leaf in a storm.
The true horror reveals itself as the monster consumes a fallen Ulxa warrior. Its molten body envelopes the man with terrifying speed. The scream of the warrior is cut short as he is absorbed into the creature, his form dissolving into the searing heat. Almost immediately, the beast grows larger. The newly absorbed spirit adds its grotesque wails to the others trapped within the molten body. Unappeased, the horrific beast continues to consume the bodies of the dead, adding more and more to its freakish form.
Normally stalwart and unyielding, the Ulxa warriors falter and break under the relentless assault. The creature unleashes a breath of fire that sweeps across the battlefield. It incinerates scores of warriors and cultists alike, reducing the once-proud ranks to smoldering remains. The screams of the dying meld with the haunting wails of the tormented spirits within the creature, transforming the scene into frenzied disarray.
Our men and women rush toward the invaders, desperate to stop this assault on Analoixan. Atoyaqtli, Chiqama, and Pomacha pounce upon the unsuspecting cultists with lethal precision. Their blades slice through the air, cutting down any opposing enemy like clearing vines from a path. Tlexn¨ªn leads the Ulxa warriors and thrusts her spear forward, pointing the way.
To my right, Walumaq and Paxilche face the monstrous creature that has risen from the depths. Paxilche summons storm-infused winds that whip around him, stirring up dirt and debris. But the creature seems unaffected, its molten body absorbing the energy and somehow growing stronger. Feeling the effects from not having recovered entirely from his wounds, Pomaqli struggles to keep up, his spear barely scratching the surface of the beast. But close by, the sword of Naqispi strikes like a thunderclap, scattering pursuing enemies in his wake.
The ground shakes beneath me once again, the movement of the creature causes tremors that make it hard to stay upright. I see Walumaq raise her hands, summoning a barrier to shield us from a wave of molten lava. The heat is intense, singeing my skin even through the protective magic. I can barely breathe, as the air is thick with smoke and ash. The clash of battle surrounds me, and you should know that I feel a pang of helplessness. What can I do against such darkness and power?
Paxilche unleashes a torrent of cold winds, hoping to counter the fiery onslaught wrought by the creature. The winds collide with the beast, causing steam to hiss and billow. But it is not enough. The creature roars, a sound that reverberates through my body, and unleashes a stream of fire from its gaping maw. The water barrier created by Walumaq wavers under the assault. She trembles while gnashing her teeth, straining to hold it in place.
Atoyaqtli moves like the wind, his obsidian blade cleaving through the opposition with unerring speed. He ducks under a ball of fire hurled by a cultist, his swift reflexes saving him from a fiery demise. In one fluid motion, he then pivots on his heel and drives his blade into the chest of the cultist. The force of the blow sends his enemy crashing to the ground. Atoyaqtli pulls his blade free as the body of his foe sizzles upon hitting the hot stone floor.
This story has been unlawfully obtained without the author''s consent. Report any appearances on Amazon.
Beside him, Chiqama is a whirlwind of destruction. He spins his twin daggers, deflecting a volley of fiery projectiles before closing the distance between him and his attacker. With a flick of his wrist, he sends one dagger flying, embedding it in the throat of a cultist. They gurgle and fall, but Chiqama is already on the move, retrieving his dagger and plunging it into the back of another cultist who dared to try attacking Atoyaqtli from behind.
The axe of Pomacha gleams in the firelight as he brings it down with a thunderous roar. The blade cleaves through the shoulder of a zealot, cutting deep into flesh and bone. He yanks the axe free and spins, the momentum carrying him into another swing that decapitates his next enemy. Despite the blood and carnage, Pomacha remains unbending, his fierce war cries echoing through the temple grounds.
Yet for every cultist the trio fell, two more take their place, their red robes and dark magic are an unending tide. You should know that I grow nervous at the sight. Though I once thought our numbers were sufficient, now I begin to fear we may not have enough to combat such an unrelenting enemy. Did we not prepare and rally enough support?
The voice of Naqispi cuts through the chaos, shouting orders and encouragement. He moves with purpose, his every action aimed at protecting us, at giving us a chance to survive. I see him glance my way, his eyes fierce. For a moment, I feel a spark of hope.
But the moment is fleeting, swallowed by the roar of the battle and the overwhelming presence of the lava beast. It rears up, a nightmarish figure of molten rock and fire. Without warning, it slams its clawed hands into the ground. A wave of lava surges forward, swallowing nearly a dozen hapless and unsuspecting Ulxa warriors in a heartbeat. Their screams pierce the air, cut short as the molten rock engulfs them.
I can only watch in horror as the lava flow incinerates everything in its path. Walumaq, Paxilche, Pomaqli, and Naqispi rush to meet the beast. Walumaq weaves her hands in intricate patterns, forming a new, shimmering barrier of water that deflects the worst of the fiery onslaught. Paxilche continues to deliver a barrage of icy cold winds to battle the heat of the creature. Clutching his side where blood seeps from his ribs, Pomaqli swings his weapon with desperate strength, though each blow barely dents the rocky hide of the creature. The attacks of Naqispi, too, glance off the hardened exterior of the beast.
The futile attacks only serve to enrage the beast. With an ear-shattering shriek, it twists its body, revealing the screaming faces within that spew a river of lava directly at us. Walumaq does her best to hold up her protective barrier, but she strains to fight against the incoming wave. Pomaqli and Naqispi hurry to her side for cover as they barely escape the scathing hot flow. Noch and I look helplessly at the steam lifting off of the barrier as the water gradually evaporates.
¡°It won¡¯t¡ hold¡ for¡ much longer!¡± Walumaq warns through her clenched teeth. Lava begins dripping through the holes of her water barrier. Paxilche attempts to swirl a storm of rain to help add to the mass of the wall, yet the lava flow is too much, too overpowering.
She slowly begins backing away, hoping to escape the incoming wave of lava should the barrier fail completely. Pomaqli winces, looking up at the lava. ¡°I refuse to leave you without getting you to safety,¡± he declares.
¡°Then we¡¯ll need to run, and fast,¡± Walumaq says through a strained voice.
At her command, we run. She releases the barrier and turns around immediately. With the support of Pomaqli, they sprint away from the gigantic monster, eyes wide with panic. Noch flees as quickly as her legs will carry her. The creature ceases the spewing of lava, but it does not matter. The lava flow rushes toward us, no longer being held back from its destructive desires. The surge of lava rumbles the ground, the vibrations jostling us as we try to flee to safety.
My back sears from the intense heat of the flow behind me. Rocks and debris are caught in the wave, and that which does not burn from the touch of the lava is knocked aside from the impact. I search for a place of sanctuary, to rescue me from the incoming lava, but there is nothing except a sea of destroyed wooden homes standing like helpless victims awaiting their final destruction.
The eyes of Naqispi lock onto mine. ¡°Run, Saqatli!¡± he shouts, his voice cutting through the rumbling chaos.
Without warning, Naqispi shoves me with all his might, hurling me out of the path of the lava. The scorching heat brushes past me. I hit the ground hard, pain jolting through my body. The heat sears my skin as I roll away. I scramble to my feet, heart pounding, and search for any indication as to what happened.
On the ground, the body of Walumaq lies still. ¡°No!¡± The cry tears from my throat as I hurry over to her. Where is Naqispi? Where is Noch? Where is Pomaqli? My head swivels from side to side, desperately seeking my companions, yet no one else appears.
Something glimmering catches my attention, though it is not glowing embers or lava. Lying several paces away, a jade and onyx amulet rests on the ground. It must have been knocked loose from Walumaq in the chaos. It glows faintly against the charred ground. I have the inclination to look up, to which I see nearly a dozen members of the Eye in the Flame looming, watching. Their eyes widen as they notice the gemstone, and their chants grow louder, more urgent.
Without thinking, I run over and grab it. They are in pursuit of me, of the amulet. As I hold it in my hands, I feel a surge of energy pulse through me. There is something magical about this jewelry, something they must be eager to possess themselves. I cannot allow them to claim it.
I clutch the amulet in my hand, feeling its worn surface against my palm. With deliberate care, I tie a makeshift knot to rejoin the loose ends of the worn ornate necklace. Once secured, I place it over my head, feeling the weight of the amulet as it settles against my chest.
As I look up to gauge the pursuit of the cultists, my eyes are drawn back to the lava that had tried to consume me moments earlier. Caught in the center of the flow, Naqispi is almost engulfed. His lifeless body lies crumpled, half-buried in the cooling lava. His skin is charred and twisted grotesquely by the searing heat. Wisps of smoke rise from his remains, mingling with the acrid stench of burnt flesh. His once-vibrant eyes are now vacant, staring blankly up to the heavens.
You should know how the grief and rage twist inside me, a tempest of emotions that I cannot contain. My heart pounds in my chest, my vision blurs with hot tears, and I let out a guttural scream of anguish. The world around me narrows to a single point of unbearable pain, the sight of the final moments of Naqispi carved into my spirit.
A roar escapes my lips, but it is not mine. No, it is deeper, more primal. My vision blurs as the colors of the world bleed into each other. My body begins to transform. Fur ripples across my skin like a dye spreading in water, sleek and dark. Expanding muscles coil and tighten beneath the new layer of fur. A sharp pain courses through me as my bones crack and reshape, but the moment is fleeting as I feel my limbs elongate and shift.
I hit the ground on all fours, my newly formed paws sinking into the dirt and ash. The world sharpens into startling clarity¡ªeach blade of grass, each shift of shadow is now intensely vivid. My senses heighten. The scent of sweat and fear and blood floods my nostrils. My ears twitch as I pick up the frantic heartbeats around me. Strength surges through my now powerful frame. The energy of the amulet merges seamlessly with my own rage, pulsating a green hue to the quickening beat of my heart.
Driven by a furious need for vengeance, I spring at the nearest figure in red robes. My powerful hind legs hurl me forward with incredible speed. My razor-sharp and lethal claws slice through flesh and bone with ease, the resistance barely noticeable. The taste of warm blood ignites my fury further. Each strike is precise, fueled by the singular need to avenge Naqispi and Walumaq.
The cultists falter, their spells dying on their lips as they face my onslaught. I leap from foe to foe. One by one, I fell each enemy too slow to escape my rage. Two of the zealots extend their hands, glowing white hot as they form balls of fire from their fists. I do not give them a chance to use their powers against me. With impeccable speed, I reach them in a few strides, ripping them apart and making quick work of them.
A few of the members of the Eye in the Flame shout to the others, something of which I cannot understand. They point and run away from me, scurrying toward the remnants of the temple. There must be some matter of importance that causes them to think they will be safe if they reach the location. I cannot allow them to set foot upon their desired destination.
The thrill of the hunt courses through my veins. With a growl that rumbles through my chest, I bound after them, each leap covering vast distances. I am suddenly alerted to a series of shouting. I become nervous¡ªare there more members of the Eye in the Flame pursuing me? But I soon realize Tlexn¨ªn and the warriors charge alongside me. Weapons at the ready, they call out to one another, following me to the temple. Their battle cries merge with my roars, and we hurry to chase down the enemy.
We reach the cultists just as they scramble up the steps of the temple. My claws dig into the stone, thrusting me forward. I pounce on the nearest one, my jaws closing around his throat with a satisfying crunch. I shake him off and turn to the next. My claws rake across his chest, leaving deep, bloody furrows. The Ulxa warriors hack and slash at the fleeing foes, giving them no opportunity to reach safety.
A hovering shadow stretches up the stone blocks and over the scene of battle. A scream from a cultist close by pierces the din, dragging my attention to the looming danger, but it is already too late. In my bloodlust, I fail to heed the signs of impending doom.
The creature approaches our location, quaking the ground with each of its thunderous steps. Flames erupt from the eyes of the creature, and smoke curls around its long snout. Molten rock drips from its gaping maw, sizzling as it hits the temple floor. Columns crumble and statues melt under the relentless assault of spewed lava flows. Its tail flings balls of fire into the air, illuminating the night with a hellish glow as they crash into warriors and zealots indiscriminately.
Desperation replaces the thrill of battle as I fight to maintain control. The pain and fear threaten to overwhelm me. I realize the grave mistake I have made as I glance at the creature and see its fiery eyes burning with malevolence. The wrath of the beast shows no signs of abating. We need to retreat and regroup.
Terror floods my veins as the searing heat scorches my fur and skin. I try to dodge, but the molten rock splashes violently around us, cutting off any hope of retreat. Warriors fall, screaming in agony as they are consumed by lava. Tlexn¨ªn shouts amidst the chaos, but her voice is lost amid the monstrous bellow and the cries of the wounded.
With a final, anguished roar, I force myself to turn and flee. I catch the eye of Tlexn¨ªn, and we begin our hasty retreat, weaving through the carnage. I focus on the rhythm of my breath, the pounding of my heart, pushing back the overwhelming urge to panic. The Ulxa warriors follow, some limping, others dragging the wounded.
We burst through a thicket of charred underbrush and stumble upon a clearing. Relief washes over me as I see familiar faces. Walumaq, Paxilche, Pomacha, Pomaqli, Chiqama, and Atoyaqtli are there. The Sanqo princess is heavily bruised and exhausted, but fights to stand upright. Meanwhile, Pomaqli clutches his ribs, blood seeping through his fingers. Pomaqli clutches his side, blood seeping through his fingers. Cuts and bruises mar the others, evidence of their own battles fought and won. Pomacha and Chiqama have taken defensive stances, ready to protect our position. But I do not see the turquoise tail of Noch. Where is my ocelot friend? A cold knot tightens in my chest at the absence of her presence.
As my pulse slows, I feel my body start to shift. My fur recedes, my limbs contort, and with a final, painful jolt, I collapse onto the ground in my human form. My breaths come in ragged gasps. The weight of the amulet is suddenly a heavy presence around my neck. The faces around me are of shock and horror, and though Tlexn¨ªn says something, but without Noch, I cannot understand the words that she, or anyone else, speaks. At least, for now, it appears to calm the others.
With a determined look, Paxilche begins to summon storm clouds, his hands waving through the air as if painting the sky with his will. The hairs on my arms stand on end as the air crackles with electrifying energy. His deep and resonant voice melds with the distant rumble of thunder as he conjures another torrential downpour. Walumaq stands beside him with unwavering focus. She raises her hands, palms open, and the rain responds to her call. It swirls into a chilling vortex that spirals toward the monstrous entity before us.
We move with haste, our footsteps synchronized, splashing through the quickly forming puddles. The creature looms ahead, its dark form a stark silhouette against the storm-laden sky. The rain fizzles against the heated ground and rises into thick clouds, creating a dense mist that obscuring our vision, but shrouds our advance.
As we close in on the creature, the temperature around us seems to drop, the air heavy with the scent of ozone and earth. Just as we get within striking distance, a shimmering barrier springs to life around the core of the beast, its surface rippling like water disturbed by a stone. The barrier absorbs the torrents of water Walumaq directs at it, glowing brighter, stronger with each passing beat of the heart. Our fierce and relentless attacks are repelled instantly, bouncing off the shield like arrows against rock. In fact, the barrier seems to feed on the energy, becoming more impenetrable with every strike.
I gasp, the realization hitting me like a physical blow. This is no ordinary barrier. It is adaptive, growing stronger with each assault. I glance at Walumaq, seeing the same dawning horror reflected in her eyes. The chanting of the cultists intensifies, their rising, sinister voices send a chill through my blood. The rhythmic cadence of their incantations seems to fuel the strength of the barrier. Are they enhancing the protection of the creature?
Paxilche raises his arms higher, drawing more energy from the storm. Lightning crackles in response to his summons, bolting across the blackened sky. Walumaq furrows her brow deeper as she directs a more focused stream of water at the barrier. But nothing seems to work, sparkling defiantly against our efforts.
The voice of Paxilche cuts through the chaos to shout a command. We fall back just outside the range of the monster, breaths ragged, hearts pounding. Tlexn¨ªn gestures urgently, indicating the need for a new plan. The ground beneath us rumbles, the chanting of the cultists growing louder, suggesting an even greater threat is looming. The barrier still stands, pulsing with renewed energy, as the core of the monster appears to be protected by a formidable shield that seems invincible. The cultists begin to regroup, chanting with renewed fervor.
I exchange a glance with Walumaq, seeing the same resolve mirrored in her eyes. The storm rages on around us, the rain mingling with sweat and blood. We will find a way to break the barrier and defeat the creature, or we will die trying.
122 - Walumaq
A deafening roar shakes the ground as our icy barrage meets the barrier, only to be absorbed in a blinding flash of light. The air hums with thick and oppressive dark energy, as the barrier pulses with newfound strength. My heart races as I watch the monstrous creature, now more menacing than before. Its molten core glows blindingly brighter, releasing the screams of the melting faces contained within. I¡¯m filled with a deep, gnawing dread as the cultists¡¯ chanting escalates, echoing off the remains of ancient stone walls. I glance at my companions, their faces pale with fear, but also with determination, knowing that if we don¡¯t act quickly, this dark magic will consume us all.
I feel the fleeting hope starting to drift away from me like a feather in the wind. We have done so much to save this city, to rescue the people of Analoixan, yet the challenge has started to feel insurmountable. The relentlessness of this beast, of this cult, is more than I can take on. What more can we do to put an end to this suffering once and for all?
Saqatli hurries to me, clutching my shoulder to grab my attention. I¡¯m startled at the sight of him, remembering that he was a jaguar only moments before. Was I hallucinating this? Did that happen?
Dangling from his neck is a jade and onyx amulet. Is that the one that belonged to me? Reflexively, my hand is drawn to my chest, and I feel the amulet missing. He looks at my hand feeling around for the jewelry, then holds up the amulet and nods. I¡¯m washed over with relief, knowing it¡¯s in his possession, and not that of the Eye in the Flame.
He¡¯s shouting something and pointing toward the ruins of the temple. Yet he isn¡¯t speaking inside my mind as he¡¯s done before. I can¡¯t help but look at him with curiosity, trying to see where he¡¯s pointing.
¡°Where is Noch?¡± I ask slowly, punctuating each word with the hopes that he¡¯ll understand me.
He frowns, looking gravely concerned, then shakes his head and shrugs. ¡°Do you not know where she is?¡± I question, again slowly drawing out the words in Merchant¡¯s Tongue. Unfortunately, he doesn¡¯t seem to understand this part, yet his grief is apparent. Has she vanished? Or worse?
Saqatli adamantly points toward the temple. ¡°You¡¯re right,¡± I say, clearing my thoughts. ¡°We need to defeat this monstrosity. What¡¯s over by the temple?¡±
The boy says something emphatically in Auilqa, but I still don¡¯t know of what he speaks. There must be something terribly important over there, but it¡¯s difficult to discern what that is when an enormous monster is terrorizing the remnants of Analoixan. And without a way to effectively communicate, I can¡¯t tell if he¡¯s leading me to a solution or more danger.
Even when you fight, you know deep down you¡¯re just playing at heroics.
The phantom voice of Pahua rings in my ears. There must be dark magic nearby, the same magic that caused this sensation when I broke down another protective ward before.
I expected more from my daughter. Your mother would have been incredibly disappointed.
More whispers, now from my father, Siunqi. ¡®Would have¡¯? My mother is not deceased. These voices are trying to distort the world in order to get to me, to knock me down.
I shake my head as if to clear water from my ears after a dive. No, I will not allow these voices to win. I know what¡¯s happening here. The dark magic, it must be close. That must be what Saqatli is alerting me to. There must be something that is bound to the protective ward that shields this beast.
As soon as the realization occurs to me, a series of shouts breaks my concentration. The lava serpent flails its craggy tail, shattering the remains of the temple to pieces. Stone flies in every direction, slamming into Ulxa warriors and cultists aimlessly. Looking up at the beast, it¡¯s getting noticeably taller, bigger, stronger. If it isn¡¯t stopped soon, it will be the size of Analoixan. And what more treacherous feats could it achieve if it reaches that point?
Chiqama and Atoyaqtli rush to my side, their heads pivoting from one side to the other. ¡°Princess,¡± Atoyaqtli begins, his voice solemn and concerned. ¡°We have assembled the others, but Naqispi is missing. We¡ª¡°
At the sound of the warrior¡¯s name, Saqatli bursts into tears. My heart sinks. He doesn¡¯t need to say it¡ªI know what has happened.
¡°Naqispi is¡¡± I can¡¯t bring myself to say the words. The faces of my fellow Sanqo fall, their eyes widening with grief and shock. A heavy silence envelops us, broken only by Saqatli¡¯s soft, anguished sob. They understand without needing to hear the rest. All of us are left standing in the aftermath of our shared sorrow.
¡°We¡¯ve no time to grieve,¡± Atoyaqtli says promptly, straightening himself up and lifting his chin. ¡°We must take down that monster, before it ruins anything else.¡±
¡°But how?¡± Chiqama yells, baffled. ¡°It¡¯s not as though we can dunk it into the sea.¡±
My eyes meet those of Saqatli, who is trying his best to keep it together. ¡°We believe there is a way, but we¡¯ll need to act fast. Something is supplying power to a protective barrier. We need to dismantle it if we¡¯re to have a chance.¡±
¡°Protective barrier?¡± Chiqama parrots. ¡°From dark magic? This is the War of Liberation all over again!¡±
I look at Paxilche, who stares at me coldly. ¡°Paxilche, see if you can keep the creature distracted, so it doesn¡¯t wipe out any more of our Ulxa warriors.¡± Then, I point to my fellow Sanqo. ¡°You three, guard him from any incoming attacks by the Eye in the Flame.¡±
My gaze connects with Tlexn¨ªn. ¡°Have you and your Ulxa warriors follow me, Pomaqli, and Saqatli to the site at the temple. Whatever is happening there is feeding this creature. Defend me as I work on taking down this ward.¡±
¡°You¡¯re giving out orders and using me as bait for a gigantic lava creature?¡± Paxilche whines, his voice rising in pitch. ¡°You¡¯re the one with water abilities, and that is a beast made of fire and lava. Why don¡¯t you do it yourself if you think it¡¯s such a great idea?¡±
Pomacha scowls, approaching Paxilche until he towers over the Qiapu man. ¡°The Sanqo princess doesn¡¯t have time for¡ª¡°
I gently place a hand on his shoulder, then bow my head. He sees this, sets his jaw, and after glaring at Paxilche for several heartbeats, lets out a tremendous humph before slowly backing away. I take a deep breath, steadying myself before responding. ¡°This isn¡¯t about who does what. This is about survival and doing what needs to be done to protect everyone here. You¡¯re one of the strongest among us, and we need your strength to keep that creature distracted. I have experience taking down the protective barriers. The Ulxa warriors and their people are counting on you, and so am I. If you don¡¯t want any more lives lost, we have to work together and trust each other¡¯s abilities.¡±
Paxilche rolls his eyes and shakes his head. But before he can say anything else, Pomaqli, along with the Sanqo warriors, steps between him and me. A huge tremor abruptly ends all discussion. The ground shakes violently as the lava creature growls, its fiery eyes locked onto our group.
¡°We need to go, now,¡± Tlexn¨ªn commands. At this, we race off in separate directions. Paxilche and the Sanqo warriors sprint toward an empty clearing of the temple grounds, littered with fallen trees and crumpled stone columns and statues. I wave on the remaining companions, and Tlexn¨ªn signals to the remaining Ulxa warriors to stay close. Following Saqatli¡¯s lead, we move stealthily toward the ritual site.
Though the grounds have lost much of their embellishments and decorations after the Auilqa¡ªand, later, the Eye in the Flame¡ªtook control, the area still exudes a radiant sense of sanctity. Few terracotta tiles remain, and many of the huge and significant gemstones have been ripped from their places, but the intricate carvings and sacred spires endure.
As we turn the corner, whipping around a high, stone wall, a blue flash catches my eye. How could I have not seen this? An enormous column of light extends all the way to the sky, soaring beyond the clouds and likely touching the heavens. This must be the blue flame we saw when we first approached the temple grounds! The sight is both awe-inspiring and terrible, sending a paralyzing fear coursing through me.
¡°Is this what you were trying to lead me to?¡± I reflexively ask Saqatli, forgetting that he won¡¯t be able to understand my words. I brush off the disappointment and focus on what I can fix. I inspect the column of blue light, which rumbles like a rushing river. Staring into the light for even a single heartbeat causes a searing pain to my eyes. There must be something here that is causing this flame to stay lit.
¡°Come to disrupt the will of Eztletiqa once again, I see.¡± A jarring, sinister voice startles me. We turn around to see a dozen men and women in crimson robes, fanning out to seal our escape while staring us down. Standing at the center of them is a man whose robes are adorned with intricately woven patters in gold. There¡¯s something grotesque about this person¡¯s garments, something about how they¡¯re dyed. The deep crimson hue is splotchy, seemingly not achieved with ordinary pigments, but with what must be blood. The way it seeps into the fabric gives it an eerie, macabre sheen.
¡°You must be the one who attempted to squander our efforts previously,¡± he says, his voice slimy like a slithering serpent. ¡°I can see this by the diversity of your companions. I was hoping our paths would cross.¡±
His smile looks unpracticed, appearing more like a snarl. ¡°You did well to dispatch of my associates. We did not expect to meet such resistance. I should thank you for removing the followers who were only holding back our progress. We can now proceed with the will of Eztletiqa as He intended.¡±
Those with weapons among us draw them, prepared for a fight. This causes the Eye in the Flame member who speaks to chuckle patronizingly. ¡°Oh, I see,¡± he says, sounding oddly disappointed. ¡°I had hoped to extend an offer to you. Eztletiqa sees great things coming from you, Walumaq. He believes you will be the one to return Pachil to the greatness it once enjoyed.¡±
He knows my name? But how? His familiarity with me is jarring, unsettling. This man speaks similarly to the prophecy I once received so long ago. Was the crone speaking of this moment when she said I would be responsible for rescuing Pachil or bringing about its end? Are these the destroyers who she claimed were coming?
More motion from behind the speaker brings my attention back to the situation at hand. He was speaking, but I was lost in my thoughts too much to listen. ¡°You have your allies,¡± he says, as a smirk slowly slides up the corner of his mouth, ¡°and we have ours.¡±
In a flash, dozens upon dozens, if not hundreds, of Auilqa warriors emerge from behind the speaker. Their chests, arms, faces, and legs are all painted in a horrific, deep red. Many wear simple, leather helmets with red streaks on the sides. Others don metallic helmets with a tacky red coating the otherwise blue or yellow or green feathers. Where did they come from? How many more remain?
Yells and screams echo from beyond the ritual grounds, followed by a ground-shaking tremor. Are there more Auilqa outside this place? Did we underestimate the number of warriors we would need to recapture Analoixan? How could we have felt our numbers were sufficient? My blood runs cold as visions of my endangered companions flood my mind. I can only hope Paxilche and my Sanqo warriors can hold their own for a little longer.
¡°Go, Sanqo goddess!¡± Tlexn¨ªn shouts to me. ¡°Do what you must to stop that light! We will protect you!¡±
She yells to her warriors in Ulxa, and, though significantly outnumbered, they all rush the Auilqa warriors and sorcerers in red. Fire slowly emits from the zealots¡¯ palms, and an icy hand grips my chest. But I must focus on completing my task to put an end to this madness.
I dash to the column of blue light. As I run, my eyes desperately search for any clue, any indication as to how it can be stopped. A blur rushes at me from the corners of my vision. I have to keep going. I have to reach the blue flames.
The silhouette tumbles forward, immediately dropping to the ground. I keep running, but my curiosity forces me to glance over. Lodged in the torso of the lifeless figure in red robes is a spear. An Ulxa warrior goes to retrieve it, but leaps out of the way of a ball of fire that hurtles toward her with blazing speed.
I can¡¯t go back to help her. I must keep going. Must keep running.
I begin to panic as I arrive at the blue flame. Before, when the Eye in the Flame crafted their ward at the ritual site, I could see inside the dark energy barrier and locate the markings and items that created the protective shield. But the flame is too bright, and too hot, to get close enough to see inside of it. How am I to determine what has made this awful ward in order to dismantle it?
The obsidian gemstone pulses with warmth against my chest. Its deep purple glow radiates as if battling with the light from the blue flame. It has protected me from such dark magic before; will it do so again?
I close my eyes and take several deep breaths, preparing myself mentally to confront the overwhelming forcefield. The last time I tried such a feat, I was knocked unconscious and suffer from haunting thoughts that seemingly come from my brother and father. Will such an effect happen this time? Will it be worse?
I cautiously extend my hand toward the column of flames. As my fingers draw closer, the heat I expect is replaced by a biting chill that intensifies with every breath. The air around the blue flame feels like shards of ice, cutting into my skin. I clench my teeth and push forward, but the sensation quickly becomes unbearable. My skin begins to prickle and sting, as if a thousand needles are piercing through it.
Suddenly, an excruciating pain shoots through my hand, radiating up my arm. I gasp, the cold so intense it feels like my fingers are being encased in ice. The flesh hardens and goes numb in an instant. I look at my hand, horrified to see my skin turning a ghostly white, then a sickly shade of blue as the blood vessels beneath freeze solid.
The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.
There¡¯s something inside this column of fire. There¡¯s something radiating an energy, something that is powering this dark magic. I squint, trying to see more clearly. Is looks like a gemstone, hovering amidst the flames. Could that be the source of this ward, of the barrier that guards the beast? But the bright light is too much, and even shielding my eyes with my free arm isn¡¯t enough to protect my sight.
The pain morphs into something worse¡ªa deep, burning ache that feels as if my bones themselves are splintering under the intense cold. My nails turn brittle, cracking and splitting from the sheer frostbite. I try to pull back, but my muscles are slow to respond, sluggish and stiff as the cold seeps into my joints.
Each movement sends fresh waves of agony coursing through me. It feels like my hand is dying, the tissues freezing, and the cells bursting from the inside. My breath hitches in my throat. I let out a strangled cry. Tears stream down my face as I finally wrench my hand away from the blue flame.
I collapse to the ground, cradling my hand to my chest and shivering uncontrollably. The obsidian gemstone flares once more, its warmth struggling to combat the numbing cold that has taken hold of my hand. I can barely move my fingers, and I fear the damage may be permanent. The overwhelming force of the dark magic has left its mark on me once again.
¡°Goddess!¡± I hear a distant shout. Or perhaps I¡¯m having trouble focusing. In my daze, the blurred silhouette of Tlexn¨ªn races toward me. Or perhaps I believe it to be her. So much is happening around me, and I¡¯m left in constant confusion.
Even now, you need us to save you, don¡¯t you?
The voice of Pahua. Except, instead of only being a voice, he stands before me, glowering down at me. The bronze cape he wears, always draped over his shoulders like a protective shield, shimmers in the dim light. He clings to it as if it holds all the confidence he projects, an ever-present emblem of his self-assuredness. You¡¯ve always been the weakest. How is it that father favors you and expects you to lead our people to glory?
¡°No,¡± I say, the words barely able to escape my throat. ¡°I can do this. I can protect our people, protect Pachil. I can¡ª¡°
You¡¯re the reason Naqispi is dead, sister, he scoffs. Why should the Sanqo believe you can protect them?
¡°Goddess!¡± Tlexn¨ªn shouts again, this time closer. My eyes struggle to focus, but I believe it is her. I hope it is her.
¡°Is that really you?¡± I ask the silhouette of the Ulxa warrior. I look for Pahua, but he¡¯s no longer present. Once again, we¡¯ve parted ways.
¡°Are you okay, goddess?¡± she asks, crouching beside me. Her expression is overcome with fright as she stares at my withered hand.
¡°The blue flames,¡± I say meekly. ¡°There¡¯s something in there. But I don¡¯t know¡¡±
I can¡¯t even finish my thought. I¡¯m too exhausted, too beaten down and broken to speak. Am I actually the one to defend Pachil from those who seek to destroy it, to lead Pachil to peace? How can I be if I can¡¯t weather this storm?
Tlexn¨ªn looks down at her spear, her brows knitted. She¡¯s planning something, I can tell. Even though the calamity of battle is happening all around us, she ignores it all, concentrating on her weapon.
¡°When I was chosen by the Itztecatl,¡± she says, speaking calmly as she recounts her tale, ¡°the monks blessed this weapon, C¨¥y¨tl. They said I would use it to protect all of Ulxa from anyone or anything that dared to threaten our lands.¡± She looks at the column of blue fire, then looks back at her spear.
I¡¯m struck with fear as I worry about what she¡¯s planning to do. Just as I¡¯m about to inquire, she rises, standing to face the otherworldly flames. She grips her spear tightly, knuckles turning white. Then, Tlexn¨ªn¡¯s figure blurs as she charges forward, her powerful legs propelling her towards the column of blue flames.
I struggle to stay conscious, my vision fading in and out, but I force myself to focus on Tlexn¨ªn. In a quick motion, she thrusts her spear into the heart of the blue flames. The weapon cuts through the magical barrier like a knife through silk. A blinding flash erupts as the flames part, creating an opening. The heat and cold clash, creating a searing gust that whips through the air. The frost bites at Tlexn¨ªn¡¯s hands as she struggles to hold the barrier open. Her face contorts with the effort, beads of sweat mixing with the blood and grime on her cheeks and brow, all beginning to freeze upon her skin.
A shadow moves at the corner of my eye¡ªa cultist with their red robes flapping behind them. They charge at Tlexn¨ªn with a curved blade, eyes wild with fanaticism. She doesn¡¯t flinch. She pivots smoothly, her spear slicing through the air. The cultist¡¯s attack never reaches her as the spear cleaves through flesh and bone. The cultist crumples, lifeless, but another enemy quickly takes his place.
An Auilqa warrior with blood-red war paint smeared across his face and torso emerges. He lunges at Tlexn¨ªn, but she twists, narrowly avoiding his blade. In a fluid motion, she slashes the warrior. Her blade catches his arm, and he hollers in pain, staggering back.
Tlexn¨ªn doesn¡¯t hesitate. She spins, bringing the spear down in a lethal arc. There¡¯s a guttural scream, and then the warrior drops to the ground.
The barrier shudders, its energy fluctuating. The blue flames flicker, and the opening begins to close. Tlexn¨ªn plants her spear firmly, using every bit of her strength to pry it open. ¡°Now, goddess!¡± she shouts, her voice strained.
I try to stand, but my legs refuse to cooperate. My body protests with every movement, and I stumble to the floor. ¡°I¡ can¡¯t¡¡± is all I can muster.
Out of nowhere, a sleek jaguar leaps past me, charging at the blue flame at full speed. Is this Saqatli? In this form, he is much quicker, more agile. He darts past me, then quickly slips through the opening Tlexn¨ªn has created. His body barely fits through the narrowing gap, flames licking at his fur, but he presses forward.
Inside, the corrupted gemstone pulses with a dark energy I can only describe as sucking all the light out of the world. Saqatli pounces on it, his jaws closing around the cursed stone. A searing light explodes from the contact, and Saqatli lets out a roar of pain. But he doesn¡¯t let go. With a mighty yank, he pulls the gemstone free. The barrier shatters with an ear-splitting crack as fragments of icy magic dissipates into the air.
Tlexn¨ªn¡¯s strength wanes, her grip faltering. The barrier starts to close, the icy edges creeping closer. She collapses to one knee, her strength nearly spent. But she doesn¡¯t release her spear for one moment.
With the gemstone in his mouth, Saqatli bounds out through the gap just as it snaps shut. He drops at my feet, and the green gemstone clatters to the ground. In an instant, he reverts to human form. His blistered body shivers, likely from the dark magic¡¯s residual effects.
The blue flames flicker and die, once and for all. The barrier is no more. The creature outside these grounds roars in fury, sensing its imminent demise.
Tlexn¨ªn drops the spear, her breath coming in ragged gasps. ¡°The barrier¡ it is down,¡± she pants, her eyes meeting mine with a mix of relief and exhaustion. ¡°Now, finish it.¡±
I nod, and along with the help of Saqatli, the two of us carry each other away from the ritual grounds. All around us, the Ulxa warriors surge, fighting the invading Auilqa warriors with an unrelenting fury. They are greatly outnumbered, but not outmatched, fighting with a ferocity for which their people are revered. I want to help, to see this battle through, but I understand I¡¯m needed elsewhere if I¡¯m to protect this city from further devastation. With each breath, I force myself to keep moving, drawing on whatever reserves I have left. This will be our final stand.
The world beyond the ritual grounds is a cacophony of fire and chaos. As Saqatli and I stumble forward, the air is thick with ash and the scent of scorched terrain. The sky above is a haze of smoke, blotting out what remains of the sun, casting the battlefield in an eerie, unnatural twilight. The distant roar of the lava creature reverberates through the ground, threatening to unleash otherworldly destruction.
In the vanishing light, I can make out the forms of the Sanqo trio and Paxilche, locked in a desperate struggle against the beast. The once formidable jungle is now a battlefield, the trees and remains of wooden homes scorched and twisted by the creature¡¯s heat. Streams of molten rock cut through the ground, creating treacherous paths that force our allies to constantly shift and adapt their movements.
Atoyaqtli fights through his own wounds, his movements growing sluggish. He narrowly avoids a fire projectile, the heat singing his skin from the barrage of near-misses. ¡°Hold on, Atoyaqtli!¡± I shout, though my voice is barely audible over the chaos.
The lava creature roars again, louder this time, as if it senses its impending doom. Its molten body pulses with a fierce, angry light, the heat emanating from it now so intense that the very air around us seems to warp and bend. The ground beneath our feet cracks and smolders, sending up plumes of acrid smoke that sting my eyes and throat. Every breath feels like inhaling fire, each gasp a struggle to keep going.
The suffocating and oppressive heat bears down on us. My vision blurs as sweat pours down my face, stinging my eyes and making it hard to focus. It''s as if we are standing at the mouth of a volcano, the searing heat threatening to incinerate us where we stand. I can feel the edges of my consciousness fraying, the sheer exhaustion ripping at my will to press on.
¡°We need to cool it down now, Paxilche!¡± I scream, my voice hoarse and raw, barely audible above the roar of the creature and the crackling of flames. Paxilche¡¯s eyes meet mine. His lips press into a thin line as he nods, brows knitting.
¡°I¡¯ll summon the storm,¡± he exclaims with a strained voice. He raises his hands to the sky, chanting words that reverberate through the smoke-filled air. The sky above us darkens, swirling with ominous clouds. Lightning streaks through the sky, illuminating the battlefield in stark, white flashes. The first drops of rain hiss as they strike the superheated ground, evaporating on contact. But soon, more follow, relentless and cooling the air, much to our relief.
I clutch the obsidian gemstone in my hand, feeling its cold, pulsing energy responding to the storm Paxilche has conjured. The water around me churns, forming icy tendrils that snake through the air, ready to strike at my command. The gemstone hums with power, its dark surface reflecting the lightning in the stormy sky.
The monster thrashes violently, molten claws gouging deep ruts into the earth as it lashes out in fury. Fireballs erupt from its gaping maw, arcing through the air with deadly precision, forcing us to dodge and weave through the inferno. With his strength finally spent, Atoyaqtli stumbles and collapses to the ground, his body trembling from exhaustion and the searing heat. Chiqama rushes to his side as he tries to shield his fallen comrade from the relentless onslaught.
The ground quakes with each of the creature¡¯s steps, its molten body growing more unstable as it loses control. The beast¡¯s anger burns hotter and hotter, causing the heat to become unbearable, suffocating. My skin prickles as the storm¡¯s icy winds swirl around me, the cold energy intertwining with the power of the obsidian gemstone.
¡°Now, Paxilche! Together!¡± I shout, my voice barely cutting through the chaos around us. The storm rages above, and the gemstone pulses brightly. I thrust my hands forward, unleashing the icy water towards the creature, the tendrils of freezing water cutting through the heat like knives. Paxilche joins his power with mine, directing the full force of the storm at the core of the beast.
The impact is immediate. Steam billows, obscuring the beast in a cloud of vapor. The monster shrieks in pure agony as the icy water collides with its molten body, steam exploding in every direction. The ground beneath it hisses and pops as the heat meets the cold, the force of the collision causing the ground to tremble. The storm intensifies, the rain falling harder, and the air is filled with the sound of steam and cracking rock. Its body convulses, fissures splintering across its surface as the intense heat within begins to cool and harden. But the creature is far from finished.
With a final, desperate roar, the monster gathers its remaining strength. As it rears back, its molten core flares with a last surge of energy. Its body shakes with the strain, then unleashes a torrent of molten rock. The fiery wave explodes outward, a final, furious effort to repel us. The ground buckles under the force of the eruption, sending jagged shards of rock and sprays of liquid fire in every direction. The searing heat forces us back, the sheer intensity of it threatening to overwhelm our efforts. The air ripples with the force of the blast, and for a moment, it feels as though the creature might yet prevail.
¡°Keep going!¡± I yell, refusing to let the heat defeat us. Paxilche and I push harder, our powers merging into a freezing storm. The cold seeps into the cracks, spreading like frostbite. The monster¡¯s movements slow, its molten glow dimming.
Finally, with a resounding crack, the creature collapses. Another gemstone tumbles free, landing at my feet. It appears to be like the one that formed the barrier at the ritual site, with a dark, inky cloud swirling within its deep green exterior. I grab it, feeling its malevolent energy surge through me. But I hold on, determined to contain its power as its power seems to merge with that of the other gemstone.
The ground beneath us cools, the oppressive heat dissipating. I look around, seeing the exhausted but victorious faces of my companions. Atoyaqtli and Chiqama tend to Pomacha, whose breathing is shallow but steady.
Tlexn¨ªn strides toward us through the ruins, her remaining Ulxa warriors trailing behind her like shadows. The toll of the battle is clear across their faces¡ªgrim, hollow-eyed, and weary beyond measure. Only a few dozen have survived the onslaught, their once-proud ranks now decimated. They drag the headless corpses of the Eye in the Flame cultists into the clearing, their bodies limp and lifeless. Among them, one figure stands out, even in death. The intricate robes, dyed in what appears to be blood, mark him as the leader I had confronted, now reduced to a gruesome spectacle.
Tlexn¨ªn meets my gaze with a hard expression. ¡°We interrogated the survivors,¡± she says, her voice flat and drained of emotion from obvious fatigue. ¡°They told us the Eye in the Flame are forming alliances throughout Pachil, including with the Auilqa.¡±
Her words hit me like a punch to the stomach, stealing the breath from my lungs. I had thought the fighting was finished, that we could finally catch our breath, yet this information feels like a cruel twist of fate. The knowledge that the cult¡¯s reach is spreading chills me more than the memory of the barrier¡¯s icy touch. It¡¯s as if we¡¯ve cut off one head of the serpent, only to find that two more have taken its place. The battle may be over, but the war is far from won¡ªa never-ending cycle, a tale as old as time itself.
I glance at the disembodied cultists, feeling a creeping shiver of unease. Tlexn¨ªn had claimed to be above such practices, but apparently, the old ways die hard. The sight of the headless bodies is a reminder of the brutality that even those who fight for good can resort to when pushed to the edge. Perhaps this is her way of releasing her anger, her way of punishing them for the destruction they¡¯ve wrought upon her city, her people. But as I stare at the grisly scene, I can¡¯t help but wonder¡ªdo they deserve this? Even those who have inflicted such evil¡ªdoes it justify this kind of vengeance?
Despite his wounds, Atoyaqtli steps forward. ¡°We should travel to the Auilqa capital, Qasiunqa, to investigate,¡± he suggests. ¡°If what she speaks of is true, and that the Eye in the Flame are forming alliances there, we need to stop them before they gain more power.¡±
Tlexn¨ªn¡¯s eyes flash with a fierce, almost feral anger. ¡°I want revenge against the Auilqa,¡± she growls with her barely contained fury. ¡°They must pay for what they have done.¡±
I step closer, trying my hardest to keep my voice calm. ¡°Great Tlexn¨ªn, your city needs you. Your people need you to lead them. Analoixan needs to be rebuilt. Let us go to Qasiunqa and stop the cult.¡±
For a moment, she looks at the ruins around us, the overwhelming destruction reflected in her eyes. I can see the internal battle waging within her¡ªvengeance or duty. Finally, she nods reluctantly, her shoulders slumping with exhaustion, the fight seemingly drained from her. ¡°You are right, goddess. I will stay and rebuild. But you must promise me¡ªdestroy them.¡±
Around us, the aftermath of battle lingers, our movements sluggish with fatigue. My Sanqo warriors tend to their wounded, Pomacha and Atoyaqtli. Paxilche stands apart, a ball of fury barely contained, pacing back and forth as his anger radiates off him in waves. His eyes burn with a hatred that seems to scorch the very air around him.
¡°This can¡¯t happen again,¡± he mutters, his voice dark and dangerous. ¡°The Eye in the Flame threaten the Qiapu, too. Saxina will roll over for the cult, just like before.¡±
We all know he¡¯s right, but there¡¯s little we can do in this moment except to plan for the future. I place a hand on his shoulder, trying to anchor him. ¡°We¡¯ll stop them, Paxilche. We have to.¡±
As we prepare to leave, I glance back at Tlexn¨ªn. Now a grimly small band, her warriors stand around her, calm despite their losses. They look to her for guidance, for strength, and though she is battered and broken, she stands tall, her chin lifted proudly, defiantly.
¡°Analoixan will rise to greatness again,¡± she fiercely declares. The words resonate through the ruins, a small glimmer of hope amid the destruction. I know it¡¯s not just a statement¡ªit¡¯s a promise, a vow to her people, to herself.
With that, we depart the ruined city once again. Crumbled buildings and charred remains line the streets, a haunting testament to the battle we fought. Tlexn¨ªn and her warriors stay back, determined to rebuild from the ashes. Their resolve is inspiring, yet I can¡¯t shake the feeling of leaving a part of myself behind.
Still within the limits of the devestated Ulxa city, Chiqama¡¯s voice cuts through the somber silence, his anger raw and unfiltered. ¡°This wasn¡¯t worth Naqispi¡¯s life,¡± he spits, grief evident in his eyes. He leaves his statement at that, walking away from me, from the city we fought so hard to defend. I have no answer, only a heavy heart.
My heart aches for the lives lost, for the innocence shattered. Smoke and ash cling to the air. I¡¯m overcome by a feeling of impending doom, the sense that our struggles are far from over. Each step feels heavier than the last, burdened by our collective grief and uncertainty. I wonder if this fight will ever end, or if we¡¯re merely trading one monster for another.
123 - Haesan
Every heartbeat thunders in my ears. Inuxeq¡¯s body presses down on me, her breath hot and fast against my cheek. The ground is rough beneath my palms, and there¡¯s a tang of blood on my tongue. I dare not move, not even to whisper a question. My eyes quickly glance to the turquoise-fletched dart by the tree, then back to the imposing figure now standing before us.
The man¡¯s piercing gaze settles on us, and his smile is a predator¡¯s grin that makes my skin crawl. He slowly approaches, sword remaining sheathed for the time being. His feather-laden metallic helmet shimmers like the sea under a midday sun. Each step he takes is measured, deliberate, as if he¡¯s already decided our fate, but wants to savor the moment before revealing his choice.
¡°I ask again,¡± he says, his tone deceptively calm, ¡°in case you just so happened to not hear me the first time. What brings you here?¡± The threat in his words is clear: our lives hang in the balance, contingent on the answer we give. I look at Inuxeq, seeking some shared understanding of how we¡¯ll navigate this perilous encounter.
Keeping her eyes trained on the stranger, Inuxeq rolls over and remains on all fours for the moment. I force myself to my feet, my legs trembling with the effort. Inuxeq follows, moving slowly and cautiously. My breath slowly returns to me after Inuxeq¡¯s body collided with mine. We stand together, shoulder to shoulder, and I try my best to mask the nervousness that causes my chest to tighten.
¡°Our paths have led us to your domain, Xelhua,¡± I say, my hands splayed out before me, a gesture of peace, much like one would use to approach an anxious animal. ¡°We mean no harm.¡±
He studies me, his eyes narrowing as he grips the blowgun tighter. The silence stretches, taut as a bowstring, nearly unbearable and threatening to snap at any moment. The only sound is the occasional flapping of his vibrant, achiote-colored cloak in the wind. His head tilts slightly, the motion is so subtle that it could be mistaken for a shift in the light. I take this as a sign that he wishes for me to continue, to explain myself further.
I swallow hard, summoning all the courage I can muster. ¡°We seek an audience with you,¡± I say, doing my best to keep my voice steady, confident, though the quiver in my heart betrays me. ¡°We are not here by chance, but by necessity. Please, understand that our cause is just and our intentions pure.¡±
Xelhua¡¯s gaze remains inscrutable. His eyes, though, seem to pierce through me, searching for any hint of deceit. He takes another step closer, the ground beneath him seemingly trembles as he places his free hand on the hilt of the weapon by his hip. ¡°An audience,¡± he repeats, almost thoughtfully. ¡°And what makes you think I should grant it?¡±
¡°Our mission is urgent,¡± I continue, my mind racing as I grasp for the right words. ¡°Our journey is fraught with dangers, and we were told of the possibility that a brave Iqsuwa warrior walked these lands. One who could help us face the battles to come.¡±
Xelhua remains unmoved. His silence is more daunting than any roar of anger. What is he thinking? Is he weighing the truth of my words, or simply deciding whether we¡¯re worth the trouble of sparing? Either way, I fear that any movement I make could sway him in the wrong direction.
Then, finally, he snorts a brief, wary laugh. ¡°My days of battle are long behind me. I have seen empires rise and fall, warriors come and go. I have bled for causes that are now dust and ash.¡± He looks past us, as if witnessing the ghosts of battles long gone. ¡°Why should I leave my sanctuary and walk the path of blood and obsidian once more?¡±
¡°Because,¡± I find myself saying, the words tumbling out before I can fully grasp them, ¡°Qapauma is on the brink of chaos. The Achutli loyalists and the Qente Waila are tearing the city apart. We need your strength, your wisdom. We need you, Xelhua.¡±
¡°Achutli?¡± he questions, the word foreign on his tongue, as if testing it out for the first time. A moment of confusion crosses his features, quickly masked by an overwhelming weariness. How long has he been in isolation, I wonder, cut off from the world and its endless conflicts?
He sighs deeply before walking over to a large stone. With a slow, deliberate movement, he lowers himself onto it, resting his weight as if the harvests have finally caught up with him. ¡°I have devoted my life to the demands of war,¡± he murmurs, almost to himself. ¡°My bones ache with the memories of countless battles. Every scar has a story, every story a lifetime. What more can these tired hands offer?¡±
There is a pause, a breathless moment where his words float aimlessly between us. In that silence, I sense the enormity of what I¡¯m asking him¡ªto return to a life he thought he¡¯d left behind, to shoulder the burdens of war once more, despite all he¡¯s already given.
¡°Our enemies now are not like those of the past,¡± I press on. ¡°They are our own people, divided and tearing each other apart. Your experience and knowledge of strategy could be the key to restoring peace. Without you, we are but fledglings before the hawk.¡±
Xelhua¡¯s wary eyes rest upon the ground before him, as he¡¯s flooded with the distant visions of events from his past. ¡°I have buried too many friends, watched too many dreams die. What makes this fight any different?¡±
¡°This time, we fight not for glory or territory,¡± I reply. ¡°We fight for the survival of Qapauma, for the very essence of Pachil. The city is in danger, and it needs someone who knows how to bring order to chaos.¡±
Xelhua scoffs, a bitter, humorless laugh escaping his lips. ¡°Order to chaos? That¡¯s what every warrior believes they bring, but it is only a fleeting illusion. You think your war is any different from the countless others I¡¯ve fought in? War never ends¡ªit only begets more war. Each battle won sows the seeds of the next. I¡¯ve seen it too many times to believe otherwise.¡±
His gaze hardens as he continues, his voice laced with a deep weariness. ¡°Do you think I don¡¯t know what it means to bring order? To rally men under a banner and lead them to their deaths? I¡¯ve walked that path more times than I can count. Each time, believing it would be the last. But it never is. There¡¯s always another enemy, another reason to fight, another life to sacrifice. The bloodshed never ends, and the peace we strive for is as fragile as a spider¡¯s web, easily torn apart by the winds of ambition and revenge.¡±
Inuxeq steps forward. ¡°In Tuatiu, she says cooly, ¡°we believe that a true warrior¡¯s spirit never dies. Prove it now. Show the world that even in the twilight of your life, your spirit burns brighter than the fiercest star.¡±
Xelhua¡¯s eyes flicker with a distant fire, a spark of the warrior he once was. But it¡¯s quickly tempered by the shake of his head. ¡°You speak of chaos and rebellion, but do you know the cost of such a fight? The burden it places on the spirit?¡±
¡°I do,¡± I say quietly, solemnly. ¡°The two of us have seen much devastation, much tragedy. I know that the path we ask you to walk is fraught with peril. But I also know that without you, that path leads only to our destruction. Help us carve a new path, one that leads to hope.¡±
Another bitter laugh leaves his lips. ¡°You two are but cubs. You know nothing of war. To carry the burden of every life lost, every decision made in the heat of battle. You see only the glory, the victory¡ªbut you don¡¯t see the toll it takes, the weariness that seeps into your bones, into your soul. When the battle is over, and the blood has dried, all that remains is the emptiness, the hollow victory that leaves you wondering if it was worth it.¡±
His gaze pierces through us, searching for something¡ªperhaps a reason to believe, to fight one more time. ¡°Tell me, what makes you think your cause is any different? What makes you believe that this time, it will be worth it?¡±
I meet his gaze. This time, I¡¯m ready to accept the challenge directed by his question. ¡°Because this time, we are fighting for the future of our people, for the chance to rebuild what has been lost. Yes, we are young, and we may be na?ve, but that doesn¡¯t mean our cause isn¡¯t just. The enemies we face will consume everything if we do nothing. They will destroy everything you fought to protect. We need your strength, your wisdom, to stop them.¡±
Xelhua stares me down, his skepticism clear as he tightens his jaw. ¡°And what happens when you believe this fight is over? Will those you prepare to be in the seat of power be any different from those who came before you? Will you not fall into the same cycle of power and revenge?¡±
¡°I can¡¯t promise that everything will be perfect,¡± I admit. ¡°I can¡¯t promise that the world will change overnight, or that peace will last forever. No one can. But I can promise that we will do everything in our power to break the cycle, to create a world where people like you don¡¯t have to fight anymore. A world where your sacrifices won¡¯t be in vain.¡±
Inuxeq steps in. ¡°You said it yourself, Xelhua. You¡¯ve seen empires rise and fall. You¡¯ve fought in wars that left scars on your spirit. But if you give up now, if you don¡¯t help us, all those battles, all those sacrifices, will mean nothing. You have a chance to make a difference, to use your strength and wisdom to end this cycle. Don¡¯t let that chance slip away.¡±
Xelhua studies us for a long moment. His brow furrows, and any remnants of a smile fade as he considers our words. Finally, with a sigh that seems to carry the weight of a thousand battles, he nods slowly.
¡°Very well,¡± he says, almost resigned. ¡°I will see if there is still fire in these old bones. All I can hope is that maybe, just maybe, this fight will be the last, as you say.¡±
He stands, and for a brief moment, I see the warrior he once was. A man who has seen too much and fought too long, but who still carries the spark of defiance in his heart.
Xelhua lifts himself up off the stone, then beckons us to follow him. We trek up the winding path, our footsteps echoing softly against the stone walls of the ancient cliff dwellings. The air grows cooler as we ascend, and the scent of pine mingles with the aroma of old, sun-warmed stone. Massive, weathered overhangs protect the abandoned rooms carved into the cliff face. Their entrances are dark and foreboding, like the gaping mouths of giants.
As we reach the top, the vast expanse of the plateau spreads out below us. A patchwork of golden grasslands and occasional green forests stretch beyond what the eye can see. Nestled high in the rocky outcrops, the cliff dwellings stand silent and imposing. The Iqsuwa moves with ease, his familiarity with this rugged terrain evident in every step. Shadows lengthen across the stone walls, as the setting sun casts an amber glow that highlights the intricate carvings and ancient symbols etched into the rock. What they mean, I do not know, but I find it fascinating that such artifacts exist.
Following Xelhua, we step into the shadowed entrance of the ancient cliff dwelling. My eyes adjust to the dim light, revealing the warrior¡¯s sparse yet functional home. Smooth, weathered stone walls encase us. The ceilings are low, and the rooms are small, but there are hints everywhere as to how he has transformed these ancient ruins into a sanctuary.
Sparse furnishings occupy the space. A sturdy, wooden table with a single, handmade chair, a bedroll neatly tucked in one corner, and a few shelves carved into the rock, which hold simple clay pots, woven baskets, and tools. Yet there are signs that this place is more than just a shelter for him. On one of the shelves rests a beautifully crafted obsidian knife, with its blade polished to a reflective finish. Beside it, a small collection of intricately woven textiles in vibrant colors, carefully folded and well-preserved, perhaps gifts from a loved one or tokens of his heritage.
As we move further inside, the warrior¡¯s presence seems to blend seamlessly with his surroundings. The area around a modest hearth is blackened by countless flames, though it provides both warmth and a place to cook. Its delicate flame reveals more details about the makeshift home: a few hand-painted symbols on the walls, a lone feather tied to a leather strap hanging from a ceiling beam, and a collection of more feathers¡ªbright reds, deep blues, and pristine whites¡ªare bound together, likely part of a ceremonial headdress.
Xelhua kneels by the hearth, carefully tending to the small flame. He adds a few twigs and stirs the embers with a practiced hand. The firelight dances across his face, highlighting the lines of age and the scars of past battles that weave across his skin like rivers coursing through a craggy landscape.
¡°It¡¯s a nice home you have here,¡± I say, trying to break the awkward silence. ¡°The view is¡ breathtaking.¡±
Xelhua nods, his eyes momentarily gaze over the horizon visible from the entrance before returning to the hearth. ¡°The land has a way of humbling you,¡± he replies calmly. ¡°Out here, you learn to respect the land and the sky, to find solace in the quiet.¡±
Picking at her cuticles, Inuxeq glances around. ¡°Do you live here alone?¡± she asks, her curiosity getting the better of her.
¡°I do,¡± Xelhua responds simply. ¡°It¡¯s a choice I made long ago. Solitude brings clarity, a chance to reflect.¡±
If you encounter this tale on Amazon, note that it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it.
¡°Reflect on what?¡± Inuxeq presses, though her tone is still cautious.
There¡¯s a brief glimpse of something unreadable in Xelhua¡¯s eyes that quickly vanishes like a summer storm as he stirs the embers. ¡°On the past, on decisions made, on paths taken and not taken.¡±
I step forward, sensing the discomfort, and deciding to return the conversation to his abode. ¡°It must be peaceful here,¡± I offer. ¡°Do you ever miss the company of others?¡±
A small, wistful smile touches Xelhua¡¯s lips as he adds another twig to the fire. ¡°Sometimes. But the quiet has its own company. It lets you hear the murmur of the breeze, the calls of the birds, and the tales carved into the rocks.¡±
Inuxeq looks like an aqueduct about to overflow. She fidgets with her quiver as she looks around the warrior¡¯s living space. After a few beats of silence, she finally blurts out the question that has seemingly been gnawing at her.
¡°Why are you isolating yourself out here in an abandoned dwelling?¡± she asks, a bit uncouthly in my opinion. ¡°When we heard that an exalted warrior resides in solitude, I could not believe my ears. Why do so, when Pachil could use all the experienced warriors available to it to rebuild?¡±
Xelhua¡¯s expression tightens, as a shadow passes over his weathered face. ¡°I¡¯ve done things¡¡± he says slowly, each word laced with regret as he pokes the fire. ¡°Fought for causes I didn¡¯t fully understand. Made choices that cost innocent lives. It¡¯s a past I can¡¯t change, but one I seek to atone for by removing myself from the possibility of harming others.¡±
His answer is enigmatic, and I want to pry further. However, Xelhua stares long into the fire as though something within the flickering flames haunts him. Inuxeq appears displeased by his response, and I sense she wants to ask him more questions. But before she speaks, I place a hand on her forearm, causing her to twitch reflexively and cease her restless movements.
After a pause, and with his eyes staring into the distance, he finally speaks. ¡°This war¡ your fight¡ perhaps it¡¯s a chance for me to make things right, to fight for something just. Perhaps by aiding you, I can help to build a future that atones for my past.¡±
I can tell Inuxeq is still unsatisfied with Xelhua¡¯s answer, but it¡¯s an answer she will have to accept for now. Maybe it stems from mistrusting the other Iqsuwa warrior, Mexqutli, whom she regularly speaks of disdainfully. Unresolved questions linger in her gaze, but she holds her tongue, knowing there¡¯s a time and place for everything.
¡°We should make our way back to Qelantu Loh,¡± Inuxeq suggests. ¡°Before the night settles in.¡±
We leave Xelhua¡¯s dwelling without any further exchange as the sun hangs low in the sky. The coolness of dusk begins to settle, and my desire to return makes it so that the path ahead seems longer than before. The journey to Qelantu Loh must be swift if we are to reach it before nightfall.
Inuxeq walks beside me, her usual stoic demeanor masking whatever she might be feeling. Yet I sense a shift in her, a curiosity perhaps, or maybe a tentative trust forming. I glance back at Xelhua, who follows a few paces behind
¡°You know, if I¡¯m to go to war for you,¡± he says with a wry smile, ¡°it would be wise of me to have your names. After all, I gave you mine.¡±
Inuxeq snorts, and a smirk tugs at the corner of her lips. ¡°You mean the name you gave us while you were threatening to take our lives?¡±
Xelhua chuckles, the sound deep and resonant like distant thunder. ¡°Details, details. The fact remains¡ªif we¡¯re to fight side by side, I should know what to call my allies.¡±
I offer a respectful nod. ¡°I am Haesan.¡±
¡°Inuxeq,¡± she adds, her tone more casual.
Xelhua nods thoughtfully. ¡°Haesan and Inuxeq¡ names worth remembering.¡±
¡°How did you find this place?¡± Inuxeq asks, her tone uncharacteristically lighthearted.
Xelhua chuckles again. ¡°There is an old legend about a shaman who found refuge in these caves, seeking solitude and wisdom. I would like to claim I followed some mystical signs.¡±
Inuxeq raises an eyebrow, clearly skeptical. ¡°And the truth?¡±
He shrugs, and a rueful smile plays on his lips. ¡°I got lucky. Stumbled upon it while seeking shelter from a storm. Sometimes, even the greatest warriors need a bit of good fortune.¡±
Inuxeq smirks, shaking her head. ¡°I suppose even the revered Iqsuwa aren¡¯t above a stroke of luck.¡±
Xelhua¡¯s smile widens just a fraction, his eyes gleaming with a touch of mischief. ¡°Luck is the warrior¡¯s most undervalued weapon. Don¡¯t forget that, young ones.¡±
The landscape stretches out before us like an endless sea of golden grasses swaying in the wind, dotted with clusters of hardy shrubs and solitary trees. The flat expanse seems to go on forever, a vast plain under an open sky that shifts from azure to shades of amber as the day progresses. Here and there, the silhouettes of grazing animals are interspersed among the horizon, their movements lazy and unhurried. Even as it descends, the sun is a fierce presence overhead, creating a shimmering haze in the distance.
As we make our way towards Qelantu Loh, the conversation turns to our plans. We fill Xelhua in on all that has transpired over the past few moon cycles. Inuxeq and I take turns recounting the events¡ªthe attack on Qapauma, our narrow escape, and the alliances we¡¯ve forged along the way. It¡¯s a lot to compress into a short time, but Xelhua listens intently, his expression growing darker with each revelation.
¡°We must rally the Aimue fighters,¡± Inuxeq insists, once again. Unfortunately, our conversation naturally leads to Inuxeq¡¯s declaration of what she believes the overall plan should be, perhaps seizing an opportunity to seek a warrior¡¯s take on the matter. ¡°Their strength will be crucial in the battles to come. The northern territories are ripe with potential allies.¡±
Xelhua nods and grunts in acknowledgment. ¡°In Aimue territory, though they have turned to a simple life of farming, you will find warriors who remember the old ways. As you did with me, convince them that this fight is for their survival as much as ours. Use their traditions, their honor, to rally them.¡±
It appears the uneasy truce between Inuxeq and me has been broken, and I¡¯m irritated that we are having this discussion again. ¡°And what about Qapauma? We saved the palace from an attack by the Eye in the Flame, but the city remains divided. The Qente Waila and the Achutli Loyalists are at each other¡¯s throats among the wreckage of the capital.¡±
Xelhua¡¯s brow furrows. ¡°The Eye in the Flame? Clearly, I have been in isolation too long. I do not know of them.¡±
¡°They¡¯re a dark force, an evil cult,¡± I explain. ¡°They¡¯ve infiltrated many regions, sowing chaos and destruction, seeking to claim all of Pachil under their rule. We need to broker a deal between the Qente Waila and the Achutli Loyalists to set aside their differences and defend against the incoming assault, set to take place at the new moon.¡±
Xelhua nods slowly. ¡°A difficult task. The new moon is not long from now. But why am I, an old and out-of-form warrior of the Iqsuwa, necessary for this diplomacy, especially between two warring sides?¡±
¡°Your presence is more than just a show of strength,¡± I reply. ¡°The people of Pachil remember the Iqsuwa, they remember the warriors¡¯ legacy. In a city as fractured as Qapauma, the reputation of the Iqsuwa alone could command respect and silence dissent. It¡¯s about leverage, and your presence could be the key to bringing the sides to the table, to making them listen when they otherwise might not.¡±
I sigh, knowing the seemingly insurmountable task that awaits us in Qapauma. ¡°We need someone who has walked the path of war, who knows the cost of conflict, and who can stand as a living reminder of what¡¯s at risk. If things go wrong¡ªand they very well might¡ªyour experience and authority might be the only thing keeping the fragile peace from shattering completely.¡±
Inuxeq interrupts. ¡°And that is exactly why we must go to Aimue first. The Eye in the Flame is a threat unlike any other, a poison that spreads quickly and without mercy. If we don¡¯t rally enough strength now, we¡¯ll be fighting a losing battle in Qapauma and everywhere else. With the might of the Aimue behind us, we can force the others to listen, to unite under a single banner against this darkness. We can enhance our defenses, prepare for the inevitable onslaught.¡±
She pauses, staring at me in disbelief. ¡°Haesan, you¡¯ve seen what they can do¡ªtheir power is beyond anything we¡¯ve faced. We can¡¯t afford to be scattered and weak when they come for Qapauma. The capital cannot defend itself with the forces that remain after the cult¡¯s first assault, and whatever is left after their own skirmishes.¡±
I shake my head, frustration bubbling up again. ¡°And while we¡¯re off gathering allies, Qapauma will fall apart. The Eye in the Flame plan to attack the city by the next moon cycle. That¡¯s barely enough time to rally anyone, let alone march back to the capital. We can¡¯t delay¡ªwe need to be there to stop them. If united, what remains there will do.¡±
Listening intently to our exchange, Xelhua interjects. ¡°The new moon is indeed close. If they intend to strike then, time is not on your side. But Inuxeq makes a valid point. Without a strong enough force, your presence in Qapauma may only delay the inevitable.¡±
He sighs deeply as he contemplates the matter. ¡°War is not just about who strikes first, but who is prepared for the long fight. It¡¯s a dangerous risk, but perhaps one worth considering. The new moon approaches swiftly.¡±
Inuxeq presses her point further. ¡°This is exactly what the Eye in the Flame want¡ªto scatter us, to make us weak by dividing our forces. We can¡¯t let that happen. Aimue is our best chance to rally enough muscle to not just defend Qapauma, but to crush the cult before they can spread their influence further. We need to do this right.¡±
I sigh, recognizing the truth in her words, but also feeling the urgency pulling me towards Qapauma. ¡°But we don¡¯t have the luxury of time. Every moment we spend gathering forces is a moment the Eye in the Flame grows stronger, closer to their goal. We¡¯ve been over this!¡±
The two of us stare each other down, unable to look past this argument. There are no easy choices, but there never are if the matter is important enough. Something has to give, but it feels like even a compromise weakens us to the point of certain failure. No answer seems like the correct decision.
"Anyway,¡± I say, reluctantly returning to the never-ending debate once again, ¡°Qapauma needs us. Though tainted and undesirable, Achutli¡¯s influence is weakening, the Qente Waila are a misguided and disorganized band of rebels, and we can¡¯t let the Eye in the Flame gain a foothold there. We have to protect the capital, to give it a chance to host discussions of the right way forward for all factions of Pachil.¡±
Xelhua grunts as he considers this, scratching the stubble along his jaw. ¡°Both paths are vital, but we need to think strategically,¡± he advises, his tone thoughtful. ¡°Rallying the Aimue and bringing them into the fold is crucial, but so is stabilizing Qapauma before it falls into deeper chaos. Unity is our greatest weapon, but unity doesn¡¯t always mean standing together in one place. It means working toward the same goal, even if we must walk different paths to get there.¡±
Inuxeq sighs, her frustration evident. ¡°Different paths? Are you suggesting that we split up? How is splitting up ¡®unity¡¯?¡± I¡¯m astonished by her surprise in his suggestion¡ªa suggestion we had both agreed upon earlier. Was she hoping that a fellow warrior would see her side and agree without a second thought?
¡°By splitting up,¡± Xelhua says calmly, ¡°you increase your chances of success. One of you must rally the Aimue and bring their strength to bear, while the other must navigate the treacherous politics of Qapauma. If you both succeed, you¡¯ll bring two powerful forces together when it matters most.¡±
I reach out, placing a hand on her arm. ¡°We¡¯re dividing to conquer. You know that. We cover more ground this way.¡±
¡°Your bond is your strength,¡± Xelhua adds. ¡°Even apart, you fight for the same cause. Trust in each other and in the path you have chosen.¡±
Inuxeq looks at me, her eyes searching for reassurance. ¡°I still don¡¯t like it. But I understand. Even in such a short time, we¡¯ve been through so much together, and the thought of facing what¡¯s ahead without you at my side¡ it¡¯s daunting.¡±
I¡¯m taken aback by the raw honesty in her words. Inuxeq has always been fierce and unyielding, but this is the first time I¡¯ve seen her express just how much our bond means to her. It¡¯s a side of her I wasn¡¯t sure existed¡ªa vulnerability that makes me realize just how deep our friendship has grown, forged in the fires of battle and hardship.
I smile, feeling a warmth spread through my chest. Taking inspiration from her by trying to infuse my voice with the confidence I sometimes lack, I say, ¡°We¡¯ll make sure that when we reunite, the Eye in the Flame will regret ever crossing our paths.¡±
We arrive at the blue and beige tents of Qelantu Loh just as the sun dips below the horizon. The village is alive with activity, every corner of the camp bracing itself for the coming conflict. People bustle about as the fires crackle, sending up spirals of smoke that blend with the evening sky. Children run between the tents, their laughter contrasting with the somber faces of the warriors, who sharpen their weapons and mend their armor. The aroma of roasting meats and simmering stews mingles in the air, accompanied by the clatter of pots and the murmur of voices making final preparations for the night.
As we move through the camp, the reality of our mission rests at the forefront of my mind. The thought of returning to Qapauma once again sends a shiver down my spine, yet fortifies my spirit for the challenge ahead. The city is like a cauldron of simmering tensions, ready to boil over, and it¡¯s up to us to prevent that. I can¡¯t help but think of the faces of the people there, divided and desperate, hoping for someone to lead them out of chaos. And what of Yachaman? Has she survived? Is she somewhere safe? The burden feels immense, but I draw strength from the determination in Inuxeq¡¯s eyes and the wisdom of Xelhua. I must help our people secure a future where everyone can thrive again.
Additionally, my concern for Inuxeq eats away at me. She¡¯s more than capable, but the path ahead is perilous. Despite our differences, our bond has grown strong in a short time. The idea of parting ways, even temporarily, is painful. We¡¯ve shared so much, and though we come from different backgrounds, our goals are the same. It¡¯s strange how adversity crafts bonds quicker than anything else. I realize now that she¡¯s not just an ally, but a friend, and the thought of something terrible happening to her is unbearable.
We approach the section of the campsite where the Qantua warriors are preparing for their departure, and the reality of our impending separation sinks in. Inuxeq and I stand at the edge of this organized calamity, watching the final preparations. The warriors are a formidable sight, their gear meticulously maintained, their expressions focused and determined. It strikes me that we will soon be walking separate paths, each fraught with its own dangers and uncertainties.
As the camp begins settling in for the night, I gather my own small team to escort me to Qapauma. Xelhua stands ready, making his own preparations for the journey ahead. Together, we make our final checks as my grandmother, Nuqasiq, is summoned from her tent. Seeing the Iqsuwa beside me, I can see she¡¯s about to ask a slew of questions. But I ask her to hold off, just for tonight, and promise to explain in the morning. She is wary of this, but ultimately nods in acceptance.
I turn to look at Inuxeq one last time before we part ways. Tousled from the day¡¯s journey, her short, dark hair falls around her face. The glow from the nearby warrior¡¯s campfires add a touch of warmth to her strong features. Usually so fierce and full of fire, her eyes now shimmer with unshed tears she fights to hold them back. Despite the tension in her jaw and the tightness in her lips, there¡¯s a softness in her gaze as she looks back at me, a silent acknowledgment of the connection we¡¯ve made, and the challenges that await us.
¡°Promise me you¡¯ll be careful, Inuxeq,¡± I request, my voice catching slightly.
¡°I promise,¡± she replies, her chin ascending, and what I believe is an expression of worry flashes briefly upon her face. ¡°And you do the same. We need to see this through.¡±
We clasp forearms, and a tiny smile barely cracks the corners of our mouths. ¡°We¡¯ll meet again,¡± she says, sounding as though she¡¯s trying to convince both me and herself. ¡°And when we do, we¡¯ll finally bring peace to Pachil.¡±
I nod, feeling a swell of resolve. ¡°Until then, fight well, my friend.¡±
Inuxeq sets off to rally the Qantua warriors at the camp they¡¯ve established beyond the limits of Qelantu Loh. Her once vibrant green tunic is now muted, carrying stains of soil and blood from all that we¡¯ve endured. We¡¯ve shared so much in these past few moon cycles. Now, the thought of facing the future without her by my side is almost unfathomable. But we both know the roles we must play.
With a heartfelt goodbye, I watch as Inuxeq vanishes into the darkness. I take a deep breath, bracing myself for the journey ahead. Once again, I return to Qapauma, knowing that I will not leave until I either restore order to the capital of Pachil or perish.
124 - Legido
Landera stares at you wide eyed, stunned at the news she received.
¡°A mutiny?¡± she asks, baffled. ¡°But, why?¡±
¡°They believe he¡¯s leading us to our deaths,¡± you reply, just as startled about this development as she is. ¡°Gartzen tried to defend Captain Lema, but we both know how he struggles with interacting with people.¡±
¡°That¡¯s an understatement,¡± Landera remark. You chuckle half-heartedly in solemn agreement.
¡°The others weren¡¯t having it, and the pushback was immediate,¡± you continue. ¡°Captain Lema tried to dismiss their concerns as being exhausted from a trying day, but I don¡¯t think that¡¯s the reason they¡¯re upset.¡±
Concern consumes Landera, biting her nails and fixing her gaze to the ground while she thinks. As she does this, you notice that several of her nails are ragged and uneven, the edges chewed down to the quick. At first, you assume the dried, reddish marks around her cuticles are from the rough work of sailing or intense manual labored at Aitzabal. But on closer inspection, it¡¯s clear her raw and tender fingertips are the result of excessive nail biting.
She grimaces, sucking air through her teeth. ¡°We can¡¯t just sit back and do nothing,¡± she determines. ¡°But if we go straight to Captain Lema, the others might target us too.¡±
You feel the pit forming in your stomach. Though you haven¡¯t expressed your undying loyalty to Captain Lema, it¡¯s possible that any attempt at alerting him to the unrest that boils beneath the surface could be misconstrued. And not just by the mutineers; while they could see you as an informer and ally to their perceived enemy, Captain Lema could believe you¡¯re just stirring up trouble. It¡¯s dancing on a knife¡¯s edge, and you don¡¯t like the feeling of impending disaster that threatens to send everything crashing down.
¡°We need to be smart about this,¡± you say, thinking quickly. ¡°We can try to gather more information and maybe warn some of the more loyal officers once we determine who¡¯s involved.¡±
Landera nods. ¡°Agreed. We¡¯ll have to be subtle. Let¡¯s start by talking to Gartzen. He¡¯s loyal to Lema and might know who we can trust.¡±
The settlers somberly move about the campsite. Fires are snuffed out, tents are taken down and rolled up, and tools and cooking utensils are hastily cleaned and stowed away. Everyone wordlessly gathers their belongings, while those with horses, like Captain Lema, pack their supplies onto the animals and prepare for the journey ahead.
Wet conditions remain from the previous day¡¯s rain. One of the few positives is that it has turned the vegetation a lush, vibrant green, as if you¡¯re swimming in an emerald sea. Much like the mood of the settlers, the sky overhead is gloomy and gray, and you sense a chill in the air. Whether that¡¯s from the weather or the state of everyone¡¯s morale, you can¡¯t determine.
The settlers move with an excessive, yet understandable, amount of caution. The memory of the recent rockslide lingers in the forefront of everyone¡¯s minds, grimly reminding you of nature¡¯s unforgiving wrath. Each step is taken with care as you all navigate the rough and rugged terrain of this strange, new land. The ground beneath your feet is uneven, strewn with jagged rocks and hidden crevices that threaten to ensnare the unwary. Every rustle of the wind or distant call of a bird or unfamiliar creature causes heads to turn sharply, eyes seeking any sign of danger.
The path ahead winds upward, a blend of steep inclines and narrow passes that compel the group to move in single file. Each step requires careful attention as the ground beneath shifts and crumbles, sending the occasional stone skittering down the slope. The dense foliage and rocky outcrops provide little visibility, adding to the sense of unease that permeates the group. Despite the slow pace, the steady rise of the sun guides you onward.
Amidst the sounds of their journey¡ªthe crunch of gravel, the scrape of boots against stone, the labored breaths of the weary¡ªthere are quieter, more insidious noises. Murmurs and whispers drift through the ranks, barely audible over the din of travel. Snatches of conversation reach your ears. Fragments of discontent and conspiracy set your nerves on edge. ¡°¡can¡¯t keep going like this¡¡± ¡°¡Lema doesn¡¯t know what he¡¯s doing¡¡± ¡°¡time for a change¡¡± The words are like a persistent itch at the back of your mind, impossible to ignore.
You quicken your pace, weaving through the line of settlers until you reach Gartzen atop his horse. He¡¯s in deep concentration, his eyes sweeping the terrain ahead, as he directs the movement of the group.
¡°Gartzen, we need to talk,¡± you say, trying to keep your voice steady in case anyone overhears you.
¡°Not now,¡± he replies curtly, not even glancing your way. ¡°We need to keep moving. We can¡¯t afford any delays.¡±
¡°But it¡¯s important,¡± you insist, your voice dropping to a whisper, yet you try to convey the urgency of the matter. ¡°I¡¯ve been hearing the mutterings of a mutiny.¡±
Gartzen finally looks at you, his brows furrowed and his lips pressed into a tight line. ¡°We¡¯ll discuss it later,¡± he says through his snarled teeth, leaving no room for argument. ¡°Right now, my priority is getting everyone through this safely. Keep your eyes open and stay vigilant.¡±
With that, he turns his attention back to the group, barking orders and urging the settlers forward. You step back, frustration eating away at your patience, but understanding the necessity of keeping everyone moving. The sense of urgency and unease remains¡ªa constant companion on this perilous journey.
The further you travel, the more frayed the settlers¡¯ nerves become. The tension that has been building quietly now starts to bubble to the surface. It begins with a small argument over the distribution of water rations. One of the settlers, a broad-shouldered man with a perpetual scowl, accuses another of taking more than their fair share. His voice is loud enough to draw the attention of others, and soon a small crowd gathers, their faces etched with the same weariness and frustration.
¡°This is the third time I¡¯ve caught you taking more than your share, Rotrigo!¡± the man shouts, reaching his hand to the hilt of his knife. ¡°We¡¯re all suffering out here, and you think you¡¯re entitled to more because you¡¯re a little thirstier than the rest of us?¡±
Rotrigo, a wiry man with darting eyes, sneers in response. ¡°I don¡¯t need to be lectured by you, Aberte. I take what I need to survive, just like everyone else. If you have a problem with it, then maybe you should take it up with Captain Lema. Oh, that¡¯s right¡ªhe¡¯s too busy leading us into disaster to care.¡±
The crowd murmurs in agreement, the unease escalating as more settlers join the fray. Aberte¡¯s face reddens with anger, and for a moment, it seems like the argument might explode into violence. Before it can, one of Captain Lema¡¯s officers, a stern-faced woman with with sharp, angular features and a gaze that could cut through steel, steps in.
¡°That¡¯s enough!¡± her voice cuts through the chaos. Her hair is tightly braided and streaked with silver, and her posture is as rigid as the sword strapped to her side. ¡°Save your energy for the journey. We still have a ways to go before nightfall.¡±
Her words quell the current conflict, but the mutterings don¡¯t stop. As the group resumes its march, you catch snippets of conversation¡ªgrumbling about Lema¡¯s leadership, whispers of taking matters into their own hands. Distrust coils around the group like a tightening noose, making each step forward feel more precarious, as if the ground itself might give way at any moment.
Captain Lema¡¯s eyes flit across the crowd, catching the uneasy shift in their movements, the mutterings of unrest. Without a word, he begins directing the most vocal settlers to tasks that stretch their endurance like taut strings, pushing them to their limits under the guise of maintaining order. His steps are unhurried, deliberate, as he pulls aside a few of the louder voices, speaking to them in low tones that seem to blend with the rustling wind. His gaze sharpens, cutting through their words, weighing each one with the precision of a seasoned commander. By the time he finishes, the immediate confrontation has been diffused, but an undercurrent of tension hardens like a knot that won¡¯t loosen.
By now, the sun begins its descent, and the forest air cools, bringing a welcome respite from the day¡¯s heat. Sensing the approach of nightfall, the settlers start looking for a suitable place to break camp. They move with a mix of relief and wariness, grateful that the day has passed without any life-threatening incidents.
Finally, they find a small clearing surrounded by tall trees, offering a semblance of shelter. Fires are quickly built, tents erected, and supplies unpacked. The smell of cooked food begins to mingle with the earthy scent of the forest, creating a temporary haven amidst the wilderness. By the time they set up camp, the group is weary, but intact. However, the murmurings of discontent and mutiny continue to linger. It¡¯s a dark undercurrent to their hard-earned respite. Illuminated by the flickering flames, the settler¡¯s faces reveal a mix of exhaustion and unease. Some huddle in small groups, whispering conspiratorially among themselves, while others stare into the flames, lost in their thoughts.
There¡¯s a lingering sense of fear and doubt among the settlers, visible in their tense shoulders and the way their eyes dart nervously to the shadows beyond the firelight. Their movements are quick and jerky, as if any sudden noise might send them fleeing. Even in the quiet moments, hands tremble as they reach for food or adjust bedrolls, and soft murmurs of conversation carry a hint of unease, like they¡¯re afraid of being overheard by the darkness itself.
Despite the relative calm of the evening, a sense of foreboding lingers like a mist, curling around the camp and seeping into every crevice. You feel it pressing in on you, drawing you instinctively toward the warmth of a campfire. The flames offer a fragile comfort, and you settle near it, seeking solace in its glow.
Support the creativity of authors by visiting Royal Road for this novel and more.
You happen upon Landera, who sits by the fire. Somehow, her face reflects both the glow of the flames and the weariness of the journey. She looks up as you approach, offering a small, tired smile. Her voice slices through the twilight, and you can her her telling a story that is a brief reprieve from the journey¡¯s events. Yet even as you listen, your mind remains alert, ever watchful for the signs of the unrest that threatens to boil over. The need to speak with Gartzen grows more urgent with each passing moment, but for now, you bide your time, waiting for the right opportunity to act.
You sit by Landera at the campfire, and the warmth of the flames are a welcome respite from the cool jungle night. The rest of the group is scattered around, some resting, others preparing for the next day¡¯s journey. With her easy smile and bright eyes, Landera recounts a story from the voyage, her voice animated and full of life despite being clearly exhausted.
¡°¡and then the wave hit so hard, it knocked Benicto flat on his back,¡± she laughs, her laughter infectious. You find yourself laughing too, and you find the tension of the past few days melting away in this brief¡ªand rare¡ªmoment of levity.
¡°That must have been quite the sight,¡± you say, shaking your head. ¡°I wish I had been there to see his face.¡±
Landera grins, her eyes twinkling in the firelight. ¡°You should¡¯ve seen it! He was so mad, but the rest of us couldn¡¯t stop laughing. It was the first time anyone saw him so flustered.¡±
As you share this light-hearted moment, Iker approaches stoically. He stands just at the edge of the firelight, watching you and Landera with an intensity that feels almost out of place.
¡°Iker, come join us!¡± you call out, gesturing for your friend to sit. ¡°Lander was just telling a story about the ship voyage.¡±
Iker hesitates, then steps forward. But his smile is forced, and his eyes shift between you and Landera with an emotion you can¡¯t quite place. ¡°Sounds like fun,¡± he says flatly.
Ever perceptive, Landera notices his discomfort. ¡°You okay, Iker?¡± she asks gently.
He nods quickly, almost too quickly. ¡°Yeah, just tired. It¡¯s been a long day.¡± He lowers himself onto the ground, but leaves a noticeable gap between himself and the group, his hands fidgeting in his lap as his gaze occasionally darts back to you as if looking for an escape.
¡°Well, maybe we should turn in instead,¡± you suggest, trying to ease the awkwardness. ¡°We could all use some rest, and we¡¯ve got another long day ahead of us.¡±
Landera catches his eye, offering him a small, steadying smile. ¡°Don¡¯t worry,¡± she says softly, her voice like a warm breeze in the cooling night. ¡°We¡¯re all in this together. We¡¯ll make it through.¡±
Iker¡¯s lips twitch into a brief smile, but it doesn¡¯t reach his eyes. ¡°Yeah, of course. Together.¡±
As the conversation drifts back to lighter topics while those gathered begin to head into camp, Iker silently steps away. His shoulders slump as he walks, each step slower than the last, as if he¡¯s dragging more than just his feet. You make a mental note to check in with him later, thinking it¡¯s just the exhaustion talking.
The morning mist clings to the forest like a wet garment as the settlers pack up camp. Along with the mist, tension permeates throughout, the kind that makes your skin prickle. You can sense it in the way people move¡ªquick, furtive glances exchanged when they think no one is looking, the hushed conversations that cease the moment an officer walks by. The mutiny is coming. You can feel it in your bones.
You and Landera exchange a worried glance as you both prepare to resume the journey. The whispers from the night before still echo in your mind, the dark promises of rebellion. Gartzen has been keeping a closer watch on the group, but even he seems wary, like he¡¯s waiting for the first crack to appear.
The group sets off in silence, the narrow path forcing you to march in single file. The forest is dense, the canopy overhead blocking out much of the morning light, casting everything in a muted gray. The only sounds are the crunch of boots on the forest floor and the occasional snap of a twig. But beneath it all, there¡¯s an undercurrent of something darker, a rumbling tension that grows with each step.
Your gaze follows the settlers ahead, tracing their every move, and attuned to the slightest shift in their rhythm. The steady thrum of your heart pulses in your ears, as each beat is like a quiet echo of the tension threading through the stillness.
It happens quickly. Too quickly.
A shout rings out from the front of the line, sharp and full of anger. The group halts, confused, but before anyone can react, several settlers break ranks. They rush forward, weapons drawn, and everything descends into calamity.
¡°Down with Lema!¡± someone yells, their voice raw with fury.
You see Captain Lema at the front, turning just in time to catch sight of the attackers. His eyes widen, but he doesn¡¯t falter. ¡°Stand your ground!¡± he bellows, drawing his sword. Who this order is for, you cannot tell.
The mutineers close in, their faces twisted with rage. You and Landera are shoved aside in the melee. The force of bodies crash into you like a wave. You scramble to your feet, searching desperately for Gartzen. He¡¯s in the thick of it, fending off two attackers at once, his sword flashing in the dim light. You shout his name, but your voice is drowned out by the chaos around you.
A mutineer breaks through the line, heading straight for Captain Lema. There¡¯s a moment, a brief, terrifying moment, when you think Lema is going to fall. But then Gartzen is there, his sword cutting a deadly arc through the air. The mutineer crumples to the ground, clutching his side, and Gartzen doesn¡¯t miss a beat, turning to take on the next attacker.
You and Landera find yourselves near the edge of the battle, caught between the urge to run and the need to help. Your heart hammers in your chest, fear and adrenaline warring within you.
¡°We need to do something!¡± Landera yells over the din, her voice strained with desperation.
But what? You look around, searching for a way to help, but the scene before you is chaos, pure and simple. The mutineers are pressing forward, their numbers swelling as more settlers join the fray. For a moment, it looks like they might succeed, that they might actually overthrow Captain Lema and take control.
But then Lema¡¯s loyalists rally. Gartzen is at the center of it, a rock amidst the storm, and his presence turns the tide. Slowly, painfully, the mutineers are pushed back, their momentum faltering as they realize they¡¯re outmatched.
You see one of Lema¡¯s officers grappling with a mutineer who¡¯s twice her size. She¡¯s holding her own, but barely. Without thinking, you grab a nearby branch and swing it at the mutineer¡¯s head. It¡¯s not enough to knock him out, but it distracts him long enough for the officer to regain the upper hand. She nods at you in grim acknowledgment before diving back into the fight.
The battle rages on, a brutal, bloody affair that seems to stretch on forever. But slowly, the mutineers begin to falter. One by one, they¡¯re brought down, disarmed, or forced to surrender. The forest floor is littered with the fallen, and the scent of blood and sweat clings to each breath like a heavy mist.
When the last mutineer is subdued, a heavy silence falls over the group. The survivors stand there, panting, bloodied, and exhausted. The mutiny has left a mark¡ªa deep, ugly scar that will take time to heal, if it will at all.
With his sword still drawn, Captain Lema grimly surveys the aftermath. His eyes meet yours for a brief moment, and you can see and feel the burden he carries. He turns to address the group, his voice carrying over the hushed whispers.
¡°This is what happens when we let fear and distrust take hold,¡± he says sharply, and almost desperately. ¡°We are a unit, a family. We cannot afford to be divided, not when our survival depends on it.¡±
His words are heavy and somber. The group listens in silence, the reality of what just happened sinking in. The mutiny has failed, but the damage is done. There¡¯s no telling how deep the fractures run.
As the group regains its composure and begins to tend to the wounded, you catch sight of Gartzen. He¡¯s kneeling by the body of a fallen settler, his expression unreadable. You want to go to him, to offer some kind of comfort, but the feeling of overwhelming sorrow from the day¡¯s events holds you back.
Landera stands beside you with a pale face and eyes wide. She doesn¡¯t speak, but her look says it all. The shared despair and the sense of what could have been seem to bind you together in that gut-wrenching moment.
The remnants of the mutiny sticks with you all as the group resumes their journey. The forest seems darker today, the sky more dreadful. Now subdued, the mutineers walk with their heads lowered, their energy sapped not just by the trek, but by their failure. The group is quieter now, as the whispers are replaced by the dull thud of boots on the forest floor.
Gartzen leads the way, his expression a mask of grim determination. You walk near the back, alongside Landera, who hasn¡¯t spoken much since the fight. The day drags on, the sun climbing higher in the sky, but the forest is so thick that it only filters through in patches, leaving much of the path in a fitting shadow.
As the time passes, you start to notice a change in the mood of the settlers. The silence is gradually replaced by a low hum of excitement, whispers of hope passing from person to person. You all must be close now, and the thought of reaching the settlement, of finally arriving at the place they¡¯ve been promised, fills the air with a tentative optimism. The memory of the mutiny starts to fade as the anticipation builds. The idea of a safe haven, a paradise at the end of this grueling journey, takes hold of their thoughts.
But you can¡¯t feel the same flicker of hope. A small voice in the back of your mind says that this nightmare is far from over.
The forest begins to thin out, and the trees grow sparser. The path widens, and for the first time in what feels like days, you can see the sky clearly. The settlers quicken their pace. The promise of their long-awaited destination pulls them forward, and their exhaustion i momentarily forgotten.
And then, you see it.
Xiatlidar.
The settlers around you begin to cheer, the sound swelling as more and more of the settlement comes into view. From a distance, it looks like the paradise they¡¯ve been dreaming of¡ªa sprawling collection of structures nestled in a clearing, surrounded by the thick forest. There¡¯s a moment, a brief, shining moment, where hope seems to bloom in their chest, where they think that this is the sanctuary you¡¯ve all been searching for.
But as you draw closer, that hope begins to wither.
The cheers falter, then fade into uneasy silence. The settlement that seemed so inviting from a distance now reveals itself in stark, disappointing detail. Instead of being the sturdy, well-maintained structures you¡¯d imagined, the buildings are poorly constructed and crumbling. The roofs sag, and the walls are swollen and waterlogged. The paths between the buildings are little more than muddy ruts, and the smell¡ªthe thick, cloying scent of rot and stagnant water¡ªis everywhere.
You glance at Landera, whose wide-eyed expression mirrors your own sinking dread. Standing a few paces away, Iker looks equally disturbed as he takes in the scene before you. While just moments ago they were filled with joy and relief, the settlers now stand frozen in place, their faces twisted with shock and disbelief.
¡°This¡ this can¡¯t be right,¡± someone mutters, reflecting the thoughts racing through your mind.
Though he had been marching at the front, Captain Lema stops dead in his tracks. He surveys the settlement with a cold, hard gaze, and his jaw is set in a tight line. Gartzen comes to stand beside him with barely concealed disgust.
¡°What is this?¡± Captain Lema¡¯s statement disrupts the silence. But no one answers. The settlers look to him for guidance, for some kind of explanation, but all he can offer is a steely glare and a terse order to keep moving.
The group trudges forward. The excitement that had buoyed them all this way is now replaced by a heavy sense of foreboding. The closer you get to Xiatlidar, the worse it appears. You catch sight of a few settlers peering out from the shadowed doorways of their homes. Their faces are gaunt, their eyes hollow. This is not the paradise you all were promised. This is a place where hope comes to die.
You find yourself walking slower, each step weighed down by the oppressive atmosphere. Landera stays close, her eyes searching about the settlement with growing concern. Iker walks in silence, his hands balled into fists at his sides. The three of you exchange worried glances, but no one says a word. What is there to say?
As you cross the threshold into the heart of Xiatlidar, you feel that you¡¯ve stepped into a nightmare, one that you might never wake from.
125 - Teqosa
¡°I thought you had forgotten about me.¡±
¡°It¡¯s only because I haven¡¯t been able to have a reasonable night¡¯s sleep,¡± I say to Entilqan.
Wait, I think to myself. This exchange feels familiar.
Once again, I find us both atop the hill from our childhood that overlooks the Qantua valley. We are beneath the jacaranda tree, but the setting is off. The sun is shrouded by dark, menacing clouds, and the tree is no longer resplendent, but rather, it is leafless, save for a few that are brown or blackened. The vibrant flowers that once surrounded us are now wilted, their colors faded to ashen grays and browns. Shadows loom longer and deeper, and an eerie silence pervades, broken only by the distant croak of a raven. The once lush valley below is now a bleak expanse.
Just as before, my sister sits beside me, arms folded on her knees as she warmly takes in the scene. She gazes at the grotesque landscape with a serene smile, as if nothing has changed, as if the world around us is still vibrant and full of life. Her demeanor is unsettlingly calm amidst the decay, her eyes reflecting a contentment that is jarringly at odds with the desolation surrounding us.
¡°You¡¯ve been awfully busy since we last spoke,¡± she comments. The familiarity of her words nags at me.
¡°What is happening here?¡± I ask, confused. ¡°I¡¯ve dreamt this before, but this is¡ different.¡±
My sister looks around, inspecting the scene. As if noticing it for the first time, she gently touches the blackened leaves and runs her fingers over the cracked, lifeless bark of the jacaranda tree. Her eyes observe the wilted flowers and the murky trickle of the river below. Yet she smiles, seemingly unfazed by the decay.
¡°It¡¯s simply a part of the cycle,¡± she says softly. ¡°Everything changes, everything decays. But sometimes, something more sinister hastens the process.¡±
¡°What do you mean?¡± I press, feeling a sense of urgency and concern.
She looks at me, her eyes suddenly more intense. ¡°There are forces at work, far beyond what we understand. Darkness spreads, consuming life and light. You must be vigilant.¡±
Suddenly, the scene shifts abruptly, and I find myself overlooking an unfamiliar land. Below, a once thriving town rests next to a long river that connects a lake to the sea. Snowcapped mountains loom majestically in the distance, but their beauty is marred by an unnatural darkness that creeps across the landscape like a slithering creature. The sun struggles to penetrate the thick, sinister clouds that shroud the sky.
The roads are unlike any I¡¯ve seen before, lined with structures that would be as tall as the trees, made from timber and stone. Yet with their ornate plasterwork and decorations, these buildings now lie in ruins. Intricate patterns once adorned their facades, but now they are marred by decay. Wooden overhangs dangle precariously, and the thatched roofs that resemble the peaks of the nearby mountains are sagging and charred. The people wander in ragged clothing, their faces gaunt and hollow.
¡°What is this place?¡± I ask, turning to Entilqan, but she¡¯s no longer beside me. Her voice, however, lingers in the air.
¡°Beware the darkness, brother. It seeks to consume all.¡±
A hand shakes my shoulder, jostling me awake.
¡°Teqosa!¡± I hear Upachu¡¯s worried voice mutter to me. ¡°Are you okay? You¡¯ve been talking in your sleep, sounding all panicked.¡±
¡°I¡ I don¡¯t know,¡± I muster breathlessly. The sweat beads at my forehead, and I search the jungle to ensure I¡¯m no longer dreaming. S¨ªqalat and the Auilqa warriors look on as they roll up their bedrolls and clean up the camp.
¡°Did something happen to Entilqan?¡± he asks. I nearly forgot that I¡¯ve told him about my dreams; it has been so long since I¡¯ve had them, let alone spoken about them.
¡°It¡¯s not that anything happened to her,¡± I reply, still dazed from the bizarre dream. ¡°It¡¯s that she stayed the same while the world seemed to decay around her.¡±
¡°Decayed?¡± Upachu echoes. ¡°How would it¡¡± Just as I do, he finds the matter perplexing, to say the least, too stunned to formulate a coherent statement.
¡°I¡¯ve never experienced such a dream like that involving her,¡± I continue. ¡°And I somehow arrived at another world, some place with strange structures and roads. An entirely different landscape than anything I¡¯ve seen on Pachil. And it was all crumpling, falling apart, as were the villagers who walked its peculiarly constructed paths. All while Entilqan remained calm, like nothing was shocking to her. All she said was to ¡®beware of the darkness.¡¯¡±
Upachu¡¯s face is grave with concern as he contemplates my explanation. ¡°What could it mean?¡± His question floats in the air like a specter, haunting the space between us, never intending to be caught.
¡°I¡ I don¡¯t understand it.¡± It¡¯s the only response I have, unable to make sense of the events in my dream.
Upachu frowns, then lifts himself from beside me. ¡°Prophetic dreams,¡± he says, shaking his head. ¡°It is unsettling, but I¡¯m afraid all we can do is pay attention to the world around us, to see if the gods continue to signal events of which we should be made aware.¡±
¡°The gods?¡± I question. I pick myself up off the ground and begin to collect the few possessions I have that are not on the cart. ¡°Have you suddenly become religious? This is not the Upachu I know, a learned man of knowledge who provided council at the Great Library of Hilaqta. When did you become spiritual?¡±
He looks at me curiously. ¡°After everything we¡¯ve been through, are you not? You experience dreams in which your sister, who sacrificed herself along with the others of the Eleven¡ªerr, the Twelve¡ªregularly appears.¡±
¡°That is only in my mind,¡± I insert my reply, shrugging off his ludicrous assertion.
¡°We have traveled into the Tomb of Inqil and stood before the Auilqa hero herself!¡± he continues his remarks. Again, I scoff, but he carries on as he tends to the llama, who nonchalantly grazes on the nearby foliage. ¡°You told me of your journey in Qantua, with the guardian and the shifting forest!¡±
We finish packing up our belongings in the cart while he rambles on about the gods. S¨ªqalat approaches to load up her possessions. Upon seeing the spirited gestures of Upachu, combined with my unamused posture and expression, she opts to stand back and watch how our conversation unfolds before choosing whether or not to jump in. With a smirk, she takes the reins of the llama and guides it through the jungle to begin today¡¯s travels.
Upachu mindlessly follows behind, unaware of the new driver of the cart as he elaborates on his fervent belief in the gods. ¡°After all we¡¯ve seen, how can you still doubt their existence?¡± he questions, his voice filled with both wonder and frustration.
I sigh, shaking my head slightly. ¡°It¡¯s not that I doubt the existence of powerful beings or forces in this world. It¡¯s the leap from acknowledging their power to worshiping them as gods that I can¡¯t accept. Entilqan was my sister. I knew her as a person, not a deity. She was human, with all the flaws and strengths that come with it. The fact that she gained powers and became revered doesn¡¯t change the person she was.¡±
Upachu glances at me, a mix of empathy and exasperation in his eyes. ¡°But don¡¯t you see? It¡¯s precisely because she was human that her transformation into something more is so remarkable. It shows that even we, mere mortals, can touch the divine.¡±
I shrug, growing further annoyed. ¡°Or it shows that people are quick to deify what they don¡¯t understand. I can¡¯t bring myself to worship someone who I knew had the same doubts, hopes, and fears as any of us. And if we¡¯re going to worship that, it makes me suspicious about everything else we worship.¡±
Upachu falls silent for a moment, his brow softening as my words settle in. Then, he takes a deep breath as his gaze drifts slowly across the shadowed trees of the jungle. ¡°This makes me recall what happened in the village, during the Auilqa raid. When I was there, I felt¡ something.¡±
¡°Of course, you did,¡± S¨ªqalat finally remarks. ¡°It was the quake that shook the ground, and perhaps the entire region.¡±
¡°No, no,¡± Upachu says with a chuckle. ¡°A presence, a force guiding me. It wasn¡¯t just the training or the knowledge I¡¯ve acquired throughout my life. No, something far greater than that. It was as if Inqil herself was with me, helping me channel the gift to speak to the Auilqa.¡± I can see the conviction in his eyes as he talks about the experience, something that touched him deeply. I remain skeptical, but I listen intently.
¡°In the village,¡± he continues, ¡°I invoked the spirit of Inqil. The Auilqa were restless and suspicious. They didn¡¯t trust us, didn¡¯t see why they should ally with us. But when I spoke, it was as if Inqil¡¯s wisdom and power flowed through me. I believe the Auilqa could feel it too. They knew it wasn¡¯t only a man speaking to them, but something greater. That¡¯s why they listened, why they agreed to our terms.¡±
I raise an eyebrow, intrigued despite myself. ¡°And what exactly did you promise them?¡±
Upachu smiles wryly. ¡°The same thing you would, my friend: a future where we stand united against the true threat. Where we fight not for territory or power, but for the survival of all our peoples.¡±
I glance at him, seeing a spark of something almost spiritual in his expression. It¡¯s rare to see Upachu so moved, so convinced of something beyond the tangible. In spite of my own doubts, I can¡¯t help but feel a twinge of curiosity, of wonder.
Still holding the llama¡¯s reins, S¨ªqalat looks back at us with a contemplative gaze. ¡°So you believe¡ that Inqil¡¯s spirit truly guided you?¡± She attempts to make sense of Upachu¡¯s statement as she asks aloud.
Unauthorized usage: this narrative is on Amazon without the author''s consent. Report any sightings.
Upachu nods, resolute. ¡°I do. Whether it was her spirit or some other force, I cannot say for certain. But what I felt was real, and it helped bridge the gap between us and the Auilqa. They agreed to join us because they felt the presence of something greater than all of us.¡±
We walk in silence for a while, as the sounds of rustling leaves and distant animal calls travel throughout the jungle. Upachu¡¯s fingers tap rhythmically against the cart, reflecting his restless thoughts. Sunlight filters through the leaves above, casting scattered beams on our path. Despite the beauty around me, doubt tugs at my mind. I shake my head slightly, trying to dislodge the unease. The idea of unseen forces influencing our lives is a heavy cloak I can¡¯t quite shrug off.
I think back to the days of our childhood, when everything seemed simpler. Entilqan and I were just children, playing beneath the jacaranda tree, unaware of what destiny would place upon us. She was my sister, flesh and blood. Someone who laughed and cried like any of us. She then gained powers, and everything changed. Upon her sacrifice, people started to worship her, to see her as something more than human. Perhaps that¡¯s when my beliefs started to shift. I couldn¡¯t reconcile¡ªI still can¡¯t reconcile¡ªthe girl I grew up with, the one who teased me and shared secrets and played with me throughout the Qantua hillside, with the deity that others now revered.
Even after everything Upachu, S¨ªqalat, and I experienced in the Tomb of Inqil¡ªthe ancient power that flowed through the very walls, the presence of something greater than ourselves¡ªI still find it hard to believe. I wonder why that is. Why can Upachu, a man of knowledge and reason, find faith in those moments, while I remain skeptical? Maybe it¡¯s not the gods themselves I resist, but the way people blindly follow, seeking answers in the divine instead of facing the harsh realities of our world. Upachu sees divinity in our experiences, a guiding hand in the chaos. But all I see are people struggling to make sense of things beyond their control. The gods didn¡¯t save Entilqan and have her placed among them within the palace of the heavens; she sacrificed herself. Perhaps that¡¯s the crux of it. I can¡¯t put my faith in beings who demand such a price, who turn people into symbols and stories.
As we push forward through the jungle, I find myself hoping for something tangible, something real, that doesn¡¯t rely on faith or worship. But deep down, a part of me wonders if that hope is just another form of belief, another way of seeking meaning in the void. Despite everything, why do I still cling to this skepticism? What would it take for me to believe again?
The questions swirl in my mind like leaves caught in a whirlpool, but the path ahead demands focus. The jungle thickens around us, the terrain becoming more challenging with every step, as if the land itself resists our passage. The sounds of our movements¡ªfeet crunching on dried leaves, the occasional snap of a twig¡ªare swallowed by the dense foliage, leaving only the persistent hum of nature.
My thoughts begin to shift from the abstract to the immediate, from the gods to the very real dangers that lie ahead. I begin to reflect on the Auilqa and what¡¯s occurred in our encounters with them. We have to make the right decisions, or everything could unravel. We don¡¯t have the luxury of being wrong.
The jungle closes in tighter, the path narrowing until we¡¯re forced into a single file. Upachu and S¨ªqalat are just ahead, their heads close together while voices are a low murmur that blends with the rustle of the undergrowth. I can¡¯t make out their words, but their discussion seems urgent, almost conspiratorial.
A sharp realization strikes me, cutting through the haze of my thoughts. This isn¡¯t just about faith or doubt; it¡¯s about survival, about the very real dangers that now surround us on all sides. Once a proud and independent people, the Auilqa have somehow become ensnared in the Eye in the Flame¡¯s twisted plans. With their relentless pursuit of power, the zealots have infected the minds of those who once stood strong against any outside influence. Is it wise to place our trust in the Auilqa? These aren¡¯t abstract concepts or distant threats¡ªthey¡¯re flesh and blood, breathing down our necks, ready to strike at any moment.
I quicken my pace, drawing alongside them. ¡°We need to move faster,¡± I say, my voice sharper than intended. ¡°I believe Qiapu is our priority. Besides, I¡¯m not sure the Auilqa can be trusted. They¡¯re opportunists by nature¡ªyou said so yourself, S¨ªqalat. Something about how quickly they were swayed does not sit well with me.¡±
Upachu looks offended by my observation. ¡°Teqosa, I just told you how they recognized the truth, how they felt the presence of something greater guiding them. It was a genuine moment of connection and understanding, not mere opportunism. You can¡¯t dismiss that so easily.¡±
I pause, guilt tightening my chest as I see the hurt in Upachu¡¯s eyes. I never intended to diminish his experience, but given our dire situation, I can¡¯t afford to ignore the risks that he may not fully grasp. ¡°I respect what you felt and what you accomplished¡ªI sincerely do. But feeling the presence of the divine and trusting a faction known for its changing allegiances are two different things. I¡¯m not dismissing your experience; I¡¯m questioning the Auilqa¡¯s reliability. The success of our quest depends greatly on alliances we can count on.¡±
Upachu nods slowly, but it¡¯s clear he is still troubled. He looks away, focusing on the path ahead while silently accepting my point without fully agreeing.
S¨ªqalat turns to me, her lips pressed into a thin line while a spark of defiance ignites in her gaze. ¡°And what makes you think Qiapu is any different? Every faction has its opportunists. We need allies, Teqosa. The Auilqa have agreed to join us, and we need to solidify that relationship, especially as we travel through their sacred lands. It¡¯s crucial for our survival.¡±
¡°Survival?¡± I can¡¯t help but scoff. ¡°Their loyalty is as fickle as the wind. One moment they¡¯re with us, the next they could be against us. We can¡¯t afford to waste time building trust with those who might betray us at the first opportunity. If it¡¯s survival that concerns you, we need allies we can rely on, not ones who change sides with the shifting tide.¡±
S¨ªqalat¡¯s jaw tightens, and she steps closer, her voice low and intense. ¡°You think the Qiapu will just welcome us with open arms? They have their own agendas, their own priorities. We can¡¯t march into their territory expecting support. The Auilqa are willing to stand with us. That means something.¡±
I shake my head, frustration boiling over. ¡°We don¡¯t have time for this. Every moment we spend here in Auilqa, we stray further from our mission, and the Eye in the Flame grows stronger. Qiapu is designated as one of the destinations we are supposed to travel to, and it has resources we need. Warriors, provisions, healers. We secure that, and we have a fighting chance.¡±
¡°And what happens if we reach Qiapu and find ourselves outnumbered, outmaneuvered, by the Eye in the Flame, or even their own people?¡± she counters. ¡°Without the Auilqa, we¡¯re vulnerable. If the Eye in the Flame is attempting to form alliances with every faction on Pachil, we need the Auilqa warriors and their knowledge of the land, more than ever. You¡¯re letting your quick distrust cloud your judgment.¡±
My hands clench into fists, and I take a deep breath, trying to rein in my temper. ¡°And you¡¯re letting your idealism blind you to the reality of our situation. We¡¯re not in a position to take risks with unreliable allies. We need certainty, strength, not potential betrayal.¡±
S¨ªqalat¡¯s eyes narrow, and for a moment, we stand toe to toe, the space between us crackling like static. The Auilqa warriors look on with curiosity, and Upachu watches us uneasily, and I catch the slight tightening of his jaw, the way his fingers clench and unclench at his side.
The heavy and oppressive silence stretches, until finally, S¨ªqalat speaks again. ¡°I understand your fear. But we can¡¯t fight this war alone. We need to build bridges, not burn them. If we alienate the Auilqa now, we lose a potentially valuable ally, especially if Upachu can continue to reach their hearts and minds. We need to be smarter, more strategic.¡±
Her words linger between us, challenging my stubbornness. She¡¯s right, in a way. We do need allies. But can we really rely on the Auilqa? Can we afford to take that chance?
I look away, my gaze drifting to the dense jungle around us, the twisted vines and towering trees teeming with life, their vivid colors and hidden dangers momentarily distracting me. A world that feels increasingly distant, increasingly fragile. The animals carry on as if our argument hadn¡¯t just shattered the tranquility. The jungle remains unchanged, an indifferent witness to our struggles.
¡°Fine,¡± I say finally, rough with reluctance. ¡°We¡¯ll go to Qasiunqa first. But if there¡¯s any sign¡ªany sign at all¡ªthat the Auilqa are wavering, we cut ties and move on. We cannot afford to be na?ve. Not now.¡±
S¨ªqalat nods, a small smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. ¡°Agreed. But let¡¯s give them a chance. We might be surprised by what we find.¡±
I grunt in acknowledgment, and though I can¡¯t shake the feeling of unease, we resume our journey. Upachu steps close to me while the others continue on into the jungle. He nods in quiet approval. ¡°A wise decision,¡± he mutters under the hum of the jungle creatures, resting a gentle hand upon my shoulder. ¡°Unity is our strength. Let¡¯s move forward together.¡±
Days blend into each other as we trek through the dense, suffocating jungle. The ground beneath us is a carpet of moss that yields beneath each step. The jungle air is stifling, and it clings to our skin and seeps into our lungs. The terrain and territory is a far cry from the hilly Qantua lands to which I¡¯m accustomed.
The overwhelming number of leaves overhead is so dense it steals the sun, casting everything in perpetual twilight. Vines as thick as my arm twist and coil around trees, creating natural barriers that Upachu and I struggle to navigate, though the Auilqa and S¨ªqalat appear unfazed.
Our stoic Auilqa escorts move with an eerie silence, their steps almost imperceptible on the soft ground. They communicate in whispers as their eyes constantly search the surroundings. They interact only among themselves, occasionally pointing to the markings on tree bark to seemingly indicate we¡¯re heading in the correct direction.
I watch them closely, noting the way they seem to merge with the environment. Their movements are efficient, each step calculated to avoid unnecessary noise. They use the thick vines and foliage to their advantage, moving through the jungle with a grace that borders on the supernatural. Every now and then, one of them will silently signal to the other. I try to learn from them, but their ways are as impenetrable as the jungle itself. I can¡¯t help but feel a mix of admiration and wariness.
As we push through the dense jungle, a tremendous village emerges like a phantom from the mist. The thick foliage parts, revealing a city that seems to rise from the very soil itself. Precious sunlight that otherwise seems rare in this shadowed realm bathes the towering spires of the city in a golden glow. My eyes are drawn to a massive structure dominating the landscape¡ªa pyramid of immense stone blocks, rising high above the treetops.
The city¡¯s perimeter is marked by formidable walls interwoven with a fierce blend of thatch, foliage, bone, and wood. Despite their brutal composition, the walls are adorned with vivid feathers and pigments, creating a striking contrast against the raw materials and verdant greens of the jungle. Admittedly, the decorations do little to soften the intimidating presence of the city.
Tall structures loom over the jungle, their heights surpassing even the tallest trees. Much like the Auilqa village we departed, suspended bridges connect towers that form a network of swaying pathways, except the scale here is beyond comparison. The sight leaves me wondering if any outsider has ever truly understood the depth of this place.
Yet as we draw nearer, the sense of awe is replaced by a creeping unease. The striking colors adorning the walls seem dulled, and a heavy silence hangs over the city. There is no sign of the bustling activity one would expect from such a grand settlement. Instead, from what we can see at our distance, the streets lie eerily empty, and the once proud towers now bear marks of recent conflict¡ªscorch marks and shattered wood. The humid air now carries a stifling stillness, as if holding its breath in anticipation of some unseen horror.
The towering pyramid casts a foreboding shadow over the city. Upon a closer gaze, its stone steps are marred by what looks like fresh, dark stains. The jungle around us seems to recoil from the city¡¯s boundaries, the luscious flora giving way to patches of scorched terrain and trampled undergrowth.
The Auilqa warriors beside us remain stoic, their eyes fixed ahead and jaws set. Each step forward feels heavier, laden with the foreboding sense that we are walking into a trap. My mind races with questions and doubts. What happened here? What disaster did the Auilqa face? Or cause?
As we get closer, the details become clearer and more disturbing. The structures show signs of violence¡ªsplintered wood, blackened stone, and the faint scent of smoke. The oppressive silence is broken only by the distant, methodical footsteps of those patrolling the city walls. The dark silhouettes carry weapons etched with dark runes, and the very sight of them makes my blood run cold.
From our vantage point, I catch sight of the figures, focusing on the flowing fabric of their garments. They¡¯re distinctively unlike the traditional Auilqa garb¡ªthe muted sheen of ashen gray or streaks of crimson coming into view. My heart sinks as I recognize what this indicates. These are not the Qasiunqa¡¯s defenders, but members of the Eye in the Flame.
126 - Inuxeq
My extended stay in the lands north of Tapeu has done nothing to endear them to me¡ªin fact, I may despise them even more now. The dull, lackluster beige that surrounds us has seemed to drain all the life and vigor out of me. I want nothing more to do with these lands, yet my journey continues to keep me here, a prisoner to fate.
This all better be worth it.
The Qantua warriors, too, have become restless. Their mission¡ªto rescue Qapauma from falling to ruin at the hands of the Eye in the Flame¡ªhas been achieved. Many now question why they still march, why we continue on to Aimue. There are days when I wonder this myself. But as long as the maniacal cult remains, our duty to restore and maintain peace on Pachil will never be fulfilled.
This doesn¡¯t make the breakdown of morale lessen, however. It required a lot of effort to bring the Qantua around to the cause, and it requires even more to maintain it. Grumblings have sprung up around camp, and they¡¯ve only grown louder and more persistent the further we march. Without the likes of Haesan, or even Sianchu, I fear I may not have the means to rally the continued support necessary to see this mission through.
What was it Teqosa told me, way back in Hilaqta? I ask myself, trying to find some motivation, some inspiration. ¡®Be genuine, be direct, and be honest.¡¯ That was his advice. I should be able to do that¡ right?
We decide to cross the Maiu Antumalal before setting up camp, to get the most laborious part of the journey out of the way. To our good fortune, the makeshift vessels we used to cross this river previously remain mostly in tact and in fair condition. Like before, it takes us a good portion of the day to traverse, yet it¡¯s far from challenging¡ªjust what we all need after such a long and arduous journey.
As we press on through the Aimue plains, I find my gaze drifting upwards more often than I''d like to admit. The night sky filled with a scattering of stars holds a singular focus for me¡ªthe waning moon. It hangs there, taunting me, its light diminishing with each passing night. Every evening, when the darkness settles over us, I search the heavens, measuring the sliver of light that remains.
The crescent is thinning, retreating into shadow. And with it, my unease grows. The new moon is no longer a distant threat. It''s drawing closer, pulling us inexorably toward the impending storm. There¡¯s a weight in my chest every time I see that moon, a tightening grip that reminds me of what¡¯s at risk, of the lives hanging in the balance. Each glance at the sky feels like a nudge¡ªa push to move faster, to reach Aimue and rally the strength we¡¯ll need before the darkness takes over completely.
With the crumbling ruins of Taqeipacha fading into the distance, we finally reach the opposite shore. We are about to break camp when one of the warriors notices a disturbing sight. ¡°Take a look at this,¡± he urgently says to me. He emphatically points to a tangle of torn fabric caught on the jagged remnants of a shattered raft, its deep crimson threads trailing in the surf.
My stomach tightens. The fabric is unmistakable¡ªan Eye in the Flame robe, shredded and frayed, but the sinister shade of blood red used to dye the fibers is unmistakable. It¡¯s fresh, too, barely weathered by the elements. The cult has been here, and not long ago.
A ripple of unease spreads through the group as more warriors gather to inspect the threads. The whispers start immediately, carried by the wind like a growing storm. Some talk of turning back, others of abandoning the mission altogether. Fear tightens its grip on the camp.
¡°Does it ever end?¡± one warrior mutters, his voice filled with solemn resignation. ¡°We fought them all over Pachil, and now, here they¡¯re again. What hope do we have if they¡¯re everywhere?¡±
Another warrior¡¯s face contorts into a scowl. ¡°We¡¯ve been chasing shadows for moons, losing brothers and sisters at every turn. And for what? To walk right into their traps again?¡±
¡°I¡¯m sick of it,¡± someone else chimes in. ¡°I didn¡¯t sign up for a death march. If the Eye in the Flame is this strong, what chance do we really have? Maybe it¡¯s better to cut our losses and head back to defend Qapauma while we still can.¡±
¡°Or return to Hilaqta,¡± another suggest, receiving numerous grunts and shouts in agreement.
A younger warrior shakes his head. ¡°We don¡¯t even know what we¡¯re walking into. For all we know, Aimue could already be overrun. It was already in dire shape when we arrived the first time. Why are we risking our necks when the outcome seems inevitable?¡±
I can feel the tension mounting, the uncertainty swelling. They¡¯ve faced too many battles, suffered too much loss, and now, with the enemy seemingly always one step ahead, their spirits are fraying like the fabric before them.
¡°Enough,¡± I snap, though the word comes out harsher than I intended. The warriors turn to look at me, their eyes reflecting their doubt. I force myself to soften my tone, trying to channel the calm authority Teqosa once spoke of to me. ¡°This is exactly what those lunatics of the Eye in the Flame want¡ªto break us with fear. We knew this wouldn¡¯t be easy, but we¡¯re not turning back now. We press on to Aimue, where we will regroup, rally support, and plan our next move.¡±
But I can see it in their faces, the uncertainty, the questioning. It grates at me, this constant need to prove myself, to hold this fracturing group together. ¡°What¡¯s the matter with you all?¡± I lash out, my voice rising, cutting through the uneasy silence. ¡°You think you can just walk away now? After everything we¡¯ve been through? After everything you¡¯ve seen?¡±
One of the warriors, whose square face and beady eyes are lined with exhaustion, dares to meet my gaze. With his chin raised, he approaches me, showing no fear nor intimidation of my presence. ¡°We¡¯ve lost too much already, Tuatiu. How much more do you expect us to give?¡±
¡°Everything,¡± I snarl, taking a step forward with my fists clenched. ¡°You think you¡¯re the only ones who¡¯ve suffered loss? I¡¯ve buried more friends and kin than I can count, and yet here I am, still fighting! So, unless you¡¯re ready to join them in the ground, you¡¯ll keep moving, and you¡¯ll do it without this constant whining!¡±
The warriors recoil slightly at my sharp and jagged words. They stare at me with a mix of shock and resentment. I feel a momentary satisfaction at having silenced their doubts, but it¡¯s quickly drowned by a wave of guilt.
I¡¯m pushing them too hard, I realize, the thought snapping me to attention like a cold splash of water. These are warriors, not mindless beasts. They¡¯re exhausted, grieving, and I¡¯m treating them like they¡¯re expendable.
I take a deep breath, forcing myself to step back, to calm the storm that¡¯s raging inside me. ¡°Look,¡± I begin again, my voice lower, more controlled. ¡°I know you¡¯re tired. We all are. But we can¡¯t afford to give up now. Not when we¡¯re this close. And believe me, we are close. We¡¯ve got them on the run, licking their wounds! I need you to trust me, to trust that what we¡¯re doing matters. Because it does. And if we fall apart now, then everything we¡¯ve fought for will be for nothing.¡±
The hard lines of their faces soften, and the resentment begins to fade. ¡°I¡¯m not asking for more than you can give,¡± I continue, ¡°but I am asking for your strength, your resolve. We can¡¯t let the Eye in the Flame win, not after everything they¡¯ve taken from us. From Pachil.¡±
The words feel thin, as if they barely withstand the rising tide of despair. Maybe it¡¯s too late, and I¡¯ve overreached in my attempt to establish control. But I push forward, refusing to let the cracks show. I say, almost pleadingly, ¡°We¡¯ve faced worse, and we¡¯re still standing. We can¡¯t give in to doubt now.¡±
For a moment, silence permeates through the camp. I fear that I¡¯ve lost them, and that I¡¯ll need to figure out a way to carry on without the Qantua. The warriors stand motionless, their eyes flicking between the frayed threads and the distant horizon, as if searching for an escape, a reason to turn back.
Then, almost imperceptibly, one warrior shifts his stance, his hand tightening around the hilt of his sword. His eyes meet mine, and though they are still clouded with uncertainty, I see a hint of determination rekindling. Perhaps emboldened by the first, another warrior gives a curt nod, his jaw clenched as if steeling himself for what lies ahead. The movement is slow, almost reluctant, but it¡¯s there¡ªa silent acknowledgment of the path we must take.
A few more follow. A warrior adjusts the strap of her shield, while another takes a deep breath, his shoulders squaring as if to shake off the weariness. The fire in their eyes may be dimmed, but it¡¯s not extinguished. I can sense their lingering hesitation, their weariness, but they¡¯re choosing to stand with me, to press on despite the fear clawing at their hearts.
I let out a slow, controlled exhale, feeling the tension ease from my shoulders. Leadership is a burden I¡¯m still getting used to, and I don¡¯t know if I will ever fully grasp what it takes to be an effective one. But it appears I¡¯ve managed this moment, albeit barely. I may not have reignited the flames of their spirit entirely, but I¡¯ve kept them from being snuffed out, and for now, that¡¯s enough.
As we make preparations to move on, I find myself walking along the shore, away from the others. The sound of the water lapping against the rocks is a faint comfort, but it does little to ease the turmoil inside me. I reach for the coral-colored pendant I keep hidden beneath my tunic, feeling the rough edges.
So much depends on keeping these warriors together, I remind myself. If I lose them now, I don¡¯t know how I can succeed.
The realization hits me like a blow to the chest¡ªI¡¯ve become so focused on the goal that I¡¯ve lost sight of the people who are helping me achieve it. These warriors aren¡¯t just weapons to be wielded; they¡¯re lives, each with their own fears, hopes, and limits.
I pause, my gaze drifting out over the water. I watch as the tiny waves roll in, constant and relentless, yet somehow calming in their rhythm. There¡¯s a certain peace in their predictability. A sense that no matter what happens, they¡¯ll keep coming, steady and sure.
Inside me, however, nothing feels certain. Every decision seems fraught with potential disaster. The waves know their path, their purpose, but I¡ I¡¯m still trying to find mine, still trying to figure out what it means to truly lead.
Leadership isn¡¯t just about barking orders and pushing people to their limits. It¡¯s about understanding those limits, knowing when to push and when to pull back, when to listen and when to speak. But how do I strike that balance? How do I lead these people, warriors not of my own faction, without driving them away, without breaking them in the process?
I know I¡¯ve always been strong. Always known how to fight. How to stand my ground against any challenge in a battle. But this? This is different. I can¡¯t charge ahead, fists swinging, and expect everything to fall into place. I¡¯m very clearly in uncharted territory. I¡¯ve never had to lead before¡ªnot like this, not with so much at risk. Every decision I make could be the difference between victory and ruin, life and death. And knowing I¡¯m responsible for so many lives doesn¡¯t make this realization any more comforting.
What if I¡¯m not cut out for this? What if I fail them? I¡¯ve always been quick to act, to react, but leadership requires something more¡ªpatience, wisdom, the ability to see beyond the immediate. And that¡¯s where I falter. I¡¯m learning, yes, but the lessons are hard, and the demands are high. There¡¯s no room for mistakes, no time for second chances. And yet here I am, fumbling my way through, hoping that somehow, it will be enough.
This story is posted elsewhere by the author. Help them out by reading the authentic version.
I think of Haesan, of Teqosa, of the people I¡¯ve met who seem to carry this burden with such ease, such grace. They make it look effortless, even though I know it¡¯s not. I know it¡¯s a struggle, a constant battle between what is and what should be. And I wonder¡ªwill I ever reach that point? Will I ever be the kind of leader who can inspire, who can guide without crushing those I lead? Or am I destined to stumble, to falter, dragging everyone down with me?
The water continues to slosh against the shore, and a deep sigh escapes my lips. I¡¯m not there yet. I know that much. But I can¡¯t afford to let doubt consume me. Too many lives depend on me. I have to keep moving forward, learning as I go, adapting, growing. I have to believe that I can be more than what I am now, that I can become the leader they need me to be.
But it¡¯s hard. It¡¯s so damn hard. And as I stand here, alone with my thoughts, I wonder if I¡¯ll ever truly be ready.
I return to the camp, my steps more measured, my mind clearer. I don¡¯t apologize¡ªthat¡¯s just not who I am. But I do speak to the warriors differently, making sure my orders are more than commands, ensuring they know why we march and what we fight for.
At first, there¡¯s only silence. The warriors exchange wary glances, their earlier doubts still weighing heavily on their minds. I can see it in their eyes¡ªthe fatigue, the weariness of too many battles fought, too many comrades lost. They listen, but their expressions remain guarded, as if holding back from fully committing to my words.
As I continue speaking, though, something shifts. It¡¯s subtle, almost imperceptible at first¡ªa few heads nodding, a murmur of agreement rippling through the crowd. One warrior who had been staring at the ground lifts his gaze to meet mine, and a spark seemingly returns to his eyes. Another, who had earlier voiced thoughts of retreat, now appears to silently vow to press on.
They¡¯re not fully convinced¡ªnot yet¡ªbut the seeds have been planted. The warriors start to move with a bit more purpose, their actions less hesitant. They gather around the campfire, their conversations hushed, but tinged with a renewed sense of focus. They¡¯re still wary, still fearful, but they¡¯re no longer lost in that fear. They¡¯re finding their way back, step by step, to the cause that binds us all.
As the camp settles in for the night, the unease lingers. But it¡¯s tempered by a renewed sense of purpose. The Eye in the Flame may be a shadow that looms over us, but we won¡¯t let it define us. Not today. Not while I still have breath in my lungs.
We resume our journey before the sun rises. As we march across the endless plains of Aimue, the vastness of the land stretches out before us, a sea of golden grass swaying gently in the crisp breeze. The air is dry and cool, carrying with it the faint scent of tilled soil and the remnants of the harvest. The sky above is an expanse of muted blue, the kind that seems to extend forever, unbroken by any obstacle save for the occasional tree standing solitarily in the distance.
The rhythmic sound of our footsteps through the tall grass has a calming, almost meditative quality. With each deliberate step, our bodies sway in time with the gentle roll of the plains, the landscape so open that it feels as if we are walking through a dream. The horizon is a distant line, blurring into the pale sky, and the land seems to go on endlessly, like an expansive, silent ocean.
I let my gaze drift over the landscape, the gentle rise and fall of the terrain, the way the light plays off the golden grasses. There¡¯s a quiet power here, a beauty in the simplicity of this place after all. Perhaps these lands aren¡¯t as awful as I¡¯ve built them to be in my mind.
Then, without warning, we stumble upon it. The camp is a disjointed mess of chaos and abandonment, as if the terrain itself had decided to swallow it whole and spit out the remnants in a fit of rage. Torn tents hang limply from branches, the cloth flapping weakly in the faint breeze. Burnt-out fire pits sit like gaping wounds in the ground, surrounded by scattered belongings¡ªdiscarded packs, broken weapons and tools, scraps of garments stained with blood.
I stop dead in my tracks, my heart pounding as I take in the scene. The warriors behind me murmur uneasily, their voices low and tense. This wasn¡¯t an evacuation¡ªthis was a massacre.
¡°Spread out,¡± I order, though my voice feels small against the backdrop of the carnage before us. ¡°Search for survivors. Be quick about it.¡±
The warriors move cautiously, their steps deliberately slow as they navigate the debris-strewn ground. As they push further into the wreckage, it becomes clear that this was the site of a battle¡ªand a brutal one at that. Bodies lie strewn across the clearing, their faces twisted in permanently fixed expressions of agony and fear. The dark and congealed blood paints the ground in a macabre tableau. Some of the dead wear the familiar colors of the Aimue, but others bear marks and armor that are unfamiliar, their origins a mystery. It¡¯s as if two different worlds collided here, leaving only destruction in their wake.
I approach one of the bodies, and my breath catches in my throat as I kneel beside it. The warrior¡¯s hand is still clenched around the hilt of his sword, the blade buried in the ground as if he had tried to drag himself to safety. His eyes are open, staring blankly at the sky, and a deep, jagged gash runs from his shoulder to his chest.
I glance up, taking in the full scope of the devastation around me. This wasn¡¯t the result of a skirmish¡ªthis was the aftermath of something much larger, something that left no one alive to tell the tale. I urgently push myself to my feet, and though my eyes sweep the area for any sign of why this happened here, deep down, I already know the answer.
¡°We need to move,¡± I say, my voice steadier now, though it¡¯s laced with the rising tension I feel in my gut. ¡°This was the work of the Eye in the Flame¡ªI¡¯m sure of it. They¡¯re close, and we can¡¯t afford to let them slip away.¡±
Shaken by the gruesome discovery, the warriors nod in agreement, though their faces betray their unease. I can see it in their eyes. They¡¯re beginning to doubt again, to wonder if this is a fight we can win. But there¡¯s no time. We need to reach Xaqelatun before it¡¯s too late¡ªif we¡¯re not already too late.
¡°Move out,¡± I command. ¡°We must reach Xaqelatun, no matter what it takes.¡±
The landscape around us blurs into a monotony of gold and gray, the rhythm of our march no longer a steady, measured beat. The unease from earlier hasn¡¯t dissipated¡ªinstead, it has settled in, growing roots in the minds of the warriors, festering into something more dangerous than mere doubt.
It starts with a murmur. A low, rumbling discontent ripples through the ranks like a slow-moving storm. A few voices, once quiet, now rise with a boldness born from fear and frustration.
¡°Why are we still pushing north? We¡¯ve done what we were sent to do,¡± one warrior calls out, reigniting the complaint I thought had already been resolved. ¡°Our orders were clear¡ªprotect Qapauma. Now we¡¯re out here, risking our lives for what? Aimue isn¡¯t our home.¡±
Others nod as their expressions darken. Along with the persistent strain of the journey, the horrors they¡¯ve just witnessed seem to be quickly eroding their loyalty. ¡°We should be protecting our own,¡± another warrior adds, his tone less questioning and more accusing. ¡°Qapauma is vulnerable, possibly even Hilaqta, and we¡¯re out here chasing shadows.¡±
The rumblings of dissent grow louder, more insistent, until one particularly vocal warrior steps forward. He locks his eyes onto mine, ready for a confrontation. ¡°This isn¡¯t our fight, Tuatiu. We don¡¯t owe Aimue anything. The council ordered us to protect Qapauma, and you¡¯re leading us away from it. They may even be headed to Hilaqta, for all we know. What happens to our families, our homes, if we¡¯re not there when the Eye in the Flame strikes?¡±
The words hit like a blow, as the doubt and anger in his voice strike at the fragile balance I¡¯ve been trying to maintain, and am clearly losing. Frustration and fear surge through me. I know they¡¯re right in their fears, but turning back now or going to Hilaqta would mean leaving Aimue to fall while allowing the Eye in the Flame to strengthen, and that¡¯s a failure I can¡¯t accept.
¡°We¡¯re not just protecting the Aimue,¡± I say, forcing steel into my voice. ¡°We¡¯re protecting all of Pachil. The Eye in the Flame won¡¯t stop with Xaqelatun, or even Qapauma¡ªthey¡¯ll spread their madness everywhere, and if we let them take the Aimue territory, we¡¯re handing them a foothold to strike at the rest of the continent.¡±
But the warrior doesn¡¯t back down. He steps closer, his voice rising and intense. ¡°And what if we¡¯re too late, huh? What if, while we¡¯re out here, Hilaqta falls? We¡¯ll have failed our people and the capital we were ordered to defend, and for what? For a land that isn¡¯t even ours?¡±
I step forward, meeting the warrior¡¯s gaze head-on. ¡°I understand your fear,¡± I begin, trying with all my effort to remain soft but firm. ¡°But we can¡¯t afford to think only of ourselves. We¡¯ve seen what they¡¯re capable of, and this,¡± I splay my hands at the destruction around us, ¡°is only a taste of what they¡¯ll do. The Eye in the Flame is a threat to all of Pachil, and if we don¡¯t stand together now, they will destroy everything. Yes, Qapauma is the seat of power, but every corner of Pachil deserves to be protected. If we allow them to take Aimue, they¡¯ll gain strength, numbers, and resources that will make them unstoppable.¡±
Be genuine, be direct, and be honest, I repeat Teqosa¡¯s advice.
I pause, then add, ¡°I know this isn¡¯t easy. I know the cost is high. But you are Qantua, and we are warriors, defenders of Pachil. Our duty is to protect, even when the path is uncertain, even when the challenges appear insurmountable. This is about doing what¡¯s right for everyone, throughout the entirety of the land.¡±
For a moment, the group is silent and hesitant. But slowly, the anger and fear in their eyes begin to waver once more, giving way to a grudging acceptance. Though still rigid with tension, the vocal warrior steps back, his defiance tempered by a reluctant respect. But beneath that respect, uncertainty certainly still lingers.
¡°We move forward,¡± I command, ensuring the authority in my voice is unyielding. ¡°We reach Xaqelatun by nightfall, no matter what it takes.¡±
The warriors fall into a tense silence as we continue northward. Our conversation still echoes in my mind, and likely the same is taking place among the Qantua. Each day bleeds into the next, a blur of ceaseless movement through the heart of Aimue. The plains offer little shelter, no solace from the biting wind that sweeps across the open expanse, tugging at our clothes and carrying with it the faint scent of smoke¡ªa distant, lingering reminder of the battles we¡¯ve already fought and those yet to come. The ground beneath us is firm but unforgiving, a far cry from the lush jungles and dense forests of Tuatiu. There is no reprieve here, no familiar warmth to ease the burden of our journey, only the cold, relentless march forward.
The closer we draw to Xaqelatun, the more the anxiousness among the warriors grows. Once a place where I had begun to admire its serene beauty, the plains now feel ominous, warning us to stop proceeding onward. Yet I push the pace, unwilling to let the doubts I know still linger take root again, and the warriors fall into line behind me.
We crest a low rise, and it¡¯s then that I see it¡ªa plume of smoke, thick and black, rising above the treetops in the distance. It twists into the sky, and my heart skips a beat.
¡°That¡¯s¡ Xaqelatun,¡± one of the warriors mutters, as if speaking the words too loudly will make them true. There¡¯s a ripple of recognition, and then, without another word, we quicken our pace, urgently rushing forward.
The world narrows to the stretch of plains before us, the golden grasses bending and swaying beneath our pounding feet. Each breath sears my lungs, the air thick with smoke. The city looms on the horizon like a dark smudge against the fading light. An ominous plume of smoke spirals upward, growing thicker, more menacing with each passing moment.
As we break through the last of the open plains, the sight of Xaqelatun finally comes more clearly into view¡ªor rather, what remains of it. But instead of the exhausted, pensive farmers I expected, we¡¯re met with a wall of hostility. A line of Aimue villagers stand before us in their simple tunics in yellow and green. Their faces are set in grim determination, eyes narrowed as they stare us down with the weapons they brandish.
For a moment, I¡¯m taken aback. This wasn¡¯t the welcome I anticipated. ¡°Why are they armed?¡± I mutter under my breath. These aren¡¯t the typical Aimue farmers¡ªtheir stances are defensive, as if they expect us to charge at any moment. Confusion courses through me. Why would they be so ready to fight us?
¡°Hold!¡± I call out, stepping forward with a raised hand to signal that we mean no harm. ¡°We come in peace!¡±
An Aimue man with a weathered face and a cold gaze doesn¡¯t lower his weapon. Instead, he takes a step forward, and his voice rings out over the tense silence. ¡°Don¡¯t take another step! We¡¯re prepared to defend ourselves from you again.¡±
I blink, thrown by his words. ¡°Again? What are you talking about? We¡¯re not your enemy.¡±
His eyes narrow further, and the corners of his mouth tighten as his stance becomes more guarded. ¡°Coming back to finish what you started?¡± he spits, his tone laced with venom. The Aimue around him shift, their grips tightening on their weapons, ready to act at a moment¡¯s notice.
A cold wave of confusion crashes over me. What does he mean, ¡®finish what we started¡¯? My mind races, trying to piece together the fragments of this puzzle. Is this from the previous time were were here? Or does he believe we¡¯re the Eye in the Flame? No, they wouldn¡¯t mistake us for them. But then, who do they think we are?
¡°Listen,¡± I try again, keeping my voice calm despite the nerve-wracking situation in which I somehow find myself. ¡°We¡¯re here to help. We¡¯ve fought the Eye in the Flame¡ªthese colors belong to the Qantua, and we mean no harm to the Aimue. Whatever you think we¡¯ve done, it wasn¡¯t us.¡±
The leader¡¯s eyes sweep over our group. ¡°We know your kind,¡± he snarls, his voice thick with contempt. ¡°You yourself may not wear the colors of those who attacked us before, but we know the black and gold of the Qantua. Your warriors already came through here, leaving Xaqelatun in ruins! And now you return to finish what you started?¡±
¡°We are not the ones who attacked you,¡± I protest. ¡°We¡¯re here to speak with your leaders, to help rebuild, not to destroy.¡±
The Aimue leader¡¯s knuckles grow even whiter as he more tightly grips his crude weapon. His eyes flash with anger, his body coiled like a trap ready to snap. ¡°We¡¯ve heard those promises before,¡± he spits. ¡°But we won¡¯t be fooled again. Step any closer, and we¡¯ll cut you down where you stand.¡±
We stand at the edge of Xaqelatun, the city¡¯s ruins looming behind them. I can see it in the Aimue leader¡¯s eyes¡ªhe¡¯s prepared to fight to the death to protect what little remains, as are the Aimue behind him. They¡¯re all ready to defend their broken city, and we¡¯re one wrong move away from a bloodbath.
127 - Paxilche
The battle is over, but there¡¯s no feeling of victory in the silence that follows us. Indifferent to our suffering, the jungle is alive with its own sounds: distant calls of countless creatures, the rustling of branches in a breeze that barely reaches the rainforest floor. The dense weave of leaves overhead lets through only thin shards of light, like the sky itself is too exhausted to care anymore. My muscles ache, but it¡¯s not the kind of pain that makes you feel alive¡ªit¡¯s the kind that grinds you down, makes you question why you¡¯re still moving.
With no time to slow down, we reluctantly push forward. Each of us is locked in our own thoughts, replaying the nightmare we barely escaped. Naqispi¡¯s death is a fresh wound, one that bleeds into every glance and word exchanged. Yet we carry on, knowing that whatever lies ahead will demand even more from us, even as we¡¯re unsure how much more we have left to give.
My mind keeps circling back to Analoixan, the images of the battle still raw and vivid. We may have claimed victory, but it feels hollow¡ªat what cost? The city lies in ruins, its once proud streets reduced to rubble, and the Eye in the Flame continues to spread like a blight, unchecked and relentless. And now we¡¯re trudging through this cursed jungle, on our way to Qasiunqa, where possibly even greater danger awaits.
Saqatli walks ahead, eyes sweeping the underbrush, constantly searching. His lips are pressed into a thin line, and anxiety simmers just beneath the surface. Noch is still missing, and without her, Saqatli is as mute as the trees around us. His silence hangs heavy between all of us, and it¡¯s a tangible reminder of all we¡¯ve lost. Naqispi, the city, any sense of direction¡ªall of it buried beneath the ruins of Analoixan.
The rhythmic crunch of boots and sandals against the jungle floor fades into the background as my thoughts drift to a memory I haven¡¯t visited in years. It was just before the war with the Timuaq, back when Limaqumtlia and I were still boys, though we fancied ourselves warriors even then.
We were standing on a cliff overlooking a wide valley dotted with sage green bushes and shrubbery. The wind whipped through our hair as we watched the sun dip below the horizon. Limaqumtlia had that fierce look in his eyes, the one that always meant trouble. I always looked up to him¡ªnot just because he was my brother, but because he had a way of making the world feel bigger, more dangerous, but also more alive.
¡°Do you ever wonder what it would be like to be in charge?¡± he asked suddenly, his voice almost lost in the wind. I remember how I hesitated before answering, staring at the endless stretch of land below us. At the time, the idea of being a ruler felt like a distant dream, something too big for me to even comprehend.
¡°Sometimes, I guess,¡± I admitted, though the truth was, I hadn¡¯t thought about it nearly as much as he had. I¡¯m sure all Qiapu dream of the day they have an opportunity to perform in the ceremony for the Tempered at Xutuina. Limaqumtlia was the one who always dreamed big, who saw the world as a place to be conquered, while I was content simply trying to keep up with him.
He beamed, looking out upon the landscape. ¡°I think I¡¯d be great!¡± he remarked. ¡°The greatest to ever rule this land!¡±
I chuckled, mostly as a reaction to his immense and almost exaggerated sincerity. Looking him up and down, I took in the lanky boy whose arms are barely thicker than those of a young sapling. ¡°And what makes you think this?¡± I challenged.
He looked at me, his expression serious in a way that was rare for him at the time. ¡°It¡¯s not only about being the strongest or the fastest, you know,¡± he says, as if sensing my judgement. ¡°It¡¯s about making the tough choices that no one else can. It¡¯s about being the one everyone looks to when times get rough.¡±
I didn¡¯t fully understand what he meant at the time. I thought he was just talking about the games we played, pretending to be warriors and kings. But now, standing in this gods forsaken jungle with the mission pressing down on me, I get it. I understand the burden he was talking about, the way it can hollow you out from the inside if you¡¯re not careful.
When Limaqumtlia was the Tempered, I never got to ask him how he planned to carry that burden, how he would¡¯ve led us through these dark times. But his words stuck with me, like a thorn in my side, reminding me that leadership isn¡¯t merely about the fight¡ªit¡¯s about everything that comes after.
I snap back to the present, my brother¡¯s voice fading into the din of the rainforest. Walumaq is just ahead, her silhouette a shadow in the green gloom. The way she moves, you¡¯d think she was carrying the weight of all Pachil on her shoulders. And maybe she is. But it¡¯s hard to see her as the leader we need when everything around us is falling apart. I know she¡¯s strong, and I know she believes in what we¡¯re doing. But I also know that believing isn¡¯t enough. It wasn¡¯t enough for Limaqumtlia, and it might not be enough for us. Doubt creeps in¡ªthe fear that we¡¯re all walking toward something we can¡¯t come back from.
I quicken my pace, closing the distance between us. ¡°Walumaq,¡± I start, my voice edged with the frustration I¡¯ve been holding back. ¡°What¡¯s the plan here? Because right now, it feels like we¡¯re just marching into more chaos.¡±
She doesn¡¯t stop walking, but I can see her shoulders tense, and there¡¯s a slight stiffening in her posture. ¡°The plan is to get to Qasiunqa, figure out what the Eye in the Flame is doing there, and stop them,¡± she replies, her voice steady, almost too steady, like she¡¯s repeating something she¡¯s told herself a hundred times.
¡°And then what?¡± I press, not letting it go. ¡°We¡¯re down to just us, and the Ulxa are back in Analoixan. That was the only semblance of an army we had. You really think we can handle this alone?¡±
She finally stops, turning to face me. Her eyes meet mine, and there¡¯s something in them¡ªa hint of doubt, or maybe just exhaustion. ¡°What choice do we have? We can¡¯t turn back. And we can¡¯t allow the Eye in the Flame to spread their poison unchallenged. We have to keep going.¡±
I can¡¯t help the bitterness that seeps into my words. ¡°But are we even ready for what¡¯s coming? We¡¯ve lost so much already¡ªNaqispi, all of Analoixan. How can we keep pushing forward when we¡¯re falling apart?¡±
Her silence is louder than any words she could say. I see the hurt this is causing her, but it doesn¡¯t make the frustration any less. ¡°We can¡¯t afford to be reckless,¡± I remind her. ¡°We need more than just determination. We need a real plan.¡±
Walumaq¡¯s gaze hardens, and the brief moment of vulnerability is gone as quickly as it appeared. ¡°I know what¡¯s at risk, Paxilche. But we can¡¯t let fear paralyze us. We¡¯ve faced impossible challenges before, and we¡¯ve persevered. We have to believe we can do it again.¡±
I shake my head, the knot in my chest tightening. ¡°Belief isn¡¯t going to stop the Eye in the Flame, or whatever else is waiting for us in Qasiunqa. We need to think beyond just the next battle. We need to figure out what we¡¯re really fighting for, and how we¡¯re going to win.¡±
¡°And what do you think I¡¯m doing?¡± she snaps, eyes flash with something sharp, something that cuts through the exhaustion and doubt. ¡°Wandering through this jungle, this world, with no purpose? I know exactly what I¡¯m fighting for. I¡¯m fighting to save Pachil from the darkness that is swallowing it whole¡ªfrom the Eye in the Flame, from the madness they¡¯re spreading, and from whatever else is coming. I¡¯m fighting to fulfill the prophecy, to stop this world from burning. Do you really think I don¡¯t know what¡¯s at risk?¡±
A prophecy? To what is she referring? While this is a sudden and striking statement, I¡¯m too taken aback by her words that hit like a hammer. As if physically struck, I take a step back, as the force of her conviction pushes against the uncertainty that¡¯s been eating away at me. But all of this still doesn¡¯t quiet the voice in my head, screaming at me to think, to plan, to see beyond the immediate threat.
¡°It¡¯s not about whether you know what you¡¯re fighting for,¡± I say, trying to keep my voice level, even though the heat of the argument is rising. ¡°It¡¯s about whether you¡¯ve thought through what it¡¯s going to take to win. We can¡¯t just charge in, hoping that destiny or prophecy is going to carry us through. We need to be smarter than that. We need to outthink the enemy, not just outfight them.¡±
¡°And you still seem to think I don¡¯t know that,¡± she says exasperatedly. This draws the attention of our companions, who stop and look on with curiosity, making me feel extremely self-aware and anxious. ¡°You think I haven¡¯t been trying to figure out every move, every strategy? I know what we¡¯re up against. I know how significant the risks are. But we can¡¯t plan for everything. Sometimes, we just have to act. We have to trust in our abilities, in ourselves, in what we¡¯ve learned, in the choices we¡¯ve made, and in the strength we have.¡±
The fire in her voice, in her eyes, is unmistakable. It¡¯s the kind of fire that could lead armies, the kind that doesn¡¯t waver, even when faced with overwhelming challenges. And right now, that fire is raging, daring anyone to stand in its way.
¡°I¡¯m not saying we shouldn¡¯t act,¡± I counter, my own frustration rising to meet hers. ¡°But acting without thinking, without considering the long-term consequences¡ªthat¡¯s a mistake. We¡¯ve been running on willpower and desperation, but that¡¯s not going to be enough; we have already seen that it isn¡¯t. We need to be more than just warriors. We need to be strategists, leaders. If we don¡¯t start thinking like that, then all of this¡ªeverything we¡¯ve lost¡ªwill have been for nothing.¡±
For a moment, the air between us crackles with tension, charged by the clash of our wills. The intensity doesn¡¯t fade¡ªit lingers as we stare each other down. Walumaq¡¯s eyes blaze with conviction, and I can feel my own frustration simmering beneath the surface.
¡°We¡¯ve survived this long because we¡¯ve fought with purpose,¡± she insists, her voice rising again. ¡°Because we¡¯ve trusted that what we¡¯re doing matters. And it does matter, for this ¡®long term¡¯ about which you suddenly seem to care. You think we can just sit down and plan for every possibility? Sometimes, you have to take risks. You have to trust that you¡¯re on the right path, even when it feels like the world is falling apart around you.¡±
¡°And what if that trust leads us into a trap we can¡¯t escape?¡± I retort, my voice sharp and urgent. ¡°What if this faith you¡¯re so sure of is the very thing that gets us killed? We can¡¯t keep walking blind into danger, hoping everything will work out simply because we believe it will, because a prophecy says so.¡±
A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.
¡°I¡¯m not blind!¡± Walumaq snaps back, her patience wearing thin. ¡°You truly don¡¯t seem to think I understand the risks, do you? I¡¯m not some na?ve fool who thinks fate will hand us victory. But if we lose hope, if we start doubting everything, then we might as well give up now.¡±
Before I can respond, Atoyaqtli steps in, raising his hand in a gesture of peace. ¡°Enough, you two,¡± he says firmly. ¡°This arguing is getting us nowhere. We¡¯re all on the same side, remember? We all want to defeat the Eye in the Flame and protect our respective people.¡±
Having remained silent until now, Chiqama casts a dark look at Walumaq. His grief is still raw, and his anger smolders. ¡°You might believe in fate, princess,¡± he says, ¡°but it didn¡¯t save Naqispi. Belief isn¡¯t enough.¡±
For a moment, no one speaks. Atoyaqtli appears to want to scold Naqispi for his remarks, but somehow can¡¯t conjure the words. Unable to voice his own thoughts, Saqatli looks between us with a worried expression. The silence stretches, and our responses seem to be caught in our throats. It¡¯s as though no one dares to break the stillness at the thought of Naqispi¡¯s fate.
Usually the quietest among us, Pomacha steps forward, his gaze shifting between Walumaq and me. ¡°We need both of you,¡± he says softly. ¡°Princess, we need your strength and resolve, and Paxilche, your caution and strategy. If we are going to win this, we have to work together. This isn¡¯t the time to be divided.¡±
The friction between Walumaq and me doesn¡¯t dissipate entirely, but it cools enough for us to exchange a terse nod. Without another word, Walumaq walks away, returning to the trek. The others soon follow, but I take a moment before I join. This isn¡¯t over, and I refuse to back down completely, but the others¡¯ intervention keeps our conflict from boiling over¡ªfor now.
We resume our march in the jungle in silence. The trees stand tall and solemn, their bark rough and worn. Their branches twist and turn in a way that only allows slivers of light to filter through, casting a mosaic of shadows on the rainforest floor. The underbrush is sparse, parting reluctantly to allow us to move forward with a steady pace. Even then, the shifting winds and the occasional snap of a twig beneath our feet keeps us on edge.
The ground beneath us is firmer, but uneven, lined with roots that snake out from the terrain. There¡¯s a sense of foreboding here among the vegetation, something that lingers long into our journey. The path ahead is unclear, the way forward obscured by the ever-shifting foliage. Perhaps these jungles know we¡¯re returning to a place that had brought us challenging trials, and only seeks to test us further. Maybe nature knows more than we do.
The solitude of the trek gives me ample time¡ªtoo much time¡ªto reflect upon all the decisions Walumaq has made that brought us to this point. Decisions that have cost us dearly. Naqispi¡¯s death still weighs on my mind, like an arrow lodged too deep to remove. Her choices have become a burden that grows heavier with every needless loss.
Why did she think the Auilqa could be trusted? Did she really believe they would set aside their nature and ally with us, to help their long-hated rivals? And what did that trust get us? Betrayal. The Auilqa turned on us the moment it suited them, and we were left picking up the pieces. Yet for some inexplicable reason, she still thought it was worth the risk. The Ulxa, too¡ªsavages in their own right. Tlexn¨ªn might have helped us win the day at Analoixan, but at what cost? How many of our own died because of that alliance? Naqispi, innocent lives, all lost because of her choices, once again.
I glance at Walumaq as she leads the way, my thoughts darkening with every step. She¡¯s held us back. Held me back. If it weren¡¯t for her hesitations and misguided alliances, we could be in Pichaqta right now, reclaiming the Qiapu from Saxina¡¯s oppressive rule. After all, he, too, aligned with the Eye in the Flame for his own personal gain. Why is henot a priority to her? But instead, we¡¯re wandering through this despicable jungle, chasing phantoms while our true enemies tighten their grip.
It¡¯s then that I notice the idea, starting as a whisper, soft and insistent. I could challenge him. I could be the one to depose Saxina, to lead the Qiapu back to glory. I have the power¡ªmore power than she realizes, than anyone realizes, more than I¡¯ve shown. A trial at Xutuina¡ the sacred volcano where leaders are tested by fire. Saxina¡¯s rule has been absolute for too long, and all manner of diplomacy has been fruitless. There¡¯s something in the code of the Qiapu that would allow me to confront him, right? But to even consider it¡ am I ready? Do I want to be the one to claim that mantle? For now, it¡¯s just a thought, a seed planted in the back of my mind. But it¡¯s there, growing, taking root.
She¡¯s holding you back. The thought is louder now, almost a voice of its own. How many more poor decisions will it take before I have to step in, before I do what needs to be done? There¡¯s a storm coming, and when it hits, I¡¯ll be ready. Whether Walumaq is or not¡ that¡¯s up to her.
Ahead of us is the familiar roar of the great rushing river ahead. With its waters dark and swollen from recent rains, the Maiu Atiniuq stretches wide before us, a barrier as much as a boundary. More so than the last time we crossed it, the current is swift, and its surface churns with a violent, threatening intensity. The trees on either side seem to bow towards it, their roots gripping the ground as if fearing to be swept away.
The jungle¡¯s oppressive humidity wraps around me like a damp shroud as we gather materials for the rafts. The others work in focused silence, but Chiqama and I find ourselves near each other, pulling vines and testing their strength. The rhythmic work should be soothing, but my thoughts churn with the frustrations I¡¯ve kept buried.
Chiqama struggles with a particularly stubborn vine, his muscles tensing as he pulls. I step closer, helping him untangle it from the gnarled roots of a tree. ¡°You seem troubled,¡± I say, keeping my tone casual, though based on his comment to Walumaq earlier, I¡¯m fishing for more than just idle conversation.
He grunts in response, his shoulders relaxing as he finally frees the vine. ¡°It¡¯s hard not to be,¡± he replies. ¡°This trying trek, along with everything that¡¯s happened¡ it¡¯s a lot to take in.¡±
I nod, securing the vine around the logs we¡¯ve gathered. ¡°I¡¯ve been thinking a lot, too. About what¡¯s led us here, about our decisions.¡± I pause, watching him carefully as I continue, ¡°Weren¡¯t you frustrated back at Analoixan? With how things were handled? With how things declined?¡±
Chiqama¡¯s hands are still for a moment. ¡°I was,¡± he admits after a beat, not meeting my gaze as he attentively works to wrap the vine around the logs. ¡°But it¡¯s not my place to question the decisions of the princess.¡±
I try my best not to push too hard. ¡°I¡¯m not saying we should question her¡ just that, sometimes, I wonder if we¡¯re taking the right path. If the sacrifices we¡¯ve made have been worth it, you know?¡±
He finally looks up, his expression conflicted. ¡°She¡¯s trying her best, I know it. It¡¯s just¡ it¡¯s hard to see so many of our people fall. Naqispi¡¡±
I can only imagine the pain he¡¯s experiencing at the loss of his comrade. The mere mention of the name appears to tighten something in his chest, and I take a moment before responding, letting the emotion wash over him. ¡°Exactly. I¡¯m not saying we should act on it now, but¡ maybe we need to start thinking about what¡¯s best for our people. For the Sanqo and the Qiapu.¡±
He doesn¡¯t respond immediately, his gaze fixed on the task in front of him. His silence speaks loudly, though, and I press on, sensing an opportunity.
¡°She¡¯s lost her edge,¡± I continue. ¡°And we¡¯re the ones paying the price. We can¡¯t afford to be led by someone who¡¯s unsure of themselves.¡±
Chiqama finally looks at me with wary eyes. ¡°What are you suggesting?¡±
¡°I¡¯m suggesting that maybe it¡¯s time for a change,¡± I say, careful to keep my tone measured. ¡°We need someone who can lead us with confidence, someone who won¡¯t hesitate when the moment comes. You¡¯ve seen what I can do, Chiqama. You know I¡¯m right.¡±
His brows furrow, and he stops his work, hesitating before responding. ¡°She¡¯s the Sanqo princess. She¡¯s strong, even if she¡¯s struggling to find the best path forward right now. My loyalty to her isn¡¯t something I can cast aside.¡±
¡°I¡¯m not asking you to,¡± I reply, patting the air with the palms of my hands and tempering my words. ¡°She is strong, indeed. But strength isn¡¯t enough if it¡¯s not being used wisely or effectively. We need someone who¡¯s willing to do whatever it takes, no matter what trials come our way.¡±
Chiqama¡¯s expression softens slightly, but there¡¯s still a resolute glint in his eyes. ¡°You¡¯re asking a lot,¡± he says slowly. ¡°Walumaq has led us this far, she¡¯s the future leader of the Sanqo, and she deserves our support. But¡¡±
He trails off, and for a moment, there¡¯s a touch of doubt in his gaze¡ªan emotion he tries to quickly mask. ¡°But what if she doesn¡¯t come through?¡± I finish for him, leaning in just enough to make him consider the question seriously.
Chiqama¡¯s eyes flash with something¡ªuncertainty, maybe, or perhaps a glimmer of agreement¡ªbut he hurriedly looks away, focusing back on the job at hand. ¡°We should finish this,¡± he mutters, but the tension between us remains, like a taut vine ready to snap.
As we continue to work in silence, I can sense that my words have left an impression. Chiqama may not be ready to openly agree with me, but the spark has caught in the forge. And that¡¯s enough, for now.
We all stand at the river¡¯s edge, staring out as we¡¯re reminded of the land we are re-entering. The Auilqa jungles wait on the other side, a world as treacherous as the waters before us. We have fashioned rafts from the rainforest¡¯s offerings, binding fallen trees with vines that creak under the strain. Our makeshift vessels seem pitiful against the might of the Maiu Atiniuq. Yet there is no turning back, only the daunting task of crossing this relentless force.
As we push off, the river seizes us with a hungry grip. The rafts lurch forward, carried by the current¡¯s whims. All at once, the world narrows to the sound of water crashing against wood, of paddles dipping furiously into the froth. The river does not yield easily; it fights us at every turn, tossing the vessels as if they were nothing more than leaves caught in a storm. My grip tightens on the rough wood, my knuckles whitening as we¡¯re swept into the heart of the Maiu Atiniuq.
The river¡¯s roar drowns out all other sounds, a deafening rush that floods my ears. Each wave that crashes against the raft sends a shudder through the logs, threatening to tear them apart at any moment. Water splashes over the sides, soaking us to the bone, and the cold seeps into my muscles, making them ache with every stroke of the paddle. The current is relentless, twisting and spinning us as it pleases, forcing us to fight for every tiny measure of progress.
At one point, the raft jerks violently to the side, nearly tipping us into the churning waters. I catch a glimpse of the jagged rocks that line the riverbed, their sharp edges just visible beneath the surface, waiting to claim any who falter. Panic flares in my chest, but I force it down, focusing on the rhythm of my strokes, the push and pull that is our only defense against the river¡¯s wrath.
Heartbeats stretch into an eternity as we battle our way across. My arms burn, but there¡¯s no time to rest, no chance to ease the strain. The vines begin to loosen, and the logs drift apart. Atoyaqtli yells to us to secure the bindings. Desperately, Pomacha and Pomaqli pull the vines tight, holding onto them through our journey among the rapids. The desired destination remains a distant hope, obscured by the spray and mist that rise from the river¡¯s surface. All that matters is survival¡ªgetting to the other side before the river claims us as its own.
Reaching the far shore feels like a miracle, a blessing from the gods. Our rafts scrape against the rocky bank, and we scramble to disembark, our legs shaky from the harrowing crossing. The Auilqa jungle looms ahead, a wall of green that hides what lies within. The air is different here¡ªheavier, laden with the scent of damp terrain and decay. I find it all fitting that there is no comfort, even after our small victory.
We don¡¯t linger. Somewhat hesitantly, we trek deeper into the rainforest, where the light struggles to penetrate the thick amalgam of leaves above. The path is barely a trail, more a suggestion of a way forward than an actual route. Vines and branches tug at our clothes, as if the jungle is reluctant to let us pass.
The further we go, the more my heart yearns to beat through my chest and escape. I keep my eyes on the ground, on the dense foliage that surrounds us, trying to ignore the unease caused by my thoughts. But then, a flash of light catches the corner of my eye. I glance up, and my breath catches in my throat.
Above the treetops, a thick plume of smoke rises, black and ominous, twisting into the sky like a serpent uncoiling. It¡¯s massive, billowing with an intensity that speaks of something more than just a simple fire.
¡°Isn¡¯t that where¡ª¡± Pomaqli starts, but his voice falters.
We all stop, staring in stunned silence. We know what lies just beyond those trees.
Qasiunqa.
For a moment, none of us move. Our minds race with the implications. My pulse quickens like the Maiu Atiniuq we left behind. The jungle suddenly feels suffocating, the air too thick to breathe.
Without a word, we rush forward, driven by a fear that claws at our insides. The plume of smoke looms larger with every step, a harbinger of the devastation we¡¯re about to uncover. We don¡¯t speak, can¡¯t even dare to hope that we¡¯re wrong.
But the truth is undeniable: Qasiunqa is burning.
128 - The Arbiter
"You will die by the hand of your blood."
The prophecy haunts me, its words weaving through my thoughts like a refrain that refuses to fade. At first, the melody of it thrilled me. A promise of my true destiny wrapped in mystery. But now? Now it grates on my nerves. Each repetition is a discordant note, a taunt. If I could, I would silence the voices that spoke those words and erase the memory of them from my mind. I would have the tongues that sang them cut out, and the hands that performed the song severed.
The cloying and sweet scent of burning incense seeps into my lungs with each breath. Smoke coils lazily in the dim light, swirling in thin, serpentine tendrils that weave through the chamber. The low flicker of torchlight casts long, wavering shadows that dance across tapestries depicting the bloodshed of forgotten wars, their woven threads now muted by time and soot.
The thick and pervasive smoke pools above the carved wooden map in the center of the room, drifting just above the intricate reliefs. Each ridge and valley on the map is subtly illuminated, the play of light and shadow making the landscape appear almost real, as if the mountains might rise from the wood and the rivers flow freely. The incense burns low in its bronze holder, releasing a final puff of smoke that curls upward. It mingles with the haze above the map, as if the spirits themselves were watching, waiting for the next move.
The map is a masterpiece of Qiapu craftsmanship. It¡¯s a collection of interlocking wooden slabs carved from the heartwood of sacred lumuli trees, each representing a different region of our vast land. The slabs are etched with intricate reliefs, depicting mountain ranges, winding rivers, and the sprawling cities of our people. Every feature is raised, allowing my fingers to trace the contours of the land as if I were a god looking down upon it from above.
What impresses me most is the functionality of the map. The slabs can be removed, rearranged, and inserted again to reflect the shifting borders, the conquests won, and the territories lost. It astounds me that these wooden slabs endured the tyrannical reign of the Timuaq¡ªthose relentless titans who sought to erase every trace of our identities, who razed temples and crushed every symbol of culture that made the factions of Pachil so distinct. Yet here they are, a testament to our resilience, defying the darkness that sought to consume us.
The wood is smooth under my touch, polished by the hands of generations of rulers before me who have left their mark on more than just the throne, but on all of Pachil.
I, too, intend to leave my mark. No matter the cost.
I glance over the map, my eyes sweeping over the various territories and suyus that each quraqa governs within Tapeu. Who among them could be my closest ally? Who can I trust? With rumors spreading from the various whisperers around the palace, there are quraqas who have pledged loyalty to the Qente Waila, or even devoted their spiritual lives to the Eye in the Flame. Perhaps the only one who can be trusted is myself.
The heavy wooden chamber door swings open abruptly, letting in the discordant noises of battle occurring just outside the palace walls. Though I could still hear the muted sounds, the disturbance strikes me like a forceful gale as the figure enters. To say I¡¯m upset by seeing the appearance of the falcon crest on the breastplate is a severe understatement.
¡°Anqatil, report,¡± I demand. ¡°What of the rebel movements?¡±
She moves with haste, practically charging at me and the map with her unrefined and undignified movements. Her perpetual scowl tightens like she has smelled something offensive. Then, she shakes her head in disgust as she musters over the news she¡¯s about to relay.
¡°Sapa, the Qente Waila forces are gaining ground. They¡¯ve taken the eastern sector of Qapauma and are rallying more support among the macehual¡ªthose common folk who have the most to gain from change. If we don¡¯t act swiftly, the city will be overrun.¡±
My jaw clenches. The eastern sector¡ªthe heart of Qapauma¡¯s trade and resources. Of course, they would strike there. But how were they able to succeed over the hundreds upon hundreds of warriors I positioned there? If the rebels solidify control there, they¡¯ll cut off vital supplies to the palace, leaving me trapped, weakened, vulnerable.
Even more infuriating are the unappreciative macehual. These people, these masses, are nothing without my rule, without the order I impose. They have no understanding of the balance I maintain, the delicate web of alliances and power that keeps Qapauma from descending into chaos. They live their lives under the shelter of my decisions, protected from the true horrors that would befall them should the city fall into the hands of these rebels, these fools who promise them everything, but deliver nothing.
And yet they rally to the Qente Waila? How could they be so easily swayed by empty promises and the illusion of change? Do they seriously believe that a new regime will somehow grant them the wealth and power they¡¯ve never earned? They fail to see that their prosperity, their very survival, is tied to the stability I provide. Even in such a short time of their freedom from the Timuaq, they¡¯ve grown complacent, blind to the sacrifices I¡¯ve made to keep this city¡ªand them¡ªprosperous.
Ingrates, every last one of them! They don¡¯t understand that without me, they would be left with nothing but the ashes of their dreams, scavenging in the ruins of a once-great city. But I will not let that happen. I will crush this rebellion and remind them all of the price of their betrayal.
¡°We must strike back,¡± I snap. My fists tighten at the thought of my enemies. ¡°Send word to our forces in the west. I want every available warrior to reinforce the eastern sector. Crush the rebellion before it spreads any further.¡±
There¡¯s a look of concern on Anqatil. ¡°But Sapa,¡± she ventures cautiously, ¡°our forces are stretched thin as it is. If we divert more to the east, we¡¯ll then leave the western front exposed. The Qente Waila could¡ª¡°
¡°The Qente Waila are nothing compared to the threat within our walls!¡± I cut her off. ¡°We cannot afford to let the rebels take root in the city.¡±
I glare at her, and I feel my pulse thundering in my ears. ¡°Besides,¡± I hiss, ¡°you dare stand before me when the rebellion festers within my own walls? What good is your title, Falcon, if you can¡¯t even see the vipers slithering beneath your feet? If you had done your duty¡ªif you had truly protected Qapauma¡ªthere wouldn¡¯t be a rebellion to crush. This uprising is a stain on our city, but it¡¯s your failure that stains my throne!¡±
In a fluid motion, I strike Anqatil across the face with the back of my hand. The crack of the impact echoes in the chamber as she staggers, one hand instinctively clutching her jaw. My fist tightens, every muscle coiled, ready to unleash another blow¡ªto drive home the lesson that failure is met with more than just words.
But then, she lowers her head, her gaze fixed on the cold stone floor. Her expression a mix of shock and acceptance. Not a sound escapes her¡ªno whimper, no plea for mercy. She stands there, silent in her understanding. It¡¯s as if she anticipated this, prepared to endure whatever punishment I deem necessary for her failures.
¡°Go,¡± I eventually mutter, turning away from her in disgust. ¡°Before you travel to the western sector, gather the generals in the courtyard immediately.¡±
Anqatil bows quickly, then abruptly leaves the chamber. As I stare at the map, my fingers trace the carved outlines of Qapauma¡¯s streets and districts. My mind drifts, and a voice whispers in my ear that betrayal is close, that those who once swore loyalty to me now plot my downfall.
It is a bitter realization that even my most trusted advisors might be playing a double game, seeking to exploit my moments of weakness. The walls are closing in, the circle of enemies tightening around me with each passing day. But I cannot afford to hesitate. Not now.
The Jade Hummingbird. A thorn in my side that has festered for too long. They were nothing at first, a small band of malcontents, muttering discontent among the ungrateful masses. But now¡ now they have become daring. Is this Haesan¡¯s doing? There is little I can do about that now. The rebels strike at the heart of Qapauma, emboldened by the calamity and devastation that has gripped the city since the Eye in the Flame¡¯s attack. They see an opportunity to topple me, to claim the power they have never earned.
But I will not allow it. They are nothing more than a mob, feeding on the desperation of the weak and the foolish. They believe they can tear down the order I¡¯ve built, that they can bring change through rebellion. But all they bring is destruction, calamity. They are the fire that threatens to consume the city, and I must be the force that extinguishes it, even if it means burning a part of Qapauma to save the whole.
I know what must be done. The time for half-measures is over. I will crush them, flush them out from every corner of the city, and leave their leaders hanging as a warning to all who dare defy me. If the western sector must be sacrificed to secure my rule, then so be it. The palace, the armory, the lifeblood of this city¡ªthey are all that matter now. The rebels will learn that their cause is hopeless, that they are fighting against an immovable force. And the macehual who support them? Those commoners will discover the consequences of disloyalty, of siding with those who promise the impossible. The throne is mine, and I will not allow my rule to end in such a manner.
I cannot remain here, trapped by my own thoughts and the echoes of a prophecy I refuse to let define me. I need to act, to strike before my enemies have the chance to close in further. The time for caution is over.
I stride out of the chamber and into the palace courtyard, where the generals have already assembled, waiting for my command. Usually a place of grandeur and splendor, the courtyard feels cold and barren under the day¡¯s dim light. Along the crumbling stone columns and walls of the palace, the once-proud orange and red banners of Tapeu flutter weakly in the wind. It¡¯s as if the banners mourn the strength we¡¯ve lost¡ªand the blood that will soon be spilled to reclaim it.
The generals stand at attention with stoic faces. But I know better. Loyalty is a currency, and it can be bought and sold with fear or ambition. I¡¯ve seen too many men turn on their masters when the promise of power outweighs the cost of treachery. I will not be caught off guard.
¡°Listen well,¡± I begin, each word striking like a hammer on an anvil. ¡°The situation in Qapauma has become untenable. The rebels have taken the eastern sector, and their influence spreads like a disease among the macehual. We cannot allow this insurrection to fester any longer.¡±
I move closer to a fallen stone column that is being used as a table, where a smaller, portable map of Qapauma has been set up. The leathery hide of a llama contains the meticulously detailed markings of the city layout. My fingers trace the boundaries of the palace, the armory, the supply routes¡ªeach a vital artery that keeps this city, and my rule, alive.
¡°We will fortify the palace and the armory,¡± I continue, emphatically pointing to each strategic point. ¡°These are our lifelines. Without them, the city will fall, and so will our ability to sustain the palace. There has been little time to rebuild, so protecting this sacred place will be crucial. I want our most loyal, fiercest forces deployed to these locations immediately. The rest, along with those forces from the western sector, will reclaim the eastern sector¡ªcutting off the rebels¡¯ access to resources and reinforcements while shoring up our own.¡±
Find this and other great novels on the author''s preferred platform. Support original creators!
There¡¯s a murmur of agreement among the generals, but one, Ansuli, shifts uneasily. His eyes dart to the ground, and I catch the hesitation in his stance. It¡¯s a small gesture, barely noticeable, but it¡¯s enough to infuriate me.
¡°Ansuli,¡± I snap. He stiffens, nervously meeting my gaze. ¡°Is there something you wish to say? Perhaps you disagree with my plan?¡±
¡°N-no, Sapa,¡± he stammers, his composure cracking too easily under the pressure. ¡°I just¡ I wonder if it would be wiser to negotiate with the Qente Waila, to offer them terms before¡ª¡±
¡°Before what?¡± I interrupt, stepping closer, my eyes boring into him. ¡°Before they overrun the palace? Before they slit our throats in our sleep? Is that what you suggest?¡±
Ansuli¡¯s face pales, and he stumbles over his words. ¡°No, Sapa, I¡ª¡±
¡°Sapa,¡± another general¡ªthis one, Xotla¡ªdares to interject, his brow furrowed with concern, ¡°if we pull back forces to the palace and the armory, we risk leaving other sectors of Qapauma vulnerable. The Qente Waila could use this to their advantage, striking at our weakest points and rallying more support. They could separate the palace from the other points of defense around the city and have us surrounded.¡±
I scrutinize him, sensing the seeds of doubt and betrayal in his words. ¡°Are you suggesting we leave the palace undefended, Xotla?¡±
Xotla swallows hard, realizing his mistake. ¡°Of course not, Sapa. I merely¡ª¡±
¡°Merely what?¡± I cut him off with my icy question. ¡°Merely suggest that we allow the rebels to pick us apart one by one? That we risk everything because you believe you know better?¡±
He opens his mouth to respond, but I see the fear in his eyes, the realization that he has overstepped. Anqatil watches on intently, a hand placed on the hilt of her obsidian sword. The others exchange nervous glances, and I look to see if they, too, wish to express their disloyalty to me, to Qapauma, to Tapeu, and to all of Pachil.
¡°Enough!¡± My voice echoes through the courtyard, silencing him and the other generals. ¡°This hesitation, this weakness, is exactly why we are in this situation. Negotiation? Diminishing the palace¡¯s defenses? The Qente Waila will see that as nothing but a signal that they are winning. They do not deserve terms¡ªthey deserve to be crushed, eradicated from this city like the vermin they are.¡±
I glare at the two dissenting generals one final time. ¡°Perhaps, Ansuli, Xotla, you two have forgotten where your loyalties lie. Perhaps you¡¯ve been swayed by the whispers of rebellion, by promises of power if you betray your Sapa.¡±
The other generals shift uncomfortably, casting furtive glances at Ansuli and Xotla, who now stand frozen in terror. I¡¯ve seen that look before, in men who knew their fate was sealed.
¡°Sapa, I swear¡ª¡° Ansuli begins, but I don¡¯t let him finish.
¡°Take him,¡± I order, turning my back on these traitors. Four palace guards step forward without hesitation, grabbing Ansuli and Xotla by the arms. They don¡¯t resist, too stunned by the sudden turn of events.
¡°Does anyone else have concerns they wish to voice?¡± I ask, daring anyone to challenge me.
When no one responds, I calmly address the remaining generals. ¡°Then let this be a lesson. Loyalty is everything. Those who falter, who question, who hesitate in their duty to me, will meet the same fate. I will not tolerate insolence.¡±
I turn back to the map on the hide as the sound of Ansuli and Xotla being dragged away fades into the background. ¡°Now,¡± I continue, ¡°we will proceed with the plan. We will hold the palace and the armory, and reclaim the supply routes of the eastern sector. The rest of the city will have to fend for itself. And as for the Qente Waila, we will seek them out, one by one, and eliminate them. Burn their hideouts, capture their leaders, make an example of anyone who dares to defy us. I want the leaders hunted down and brought to me¡ªalive or dead, it matters not. Let them see what happens to those who rebel against the ruler of Pachil.¡±
The generals nod silently in unison. They know what is expected of them, and they know the price of failure.
I turn to Anqatil, who has wisely remained silent during this exchange. ¡°When you return from the west, begin the purge,¡± I order. ¡°I want every suspected sympathizer, every hint of rebellion snuffed out. We will cleanse this city of its filth, even if it means burning it to the ground.¡±
Anqatil nods and bows deeply with a dark gleam in her eyes. ¡°It will be done, Sapa.¡± She relishes this as much as I do, perhaps even more.
Once silent save for the echoes of my orders, the courtyard suddenly erupts into mayhem. The rumble of distant battle grows closer, until it¡¯s no longer distant at all¡ªit¡¯s right at the palace gates. I can hear the clash of weapons and the shouts of dying warriors, the unmistakable sound of fortifications crumbling under the strain of an enemy assault.
¡°Sapa, they¡¯ve breached the outer wall!¡± a warrior cries in panic, stumbling into the courtyard. ¡°The Qente Waila are pouring in¡ªwe¡¯ve lost control of the eastern gate!¡±
My blood runs cold. The eastern gate¡ªthe most fortified entrance to the palace, reinforced with stone and guarded by my best warriors. How could they have broken through so quickly?
¡°Everyone, to the gates!¡± I command, raising my bronze spear. ¡°We hold the palace at all costs!¡±
The generals move with haste, barking orders to their men. But even as they rally, I can sense the fear in their eyes, the uncertainty. They¡¯re all overwhelmed by this development, and I must ensure that they don¡¯t allow themselves to be overcome by their fears.
I lead the charge, my spear gleaming in the dim light of the torches that line the courtyard. As we reach the gates, I¡¯m met with a scene of utter devastation. The once-mighty doors that sustained the brunt of the Eye in the Flame¡¯s assault have been shattered, blown inward by a force I cannot fathom. Thick and choking smoke fills the air as flames lick at the walls of the palace. The rebels are here, in the heart of Qapauma, and they¡¯re tearing my city apart.
¡°Push them back!¡± I roar, plunging into the fray. My blade meets flesh, and the rebel before me, clad in that horrendous magenta and turquoise, falls with a gurgling cry. I don¡¯t have time to think¡ªonly to act. I cut down any who dare to challenge me. The rebels are fierce and unshakable, but I am the Arbiter, the ruler of Pachil. This is my palace, and I will not let them take it from me.
The battle rages around me, a blur of blood and bronze. One by one, I see my men falling under the relentless assault. The rebels are like a tide, unstoppable and unyielding. No matter how many I cut down, more take their place. The ground is slick with blood as the stench of death permeates the air.
Anqatil fights at my side, her obsidian sword flashing as she slices through the enemy ranks. She¡¯s a ruthless force of nature, but even she is struggling to hold the line. The rebels are too many, their numbers overwhelming.
¡°Sapa, we can¡¯t hold them!¡± she shouts, her voice barely audible over the din of battle. ¡°We need to fall back¡ªregroup inside the palace!¡±
¡°Hold your ground!¡± I bellow, refusing to give in to the creeping despair that threatens to overtake me. ¡°We cannot let them breach the inner sanctum!¡±
But even as the words leave my mouth, I know the truth. We¡¯re being pushed back, forced to retreat step by bloody step. The rebels are on the palace grounds, and there¡¯s nothing we can do to stop them.
Then, a deafening crash shakes the ground beneath my feet. I turn just in time to see a section of the palace wall collapse, sending a plume of dust and debris into the air. The voices of the rebels cheer in a triumphant roar as they surge forward, eager to exploit the breach.
¡°Fall back!¡± I finally order, my voice raw with the strain of battle. ¡°To the inner chamber! We make our stand there!¡±
The retreat is chaotic. The once-disciplined ranks of my warriors is now a panicked mob as they flee before the advancing rebels. I¡¯m forced to fight every step of the way, my arms growing weary, my breath coming in ragged gasps. The palace, my fortress, is falling around me, and all I can do is try to delay the inevitable.
We reach the inner chamber, slamming the heavy doors shut behind us. Everyone surrounds the isolated throne in the center of the room, eyes wide with panic. The sound of the barricade sliding into place echoes through the space. It¡¯s a final, desperate attempt to keep the enemy at bay. But I know it won¡¯t hold for long. The rebels will stop at nothing to see me dead.
I lean against the wall, my chest heaving as I struggle to catch my breath. The prophecy rings in my ears, a cruel reminder of the fate that awaits me.
You will die by the hand of your blood.
No. Not today. Not like this.
I push myself away from the wall. I can hear the shouts of my warriors, the defiant cries of the rebels, the dull thud of bodies hitting the ground. The palace is falling apart, crumbling beneath the weight of this rebellion. For the first time, I feel the icy fingers of doubt wrap around my resolve. If this is to be my end, then I will not go quietly. I will fight until my last breath, until every drop of blood is spilled.
¡°We must hold the palace!¡± I shout, trying to regain control. ¡°Anqatil, gather every available warrior and fortify the entrance. We cannot allow them to breach the inner sanctum.¡±
She nods, already barking orders to the remaining generals, who scramble to execute my commands. But even as they rush to defend the palace, I can see the uncertainty in their eyes. The Qente Waila are at our doors, ready to inflict their warped perception of justice.
Reports flood in through the chamber doors, each more dire than the last. The armory is under siege. The supply routes are cut off. The rebels have overrun key strongholds, and my forces are being driven back. I knew the situation was dire, but this¡ this is worse than I imagined.
And then, the news that breaks the final strand of my composure: ¡°Sapa, the eastern stronghold has fallen. The rebels have taken it, and they¡¯re preparing to attack deeper into the city. The warriors there are falling back, retreating, regrouping. We¡¯ve lost the eastern sector completely.¡±
The eastern stronghold¡ªone of the most fortified positions in the city, now in enemy hands, so quickly. My stomach churns with the realization that Qapauma may be lost. The prophecy echoes in my mind, relentless and cruel. By the hand of your blood. Could it be that the very people I¡¯ve ruled over, the macehual I¡¯ve tried to control and protect, are the ones who will bring about my downfall?
No. I will not be undone by a rabble of insurgents and peasants. They are not my blood, not if they desire to betray me so. If I must sacrifice this city to save myself, so be it.
In the midst of the destruction, a thought crosses my mind. A desperate, dangerous thought. The ritual¡ the one Xaqilpa spoke of, the one that gave me the throne. It was a last resort then, a risk that ultimately saw my rise to power. Perhaps it could work again. Perhaps I can summon the power I need to crush this rebellion, to end the prophecy before it ends me.
I look down at my hands, the lines of age etched into my skin, and I know what must be done. My heart pounds in my chest, not with fear, but with a cold, calculated determination. The blood of Pachil flows through my veins¡ªthe blood that will defy fate.
I turn on my heel, striding toward the palace doors. ¡°Anqatil,¡± I call over my shoulder, ¡°continue the defense. Hold the palace at all costs. I have¡ something I must attend to.¡±
She looks at me, confused, but obedient. ¡°Yes, Sapa.¡±
The palace guards are reluctant to let me through, to allow me to leave the security of the throne room. Yet they do not resist, knowing their place. I disappear into the shadows of the palace, the sounds of battle fading behind me as I make my way to the hidden chamber. The chamber where my fate will be decided, where the prophecy will meet its reckoning.
I press my hand on the loose, discolored stone that causes the door to slide open. A rush of dank, cold air brushes my face as I enter the room. I will do whatever it takes to survive, to preserve my rule. If I must invoke dark magic, so be it. I will wield it with the power of my blood, and I will bend it to my will.
The chamber is dark, and I light a series of torches that line the walls. Faint shadows dance across the carved stone, where ancient markings tell the history of our people, before we fell to the Timuaq. My hand tightens around the ceremonial blade resting upon the altar, its polished obsidian edge gleaming in the dim light.
Before me stands the altar, a hulking slab of stone etched with deep, intricate channels that spiral outward like veins, ready to carry the blood offered in ritual. At the center, a shallow basin awaits, its smooth surface stained from countless sacrifices past. The channels snake down into a larger stone bowl at the base of the altar, where the blood will pool¡ªfeeding the darkness that stirs below.
I know what must be done. The blade suddenly feels heavier now, as if the weight of fate itself rests upon it. The altar is patient and silent, waiting for the blood that will seal my fate.
I take a deep breath, steadying myself. There¡¯s no turning back now. I raise the blade and press its edge against my open hand. The sharp pain is only temporary, I remind myself. I will endure it if it means I will maintain my rule.
As the blade bites into my palm, blood wells up in thick, dark rivulets, trailing down my fingers and pooling onto the altar¡¯s cold stone surface. The first drop hits the carved channels with a soft hiss. The altar seems to come alive, drinking in the offering. I open my mouth to speak, and the incantation slips from my tongue in a steady, deliberate cadence. Each syllable is something deeper, raw and primal, and they swirl around me, sinking into my skin.
The atmosphere shifts. The torches¡¯ flames bend inward as if drawn toward some unseen force. My breath becomes shallow, the energy in the room crackling at the edge of my senses. The ancient power is almost sentient, creeping into my veins, twisting its way through my body. The stone beneath my feet hums softly, vibrating in rhythm with my pulse that seems to match that of the living land.
But as the final words of the incantation reverberate through the chamber, a doubt slips into my mind. My heartbeat falters, and for the first time, I wonder: Have I made the right choice? Will this be my salvation¡ªor have I awakened something far beyond my control? Something that will consume me before I even realize what I¡¯ve unleashed?
The questions linger in the air, unanswered. The ritual completes, and I¡¯m left standing alone in the darkness.
129 - Teqosa
I hastily raise my glaive and plant the blade onto the neck of the nearest Auilqa warrior.
¡°What is the meaning of this?¡± I snarl through gnashed teeth.
The warrior appears as stunned as I am, eyes wide with shock and confusion. I quickly realize my inquiry is futile, with the Auilqa not knowing Merchant¡¯s Tongue. But S¨ªqalat, too, is horrified by the sight of Eye in the Flame zealots walking freely among a ravaged city. Her stunned silence prevents her from translating.
¡°Have the Auilqa willingly harbored these cultists?¡± Upachu asks rhetorically. ¡°How has such a cult, with origins of Ulxa, managed to persuade their biggest rivals?¡±
¡°I assume they persuaded them by force,¡± S¨ªqalat remarks. ¡°Nothing motivates a person more than the phrase ¡®join or die¡¯.¡±
¡°But the Auilqa are so prideful,¡± Upachu notes, still baffled by this development. ¡°Seeing so many join, and so quickly, is highly disturbing.¡±
My wise friend makes a strong observation. In every interaction we¡¯ve had with the Auilqa, they have consistently conducted themselves in a manner that aligns with their people¡¯s ideals and beliefs. So why the sudden change? Why have they become unquestioning followers to the Eye in the Flame?
I request that S¨ªqalat relay this question to the present Auilqa warriors. What can explain this phenomenon, the presence of this cult everywhere we¡¯ve traveled? What caused them to change their loyalties and gods of worship to the twisted image of Eztletiqa?
She speaks to the Auilqa warriors, and their exchange appears to be one that concerns her deeply. For a moment, the two Auilqa warriors repeat the same word in their native tongue over and over again. It takes a lengthy back-and-forth before she turns to inform me and Upachu of what was said. The look of confusion on her features seem to have only deepened after her conversation.
¡°Well,¡± she sighs with pronounced bewilderment, ¡°at first, they simply told me that the Eye in the Flame had performed rituals that ¡®proved¡¯ they were fulfilling the old prophecies. When I asked them to explain further, they kept repeating what I believe is translated to ¡®Flame Bearer¡¯. Something about the Eye in the Flame performing supernatural feats¡ªcasting the flaming serpent in the sky, orbs of fire from their hands, and the like. But they¡¯re speaking so wildly that I¡¯m starting to question whether I¡¯m correctly translating what they¡¯re saying.¡±
¡°So, because they saw these feats of magic, they believe the Eye in the Flame are some saviors to be worshipped?¡± I ask, somewhat skeptically.
S¨ªqalat grimaces and hesitates before responding. ¡°When you consider how that other tribe felt about you when we encountered them, I¡¯m not surprised that they¡¯d be so assured that this was a prophecy being fulfilled,¡± she responds.
I grunt at this, having to confess she makes a fair point.
¡°But it¡¯s more than just awe,¡± she continues. ¡°It¡¯s as if they believe they¡¯re witnessing the very destiny of their people unfold, that the signs are there of the Auilqa returning to some long promised greatness.¡±
Once again, I¡¯m confronted with the blind willingness to believe in prophecies foretold generations ago, of people in the flesh being worshipped as gods. How scores of people can unquestioningly follow such a development is beyond me. Maybe I¡¯m too skeptical to understand. Or maybe they¡¯re all not skeptical enough.
¡°Besides,¡± she says with a shrug of her shoulders, ¡°they say they were not following willingly, but more so resigned to the fact that the prophecy was coming true before their eyes. According to these warriors, it¡¯s because of this that, when the Eye in the Flame told them they were there to cleanse the world of its impurities that sought to destroy them, and mentioned their assault on the Ulxa capital, the Auilqa were easily swayed to follow them. They saw their age-old enemies being punished and thought, ¡®Perhaps this is the way it¡¯s meant to be.¡¯¡±
Seemingly understanding that we¡¯re speaking of them, one of the warriors states something emphatically. But because it¡¯s in the Auilqa tongue, I cannot understand what is being said. Upachu, however, strokes his chin and grunts a few times. ¡°He says, ¡®When we saw the¡ Flame Bearer¡¯s power, how could we deny it?¡¯¡± I¡¯m initially caught off-guard by his interpretation, forgetting that Upachu now has the ability to speak all languages.
This gives me an idea. I turn to Upachu, now gravely concerned. ¡°Is this true?¡± I wonder. ¡°You were given the gift of understanding native traditions and rituals by Inqil. Perhaps you can use this to gain knowledge of the Auilqa, of this supposed prophecy, and see if any of this is true?¡±
He considers this, once again stroking the fine hairs on his chin. ¡°The Flame Bearer,¡± he murmurs, almost to himself. ¡°It sounds familiar, like a story told long ago. I seem to recall something like it, something spoken of in the Great Library back in Hilaqta. It¡¯s a story that warned of fire and destruction, but promised salvation to those who followed the flame.¡±
¡°That sounds like one of the Eye in the Flame¡¯s core beliefs,¡± I point out. ¡°Do you think the creator and leaders of this cult are using ancient stories and prophecies along with their dark magic to manipulate others into joining their sick movement?¡±
¡°It¡¯s difficult to say,¡± Upachu says warily. ¡°But perhaps I can channel the gift¡ and understand.¡±
As he¡¯s done before, Upachu lowers himself to his knees and presses his hands against the ground. He bows his head, as if attempting to hear or feel or sense something stored within these lands. As if the land itself speaks to him. For a moment, nothing happens, leaving me, S¨ªqalat, and especially the two Auilqa warriors confused.
But then, he begins having convulsions. He seizes on the ground, curled up and whimpering. I call his name, but he doesn¡¯t respond. Terrified, I rush over to him, reaching out and hoping my touch will bring him back to the present, back to these Auilqa jungles.
After a few more heartbeats, the convulsions stop. So, too, does my breath, until he groggily picks himself up off the ground. His hand involuntarily clutches the side of his head, and he winces in pain at the slightest movement. He opens his eyes, and for a brief moment, they have the same surreal glow as before, but this light vanishes in an instant as he looks around the jungles.
¡°Wha-what¡¡± Upachu is too out of breath and exhausted to complete his thought. S¨ªqalat urges him to lie down and remain calm. Usually stoic and indifferent, even the llama grows concerned and steps over to comfort our companion.
After a period, color eventually returns to Upachu¡¯s cheeks, and his breath comes easier to him. At this, I crouch beside him, and ask, ¡°Can you remember what you saw, what you witnessed?¡±
Upachu¡¯s breath hitches, the words catching in his throat as if he¡¯s struggling to voice the terror that grips him. The memory of what he just experienced lingers, a visceral force that tightens his chest. I kneel beside him as the jungle suddenly feels more oppressive, and the shadows deeper and more menacing.
¡°I thought everything told at the Great Library, and these Auilqa¡¯s retelling of events, were just stories, just myths. But after what I saw¡¡± His voice trails off, and he stares blankly at the ground before him. The distant sounds of the jungle seem muted while he seeks to understand what he witnessed.
Still clouded with the remnants of whatever visions he endured, Upachu¡¯s eyes finally meet mine. There¡¯s a haunted look in them, one that speaks of things he¡¯s seen that cannot easily be explained away. ¡°It was like I was pulled into the past¡ or maybe into a vision of what¡¯s to come. I saw flames¡ªendless, devouring flames. They weren¡¯t just fire; they were alive, writhing like serpents, consuming everything in their path. The trees, the rivers, even the mountains¡ everything turned to ash. And there was something, or someone, at the heart of it all¡ a figure wreathed in fire¡ That must¡¯ve been the Flame Bearer! And the destruction was deliberate, as if the flames were cleansing the world, preparing it for something¡ something that¡¯s yet to come.¡±
S¨ªqalat shifts uneasily, her eyes darting between Upachu and the warriors, as if trying to piece together what all this means. ¡°Are you saying¡ are you suggesting that the Eye in the Flame is fulfilling some kind of prophecy? That they¡¯re¡ destined to cleanse Pachil?¡±
Upachu¡¯s brow furrows as he struggles to find the right words. ¡°I don¡¯t know what to believe anymore. What I saw¡ it felt so real, so final. I¡¯ve always believed that we make our own destinies, that no prophecy is set in stone. But this¡ this was different. It felt like fate, like something that cannot be stopped, only endured.¡±
His gaze falls to the ground again, his hand trembling as he brings it to his forehead. ¡°The Flame Bearer¡ the Auilqa believe it¡¯s a sign, a symbol of something greater. But what if¡ what if it¡¯s not just their belief? What if it¡¯s true?¡±
Upachu¡¯s voice trembles as he continues. ¡°They were promised salvation, a place in this new world if they followed the Flame Bearer. But I saw their fate¡ I saw them turned to ash, their loyalty repaid with destruction. The flames do not discriminate¡ªthey consume all. The prophecy they believe in¡ it¡¯s a lie, a twisted manipulation of their ancient stories.¡±
One of the Auilqa warriors steps forward, his face pale and stricken with fear. He speaks rapidly in his native tongue, the words tumbling out in a rush as if trying to ward off the terror that¡¯s taken hold. Upachu translates, his voice steady despite the turmoil in his eyes. ¡°He says, ¡®The Flame Bearer is a savior, not a destroyer. We were promised safety.¡¯¡±
A heavy silence falls over us. I see the confusion in the warrior¡¯s eyes, the desperate need to believe that what they¡¯ve been told is true, that their submission to the Eye in the Flame will somehow save them from the devastation Upachu has described. But I also see the doubt creeping in, the cracks forming in their faith. They must sense what is being spoken among us, as they grapple with the possibility that they¡¯ve been led astray.
Upachu takes a deep breath, his voice barely above a whisper. ¡°I fear that the Flame Bearer is not a savior, but a harbinger of destruction. The Auilqa have been misled, and their fate will be the same as those who came before them¡ªconsumed by the very fire they worship.¡±
¡°Upachu,¡± I say, forcing myself to focus, ¡°is there any way to break this hold the Eye in the Flame have over the Auilqa? Any way to reveal the truth?¡±
He looks at me, still reeling from the visions he¡¯s seen. ¡°The truth is a fragile thing,¡± he replies, his voice filled with a sorrow I¡¯ve never heard before. ¡°These prophecies have been twisted, their meanings lost to time and fear. It won¡¯t be easy to undo what¡¯s been done¡¡±
He looks resigned, as if hope is lost. Then, a spark glints in his eye. After a deep, cleansing breath, he says resolutely, ¡°But we have to try. For their sake¡ªand for ours.¡±
I look back at the main gate of Qasiunqa, the vast, expansive city. Seeing the robed figures in ashen gray or crimson is like a sick joke. Their presence taunts me, and from their perches, I can feel their arrogance. I will not let this stand.
¡°We¡¯ll need to strike,¡± I say, my voice low as if those in the far distance guarding the ruined city can hear me. ¡°We need to find a way to rid Qasiunqa of these invaders.¡±
¡°But how?¡± Upachu questions, flummoxed. ¡°We are but five who dare oppose them¡ªfour if you consider how effective I will be. There are likely hundreds, if not thousands, more inside those walls.¡±
¡°And, umm,¡± S¨ªqalat mutters, her eyes flickering between me and the two Auilqa warriors, ¡°while these two might feel like their hand has been forced, they could still defend members of the Eye in the Flame, you know. I don¡¯t think we should trust them.¡±
I exhale sharply and rub my temples. The desire to act, to strike swiftly and decisively, burns within me. These zealots must be stopped before they can solidify their hold on this city, before they can corrupt even more of Pachil. But how? Of course, Upachu and S¨ªqalat are right. We are too few against such astounding numbers. How do I act without being rash, without leading everyone into certain death?
I study the splintering walls and the distant figures. We are so few that a direct assault would be suicide. But there¡¯s no time for a drawn-out siege, no reinforcements to call upon. And yet every moment we wait, the Eye in the Flame grows stronger, more entrenched. We can¡¯t afford to sit idly by, yet rushing in blindly is beyond foolish. I must think clearly, plan carefully.
¡°We need more information,¡± I say finally, forcing myself to slow down, to think. ¡°A direct attack is out of the question, but if we can gather intelligence, find out where they¡¯re weakest, we might have a chance¡±
S¨ªqalat nods, though I can see the doubt in her eyes. ¡°Well, that¡¯s all fine and good, but how do we get that information? And even if we do, what do we do with it? What¡¯s the plan? A few well-placed blows might take out some, but not all of them. And it would take us too long to take out a city of thousands,¡ªif we¡¯re even successful at all. We¡¯d likely be captured or killed well before then.¡±
Royal Road is the home of this novel. Visit there to read the original and support the author.
Once again, her words ring true, and the reality of our situation sinks in deeper. There has to be another way¡ªa way to get close without raising suspicion, to learn their secrets before they even realize we¡¯re among them, and then utilize this knowledge effectively.
A thought begins to form, hesitant at first, but gaining momentum with each passing heartbeat. It¡¯s risky¡ªmore than risky, it¡¯s borderline ludicrous. But it might be our only chance.
¡°I¡¯ll infiltrate them,¡± I declare. ¡°I¡¯ll pose as a new recruit, seeking to join the Eye in the Flame. If I can gain their trust, even for a short time, I can gather the information we need¡ªtheir numbers, their defenses, their plans. And then, under the cover of night, I¡¯ll slip out, and we can rally reinforcements.¡±
¡°You¡¯re going to go in alone? Are you mad? Have you lost your mind?¡± S¨ªqalat looks at me as though I¡¯ve gone insane. Perhaps I have.
Upachu raises an eyebrow, clearly skeptical. ¡°Besides the obvious problems I have with this absurd plan, ¡®reinforcements¡¯? From where? We have no allies in this territory.¡±
¡°I¡¯ll figure that out while I¡¯m inside,¡± I respond, thinking through the possibilities. ¡°Maybe we can reach Qiapu, or even seek help from the Ulxa. The Eye in the Flame are their enemies too, and they may see the value in an alliance, however temporary.¡±
S¨ªqalat tilts her head, considering the plan. ¡°And you think these two Auilqa warriors will go along with this? They may be reluctant followers, but that doesn¡¯t mean they won¡¯t turn on us if they see an opportunity.¡±
¡°I won¡¯t put them in harm¡¯s way,¡± I say, the idea solidifying in my mind. ¡°If they¡¯re seen as merely escorting me to join the cult, they can maintain their cover without raising suspicion. It¡¯ll be me who takes the real risk.¡±
I look down at my gold and black attire, the colors of the Qantua, and grimace. ¡°I¡¯ll need to strip away anything that identifies me¡ªno Qantua colors, no possessions that tie me to my homeland. I¡¯ve got to look the part of a defector.¡±
I reach for my ornate glaive, the only weapon I¡¯ll keep. Everything else must go¡ªanything that could betray who I truly am. My hand clenches around the familiar hilt, the feel of the weapon a small comfort in the face of the unknown.
¡°Wait,¡± S¨ªqalat remarks. ¡°And you seriously plan to do this alone? Please. As if I¡¯m going to let you walk into that den of vipers by yourself. Someone needs to be there to keep you from doing anything stupid.¡±
I want to resist, to tell her that I will not allow her to risk her life for my ridiculous plan. Yet I can¡¯t help but smile at her words, despite the situation, and realize what her offer truly means. ¡°I wouldn¡¯t have it any other way.¡±
Upachu clears his throat, drawing our attention. ¡°The llama and I will stay on the lookout. If things go wrong¡ªand they will, knowing our luck¡ªI¡¯ll signal for help. Perhaps I can find a neighboring tribe, or at least create enough of a distraction to give you a chance to escape.¡±
I release a heavy sigh. ¡°It¡¯s not the best plan,¡± I admit, ¡°but it¡¯s the best we¡¯ve got. We move in tonight, under the cover of darkness.¡±
S¨ªqalat has an exchange with the Auilqa, who then turn to me, looking confused. She continues to explain something emphatically, her arms flailing about wildly. The warriors glance at one another, brows knitted. Eventually, they nod and say something in response. S¨ªqalat bows deeply, then turns to me and Upachu.
¡°Well, that took a bit of convincing,¡± she says, a little breathlessly and hands resting on her hips, as if the effort was strenuous, ¡°but we are now two of the newest, most devout followers of the Eye in the Flame that have ever existed on Pachil! Congratulations!¡±
When night falls, we depart for the main gate to the city. I say my goodbyes to Upachu, who looks at me with grave concern. ¡°We can find another way,¡± he says, picking the dirt out of his fingernails. ¡°Perhaps we should take this opportunity to rally support from a neighboring tribe or faction. There¡¯s no need to rush in and¡ª¡°
Placing a hand gently upon his shoulder, I say, ¡°I will be fine, my friend. I¡¯ve been in positions of danger before, and I will make sure to keep a level head, I promise.¡± Though he doesn¡¯t seem reassured, Upachu reluctantly nods and pats me on my arm, his mouth forming a tight smile.
S¨ªqalat makes a declarative statement to the two Auilqa, and we slip into the night. Aside from my thundering heartbeat, only the chirping critters dare to make a sound. Occasionally, I glance up at the stars and sliver of the crescent moon that bejewel the cloudless sky, twinkling as they peacefully watch over me.
We¡¯re met with a cacophony of shouts as we reach the clearing. Those in gray robes point the tips of their arrows and spears in our direction, as do the Auilqa under their rule. The sporadic figures in crimson robes watch on wordlessly, not moving a muscle, yet the tips of their fingers slowly glow white from the forming flames.
The two Auilqa escorting us raise their hands, shouting their replies over the others¡¯ yells. Those standing by the remnants of outer walls point at me and S¨ªqalat accusatorially, glaring at the two outsiders walking beside the Auilqa warriors. This carries on for quite some time, and I start to question whether this plan was reasonable at all.
The guards exchange a few clipped words in the Auilqa tongue, their eyes narrowing as they scrutinize us. One of them steps forward, his hand resting on the hilt of a crude blade that hangs from his waist. He speaks again forcefully, though I can¡¯t understand a word he¡¯s saying.
I glance at S¨ªqalat, hoping she¡¯s keeping her composure as well as I¡¯m trying to. She nods slightly, acknowledging the guard¡¯s words, before responding in the same language. Her voice is calm, steady, but there¡¯s a subtle edge to it¡ªone that¡¯s hard to miss. It¡¯s clear she¡¯s trying to walk a fine line between defiance and submission.
The guard listens with an unreadable expression, but I can see him mulling over her words in his mind. After a moment, he barks another command. My muscles tense as the other guards take a step closer, their weapons at the ready. Whatever S¨ªqalat said, it hasn¡¯t convinced them yet.
The guards speak among themselves, their voices low and full of suspicion. I catch the occasional cold glance in our direction. I force myself to stay still, even as every instinct screams at me to reach for my weapon. If I make one wrong move, it¡¯s over.
Finally, the lead guard steps forward, gesturing for us to remain where we are. He points to S¨ªqalat, barking out another string of words in their guttural language. She hesitates for the briefest moment, then nods and turns to me, her expression carefully neutral.
¡°He wants us to prove our loyalty,¡± she whispers, just loud enough for me to hear. ¡°They¡¯re suspicious. They want to know why we¡¯re here, why two outsiders want to join.¡±
¡°What should we do?¡± I murmur back, careful to keep my voice low.
The lead guard¡¯s voice is harsher this time, and S¨ªqalat''s face drains of color as she translates his words. ¡°He says¡ kneeling alone won¡¯t be enough. If we¡¯re truly loyal to the cause, we must offer blood to the Flame.¡±
I feel the blood drain from my face. Blood. My jaw clenches, fury coursing through my veins. How could I not see this as a possibility? Auilqa warriors with streaks of blood across their bodies hoist their spears, while gray-robed zealots watch us with curiosity as they nock arrows. The cultists in their crimson robes watch from the shadows. Their presence is like a dark cloud hanging over the site.
¡°We must cut ourselves,¡± S¨ªqalat whispers. ¡°Spill blood as a sign of submission. If we refuse, we die here.¡±
The very idea of shedding blood for these zealots makes my stomach churn, but the sharp glint of weapons all around us leaves little choice. There¡¯s no escape. We are about to dedicate ourselves to the Eye in the Flame, marking us with their darkness. If we spill our blood here, who knows what kind of magic they¡¯ll bind us with? But if we don¡¯t¡
I meet S¨ªqalat¡¯s gaze. Her eyes are wide, and I can see the conflict churning inside her. She gives me a barely perceptible nod, a silent signal that we have no choice.
An Auilqa warrior steps forward, holding a ceremonial dagger¡ªa twisted, blackened blade with flames etched along the hilt. His lips curl into a sneer as he presses the dagger into my hands, the cold metal biting into my skin.
I glance at S¨ªqalat once more before turning my gaze to the guard, the zealots, the warriors. They¡¯re all watching, waiting for my next move, hungry for proof of our allegiance. They¡¯re predators sizing up their prey.
With a deep breath, I raise the dagger to my palm. The sharp edge presses into my skin, and for a moment, I hesitate. But there¡¯s no turning back now. If we¡¯re to survive this, I must do this.
My teeth grind against one another as I drag the blade across my palm. The sting of the cut is immediate, and blood wells up from the wound, dark and glistening in the torchlight. I feel a strange pull, as if the very air around me grows heavier with the act.
The guard steps closer, holding out a stone basin. It¡¯s carved with intricate symbols¡ªsymbols I don¡¯t recognize, but I can feel the malevolent energy radiating from them. With trembling hands, I let my blood drip into the basin. Each drop feels like a piece of my spirit being taken, my connection to the Eye in the Flame growing stronger with every moment.
The warrior sternly makes a command, to which S¨ªqalat translates. ¡°You have to speak the words, ¡®For the Flame, and for the dominion of Eztletiqa¡¯.¡±
The words feel like poison on my tongue, but I speak them anyway. ¡°For the Flame¡ and for the dominion of Eztletiqa.¡±
The guard¡¯s sneer deepens, and he nods approvingly as if I¡¯ve sealed my fate.
S¨ªqalat steps forward next, her hands trembling slightly as she takes the dagger. She makes her cut, her blood joining mine in the basin. She repeats the incantation, but I can see the strain in her eyes.
As the final drops of blood fall into the basin, the guard lifts it high, and the zealots chant in unison. Their voices are low and guttural, like ancient chants bellowing from deep within the underworld. For a moment, I feel a strange pull¡ªlike my very essence is being tied to the Eye in the Flame, bound by something far darker than I could¡¯ve imagined.
Satisfied, the warrior steps back, but there¡¯s something unsettling in his eyes¡ªa knowing, twisted amusement that makes my blood run cold.
¡°You have pledged yourselves," one of those in crimson robes shouts down to us. ¡°Your blood now belongs to the Flame. Betray us, and it will burn you from the inside out.¡±
As we¡¯re finally allowed to step through the gate, a sense of dread settles over me. What have we done? We¡¯ve given them our blood, but what else have we given them?
The once majestic city of Qasiunqa lies broken, now bearing the scars of its fall from grace. As we weave through the crooked, decaying streets, the remnants of its splendor are buried beneath layers of ash and ruin. We¡¯re met with the cloying scent of incense laced with an undercurrent of rot, as though the city is trying to mask its own decay. Above, the sky churns with a swirling mass of storm clouds, pressing down on the world below like a vengeful spirit. Qasiunqa breathes no more; it gasps, choked by the grip of the Eye in the Flame.
We move cautiously, our eyes searching the distorted remnants of what was once a proud civilization. Once adorned with symbols of Auilqa tradition and strength, the buildings have been defaced. Their surfaces have been marred by the strange, chaotic markings of the cult. Vines that once bloomed with vibrant flowers now hang limp, blackened by some dark force that has drained the life from them. Statues of gods have been toppled, their broken pieces scattered across the ground like the remnants of a shattered past.
As we round a corner, deep, rhythmic drumming begins to seep into my awareness. It¡¯s subtle at first, a low thrum that vibrates through the soles of my feet. But as we draw nearer to an enormous and lavish building in the center of the city, it grows louder, more insistent. The sound is accompanied by a low, guttural chanting in a language I don¡¯t recognize, but which seems to resonate with something deep within me, something I dread is the result of the ritual performed at the city gates.
S¨ªqalat¡¯s face tightens, her eyes narrowing as she listens. I can tell that she senses the same wrongness that I do, though her expression remains blank. We exchange a brief glance, but neither of us speaks. Words would be redundant in the face of what we¡¯re likely to witness.
As we step into the heart of Qasiunqa, the air and humidity wrap around us like a constricting serpent, making each breath harder to draw than the last. At one time encroaching gently upon the city, the jungle now seems locked in a losing battle against a dark, corrupting force. What should have been a sanctuary of ancient stone¡ªa place where the Auilqa people could seek wisdom and peace¡ªhas been defiled.
We approach what must have been a sacred grove, though now, it feels like a tomb. The emerald vines that once draped elegantly from the high ceiling have withered to brittle, blackened threads, scorched at the edges. The intricate carvings on the stone monoliths have been defaced. Their graceful lines have been marred by crude, jagged symbols of an eye consumed by a singular flame.
As we move deeper into the grand chamber, the desecration becomes even more apparent. From what I can tell, this was a magnificent throne room, one that would instill fear upon those who stood before the great Auilqa ruler. The throne that rests close to the center is twisted and warped, like much that remains in Qasiunqa. The once-rust-colored stone pillars have been blackened and obscured by scores of scorch marks. The delicate orchids and flowering vines that wound around the throne have wilted, their vibrant colors replaced by thorny stems that seem to reach out, hungry and desperate.
As I stand there, taking in the full scope of the corruption, the deep, rhythmic drumming grows louder and louder. The chanting fills the room with an unsettling, grotesque harmony.
My grip tightens around my glaive, and I catch sight of the ritual taking place at the far end of the chamber. The captives¡ªthose who must have resisted the Eye in the Flame¡¯s rule¡ªare lined up along the steps. Bound and gagged, they¡¯re helpless, eyes wide with terror as they await their fate at the hands of the cultists. A figure clad in robes adorned with fiery patterns stands at the center of it all. A dagger with a gnarled, obsidian blade gleams menacingly in his hand.
The chanting reaches a fevered pitch as the robed figure raises the blade high above a writhing captive, laid out on a stone slab with symbols drawn in blood surrounding the altar. The blade flashes down, and I close my eyes before they can take in the horrific sight. The heart of the victim is offered to a blazing idol set before the robed figure, as the word ¡®Eztletiqa¡¯ is repeated over and over, louder and louder, by those gathered inside the chamber. Flames erupt from the altar, licking at the stone, and a shudder moves through the entire room. Above, the storm clouds respond with a powerful bolt of lightning that illuminates the area with a fierce, ominous light.
Fury boils within me. I cannot let this continue. I cannot allow these monsters to strengthen their hold on this city, on these people. I turn to S¨ªqalat and growl, ¡°We can¡¯t let this continue. We have to stop them, now.¡±
Her eyes widen, and she grabs my arm. ¡°Teqosa, think about what you¡¯re saying! There are too many of them, and we¡¯re not equipped for this.¡±
¡°I don¡¯t care,¡± I snap, my voice trembling. ¡°I will not stand by and let these monsters destroy Pachil. We need to disrupt the ritual, strike down their leader if the chance arises, and leave nothing but chaos in our wake.¡±
I recognize that it¡¯s a rash decision, but there¡¯s no time to second-guess. The priest in crimson robes begins another incantation, and those in gray robes offer another victim to be sacrificed. I know that we have to act now, or it will be too late. With a nod from S¨ªqalat, I move forward, my glaive ready.
Just as I¡¯m about to strike, the storm clouds above swirl violently, and the air around us changes. A rumble echoes through the chamber, followed by an enormous whoosh of wind. I believe this to be the work of the figure in crimson robes, but to my surprise, the cultists pause. Their chanting falters as they look around in confusion.
Strangely, a peculiar mist slowly creeps in around us¡ªfrom where is it coming? Then, another rumble, followed by an enormous whoosh that sounds from behind us. My heart stops as I glance back, not knowing what to expect.
Suddenly, a massive wave of water crashes through the entrance. It sweeps through the room, knocking the cultists and Auilqa warriors off their feet. The water swirls around me, and I stumble, struggling to keep my footing as the world around me descends into mayhem.
As the mist slowly fades, I catch sight of two figures standing at the entrance, the source of the storm and the water¡ªtwo figures I¡¯ve never seen before. The wind howls around them, almost as if they¡¯ve stepped out of the very storm they control.
The priest in crimson screams in rage, but his voice is drowned out by the roar of the water as it slams into him, knocking him off the altar and sending him crashing to the ground.
I stand there, stunned, as the scene unfolds before me. Who are these people? And how have they brought the storm with them? I have no answers, only the deep, unsettling sense that the tide of this battle has just turned.
130 - Walumaq
A flash of lightning splits the sky, revealing the dreadful sight of crimson and gray robes before our eyes. The presence of the figures is unmistakable, the persistent evil that seeks to consume all of Pachil into their darkness. Thunder rumbles a foreboding growl in the distance, and even in the black of night, the smoke visibly rises toward the heavens. The scene is grim, and only likely to get worse.
¡°They¡¯re a never-ending blight on these cursed lands,¡± Paxilche grumbles. ¡°What is it going to take to eradicate these maniacs for good?¡±
¡°Evil doesn¡¯t die,¡± Atoyaqtli responds, staring intently at the withering city before us. ¡°It adapts, seeping into the cracks we leave behind. We can strike it down, scatter it to the winds, but to eradicate it completely? That¡¯s a dream we tell ourselves to keep going.¡±
I watch as the wind lashes against the dilapidated walls, swirling dust and debris around under the glow of the sliver of moon. The cold truth in Atoyaqtli¡¯s words come from bitter experience. But even as the darkness of his words settles around me, I can¡¯t allow myself to be consumed by it.
It adapts, yes. But so do we.
The cracks may be places where darkness can seep in, but they¡¯re also places where hope can take root. If evil is persistent, so, too, must we be. That¡¯s the truth I hold onto, the one that keeps me standing tall in the face of everything we¡¯ve endured.
¡°The truth is,¡± I say, ¡°we must be ever vigilant, knowing that no matter how many battles we win, the struggle never truly ends. But so long as I breathe, that¡¯s the battle I¡¯ll fight again and again.¡±
The moon hangs low, a thin crescent that barely illuminates the ruins of Qasiunqa. The city once stood as a testament to Auilqa strength, but now, it¡¯s a shadow of its former self. The scent of decay is ever present, a mixture of burned wood and the staleness of blood, carried on the cold breeze that snakes through the broken streets. Once vibrant and alive, the jungle seems to shrink away from the city, as if repelled by the darkness that now consumes it.
We approach the city¡¯s outskirts with silent and measured movements. The walls of battered, crumbling buildings are marred by the crude symbols of the cult, that grotesque eye consumed by a singular flame. Memories of Chalaqta flash in my mind, seeing the same twisted marks defiling once-proud stones. My pulse quickens at the sight, the blood surging through my veins like a drumbeat.
Paxilche stands a few paces ahead, closing his eyes in concentration. With a low murmur, he raises his hands to the sky, and the air around us begins to shift. A thick, rolling fog creeps in, slithering between the trees and weathered structures. It swallows the city¡¯s edges in a blanket of gray. I can barely see a few paces in front of me, but that¡¯s the point. The zealots won¡¯t see us coming until it¡¯s too late. Paxilche opens his eyes, and they glint with the satisfaction of his work.
¡°Stay close,¡± I whisper, my voice barely audible above the soft rustling of the wind. ¡°We move as one, strike fast and hard. No mercy.¡±
Atoyaqtli nods, his grip tightening around the hilt of his obsidian sword. Chiqama is by his side, his twin daggers gleaming in the dim light, while Pomaqli and Pomacha flank the rear. Ever the silent predator, Saqatli is already shifting, his body rippling as he takes the form of a jaguar, muscles coiled with the anticipation of the hunt.
We slip into the city like shadows, the fog masking our approach. The streets are eerily silent, yet I can sense them¡ªthe Eye in the Flame¡ªlurking in every corner. This place has become their twisted domain, but tonight, we¡¯re going to turn it back on them. Tonight, we reclaim this city.
As we weave through the narrow, crumbling streets, I extend my senses, feeling for any source of water in this desolate place. The ground is parched, and the distant rivers of the jungle have long since been diverted or drained. My heart sinks at the barrenness, but I know there¡¯s always water¡ªsomewhere. I just have to dig deeper. Much deeper.
Gritting my teeth, I push myself harder, reaching into the dry earth below, where the moisture is buried far out of reach. My entire body tenses with the effort, muscles aching as if I¡¯m pulling against the weight of the world. Sweat drips down my brow, and the air grows dense, stagnant, as I force the liquid up from the depths. Finally, after what feels like an eternity, a faint trickle responds. The fog thickens ever so slightly around me, a meager reward for the immense strength I¡¯ve poured into it. The droplets curl weakly around my outstretched fingers. It¡¯s barely enough. But it will have to do.
A distant torch flickers through the haze, and I take it as a sign that we¡¯re nearing the enemy. I motion for the others to halt. We crouch low, hidden in the mist. The zealots patrol in pairs, their gray robes blending with the fog. I can hear them muttering to each other with a sinister hum that grates against my nerves.
I meet Paxilche¡¯s gaze, and he nods, raising his hand to summon a gust of wind that sends the fog swirling around us. It disorients the zealots as they step into our trap. They pause, confused by the sudden movement in the mist, and that¡¯s when we strike.
Saqatli springs from the fog in a blur of fur and fangs. He takes down the first zealot with a single, silent leap. His jaws close around the man¡¯s throat before he can utter a sound. The second zealot barely has time to react before Chiqama¡¯s daggers flash, slicing through the air. Blood spatters the stones, covering them in a red, viscous sheen.
The fog thickens further, concealing the bodies as we advance. Pomaqli and Pomacha move ahead, their weapons held at the ready. I trail behind while the water swirls at my command. We can only hear the soft, steady rhythm of our footsteps as we progress through the streets. This place feels familiar, like the echo of a half-forgotten dream, as though we have wandered these paths before. But now, the land is twisted, its bones cracked and scattered, as if the breath of life has been choked out by the Eye in the Flame.
After cautiously navigating the destruction, we eventually reach the grounds of the sacred grove that surrounds the throne room of Xolotzi. The area is barely recognizable, as its once-majestic stone walls have been defaced and scorched. The throne room¡¯s entrance looms before us, yet I dread going inside to see what¡¯s been done to it.
Paxilche gestures for us to halt, his eyes narrowing as he senses something ahead. ¡°I can hear it,¡± he whispers. ¡°The ritual. They¡¯re inside.¡±
I nod, feeling my heart wanting to escape my chest. This is it. The final push. With the wave of Paxilche¡¯s hands, the fog thickens around us once more. My grip tightens on the water hovering around me, ready to unleash its fury at a moment¡¯s notice. I can only hope I¡¯m prepared to face whatever horrors the Eye in the Flame has waiting within.
As we burst into the desecrated chamber, the oppressive atmosphere slams into me like a wall of invisible hands pressing against my chest. Huddled near the altar, Auilqa captives tremble in silence. Their eyes are wide and glazed with terror, bound for the sacrificial blade. With their crimson robes swirling around them, the zealots of the Eye in the Flame are momentarily caught off guard by our sudden entrance. The drumming that had reverberated throughout the ruinous city falters, and the guttural chanting that permeated the sacred grounds stumbles. The cultists¡¯ eyes snap toward us with a mix of bewilderment and simmering rage.
The throne room is a twisted memory of the majestic space it once was. Once cool and filled with the gentle rustle of palm leaves and the chirping of birds, the air is tainted by the stench of blood and burning flesh. The emerald curtain of vines that once draped elegantly from the open ceiling is now a blackened, shriveled mass, charred by the flames that dance across the platform. Where the proud and regal throne had sat, it¡¯s been mutilated into a malformed altar.
Behind the desecrated altar looms a monstrous idol to Eztletiqa, cobbled together from bones, molten metal, and shattered stone. Its misshapen form twists unnaturally, as though the very essence of the god had been distorted through the eyes of madness. The idol¡¯s hollow eyes burn with crimson embers, casting shadows that writhe across the walls like tortured souls.
My eyes sweep the room, taking in the debased scene before me¡ªthe blood-soaked altar, the terrified captives, and the massive idol of their warped perception of Eztletiqa that now glows with an unholy light. My heart sinks at the sight of it all. Once a place of reverence and power, Qasiunqa¡¯s throne room is now a disturbing and disgusting setting of sacrilege and death. The Eye in the Flame has more than taken over this place¡ªthey¡¯ve corrupted it, twisted it into something that mocks the Auilqa¡¯s proud history.
As the mist clears, my eyes fall on two figures amidst the chaos¡ªone man, one woman, yet there¡¯s something strange about them. They wear no identifiable colors, no green and brown of the Auilqa, and the woman dons leather pants and black tattooed markings along her sun-kissed arms. They¡¯re peculiar recruits among the Auilqa, standing out like a rogue wave in a stormy sea.
But before I can study them further, the figure at the center of the ritual regains his composure. His presence is commanding, draped in ornate crimson robes embroidered with golden threads that flare like tongues of fire. His face is partially hidden beneath a hood, but I can see the flicker of flames reflected in his eyes, burning with an intensity that makes my skin prickle and the air feel colder around me.
He abruptly raises his arms. In his hands, an obsidian blade glows ominously as he mutters something¡ªwhat must be an incantation. The ground beneath him trembles as if responding to his voice, and I can feel the heat in the room wrap around my throat as he commands his followers in some strange tongue. His voice carries across the chamber, and the cultists, who were briefly stunned by our entrance, quickly rally to his side.
It¡¯s clear that this man is no ordinary zealot. He wields this mystical power like a weapon, his control over the dark energy in the room absolute. The way he stands at the altar, the way the flames seem to obediently follow his command, there¡¯s no mistaking that he¡¯s the one leading this perverse ritual, drawing strength from the very destruction he masterminds.
¡°We need to stop this,¡± I hiss to Paxilche, Saqatli, and the others, though I can barely hear myself over the roar of the storm outside. ¡°We must put an end to this madness¡ªtonight.¡±
With a quick flourish, Paxilche raises his hand. The remnants of the mist begin to churn once more, winding around our enemies like a living creature. The zealots are disoriented, their eyes wide with fear as they struggle to see through the thick fog that now engulfs them.
Still in his jaguar form, Saqatli is the first to strike. He leaps forward, his powerful limbs carrying him through the air as he pounces upon the nearest cultist. His jaws close around the man¡¯s neck with a sickening crunch. Blood sprays across the desecrated floor in thick, violent streaks. The captives scream in horror, desperately attempting to flee the calamity, though their bindings make it a struggle to reach freedom.
At this, the battle erupts in a maelstrom. Atoyaqtli and Pomaqli surge ahead, their obsidian swords slicing through flesh and bone that leave nothing but carnage in their wake. Pomacha¡¯s battle axe carves wide, brutal arcs, cleaving through the enemies like a scythe through blood-soaked wheat. Chiqama darts about in a blur, quickly taking down one zealot after another with his twin daggers. Streams of scarlet seep into the cracks of the ancient stone, mingling with the dark stains of past atrocities.
The author''s tale has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.
Amidst the chaos, I reach deep, summoning water from wherever traces still cling¡ªthe cold stones beneath our feet, the faint mist hanging in the air, even the roots buried far below. My muscles tremble as I coax every last drop. Each pull feels like dragging a boulder uphill, sapping my strength with each passing heartbeat. But I force the tendrils to rise, twirling into the air like serpents under my control. They lash out, smothering any who dare approach. I slam the water into the priest in crimson, knocking him to the ground. Yet every strike sends a jolt of exhaustion through my body, and I can feel my energy draining, slipping through my grasp like the very water I command.
The priest of fire is not so easily deterred. He rises, stoically surveying the scene. Even as his followers fall around him, he stands tall. His ritual blade glows with a surge of dark energy, emitting an unsettling greenish yellow light, as he mutters incantations under his breath.
And still, the figures¡ªthose two strangers not in the garb of Auilqa nor Eye in the Flame¡ªremain where they are, caught in the eye of the storm. Each beat of my heart is heavy with doubt. Who are they? Are they allies, or do they bring another threat into this cursed place?
I prepare to confront them, but suddenly, the woman steps forward. Before I can unleash the water¡¯s might, she shouts something to me in Merchant¡¯s Tongue, and her voice surprisingly cuts through the tumult. ¡°Wait! We¡¯re not with them!¡±
Just for a moment, her words make me hesitate as she raises her hands pleadingly. I¡¯m uncertain whether this is a ruse or made in a genuine appeal. The man beside her follows her lead, his own hands raised¡ªone still holds a magnificent, gilded glaive¡ªbut there¡¯s a hardened look to him, the kind of look that I¡¯ve only seen worn by a seasoned warrior.
Before I can demand answers, they move¡ªnot towards us, but towards the zealots of the Eye in the Flame. In an instant, they dive into the fray, striking at the cultists with a fury that matches our own. The woman moves nimbly from enemy to enemy, slashing through one of the robed figures before quickly confronting the next.
On the other side of the conflict, the man swings his weapon, crackling like lightning with each gesture. There¡¯s a raw, primal power in his movements, a relentless energy that seems to flow through him. His strikes land with bone-shattering impact, sending the zealots staggering backward as if something unseen is driving them away.
For a heartbeat, I watch, trying to make sense of the scene before me. They fight like warriors, not cultists¡ªfocused, determined, and, most importantly, targeting the enemy we share. And yet, I¡¯m still uncertain what their true motivations are.
Paxilche eyes the pair suspiciously. His hands fizzle with the energy of the storm he¡¯s called forth, ready to unleash it. But just then, Atoyaqtli lunges toward the stranger with the glaive, seemingly mistaking him for a threat. The woman shouts again, ¡°Stop, you imbecile! We¡¯re on your side!¡± She deflects Atoyaqtli¡¯s blow with her own weapon, something that appears to be comprised of several interlinked pieces that form a spear. ¡°We¡¯ve been fighting them, too!¡±
Atoyaqtli hesitates, his blade frozen mid-swing. He gives the woman a moment to explain. ¡°I¡¯m S¨ªqalat, and this is Teqosa of the Qantua! We¡¯re here to stop them¡ªjust like you! I swear!¡±
Breathing heavily from the fight, the man called Teqosa adds, ¡°We came to infiltrate and destroy the cult from within. But it appears we need your help to finish this. That priest¡ª¡° He gestures toward the robed figure who is already preparing another dark incantation, "¡ªwe can¡¯t let him complete whatever he¡¯s trying to summon!¡±
¡°Whoever you are,¡± Paxilche growls, ¡°we can sort it out later. Right now, we fight.¡±
The cultists of the Eye in the Flame are no mere rabble¡ªthey fight with a ferocity born of fanaticism, crazed and unrelenting as they seek to serve the distorted image of their god. I summon all my remaining strength, manipulating what little water in the air remains to lash out at the enemies around me. But the periphery of my vision begins to blur, blacken. With each flick of my wrist, strands of liquid whip through the air. It beats back the onslaught of enemies, but there¡¯s no end to them¡ªno end to the wave of zealots pressing in from all sides.
A sudden burst of flame erupts from the ground, forcing me to dive to the side. The heat singes my skin, and I reflexively gnash my teeth, barely managing to roll back to my feet. I search the chaos for my companions. Paxilche is locked in a deadly dance with a towering cultist. He casts his hands to the sky and sends a flash of lightning that comes dangerously close to his foe. Still in the form of a jaguar, Saqatli swiftly tears through the ranks. But it¡¯s not enough. The cultists are too many, and they¡¯re too strong.
I catch sight of Teqosa and S¨ªqalat fighting their way through the thick of it. His weapon¡¯s blade occasionally gleams with an ethereal blue light as it clashes against the cultists. The enemy press in, their red robes billowing as they hurl bolts of fire at him. Teqosa raises the glaive to shield himself, and I fear it won¡¯t protect him. Yet somehow, the weapon absorbs the malevolent energy, as the blue light intensifies with each impact.
Beside him, S¨ªqalat wields her spear with equal prowess. The shaft of the weapon extends and retracts with a mesmerizing¡ªand terrifying¡ªfluidity. She whips around the loose part with the spear¡¯s blade, smashing into the ranks of the zealots. With a flick of her wrist, she sends the blade spinning in a wide arc, causing the blade to dig into the flesh of those who dare to come too close. Then, in an instant, the weapon snaps back into its spear form. She plunges the razor-sharp tip into the heart of a charging cultist.
But the cultists are relentless. Their ranks are seemingly endless as they push Teqosa and S¨ªqalat back, herding them toward a corner of the desecrated room. Teqosa¡¯s eyes are illuminated by the the blue glow of his glaive. S¨ªqalat glances around with rising unease. She knows they¡¯re being cornered, knows that their odds of survival are dwindling by the moment. I see the desperation in their eyes, the way their backs press against the cold, defiled stone, the cultists closing in. They won¡¯t last much longer against such overwhelming numbers.
¡°Over here!¡± I shout, but my voice is swallowed by the roar of battle, lost in the inferno of sound that surrounds us. The roaring flames. The droning cultists. The clash of weapons. I reach out with my powers, feeling the pull of the water in the air, the moisture that clings to the walls, the dampness that lingers in the very stones of the throne room.
With a sweep of my arm, I draw whatever water I can wield together, pulling it into a swirling barrier around Teqosa and S¨ªqalat. The liquid forms a protective shield, shimmering with an otherworldly light, deflecting the orbs of flame hurtling at them. Teqosa stares in wonder at the water that whirls around him, droplets refracting the blue glow of his glaive into a thousand tiny rainbows. But there¡¯s no time to marvel¡ªhis eyes snap up to meet mine, and he gives me a quick, appreciative nod before turning back to the fight.
Before we can catch our breath, the ground beneath us rumbles once more. I spin around just in time to see the priest of the Eye in the Flame, the one who has been crafting this nightmare. His eyes burn with a sickly green light. With the Auilqa prisoners out of arm¡¯s reach, he grabs one of the stray cultists in robes of gray and begins to chant. His captive looks panicked, struggling to free himself from the priest¡¯s grasp. Reacting to his low and menacing voice, the air quivers and quakes at his command. A quick swipe across the cultist¡¯s neck startles me, blood gushing to the ground as he gasps gargling breaths. From his blood, flames surround the priest, leaping higher, as if feeding off his words. The cultists nearby seem to draw strength from it, their attacks growing even more frenzied.
¡°We need to stop him,¡± Paxilche yells with urgency, pointing to the priest.
But reaching him is easier said than done. The zealots close in, forming a protective ring around their leader, their eyes glazed with an otherworldly fervor. Paxilche attempts to cast lighting down upon them, but the flashes fizzle off some invisible barrier. They dart every which way, striking the decaying vegetation and setting it alight. The priest is thrilled by this result, laughing maniacally as the flames around him continue to grow taller and taller.
A cultist in gray robes rushes at me, slashing the air with his obsidian blade. Out of desperation, I raise my hand, summoning the water from the air around me. With a flick of my wrist, a whip of liquid lashes out, knocking his weapon from his grasp. Before he can react, I send a burst of water crashing into his chest, hurling him back into the mass of his comrades.
Suddenly, another cultist lunges at me from the side, his blade aiming for my throat. I barely manage to avoid the attack, but I lose my balance and stumble to the ground. Before I can recover, he¡¯s on me again, a snarl of hatred on his lips. I struggle to stand, my muscles giving out from overexerting myself so much for so long. I brace myself for the impending strike, but it never comes.
An ocelot leaps out of the mist, claws and turquoise tail flashing in the dim light. The cultist screams as the animal tears into him, giving me the chance I need to retaliate. From deep within me, I loose a primordial yell and summon a torrent of water, knocking my attacker off his feet and into the far wall. He doesn¡¯t get back up. But neither can I, crouched on the ground, exhausted.
My heart flutters at the sight of Saqatli¡¯s companion, relieved she¡¯s okay after all. But I can¡¯t celebrate just yet. I give a quick nod to Noch in thanks, then turn my focus back to the priest in crimson.
I feel the life sapping out of me. I¡¯ve exerted myself too much, and I don¡¯t know how much more I can give. We¡¯re close now, just a few more strides, but the energy radiating from him is almost unbearable. It¡¯s like a physical force, pushing us back, sapping our strength with each step.
Somehow, Teqosa is the first to reach the altar. With a guttural roar, he swings his weapon, aiming to break the priest¡¯s concentration. But the priest in crimson simply raises his hand, making a subtle gesture as if swatting away a fly. Teqosa freezes mid-strike, his body halting against his will. His eyes widen in shock as his arm refuses to move, the weight of his own weapon pulling him down as though caught in an invisible vice.
Teqosa gnashes his teeth, fighting the force holding him in place. But the priest exerts his will with another flick of the wrist. Teqosa¡¯s body twists painfully, his glaive clattering to the ground. The blue light of his blade flickers and dims as though the priest is siphoning away his strength.
¡°Fool,¡± the priest hisses, his eyes glinting with cruel satisfaction. ¡°You think your blood is yours to command? You belong to us now.¡±
Panic flashes in Teqosa¡¯s eyes, but his body refuses to obey his desperate will. Each muscle strains, trembling with the effort to break free. But the priest¡¯s power holds firm, tightening his grip around Teqosa¡¯s very soul.
From the altar, the flames flare violently, as though feeding off Teqosa¡¯s defiance. The altar begins to crack under the strain of the ritual magic, and for a moment, it feels like the entire room might collapse under the mounting pressure.
I feel the familiar pull of my amulet, its power stirring with an otherworldly urgency. I gather all my remaining strength, channeling it into the amulet that hangs around my neck. The water around me surges forward, twisting and coiling as it rushes toward the priest. It crashes into the flames, steam hissing as the two elements collide. The force of the water stuns the priest momentarily, breaking his concentration. Teqosa staggers back as the invisible hold over him shatters, gasping as his limbs regain their freedom.
¡°Now!¡± I shout, hoping to awaken the Qantua warrior from his haze.
Teqosa wastes no time. He lunges forward, retrieving his weapon, then cuts through the air with renewed vigor. The blue light from his blade pulses stronger now that he¡¯s free. The priest stumbles, but manages to deflect the first blow with a hasty wave of his hand with a fiery shield that sparks to life just in time. Teqosa presses the advantage. His strikes come faster, harder. Each swing pushes the priest back, forcing him to pour more and more energy into his defenses.
Before the priest can fully recover his footing, S¨ªqalat joins the fray. Her blade slices through the remnants of the priest¡¯s magical barrier, forcing the priest to split his attention between them both. The priest¡¯s eyes blaze with frustration as he fends off their coordinated attacks. His movements become more erratic, the fire in his hands flickering weakly under the strain of maintaining his defenses.
With a fierce cry, Teqosa slams his blade into the fire priest¡¯s shield, shattering it entirely. The impact sends the priest stumbling backward, clutching at his chest in shock and pain. He¡¯s barely holding on, regaining his balance just in time.
But the priest of fire isn¡¯t finished. With a snarl, he raises his ritual blade, the greenish-yellow light swirling around his hands growing brighter, more intense. The ground beneath us shakes as he begins to chant, his voice rising above the din of battle.
¡°Stop him!¡± Paxilche yells, summoning a bolt of lightning that strikes the priest square in the chest.
But the priest barely falters, his grip on the blade tightening as the incantation flows from his lips. With a quick swipe, the priest in crimson slashes the air, tearing a jagged rift in the very fabric of reality. A flood of oppressive energy surges through the room, hitting us like a riptide. It¡¯s as if we¡¯re caught in a violent current, dragging us backward. The force disorients me, like being pulled under by the sea¡ªfighting to break the surface, but feeling the weight of the deep pulling me further into the dark.
He steps through the rift, and his form disappears into the void. But not before he turns back to face us one last time. ¡°This is far from over,¡± he sneers, his voice fading as the rift closes behind him.
Relief pours into the room like a calm after the storm. I can finally breathe, air filling my lungs where moments before it had felt suffocating. The overwhelming force dissipates, retreating like the sea at low tide, leaving only the wreckage of our surroundings behind.
We¡¯re left in stunned silence, the echoes of the battle still ringing in our ears. The once-grand throne room of Qasiunqa lies in ruins around us. So, too, do the faithful followers of the Eye in the Flame.
131 - Legido
It¡¯s their wide smiles amidst the decay and degradation that you find to be the most unsettling. Still reeling from the shock of Xiatlidar¡¯s wretched state, the settlers around you now stand face-to-face with the two men who promised them paradise. Vitor Criato and Atelmaro Ulloa stride towards you, their expressions unnervingly bright, as if they¡¯ve just stepped out of the grandeur they¡¯d sold you on back in the homeland. But here, surrounded by the rot and ruin of their so-called utopia, those smiles feel like a cruel joke that the rest of you haven¡¯t heard yet¡ªor worse, a truth that you are all too late to understand.
Criato extends his arms as if to embrace the newcomers. His cheeks are flushed, and he exudes a kind of oily charm, the kind that slides off him like sweat. Beside him, the younger renowned explorer, Ulloa, maintains his rigid expression, as if trying out the concept of smiling for the first time. The two men look almost out of place in their finery¡ªCriato in his meticulously tailored coat, its deep crimson fabric untouched by dirt, and Ulloa in his elaborate vest, adorned with gold embroidery and numerous ribbons that catch the dim light. Their faces are clean-shaven and their hair carefully groomed, as if the squalor around them simply doesn¡¯t exist in their world.
¡°Welcome, welcome to Xiatlidar!¡± Criato¡¯s voice rings out, rich and booming, as if he¡¯s addressing a gathering of nobility rather than a group of haggard, disillusioned settlers. ¡°You¡¯ve finally arrived at the place we spoke of so fondly. The land of opportunity, the promise of new beginnings!¡±
The settlers exchange uneasy glances. The hollow-eyed, gaunt faces they passed on their way in, the stench of decay, and the sagging buildings¡ªthey speak of anything but opportunity. And yet here are these two men, standing with an air of pride as if they¡¯ve brought you to a hidden gem rather than a festering wound in the heart of a foreign land.
Sensing the uncertainty, the veteran Criato takes another step forward with an unwavering expression. ¡°I¡¯m sure it must be overwhelming, seeing Xiatlidar for the first time. But fear not! With time, you¡¯ll come to understand the great opportunity that lies before you.¡±
There¡¯s that word again, ¡®opportunity¡¯. How could anyone see this desolate place as an opportunity? Your gaze once again drifts to the settlers already here¡ªthe hollow-eyed figures who watch from the shadows with expressions void of hope. They are the true testament to what awaits you, what Iker tried to warn you about.
Captain Lema looks about the setting warily. ¡°What has¡ happened here?¡± he asks, struggling to conjure the question as he takes in the state of disrepair.
Criato¡¯s smile falters for a moment¡ªso quick you might have imagined it¡ªbefore he smoothly recovers. ¡°Ah, the forest, my dear captain. It¡¯s a wild, untamed thing, you see. We¡¯ve faced challenges, certainly, but that¡¯s the nature of exploration, isn¡¯t it? Any experienced adventurer would understand. We knew it wouldn¡¯t be easy, but the rewards¡ oh, the rewards are still within our grasp.¡±
Your group looks at one another, confused. What rewards await in a place like this? Some are noticeably trying to convince themselves that what they¡¯re seeing is some kind of mistake, something temporary. But others don¡¯t seem as easily swayed, including Captain Lema, who inspects the settlement skeptically.
¡°I would¡¯ve thought,¡± the captain says with a tinge of suspicion, ¡°that having the Great Xiatli present would have lead to a more¡ thriving settlement, no?¡±
¡°Paradise doesn¡¯t come without effort, Captain,¡± Criato insists. ¡°It is something to be built, to be earned. What you see now¡ it¡¯s merely the foundation. A place where the true glory of our Sapa will soon shine through.¡±
Ulloa nods stoically in agreement, his gaze sweeping over the crowd. Speaking to nobody in particular, he proclaims, ¡°Indeed, we were chosen by Xiatli Himself to lead this endeavor, to shape this land into a beacon of prosperity. And you, all of you, have been selected to be part of this grand vision.¡±
The words ring hollow, like they¡¯re part of a practiced speech full of false promises and empty assurances. Such statements were told to you all back in Legido, but something feels off about them being spoken here, amidst all of this. And yet the way they speak, with such conviction¡ it almost makes you question your own perception. Almost.
Captain Lema stiffens beside you, clenching his jaw. ¡°What exactly do you expect us to do here?¡± he asks.
Criato¡¯s smile never wavers, but there¡¯s a jarring coldness in his eyes now. ¡°You were brought to these lands to work, Captain. To contribute to the great cause. Xiatli has chosen you, just as He chose all of us, to play your part in this grand vision. And in return, you will be rewarded with His favor.¡±
Ulloa steps forward, his presence almost menacing despite the smile still plastered on his face. ¡°But of course, Captain, if you have doubts, if any of you have doubts¡¡± he almost glares at those of you gathered before him, ¡°you are free to leave.¡± His voice drops, pausing to take in the worried expressions of your group. ¡°Though I must warn you, there is nothing beyond these grounds but wilderness and death.¡±
You glance around at the other settlers, noticing their pale faces, and their eyes wide with fear. Every instinct in your body screams at you to turn and run, to escape this place. But there is no escape¡ªonly the suffocating realization that you are trapped, just as the settlers who came before you were trapped. The once-hopeful whispers of the group have died out, replaced by the uneasy silence of resignation.
When no one speaks up, Criato takes it as a sign that he¡¯s won this battle, that those who are inferior have been put in their place. ¡°You all must be exhausted from your journey,¡± he says, his tone dripping with false concern. ¡°But fear not, we will take care of you¡ªjust as Xiatli Himself has willed it.¡±
The settlers murmur among themselves, but Criato waves it away with a dismissive hand. ¡°Come,¡± he urges, gesturing for the group to follow. ¡°We have much to discuss. Xiatli has great plans for all of you.¡±
As you walk deeper into Xiatlidar, the illusion of paradise continues to crumble. The streets are nothing more than uneven patches of mud and rot, the ground beneath your feet sinking with each step. The structures around you that were meant to be homes and places of refuge are decaying husks¡ªwalls bowed inward, their wooden frames swollen and splintering from the relentless moisture. What were once likely vibrant banners of crimson and gold and blue now hang in tatters, their colors faded to a sickly brown, fluttering weakly in the stagnant air. How could it all have fallen apart so quickly?
The smell is nearly unbearable, a rancid mix of mold, decay, and something far worse that lingers at the edge of your senses. The sound of dripping water splattering against the mud echoes in the silence with a slow, daunting rhythm. The forest seems to claw its way back into the heart of the settlement¡ªvines creeping over walls, roots breaking through the thin floors, as if the very land is reclaiming what was taken from it.
You pass what must have once been envisioned to be a communal gathering area. Now, the remains of the failed construction efforts are little more than a pit filled with stagnant, murky water. The few settlers who dare to venture outside their crumbling homes move like lost spirits, their eyes hollow and lifeless, as if the hope has been drained from them long before you arrived.
Criato and Ulloa stride through this festering decay as if they are walking through a grand palace. They talk of great plans and divine favor, completely oblivious¡ªor perhaps willfully ignorant¡ªof the ruin that is all too apparent to everyone else. The pair lead the way with an air of superiority, as though they are gods among men. They covertly speak in low tones, their voices just loud enough for you to catch snatches of their conversation¡ªvague references to ¡°sacrifices¡± and ¡°the chosen,¡± words that make your blood run cold.
Landera steps closer to you, her voice a whisper meant only for your ears. ¡°It¡¯s worse than Iker described. This isn¡¯t right. None of this is right.¡±
You nod subtly, your own anxiety deepening. Criato and Ulloa continue to speak, their words wrapping around the crowd like a suffocating fog. They talk of the glory of Xiatli, of the sacrifices that must be made for the greater good, of the rewards that await those who prove themselves worthy. It¡¯s all so carefully crafted, so practiced¡ªand because of how frequently the same words have been repeated, so disingenuous.
And then Criato¡¯s gaze lands on you. His smile widens as if he can sense your doubt, your fear. ¡°You must be excited to be here, to be part of something so much greater than yourself.¡±
Fear surges through every nerve in your body. Why are you being singled out? What are you supposed to say? You¡¯ve been quiet for too long, and the pause is turning awkward. You feel the words caught in your throat. There¡¯s a sudden pain at your side as you feel a jab to your ribs. You look at the source, and find it¡¯s Landera, her eyes urging you to say something, anything.
¡°Y-yes, sir,¡± you manage to stammer. ¡°To serve the cause is a great honor, indeed.¡±
Though Ulloa remains stoic, Criato beams. ¡°Everyone has a purpose, in the eyes of the great Xiatli. He sees everyone¡¯s value, everyone¡¯s use. I expect He sees great things for you, too!¡±
¡®Great things for you¡¯? Is there something he knows that you don¡¯t? What does Xiatli have planned for you? You glance at Landera, at Iker, but both are unresponsive as they¡¯re taking in the dreaded scene around them.
The encounter is unsettling, and as much as you¡¯d like to put the moment behind you, it lingers like a bad odor that has seeped into your garments. Or, maybe, there¡¯s a genuine foul stench that has clung to your clothes, given the stagnating water everywhere that turns this area into a swampy mess.
Ulloa points to a location further away from the rest of the settlement, indicating this is where you all are free to establish your camp. While it¡¯s mercifully a distance from this disastrous center of the settlement, there isn¡¯t much of a clearing to ideally set up any tents. Shrubs fill any spaces between the trees, and the terrain is littered with loose rocks, making many uncomfortable given the recent traumatic events. Yet Captain Lema looks at the area with indifference, seemingly succumbing to fate. He orders everyone to move out and begin clearing the land to make way for your new camp.
¡°Psst,¡± you hear. You search for the source, only to find Landera waving you toward her. You sneak over to her, wondering why she¡¯s being so secretive.
She looks at you conspiratorially. ¡°I think there¡¯s a place way over there¡ª¡° she points to some unseen location beyond the dilapidated buildings toward what you assume to be potential farmland¡ªthough it could use a lot of work, in your opinion. ¡°We could stake it as our own and not have to do all that work!¡±
Landera has a point. Nobody appears to have laid claim to the area¡ªwhile it will require some clearing out to make it more habitable, the work won¡¯t be anywhere near as much as the place Ulloa designated for you all. This seems like an excellent work around, one that will hopefully make your time in Xiatlidar somewhat bearable.
The two of you get to work right away. The excitement of your discovery lends a burst of energy to your tired limbs. Landera grins as she yanks away a stubborn vine, revealing a patch of relatively clear ground beneath. ¡°See? This is much better than what Ulloa had in mind,¡± she says, her voice filled with a rare note of optimism among these trying times. While still rough around the edges, you find that the area has a certain charm to it¡ªan almost serene quality, as though the land itself had been waiting for someone to enjoy it. The trees here are tall and provide ample shade, their branches rustling gently in the breeze. It¡¯s a small slice of peace in the midst of the degradation that is Xiatlidar.
As you both continue to clear away the underbrush, the sound of your work blends with the distant noise of the settlement. Even from here, the grumbles of settlers struggling with their far less appealing plots can be faintly heard. Rocks are shifted, thorny shrubs are pulled out by the roots, and within a short while, the area begins to take shape as a potential new home. The ground is level, the soil is surprisingly soft, and the space is large enough for your tents and maybe even a small fire pit. You and Landera share a satisfied glance, both of you knowing that you¡¯ve found something worth holding onto in this desolate place.
Did you know this text is from a different site? Read the official version to support the creator.
Just as Landera starts to unroll her tent, you hear the sound of footsteps behind you¡ªheavy, purposeful. A knot of unease tightens in your stomach. You turn slowly, and your worst fears are confirmed as Benicto and Dorez emerge from the shadows of the trees, their figures hulking against the dimming light.
¡°So,¡± Benicto sneers, ¡°this is where you decided to hide, oilaskoa. Seems like you are your accomplice have found yourselves a nice little spot. Conveniently far from the rest of us, isn¡¯t it?¡±
Dorez crosses her arms with a cold and calculating expression. ¡°I should¡¯ve known the two of you were up to something. Thinking you could just take the best spot for yourselves while the rest of us toil away in the muck.¡±
Landera steps forward, fighting to keep her voice steady despite the visible surge of anger. ¡°We found this place fair and square. It was open, and we¡¯ve done the work to clear it out. If you wanted something better, you should¡¯ve looked harder.¡±
Benicto surveys the clearing. ¡°Except this isn¡¯t where Ulloa told you to set up, is it? You thought you could just pick the best spot for yourselves?¡±
You glance at Dorez, a silent plea in your eyes. You had started to think that maybe the two of you had turned a corner and were beginning to form a tentative friendship. But she meets your gaze with a hard, unyielding stare, and her earlier friendliness is now a distant memory.
Benicto chuckles darkly, taking another step closer. ¡°You know what? I don¡¯t think we¡¯ll report you to Captain Lema after all. We think this spot suits us just fine.¡±
Dorez smirks, her eyes glinting with malice. ¡°So why don¡¯t you be good little Legido and move along? We¡¯ll take it from here.¡±
Landera¡¯s eyes flash with defiance as she charges up to Benicto. ¡°We¡¯re not going anywhere. We found this place, and we¡¯re staying. If you want it, you¡¯re going to have to fight for it.¡±
Benicto and Dorez exchange a glance, clearly sizing up the situation. You can see the calculation in their eyes, the way they¡¯re weighing their options. The smirk fixed to Dorez¡¯s face tells you all you need to know about their intentions. Your heart drums in your ears, and your breath comes in short bursts. Just as Benicto seems ready to make a move, a shadow falls across the clearing.
¡°Is there a problem here?¡± Gartzen¡¯s voice cuts in with a stern look.
All four of you turn to face him, as everyone is caught off guard. Gartzen¡¯s gaze sweeps over the scene, taking in the cleared area, the defensiveness of your stances, and the barely concealed hostility between you and the other two.
¡°Seems like this spot is in high demand,¡± Gartzen observes coolly. ¡°But I¡¯m afraid it¡¯s off-limits to all of you.¡±
¡°What?¡± Landera blurts out in disbelief.
¡°You heard me,¡± Gartzen replies, his tone brooking no argument. ¡°No one¡¯s setting up camp here. Ulloa directed us to set up our tents over there. Find somewhere else.¡±
Benicto and Dorez exchange frustrated glances, but they know better than to challenge Gartzen. Without another word, they turn and stomp away, their earlier bravado deflated. You and Landera watch them go, a mix of relief and frustration bubbling within you.
Gartzen turns to you with a hard gaze. ¡°That goes for you two, as well. Find another spot. And next time, don¡¯t try to skirt around orders.¡±
With that, he strides away, leaving you and Landera to pack up your things and start the search all over again. She shakes her head and kicks the dirt in frustration. After all your hard work, the fleeting victory you¡¯d felt moments ago now feels like ash in your mouth.
¡°It was a good idea, at least,¡± you offer, hoping to console your friend.
¡°Let¡¯s go,¡± she mutters, slumping her shoulders and unable to keep her head up as she sulks away.
The two of you drag your feet through the rough paths of the settlement. Landera laments that all the good places¡ªor those that could barely be considered ¡°good¡±¡ªare likely to be taken, so there¡¯s no need to rush back. Therefore, you try to take in the day, and the warmth of the sun on your face, even if it means pinching your nose while you walk past the marshy patches throughout the colony.
The commotion amidst the otherwise quiet calm immediately draws your attention. Landera looks at you with curiosity, wondering what¡¯s taking place. With a nod, you both hurry over to see what the clamoring is about.
You weave through the muddy paths, around the meager dwellings, and eventually arrive to the edge of the settlement. Hundreds, if not thousands, are swarming around a few figures in the middle of the calamity. Is it a fight? Is there some news from elsewhere? The two of you slip your way through the crowds, sneaking between and around the settlers¡¯ legs to get closer to the source of the frenzy.
Your breath almost entirely escapes your body at the sight. Next to Criato and Ulloa is the Great Xiatli, His very presence commanding awe and fear in equal measure. The luminescent figure hovers ever so slightly above the ground, the only glimmering and pristine entity in this abysmal place. His shimmering gold tunic, armor, and radiant headpiece glow brighter than the sun. He looks down upon all who have gathered with regality, though you get the sense that He feels this matter is beneath Him.
He extends a golden arm toward one of the settlers bowing before His feet. You observe the man, whose soiled clothes are greatly tattered and ripped, as if he¡¯s journeyed long and far for whatever he¡¯s presenting to the Great Xiatli. He doesn¡¯t dare look upon the deity, instead keeping his eyes fixed to the ground at his feet.
The person next to the bowing figure, who also doesn¡¯t meet Xiatli¡¯s gaze, looks equally worse for wear. His dirtied red and blue shirt and leather trousers hang loosely from his figure, and his angular face is marked with numerous scrapes and scratches. Both men wear worn leather shoes on their feet that are barely held together by fraying laces.
It¡¯s this other person who sputters out, ¡°Great Sapa, we have returned from the long journey with this great gift.¡± He waves a hand to his companion, who holds out his arms and is frozen in place, too scared to move. He offers something in his trembling hands that you can¡¯t quite make out from where you stand.
¡°We worked the rivers for a long time,¡± the other man continues, ¡°and were able to find these pieces of gold. Though they will never be as brilliant as You, they off us hope that riches do, in fact, exist in this land!¡±
For an instant, you believe you see a hint of a smile across the man¡¯s lips. Though he doesn¡¯t hide it well, it¡¯s clear that he¡¯s proud of what the two of them achieved. It¡¯s difficult for you to see the gold, hardly looking like anything more than dirt or dust in their hands. But the murmurs and remarks from those around you indicate that this must be true, that there are riches here after all.
¡°A joyous day!¡± Criato boasts. He swings a fist in the air, and the crowd around you rejoices. Cheers and shouts erupt throughout those gathered, and you think you may have even seen Ulloa display a subtle smile. Men and women clap one another on their backs, hugs are exchanged, and a surge of celebration brightens up the atmosphere. There is hope now, a sudden feeling that maybe this tough journey has finally shown it¡¯s been worth the struggles.
¡°We should begin searching those streams at once,¡± Criato declares. ¡°Let¡¯s begin assembling teams to¡ª¡°
¡°No,¡± Xiatli¡¯s voice booms, rumbling the ground. Smiles fade, embraces are undone, and everyone looks about with confusion. ¡°This is a pittance, and not what I seek. This?¡± He holds up the flakes of gold that glint meekly in the sunlight. ¡°This is meaningless.¡±
The Great Xiatli tosses the tiny gold pieces aside and into the surrounding mud. Everyone around you gasps, staring at the place where the flakes are likely to have been flung. Yet you notice that no one seeks them. No one drops to their hands and knees to search for the flecks of gold. You¡¯re all too stunned to care, wondering what in this world could be more valuable than gold.
The deity scowls, staring daggers at the two men. By now, they¡¯ve dropped to the ground, laying flat and nearly kissing the mud before the Great Xiatli¡¯s feet. You think you hear them muttering apologies, or maybe they¡¯re prayers. But you definitely know they¡¯re begging for mercy, for the Great Xiatli to spare them their lives.
With disgust, the Great Xiatli practically spits on the ground before them. ¡°It should have been here,¡± is all he says. He repeats this a few more times, swiveling his head as though looking for whatever he claims was to exist in this place.
Only Vitor Criato is brave enough to interrupt the deity¡¯s loathing. ¡°My Sapa, perhaps what you seek is only a short distance away. If we travel to where You¡ª¡°
The Great Xiatli strikes the renowned explorer with a swift punch to his face. Criato immediately drops to the ground, clutching his jaw, but not daring to utter even a groan in agony out of fear of upsetting his deity further. ¡°It is not here,¡± the Great Xiatli declares. ¡°If it is not in these infernal forests, then it does not exist here. We must continue on without it. You,¡± he points to Captain Lema, ¡°prepare a ship to return to Auruma Xosta. After gathering the necessary supplies, have it return to these shores at once.¡±
Captain Lema is overcome with bewilderment. ¡°My Sapa, that will take months to travel there and back. What more supplies could we possibly need that we don¡¯t already possess here?¡±
You swallow your heart back down your throat. Did he dare question the Great Xiatli? He¡¯s either incredibly brave or incredibly stupid, you determine. You thought Captain Lema had better sense than that!
If He could do so with a single stare, the Great Xiatli would burn Captain Lema where he stands. He flies straight to the doomed captain, towering above him with a rage of a thousand suns. ¡°Do you have something more important to attend to here?¡± He asks starkly. ¡°Do you believe yourself to be more important than what I command?¡±
The deity waves a hand, too disgusted with Captain Lema to look at him any longer. ¡°I have no use for you, then. Seize him and¡ª¡°
Captain Lema falls to his knees. ¡°My Sapa, no!¡± he pleads, and you find his desperate groveling to be pathetic. ¡°I-I-I will do as You command, of course! Whatever will support the cause, I shall do, without question!¡±
Criato smirks ominously as he takes much pleasure in this moment. ¡°You heard the Great Xiatli,¡± he says with flamboyance. ¡°We are to seize you and¡ª¡°
¡°Sapa!¡± Captain Lema shouts. ¡°Four months!¡±
Everyone ceases. Ulloa and Criato exchange a look of bafflement. In the silence, Captain Lema continues. ¡°I will return to Legido, collect the supplies You desire, and return here in four months.¡±
Criato looses a hearty, cynical laugh. ¡°It took us more than four months just to arrive to these lands,¡± he notes sardonically. ¡°And you think you can make the trip to and from Auruma Xosta in the same amount of time? Have you lost your mind at sea?¡±
¡°If it spares my life for just four months and a day longer, it will be worth the effort,¡± Captain Lema states. ¡°But with my crew, I know I can do it.¡±
The Great Xiatli studies the marked captain long and thoroughly. His lips tighten, and He never blinks as He meets the doomed captain¡¯s pleading gaze. The crowd murmurs, questioning Captain Lema¡¯s sanity, and wondering if the deity will spare him his life.
After what feels like days, the Great Xiatli finally announces His decision. ¡°Very well. I will return to Xiatlidar in exactly four months. If your ship is not visible on the horizon, I will track you down and kill you and your family immediately.¡±
You¡¯re unsure how the Great Xiatli will fulfill this promise, but as a deity, you don¡¯t doubt that He has the means to do so. Captain Lema nods abruptly, repeatedly thanking the merciful Xiatli while taking hurried steps backward. He calls to Gartzen and his crew to join him, and in this moment, your heart sinks. Are you, too, supposed to return to Legido? Is Landera?
Someone pulls at your arm, drawing you into the swarm of people. Your instinct is to fight them off, shrugging away the hand that has latched onto you. But with a quick glance, you see Iker¡¯s face emerge from between two settlers.
¡°Come on!¡± he urges. ¡°This way!¡± His eyes eagerly ask you to follow him, away from this place. You look for Landera, but you can¡¯t find her among the mass of people. You try calling out for her once, but Iker places his hand caked with dirt over your mouth.
¡°You can¡¯t alert anyone to you!¡± he warns. ¡°Otherwise, you¡¯ll get pulled onto the ship. We have to go.¡±
You can¡¯t stop worrying about Landera. Has she been tasked to help crew the ship? Knowing what you know of her secret, will she be okay? Iker pulls you further and further away, but your thoughts remain fixated on what might happen to her.
Eventually, you make it through the dense crowd and reach a clearing. Just a few steps ahead, the site Ulloa designated for your people¡¯s campsite comes into view. Tools and belongings are strewn about like poorly sewn seeds. The tents are haphazardly constructed, with not enough time given to set them up correctly before the commotion occurred.
¡°I¡¯ve got to go back and find Landera,¡± you tell Iker. When he looks at you with a raised eyebrow, you quickly correct yourself. ¡°Err, Lander. He might be pulled back onto that crew, and who knows what will happen then.¡± You hope he hadn¡¯t noticed your slip-up.
Iker looks at you curiously. ¡°But he¡¯s an excellent sailor, from all accounts. Wouldn¡¯t that be wise, to have Lander rejoin the crew? To ensure they all make it back in four months?¡±
¡°Four months is impossible!¡± you remark. ¡°You heard Criato. That¡¯s not even as long as it took us to arrive here! The Great Xiatli might have everyone on board killed if they don¡¯t return quick enough for His liking.¡±
¡°Why are you so worried about Lander?¡± he asks with suspicion. ¡°You only just met him on the ship.¡±
You¡¯re taken aback by Iker¡¯s inquiry. ¡°Because he¡¯s a friend,¡± you answer incredulously. Why should he care who you befriend? What is it to him that you¡¯re concerned for a friend?
You¡¯re about to confront him about this when members of your group, those settlers from Aitzabal, slowly trickle in. They look worn down, defeated. Feet are dragged, shoulders slouched. It¡¯s as if they¡¯re returning from a long, arduous journey, not a short distance from the center of the settlement.
You try to get an answer from someone, anyone, flailing your arms and calling out to the others to get their attention. They¡¯re too lost in their thoughts to notice you. What new development occurred in the short time you and Iker were away? Is everyone being sent back to Legido with Captain Lema? Are you all being forced to return to your homeland?
Eventually¡ªfinally¡ªyou¡¯re able to grab the shoulders of a young woman whose gaze is blank as she stares at the ground. She doesn¡¯t really look at you when you speak, as her attention seems to be off in the distant somewhere beyond these lands. Her weathered faced looks as if she¡¯s worked tirelessly under the sun without a moment¡¯s rest.
¡°Our Sapa has spoken,¡± she says faintly, sounding in disbelief. When you ask her to tell you what He said, she looks as if she¡¯s about to break down and cry. ¡°We must leave. But we just got here.¡±
Can this be? You¡¯re on the move again? Are you not, in fact, welcomed here? The questions swirl in your mind, and you don¡¯t know what¡¯s been commanded of you all.
¡°He said¡¡± she swallows hard and fights back the tears. ¡°He said we must leave at dawn.¡±
¡°Who must leave? Just us?¡± Iker questions. ¡°Where are we to go?¡±
The woman bursts into fits of crying, clasping her head in her hands. Between sobs, she mumbles, ¡°All of us. Everyone in Xiatlidar. And we¡¯re to head further north, into the mountains.¡±
132 - Teqosa
I can only stare dumbfounded at the space now left empty after the cult priest¡¯s departure. I turn to look at S¨ªqalat, to ensure I am not the only witness to such an event. With her mouth agape, she stands as still as the stone structures surrounding us, seemingly unable to move. Her eyes remain fixed to the spot where the evil leader once stood.
¡°Look out!¡±
A shout alerts me to the incoming projectile hurtling toward me. I duck just in time as a ball of fire blazes over my head. S¨ªqalat narrowly avoids being struck, and the orb of fire soars through the air, smashing into the crumbling stone wall of this chamber.
Searching for the source, I watch as Auilqa warriors, with blood red streaks across their faces and bare chests, storm into the ruins of this sacred place. They possess a wide range of expressions: fear, confusion, anger. Much like us, they, too, wonder what to make of this latest development, having been abandoned and left behind by someone they chose to worship.
Someone yells a command in the disjointed Auilqa tongue. Behind the slew of warriors, figures in the crimson robes emerge. With their faces shrouded by the shadow of their hoods, they point their crooked, knobby fingers in our direction. Having us surrounded, the Auilqa turn to look at us, slowly raising their tightly-clutched spears.
¡°That can¡¯t be good,¡± S¨ªqalat remarks.
¡°What did they say?¡± I inquire somewhat under my breath, as though the volume of my voice might set off the combat.
¡°They said,¡± she answers while gradually constructing the components of her spear, not making any sudden movements, ¡°we are the enemy that seek to disrupt the prophecy. And we must be stopped, as the priest commanded.¡±
The young man in the white and red of Qiapu whips his head around to look at her and me. Alarmed, he asks, ¡°You speak the tongue of Auilqa?¡± S¨ªqalat raises a single eyebrow and nods curtly.
¡°Anyway,¡± she says, sounding annoyed at the interruption, ¡°if we¡¯re going to make it out of here alive, it appears we¡¯re going to need to get through the lot of them. And I¡¯d guess there are several thousand waiting to cut us down like stalks of maize.¡±
Slowly turning her head to the recent arrivals¡ªthe professed allies who curiously appeared suddenly¡ªshe continues, ¡°If any of you have any good ideas as to how we¡¯re supposed to make that happen, I¡¯m open to suggestions.¡±
There¡¯s an abrupt gasp. The young woman¡ªthe one with the most startling blue eyes¡ªcovers her mouth with her hands in shock. I turn to see what has startled her, and it¡¯s a decapitated head, shoved through a spike that rests by an oddly-shaped device that rests on a stand made of stone. Through an extravagant headpiece made from bone and feathers, the frozen expression on the face is one of sheer terror, as though the victim was not expecting this fate.
¡°That¡¯s¡ Xolotzi,¡± the young woman mutters. She gags, quickly turning away from the horrific sight.
¡°Who¡¯s that?¡± S¨ªqalat inquires.
¡°The leader of the Auilqa,¡± one of their warrior companions says. He is clad in coral and teal, with touches of deep blue and bronze. Perhaps he¡¯s of the Sanqo, judging by the colors. ¡°Well, he was,¡± the man corrects himself.
¡°They made a spectacle of taking his life, the life of their own ruler,¡± says the one in white and red. He reaches behind him and retrieves the large, black war club strapped to his back. I have never seen the weapon¡¯s equal, admiring the intricate patterns of gold and copper adorning it, and turquoise embedded among ornate carvings throughout. Holding the club in his hands, he mutters, ¡°These lunatics won¡¯t stop until everything is ash. Looks like we must fight our way out.¡±
¡°Wait!¡± The young woman with blue eyes holds out a hand toward us, to get our attention. ¡°Speak to them, to the Auilqa. We needn¡¯t turn to unnecessary violence if we can only remind them that¡ª¡°
¡°They¡¯ve made their choice,¡± the Qiapu speaks through gnashed teeth. ¡°They must suffer the consequences of their decisions.¡±
The young woman wishes to say more, but she¡¯s given no more time to speak. The Qiapu raises his war club, and the Auilqa loose deafening war cries that echo through the desecrated throne room. Dozens upon dozens of warriors surround us, hoisting their spears aloft. The open air chamber slowly glows alight as the remaining robed figures raise their hands, with wisps of fire rising from their fingers.
The Auilqa warriors lunge at us from all sides. It all happens in a blur¡ªscreaming warriors, blazing orbs of fire, and the sharp clash of obsidian weapons filling the air. There¡¯s no time to think. No time to strategize.
I move instinctively, bringing my enchanted glaive to bear just as one of the Auilqa charges. The glaive hums in my hands, absorbing the fiery tendrils loosed from the crimson-robed sorcerers. A spear thrusts toward me. I twist my body, and the blade of my glaive deflects it with ease. My hands tingle as the energy from their fire surges through the weapon, making it feel alive in my grip. With a swift upward slash, I catch the spear-wielder off guard and drop him to the ground.
To my left, S¨ªqalat spins her spear like a whirlwind. With a quick flick of her wrist, the spear detaches into its three distinct parts, and she swings the disassembled weapon like a chain whip. It crackles as it cuts through the air, knocking an Auilqa warrior off his feet and sending another sprawling back, blood streaking from a nasty gash.
¡°Left flank!¡± she shouts, pulling the spear together in a single, fluid motion as another wave of warriors rush toward her.
A blast of water suddenly slams into the attackers from behind. I glance back and see the blue-eyed girl, her hands outstretched as a torrent of liquid spirals from the nearby reflecting pool and cracked stone floor beneath her. She uses the water to grab one of the sorcerers, dragging him toward her with surprising force. His robe is soaked through, and he flails desperately as she hurls him against the wall, knocking him unconscious.
I hear a rumbling behind me¡ªthunder, distant at first, but growing louder. I turn my head just in time to see the young Qiapu man standing beside her. He raises his black war club high into the air, his weapon glowing with the same eerie blue light as the storm clouds swirling overhead. A bolt of lightning strikes down from the clouds, ripping through the open ceiling, and smashes into the terrain between the cultists. The shockwave scatters their formation, sending several warriors and sorcerers reeling. He channels this storm with terrifying ease, wielding it as if it were merely an extension of his weapon.
¡°They¡¯re going to keep coming unless we stop those fire-throwers!¡± the young woman next to him shouts, already sending another wave of water toward the group of sorcerers.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see the young Auilqa boy crouch low. His muscles ripple, and in the blink of an eye, his form shifts into a sleek, powerful jaguar. His fur gleams under the dim light, and his eyes flash with lethal intent. With a ferocious growl, he leaps into the fray, fangs and claws tearing through the nearest Auilqa warriors with frightening speed. His ocelot companion darts between warriors, slashing at their ankles and causing them to stumble, easy prey for his powerful jaws.
¡°By the gods,¡± I reflexively mutter, struggling to comprehend what I¡¯m seeing. These people are not ordinary warriors. Their powers, their strength, it¡¯s beyond anything I¡¯ve ever witnessed. And it resonates deep inside of me¡ªa haunting echo of my sister, Entilqan. Her powers, her divinity¡ they worshipped her, just as these people might be revered.
The ground beneath me trembles as the dark, fiery energy from the sorcerers¡¯ magic flies toward me again and again. I twist just in time to avoid another burst of flame. But a searing edge catches my arm. White-hot, blinding pain erupts, racing through my veins like molten metal. The air itself seems to warp around the wound, the heat scorching deeper than any flame I¡¯ve ever felt. It¡¯s seemingly burning from the inside out, as if it¡¯s trying to consume me.
A Sanqo leader rushes forward, flashing his obsidian sword through the air as he squares up against an Auilqa warrior. Their weapons clash, and the Sanqo leader twists, using the momentum to drive his blade deep into his foe¡¯s side. The warrior crumples, but another attacker hurriedly charges toward him. The Sanqo leader is ready, parrying the spear and delivering a swift kick that sends the warrior sprawling.
One of the young woman¡¯s companions wields his mighty war axe with the fury of a storm. He roars as he swings the massive weapon, and the Auilqa warriors stand no chance against his brutal strength. Another with twin daggers that flash in and out like viper fangs moves about the battlefield, ducking and weaving, while swiftly slashing throats and slicing tendons.
But the sorcerers won¡¯t give up without a fight. Cloaked in a darker red than the rest, one of them begins chanting in a guttural tone. The fire in his hands grows hotter, brighter. Flames rise from the ground around him, forming a towering inferno. The temperature in the throne room rises rapidly, and for a brief moment, I fear we¡¯ll be incinerated where we stand.
¡°Enough!¡± yells the Qiapu who controls the lightning, raising his club high. He swings it down with all his might, and the storm clouds above crack open. The ground quakes, sending foes tumbling. A torrent of rain douses the flames and sends the cultist stumbling back.
The Auilqa warriors falter. Seeing the power we wield, many of them now begin to hesitate. They glance nervously at the robed figures, unsure whether to continue fighting. One of the warriors¡ªa young man with fear flooding his eyes¡ªdrops his spear and raises his hands in surrender.
¡°It¡¯s over!¡± I shout, my voice ringing out across the battlefield. ¡°You don¡¯t have to die here. Lay down your weapons!¡±
S¨ªqalat repeats my statement in the Auilqa tongue, and some of the remaining warriors slowly lower their spears, their faces a mixture of fear and shame. But the zealots¡ªthe true believers¡ªscream in defiance, their faces twisted with a manic fervor that sends a chill through me. They will not be swayed by defeat. They charge forward, the curved, serrated blades of their ceremonial daggers raised high with an unnatural glint in the dim light.
I barely have time to react before they¡¯re upon us.
My grip tightens around the haft of my glaive. I rush forward to meet them head-on. We collide like waves crashing against the rocks.
The first zealot strikes wildly, his dagger slashing through the air, aimed at my throat. I parry with a quick twist of my glaive, the metal ringing as it meets his blade. But immediately, something feels wrong¡ªa jarring pulse runs through the weapon at the moment of impact. It¡¯s not just the force of the strike. It¡¯s something deeper, darker. It¡¯s like the energy that thrummed through the ritual S¨ªqalat and I performed to enter Qasiunqa. My grip tightens as I realize the dagger¡¯s blade is shimmering, alive with something unnatural.
I shove him back, my muscles straining with the effort, and swing my glaive in a wide arc. The black blade hums as it cuts through the zealot¡¯s side, and I feel the glaive pulse again, this time absorbing energy from the zealot himself. The man collapses, his life draining as though the glaive is pulling it from him. The satisfaction of the strike is brief¡ªmy limbs feel heavier than they should, and a cold dread floods my mind.
Before I can catch my breath, the second zealot is already on me. Her dagger thrusts toward my chest with terrifying precision. I pivot, deflecting most of the blow with the haft of my glaive, but the edge of her blade grazes my side. A wave of searing pain crashes through me, and for a moment, I falter. It¡¯s as if the wound has unlocked something dark inside me. I feel the lingering effects of the ritual, weakening my defenses against this twisted magic. I fight to stay conscious as she presses her attack, slashing at me with wild, frenzied movements. Her eyes are wide, unblinking, and her mouth moves in a soundless chant.
Support creative writers by reading their stories on Royal Road, not stolen versions.
Desperate, I swing my glaive downward, aiming to end her assault. But she cooly deflects my strike with her dagger. This time, the pulse of energy is stronger. Darker. Her weapon flares with a strange light, absorbing all color around us. For a fleeting instant, I swear it¡¯s pushing back against me, resisting the force of my glaive as though it has a will of its own. My arms tremble under the weight of it, the strain building, and I realize that I¡¯m not just fighting her¡ªI¡¯m fighting the lingering darkness that clings to me.
The glaive hums again, its own energy surging in response, and for a brief moment, it feels like it¡¯s holding the darkness at bay, balancing the scales between the zealot¡¯s twisted magic and my own failing strength. But I know it¡¯s only a matter of time before the darkness overwhelms me again.
A third zealot rushes me from the side, and this time, I act without thinking. My glaive seems to move of its own accord, the energy within it guiding my hand. The blade vibrates with power as I raise it high and bring it down in a sweeping arc. The zealot tries to block with his dagger, but my glaive absorbs the energy from his weapon the moment they collide. His dagger flickers and dies, its magic extinguished as though consumed by my blade. With a swift follow-up strike, I cleave through his defenses. He looks at me in horror as the glaive pierces through him, and he falls to the ground with a final, choked gasp.
I breathe heavily, my chest rising and falling as I survey the battlefield. Around me, S¨ªqalat and the others continue the fight. But something in me has shifted. This glaive, this weapon¡ What ¡®gift¡¯ has Inqil bestowed upon me? Is this a power I should be wielding?
The sounding of a loud horn carries over the din of battle. Nearly everyone stops in their tracks. It¡¯s the alarm of approaching enemies. Are more cultists rushing into Qasiunqa? How many thousands more must we face? Are we to die fighting the Eye in the Flame here, in the heart of Auilqa territory?
From the haze of battle and kicked-up dirt and dust emerges a solitary figure. Initially, I fear the priest in crimson has returned, having regrouped and ready to finish what he¡¯s started once and for all. It isn¡¯t until I make out the wooden cart and the shape of a llama that I¡¯m somewhat put at ease.
Approaching us is Upachu, guiding the llama and cart to our location. In one of his hands, he holds a large, curved, wooden horn, decorated in ornate markings and elaborate-colored feathers. He lifts the horn to his lips, blowing a resounding blast of noise that forces everyone to stand in place.
With their attention distracted, we seize the remaining sorcerers. A few put up a fight, resisting their restraints. A couple of skirmishes break out, and the Sanqo warriors accompanying the strangers are left with little choice but to dispatch them where they stand. I can only shake my head, knowing these zealots would rather die for their maniacal cause than save their lives. They believe they are martyrs for something greater; instead, they will be like dust blown away by the wind, forgotten by the ages.
He lowers the horn and steps forward, his weathered features hardened in a way I¡¯ve never seen before. There¡¯s no gentle wisdom in his eyes now, no soft words of coaxing¡ªjust cold, burning purpose. This is not the Upachu I¡¯ve come to know. He strides through the throne room with a fierce authority, and for a moment, I swear I see something otherworldly about him.
Still clutching their weapons, the Auilqa warriors falter. Their eyes follow Upachu¡¯s every move as if recognizing something in him that even they cannot fully understand.
Upachu doesn¡¯t hesitate. With eyes glowing a searing white, he speaks in the Auilqa tongue¡ªloud and commanding, each syllable is like a strike in the air. His words sound guttural, yet they visibly resonate through the bodies of the warriors, rippling through their bones like a deep tremor.
I glance at S¨ªqalat as she listens intently. She doesn¡¯t immediately translate, as she¡¯s too caught up in Upachu¡¯s speech, astonished. Though I don¡¯t understand the words, his tone is unmistakable. It¡¯s the tone of a general confronting his warriors, or a father scolding his errant children¡ªa rebuke, but laced with authority and expectation. He is not here to plead; he is here to demand.
He walks among them, staring each Auilqa convert in the eye, as if daring them to challenge him. Their gazes drop one by one, as though they are unable to meet his fiery glare. His voice rises again, his words growing harsher. There¡¯s no need for S¨ªqalat¡¯s translation yet¡ªI understand the intent, the raw meaning, even if the language escapes me.
Finally, S¨ªqalat turns to me. She appears conflicted, but she speaks in a low voice, translating his harsh address.
¡°He¡¯s telling them that they¡¯ve been cowards,¡± she begins, sounding someone bewildered. ¡°That they¡¯ve abandoned their ancestors, their honor. That they have willingly followed false promises from outsiders, believing they would lead them to glory. But instead, they¡¯ve been dragged into a pit of darkness.¡±
Her eyes flick to Upachu, who stands over the group of converts with a presence that feels larger than life.
¡°He says¡ they¡¯ve dishonored their families, that their ancestors turn their backs on them. They will not be welcomed by the gods in the afterlife if they continue down this path.¡± She pauses, then adds quietly, ¡°He¡¯s calling them¡ traitors.¡±
I can see the effect his words have on the Auilqa warriors. Shoulders sag, faces lower in shame. Some of them shake their heads, others clutch their weapons more tightly as if trying to find some anchor, some way to justify their choices. But Upachu gives them no room for doubt.
The old man¡¯s voice rises again, and this time, his tone is more commanding. He lifts his hands, gesturing to the fallen around them, to the ruined throne room, to the head of their once revered ruler, to the devastation their choices have wrought.
¡°Upachu¡¯s telling them they still have a choice,¡± S¨ªqalat translates, her voice barely above a whisper. ¡°That if they want any hope of redemption, they must rise now, fight for their people and their honor. I¡¯ve never heard him speak like this! He¡¯s¡ he¡¯s offering them a chance to make things right, but only if they turn their backs on the Eye in the Flame.¡±
For a moment, the chamber is still. The Auilqa stand frozen, caught between the shame Upachu has placed on them and the terrifying consequences of their own choices. Upachu holds out a hand, and many of the converted Auilqa drop their heads.
And then, one by one, a few of the warriors fall to their knees, some even dropping their weapons at Upachu¡¯s feet in silent submission. The sound of metal clattering against stone echoes jarringly in the silence that follows his words. Others follow, though not all. I watch as the more zealous converts remain standing. Their eyes remain hard and unyielding, clinging to their beliefs like a shield.
But Upachu isn¡¯t done. His voice booms across the ruined throne room once more, harsher, stronger, as though demanding an answer from those who still stand. He points directly at them, his words like a whip.
¡°He¡¯s telling them that the time for half-measures is over,¡± S¨ªqalat translates in a breathless rush. ¡°Either they stand with their people now, or they will be remembered as the ones who let their entire people die in shame.¡±
The words hit like a thunderclap. Dozens and dozens more drop their spears, eyes downcast. But there are a handful of remaining zealots who refuse. Those who stay loyal to the Eye in the Flame raise their weapons once more. Their defiance burns brightly, and they appear ready to fight for their newfound beliefs.
The first clash comes from the left as a zealot in red robes tries to escape, charging toward the exit. But one of the Auilqa, with spear in hand, steps in his path. With a forceful thrust, the Auilqa drives the spear through the sorcerer¡¯s chest. There¡¯s no hesitation, only a fierce desire to reclaim his honor. The cultist of the Eye in the Flame crumples to the ground, his robes drenched in blood.
Around the throne room, the few remaining sorcerers raise their hands, flames flickering to life around their fingers. But the Auilqa¡ªthose who have been converted back to the conviction of their people¡ªmove like a tidal wave. The shame that once weighed on them has turned to fury. They fight, eager to win back what little remains.
A warrior charges one of the cultists, knocking him to the ground with a vicious blow from the butt of his spear. The robed figure¡¯s hands blaze with white-hot flame. But before he can send the fire hurtling toward the Auilqa, two more warriors pin him to the floor. They wrestle the flames down, choking the magic out with sheer force. One of the warriors grabs a piece of cloth and stuffs it into the sorcerer¡¯s mouth to silence his incantations, while the other binds his hands. Soon after, the glowing flames flicker out like dying embers.
The same occurs across the chamber. Where there had once been a chaotic swirl of fire and violence, now the Auilqa swarm the remaining zealots. I watch as one Auilqa warrior whose face is lined with a deep scar confronts an old companion now streaked in the red markings of the cult across his torso. There¡¯s a moment where their eyes lock, pain and betrayal passing between them, before the Auilqa makes his choice. He disarms his former brother in arms, knocking the weapon from his hand, and then forces him to the ground, pressing his knee into his back.
Those most loyal to the Eye in the Flame continue to fight, hands ablaze as they summon the last of their power. But they are too few, and the Auilqa too determined to right their wrongs. One by one, the remaining sorcerers are captured. Their wrists are bound behind their backs, and their mouths have been gagged to prevent them from calling on their destructive magic.
A tense quiet settles over the chamber. With their hands bound tightly behind their backs, the captured sorcerers kneel in the center of the desecrated throne room. Their crimson robes are torn and charred, yet despite their wounds and shackles, they kneel with an unsettling calm.
I step forward and glare at the sorcerer in the center. His hood has slipped back, revealing a gaunt face marred by burns and scars. Despite his circumstances, he looks up at me with cold amusement, as though the chains and ropes mean nothing. It¡¯s as if he¡¯s waiting for something¡ªor knows something we do not.
¡°You,¡± I say with a measured voice. ¡°Your priest has fled. His plans have failed. Tell us what he intended to do here in Qasiunqa, and you might yet be spared.¡±
I pause, giving the man a chance to speak. But instead of answering, he smirks¡ªa twisted, knowing grin that sends a ripple of unease through me. The other sorcerers exchange glances, and one of them begins to chuckle softly, mockingly. Soon, they are all laughing, as if sharing in some private joke.
With her spear resting at her side, S¨ªqalat stands next to me, visibly irritated. ¡°They think this is funny?¡±
¡°These faithful to the Eye in the Flame are prepared to die for their cause,¡± Upachu mutters. ¡°They see us as insignificant.¡±
The laughter fades as the lead sorcerer looks up again, this time locking eyes with me. His gaze is like ice, chilling me to the bone. ¡°You think you can stop what is coming?¡± he hisses through bloodied lips. ¡°The plans of Eztletiqa are beyond your comprehension. We are His servants, and we will gladly die before betraying Him.¡±
I glance over at the others, those outsiders who have joined our fight. The young woman with stark, blue eyes, standing with that calm, controlled power that surrounds her. The Qiapu with the war club, bristling with barely-contained rage. The young Auilqa boy who can turn into a fierce jaguar stands by nervously. Their companions in various colors of the Sanqo and Qiapu looking on with grave concern.
Upachu takes a step closer, his old eyes studying the sorcerers. ¡°There is nothing beyond redemption,¡± he speaks softly to them. ¡°You could still help your people, if you give us what we need. What was the priest trying to summon here? And why?¡±
The sorcerer¡¯s grin widens, proudly displaying his blood-stained teeth. ¡°You will not live long enough to stop it,¡± he snarls.
That¡¯s when I see it: the flicker in the young Qiapu man¡¯s eyes, the shift in his body as the air around him thickens with the scent of rain. His fists clench around his war club. His jaw tightens, fury radiating from him in waves. ¡°Fine,¡± he mutters through gritted teeth. ¡°They¡¯ve proven they¡¯re not worth saving.¡±
¡°Wait¡ª¡± I start, but it¡¯s too late.
The young Qiapu man raises his war club high, and the sky answers him. A crack of lightning tears through the air, then strikes the center of the throne room with a deafening roar. The energy surges through the stone floor, arcing toward the kneeling sorcerers in a blinding flash. The impact is instantaneous¡ªthe captives scream, their bodies convulsing as the lightning rips through them.
The Auilqa who were restraining them are caught in the blast. Their bodies are flung backward by the force of the strike. The stench of singed flesh and burnt cloth seeps into every corner of the chamber. The sorcerers fall silent, their charred forms slumping lifelessly to the ground.
For several heartbeats, the entire room is still. The only sound is the fading echo of the thunder, ringing in my ears.
¡°Paxilche!¡± the furious voice of the young woman with blue eyes pierces through the shock. She strides forward, her face flushed red with anger. ¡°What have you done?¡±
He turns to her, chest heaving, and his eyes are still blazing with the remnants of his fury. ¡°Don¡¯t you see?¡± he snaps, pointing at the smoldering corpses. ¡°They were never going to talk. You saw it as well as I did, Walumaq. They were laughing at us!¡±
The one he calls Walumaq steps closer, her voice dropping low, dangerous. ¡°And now we¡¯ll never know what they were planning. You¡¯ve cost us valuable information. Again. We don¡¯t even know if the Auilqa you struck will survive!¡±
One of the fallen Auilqa warriors lies curled on the ground, groaning weakly as his breaths come shallow and ragged. Blood seeps between his fingers as he clutches his side, battling against the pain. I glance at the others¡ªsome twitching in agony, others are still, lifeless. This entire situation is unraveling, fast.
Upachu kneels by the injured Auilqa, shaking his head slowly with eyes that are filled with sorrow. ¡°This wasn¡¯t the way,¡± he murmurs.
Tension crackles between the ones called Paxilche and Walumaq, like the remnants of the lightning that still seems to hum in the room. The rest of us stand in stunned silence, unsure of how to proceed. How could I ever trust this man who wields such destructive power so recklessly, and those who seemingly allow this to occur unopposed?
It¡¯s Upachu who finally breaks the silence. ¡°You know us, but know nothing about you. We need to speak. Names, intentions. Before this escalates further.¡±
He looks directly at the young woman with the piercing blue eyes. ¡°You. Who are you?¡± Perhaps he is still riding the rush of adrenaline from his earlier actions, but whatever is causing it, I respect his directness.
She hesitates for a heartbeat, her eyes darting to Paxilche and then to the others. Her other warrior companions are taken aback by Upachu¡¯s abrupt questioning. ¡°I am Walumaq,¡± she says at last, her voice calmer than I would expect. ¡°Princess of the Sanqo.¡±
¡°Princess of the Sanqo¡¡± I repeat, as the name of the faction sends a ripple of recognition through me. This confirms these are not just some wandering strangers¡ªthey are from the other side of the continent.
I glance briefly at the one she called Paxilche, still bristling with barely-contained fury. I then meet Walumaq¡¯s gaze, ¡°It seems we need to address how you all handle your¡ diplomacy.¡±
133 - Inuxeq
Long, slow breath in. Long, slow breath out.
Staring down the points of so many raised makeshift weapons, I fear that any sudden movement, or even breathing too loudly, will set these Aimue farmers off into a frenzied fit of fighting. Even more piercing and threatening are the glares I receive from everyone collected here. With the smoldering city behind them, the situation feels dire and grim, as if battle will begin at any given moment.
Long, slow breath in. Long, slow breath out.
I try to take a slow, calming breath, but it catches in my throat. Every instinct screams at me to act, to draw my weapon and defend myself. But I hold still, watching the man tighten his grip around his crude spear. One wrong move, and this could erupt into violence neither of us can afford.
¡°Wait!¡± I shout, louder this time. My voice feels raw as the words scrape my throat. ¡°There¡¯s been a huge misunderstanding. We didn¡¯t attack you.¡±
¡°A misunderstanding?¡± one of the Aimue scoffs. ¡°The warriors behind you wear the colors of the Qantua, do they not? The same colors that laid waste to our fields, looted our supplies, and killed anyone who resisted. Now you come back to finish us off?¡±
¡°Was it not enough,¡± another Aimue adds, her thin face covered in soot and ash, ¡°to pillage our homes and wipe out our stocks from the harvest the first time? Did you already deplete the foods you stole from us?¡±
I¡¯m baffled by their accusations. The only time we set foot in these lands was during a chance encounter with the Eye in the Flame, and discovered their plans to travel to Qapauma after fighting them off from this place. Why, then, are we being confused for attackers?
My frustration rises. This wasn¡¯t us! I want to shout, but I try my best to keep my voice steady¡ªand likely will fail in the effort to do so. ¡°These warriors are Qantua, yes, but we¡¯ve only been through this region once¡ªover a moon cycle ago. We came here to help, not destroy.¡±
¡°Help?¡± The woman laughs bitterly. ¡°You expect us to believe that? Do you think we are fools? You Qantua are all the same. Your warriors came through, wearing the same colors, and left us in even greater ruin.¡±
I glance back at the warriors behind me, who, like me, are bewildered. No matter what I say, the Aimue farmers seem convinced. ¡°You keep saying we attacked,¡± I press, my frustration mounting, ¡°but it wasn¡¯t us, I assure you. You need to be clear: when did this happen? Who led the attack?¡±
¡°You ask as if you don¡¯t know,¡± a woman with tear-streaked cheeks spits. ¡°Bore the same cursed symbol¡ªa twelve-pointed sun! Came in the night like thieves, they did. They came and took everything. Our food, our water¡ whatever little we had left to rebuild.¡±
The mention of a twelve-pointed sun makes me pause. We bear no such thing. Should I know of this symbol? It sounds familiar, but I can¡¯t place where I¡¯ve seen such a sigil before.
¡°A sun, you said? Did you see it clearly? Describe it to me.¡±
Still holding his makeshift weapon threateningly, the man scowls. ¡°Clear as day,¡± he says. ¡°A twelve-pointed sun, with a face at the center¡ªits eyes cold, unfeeling. They carried it as if they were gods, as if we were beneath them.¡±
Another farmer speaks up, his voice cracking. ¡°They came with fire in their eyes, claiming they were the new rulers of Pachil. The sun marked their armor, their weapons.¡± He spits on the ground toward my feet. ¡°They promised they¡¯d crush anyone who stood in their way. And you wear the same colors. How can we trust you?¡±
¡®New rulers of Pachil¡¯? That sounds like talk from the Eye in the Flame. But they say we wear the same colors as their attackers. Are there Qantua who have joined the cult?
My mind races at the mention of the sun. I gradually recall the blackened coin and the twelve-pointed sun we found in that village, the symbol we couldn¡¯t fully identify at the time. Could this be related?
My gaze snaps to the Aimue leader. ¡°The sun sigil¡ did they say who led them?¡±
His eyes narrow. ¡°Their leader didn''t need to say much. His warriors spoke of him¡ªa ruthless general who would take Pachil under his rule. They said the Arbiter is too weak to lead every faction, and a stronger ruler should be put in place.¡±
The farmer¡¯s words send a jolt through me. A stronger ruler¡ too weak to lead every faction¡ Who is this Qantua leader making such bold proclamations? My grip tightens on the hilt of my obsidian dagger as the silence stretches between us, pondering who this mysterious person might be.
Behind me, I hear murmurs. I glance back, just enough to see some of the Qantua warriors shifting uneasily. I can barely make out their words¡ªthey speak to one another in hushed, conspiratorial tones.
¡°Sounds like what Tiahesi was saying¡¡± one of them whispers.
¡°Tiahesi always said Taqsame would bring strength,¡± another mutters under his breath, though the glances they throw in my direction suggest they¡¯re careful not to be heard clearly. Not careful enough, however.
My blood runs cold. That name, Tiahesi. His betrayal has been a sore spot since he mysteriously vanished when we were last in these lands. But it¡¯s still difficult to accept how many of the Qantua warriors I¡¯m trying to lead might have been swayed by his rebellious actions, or rebellious words uttered when I wasn¡¯t around. Is he somehow connected to Taqsame? That is another name I haven¡¯t thought of in quite some time.
I clench my jaw, trying to remain focused, but the doubt creeping into these warriors¡¯ voices only adds to the pressure. I know I must address them soon¡ªbefore these quiet whispers become more than just passive doubts.
However, the Aimue leader is still glaring at me, awaiting a response. His crude weapon never lowers. ¡°We¡¯ve seen the symbol,¡± he says, his voice hard. ¡°Your people marched through our lands, declaring that this¡ªthis sun¡ªwas the mark of our new rulers. Whoever they were, your people carried themselves like conquerors.¡±
I open my mouth to protest, but the words stick in my throat. Conquerors. Rulers. The image of that sun flashes in my mind again. Could it really be tied to Taqsame? He had spoken of the Arbiter¡¯s weakness at the council meeting in Hilaqta. His was always the loudest voice calling for immediate action against the perceived enemies of Qantua. The thought unsettles me.
But before I can respond, another voice speaks¡ªanother of the Qantua warriors.
¡°So, Tiahesi was right after all,¡± a warrior grumbles behind me. ¡°We should¡¯ve joined with Taqsame. We¡¯re wasting time following her.¡±
I spin around, fury in my chest. ¡°Who said that?¡± My voice cuts through the murmurs. ¡°You dare speak of that deserter, Tiahesi, here?¡±
The warriors look away, none of them bold enough to admit who spoke. But I know they¡¯re thinking it. Tiahesi had planted seeds of dissent before he left, and now, with this new accusation against us, those seeds are starting to grow. He knew something I didn¡¯t. And Taqsame¡ the thought of the overly ambitious general makes my blood boil.
The moment drags on as I stare down the Qantua warriors, daring one of them to speak up, to betray even a flicker of disloyalty. But no one moves, no one speaks. Not yet. They¡¯re still biding their time, waiting for me to slip.
With a slow breath, I turn back toward the Aimue, pushing the uncertainty of my own warriors to the back of my mind. There¡¯s a greater threat in front of me right now. If I can just get them to listen, I might have a chance of turning my fortunes around.
¡°Listen,¡± I say, locking eyes with the Aimue leader, ¡°I don¡¯t know who attacked you, and I have my suspicions as to who¡¯s behind this, but it wasn¡¯t us. The Qantua I command didn¡¯t take your food, didn¡¯t burn your homes. I swear to you, the Qantua behind me are loyal to our cause, not to some warlord who plunders for his own gain. We¡¯ve been fighting the Eye in the Flame since we left Qapauma.¡±
The Aimue leader weighs my words with much skepticism. ¡°You expect us to believe you don¡¯t know? Your warriors wear their colors. You know who is responsible because you follow him. What¡¯s stopping you from finishing the job your ruler started?¡± He points a trembling finger at the Qantua warriors behind me. ¡°The twelve-pointed sun, burned into their shields, stitched into their armor. He claimed to be your leader, the one to bring down the Arbiter and take Pachil for himself.¡±
Was that his plan all along? To march an army across Pachil, using the chaos of the Eye in the Flame as his excuse to seize power? I bite the inside of my cheek, recalling the council meetings, the clashes between Teqosa and Taqsame. Could this be what Taqsame meant when he spoke of ¡°claiming what rightfully belongs¡± to the Qantua?
Snapping me out of my daze, another Aimue woman remarks, decidedly unconvinced by my response. ¡°Your warriors wear the same armor, the same colors. How do we know you¡¯re not just biding your time?¡±
My patience frays. ¡°Because if we were here to destroy you, we¡¯d have done it already,¡± I say sharply. ¡°We¡¯re not your enemy. I swear it.¡±
The Aimue leader holds my gaze for a long, tense moment, watching me distrustingly. But before I can say more, the murmurs behind me grow louder, drawing my attention back to the Qantua warriors. The whispers have started up again.
¡°Tiahesi warned us,¡± one says in a hushed voice. ¡°We should¡¯ve listened to him after all.¡±
¡°And what has this Tuatiu done but lead us into more battles?¡± another mutters.
The quiet grumblings begin to swell, growing into something more dangerous. It¡¯s like watching the cracks spread across a dam, knowing the flood is coming, but unable to stop it.
I take a step toward them, my voice hardening. ¡°You¡¯ll listen to me, or¡ª¡±
¡°I¡¯m done listening to you, following you!¡± The voice cuts through the air and pierces me like an arrow. I search for the source, finding the speaker to be a young Qantua warrior, barely old enough to hold a spear. His face is twisted in anger as he makes his presence known. ¡°You¡¯re not even one of us! Why should we follow you when Taqsame is apparently the one doing something? He¡¯s leading an army. He¡¯s taking control. You¡¯re just dragging us into fights that¡¯ll get us killed!¡±
¡°Yeah, Taqsame had a plan,¡± another warrior now finds his voice, ¡°one that took realaction against the real enemy: The Arbiter.¡±
Unauthorized usage: this tale is on Amazon without the author''s consent. Report any sightings.
¡°Qapauma will burn,¡± I snap, ¡°if Taqsame has his way.¡±
The warriors exchange glances, and I can see the doubt in their faces. If Taqsame really is moving south with an army, how long will it take before more Qantua start questioning me? How soon will they defect, abandoning the cause and allowing the Eye in the Flame to prosper?
Looking back at the Aimue, there¡¯s a smirk on the farmers¡¯ faces. ¡°You¡¯ve got your own problems,¡± one of the farmers sneers. ¡°Looks like your people don¡¯t even know whose side they¡¯re on.¡±
The truth is, I don¡¯t know whose side they¡¯re on either. I¡¯ve been barely holding this group together, and I don¡¯t know if I¡¯ll be able to for much longer. My control over these warriors has been fragile during the best of times. Now, with word spreading that one of their own is making a push for the capital, I know how tempting it will be for the glory seekers¡ªthose who want to be there when the Qantua seize the throne.
I think back to the council, to Teqosa¡¯s argument with Taqsame, to the simmering rage in Taqsame¡¯s eyes when he spoke of reclaiming Pachil by any means necessary. I didn¡¯t believe it at the time. I thought he was just a young general, hungry for power, blinded by his ambitions. But now? This¡ this must be Taqsame¡¯s doing. He¡¯s the one who¡¯s caused Xaqelatun to fall into further disarray, who¡¯s committed these atrocities.
I feel this moment slipping through my fingers. Both sides¡ªthe Aimue and these Qantua warriors¡ªare bearing down upon me, and I don¡¯t know what I can say or do to avoid the inevitable.
Long, slow breath in. Long, slow breath out.
¡°Look,¡± I say, almost defeatedly, ¡°the people of Xaqelatun have been through so much, during a time when peace and prosperity were supposed to reign. First, it was the Eye in the Flame and their horrific beasts, and now this. I understand why you would be distrusting of outsiders, especially those who wear the colors of your recent attackers. But I speak the truth. It was not us who attacked you. That¡¯s not who I am. I only seek to stop the Eye in the Flame before they grow stronger and destroy all of Pachil, as they nearly did to my people in Tuatiu.¡±
The lead Aimue farmer considers my words, but I can see the mistrust still etched on his face. At this point, I¡¯m not sure if anything I say will get through to him.
Before I can push further, a new voice breaks through the silence. ¡°Maybe we should hear her out,¡± says one of the younger Aimue farmers. He steps forward, his battered and aged spear lowered. ¡°What if she¡¯s telling the truth? What if they didn¡¯t attack us? What if we¡¯re wrong?¡±
The older Aimue bristles. ¡°You¡¯d trust them? After what¡¯s happened?¡± His face hardens, but I can feel the ripple of uncertainty passing through the group of farmers.
¡°I don¡¯t know if I trust them,¡± he admits, ¡°but I¡¯m not sure we have a choice. Look around.¡± His voice drops as he gestures to the ruins of their city. ¡°We¡¯ve already lost so much. And if they were going to attack us, they wouldn¡¯t be standing here, wanting to talk. If we keep fighting, if we fight them, well¡ what if we¡¯d be fighting the wrong battle?¡±
His words spark a murmur among the Aimue, some glancing at one another with doubt creeping into their expressions. I see my opening, the briefest sliver of a chance to avoid bloodshed.
¡°You¡¯re right,¡± I say, raising my voice so everyone can hear. ¡°You¡¯ve already lost enough. Don¡¯t throw away what¡¯s left, fighting those who come in peace. We need to stand together, against the real enemy: the Eye in the Flame.¡±
¡°We¡¯re wasting time here.¡±
I turn just in time to see the young warrior speak to the gathered Qantua, continuing to dissent. The grumbling rises again. ¡°Tiahesi was right,¡± he states. ¡°We should have followed him when he left. Taqsame is the true leader of the Qantua. You,¡± he now glares at me, ¡°are nothing but a Tuatiu, an outsider pretending to lead us.¡±
I look the young warrior dead in his eyes, saying cooly, ¡°Taqsame doesn¡¯t care about the Aimue or the Qantua. He¡¯ll burn it all down and leave ruins in his wake if it means he gets the power he wants.¡±
The warrior scoffs. ¡°At least he¡¯s doing something. You¡¯re just dragging us into pointless battles. Taqsame is taking action. He¡¯s claiming what¡¯s ours.¡±
¡°And what¡¯s that?¡± I challenge, charging toward him. ¡°A burnt city? A scorched land? Is that what you want? Your precious Taqsame is not trying to better the Qantua¡ªhe¡¯s marching to seize power for himself.¡±
The warrior¡¯s face twists with anger, and he doesn¡¯t back down. ¡°Maybe power is what we need. Maybe it¡¯s time the Qantua took control of Pachil.¡± Behind him, I can see the other Qantua warriors watching, waiting, their loyalty teetering on the edge. They¡¯re waiting, expecting me to falter, to fail.
But what can I say? What do I have left that will convince them?
Long, slow breath in. Long, slow breath out.
¡°Taqsame¡¯s plan,¡± I begin with a hardening voice, ¡°isn¡¯t a path to glory or power. It¡¯s a path to ruin. He¡¯s not thinking of the Qantua, nor the entirety of Pachil¡ªhe¡¯s thinking of himself, of what he can take.¡±
Emboldened by the murmurs of the others, another warrior speaks up. ¡°And what are you thinking of, Tuatiu? Your words are hollow, and we¡¯re wasting time. If we follow Taqsame, at least we¡¯d be doing something. You claim the Eye in the Flame still exists, yet they¡¯ve been nowhere to be found since Qapauma. You¡¯re just leading us around in circles, chasing specters.¡±
¡°I¡¯m leading you to survive,¡± I snap, feeling the frustration rising. ¡°Taqsame doesn¡¯t care if you survive. You¡¯re a tool to him, nothing more. You think he¡¯s going to share his power when he¡¯s through? No, he¡¯ll leave you to rot, just like he left this city to burn.¡±
The warrior scoffs. ¡°And what¡¯s your plan? You¡¯re not Qantua. You don¡¯t even know us.¡±
I grit my teeth, but he¡¯s right. I¡¯m not Qantua, and every step of the way, they¡¯ve made sure I know it. But I¡¯m here, standing in front of them, trying to hold things together while everything is crumbling. That has to count for something.
My voice trembles with anger. ¡°If you follow him, if you leave here to join him, then you¡¯re no better than those who attacked Xaqelatun. You¡¯ll be feeding into the same cycle of destruction that has eluded peace for generations.¡±
I take a step forward, locking eyes with him. ¡°But if you stay¡ªif you fight for freedom, for each other¡ªthen you become something more. You become the ones who stop the cycle. The ones who refuse to be dust blown by another man¡¯s storm. You want to know my plan? My plan is survival, yes¡ªbut not just for today. For tomorrow. For your children and theirs. My plan is that when this battle against the Eye in the Flame ends, it¡¯s you who stand victorious, as the ones who finally chose to live.¡±
There¡¯s a beat of silence. I can hear the mutterings around me, the whispers of those who still question my leadership. The young warrior looks ready to respond, but before he can, a voice breaks through like a crack of thunder.
¡°She¡¯s right.¡±
Heads turn as a figure steps forward from the crowd of warriors¡ªa Qantua warrior, older than most, with a weathered face and the scars of countless battles carved into his skin. He looks at me with time-worn eyes and a crooked nose likely broken numerous times in combat.
¡°She¡¯s right,¡± he repeats, as his commanding voice booms across the gathered warriors. ¡°I¡¯ve seen men like Taqsame before. Hungry for power. Driven by their own ambition. They speak of unity and strength, but all they leave behind is ruin¡ªwe needn¡¯t look further than here to see proof.¡±
The younger warriors shift uneasily under his gaze as he walks among his people. ¡°I fought alongside many great generals during the War of Liberation¡ªmen and women who had the strength and wisdom to lead us out of darkness. But I also fought against those who wanted power for its own sake. They thought they could claim Pachil for themselves, thought they could seize control and bend others to their will. And do you know where they are now?¡±
His eyes sweep the group, landing on the dissenting warriors. ¡°Dead. Or worse¡ªforgotten.¡±
There¡¯s a pause as he stops pacing, standing with his square jaw raised. ¡°Taqsame is no different. I¡¯ve heard the stories. He had some impressive victories during the war, sure. But I¡¯ve seen men like him rise and fall, believing they were invincible, that warriors should follow them blindly into the abyss. And I can tell you this¡ªmen like him don¡¯t bring greatness. They bring war. And destruction.¡±
The young warrior who had confronted me earlier swallows hard, but his defiance hasn¡¯t completely faded. ¡°But Taqsame¡¯s taking action,¡± he argues weakly. ¡°He¡¯s¡ª¡±
¡°Action for himself,¡± the aged warrior cuts him off. ¡°Taqsame wants the throne. He doesn¡¯t care about the Qantua, about Pachil, or about anyone standing in his way. Follow him, and you¡¯ll be nothing more than kindling for the fire he plans to start.¡±
The veteran turns to me, giving me a nod. ¡°You think following someone like him will bring honor to the Qantua?¡± he asks over his shoulder. ¡°It won¡¯t. The real honor comes from fighting the battles that need to be fought. Not chasing the whims of a man with too much ambition and too little regard for his people.¡±
He steps back, his stance strong, unwavering, as the other warriors finally fall silent. They¡¯re beginning to understand. For the first time, I see a glimmer of doubt in the eyes of those who had once wavered.
¡°We¡¯ve witnessed the destructive force of the Eye in the Flame,¡± he continues. ¡°And her own people have suffered by their hand. If this Tuatiu warrior believes they¡¯re still out there, then they¡¯re still out there.¡±
I swallow hard, feeling a wave of relief. I turn back to the Aimue, who have been watching this entire exchange with wary eyes. The farmers are still tense, their weapons still raised, but there¡¯s a noticeable shift in their stance¡ªa hint of hesitation.
¡°If we fight each other,¡± I say, my voice louder now, more confident, ¡°then we¡¯re doing exactly what the Eye in the Flame wants. They¡¯re sowing division, and we¡¯re tearing ourselves apart while they grow stronger.¡±
¡°And what about this Taqsame?¡± one of the Aimue speaks up. ¡°If he¡¯s as dangerous as you say, why should we trust you? Why should we believe you¡¯ll protect us when your own warriors are turning against you?¡±
I hesitate, not sure how to answer. But before I can, the aged Qantua warrior speaks again. ¡°Because she¡¯s right,¡± he says calmly. ¡°And because if we don¡¯t fight the real enemy together, then we¡¯ll all fall¡ªQantua, Aimue, Tuatiu¡ it won¡¯t matter. Taqsame will be the least of our worries.¡±
¡°If you don¡¯t believe me now, I won¡¯t blame you,¡± I say, speaking to Aimue, Qantua¡ªeveryone willing to listen. ¡°You¡¯ve suffered. You¡¯ve lost. But fighting each other will only leave more bodies on the ground. I swear to you¡ªour fight is with the Eye in the Flame. They¡¯ve torn through Pachil, just as they¡¯ve torn through your lives. And now there¡¯s another threat moving across the land, coming for Qapauma.¡±
I can see the Aimue¡¯s discerning looks, but I persist, as an idea comes to me, quick like a strike of lightning. ¡°I don¡¯t expect you to trust me,¡± I say, looking directly into the eyes of the defeated and exhausted farmers. ¡°But I offer you something tangible: protection. We¡¯ll take your most vulnerable, those who can¡¯t fight, and bring them with us to Qapauma. There¡¯s a camp on the way, maintained by Atima refugees. We¡¯ll find safety there, or we¡¯ll die defending them.¡±
I¡¯m met with a sea of confused faces. ¡°The Atima?¡± a woman farmer asks. ¡°But they were exterminated by the Timuaq. They still exist?¡±
I allow myself a coy smile. ¡°You¡¯d be surprised. They are a resilient people, much like yourselves. They have a campsite near the Tapeu mountains, and they could really use people who know how to work the land.¡±
The Aimue farmers exchange glances, the doubt still present, but softening. The mention of a safe place, a sanctuary away from the horrors of war, seems to have struck their hearts. I press on, feeling the balance tilt in my favor.
¡°I confess, I¡¯m not just here to protect your people. I¡¯m here to rally every brave warrior that can still fight to defend Qapauma, and Pachil, from the Eye in the Flame. Taqsame doesn¡¯t know what awaits his army, but perhaps he can be persuaded. Besides, if Qapauma falls, there will be nothing left of Pachil, and nothing left for him to rule. Everything we know will be consumed in fire. I need your warriors to stand with me. Together, we can stop the madness.¡±
I see the hesitation in their eyes. They¡¯ve been burned before, and they¡¯re not eager to throw themselves back into the fire. But there¡¯s also something else in their look¡ªsomething buried beneath the scars of loss and betrayal.
¡°And what guarantee do we have that you¡¯ll keep your word?¡± the Aimue leader asks, his expression not as rigid as before. ¡°That you won¡¯t just lead us to our deaths?¡±
¡°There are no guarantees,¡± I admit, my voice steady. ¡°But I swear this on my honor: I will defend your people with my life. We¡¯ll get them to safety, and I¡¯ll return with reinforcements who will help you rebuild your lives. But I can¡¯t do that without your help, without warriors who will stand against the Eye in the Flame.¡±
The silence stretches again as the Aimue leader considers my words once more. Slowly, his makeshift weapon lowers, though the wariness in his eyes remains. ¡°I must confess,¡± he says slowly, ¡°this sounds like a tremendous test of our faith. But if what you say is true, we¡¯ll give you what we can. The old, the wounded, they¡¯ll go with you to this Atima campsite. And we can send those to seek revenge against those who ruined our home. But make no mistake¡ªwe¡¯ll hold you to your word. If you fail us, the gods will not forget.¡±
The stress finally melts from my chest. It¡¯s not a full victory, but it¡¯s enough for now.
One of the Qantua warriors suddenly emerges from behind the slew of bodies crowded around me. His face is pale, and his expression is strained with worry. ¡°Inuxeq,¡± he gasps, ¡°I¡¯ve just come from scouting the nearby roads. The villages and way stations on the southern routes¡ they¡¯ve been abandoned or destroyed.¡±
A sinking feeling pulls at my stomach. ¡°Destroyed?¡±
He nods, eyes wide. ¡°They¡¯re burning everything as they move south. They must have taken an alternative path, avoiding the main roads and hiding from plain sight. But they¡¯re not far. Maybe a few days ahead, maybe less.¡±
I clench my fists. Taqsame is burning a path through the countryside, moving through villages no one else knows about, devastating any resistance and claiming everything in his way. If we don¡¯t move now, we¡¯ll lose our chance to stop him before he reaches Qapauma. And the Eye in the Flame? They¡¯re not far behind.
I eagerly look up at the sky, as though the moon that has slowly begun to appear in the midday sky will suddenly have grown full. Alas, it¡¯s still a tiny sliver, barely visible. ¡°We move for Qapauma immediately,¡± I declare. ¡°We need every sword, every spear we can get. We¡¯ll send the vulnerable to Qelantu Loh, but the rest of us must get to Qapauma before it¡¯s too late.¡±
134 - Legido
Your travels north are like a funeral procession. Nobody speaks. No one looks away from the ground. Though the sky is bright and cloudless, and the brisk chill in the air brushes your cheeks, there is no happiness among those journeying to the next destination. Nature and the world around you seems to merrily mock your gloom. There is nothing to celebrate, nothing about which to find joy, excitement.
Where is this next destination? The Great Xiatli has never specified, only saying that you must trek north. Why? What awaits you there? You sense that the god among men has some plan, some greater purpose, but He guards His intentions like a secret held close to His chest. The silence, the not knowing¡ªit has only made this journey more and more unsettling the further you travel.
What is to the north that the Great Xiatli deems so urgent, so vital? When the scouts returned with flecks of gold, the Sapa was not pleased. You could sense His anger burning beneath His cold exterior, but His dismissal of such treasure¡ªthat left you with more questions than answers. The glimmer of gold is meaningless to Him. So what is it that He truly seeks? What could be more valuable than the very thing that has driven countless men to war and madness?
You can¡¯t shake the anxiety that grips you. The further north you go, the worse it feels. But you and the settlers keep moving, trusting in the Great Xiatli¡¯s will even as uncertainty festers beneath the surface. He has never led your people astray before, and He certainly wouldn¡¯t do that now¡ right?
And then, there¡¯s the other matter. Your eyes sweep through the line of trudging bodies, again searching for the face that should be there: Landera¡¯s. Every time you look, she¡¯s nowhere to be found. Your heart beats faster, and the knot of worry tightens in your gut. She was with you, wasn¡¯t she? Just before Captain Lema¡¯s departure, she was among the crowd, within reach. But now, there¡¯s no sign of her. She had been there¡ªsomewhere¡ªon the periphery of your vision. A sick feeling churns in your stomach as you recall how easily she could¡¯ve been swept into his service, another hand to man the ship. Is she gone with him? you wonder. Is that why I can¡¯t find her?
The more you think on it, the more it worries you. Landera wouldn¡¯t have gone without telling you. She wouldn¡¯t have just disappeared. Right? Something else is happening, something you can¡¯t quite place¡ªbut the unease refuses to leave you.
You think back to that moment, how Iker had grabbed you, pulling you into the crowd with such urgency that you barely had time to react. He kept saying he was protecting you from being drafted onto the ship, yet you can¡¯t help but feel a twinge of suspicion. Why had he been so desperate to silence you? You had seen Landera and tried to call out to her. But Iker stifled your voice before you could get her attention. He said it was to save you from the same fate as the poor souls being taken aboard Captain Lema¡¯s doomed ship. But now¡ no, you don¡¯t want to think it.
Yet the thought persists: was that really his only reason?
When Captain Lema made his ludicrous claim that he could sail to Legido and return in four months, you scoffed inwardly at the boldness of his words. Four months? It took longer than that to get here! Yet you noticed the quiet murmurs of doubt, the sidelong glances of the settlers who, like you, knew better. They didn¡¯t voice their objections, but everyone present knew that Captain Lema¡¯s plan would almost certainly end in disaster.
And what of Gartzen? Loyal, dutiful Gartzen, always at Captain Lema¡¯s side¡ªsurely, he would¡¯ve been called upon to sail. Was he aboard the ship now, heading back to Legido for what was certainly a futile mission? Your heart aches for him, for his wellbeing. Captain Lema¡¯s doomed mission will surely sink everyone aboard, taking every crew member down with his ill-fated and desperate plan. Which is why you are so concerned for Landera. Where has she gone?
Your thoughts drift to your family back in your homeland. What are they doing right at this moment? Do they think of you? Do they miss you? Do they curse you? You¡¯ve been away so long, you¡¯re starting to forget their faces. Their voices. Their laughs. Their cries. Even in your dreams, they¡¯re becoming nothing more than fuzzy images floating in your mind. You fear that, if you stay away any longer, you won¡¯t remember anything of your life before boarding that ship.
As the land changes around you, growing more desolate and foreboding the further you are from the shores upon which you landed, you slowly regret having gone on this expedition. There¡¯s a shifting in the air, a pressure building among the lot of you¡ªsomething dark and oppressive. The sky is a bruise, dark and swollen, pressing down on the land. The march is arduous, and the settlers grow more and more exhausted the longer this takes. The elevation continues to increase steadily, and you find it more difficult to catch your breath. Everyone around you is confused as to why you are moving deeper into these unknown and challenging lands. No rest. No respite. Just constant movement forward.
You glance at Criato and Ulloa, riding at the front of the caravan. Their gazes are fixed forward, focused on the course ahead. From the comfort of their horses, they appear well-rested, unimpeded by the treacherous terrain. You almost envy them, all their luxuries and lavish mode of transportation. But the burden of leadership is something of which you will never be jealous. You reason that it must be difficult to have to shoulder so much responsibility for so many people. Perhaps they¡¯re deserving of this, having earned this through their vast expertise.
When the two experienced explorers determine you all have had enough, they mercifully request to the Sapa to set up camp before nightfall. Even from as far back as you¡¯re standing from them, you watch the Great Xiatli¡¯s face drop at this request. But after thoughtful consideration, He reluctantly agrees, waving a dismissive hand and granting permission to cease today¡¯s travels.
Despite this, the settlers around you aren¡¯t relieved. No words are exchanged as they wearily unfurl their bedrolls upon the rocky ground, struggling to find comfort. Even the breeze appears to exercise caution, not wanting to blow too loudly and risk disrupting the silence.
You know it¡¯s futile, but you can¡¯t help yourself. As everyone sets up camp for the night, you check for Landera¡¯s face to miraculously appear. Somehow, the hope within you that she¡¯s traveling among you all remains, unwavering when each previous attempt to locate her fails. Unfortunately, this evening is yet another instance when your friend eludes your expectant gaze.
Nearby, Benicto and Dorez flop atop their bedrolls. Even they are too exhausted to torment you. You count it as one of the few victories you¡¯ve earned this entire journey, though you, too, are too tired to enjoy it.
Iker sits down atop his bedding close by. His face is awash with concern, staring long and hard at the dirt and pebbles by his feet. He picks specks of dirt from beneath his fingernails, unaware of the commotion occurring around him. In fact, you startle him when you approach and sit beside him, despite having called out to him multiple times beforehand.
For a moment, neither of you speaks. The silence between you feels like a fragile thing, something that could shatter with the wrong word. As you study him more closely, you realize there¡¯s more to his demeanor than just exhaustion.
Finally, you break the silence. ¡°Iker?¡±
He doesn¡¯t respond at first, still mindlessly picking at his fingers. But after a beat, his shoulders sag, and he lets out a quiet, shaky breath. ¡°Do you ever feel like this is all for nothing?¡± His voice is low, almost swallowed by the stillness of the incoming night. ¡°Like we¡¯re just going where we¡¯re told, but no one knows why anymore?¡±
You blink, taken aback by the rawness in his questions. You¡¯ve seen Iker frustrated before, even angry, but this is different. This is uncertainty. Fear.
¡°Iker, I¡ª¡°
He cuts you off. ¡°What are we even doing out here?¡± He finally turns to face you, his eyes glistening from the welling tears. ¡°Every day, we march. Every day, we follow the Sapa, like we¡¯re supposed to believe He knows what He¡¯s doing. But look around.¡± He gestures weakly at the huddled settlers around you, their faces hollow with exhaustion. ¡°Look at us. Is this what we came here for?¡±
The sharpness in his voice fades, replaced by a quiet desperation. ¡°We¡¯re losing people,¡± he whispers, as if admitting it aloud makes it worse. ¡°How long before it¡¯s one of us? And what¡¯s the point of all this if we¡¯re not even going to make it?¡±
You hadn¡¯t expected this from Iker. Even though he was never the most boisterous, confident person, this display of pure emotion is frankly unsettling. You empathize with his pain, knowing that you, too, worry about the meaning behind this continuous trek through unknown lands, all to hopefully appease your godlike leader.
¡°I thought if I kept pushing, if I just kept my head down and followed orders, maybe it would make sense. Maybe we¡¯d find something worth all this suffering.¡± He shakes his head, despondent. ¡°But now? I don¡¯t know. I don¡¯t know if there¡¯s anything waiting for us at the end of this. Nothing good, anyway.¡±
You find yourself at a loss for words, unable to respond to your longtime friend. What could you say? Iker¡¯s doubts mirror your own. He speaks the truth neither of you wants to face.
For the first time since this journey began, you realize how close you are to falling into the same despair that grips him. You don¡¯t know why you¡¯re here. You don¡¯t know what¡¯s waiting for you at the end of this. And maybe¡ maybe that¡¯s the scariest part of all.
You reach out to your friend, offering a consoling embrace. But Iker is too upset to acknowledge your effort. Instead, he sinks into the lumpy bedroll beneath him, rolling over and showing you his back. You can only sigh, hanging your head as you decide to follow suit and attempt to sleep.
You didn¡¯t think it possible, but the morning that follows is gloomier than the last.
Not because of the weather, mind you. No, it continues to taunt you all with its cheerful sun and cloudless sky. The birds sing arrogantly, blissfully unaware of your current circumstances. The warm and fragrant breeze that brushes your skin feels like an insult. Even the trees sway gently, oblivious to your plight.
Before the sun rose, Ulloa and Criato barked orders atop their horses, demanding you all to awaken and start the day¡¯s journey. In your daze, you barely gathered your belongings before you were forced to march in line with your fellow settlers. Now, as a crystal-clear river babbles playfully beside you, you can hardly walk while the group trudges onward once again.
Criato rides ahead, as usual, his broad chest puffed out and voice resonates as he shouts orders to his men. He flashes a smile every so often, a gesture of confidence meant to bolster the spirits of the weary settlers. His bright armor glints in the sunlight, catching the attention of those who dare glance up from the dirt beneath their feet. He thrives on their admiration, on the power he holds over them. It feeds something inside him, something insatiable.
¡°Keep moving!¡± he calls out, grinning to a group of soldiers nearby. ¡°The sooner we reach our destination, the sooner we¡¯ll all reap the rewards. Believe me, this land is ripe for the taking!¡±
His voice carries over the march like a beacon of false hope, but those who hear him are too tired to respond. To Criato, their silence doesn¡¯t matter¡ªhe¡¯s speaking to the future, to the legacy he will build here. Every step they take north is another toward his personal glory, toward the fame that will secure his name in history.
Atelmaro Ulloa rides beside him. His expression is as stony as ever. He listens to Criato¡¯s bravado, and though he remains outwardly calm, you can tell that, inwardly, he seethes. Criato¡¯s words grate on him like sand against stone. Every boastful claim, every exaggerated tale of his ¡°discoveries,¡± only deepens Ulloa¡¯s disdain.
At some point during your travels, Criato randomly decides to antagonize his compatriot. He turns to Ulloa with a gleam in his eye, clearly relishing his own voice. ¡°You know what, Atelmaro?¡± He answers his own question, not bothering to await a response. ¡°You¡¯re a man of action, but you lack vision. You see, that¡¯s where we differ.¡± His smile widens, self-satisfied. ¡°You think of duty, of what¡¯s expected. I think of what could be. Of greatness. That¡¯s why I lead.¡±
The author''s tale has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.
Ulloa says nothing at this unsolicited advice. Beneath his mask of stoicism, he clenches his jaw. He knows Criato is trying to provoke him, to get a rise out of him. Criato seemingly thrives on competition, on proving he¡¯s the best. But Ulloa won¡¯t give him the satisfaction. Not yet.
As Criato brags about his past exploits, embellishing each tale with grandiosity, Ulloa narrows his eyes, watching the path ahead. He lets Criato continue his rambling, saying nothing, waiting. You watch as he bides his time, carefully observing.
Mistaking Ulloa¡¯s silence for deference, Criato laughs lightly. ¡°You see, my friend, this land¡ªthis whole land¡ªis ours for the taking. Xiatli knows it, I know it, and soon, even these settlers will know it.¡± He gestures grandly to the horizon. ¡°But they need a leader who can show them the way, who can inspire them to push through their doubt. That¡¯s why I was chosen.¡±
The settlers behind them are barely listening. Their heads are bowed, feet shuffling through the underbrush. To them, it¡¯s just another day of endless marching, another test of endurance with no clear end in sight.
But you can see the tension in Ulloa¡¯s jaw, the way his gaze hardens at Criato¡¯s self-praise. It¡¯s clear enough¡ªCriato¡¯s hunger for glory grates against everything Ulloa stands for. To Ulloa, Criato is nothing more than a circling vulture, waiting to feast on the spoils of someone else¡¯s work.
The heat intensifies as the sun climbs higher. The light bleaches the rugged landscape, washing the caravan in a harsh, golden glare. Birds continue to sing, indifferent to the rising tension between the two men who now ride in silence. Ulloa¡¯s hands tighten around the reins during Criato¡¯s occasional burst of pompous laughter.
Meanwhile, the settlers are struggling. As the caravan winds its way higher and higher, each step becomes more difficult, more painful. The air is even thinner now. The sharp rocks beneath your feet jab at your soles. The wind bites at your skin. It¡¯s a wonder that anything survives here, but somehow, sparse patches of hardy vegetation cling to the ground like desperate hands, refusing to let go.
Up ahead, Criato dismounts his horse. His movements are exaggerated as he approaches a group of settlers. Each of them are hunched over, faces grim and weary from the unrelenting march. Criato¡¯s lively voice booms across the camp, as if they were all gathered in a market square instead of this desolate wilderness.
¡°Come now, there¡¯s no need to suffer alone!¡± he calls out, his grin wide and infectious. ¡°We¡¯re all in this together! You, you there¡ªtake some water.¡± He passes his own flask to a nearby settler, a young man too weak to do more than accept it gratefully, trembling as he takes a sip.
Then he says something that throws you for a loop. Turning to another of the wary settlers, he says, ¡°You must be excited to be here, to be part of something so much greater than yourself.¡±
Those words. They sound eerily familiar. You¡¯ve heard them before. Yes, in fact, he said the very same thing to you, when you were in Xiatlidar!
Out of respect for the esteemed explorer¡ªor, perhaps, simply lacking the energy to do so¡ªthe person doesn¡¯t make eye contact with Criato. Instead, the slouched shoulders of this exhausted individual unenthusiastically shrug.
Unfazed, Criato disrupts the silent response. ¡°Everyone has a purpose, in the eyes of the great Xiatli. He sees everyone¡¯s value, everyone¡¯s use. I expect He sees great things for you, too!¡±
Again, those words. You¡¯ve heard them before, spoken to you. Is this some practiced speech? Something designed to boost morale? To endear himself to those he deems his subjects? You didn¡¯t care for the encounter before, but hearing an echo of your exact engagement with the revered leader feels like a rehearsed performance, meant to manipulate.
Satisfied with this interaction, Criato moves among the settlers with ease, offering small comforts, a kind word here, a helping hand there. The settlers look at him with something bordering on admiration¡ªhis presence is a flicker of hope in an otherwise dismal world.
You can hear him speak as he helps another settler to their feet. ¡°Everyone needs a leader who cares for them¡ªwho ensures their safety and survival. And that¡¯s why I¡¯m here,¡± he says loudly, making sure everyone within earshot has heard him.
His voice echoes through the camp, a deliberate, almost theatrical gesture. And it works. You can see the settlers¡¯ eyes glimmer with something akin to trust as they look at him. To them, Criato is the hero they need, the leader who will take them through this wasteland to whatever glory awaits them on the other side.
You glance toward Ulloa. He stands at the edge of the camp, watching Criato¡¯s performance in silence as he moves quietly among the soldiers. He checks their weapons and supplies, making sure they are prepared for whatever comes next.
No one notices Ulloa¡¯s quiet competence. Not while Criato¡¯s voice fills the air with promises and grand gestures. The settlers look at Criato with hope. They look at Ulloa with indifference.
Though Ulloa carries on as though he¡¯s unaffected by Criato¡¯s gregariousness, it¡¯s evident how much he¡¯s bothered by it. He would never confess it, but you watch his eyes sporadically dart toward his rival, taking note of how the settlers begin to fawn over Criato, but not him. You wouldn¡¯t think it would bother someone like Ulloa, but with nostrils flaring and a hardened look, it¡¯s clear that it does.
Eventually, he approaches Criato. The two men stand apart from the group, their figures silhouetted against the dying light. "You waste your time coddling the settlers,¡± Ulloa states. ¡°The real work is before us¡ªgetting the Great Xiatli what He seeks. There is no fame to be found here.¡±
Criato smiles, that same infuriating smile he always wears when he knows he¡¯s getting under Ulloa¡¯s skin. ¡°Ah, Atelmaro, always so focused on the mission. But what¡¯s a victory without recognition? These people are our legacy. If they don¡¯t sing our names, what was it all for?¡±
¡°The Legido people have always rewarded action, not empty words,¡± Ulloa snaps. ¡°We¡¯re not here to be remembered. We¡¯re here to take what¡¯s needed for Xiatli, for the betterment and prosperity of our people. Your theatrics are wasting time.¡±
This only causes Criato¡¯s smile to widen more. ¡°You speak of duty, of practicality, but what good is any of that if history forgets you? Or worse¡ never cared to listen in the first place?¡±
Ulloa¡¯s hand drifts to the hilt of his sword. For a moment, there¡¯s a crack in his calm exterior, a flash of something darker, something more dangerous. You¡¯re surprised to see his restraint thinning. Criato notices, his eyes glinting with amusement, as if daring Ulloa to draw the blade.
But Ulloa doesn¡¯t. He pulls back just as quickly, and his expression hardens once more. Criato chuckles softly under his breath, turning away. It appears it will take much more than that to shake his confidence.
The landscape changes as you climb higher. The once-familiar trees have thinned into skeletal shadows, the green giving way to jagged rock and sparse shrubs. You glance up at the tall peaks, stretching so high that they disappear into the sky itself. From this elevation, it¡¯s as if the land itself seeks to strip you of your breath.
And then, as you crest a ridge, it comes into view.
The land drops sharply, revealing a massive, barren plain at the foot of the mountains. But dominating the center of this desolation is a monument that stands defiant against the sky, a towering structure of stone carved with intricate patterns that seem to dance in the pale sunlight. The design is bizarre to you, but the very sight of it stirs something in your chest¡ªa mixture of awe and dread.
The air is still, unnervingly so. A sour scent of decay lingers, like a memory of something long dead, buried beneath the ruins of this lost land. The wind knows. It has always known. Knows the secrets buried in the ground, the footsteps long since faded. The wind knows, and it tells you nothing.
The murmurs ripple through the settlers like a shiver in the wind. Their voices are barely more than a breath. Unease coils in your gut, a tightening you can¡¯t shake. Whatever this place is, it feels wrong¡ªtoo still, too quiet.
The Great Xiatli crests the ridge behind you, and as He approaches, the mutterings fall silent. His cold, unblinking gaze sweeps over the monument, and for a moment, everything halts. Even the wind stops, the birds fall silent. Everything waits for Him.
Criato dismounts first and confidently steps toward the Great Xiatli. ¡°We should explore the area,¡± he says loudly, drawing the attention of both settlers and soldiers. ¡°See if there is any indication as to what this place is, and what treasures await.¡±
You watch as Criato strides forward, motioning for his men to follow, though you can see the hesitation in their eyes. None of them want to be the first to disturb this place, to be the first to tempt whatever spirits might still linger. Yet, Criato¡¯s determination is infectious, and soon, several men join him, scrambling over the stones with picks and shovels.
As Criato directs them to dig, Ulloa watches in silence. He doesn¡¯t move to help. Instead, he stands rigidly and simply observes, resting his hand on the hilt of his sword.
The sun steadily lowers in the sky, and still, Criato pushes his men harder, faster. The ground is unforgiving, packed hard by years of sun and drought, resisting every effort to break it. Each swing of the pickaxe is met with a dull thud, jarring up through their arms, sending shocks of pain through their aching muscles. Sweat drips from their brows, mixing with the dust that clings to their skin. The settlers grunt with exertion as the blows come down in a relentless rhythm, only carving out small, grudging chunks with each ringing strike.
Then¡ªfinally¡ªa different sound. A hollow thunk reverberates beneath the surface. They pause, hearts racing, exchanging uncertain glances. Stone meets metal, and the unmistakable ring of it¡ªa sharp, eerie chime¡ªsends a shiver down their spines. Another careful strike, and this time the pick scrapes against something different¡ªsolid, yet not quite stone. There¡¯s something buried here.
You watch as Criato¡¯s eyes light up, and a triumphant grin spreads across his face. His men work feverishly, digging faster now, hands tearing through the stubborn soil with a fevered desperation. The terrain gives way slowly, revealing the shape of something solid beneath. Bit by bit, the outline of a weathered chest emerges, still intact despite being housed here for who knows how long.
The wood isn¡¯t like anything you¡¯ve seen. It¡¯s smooth, yet hardened by time¡ªpetrified. With trembling hands, the others brush away the remaining dirt. The chest doesn¡¯t creak like ordinary wood; instead, the sound is low and grinding, like the distant rumble of a landslide. It scrapes and groans as they pry it from its resting place. And then, as its lid is carefully lifted, the contents within are revealed.
An amulet. Its surface gleams in the fading light, opal and silver. Its craftsmanship is unlike anything you¡¯ve ever seen. The stone at its center seems to pulse with a strange, inner glow, catching the last rays of the sun and reflecting them in eerie patterns across the ground.
Criato steps forward, kneeling before the amulet. His fingers quiver as he picks it up. He turns it over in his hands, marveling at the weight of it, the way the light dances across the opal¡¯s surface. ¡°This is it,¡± he murmurs to himself, though his voice carries in the stillness. ¡°This is what Xiatli wants.¡±
Ulloa moves forward, and his face grows pale as he steps closer. ¡°You don¡¯t know what you¡¯re dealing with,¡± he says with urgency. ¡°We shouldn¡¯t touch that. It¡¯s dangerous.¡±
Criato looks up with a vulpine grin. ¡°Dangerous? No, no. Powerful. This will make me immortal. Xiatli will have no choice but to favor me now!¡±
Without waiting for another word, Criato stands, slipping the amulet over his head, letting it rest against his chest. The moment the opal touches his skin, there¡¯s a shift in the air, something so subtle you almost miss it¡ªa faint hum, like the low drone of a distant storm building on the horizon.
Ulloa stiffens, his hand tightening on his sword. ¡°You fool. You think this is about favor? We don¡¯t know what this¡ª¡±
Criato cuts him off with a laugh. ¡°Ah, Atelmaro. Always so cautious. Always so afraid. This¡ this is what we¡¯ve been searching for. I¡¯ve found it. And I¡¯ll be the one to deliver it to Xiatli.¡±
And then, as if summoned by Criato¡¯s words, the Great Xiatli steps forward. His eyes fall on the amulet, and something flashes across His face¡ªan emotion, raw and unguarded. Hunger.
He says nothing, but you can see the way His gaze locks onto the amulet, the way His fingers twitch ever so slightly, as though restraining Himself from reaching out. The silence stretches on, unbearable, until finally, Xiatli speaks in a voice that sends lightning down your spine.
¡°Give it to me.¡±
The sun, once so bright and arrogant in the sky, now seems distant, too afraid to be in the presence of this god among men. His outstretched hand hovers just a breath away from the opal and silver amulet hanging from Criato¡¯s neck.
Still grinning, Criato looks triumphant. His eyes gleam with the confidence of a man who believes he¡¯s secured his legacy, as if he can already taste the power that Xiatli¡¯s favor will bring. He tilts his head, lifting the amulet with a smug smile. ¡°Of course! For you, Sapa. A treasure worthy of your greatness.¡±
The Great Xiatli says nothing at first. His fingers curl around the amulet, deliberately tugging it from Criato¡¯s neck. For a moment, Criato¡¯s expression falters¡ªjust for a breath¡ªas the chain slips free. But in the blink of an eye, his grin returns, wider than before. He thinks he has won.
Beside you, Iker¡¯s breathing is shallow, his eyes flicking between Criato and Ulloa. His face is pale, and a bead of sweat rolls down his temple. You feel the same cold dread settling in your chest¡ªthe same fear that whatever has just been uncovered is not something that should have been disturbed.
The opal surface of the amulet glimmers in the Great Xiatli¡¯s hand, in a way that makes it seem almost alive. A dark smile curves at the corners of His lips. He holds the artifact up for all to see, the silver chain swaying gently in the cold breeze. His eyes flash with something sinister, something ancient, as if He understands the full magnitude of what He holds.
¡°You have done well.¡± The deity¡¯s voice reverberates across the desolate landscape. ¡°This is indeed a treasure worthy of My attention.¡±
Criato¡¯s chest swells with pride, his grin spanning from ear to ear. He casts a smug glance toward Ulloa, who remains silent, though his nostrils flare ever so slightly, and his fingers twitch as if resisting the urge to act.
And then, as the Great Xiatli holds the amulet aloft, a faint tremor seems to ripple through the ground beneath your feet. It¡¯s so subtle that you think you¡¯ve imagined it. But then the wind picks up, carrying with it a distant wail. The very air around you seems to shudder, and for the briefest moment, you swear the land itself is recoiling from the presence of the artifact.
You notice something else inside the chest. It appears to be a scroll of some kind, like paper. Markings are written upon it, though you can¡¯t make out what it says. What surprises you is that, neither of the two experienced explorers nor the Great Xiatli appear to have any interest in them. Instead, they¡¯ve closed the chest, content with the glimmering amulet.
Iker¡¯s hand tightens on your arm, his grip trembling. ¡°Do you¡ feel that?¡± His voice is barely audible over the sudden gusts of wind. You nod, though you can¡¯t quite put words to the feeling that¡¯s worming its way through your veins.
The Great Xiatli turns toward Ulloa and takes a single step toward him. ¡°You did not find this treasure, but your time will come. There is a need for men like you. Men who are¡ patient.¡± Ulloa does not speak¡ªonly nods slowly.
As the camp quiets, and darkness begins to creep over the land, you feel a chill settle in your bones. It¡¯s the kind that no fire can warm. The Great Xiatli retreats to His tent, and the amulet disappears with Him.
The wind howls through the crags, tugging at your clothes. It¡¯s as if the land is trying to pull you back, to warn you of the path you¡¯re walking. But there¡¯s no turning back now. Not for you. Not for Criato. Not for Ulloa.
And certainly not for Xiatli.
135 - Saqatli
The throne room is a tomb of memories.
Shattered stone and broken weapons litter the floor where once my people stood in reverence. The smell of ash still permeates the air, mixed with the faint tang of blood, as though the room itself has been wounded. Once the heart of this chamber, the grand sundial lies shattered in a dozen jagged pieces. Its intricate carvings that were meant to chart the heavens and the seasons are now meaningless. Time itself feels fractured, just like everything else here.
I look up at the destroyed ceiling, where dapples of sunlight seep through the tattered leaves and broken branches, spilling onto the fractured stone below. The rubble is a graveyard of what used to be. Fragments of stone columns lie scattered like broken bones. Splintered wooden beams poke out from the wreckage like jagged teeth. Once hung proudly on the walls, ceremonial weapons now lie twisted and discarded among the debris. Torn banners that once bore the sigils of Auilqa victories hang limp, half-buried under the collapsed roof. Even the throne itself, what should be a symbol of our strength, is cracked down the middle, split like the fate of the Auilqa.
I remember how this chamber used to be. It was alive with voices, strong with purpose. The warriors flanking our revered ruler, the elders who would provide their council, the leaders who commanded respect¡ªthey are all echoes now, reduced to whispers among the rubble.
It is a ruin. The Eye in the Flame have seen to that. The head of the Great Xolotzi, who everyone thought was all-powerful, almost immortal, now stares lifelessly into the empty beyond. Everything that distinguished the Auilqa as a proud faction have been reduced to hollow remnants of what was.
I run my hand over a cracked pillar, touching the cool stone with the tips of my fingers. I want to believe the Auilqa can rise again, that this is only a temporary wound. But deep down, I feel it¡ªthe ever-present dread. A hollow pit that grows with every breath I take in this cursed place.
Everything that once made this city proud has crumbled into disrepair.
I think of my family. Are they safe? Have they survived the onslaught? It eats away at me, the not knowing. They may have disowned me, cast me aside, but blood still binds us. My heart clenches with the desire to search for them, to know if they are alive and unharmed. But I stand frozen.
What would I even say if I found them? After all this? After they have made it clear I am nothing to them?
Besides, there is no time to let fear rule me now. The Eye in the Flame have torn through the very core of our people¡ªof my people. And I cannot abandon my companions here. Not when everything hangs in the balance. The fate of the Auilqa rests on what we do next.
My companions argue with the three outsiders in the middle of this dilapidated chamber. The manner in which they speak is intense, angry. You should know how upset this makes me, this infighting. Paxilche appears to have upset them, with his strike of lightning that wiped out the Eye in the Flame sorcerers. The confrontation is loud, filled with fury. They gesture at one another with abrupt, emphatic pointing and snarled mouths. Though part of me wants to understand what is being exchanged, I am too distraught by what has taken place moments earlier, what has happened to the heart of the Auilqa, to be bothered to listen through Noch. The despair is too overwhelming.
And the people¡ my people¡ they are not the same either. I see it in their faces. Warriors who were once unbreakable now wear their defeat like chains. Some still hold onto the fire, the will to fight. But the others, I see the doubt in their eyes. I feel the cracks beneath their surface. We are no longer a united force, no longer the sharp blade we once were. We are fragments¡ªscattered like the stones at my feet.
I wonder if we can ever be whole again. Or if the Auilqa, like this city, are too far gone.
Sensing my sorrow, Noch rubs her head against my shoulder. My faithful companion. Her presence is comforting, a reminder that even in the darkest moments, some bonds hold strong. I scratch behind her ears, feeling the warmth of her fur beneath my fingers.
¡°Where did you go, back in Analoixan?¡± The question has been circling my mind since the battle, since the death of Naqispi. I lost her in the chaos, and yet, here she is, defying fate, by my side once again. I have been too afraid to ask, but the time has come.
Her thoughts brush against mine, a soft pulse of imagery and emotion. She shows me the confusion, the fire, the deafening roar of the serpent as it lashed through the city. I see through her eyes¡ªdarting through the smoke, dodging falling debris, until finally, she found shelter in a crevice near the edge of the city. There, hidden from the chaos, she waited. In my own chest, I feel her anxiety, the pang of being separated from me, but also her instinct to survive.
¡°You stayed hidden,¡± I murmur, understanding now. She had no choice.
Noch lifts her head, her golden eyes meeting mine. In a brief flash of emotion, she sends me an image of a figure¡ªan old woman, cloaked in shadow, crouching beside her in the quiet aftermath. There is a pulse of recognition, a scent that lingers in my mind.
¡°The woman?¡± I ask.
Noch offers no name, but the sense of calm in the memory reassures me. Whoever this stranger was, she helped Noch find her way back to us. I can see her showing Noch the way back to the jungle, to safety. A guiding hand in the dark. It does not answer all of my questions, but it fills in enough of the gaps to make sense, for the time being.
¡°You found your way back to me, thanks to her,¡± I say. Noch purrs softly in response, curling closer to me. I can sense that she wants to tell me everything, to reassure me somehow, but she is too worn, too exhausted, and too upset to speak.
I let out a breath, and some of the tension in my chest eases. Whatever happened back in Analoixan, whatever strange forces intervened to reunite us, Noch is here. And I thank the gods for bringing us back together once more.
I linger in the quiet moment with Noch, feeling the pulse of her steady presence. But even as the warmth between us offers solace, the world around us feels cold and distant.
I look up, and my eyes sweep over the once-great throne room of Qasiunqa, now a twisted shadow of its former glory. I find myself staring at the ruined calendar stone in the center of the room, its once intricate carvings now barely recognizable, scorched and broken. Time itself feels undone here, as if everything the Auilqa had built and believed in has been left to wither and die alongside the stone. The air tastes of dust and decay, but beneath it, there¡¯s something else, like the room is pressing down on all of us, a force waiting to collapse.
It is in the way the others move, too. Everyone is unsettled, haunted. We are all pretending we are not, but I can feel it clawing at the edges of our thoughts. Pomacha is at the far end, murmuring something to Pomaqli, though the words are lost in the stillness. S¨ªqalat and Upachu exchange quiet words, but even their unshakable composure seems delicate here.
Atoyaqtli stands before the calendar stone, his brow furrowed as his calloused fingers trace the worn grooves etched into the surface. His expression is one of perplexed curiosity. It is clear he is trying to make sense of the intricate markings that cover the stone, but the meaning escapes him. His hands move slowly, almost reverently, across the surface, as though he is trying to reconstruct what it might have been in its prime.
Though we do not speak the tongue of one another, I can see it in his face¡ªhe does not know what it is.
I stare at the stone as well, its surface covered in intricate markings that seem to pulse with some long-lost wisdom. You should know that my father once told me about this, about the way the Auilqa tracked time using the stars. After all, time is written in the heavens. But I never truly understood how this mechanism worked. Looking at it now, I still do not. But it looks¡ fascinating.
I step closer to Atoyaqtli, now my fingers brushing against the stone. I do not know the full meaning of the carvings, but I know there is knowledge that they hold. I turn to Atoyaqtli, shrugging slightly, as if to say, I do not fully understand it, either.
He looks at me with a silent question in his eyes. I can see his need to understand what this broken mechanism once was. But like me, he is lost in its complexity.
Before either of us can say more, S¨ªqalat steps forward, calm and composed. She glances between us, her eyes settling on the calendar stone. ¡°You both want to know, do you not?¡± she asks. Her voice flows easily in the Auilqa tongue, catching me off guard. It is rare for outsiders to speak our language, and even rarer for them to do it so fluidly. It is like hearing something familiar from a voice you did not expect.
Mouth agape, I nod. Standing nearby, Atoyaqtli clearly does not understand our exchange. S¨ªqalat turns to him and speaks in the Tongue of Merchants. He gives a slight grunt of agreement, nodding in response to whatever it is she told him.
¡°I have heard of it,¡± I admit softly, ¡°but¡ I do not understand how it works.¡±
She offers a small smile, kneeling beside the ruined calendar. ¡°I have never seen one in person before,¡± she starts to explain, ¡°but from what I have been told, it is a tool, one that helps the Auilqa track the stars, the moon, the sun. With it, they can tell when to plant, when to harvest, when the rains would come.¡± She gestures to the central part of the stone, tracing her fingers over the faded symbols.
She looks up at us, first meeting my eyes, then glancing at Atoyaqtli, who watches the scene with a quiet intensity. She speaks to him in the Tongue of Merchants, describing what I can only assume is the same explanation she gave me. His eyes flick between us, intrigued.
Hesitantly, I say, ¡°I think my father once told me that this,¡± I point to the same central marking she had just touched, ¡°was where the cycle starts. But I do not know what comes after.¡±
S¨ªqalat translates my words to Atoyaqtli, who kneels beside her. His expression changes, stroking his chin contemplatively as he looks at the symbols again. She nods, comprehending what the Sanqo warrior has told her, then tells me, ¡°He says it is like the stars they use to guide their ships.¡± His fingers trace the worn carvings while she translates.
I nod. ¡°Yes, maybe. The stars and the sky, they are part of the same cycle, are they not?¡±
S¨ªqalat relays my question, and Atoyaqtli furrows his brow once more. After a moment, he speaks thoughtfully. S¨ªqalat translates back for me: ¡°He says, ¡®Perhaps it is like navigating the sea. You follow one star, then the next, each one leading you forward. Maybe this stone is doing the same, but through time.¡¯¡±
I pause, contemplating this. ¡°That is what my father said, too. He spoke of following patterns, cycles¡ But I still do not know what they mean.¡±
The fingers of S¨ªqalat graze over the faded carvings again. ¡°I have heard stories,¡± she admits, ¡°about how the Auilqa used this to predict more than just the seasons. Some believed they could see the future through it. But it is just stories. I am no elder. I do not know the full truth of it.¡±
Atoyaqtli watches closely as she explains, nodding as he takes in her words, then casting a glance at me, waiting for my response. I shrug, offering him a small, awkward smile.
¡°I think,¡± I say, my voice quiet as I reflect on the teachings of my father, ¡°the Auilqa believed this was the center of everything. A way to measure not just the seasons, but the passing of life and time itself. The calendar tells a story, although only the elders know how to read it.¡±
She translates my words to Atoyaqtli, who listens intently. He leans in closer, studying the stone more carefully now. After a few grunts, he mutters something in the Tongue of Merchants.
¡°He says, ¡®It is like the sea,¡± S¨ªqalat speaks, smiling faintly. ¡°¡®Endless, but with rhythms and currents.¡¯ He says, ¡®If you know where to look, you can find your way.¡¯¡±
I find myself nodding. The three of us fall into a quiet study of the stone, each of us piecing together what little we know. Though our knowledge is incomplete, I enjoy this temporary reprieve, no matter how brief it is. In this moment, we are simply three people trying to understand something far greater than ourselves. Something to hope for.
But hope, like the sun setting beyond the broken walls of this throne room, is fleeting.
In the distance, a low rumble echoes through the skies, like a giant shifting in its sleep. I glance up, frowning at the sudden shift in the air. The warmth from earlier has vanished, replaced by a cold breeze that wraps itself around us, biting at the skin.
There is a shuffle from the edge of the room. One of the Auilqa warriors, a convert still smeared with red across his chest and face, steps toward us, putting us all on guard. He is tired and haggard, and the zeal in his eyes has clearly dimmed.
Everyone turns to look at him. The warriors in support of Walumaq shift, ready for another confrontation. But the man raises his empty hands in surrender.
There is much sorrow in his face as he addresses us. ¡°I am ashamed for how easily swayed our people have become. I can do this no longer. The priest of fire was leading us astray, weaponizing the ancient Auilqa prophecy.¡±
The Qantua warrior named Teqosa turns to S¨ªqalat with a confused expression. She tilts her head, listening closely as the man continues speaking. She translates for him, and her words in the Tongue of Merchants slowly morphs inside my mind. It is still muddied, however, but she speaks true, not mincing words.
The elder, Upachu, watches the man closely, eyes no longer glowing white. ¡°¡ask him what he knows. What¡ doing here? ¡were¡ planning?¡±
I wince, unable to clearly understand him. Noch appears distracted, attentively tracking a small spiny pocket mouse that scurries nearby. I shout at her to pay attention, startling the others. Meekly, I lower my head and apologize. However, my holler achieves the desired results: Noch is now paying attention to the conversation.
S¨ªqalat relays the question, her words flowing smoothly in the Auilqa tongue. ¡°What do you know about the plans of the fire priest? What were their plans? What were they doing here?¡±
The shoulders of the man slump, as though the very act of speaking is draining what little strength he has left. He hesitates briefly, but after a moment, he nods, resigned, and tells what little he knows.
¡°He says,¡± S¨ªqalat tells the others, as the confession of the man spills forth, ¡°that the priest of fire wasn¡¯t running away. He was preparing something¡ something bigger.¡±
The room seems to freeze, every pair of eyes now focused on the broken man. ¡°He doesn¡¯t know much of what it all means,¡± she continues. ¡°But the priest kept speaking of cryptic symbols, ancient chants¡ªthings that seem tied to Aqxilapu and Ninaxu.¡±
This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.
¡°Ninaxu¡¡± Teqosa repeats. Though the god called Aqxilapu who formed the distant Qiapu lands is well known, like the Qantua warrior, I, too, am unfamiliar with the other name.
¡°A Qiapu legend,¡± Paxilche clarifies. ¡°The fire serpent of the mountain, a creature of destruction. Seems farfetched.¡±
The Auilqa man looks at S¨ªqalat, desperation etched into his features. His voice shakes as he continues speaking. ¡°The priest was preparing something, here in the throne room¡ªsome final act of summoning. But the final step of his ritual was not to be completed here in Qasiunqa. They were just starting here.¡±
¡°Starting?¡± Walumaq echoes after S¨ªqalat translates the words of the man to the others. The Sanqo princess frowns, confused.
S¨ªqalat ask the man to explain, and he nods slowly, his voice barely a whisper now. She continues to translate, but now she appears visibly shaken. ¡°He says the priest was heading to the mountains of Qiapu. To the sacred sites. Whatever they¡¯re planning, it¡¯s going to happen there.¡±
I glimpse at Upachu, whose brow is knitted deeply in thought. The eyes of Walumaq glance to Paxilche, who still stands silently at her side. Even his fury seems to have been tempered by this revelation. The truth begins to take shape, but it remains murky, like shadows flickering on stone¡ªhinting at something far darker than we ever imagined.
¡°The mountains of Qiapu¡¡± Paxilche murmurs. ¡°The legend of Aqxilapu says he fought Ninaxu in the sacred volcano, Xutuina. Are they trying to awaken it?¡±
The man trembles, sweat beading on his brow. S¨ªqalat¡¯s face grows ashen as she responds with what the man says next. ¡°He says¡ No, that can¡¯t be right. He says ¡®the new moon¡¯. It¡¯s happening then.¡±
The new moon. It is not far off. I can feel the cold knot of dread tightening in my chest. Whatever the Eye in the Flame has planned, we have little time to stop it.
Upachu and Teqosa exchange a look¡ªquick, uncomfortable, and knowing. There is something unsaid between them, something heavy. I catch the subtle tension in their eyes, a shared knowledge they are unwilling to voice just yet. Walumaq notices too, her gaze lingering on them, as though waiting for one of them to break the silence.
Atoyaqtli shifts uneasily beside me, and finally speaks. ¡°If the priest is in Qiapu,¡± he begins slowly, as though selecting his words carefully, ¡°and whatever they are planning involves these sacred sites, then we have little choice, do we? We must go there. There is nowhere else.¡±
Walumaq stares intently at the broken celestial calendar, as though it will provider her with the answer. ¡°We don¡¯t have much time, not with the new moon approaching. If we can reach Qiapu before they complete the ritual, perhaps we can stop them.¡±
Teqosa crosses his arms and grimaces before speaking reluctantly. ¡°I don¡¯t see any other path forward. We must go to Qiapu. If they are planning something for the new moon, we are already behind.¡±
The decision seems to settle over those present. There is no other choice. The path is set, whether we are ready for it or not.
My attention shifts to Paxilche. He stands off to the side, arms crossed tightly over his chest, his face as rigid as stone. The winds begin to stir, swirling dust around his feet.
His fingers rap impatiently against his thighs, eyes sharp and restless. I can feel the storm building inside him, as tangible as the wind. A dangerous energy barely contained. A breath passes, heavy, charged. He briefly glances at me with his clenched jaw, then looks away. My heartbeat quickens, as if sensing that something is about to give.
The calm before the storm, I think, my pulse drumming in my ears. He is planning something¡ªI can feel it. Hearing my concerned thoughts, Noch brushes alongside me, her turquoise tail flicking.
And then, just as the wind picks up speed and rushes about the dilapidated throne room, Paxilche abruptly breaks the silence.
¡°I don¡¯t think this plan is going to work.¡±
The air cracks like a whip after he speaks. Every eye in the chamber turns toward him, looking confused. At this, he grows more and more visibly irritated, and he begins pacing, his frustration spilling out with every step.
¡°Marching into Qiapu with this vague plan?¡± Paxilche continues, his hand gripping his massive war club like he is already preparing for a fight. ¡°You all act like this is going to go smoothly, like the Eye in the Flame doesn¡¯t know we¡¯re coming. What if this is all a trap? What if we walk right into an ambush at Xutuina, and we¡¯re done for before we even get close?¡±
¡°We know the risks,¡± the voice of Walumaq pierces through the howling gales, ¡°but there is little else we can do. Xutuina is our only choice¡ªeverything points to it.¡±
Paxilche shakes his head and throws up his hands. ¡°That¡¯s exactly what they want you to think! The fire priest is leading us on a chase, and we¡¯re all just following blindly. You think we can stop this thing in time, before the new moon? By the time we get there, Ninaxu will already be awake, and we¡¯ll be staring at our doom.¡±
His eyes dart from face to face, as if daring someone to challenge him. Although Teqosa watches with sharp focus, there is no immediate response from anyone else. Eventually, Chiqama steps forward. His shoulders are stiff, and his eyes are hardened with grief and anger.
¡°Of course you¡¯re worried about the plan,¡± Chiqama snaps. ¡°Look where following Walumaq¡¯s plans got us! Naqispi is dead. Do you think I¡¯ll forget that? We followed her, and look what happened.¡±
The jaw of Walumaq tightens, and she opens her mouth to respond, but Chiqama is not yet finished. ¡°You think we can just march into Qiapu, rally the survivors, and what? Stop some legendary creature from awakening? We¡¯ve already seen the Eye in the Flame¡¯s power. It¡¯s bigger than you, bigger than all of us.¡±
Walumaq straightens, trying to keep her composure. But it is clear that the words spoken by Chiqama have struck a nerve. Her thoughts are racing, and it is difficult for me to understand what is going on through her mind. All I can sense is the multitude of emotions¡ªfury, sorrow, disbelief, self-doubt.
¡°Chiqama¡¯s right,¡± Paxilche says, his eyes narrowing at Walumaq. ¡°We¡¯ve been fighting the Eye in the Flame since this all began, and now you think we can stroll into Qiapu and stop whatever is coming?¡±
There is a touch of something deeper in his gaze, something that I notice¡ªa hint of fear, and something else, buried beneath the surface. But Paxilche covers it quickly with his usual defiance. ¡°You¡¯re so convinced that you¡¯re going to be the one to fix all of this. What if you¡¯re wrong? What if you¡¯re leading us all to our ends, just like Naqispi?¡±
The eyes of Walumaq flash with hurt, like Paxilche wounded her physically. But she stands firm. ¡°This isn¡¯t about me. It¡¯s about stopping the Eye in the Flame from destroying everything. If we don¡¯t go to Qiapu, if we don¡¯t confront whatever they¡¯re planning, it won¡¯t just be us who suffer¡ªit¡¯ll be all of Pachil.¡±
Paxilche clenches his fists. His frustration now boils over. ¡°You think I don¡¯t know that? You think I don¡¯t understand the possible outcomes? But running headlong into Qiapu isn¡¯t going to stop them. It¡¯s going to get us killed, and then there¡¯ll be no one left to fight.¡±
Atoyaqtli clears his throat and interrupts this verbal assault of Walumaq. ¡°She is the daughter of Siunqi, and I follow her out of loyalty to our people and her father. But even I must admit¡¡± He pauses, looking directly at Walumaq. ¡°There is much we don¡¯t know about what awaits us in Qiapu, and we barely survived the battle here. We sail blindly toward an unknown enemy.¡±
¡°I have followed you, princess, because initially, I believed in your vision,¡± Chiqama adds. ¡°But I can¡¯t keep charging into hapless battles we might not survive. Not for a cause that has no clear conclusion. I¡¯d rather defend our homeland than seek out my death elsewhere.¡±
Sitting near the edge of the gathering, Upachu shakes his head and stands. ¡°You think waiting will help? You think hiding will solve this? The fire priest is out there, planning something far worse than anything we¡¯ve faced. And Ninaxu¡ªwhatever that thing is¡ªwe can¡¯t let it wake. Otherwise, the whole land will burn. And only the gods know what will happen then.¡±
Teqosa is finished brooding in silence. ¡°You all talk as if we have a choice. You think avoiding the conflict will change the outcome?¡± He glares at Paxilche, clearly unimpressed by the display of dissent. ¡°The Eye in the Flame doesn¡¯t care about your fears, Qiapu boy. And neither does the fire priest. If he reaches Xutuina and awakens Ninaxu, everything you¡¯re so scared of will pale in comparison.¡±
The eyes of Paxilche darken, and a spark of resentment flickers within them. ¡°You think I¡¯m scared?¡± he spits. ¡°I¡¯m being realistic. And at least I¡¯m not delusional.¡±
¡°Enough, Paxilche,¡± Teqosa grunts. ¡°We¡¯ve already wasted too much time while you waste your breathe to complain.¡±
¡°We¡¯re trying to stop a nightmare from becoming reality,¡± Walumaq says unsympathetically. ¡°If you have another plan, say it. But standing here, doing nothing¡ that¡¯s a guarantee of failure.¡±
You should know that, as I watch the others argue, I begin to sense something deeper in the anger of Paxilche. It is not just frustration or pride driving him; it is fear. He is far more afraid than he will ever let on. I can see it in the tightness of his jaw, the way his fists clench at his sides, in the way his eyes dart about nervously when Walumaq speaks. He is scared¡ªscared of what lies ahead, of what this journey may demand of us, of what it might reveal about him.
But it is not just fear that I see. No, there is something even more dangerous lurking: doubt. It coils around him like a shadow, clinging to every word he speaks, every move he makes. It is not just doubt in the plan or in the quest itself. It is doubt in Walumaq. He does not trust her fully, though he pretends otherwise. There is a hardness in his eyes when she speaks, as if he is questioning her every decision, weighing her every word.
The others may not see it, but I do. I know what it feels like to carry that kind of doubt, to have it continually whisper in your ear, telling you that you are not enough, that you will fail. Paxilche is fighting more than just us or this plan; he is fighting himself. And that, more than anything, is what worries me.
The voice of Paxilche drops to a bitter growl, the hurt in his tone subtle but undeniable. ¡°It¡¯s easy for you to say, isn¡¯t it? You don¡¯t have to worry about putting the people you care about at risk because of some grand, heroic idea.¡± His eyes flick to Walumaq again, and this time, there is something more in his gaze¡ªsomething almost imperceptible. Walumaq does not respond immediately, but the hurt in the words spoken by Paxilche are not lost on her.
¡°This isn¡¯t just about stopping the fire priest,¡± Upachu says, warily, as though he is winded by the conversation. ¡°There¡¯s more at play here than any of us fully understand.¡±
The rest of us exchange glances, uncertain what he means by this. Is this about the glance he exchanged with Teqosa? Something about what was spoken by the Auilqa man? Even Noch is curious¡ªor appears to be¡ªleaning in closer to the elder Qiapu.
From his chest, behind the cloth of his black tunic, Teqosa reveals a deep blue stone attached to a vibrant, gold necklace. In doing so, the air around us hums, reverberates, shaking through me. ¡°There¡¯s a reason these amulets were hidden away. A reason the Eye in the Flame seeks them out now.¡± He pauses, eyes glancing over to the necklace around the neck of Walumaq, then to the jade and onyx amulet dangling above my chest. ¡°Sualset knew something¡ something about the Eleven.¡±
¡°The Twelve,¡± Upachu corrects.
¡°The Twelve?¡± I find myself repeating the phrase. S¨ªqalat smiles at my use of the Tongue of Merchants, though I do not understand what I spoke. Upachu nods, as if he was waiting for someone to take the bait.
¡°The Twelve, yes,¡± Upachu beams, gesturing dramatically. ¡°Everyone always talks about the Eleven¡ªheroes of legend, saviors of Pachil, correct? But there was a twelfth¡ an outlier, forgotten, erased.¡± He looks around, his eyes wide with anticipation. ¡°No one else knows who this twelfth person was, or why they were excluded from the tales, but they were part of it. And Sualset most certainly had something to do with it.¡±
Chiqama scoffs. ¡°That can¡¯t be. Everyone knows it¡¯s the Eleven. Eleven warriors traveled aboard the Sanqo vessels to the Frozen Isles and defeated the Timuaq there. Not a person on Pachil doesn¡¯t know that!¡±
A slow smile creeps across the face of Upachu¡ªalmost appearing condescending, if I may be so honest. ¡°We have traveled far, to many lands, and have encountered great challenges, protectors placed by Sualset herself to guard these amulets, among other items.¡±
S¨ªqalat nods, almost as though she is in a daze herself. ¡°It¡¯s true.¡± She speaks more like a gasp. ¡°I was with them, at the Tomb of Inqil. It¡¯s how we arrived in Auilqa. The goddess¡ I saw her. They spoke¡¡± She is too astonished to finish her thought. But she is not alone in her bewilderment.
Walumaq stiffens, and a sudden pall of dread overtakes her expression. ¡°I was told¡ by an old woman in Chalaqta. She said there were ¡®twelve¡¯, but I thought it was just a story, or that she misspoke.¡± Her words falter as she recounts the memory, leaving the rest unspoken.
¡°How did you¡¡± Atoyaqtli struggles to find the words, completely mystified by this new, startling information¡ªyou should know that I, like everyone else, am jarred by this, as well. ¡°How did you come across this knowledge?¡±
Teqosa searches the ruined ceiling for the words. ¡°It began in the ruins of the Atima territory, where¡ª¡°
¡°At the Temple of the Titans, really,¡± Upachu corrects. ¡°One of the limuli chests was discovered there, which set this whole quest off.¡±
Teqosa groans and shrugs. ¡°Yes, yes. The Temple of the Titans. How could I forget. Then, we traveled to Wichanaqta, where we discovered these clay pots at the palace. On them, we¡ª¡°
¡°But first,¡± Upachu excitedly interjects again, ¡°we had to fight these fire pumas, with hearts set aflame! And the pots needed to be filled with special water from a nearby spring to reveal the¡ª¡±
¡°May I please finish the abbreviated version of this explanation?¡± Teqosa snaps, glaring at his elder companion. Upachu raises his hands and relinquishes the conversation.
After a deep breath, Teqosa continues. ¡°There were four destinations marked on maps that appeared on the clay pots discovered in Wichanaqta. We believe we determined the locations: Qantua, Auilqa, Qiapu, and Sanqo. We have traveled to Qantua and Auilqa, and Qiapu was to be our next destination.¡±
At this, Paxilche scowls and shakes his head. He knows what this means, that we mustgo to Qiapu. Everything is falling into place, and the indications are clear, undeniable now.
¡°So this destination,¡± Walumaq says, finally out of her daze, ¡°is at the volcano?¡±
Teqosa frowns. ¡°I couldn¡¯t make out the location clearly, and I¡¯m not too familiar with the territory to distinguish the marking. But if it¡¯s as sacred as we¡¯re to believe, then it must be. Since the discovery of the first chest at the Temple of the Titans, the Eye in the Flame have been tracking us down. There is something about these amulets they¡¯re after.¡±
Walumaq nods, her eyes wide and nervous. ¡°I have encountered them, as well. They have spoken about these amulets. But I was in Qiapu already, when I faced one of their sorcerers. Do you think¡¡± She looks at her amulet of obsidian and copper questioningly. ¡°Was this the amulet you were to find there?¡±
Appearing confused, S¨ªqalat interjects. ¡°Well, wait a moment. If there are supposed to be four destinations, I¡¯m counting four amulets. See¡ª¡° She reveals an amulet of turquoise and gold, then points to the other amulets possessed by the rest of us. ¡°So, the quest is complete¡ right?¡±
The eyes of Upachu grow wide with surprise. ¡°Then you have found the papyrus!¡± he remarks, staring eagerly at Walumaq.
She frowns. ¡°I¡¯m afraid I don¡¯t know what that is. Each amulet was already in the possession of a sorcerer of the Eye in the Flame.¡±
¡°Not the one around your neck.¡± Paxilche points to the jewelry worn by Walumaq. ¡°We found that at the palace, in the secret chamber, remember? Using that key my brother, Limaqumtlia, wanted me to have.¡±
¡°Your brother was the slain Tempered?¡± Teqosa asks, astonished. ¡°Are you the new ruler of Qiapu?¡±
Paxilche glowers. ¡°That¡¯s¡ not exactly how it¡¯s done in Qiapu.¡±
¡°But he¡¯s right,¡± says Walumaq. ¡°We have found them in different places. Perhaps this,¡± she holds out her amulet, ¡°is what you seek.¡±
Paxilche casts his ¡°I thought these were sacred to Qiapu, that they were to protect the land and its people from any evil that sought to destroy us. That¡¯s what our oral historians told us. Were they all lies?¡±
¡°Whatever it was that Sualset was planning,¡± Upachu says, ¡°it was somewhat explained through the papyrus.¡± Seeing the confused looks on our faces, he explains. ¡°It¡¯s like cloth, but strips are patched together. And it¡¯s rougher. And they had markings on them.¡±
Seeing that he is getting nowhere, he lets out a frustrated puff of air through his pressed lips, then returns to the previous subject. ¡°These amulets¡ªthey¡¯re pieces of something larger, a part of this... Twelve. But like the papyrus, the explanation has been coming to us in pieces. We¡¯ve been collecting them during our quest.¡±
¡°So what does this mean for us?¡± Paxilche asks in a growl ¡°For the plan? Do we even have a plan anymore? If we already found the amulets you were looking for in Qiapu, then we¡¯re going to Sanqo?¡±
¡°Do you even need to travel to Sanqo anymore?¡± S¨ªqalat asks. You should know that I am wondering the same thing, as well. ¡°Four destinations, four amulets¡ It sounds like you¡¯re done.¡±
¡°No,¡± Walumaq says with more certainty than I expect. ¡°We go to Qiapu, to defeat the Eye in the Flame. That must happen. And we must discover why they seek the amulets.¡± Teqosa nods fervently at this¡ªthe most emotion I have seen exuded from him.
Upachu winces. ¡°And we still don¡¯t understand the purpose of these amulets. We haven¡¯t collected enough of the papyrus to understand what Sualset¡¯s plans were for them, and why they¡¯re scattered throughout Pachil. I think we still need to find this papyrus to figure it out.¡±
There¡¯s silence, as if everyone is waiting for someone to argue, to offer a different path, but no one does. I glance around at the others, but everyone looks nearly inconsolable. The realization of what our journey has become strikes us like an arrow to the chest.
I want to speak, to offer some reassurance, but the words will not come. Instead, I stand in that uncomfortable silence, feeling the unease build inside me. My legs feel heavy, as if weighed down by the enormity of what lies ahead. I close my eyes, hoping to calm the storm in my mind, but it only grows stronger.
As the others begin moving about to gather their belongings, a faint rumble shakes the walls. The loose stones clatter as they fall to the floor, and the quake is enough to make my heart jump in my chest. I open my eyes, and I see the others exchanging worried glances. Something is coming¡ªwhether it is the Eye in the Flame or something far worse, I do not know. But I feel it. We all do.
¡°That can¡¯t be good.¡± It is all Paxilche says as he searches the chamber for the source.
¡°No,¡± Teqosa mutters, his eyes narrowing as he stares at the distant horizon. ¡°It¡¯s not.¡±
The wind howls outside, a reminder of the storm still raging beyond these walls, but it feels different now. It is a harbinger of what is to come.
I grip my amulet, feeling its weight against my chest, and wonder if it will be enough. If any of us will be enough.
The others are already moving toward the grand entrance, eager to continue on to Qiapu. But I pause, my feet unwilling to follow just yet. Still, I find myself stepping into the storm, the cold wind biting at my skin, as one thought refuses to leave my mind.
This journey¡ it will not end well.
136 - Legido
Perhaps in another life, you might savor the endless horizon, the rich colors spilling across the landscape in every direction. On a peaceful day, you could lose yourself in its beauty, marveling at the jagged peaks cutting into the deep blue sky. The slight chill in the air might even feel refreshing, brushing against your cheeks and weary bones.
But here, in the thick of this brutal march, the beauty feels hollow. It¡¯s a serene canvas that masks the slow unraveling of body and spirit. The scenery is nothing more than a distraction. When every step reminds you of how far you still have to go, it¡¯s hard to appreciate anything but the fact that this journey is far from over¡ªand that it will only get worse before it does.
Your fellow settlers shuffle forward, heads bowed and eyes fixed on the harsh terrain. You began with well over a thousand¡ªperhaps more¡ªbut with each step, the group thins. For every breath drawn in this unforgiving land, another slips away, claimed by fatigue, hunger, or despair. Each death is a quiet subtraction, like a single stone falling from a crumbling wall. Yet as the line of bodies stretches endlessly ahead, the loss of one person feels both monumental and insignificant at once. Does one grain of sand matter when there¡¯s a whole beach beneath your feet?
Those who fall are soon swallowed up by the land, becoming part of the barren landscape. Their faces already fade from your memory. The voids they leave behind are absorbed into the vast mass of moving bodies, and yet you feel their absence pressing on your spirit. It¡¯s impossible not to, even as you wade through this sea of people. Each loss diminishes the whole.
Still, the numbers that remain are staggering. A thousand lives, perhaps more. How can you reconcile the importance of each soul when you march among so many? And how can you honor the fallen when you know that more will succumb before the day ends? The Great Xiatli¡¯s vision may promise something greater, but the journey is a cruel test of endurance. It thins your ranks, grinding each individual into dust beneath the feet of the rest. And so you march forward, hoping that the destination is not just a mirage on the horizon.
The path twists and coils along the jagged slopes. You feel it in your legs, your back, the tightness in your chest¡ªlungs working harder than they ever have. The air is thin, denying you the full breath you desperately desire. Each gust of wind bites, stealing away what little strength remains. This isn¡¯t the land your body was built for, a land not meant for human feet.
Past the broken bodies around you, you glance up to the towering mountains that still rise ahead. The sharp and indifferent peaks loom above you. Their stony faces cast long shadows over the endless line of weary settlers. For every step forward, there¡¯s a misstep¡ªsomeone stumbling, slipping, or worse. There¡¯s no acclimating to this elevation, not in time. The land feels as though it¡¯s rejecting you, pushing you back with every incline. But still, you move. Still, you climb.
You do it because the Great Xiatli leads, and what else is there? He alone knows where this march ends. Like the air here, His promises are thin and distant, but you have no choice but to believe in them. The alternative is as unthinkable, something you wouldn¡¯t dare consider.
And so you trudge forward, your limbs heavy, your spirit heavier still. You know that each step could be your last¡ªand you wonder if it would even matter in the end. Somewhere behind you, a body collapses. Gasps pierce the air. Commotion. You don¡¯t need to turn around to know what it means. Another life, consumed by the land.
The march feels endless. The horizon is an unmoving line that offers no promise of respite. With each labored breath, you count your steps in a grim tally of how much farther your body can endure. Occasionally, you glance up briefly, observing how the sky shifts to deep amber as the sun begins its slow descent. But it brings no comfort. Only the fading of light, and with it, the knowledge that night will soon press in, colder and more unforgiving than the day.
Off a ways, Iker walks by himself among the masses. A muscle in his temple twitches with every breath he forces out. Yet he speaks to no one. His silence is the kind that says more than words ever could. Each of his steps are a question unasked. Each glance your way is a quiet accusation.
Your thoughts are a haze, drifting between fatigue and the faint pull of survival, when a new sound cuts through the rhythm of dragging feet and labored breaths. It¡¯s faint at first, almost lost in the dying wind, but unmistakable. It starts with the leaders at the front, who lift their hands and shout a command. The words surge forward, picked up by the captains just behind them. Each one repeats the order, their voices carrying it further, layer by layer, like ripples spreading across a still lake. It passes from one leader to the next, until it reaches the furthest line¡ªwhere it reaches you. Evening has arrived, and it is time to set up camp.
You slow your pace as the large group begins to settle. Most of the settlers are hunched over their packs, too tired to talk or even acknowledge one another. The light is fading quickly, and the chill of evening seeps in. The camp stirs with the clatter of pots, shuffling feet, and the weary sighs of men and women collapsing onto bedrolls wherever they can find flat ground. Iker is nowhere to be found, but you¡¯re too exhausted in this moment to search for your longtime friend. You¡¯ve barely had a moment to rest since the climb began.
You find a boulder to lean against, grateful for the small reprieve from the unrelenting trek. Your mind starts to drift, and you question whether you have the energy to set up your bedroll here, genuinely considering the rocky ground. But then, a sound¡ªa familiar voice, sharp and low¡ªcatches your attention. Criato¡¯s voice.
At first, you think it¡¯s just more of his boastful talks, or perhaps ordering someone around. But then another voice joins in, quieter, steadier. Atelmaro Ulloa. You then get the sense that you weren¡¯t meant to hear this discussion. You can tell by the way Criato speaks, the way his voice suddenly dips into a hushed, almost conspiratorial tone.
Curiosity tugs at you. Without thinking, you push yourself up and follow the voices. You stay low, using the cover of the rocks and the fading light. It¡¯s not hard to find them. They¡¯ve drifted just beyond the main camp, far enough that no one else would hear their conversation, but close enough to keep an eye on things. Criato stands with his back to you, arms crossed, while Ulloa leans slightly against a rocky outcrop with a stern face half-shadowed in the dimming light.
¡°¡and you think this ends with the amulet?¡± Criato is saying, his voice tinged with amusement. ¡°You¡¯re more na?ve than I thought, dear Ulloa. The Great Xiatli¡¯s appetite doesn¡¯t end with one trinket.¡±
There¡¯s a coolness in Ulloa¡¯s gaze that you¡¯ve come to recognize as disdain. ¡°You know it¡¯s not simply about the amulet. It¡¯s about what comes after. You gave Him what He wanted¡ªno doubt you expect to be rewarded.¡±
Criato chuckles softly, but there¡¯s a noticeable edge to it. ¡°Rewarded? Oh, but I¡¯ve already won! I was the one who found it. Not you.¡±
Ulloa¡¯s eyes reveal the barest hint of a reaction in the low light. ¡°Is that what this is to you? A contest?¡± He pauses, studying Criato¡¯s face for a moment, before adding, ¡°I thought you had grander ambitions than chasing after relics like a dog after scraps.¡±
Criato stiffens as his smirk fades slightly, but he recovers quickly. ¡°Oh, yes, what would you know of ambition? You¡¯ve spent your life in service, doing the rulers¡¯ bidding like a good little soldier. But don¡¯t pretend you don¡¯t want more.¡± He steps closer, his voice dropping even lower, quiet enough where you almost miss his remark. ¡°I see it. You think you hide it well, but I know what drives you.¡±
Ulloa¡¯s lips press into a thin line, tension knotting in his jaw. Criato watches him closely, sensing a rare crack in his rival¡¯s composure. He steps in, closer than before, like a vulture circling its prey. His voice is a near whisper, as though sharing a confidence meant for no one else.
¡°This land¡ it¡¯s more than either of us ever dreamed. And Xiatli? He¡¯s just the beginning.¡± Criato¡¯s breath hovers between them, a taunt wrapped in honey. ¡°Don¡¯t fool yourself into thinking you¡¯re the only one who sees the greater possibilities.¡±
The silence that stretches between them is like a drawn blade. Ulloa holds Criato¡¯s gaze, unblinking, but his fingers curl ever so slightly at his sides. When he finally speaks, his voice is calm, quiet¡ªmeasured like the strike of a knife.
¡°You¡¯re wrong about me,¡± Ulloa says deliberately. ¡°Exploration is not about ambition. It¡¯s about making it to the next day.¡±
Criato¡¯s smile deepens, but there¡¯s no warmth in it¡ªjust emitting pure condescension. He tilts his head slightly, as if he¡¯s observing a curious insect trapped in a jar. ¡°Oh, is that it? Survival?¡± The word escapes his lips like a curse. ¡°How quaint. So, that¡¯s all this is to you¡ªa job to be done? That¡¯s¡ adorable, really.¡±
He lets out a quiet, derisive laugh. ¡°But that¡¯s where you and I differ, isn¡¯t it? You¡¯re content to tread water, to hold your breath just long enough to reach the surface.¡± His voice lowers, each syllable dripping with disdain. ¡°But real men, real leaders, we don¡¯t just survive. We devour. We see the world as something to consume, to shape in our image, not just some obstacle to endure.¡±
He leans in, hissing like a snake about to strike. ¡°Keep thinking like that, keep holding back, and you¡¯ll find out how this world chews up those who simply want to get by¡ªand spits them out long before they¡¯ve even had a chance to taste its marrow.¡±
Ulloa doesn¡¯t flinch. His voice drops even lower, just a murmur that somehow cuts sharper than a shout. ¡°Chasing glory like a rabid dog will see you buried just as quickly,¡± he says, each word slow and deliberate, like he¡¯s laying down a challenge Criato isn¡¯t ready for. ¡°The only ones who win are the ones still standing when everyone else is nothing but bones.¡±
Neither man is willing to break the silence that follows. Criato stands tall, confident, his chest puffed out as if he¡¯s already secured his place in history. But Ulloa¡¯s calm is unnerving. It¡¯s a stillness that speaks of something deeper, restrained, controlled.
Unauthorized usage: this narrative is on Amazon without the author''s consent. Report any sightings.
¡°You think I¡¯m reckless?¡± Criato says as anger slowly begins creeping in. ¡°I¡¯m the one who acted. I¡¯m the one who handed Xiatli what He demanded. And it¡¯ll be me He remembers. Not you.¡±
Ulloa casually pushes himself off the rock, stepping closer to Criato. ¡°You think Xiatli remembers anything? He takes what He wants, and when He¡¯s done, He¡¯ll discard you like all the others. That piece of jewelry? It¡¯s not enough. It was never enough.¡±
For the first time, Criato seems taken aback. His confidence wavers, just for a moment. ¡°You don¡¯t know what you¡¯re talking about,¡± he scowls.
¡°Don¡¯t I?¡± Ulloa challenges quietly. ¡°Tell me, Vitor, do you really believe you¡¯re indispensable? Or is that just what you constantly repeat aloud, urging the thought to come true?¡±
Criato steps back, his face darkening, but he doesn¡¯t respond immediately. You watch as his hand moves to his chest, where the amulet once briefly rested, before he catches himself.
Ulloa turns, his back now to Criato, as he begins to walk away. But just before he disappears into the shadows, he throws one last parting word over his shoulder. ¡°The mountains are patient, Criato. More patient than either of us. And they¡¯ll outlast your ambition.¡±
Criato stands there, fists clenched at his sides, watching Ulloa disappear into the night. You can see the rage simmering beneath his skin, the way his chest rises and falls with barely contained fury.
You shrink back into the shadows, your breath shallow. The two men, revered explorers, do not share the camaraderie they publicly appear to have. Not even a friendly rivalry to push each other to do their best. No, this is a deep hatred, something stemming from years of conflict. It makes you wonder what else they¡¯re hiding¡ªfrom each other and everyone else.
The next morning, camp stirs sluggishly, as if the very air has weighed everyone down into slow, deliberate motions. The sky above is pale and drained of color, hanging listlessly over the jagged peaks like an old, worn-out sail. Sparse patches of brittle and lifeless brush dot the landscape, swaying half-heartedly in the arid wind. It¡¯s as if this part of the world is too tired to care about the men and women trudging across these barren slopes.
You pull your pack over your shoulder, and the straps begin digging into your skin as you force yourself to move. Each step is a chore. Your legs are heavy as lead. Your mind is fogged by a constant sense of unease. It¡¯s not just the trek north¡ªthe endless trail of rocks and dust that stretches out into some unknown horizon¡ªbut something deeper, something unsettling about the mission behind this journey.
Your mind revisits the encounter between Criato and Ulloa from last night. Your thoughts don¡¯t allow you to think of anything else. Not yet. The amulet, the ultimate end goals and contrasting motivations of the two explorers¡ what does it all mean?
And then you recall the scrolls of paper contained in the chest. Once again, Criato and Ulloa failed to mention it. Had they noticed? How could they not? Did any of the other settlers notice? Perhaps it¡¯s not as important as you think it is. But the moment you tell yourself that, you immediately dismiss the notion. There has to be some importance with regards to the sheets of paper.
Once again, you all sett off, heading into this unknown and oppressive landscape. In the distance, the Great Xiatli floats at the front of the procession, an indifferent figure silhouetted against the stark horizon. He doesn¡¯t feel it¡ªnone of this seems to bother Him. The losses, the suffering, the endless march. You wonder if He even notices the settlers that fall behind, too weak to continue, those who have given their lives to this cause, now forever a part of the land.
Among the gathered masses, you¡¯re finally able to catch glimpses of Iker. When you spot him, you notice how his face is tight with frustration. Every time you¡¯ve tried to speak to him, he¡¯s brushed you off. Now, as you stand among the other settlers, watching them disassemble what little remains of the camp, you wonder what has your longtime friend so distraught.
Iker walks up beside you, but he doesn¡¯t meet your gaze. His shoulders are hunched, his lips pressed into a thin line. You can almost feel his silence as he tightens the straps of his own pack. His demeanor is that of someone who doesn¡¯t want to be in your presence, yet he¡¯s making every effort to be shoulder to shoulder with you.
You clear your throat, searching for a way to break this underlying tension between you. ¡°Did you see the chest Criato unearthed?¡± you ask, keeping your voice casual. ¡°The one containing the amulet that the Great Xiatli demanded for Himself?¡±
Iker¡¯s eyes glance at you for the briefest second before returning to his pack. ¡°No,¡± he mutters. The word is clipped and short, like he¡¯s hoping to end the conversation there.
¡°There were these scrolls inside,¡± you continue, pushing forward despite his dismissive tone. ¡°Old, with writing I¡¯ve never seen. I wonder what they contain?¡± You let the curiosity hang in the air, hoping it might draw him in, even a little.
Instead, Iker¡¯s shoulders stiffen, and he doesn¡¯t look up. ¡°Probably nothing that concerns us,¡± he replies flatly, sounding irritated.
You hesitate for a moment, then decide to test the waters. ¡°What if we could retrieve them?¡± you ask, your voice dropping to a whisper. ¡°Find out what¡¯s written on those scrolls ourselves. There could be something¡ªsomething valuable, something that could turn the tide of this journey.¡±
Iker finally turns to you. His gaze is cold, and his words are biting. ¡°Are you insane?¡± he snaps. ¡°You¡¯d risk both our necks for some moldy scrolls? The Great Xiatli would skin you alive if He caught you snooping through what¡¯s His.¡± He shakes his head, letting out a bitter laugh. ¡°Of all the foolish ideas you¡¯ve had, this one might just top the list.¡±
His words hit like a slap, and you¡¯re left grappling with the sudden distance between you. The warmth, the understanding that used to be there, now feels like it¡¯s been walled off behind his cold responses. You search for the reason¡ªwhy he¡¯s become so withdrawn, so quick to anger. Maybe it¡¯s something else. Something bigger.
It must be Lander.
That thought lodges itself in your mind, and the concern surges up, overriding the awkwardness of the moment. Thinking, perhaps, that his frustration mirrors your own fears, you take a chance. ¡°Lander¡¯s still out there,¡± you say, the concern spilling out of you almost unbidden. ¡°Somewhere, on that ship. Alone.¡±
Iker tenses, and you see his jaw clench. There¡¯s something sharp and accusatory in his eyes. ¡°We¡¯ve been over this. Lander¡¯s fine. He has Gartzen and Captain Lema. They¡¯ll be back.¡±
You shake your head, the knot of worry tightening in your chest. ¡°We don¡¯t know that. I should¡¯ve been with him. I didn¡¯t even get a chance to say¡ª¡±
¡°To say what?¡± Iker interrupts, his voice colder than you¡¯ve ever heard it, even just moments ago. ¡°What could you have said that would¡¯ve made a difference? You¡¯ve barely been able to talk about anything else since we left¡ªI¡¯m surprised you even care about these stupid scrolls. It¡¯s always Lander this, Lander that.¡±
The accusation stings, and you feel your defenses rising. ¡°Of course it¡¯s about Lander,¡± you snap back. ¡°What else would it be about?¡±
Iker turns on you, his eyes blazing with a frustration that¡¯s clearly been building for days. ¡°You can¡¯t stop worrying about him, can you? Like he¡¯s the only one that matters. Like I¡¯m not standing right here.¡±
You¡¯re taken aback. The sharpness in his voice almost hurts you physically. ¡°What are you talking about?¡±
He looks away, shaking his head with incredulity. ¡°You¡¯ve barely said a word to me since he showed up. You¡¯re so focused on him¡ªon this new friendship of yours¡ªthat you¡¯ve forgotten who¡¯s been at your side all this time.¡±
The words cut deep. It¡¯s not that you haven¡¯t noticed the distance between you and Iker, but you hadn¡¯t realized how much it had affected him. ¡°That¡¯s not fair, Iker,¡± you say, your voice softening as you try to find the right words. ¡°You know it¡¯s not like that.¡±
¡°Don¡¯t I?¡± he says, suddenly turning to face you. ¡°He¡¯s gone, and all you do is think about him. Worry about him. And I¡¯m just¡ what? Some afterthought? Someone you used to care about?¡±
Your chest tightens, guilt mixing with frustration. ¡°That¡¯s not true. You¡¯ve always been important to me. And Lander¡ª¡°
¡°He¡¯s a stranger, and you¡¯ve known him for what? A few months? And suddenly he¡¯s all that matters?¡± His voice cracks, and you can hear the jealousy now, plain as day. ¡°What about me? What about us? What about everything we¡¯ve been through?¡±
You open your mouth to respond, but the words catch in your throat. Iker steps back, lips pressed into a thin line as a low breath escapes through his nose. ¡°I don¡¯t care what you think about Lander. He¡¯s gone. But I¡¯m still here, and you can¡¯t even see that.¡±
There¡¯s a long silence as his words fall heavy, like stones tumbling into a deep chasm, lost in the widening rift between you. It feels like a wound that¡¯s been festering for too long, and now that it¡¯s open, you¡¯re not sure how to treat it. You know you should say something, anything to fix this, but the words refuse to come.
Instead, Iker turns away. He wraps himself in his arms as he follows the rest of the group northward, leaving you standing there. The taste of regret is bitter on your tongue as you watch him leave.
You fall into step behind the others, dragging your feet through the dust and dirt. The line of settlers stretches ahead, their figures hunched, broken shadows against the endless landscape. Conversations died long ago, replaced by the sound of boots scraping over the brittle land, by the labored breaths of men and women who once believed there might be something at the end of this.
Days have blurred together, marked only by the rise and fall of the sun and the horizon that never seems to change. The land offers no mercy, no sign of an end, just more of the same dry, unforgiving expanse. Packs feel like they¡¯ve doubled in size. Lips crack under the merciless sun. Eyes sweep the distance, searching for any sign that this is more than a fool¡¯s errand. How much longer? How much farther?
You begin to wonder if you¡¯ve been walking in circles, if the mountains themselves are playing tricks on you. Dragging the journey out longer. Keeping the destination just out of reach.
Then, you see it.
Carved into the cliffside, woven into the very marrow of the mountains, a city rises from the rock like something that should not exist. Stone upon stone, each one larger than the last, fitted with a precision that feels impossible, as if the summits themselves bent to their will. The buildings are sharp, angular, and defiant. They glow a faint gold in the setting sun, a city that swallows light and returns it in shimmering fragments.
You stand at the edge of the world. Your eyes climb the stairs of the city, following the rise of each platform. Walls curve in ways the mind struggles to grasp. The center looms above, a temple or palace that isn¡¯t just built on the mountain¡ªit is the mountain. It proudly protrudes upward, with protective peaks curling around it, and its polished stone gleams as though the sun is trapped within the rock.
The city stretches further than you can see, disappearing into the mountain range. You try to place the scale of it, the reach of it, but your mind falters. Layer after layer, the terraces ripple down the mountainside. It¡¯s as if a humungous hand pressed its thumb into the ground and molded steps for giants. Atop these astonishingly level surfaces, the crops sway in the faint breeze as light dances upon the fields. Crops. At this elevation. Your mind marvels at the sight.
You step forward, but there¡¯s a stillness beneath your boots. There¡¯s a silence so deep, you believe all noise has been absorbed into the land. No birds cry from the skies. No sound but the faint whisper of wind as it brushes along the cliff edge and disappears into the steep peaks.
You manage to push through the throng, slipping between the weary bodies of those who¡¯ve been trudging alongside you for days. There¡¯s a rise in the path ahead¡ªa jagged outcrop of rock that juts up just enough to offer a brief glimpse over the heads of the others. From here, you can see Him.
The Great Xiatli floats alone at the front, towering above the endless line of followers snaking through the mountains. And though He¡¯s distant, so far ahead He might as well be part of the horizon itself, you catch it: His face. His lips curl upward, but there¡¯s something wrong about it¡ªsomething too sharp, too deliberate. It¡¯s the kind of grin that feels like it was taught, a practiced imitation of what a smile should be, but never truly is. You¡¯re barely able to catch it, that brief flash of teeth in the fading light, and it sends a ripple of unease through you. Is it hunger? Amusement? The shadow of something darker, lurking beneath the surface?
For a moment, you almost convince yourself it¡¯s nothing. That maybe He doesn¡¯t know how to smile like other, mortal men. Like the gesture is foreign to such a profound deity. A language He¡¯s still learning. But the way His eyes linger on the city, the way that smile curves just a little too far¡ªlike the edge of a blade¡ªmakes you wonder. Wonder if He¡¯s seeing the same thing you are.
You shake the thought, the uneasy feeling away. But it nags at you, like a whisper you can¡¯t quite make out.
And yet, His gaze never wavers from the city, as if He has finally seen the thing He¡¯s been waiting for.
137 - Haesan
It¡¯s become a reflexive habit, a nervous tic. Throughout our travels, I can¡¯t help but look up at the night sky and monitor the moon¡¯s progress. There isn¡¯t much left of the moon now. Just a sliver of silver amongst the stars. Soon, even that pale shard will be swallowed by the darkness, and with it, all of Pachil.
I lower my gaze to the land around me. I continue to marvel at how much this place so unlike the world I grew up in. The dry winds of Tapeu rustle through the tall, golden grass, carrying with them the scent of soil and dust. The sharp, brittle air feels foreign against my skin, so different from the humid embrace of the Achope jungles. Here, the world feels wide open, exposed. Vulnerable.
I close my eyes and the jungle rises to greet me. There, everything felt alive, vibrant, humming with a pulse all its own. Birds call from hidden perches, like distant memories just out of reach. The branches of the trees twist like fingers that cradle the sky. I find myself longing for the thick canopy of green, the way the trees there seemed to shield you from the harsh sun, wrapping you in a warm, nurturing cocoon.
It¡¯s strange, though. To this day, despite everything, I still find myself calling Achope my home. How is it that I long for a place that, in many ways, isn¡¯t mine to long for? A place where I never fully belonged, even though I didn¡¯t realize it at the time. Those jungles, the safety of the trees, the gentle lapping of water along the riverbank¡ªthey aren¡¯t mine, not in the way I thought they were. The people who raised me, the life I lived¡ it wasn¡¯t really mine, either.
I wasn¡¯t Achope. Not really.
I am not Achope.
But it¡¯s the only home I¡¯ve ever known, the only life I¡¯ve ever lived. No matter where I came from, I still ache for those rainforests, for the familiar sounds of the jungle at night, the endless thrum of life that felt like a heartbeat beneath your feet. I miss the smell of the dirt after the rain, the way the sky would split open in a downpour and yet, somehow, it never felt like a burden. The jungle would take care of you. You knew of its dangers, but you also knew the safety it offered if you understood and respected it.
But here? Everything feels harsher, brutal. Only endless stretches of dry, unfamiliar land. There¡¯s nothing soft about this place. It¡¯s unforgiving in every way, and I¡¯m reminded again how far I am from the world I grew up in¡ªand how far I am from the person I thought I was.
I try to push the thought away, but it clings to me. How strange it is to yearn for a place that isn¡¯t really yours. To call a land home when it never truly belonged to you, and you never truly belonged to it. Achope raised me, shaped me. But the blood in my veins¡ well, that belongs to Tapeu. To Achutli. To a father I never knew.
Sometimes, I wonder what it would have been like if I had known him. If I had grown up here, in this dry, rugged land under his watchful gaze. Would I feel more at home in Tapeu than I do now, standing on the soil of my blood but not my heart? Would I have been a different person, more sure of myself, more rooted in this history? Would my lineage feel like a strength instead of a burden?
And what of my mother? Whoever she was, wherever she came from¡ªanother part of my life left in shadow. Is Achutli the only one who knows of her, and he¡¯s kept that secret from me and Nuqasiq, his own mother?
The answer doesn¡¯t come, and I don¡¯t expect it to. But still, the questions linger. Here, in this rugged land, they settle over me like the dust, refusing to be shaken off.
In the distance, rolling hills dip and rise like the backs of giant, sleeping beasts. It¡¯s beautiful in a strange way, but it¡¯s hard to overlook how desolate it is. Every breath I take reminds me of how far I am from home, from the safety of the familiar. The soil here is cracked in places, desperate for water. But somehow, the Atima refugees have found a way to ensure the fields are strong, resilient in ways I can¡¯t fully understand. And yet, it seems as though this land is constantly at war with itself, just as we are¡ªone moment thriving, the next struggling to survive.
That¡¯s what this feels like. Struggling to survive. We¡¯re all running out of time, scrambling to piece together a defense. The new moon is coming quickly, and with it, whatever machinations the Eye in the Flame have planned for Qapauma¡ªand Pachil.
I glance over my shoulder at the small band of warriors traveling with me. Their faces are worn, tired, uncertain what awaits us in Qapauma. No matter how many times I calculate it in my mind, it always feels like a losing battle. If we¡¯re not ready by the time the moon fades, it¡¯ll be too late.
That thought festers like a quiet, stubborn ache in every joint of my body.
Though I will never be able to get what looms out of my mind, I make a concerted effort to distract myself, even for just one fleeting moment. In doing so, I notice Xelhua a short distance away, his eyes searching the horizon as we travel through these lands. He¡¯s been quiet for most of the journey, offering little beyond tactical advice and the occasional word of caution. There¡¯s a coldness in his eyes, like he¡¯s seen too much of the world, and none of it has surprised him for a long time. His expressions are flat, as though any spark of emotion has been long extinguished by the burden of his past.
Never taught to me by any of my tutors, I¡¯ve only heard whispers of the Iqsuwa¡ªthe fabled warriors who served no faction, no king. There were wild and often contradictory stories passed among the merchant circles of Achope. They were said to be ghosts of the battlefield, feared by even the mightiest armies. That they could summon storms with their chants, or vanish before an enemy was made aware of their presence. Some rumors claimed they fought for causes only they understood, driven by a code as old as Pachil itself, while others said they had no cause at all, only bloodlust.
But beyond the stories, no one I knew had ever encountered one. The Iqsuwa were more legend than reality, they would say, remnants of a past no one remembered clearly. They were myths. Until now.
The soft crunch of our footsteps against the dry ground echoes through the fields. I find myself walking closer to Xelhua, unable to ignore the growing curiosity nagging me. What is it that drives a man like him? What is it that haunts him so deeply?
I quicken my steps to match his pace. The silence between us stretches as the wind rustles through the fields. Xelhua¡¯s distant gaze remains fixed ahead, as though he¡¯s walking through memories rather than these plains. Finally, I gather the nerve to speak, though my voice feels small against the questions I want to ask.
¡°Xelhua,¡± I start, and I observe how my voice sounds like a squeak. ¡°I¡¯ve heard stories about the Iqsuwa. Is it true what they say about your people¡ªthe Iqsuwa warriors, that is?¡±
A low, humorless chuckle escapes him. ¡°Stories have a way of growing their own legs,¡± he mutters. ¡°But I suppose there may be truth to some of it.¡±
¡°Well, what parts are true, then?¡± I press on, unwilling to let the silence overtake us again.
¡°Depends on what you¡¯ve heard,¡± he grunts.
I shrug reflexively. ¡°There are tons of stories. You know how rumors get passed around, especially in circles of merchants or nobles.¡±
His mouth twitches, not quite a smile. ¡°Rumors are all most people have.¡±
I can¡¯t help myself now, practically blurting out the question that has been pulling at me this entire trek. ¡°So, is it true you could summon storms with your words? Or that you moved like shadows across battlefields, invisible to the enemy?¡±
I¡¯m a touch embarrassed at the speed in which I asked such ridiculous-sounding questions. Despite this, he lets out a low, gravelly laugh with disbelief, though undeniably finding genuine humor, to my relief. ¡°Storms, huh? I¡¯m afraid that one¡¯s a bit too poetic, even for us.¡± He peeks at me out of the corner of his eye. ¡°But moving like shadows? That¡¯s not far from the truth. We were trained to be¡ let¡¯s say ¡®efficient.¡¯¡±
¡°Efficient?¡± I raise an eyebrow. ¡°That¡¯s one way to put it. I guess that¡¯s why they say no one who faced the Iqsuwa in combat lived to tell the tale.¡±
Xelhua lets out another snort in amusement, though there¡¯s something darker underneath it this time. ¡°We were good at what we did. Some might say too good.¡±
¡°And what about the whole ¡®no master, no ruler¡¯ part?¡± I ask. ¡°That part of the legend always stood out to me. Warriors who answered to no one, who fought for causes only they understood. That sounds a bit¡ romantic, don¡¯t you think?¡±
His smile fades, and he looks away again. ¡°Romantic, huh? Guess that depends on who¡¯s telling the story.¡±
There¡¯s something in his response that tells me I¡¯m getting closer to something real. Because of this, I can¡¯t help but press a little further. ¡°But is it true, then? No rules, no masters?¡±
¡°No,¡± he responds with a sigh. ¡°We had masters. Always someone above us, guiding our hands.¡±
I blink, taken aback by the rawness in his reply. ¡°So you weren¡¯t free?¡±
His jaw tightens, and he lets out a sharp breath. ¡°Free?¡± He shakes his head, bitterness seeping into his words. ¡°We were never free. We were weapons. Blades wielded by others, for someone else¡¯s agenda. You think we fought for something we believed in?¡± He pauses. ¡°No. We fought because we were told to. And we did things¡ things no one should ever have to do.¡±
His words leave me feeling uneasy, but this vague response only piques my curiosity more. I bite my lip, unsure if I should keep going, but the question tumbles from my mouth before I can stop it.
¡°You mentioned before, when we first encountered one another, that you¡¯ve done things you¡¯re not proud of. Was that because of what it meant to be an Iqsuwa?¡±
¡°Being an Iqsuwa wasn¡¯t a choice,¡± he responds sharply. ¡°Not in the way you might think. And what we did¡ what I did¡¡± His voice trails off, leaving the answer incomplete.
I glance at my feet, grinding down the dry ground beneath us. ¡°Was that how it always was? For the Iqsuwa, I mean. Was that the life they always lived?¡±
Xelhua finally turns to look at me, cold and stone-faced. ¡°Once, long ago, there was an age when the Iqsuwa were truly independent and lived by their own code. But not in my lifetime, not when I was one of them.¡±
He falls silent again, and his eyes narrow as though he¡¯s seeing something far beyond the horizon. The way he carries himself is as if every step, every word, has been earned through blood and sweat. I notice the way his hand flexes at his side, with calloused fingers twitching, as if ready to grasp a weapon that¡¯s no longer there. The quiet that follows is laden with words unspoken¡ªthe kind that don''t need to be said because they¡¯ve already been lived.
His eyes darken, and for a moment, I wonder if I¡¯ve overstepped. The silence tells me that the discussion has been brought to an end. That the Iqsuwa will remain shrouded in mystery. I had only hoped to learn more about this warrior and what ails him, hoping I can help him right the wrongs he believes he¡¯s done. Yet I feel that my interest in his past may have caused more harm than good, and I start to regret my efforts in getting to know this warrior who purposely sought isolation, seeking to distance himself from his sins.
Then, with a sigh, he turns his head slightly. His voice is low and gruff, as though the words are being dragged from deep within. ¡°It wasn¡¯t supposed to be this way.¡±
He stops, shaking his head as he casts his eyes downward. I know better than to coax him, to push him too hard. So I give him the time and space to work out whatever turmoil roils within him.
He sucks in air through his teeth, and his face forms a tight grimace. But like the brave warrior he is, he pushes through the hurt and continues. ¡°What we¡¯re taught¡ªwhat I was taught¡ªis that the creation of the Iqsuwa was a direct challenge to the aristocrats, particularly the Maqanuiache and their elite, noble warriors. We were supposed to be different, better.¡±
¡°There was a time, long ago,¡± he begins recounting, ¡°when we fought for the people, not for power or wealth. The Iqsuwa took in those who had nowhere else to go. They trained us to be warriors of the land, to defend the defenseless. Our code was simple: protect the balance, and never let the powerful prey on the weak.¡±
He pauses with a faraway look in his eyes, reaching for memories that have long since crumbled into dust. ¡°I believed in that. Or, at least, I wanted to believe in it. But by the time I joined, things were already changing.¡±
If you spot this tale on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.
I watch his hand continuing to flex unconsciously, fingers twitching. ¡°I wasn¡¯t born into privilege. My family were farmers. Barely scraping by. Too poor to send me to the military academies like the Maqanuiache.¡± He pauses, his lips pressed thin, as though grappling with a memory that leaves a sour taste behind. ¡°It was expected that I¡¯d follow in my father¡¯s footsteps¡ªplant, harvest, tend to the land. But I wasn¡¯t built for it. The fields felt like a prison. No matter how hard I worked, it wasn¡¯t enough. I couldn¡¯t endure it. I wanted more, something beyond tilling dry soil under a blistering sun.¡±
¡°But it wasn¡¯t just the farming,¡± he says, as if he¡¯s admitting something shameful. ¡°I couldn¡¯t be a merchant, either. No sharp mind for trade, no gift of persuasion.¡±
He lets out a dry chuckle. ¡°I remember one day, my uncle had me running the stall for him. We were selling¡ what was it? Dried maize, I think. There was this old woman¡ªhad to be sixty harvests old¡ªhunched over and could barely reach my shoulders. Haggled with me over the price of a sack. I stood there for what felt like half a day, listening to her go back and forth, shaving a handful of coppers off with every breath she took. I thought to myself, ¡®Surely, this can¡¯t be my life.¡¯ But I played along, kept my smile painted on, nodding like a fool.¡±
Xelhua pauses, shaking his head. ¡°Eventually, I just gave in. Sold her the damn thing for next to nothing, just to shut her up. My uncle wasn¡¯t happy, of course. Said I had no backbone, that I¡¯d let her walk all over me. Maybe he was right. But I couldn¡¯t stand it¡ªthe false smiles, the endless back-and-forth, all over a few coppers. I wasn¡¯t built for that world, either.¡±
He shrugs. ¡°I realized pretty quickly that I didn¡¯t have the patience for trade. Some people are born with it, I suppose. But not me. I needed something clearer. Simpler.¡±
¡°But I didn¡¯t fit in anywhere. Couldn¡¯t seem to carve out a place for myself. To people like us, people without coin, without connections, the world gives few choices. And if you can¡¯t follow in your parents¡¯ footsteps, there aren¡¯t many doors left open.¡± He turns toward me, and something raw briefly surfaces in his eyes. ¡°I thought the Iqsuwa would be different. I thought, maybe, they¡¯d give me the purpose I¡¯d been chasing.¡±
His lips twist into something that might be considered a hollow smile. ¡°A chance to be more than just another nearly-forgotten name on a quipu. A way to fight for something bigger than myself. But the truth is, joining them wasn¡¯t about honor or loyalty. It was survival. If I wasn¡¯t a warrior, I was nothing. The Iqsuwa offered a way to escape my fate, to be free of the life that had been carved out for me before I was even born.¡±
¡°When they brought me in, I was still rough around the edges. No discipline to speak of. The Iqsuwa¡¯s training,¡± he exhales sharply, nearly whistling, ¡°it was brutal. We were trained in everything from swordsmanship to hand-to-hand combat. Taught how to move like shadows, silent and unseen, as you say. The way of the Iqsuwa was about precision, focus, and mastering the art of control. You could be as strong as ten men, but if you couldn¡¯t control that strength, it was worthless. You had to learn to master yourself before you could master your enemy.¡±
He pauses again, his eyes cast as though he¡¯s seeing the training fields again, hearing the bark of his instructors, the clattering of weapons. ¡°We trained from dawn until the stars filled the sky. No rest. No weakness allowed. They¡¯d pit us against each other in sparring matches, force us to keep going until one of us couldn¡¯t stand. The Iqsuwa weren¡¯t like the regular warriors¡ªthey weren¡¯t looking for brute strength or simple obedience. They were looking for warriors who could think, strategize. Who could turn the tide of battle with a single, calculated move.
¡°But it wasn¡¯t just physical training. They broke us down mentally. You had to learn how to endure pain, how to push past exhaustion and hunger until they were nothing but foreign concepts. They¡¯d leave us out in the wilderness with nothing¡ªno food, no water¡ªand we had to find our way back, all while avoiding traps they¡¯d laid to make sure only the strongest returned.¡±
He lets out a laugh, though there¡¯s no humor in it. ¡°I hated it. Every moment of it. But I couldn¡¯t quit. Failing wasn¡¯t an option. If you failed, you weren¡¯t just cast out. You were discarded¡ªdead weight. And for someone like me, who had nothing to fall back on, that wasn¡¯t a fate I could accept.¡±
I can hear the resentment in his voice, and though I¡¯ve never lived that kind of life, its burden presses against me. ¡°So, what kept you going?¡± I ask softly.
Xelhua shrugs, his eyes still fixed ahead. ¡°Fear, mostly. Fear of going back to that life. Back to the fields, or the market stalls¡ the nothingness. The emptiness. At least as an Iqsuwa, I had a purpose. I had something to strive for. Something to live for.¡±
He¡¯s quiet for a moment, then his voice darkens. ¡°By the time I was accepted, completed my training, and became an Iqsuwa, they weren¡¯t what they used to be. We were still feared, still respected, but we weren¡¯t free. Not anymore. The Timuaq? They saw to that. The gods in flesh, the rulers of all. They didn¡¯t care about balance. They didn¡¯t care about the people. They only cared about control. And they saw the Iqsuwa for what we were¡ªpowerful, dangerous.¡±
He swallows hard, face contorting into a snarl as if smelling something unsavory. ¡°The Timuaq played the long game, alright. They didn¡¯t crush us outright. They planted seeds¡ªpromises, temptations. Corrupting the officers first, the ones who were desperate for respect. They were offered wealth, land, power¡ things no warrior could turn down. Especially those born of poverty like many of us were. By the time I realized what was happening, it was already too late. The Iqsuwa code, the one we lived by¡ªit became nothing more than words twisted to suit the Timuaq¡¯s needs. We became their enforcers, not the people¡¯s protectors. They sent the Iqsuwa to crush rebellions, burn villages, enslave entire populations.¡±
I hesitate, uncertain if I want to know the answer. But eventually, I quietly ask, ¡°And you?¡±
Xelhua¡¯s eyes narrow, and when he speaks again, his voice is thick with guilt. ¡°I wasn¡¯t any different. I was a good warrior. An obedient warrior.¡± He says this with mockery, with disgust, with disdain. ¡°I followed orders. I thought I was serving something greater. But all I was serving was the greed and ambition of those who wanted to rule everything. I wasn¡¯t a warrior. I wasn¡¯t an Iqsuwa. I was just another tool in their hands.¡±
His lips quiver, eyes glistening as they fill with tears. ¡°When I close my eyes, I still see the flames. Still see the blank faces staring back at me. Still hear the screams in my sleep. We weren¡¯t warriors anymore. We were executioners.¡±
He shakes his head, his voice raw with pain. ¡°The balance we were meant to protect? We destroyed it.¡±
He falls silent again, as if retreating inward. He wants to close his eyes, wants to bury the pain, but he can¡¯t. Every time his lids lower, the visions are waiting, etched in the darkness, too vivid to escape.
He turns to me now, brushing his moist cheek with the achiote-colored cloak resting on his shoulder. ¡°I believed in the legends of the Iqsuwa once. But by the time I became one of them, those legends were dead. We became slaves to the Timuaq. Not in chains like the people we were supposed to protect, but bound by our own complicity. We became as ruthless as the oppressors we once fought against.¡±
¡°Then why?¡± I ask, needing to understand. ¡°Why continue being one?¡±
Xelhua¡¯s lips pull into a bitter smile. ¡°At first, I stayed because I thought, maybe, just maybe, I could change things from the inside. I saw others like me¡ªdisillusioned, questioning what we had become. Rather than attempting to change the system in a subtle manner, they confronted their oppressors head on. A rebellion of sorts, though no one dared call it that. Except the ones who had already sold their souls to the Timuaq? They wouldn¡¯t let go of the power they had been promised. And rather than get involved directly, the Timuaq had us fighting each other, weeding out the dissidents.¡±
His voice falters for a moment. ¡°The rebellion¡ªor whatever you want to call it¡ªdidn¡¯t last long. Many tried to push back against the Timuaq¡¯s control, but the ones who resisted¡ Most were either killed or forced back into line. Once they started rounding up those who questioned them, I knew it was only a matter of time before they came for me, too, even if I wasn¡¯t on the front lines.¡±
He clenches his jaw, as if fighting against an answer he doesn¡¯t want to give. Finally, he breathes out a long sigh. ¡°I was no rebel. Just a coward who couldn¡¯t stand the sight of what we¡¯d become. But it wasn¡¯t courage that made me run. It was fear. The Timuaq¡ they had plans for us in the War of Liberation. They were using the Iqsuwa to crush any resistance, to burn Pachil to the ground if they had to. And by then, there was no more Iqsuwa code, no honor left to cling to. No, the code was already rotten. We were going to be the weapons they used to end everything, to bring the factions of Pachil to their knees.
¡°The crimson and black¡ªthey weren¡¯t the colors of the noble Iqsuwa. They were the colors of the Timuaq. And those colors¡ those colors ruined everything they touched. But I wore them. I carried out their orders. I believed the lie because I had to. That is, until it became too much. All the needless suffering caused by my hands. It was too much.¡±
I furrow my brow, listening intently. ¡°And that¡¯s when you ran.¡±
¡°Yes,¡± he replies, his voice cracking. ¡°I saw my chance and took it. In the chaos, during one of the skirmishes among the Iqsuwa, I ran. I deserted. The worst thing a warrior can do. I left my brothers and sisters to die, left them to their fate.¡±
He looks down, his hands tightening into fists. ¡°I took these colors I wear now¡ªthe old colors of the Iqsuwa¡ªbecause it was the only way I could still pretend I was part of something honorable. But I¡¯m not an Iqsuwa anymore. Not really. I¡¯m just a coward, hiding in the shadows. I ran, but I can¡¯t run from what I¡¯ve done. That¡¯s all I am now. A man hiding from the past.¡±
I should say something, anything to console him, but I can¡¯t find the words. He¡¯s a warrior, trained to fight, conditioned to kill, yet here he stands, broken. And as much as I want to believe I¡¯m different from him, his pain resonates deep within me.
I think of my own identity, how everything I thought I knew about myself has been turned upside down. The feeling of being untethered, of not belonging anywhere. It¡¯s a feeling I understand all too well.
And as I look at Xelhua now, I realize that we are both fighting battles we never chose. But while I¡¯m determined to face mine head-on, he ran from his. It¡¯s a confusing state in which to be, considering how we faced our respective adversities, and the thought leaves a bitter taste in my mouth.
¡°I don¡¯t know how to live with it,¡± Xelhua admits, his voice barely above a whisper. ¡°I don¡¯t know how to be anything else.¡±
I swallow hard, feeling the lump in my throat. I want to tell him that he¡¯s not alone in feeling lost. That I know what it¡¯s like to question who you are, to wonder if you even have a place in the world anymore. But I can¡¯t condone running away from your problems. I can¡¯t condone leaving others to suffer while you try to escape.
¡°You don¡¯t have to live in the past,¡± I say quietly, but there¡¯s a firmness in my tone. ¡°The future isn¡¯t set. Not for any of us. And while it won¡¯t undo what¡¯s already been done, it¡¯s an opportunity to prove that you¡¯ve grown.¡±
Xelhua¡¯s eyes glance toward me fleetingly, but he doesn¡¯t say anything. He looks back to the horizon, his face etched with pain and regret. I don¡¯t know if my words reached him or if he¡¯ll ever stop punishing himself for what he¡¯s done. He may never find redemption, but I know that this¡ªliving in hiding, wrapped in the colors of a once-proud order¡ªisn¡¯t the answer.
For now, though, we travel in silence. Once more, I look up at the approaching night sky. The moon above is almost gone. Still. I keep staring at it, as if I can will it to reverse its course, but knowing I cannot.
By the shores of the bay that empties into the Haqu Suquinoq, he and the Qantua warriors get to work. Without exchanging a word, they begin constructing a water vessel made from dead trees and nearby driftwood. Long reeds are tied together, and they¡¯re fitted around the bundle of wood to haphazardly gather them together. The long logs clatter against one another as the gentle tide rolls in. Poorly built, it¡¯s a wonder how the thing remains in its loose bindings.
Xelhua points to the makeshift raft. ¡°If memory serves, there¡¯s a small canal that reaches Qapauma. We can take this water vessel and slip into the city under the cover of night, unnoticed. Avoid the watchful eyes of the warring factions.¡±
Clearly, the expression on my face must be conveying my uncertainty, because he then says, ¡°This will get the job done, I can assure you. I¡¯ve managed with worse in my time. We won¡¯t need to travel for long. It¡¯ll hold until we reach our destination.¡±
Reluctantly, I board the vessel. It barely supports the weight of my tiny frame, immediately sinking the moment I step upon it. Reflexively, I want to return to shore, but Xelhua guides me onto the raft, holding my hand until I balance myself upon the batch of logs. I remain skeptical, but as each warrior then boards after me, I gradually become impressed that such a hastily-built water craft appears to be working as intended.
With a few other logs, Xelhua and a couple of the warriors guide the raft off the shore, pushing away with their rough ores. The water is mercifully tranquil, allowing us to glide gracefully on its surface. I still watch the water for any sign of betrayal, but the further we drift from the coast, oddly enough, the more I feel at ease.
Perhaps it¡¯s the rhythmic rowing, or the steady lapping of water along the sides of the raft, but I find the situation to be peaceful. Soon, I¡¯m meditating, calmly taking in the scene and reflective upon all the moments that have culminated into this moment.
I glance at Xelhua, whose attention is completely fixed on rowing our raft. This is a man who once believed he was fighting for something greater, only to realize he was nothing more than a weapon in someone else¡¯s hands. And now here he is, cloaked in regret and shame, with a past that haunts him at every turn.
It makes me wonder: do we choose our path, or does the world push us onto it, one step at a time, until we look up and realize we¡¯re somewhere we never wanted to be?
If he was shaped by the choices he didn¡¯t make¡ªby the forces beyond him¡ªwhat does that mean for the rest of us? For me?
The quiet lap of water against the side of the raft does nothing to quiet the thoughts swirling in my mind. Ahead, the waterways steadily bring us toward Qapauma. The city¡¯s jagged skyline is barely visible against the dimming horizon. We move silently, slowly, as the vessel cuts through the water unnoticed.
I think about the road that led me here, to this moment. The twists and turns, the secrets revealed. Was I always destined to walk this path? To be pulled away from the jungles I once called home, to learn that my bloodline, my purpose, was never what I thought it was?
I grew up believing I had control, that my life was shaped by my decisions. The choices I made, the actions I took¡ªweren¡¯t those the things that defined me? But now, looking back, I can only wonder. Was I ever really choosing? Or was I simply following the path laid out before me, like a river carving its way through a canyon, unaware of the forces shaping its course?
It¡¯s strange to think how different we are, Xelhua and I. One of us born into privilege, the other into hardship. And yet, here we both are¡ªadrift, questioning whether we were ever in control of our lives at all.
If I had known from the beginning that I was destined for this¡ªthis war, this conflict, this endless fight¡ªwould I have made different decisions?
I close my eyes once more and picture the dense jungles of Achope, the way the thick canopy made the world feel small, enclosed, safe. There, I felt like I was in control, like the world was something I could bend to my will. But now, the world feels vast, open, untamable. Am I just a leaf caught in a current, powerless to change my course? Or am I like these warriors, using whatever they can find at their disposal to guide this raft to the desired destination?
Maybe, true power lies not in avoiding the path laid out for us, but in how we walk it. Even if the river carves the way, perhaps there¡¯s a way to steer, to navigate the bends and avoid the rocks.
Xelhua ran from his fate, but I can¡¯t. There¡¯s too much at risk. Too many lives depending on the choices I make from here on out. Whether this is my path or not, it¡¯s the path I¡¯m on, and I¡¯ll fight for the future I want, even if the world pushes back.
The crumbling walls of Qapauma loom in the distance, dark silhouettes against the cerulean sky. Even from here, I can see the damage, the scars left by war and time. The once-mighty capital looks broken, vulnerable. Just like the people inside it. Just like us.
The raft drifts closer, and my pulse quickens. Whatever happens next, this is the path we¡¯re on.
138 - Mexqutli
The most difficult part of all of this, of tracking down your prey, is having to lie in wait. Waiting. Watching. It is a fate worse than death.
I have been perched here for what feels like countless harvests, but has probably only been¡ well, too long for someone like me. There is a guard down there, picking at his nails with the tip of a dagger as if the Eye in the Flame will award him for personal grooming. Another is leaning against the post, trying very hard to stay awake, but failing miserably. His head just snapped back so hard I thought he would fall off the ledge.
But no. He remains upright, and I remain here. Stuck. Observing.
I loathe observing.
Do not get me wrong, I understand the value of reconnaissance. Gather information, find the weak spots, plan an attack. I get it. Really. But it is so dreadfully boring.
I am not the type to lie in the shadows like a coward. I charge in, sword first, skull second. It usually works out. Except, of course, when it does not, which is how I ended up in this situation in the first place.
So here I am. In the dirt. Watching a bunch of cultists argue about who gets to carry the torches on the night patrol, and wondering why I could not just intervene. Get in there, rattle a few heads, see who spills the most useful secrets. Would that not be simpler?
No. Apparently not.
Apparently, I am supposed to do this the ¡°smart¡± way. Whoever gave me that advice clearly does not know me. The ¡°smart¡± way is dull, tedious, and involves an awful lot of sitting still. Not my style. Especially without chicha. But discipline¡ªdiscipline is important, they say. In who I am supposed to be. So here I am, pretending I have that.
I shift slightly, trying to stretch without rustling the leaves. My back aches. My legs are numb. And I am certain that if I hear one more idiot grunt about the weight of his heavy robes, I will lose what little remains of my sanity.
From my hiding spot, I take in the village¡ªor what is left of it. Once, it must have been a well-ordered place, built purely for one thing: farming. I can picture it now, fields stretching out on either side, crops rising tall in the summer sun, a neat little village humming with life. Simple buildings, made for practical purposes, not for show. Every mud brick probably had to justify its existence.
Now? The whole place looks like it got chewed up and spat out. Walls that once stood firm have been reduced to piles of rubble, homes torn apart by the kind of force that does not ask politely. I do not know what happened here¡ªthough I can take a guess. I am no stranger to the results of a ¡°noble last stand.¡± Farmers probably tried to resist these cultists. Farmers with pitchforks and tools against fire-slinging lunatics in robes¡ it is not hard to imagine how that went.
Gray robes scuttle about the remains of the village like ants. They are everywhere, moving in small, unorganized packs. Heads down, doing whatever miserable task the Eye in the Flame demands of them. Watching them stirs the fire in my veins. Every now and then, I spot one of the robed fools tossing a glance over his shoulder, as if they do not trust what lurks behind them.
And then there are the ones in red.
Crimson robes, like little bloodstains dotting the village. They stand taller, their steps more deliberate, while the gray-robed ones practically grovel in their presence. The crimson ones do not carry anything, not even a care. They just bark orders and march around, probably pretending they have more power than they really do.
I have half a mind to introduce them to the idea of humility, but I must continue practicing patience. For now, anyway.
Tents are scattered around, slapped together without much thought. It is a quick solution to a problem they have not quite figured out yet. The cultists do not seem to care how it looks. There is no grand design here, just a bunch of temporary shelters that will hold them over until they move on to whatever twisted plans they have.
The whole scene is miserable, but I suppose that fits their style. The Eye in the Flame does not seem to care for beauty or order. Only destruction. And yet, they are patient. Look at them, carefully patrolling their dreadful outpost like it is something worth protecting.
It was not easy finding this place. Not that anyone should be surprised. The cult likes to scatter itself like ash in the wind¡ªdifficult to hunt down. But there are always clues, always someone left behind who is not quite as clever as they think.
I caught my first straggler not long after leaving Tapeu territory. He was¡ let me say ¡°unwilling¡± to talk at first. They always are. But everyone has their limits. A broken bone here, a little pressure there. Then, suddenly, they cannot stop talking. I almost pitied him. Almost.
The second one, deeper into Aimue lands, was even more pathetic. He thought he could outrun me. Foolish. Put up a reasonable fight, though. A cornered dog bites harder, but it is still a dog.
Between the two of them, I had all I needed. A few days of walking¡ªmore than I would have liked¡ªcrossing the Maiu Antumalal, and now here I am, perched like some kind of patient hunter. If only they knew how much I despise waiting.
There is something amusing about tracking prey that believes it is safe. The Eye in the Flame thinks itself untouchable, hidden in the remnants of this village, far from the reach of any threat. They do not realize that I am here, watching, learning. Their guards are careless, and their routines predictable. It is almost insulting.
But I am nothing if not thorough.
Another difficult part to this is all the time you have to think. About what to do. About what you¡¯ve done. Too much thinking. Not enough doing.
How did it go wrong in Qapauma? He was in my sights. I never miss.
I had the perfect moment. The Arbiter, with his back to me, so confident in his little bubble of self-importance. I should have ended it right there. One blow, one perfect shot, and I would have cleansed his stain from this world. But no. Interference. Always interference.
That Tuatiu girl¡ªInuxeq. I did not even see her coming until it was too late. She should have stayed out of it. The Arbiter would be dead now, and Pachil would be one step closer to freedom.
I had the opportunity. I had aimed. I had been ready to bring justice to the man who would see my people crushed under his rule. The blowgun was steady in my hands, and I could already see his body crumpling to the ground. One dart, one perfect shot, and everything would have changed.
But no. She came barreling out of nowhere. Next thing I knew, we were both on the ground, and my shot¡ªmy perfect shot¡ªwas wasted. The Arbiter moved, barely, just enough to save his wretched life. Fate, the Eleven, whatever it was, conspired to keep him alive for another day.
And what for? So he could continue his reign of oppression? So he could keep twisting this land to his will? I was doing what needed to be done. The Tapeu ruler is no better than the cultists who rot this land from the inside out. Yet Inuxeq, in her infinite wisdom, thought differently.
Her loyalty will cost her. It will cost us all.
But it does not matter. I have always played the long game. And while I have been forced to wait, to watch, I have not forgotten. I never forget. The Arbiter is still breathing, for now. But he will not breathe forever¡ªI will see to that.
I shift again, trying to find a comfortable position that does not exist. My muscles ache from holding still for far too long. This is torture. Not the pain, mind you¡ªI can handle that. No, the torture is the waiting. The endless, mind-numbing waiting.
Another gray-robed cultist passes by, trudging along with all the grace of a lame llama. I can almost hear the thoughts rattling around in his empty skull. Something along the lines of, ¡±Walk in circles. Look serious. Do not get stabbed.¡±
He pauses, glances around like he has just realized something important. I wait for it. Maybe he has spotted something, a sign of danger, something that will make this excruciating waiting game worth it. I crouch low, ready to leap into action. Have I been noticed? Has my position been compromised?
No. Of course not. He sneezes aggressively, wiping his nose with his sleeve. Disgusting.
The others are not much better. At least those in crimson robes act like they know what they are doing. But even they are too busy doling out orders and looking down their noses at the gray ones to notice the obvious. Like the fact that they are being watched. Closely.
The waiting makes you think too much. About all the things you have done. The things you should have done. And the things you failed to do.
And thinking always brings me back to him.
Xaqilpa.
That battle in Qapauma¡ªit haunts me. Not because I nearly died. I am used to the feeling of death lingering at my shoulder. No, it is the fact that he is still alive. Xaqilpa should be dead. I should have killed him, too. But somehow, that rat slipped through my fingers.
Enjoying the story? Show your support by reading it on the official site.
It all went wrong the moment the black flames engulfed me.
I could see it in his eyes. He knew I was coming for him. Yet I was moments away from slicing his throat, from avenging the disgrace he brought upon my sister, my family, my entire life.
Then, out of nowhere, that cursed black flame. It was unlike any fire I had ever seen. It was cold and burning all at once, as though it sapped the life out of me while it consumed my skin. I tried to fight it, to roll the flames out, but they clung to me. I could hear him laughing as he watched me writhe. Standing there while I lay broken at his feet.
I would not let him win. I forced myself to my knees, even as the flames ate away at my strength. I would not allow them to eat away at my pride. I could see him, gloating, with that ridiculous robe of his, stitched with the symbols of a fool. He thought he had already won.
But before I could act, before I could think, he was on top of me, pressing the blade to my throat, whispering his mad delusions about destiny, about reshaping the world with the Sunfire at his side. The man is insane. But there was conviction in his madness¡ªconviction enough to kill me.
And then Inuxeq saved my life.
She does that a lot, it seems.
I suppose it makes up for the Arbiter fiasco.
Her arrow came out of nowhere, shattering the gemstone with a burst of light that nearly blinded me. That was the source of his power. The key to his strength was in that stone. The grip of Xaqilpa loosened on the knife, and for the first time, I saw fear in his eyes. Real fear. He knew his power was gone. His precious gem lay in pieces at my feet.
The coward ran. He did not even try to fight. He just ran. I wanted to follow, to finish what I had started, but my body had other ideas. I could barely stand, much less chase down the zealot. So I lay there, watching as Inuxeq pursued him into the chaos of the battlefield, leaving me alone in a sea of blood and smoke.
The sound of dozens of boots echoed through the courtyard, and I knew they were coming for me. I had just made an attempt on the life of their precious leader, the Arbiter. Of course, I was a marked man.
I tried to rise, but my body refused to cooperate. Every breath felt like fire, every movement like a dagger in my side. I was done. Finished. I could hear the guards shouting, getting closer. They would find me any moment. I could feel the darkness creeping in, threatening to pull me under.
Then a hand grabbed my arm.
I looked up, expecting to see another enemy, but instead, there was a face I did not recognize. A man, dressed in magenta and turquoise, eyes sharp and measuring my worth.
¡°You are going to die if you stay here,¡± he said to me, no hint of emotion in his voice.
¡°Very perceptive,¡± I managed to snarl, blood still running down my side.
He tilted his head, glancing at the guards who were closing in fast. ¡°You tried to kill Achutli.¡±
¡°I do not need a lecture,¡± I said. ¡°Are you here to finish the job or stand there and watch?¡±
The man smiled. ¡°Neither. Let us call it¡ mutual interest.¡±
I staggered to my feet, leaning heavily on him as he pulled me into the shadows, moving quickly and silently. He did not bother with introductions. There was no time. The guards were too close, and we had to move.
Through the old, narrow streets, we ran, or rather, he dragged me. I could barely keep up, my vision swimming from the pain. But he moved with purpose, ducking into alleyways and slipping through side paths with the ease of someone who knew the city well.
Finally, we reached an entrance¡ªone of the old tunnels beneath the capital. I had heard of them, of course, these catacombs, but never had the need to use them. The man pushed open a hidden door, and we descended into the darkness.
We kept running until we were well into the tunnels, until the sounds of pursuit faded into the distance. Only then did the stranger stop, letting me collapse against the tunnel wall, gasping for breath. It was then that he finally spoke again. ¡°Texani,¡± he said, glancing at me out of the corner of his eye. ¡°Of the Qente Waila.¡±
I nodded. I had heard of them, but I had never crossed paths with this illustrious rebel organization. The Jade Hummingbird¡ªalways spoken of in whispers by those who thought their time would come soon enough. Their motives had never been fully clear to me, but their actions spoke loudly.
¡°I saw your attempt,¡± he continued, his tone as casual as if we were discussing the weather. ¡°On Achutli. Impressive. Reckless, but impressive.¡±
I smirked, though it hurt to do so. ¡°It would have been more impressive if I had not missed.¡±
This ¡°Texani¡± eyed me for a moment, then shook his head with a half-grin. ¡°What was impressive was that you tried at all.¡±
I grunted, pushing myself up straighter against the wall. ¡°What is the point of watching a tyrant rule, unchecked?¡± I paused, studying him. ¡°You people, the Qente Waila¡ªwhat do you hope to accomplish?¡±
Texani raised an eyebrow. ¡°You do not know?¡±
I stared at him, waiting.
¡°The Jade Hummingbird,¡± he said quietly, as if testing my understanding, ¡°exists to put an end to the rule of men like Achutli. To give power back to the people of Pachil, not let it sit in the hands of a single despot who uses it for his own glory.¡±
I scoffed. ¡°You think you can actually do that? Return power to the people? They will eat each other alive the moment you release them from their pens.¡±
Texani shrugged, unperturbed. ¡°Perhaps. But I would rather see them free to make their own mistakes than continue to suffer under the boot of Achutli.¡±
I could hear the conviction behind his words. This was not some passing rebellion to him. The Jade Hummingbird truly believed in what they were fighting for. They believed in a Pachil without the Arbiter, a Pachil where people like him could rise.
¡°I think your effort is noble,¡± I said, leaning back against the soothingly cool stone, ¡°but misguided. You are fighting for a people who would sooner stab you in the back than thank you for their freedom.¡±
Texani chuckled softly. ¡°That may be true. But it is still worth fighting for. You know that, otherwise you would not have tried to kill Achutli yourself.¡±
I said nothing. There was some truth to his words. The Arbiter needed to be stopped. His rule was tearing Pachil apart, all so he and his cronies can benefit. But I had never believed in the idealistic cause the Jade Hummingbird pursued. Their view of the world was too¡ na?ve. They thought removing one tyrant would magically make the people better. They did not see the deeper rot that had taken hold, long before he sat the throne. One I had hoped to remedy, one gluttonous ruler at a time.
But I respected their courage. It took more than a few sharp blades to challenge the Arbiter. It took something else. Something I had not seen in a long time.
¡°And you,¡± Texani added, stepping closer. ¡°What do you fight for? Revenge?¡±
I paused. Revenge, yes. But it was more than that, was it not? The betrayal, the lies, the bloodshed¡ªnone of it would stop until people like Xaqilpa, like Achutli, were gone.
I grimace through the pain as I shift my stance. ¡°I fight for what needs to be done. Achutli, Xaqilpa¡ªthey are the same. Men who believe they can control the world, twist it to their will. They deserve the same end.¡±
Texani inspected me for a moment, then nodded. ¡°Then perhaps we are not so different.¡±
I raised a skeptical eyebrow. ¡°We will see.¡±
We stood in silence for several heartbeats. The words spoken by Texani stayed with me, though. I did not believe in their vision of Pachil, but I could not deny that Achutli needed to fall. Maybe our paths would cross again, and I could be of better use when they do.
I managed a weak grin. ¡°And now, it seems, I owe you my life,¡± I muttered, staring up at him.
Texani looked more amused than anything. ¡°Perhaps. But if you really want to repay me, finish what you started. The next time you see Achutli, do not miss.¡±
I nodded. I would not.
How long have I been here now? I have lost all track of the day. The sun has dropped low, casting long shadows over the outpost. I have grown restless. I was ready to move long ago. Xaqilpa had slipped into that granary with his entourage of crimson robes, and I had expected him to emerge, bloated on power and arrogance, moments later.
But nothing.
The gray-robes have continued their dull rounds. Their leader is inside that granary, and they do not even care. What fools. What I would give to just charge in there, blade in hand, and end this farce once and for all. The waiting is killing me.
No, not yet. I must wait for the right moment.
And then I see it.
The door to the granary cracks open, just enough for a sliver of torchlight to spill out. One of the cultists emerges, then another. All of them in crimson robes. I straighten, narrowing my eyes. Something is wrong.
Their movements are¡ strange. Too rigid. Too slow. There is no arrogance in their steps, no swagger in their gait. And then, the door bursts open wider, and I see the truth.
I freeze.
The figures that step out of the granary are not men. Not anymore.
The first one lumbers forward, its back arched unnaturally, muscles bulging and shifting beneath skin that has turned a sickly, grayish blue. Its arms are grotesquely elongated, twisted and gnarled like the branches of a dead tree. It lets out a low, guttural growl that rattles my bones.
Another follows. Then another. Each of them worse than the last. Their skin pulses with that eerie blue light, veins glowing like embers beneath the surface. Their clothes have been torn to shreds, unable to contain the mass of their new bodies, and the air is filled with the sound of their joints cracking and shifting. Their hair is gone, replaced by scalps that shine like polished stone under the dim light.
I grip the hilt of my obsidian dagger as my heart pounds in my chest. I have fought many things in my life. Men, beasts, even sorcerers. But this? This is something else entirely.
They do not move like men anymore. Their legs are bent at unnatural angles, reminding me of the pumas that stalk the jungles of Ulxa. Every step is deliberate, predatory. Their fingers have elongated into claws¡ªsharp, lethal, designed to tear through flesh and bone. And their eyes. Those glowing, sapphire eyes.
Then another emerges, and another. They keep coming. Their massive forms block out the light, and my heart practically ceases to beat.
I stop counting after the tenth one.
And then I see him.
Xaqilpa.
His features are barely recognizable, twisted into the same monstrous form as the others. Once smug and full of fanatic zeal, his face has been replaced by something savage. His eyes glow with the same terrifying blue light, devoid of any humanity. His twisted and fanged mouth opens slightly, and from deep within his chest comes a low, rumbling growl.
I feel a sickening dread claw its way up my spine. This¡ this thing was once Xaqilpa. The man who nearly killed me in Qapauma. The man who took everything from me, who ruined the lives of myself and my sister. The zealot I swore I would find and end.
But now?
Now I do not even know if I can kill him. If anyone can kill him.
The creatures stand at attention, their glowing eyes staring straight ahead. Silent. Stoic. Waiting for a command.
My grip on the obsidian dagger tightens, as though I am wringing out damp clothes. For a brief, insane moment, I consider charging in. Perhaps if I can get to Xaqilpa, maybe I can end this before it spirals any further out of control. But what about the others? What happens when I strike him down, only to be torn apart by the rest of these creatures? Even I cannot fight them all.
And then I hesitate.
I, Mexqutli, hesitate.
I do not hesitate.
But now, faced with these monstrosities, with Xaqilpa transformed into this¡ thing, I feel something I have not felt in a long time. Doubt.
What do I do?
Do I charge in, blade in hand, ready to take whatever comes? Do I risk it all on one desperate, rash move?
Or do I retreat? Regroup. Think this through. But how much time do I have? How long before these things are unleashed on the world?
Clearly, the answer is simple: not long.
I feel my pulse quicken as I take a slow, steady breath. My instincts scream at me to fight, to leap into the fray, to finish what I started in Qapauma.
But I am not a fool.
I do not run from a fight. But I am not foolish enough to die from acting recklessly.
I watch as the monstrous hordes march out of this desecrated land. Their massive forms are silhouetted against the dying light. The ground shakes beneath their feet, and they move with purpose as their attention is fixed upon something in the far distance.
I exhale slowly. Deep down, I know that I am not ready for this. Not yet.
I step back into the shadows, retreating into the coming night.
For now.
139 - Inuxeq
As grim as it sounds, tracking Taqsame¡¯s southward march is easy¡ªwe just follow the columns of smoke rising from the ashes and destruction he leaves in his wake. Each burned village, each charred field, is a reminder of how relentless he has become, how desperate the fight for Qapauma will be when we finally reach it.
But not here. Not at Qelantu Loh.
The Atima camp is hidden, far out of Taqsame¡¯s reach. His warriors have no reason to veer from their destructive path to come this way. The camp sits tucked between jagged cliffs and barren ridges, the northern Tapeu landscape as desolate as the rest of these lands. Sparse. Beige. But in this matter¡ªand perhaps the first and only time I¡¯d confess such a belief¡ªI¡¯m beyond thankful for where they¡¯ve settled.
I hated this land the moment we crossed into it. I have cursed these flat plains, this never-ending sea of brown grass. The way the wind howls at night like it wants to flay the skin from your bones. The sight of it makes me long for the dense, tangled jungle of home. But, for some reason I can¡¯t fully explain, the sight of the Atima camp, dyed in their deep indigo, brings me a strange sense of warmth. It¡¯s orderly, bustling, efficient¡ªeverything that the barren land surrounding it is not.
Reluctantly, I admit to myself that I admire it. It¡¯s a fleeting thought, and one I would never voice aloud, but there it is.
As we approach, we are greeted by the Queen Mother, who emerged from the camp¡¯s entrance. Her orange cloak ripples slightly in the breeze, and her face softens upon seeing us. Along with the Qantua warriors, I lead the group of Aimue forward, tired but grateful for the reprieve. By the look that she suddenly displays upon noticing those trailing behind me, it¡¯s clear Nuqasiq doesn¡¯t yet know what to make of it.
¡°Inuxeq,¡± she says when I reach her, inclining her head. ¡°You bring more.¡±
I gesture behind me to the group of elderly, children, and those who can no longer fight. ¡°They¡¯ll be safer here, with you. Away from the battle.¡±
Nuqasiq¡¯s eyes narrow slightly. She surveys the group, pausing for a moment on the faces of the arriving Aimue, then looks back at me. ¡°We were not expecting more arrivals. The land here is already¡ difficult. Resources are in short supply. I¡¯m not sure we can support such a large population.¡±
I nod. ¡°The lands are harsh, but the Aimue are experts in cultivation, are they not? Although there are some who are unable to use their hands for combat, they can instead use them to make this barren soil fertile again. Together, you can turn this land into something more. Something livable, sustainable.¡±
Her lips part in a small, quiet expression of surprise. She had not been fully aware of the plan Haesan and I devised, nor did I expect her to be. I can see her mind working, searching for a polite way to turn these people away¡ªone only a practiced noble would know. But as realization dawns on her, the Queen Mother gradually comes to acceptance, finding it difficult to refute my claim.
¡°I do not enjoy these lands,¡± I confess, casting a glance over the beige expanse. ¡°But I know what potential they hold. The Atima are brilliant. They just need the right help.¡±
Nuqasiq blinks, her surprise now giving way to something closer to respect. ¡°I had not anticipated this,¡± she admits, smiling faintly¡ªlikely the closest thing to approval I will get. ¡°Perhaps there is more to you than I thought, Inuxeq.¡±
What is thatsupposed to mean? I am likely a third of her age and have seen and experienced more than anyone would imagine. I¡¯ve fought in the War of Liberation, after all! What more is there to think?
But after those initial thoughts cross my mind, I begin to calm down. Perhaps, no offense was meant. Perhaps I¡¯m overreacting, blaming my sensitivity on exhaustion from the long journey and the pressure of what awaits me in Qapauma.
Eventually, I let it go and shrug. ¡°The land is desolate. The Atima are strong, but even you cannot grow crops from stone.¡±
She nods, and soon, we walk together into the camp as the deep blue tents cast shadows in the late afternoon light. The bustle of the Atima surrounds us, and the Aimue gradually begin to filter in among their population. The elderly settle down quickly, relieved to have some much sought after rest. Women and children are given blankets, food, and water. The Atima move with quiet efficiency, tending to the new arrivals like they¡¯ve done it a hundred times before. I am not one for sentimentality, but there is something about seeing these people, these families, find refuge and working together without a second thought that stirs something in me.
As I walk beside the Queen Mother, I glance around at our surroundings. ¡°The Atima have built a good thing here. It feels different from what is happening outside.¡±
Nuqasiq inclines her head, her eyes sweeping about the camp. ¡°They do what they must. The world outside burns, but they keep the embers of hope alive here.¡±
¡°Do you know what is coming?¡± I ask. ¡°What has been taking place beyond this relatively tranquil setting?¡± I¡¯m curious if she¡¯s heard the rumors, or whether scouts have returned with any word. However, I honestly am not expecting much has reached this place of solitary isolation.
¡°Whispers, rumors,¡± she replies, with a small, knowing smile. Her eyes flash over to the collection of Qantua warriors, now joined by the scores of Aimue who have pledged to help in our fight. They awkwardly handle the weapons handed to them, likely testing them out for the first time in their lives. Those in black and gold attempt to teach them, showing them techniques, to which the Aimue clumsily replicate. ¡°I hear more of what happens between quraqas than I do of your warriors, but I know war when I see it.¡±
¡°There is more than war,¡± I say. ¡°Taqsame¡¯s forces have already moved swiftly through Aimue and are heading toward Qapauma.¡±
Nuqasiq raises an eyebrow, though her calm demeanor remains unchanged. ¡°Taqsame?¡±
I forget sometimes how far removed the courts are from the battlefields. ¡°A Qantua general,¡± I explain. ¡°Determined to challenge The Arbiter for the throne.¡±
She frowns, frustrated, and a sigh escapes her lips. ¡°I know there is war. But the names of the men who fight it? No, those I do not know.¡±
¡°He burns everything in his path on his way to claim what he mistakenly believes is rightfully his,¡± I state. ¡°Combined with the Eye in the Flame who descend upon the capital by the new moon, it will be a battle unlike any we¡¯ve faced.¡±
She stops and looks at me. ¡°The Eye in the Flame? And they arrive at the same time as Taqsame¡¯s forces? That cannot be a coincidence.¡±
¡°It isn¡¯t,¡± I say. ¡°But they don¡¯t come as allies. Taqsame wants power. The cultists? They want something far darker¡ªsomething worse than any throne.¡±
Her expression tightens as the situation begins to sink in. ¡°So, Achutli is pressed from both sides. Qapauma will be crushed if it falls to either one.¡±
I nod. ¡°It¡¯s not just war anymore. Whatever the Eye in the Flame intends to do at the new moon could tear apart more than just this city.¡±
Nuqasiq¡¯s gaze drifts to the Aimue warriors again. ¡°If what you say is true, then it¡¯s no longer a matter of distant conflicts. The storm is almost upon us.¡± She glances back at me to ask, ¡°And what of you? What part do you play in all of this?¡±
I smile, though there¡¯s little warmth in it. ¡°I am where I need to be. And I will do what I must.¡±
Nuqasiq watches me for a moment longer, then nods. ¡°Yes, I imagine you will.¡±
As we walk through the camp, my eyes linger on the Queen Mother. Her presence here, far from the palace walls of Qapauma, has always struck me as odd. While I can understand her desire to protect the Atima and seek refuge in these desolate lands, her seeming lack of concern for the Arbiter¡ªher son¡ªis unsettling.
Any mother would worry for her child, especially when that child is on the verge of losing everything¡ªincluding their life. The Arbiter is fighting to protect his throne, and yet here she is, with no apparent desire to return or even inquire about his wellbeing. Is it indeed a lack of concern? Or is it her lack of belief in what he¡¯s defending?
I glance at her now, studying her expression as she walks beside me. Calm. Composed. Detached. No indication of distress, no sign of worry for the battle that will soon rage around her son, nor the one he faces at present. She has the look of someone who believes everything is as it should be, as though she is confident that the Arbiter will fend off whatever threats are closing in on Qapauma.
But why? Why is she not with him? Why isn¡¯t she behind the crumbling walls of the palace, offering her support or at least sharing in the danger with her son? I¡¯ve seen queens before, and mothers¡ªnone of them would sit idle in a camp like this while their child faced down scores of warriors. It¡¯s almost as if she¡¯s chosen to remain apart from it all, to watch from a distance.
Does she already know how this will end?
Perhaps she believes that the Arbiter will defend himself. Maybe she even believes he will win. Or, perhaps, it¡¯s the well-practiced expression of one who must continuously wear a mask around those who seek any sign of weakness for an advantage at court. But the absence of any outward concern troubles someone like me who is unaccustomed to the battle among nobles.
The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.
We continue walking, as the quiet between us grows heavier. Though I try to push these dark thoughts out of my mind, trying to dismiss them as pure speculation, they persist. I find myself questioning whether I can truly trust the Queen Mother, whether she will step in when the time comes or if she will stand aside. Even with all my instincts, I cannot read her completely. That in itself is dangerous.
As we reach the edge of the camp, I look out toward the horizon, where the palace of Qapauma lies far off in the distance, and I wonder: When the battle begins, who will Nuqasiq stand with?
The night passes slowly, restlessly. I find myself tossing and turning, unable to shake the feeling of time slipping through my fingers. When I do finally fall asleep, it¡¯s fitful¡ªvisions of the new moon drawing closer with every passing moment, until it hangs in the sky, dark and empty.
I wake before dawn, just as the sky begins to lighten. My eyes are immediately drawn to the slim crescent of the still-visible moon. It¡¯s thinner than it was yesterday, dangerously close to the new moon. We are running out of time.
The camp is peaceful and quiet as I rise. It¡¯s a quiet that shouldn¡¯t exist, not with the looming threat on the horizon. How can they not sense it? I slip from my blankets, careful not to disturb the brittle calm, and make my way to where Nuqasiq waits. The ground beneath my feet is cold and rough against my skin, as I assemble my gear and belongings. The crisp air fills my lungs, biting but fresh, the last bit of solace I believe I¡¯ll know for some time.
The Queen Mother stands at the edge of the camp, her back to me. She looks out over the barren landscape as if deep in thought. I approach quietly, not wanting to disturb her. But before I can reach her, she turns, her sharp eyes catching mine as if she¡¯d known I was coming all along.
¡°You leave today,¡± she says, her voice soft but steady. All I can muster is a single nod.
Nuqasiq looks past me, toward the camp where the Aimue and my warriors are stirring, preparing for the journey south. ¡°You still plan to reach Qapauma before the new moon?¡±
¡°We must,¡± I say. ¡°There is no choice.¡±
Nuqasiq studies me for a moment, then steps closer, her voice lowering. ¡°And what of Haesan?¡±
Her question strikes something deep within me, something I hadn¡¯t quite allowed myself to think about. Haesan¡ªyoung, impulsive, and fiercely brave¡ªstill out there, somewhere. I have to find her. I have to protect her.
¡°I will find her,¡± I say, meeting Nuqasiq¡¯s gaze. ¡°And I will keep her safe.¡±
Nuqasiq holds my gaze for a long moment, then nods. ¡°I know you will.¡± There¡¯s a faint, almost imperceptible smile that crosses her lips. ¡°You are a warrior. You always find a way.¡±
I incline my head in acknowledgment, though there¡¯s a sense of unease that taints my promise. I turn to leave, but Nuqasiq¡¯s voice stops me.
¡°Inuxeq,¡± she says, her tone softer now, almost¡ vulnerable. ¡°I entrust my granddaughter¡¯s life to you. Do not fail her.¡±
I appreciate her concern, though I can¡¯t help but notice, once again, her omission of any mention of her son. It unsettles me, but when I glance back at her¡ªthe stern, unreadable Queen Mother¡ªfor a brief moment, I see something else. Something more human. I nod, keeping my thoughts to myself, then turn and walk back to where my warriors are preparing to leave.
The camp is busy now, alive with the with the shuffling of feet, the hushed conversations, the clattering of collected belongings and dismantled tents. The Aimue who will join us are saying their goodbyes to their loved ones, the silence around the camp disrupted by quiet murmurs and the occasional sob. These people¡ªfarmers, healers, caretakers¡ªhave never been warriors. Yet here they stand, ready to march into a war they barely understand, driven by the need for revenge, for justice. The sentimentality is not lost on me. There¡¯s a certain courage among them, even if they don¡¯t fully know what they¡¯re walking into.
As the last farewells are said, I gather the warriors, and we begin the long march south.
It doesn¡¯t take long for the tension to grow. It¡¯s subtle at first¡ªquiet whispers, uneasy glances exchanged between the Aimue and the seasoned Qantua warriors. But the further we go, the more it becomes clear that something is festering beneath the surface.
The Aimue are not warriors¡ªeveryone here knows this. They carry their anger and their grief like heavy stones, but they lack the discipline and focus that battle requires. They talk of revenge, of avenging their families and reclaiming their land, but their words are fueled by emotion, not strategy.
And then there are the Qantua warriors. The dissenters among them. The ones who have never fully trusted me, who have always questioned my leadership, even after the near-mutiny we quelled in Aimue territory. They¡¯ve kept quiet until now, but as the Aimue¡¯s talk of revenge grows louder, so too do the whispers of dissatisfaction among the warriors.
It starts with muttered insults¡ªquiet enough to go unnoticed by most, but not by me. I hear one of the dissenters sneer at an Aimue farmer, mocking him for thinking he could fight. Another jabs at them for allowing themselves to be vulnerable to Taqsame¡¯s assault in the first place. The Aimue bristle at the remarks, but say nothing. At first.
Then the skirmishes begin.
It begins with shoving, and a few raised voices. But it quickly escalates. A Qantua warrior grabs an Aimue by the collar, snarling something about weakness. The Aimue shoves back, fists swinging. The next thing I know, two more Qantua have joined the fray, pushing and shouting, while the Aimue scramble to defend themselves.
I stride forward, my hand already on the hilt of my dagger. ¡°Enough!¡±
My voice cuts through the calamity, and the warriors freeze. Their eyes snap to me. I step between them, glaring at each face as I look for the Qantua who started the fight. ¡°This is not what we do. This is not our enemy.¡±
One of the warriors lowers his eyes. He mutters something under his breath, but I catch it. ¡°They are not fit to be among us,¡± he has the nerve to say.
I step closer, scowling. ¡°They are here. They want to be here. That is enough. You will not question my command again.¡±
The warrior hesitates, wanting to speak further. But thinking better of it, he nods reluctantly, stepping back. The Aimue stand in a tense silence, clearly shaken but too proud to show it. I can feel the eyes of the other warriors on me, watching, waiting, seeing how I handle this test.
¡°We fight together or we do not fight at all.¡±
I glance toward the speaker, once again finding the words belonging to the veteran Qantua warrior who spoke in Xaqelatun.
¡°They stand with us now, not because they were born to fight, but because they chooseto. They want to face the true enemy. That makes them worthy¡ªworthy of our respect, and worthy to fight alongside us.¡±
The other warriors exchange glances, some nodding, others still uncertain. But slowly, they begin to fall in line¡ªat least for now.
We continue south, and the land stretches before us like a never-ending expanse of desolation. It¡¯s quieter now, and the brief skirmishes are behind us, but the silence isn¡¯t comforting. It¡¯s oppressive, the kind of silence that presses down on your chest and makes the air hard to breathe.
The sun is low in the sky casting the barren plains in warm hues of gold and bright red. After being biting and sharp earlier in the day, the wind now feels softer, carrying the scent of dust and dry soil. The tall grasses sway gently, providing a false sense of comfort to those unaware¡ªthose whose guard is carelessly left down.
We stop to rest, knowing that the warriors and farmers alike are worn down and exhausted. It¡¯s not just from the march, but from the tension of what awaits us in Qapauma that has been building since we left Qelantu Loh. The times have been trying, and we all know they¡¯re only going to get worse.
I walk among them, trying to gauge their mood. Most sit in silence, sharpening blades, adjusting armor, or staring out into the endless horizon. Some are resigned¡ªthere¡¯s a quiet acceptance in their eyes, as if they¡¯ve already made peace with what¡¯s coming. Others, though, are restless. They shift, fidgeting with their weapons, their eyes flicking toward the south, toward Qapauma. The dissenters, those who have always questioned me, still carry that unease in their stance, in their glares. They don¡¯t speak, but their silence is loud enough.
As I walk further along the line, I hear murmurs, whispers exchanged between a few of the Aimue. Their voices are low, but I catch fragments¡ªtalk of revenge, of reclaiming their homes, of making Taqsame pay for what he¡¯s done. Their words are filled with anger, but there¡¯s a fragility to it, like they¡¯re trying to convince themselves that their rage will be enough to carry them through the battle.
The landscape mirrors the emotion that has washed over our camp. Sparse trees dot the horizon, their gnarled branches twisted by the relentless wind that typically sweeps across these lands. That¡¯s what makes the quiet, the stillness, so alarming. Even the animals are gone¡ªno birds, no small creatures rustling in the underbrush. It¡¯s as if nature itself has retreated, waiting for the violence to pass.
I notice a huddled gathering of warriors. Their forms are hunched close together, shoulders tight, heads low as if hiding from a truth none of them want to admit aloud. Their words are muffled, barely more than murmurs carried on the wind. One man¡¯s hand rests uneasily on the hilt of his blade, fingers drumming a nervous rhythm. Another shifts from foot to foot, stealing glances over his shoulder as if expecting the answer to come from behind. Every now and then, a word or two slips out: loyalty¡ trust¡ worth. It¡¯s in the way they avoid each other¡¯s eyes, in the way their voices drop even lower when a name is mentioned, like they¡¯re afraid someone might overhear.
In the morning, the wind picks up again, stirring the grasses in uneasy waves. Continuing our march, everyone¡¯s movements are slower now, more deliberate. There¡¯s no more idle chatter. Just the dull thud of boots against the terrain and the occasional murmur that dies off before it can catch hold. Even the farmers¡ªthose once so eager for justice¡ªtrudge on with eyes cast downward, shoulders hunched against the growing wind. The closer we get to Qapauma, the heavier the silence becomes.
Signs of what lies ahead begin to appear: a shattered spear half-buried in the mud, its wood splintered and charred. A trail of broken arrows, their fletching torn as if from a struggle long finished. But soon, the aftermath of war becomes undeniable. We pass fields once green, now blackened and barren. The corpses of trees stand like skeletal sentinels. Bloodstains darken the rocks, smeared and dried. The wind carries the faint, acrid smell of smoke, of something that once burned but has since turned to cold ash. This is worse than Xaqelatun¡ªfar worse.
The others can see it, too. Some of the younger warriors falter, glancing nervously at the destruction. One man stumbles over a rusted shield half-buried in the dirt and mutters a curse under his breath, casting a wary glance at the horizon.
By midday, the sun hangs low in the sky, bleeding orange and red over the landscape. As we crest the ridge, the light plays tricks on the mind, making the distant hills look like smoldering embers. The warriors ahead of me slow their pace, their eyes sweeping over the horizon, waiting¡ªdreading.
Far in the distance, nestled between the hills, the city of Qapauma emerges, its silhouette sharp against the dying light. The palace now leans precariously on its crumbling foundations. Its walls are cracked and scarred from the battles that have already come. The city below is worse¡ªwounded and gasping, a patchwork of destruction and despair. Even from here, I can see the black streaks where fires have ravaged homes, where the bodies of the fallen litter the streets like scattered stones. Smoke rises in thin tendrils from what remains, curling into the twilight air.
And then we see it.
A sea of black and gold, stretching out as far as the eye can see.
Taqsame¡¯s army.
His Qantua warriors march with purpose, their armor glinting in the dim light like the scales of a snake. They move as one, a dark tide surging toward the palace. The sight is awe-inspiring in its sheer scale, but there is something else¡ªsomething darker. It is a force of nature, unstoppable, inevitable. And it is coming for the Arbiter.
The warriors and Aimue gather around me, their expressions a mix of fear and awe. Even the most seasoned among them, those who have fought in countless battles, cannot hide the unease that grips them now. I hear someone mutter a prayer to the gods under their breath.
Long, slow breath in. Long, slow breath out.
I retrieve my bow and grab an arrow. The sound of metal from those drawing their swords around me echoes in the stillness. The warriors look to me, waiting for the signal.
The new moon is coming. The battle is inevitable. I only hope we can hold.
140 - Haesan
Drowning isn¡¯t always about water.
That¡¯s what it feels like now, as our raft drifts silently through the narrow canal¡ªlike I¡¯m drowning in this place, in everything I¡¯ve left behind here. The shadows of Qapauma cling to me, heavier with each breath I take, pulling me deeper into the city¡¯s heart. No matter how many times I leave, I always return. But I can¡¯t shake the feeling that I¡¯ll never leave this time. That Qapauma might be where my story ends.
The rough wood digs into my palms as I tighten my grip on the edge of the raft. Ahead, the scarred skyline of Qapauma rises against the fading light. The once-great city looks worse than I remember. Its walls are cracked, its towers broken. But it¡¯s the silence that unnerves me most. The quiet, as if the city is too tired from the continuous war to speak.
We slip in through a forgotten waterway, a canal that remains unfinished. The water beneath us is murky and thick. Xelhua stands at the front, guiding us with slow, deliberate strokes. He¡¯s calm, as always. The others, the Qantua warriors, are tense, their hands never straying far from their weapons. They don¡¯t trust this city nor the people in it. Neither do I.
Achutli. Father. I feel the bile rise in my throat at the thought. I can¡¯t even bring myself to call him that. He¡¯s here, somewhere in the rotting heart of the palace, clinging to the last scraps of his throne. I should feel something for him¡ªanything. But all I feel is a sense of dread. He is not the reason I return.
Yachaman is. Innocent people like her. Somewhere in this crumbling ruin, she¡¯s fighting¡ªfighting for Qapauma, for the people, for the city I can¡¯t seem to care about. She¡¯s here, and I can¡¯t fail her. The thought of her in the crossfire makes my chest tighten. I can¡¯t bear to think of what might happen if I¡¯m too late.
¡°We are close,¡± Xelhua¡¯s voice rumbles, breaking the silence. Breaking my stream of thoughts.
I nod, though I say nothing. I stare at the jagged walls and shattered buildings ahead. The canal narrows, and the stone walls on either side tower above us like ancient monoliths. The sounds of battle are unmistakable now¡ªshouts and clashing metal carried on the wind like a storm building over the horizon. I can feel it in the pit of my stomach, that sickening churn that always comes when you¡¯re close to death, but not quite near enough to touch it.
We push through the final stretch of the waterway, and there it is, before my eyes: the palace of Qapauma. Once towering and proud, it now buckles from the endless assault. The last time I saw it, it was battered, but standing. Now, it looks like it¡¯s been ground into dust.
Turquoise and magenta flash in the chaos, spears glinting in the fading light. The bodies of the Qente Waila warriors twist in brutal arcs as they crash into the orange-and-red lines of Achutli¡¯s loyalists. The royal guards fight with an unmatched ferocity¡ªbronze armor gleaming, shields raised, holding the line despite the relentless push from the rebels.
It is impossible to tell who is winning. Or if anyone will. The warriors of Qapauma fight for the city, for their Arbiter. The Jade Hummingbird fights for something more¡ªan idea of freedom, of dismantling a system built on the backs of the broken. They fight with a desperation that mirrors the loyalists¡¯ determination.
And here I stand, watching them tear each other apart, unsure who I even want to see emerge victorious.
The city is being destroyed all over again. As if the Eye in the Flame didn¡¯t already carve its mark into this place, these rebels and royal warriors alike are finishing the job. Every blow struck feels like another crack in the foundation of Qapauma. The walls that remain standing look like they might topple any moment, and the smoke that curls from the burning homes and broken towers clouds the air, making it hard to breathe. The ground is slick with blood as bodies are piled atop one another, with limbs contorted in unnatural ways.
I turn my head, and that¡¯s when I see her, crumpled on the ground near the outer walls. A woman in a black dress, with her dark hair spilling across her shoulders. Black feathers dangle from her ears, catching the last slivers of light as she lies there, barely moving. Her once-stately form has been reduced to a heap. I don¡¯t recognize her immediately, but there¡¯s something familiar. It takes me a moment, but then I remember¡ªa brief encounter, long ago. She was one of Achutli¡¯s council, wasn¡¯t she? One of the Arbiter¡¯s closest advisors.
She¡¯s dying. Her breath is ragged, shallow. Blood pools around her, seeping into the stone. A wound gapes in her side, and from the way she¡¯s lying there, it¡¯s clear she won¡¯t be getting up again. I briefly wonder if she¡¯s aware of how close the end is. Or if she¡¯s still clinging to the hope that somehow, she¡¯ll survive.
A sharp clash of spears pulls my attention back to the battle. In a torn and bloodied magenta tunic, a Jade Hummingbird warrior lunges at one of the royal commanders, a man draped in the checkered poncho of the high-ranking officials. The loyalist parries, but not fast enough. The spear tip plunges into his shoulder, and with a pained shout, he falls, crumpling to the ground.
There¡¯s no time for pity here. No time to think about which side I should feel for. Both sides have their reasons, their justifications. But all I can see is destruction, piled on top of destruction. Qapauma is crumbling beneath their feet, and still, they fight. For what? For who? I do not know if I care anymore.
It will never end. That thought slithers into my mind, wrapping itself around my heart. It will never end, this war for power, for control. Even if the Jade Hummingbird win, even if Achutli is brought down, there will be another battle. Another war. Always.
Behind me, I can hear Xelhua muttering, more to himself than to anyone else. ¡°We should slip through while we can.¡± I glance over my shoulder and see the tension in his face, as well as the uncertainty in the Qantua warriors who stand beside him. Their weapons drawn but held loosely, as if even they are unsure whether to strike or stay their hand.
Close by, stone rains down, clattering onto the blood-soaked ground. The palace¡ªwhat¡¯s left of it¡ªis coming apart, piece by piece. At the noise, one of the Qantua warriors tenses, instinctively raising his weapon. Xelhua casts him a sharp glance, silently reminding to hold back unless absolutely necessary.
A glint of bronze catches my eye again, and I spot another loyalist, desperately fending off two rebels. His armor is chipped, his movements sluggish. He won¡¯t last much longer. And yet, there¡¯s something about the way he holds himself¡ªthe way he refuses to go down¡ªwhich reminds me of everything I¡¯ve seen in Qapauma before. These people, this city, have endured so much, and still, they fight. Maybe that¡¯s all they can do. Fight, until there¡¯s nothing left.
In the midst of it all, I¡¯m drawn to the faintest flicker of movement at the edge of the fray. A flash of turquoise, a figure racing between the buildings. The calamity around me seems to fade and slow down to a crawl as I catch sight of her. Yachaman, darting between the rubble like a shadow in turquoise. My heart skips a beat, then pounds in my chest as I push through the wreckage, dodging the clashing bodies around me. My focus is narrowed on one thing, one person.
¡°Haesan, hold¡ª¡± Xelhua¡¯s sharp whisper reaches my ears, but I am already moving. He and the other Qantua remain on guard, clearly confused, but unwilling to rush after me in the middle of the fighting.
¡°Yachaman!¡± I desperately call out. She looks thinner, more worn. Her once-glossy hair is tangled and hanging in messy strands over her face. But she¡¯s alive. And fighting.
She turns, her face smeared with dirt and sweat, eyes wild but focused. She blinks in surprise as if she hadn¡¯t fully registered I was here. For a split second, her lips twitch upward into something resembling a smile, before it fades back into the grim line of a battle-weary combatant.
¡°Haesan?¡± Her voice is hoarse, like she hasn¡¯t spoken in days. Her chest heaves with exhaustion, but she doesn¡¯t stop moving. There¡¯s an anxious energy to her, as if she¡¯s still halfway in the battle even though we¡¯ve found a moment of quiet.
I rush to her side, and my hands instinctively grab her arms as if I need to confirm she¡¯s real, not just some ghost in this blood-soaked nightmare. When I finally reach her, my breath catches. ¡°What are you doing here? You were¡ª¡°
¡°Dead?¡± she cuts me off, and a bitter laugh escapes her lips. ¡°I thought I was, too, to be honest.¡±
Behind me, I hear the soft footfalls of Xelhua, staying close, but giving me space. The other Qantua warriors hover at the edges of our conversation. They hold their weapons low, their eyes constantly sweeping the battlefield for danger.
Her eyes glance around us, darting from building to building as though any second someone might lunge at us. But for the moment, the battle has seemingly moved beyond our small pocket of space, giving us a rare instance of calm.
¡°How¡ªwhat happened? Last I saw you, you were¡¡± My words trail off, overwhelmed by the flood of emotions that crash into me. Relief. Shock. Confusion.
She runs a hand through her matted hair, shaking her head like she¡¯s trying to clear away a fog. ¡°It¡¯s¡ difficult to explain.¡± She takes a deep breath, but her sentences come out in staggered bursts, disjointed, as if her mind is moving too fast for her mouth to keep up. ¡°I was healing. In the palace. The shaman, they¡ª¡° she motions vaguely toward the city. ¡°They fixed me up. Gave me some herbs. Said I¡¯d be back on my feet in no time.¡±
Her laugh is sharp and humorless. ¡°No time, they said. And then¡ then the Qente Waila came. I couldn¡¯t just sit there, Haesan. I couldn¡¯t just¡ª¡° Her voice cracks for a moment, but she swallows hard and pushes forward. ¡°They were attacking the city, and I was just lying there, useless. I couldn¡¯t let them win, couldn¡¯t let the Arbiter keep¡ all of this. Keep doing what he¡¯s done to the people.¡± Her hands flutter, gesturing to the ruin around us. ¡°I had to fight. So I joined them.¡±
I blink, trying to piece together her words, her jagged explanation. ¡°You joined the Qente Waila?¡± I ask in disbelief, yet I also feel a strange kind of awe. Yachaman, the Aimue woman I¡¯ve spent so much time protecting, now a fighter in the rebellion. It feels surreal.
She nods, her gaze hard and distant. ¡°I had no choice. I thought¡ I thought I could help bring change. They needed fighters, and I couldn¡¯t just sit there any longer. I couldn¡¯t.¡±
I open my mouth to say something, but the words fail me. There¡¯s too much¡ªtoo much to say, too much to process. She looks so different now, not just physically but¡ in everything. Her posture, her demeanor. She isn¡¯t the Yachaman I remember.
¡°Are you¡ªare you all right?¡± It¡¯s a ridiculous question, I know, but it¡¯s the only thing I can manage right now.
She exhales a ragged breath, shaking her head slightly. ¡°No. I¡¯m not. But I¡¯ll survive.¡±
Xelhua steps forward, still wary, as his hand rests lightly on the hilt of his weapon. ¡°We really need to move,¡± he urges. ¡°This place is not safe.¡± His words are like a splash of cold water, reminding me that we are still in the middle of a battle. Still at risk.
¡°Besides, I¡¡± Yachaman pauses, her voice cracking. She glances over her shoulder, watching the combat still unfurling beyond us. Her muscles tense as if she¡¯s about to bolt back into the fray. ¡°I should get back¡ª¡°
A sudden cry cuts through the air, followed by the thudding footfalls of someone charging toward us. I barely have time to comprehend what¡¯s happening before a Qente Waila fighter emerges from the shadows, a blade raised high above his head. My heart seizes in panic, my body frozen.
The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.
Xelhua moves, but too slowly. He steps forward, his hand going to his sword, but there¡¯s a brief hesitation before he can react. The Qantua warriors also begin to shift into motion, their eyes widening as they notice the danger. But it¡¯s too late. The attacker is nearly upon me, with a lust for blood in his eyes.
But Yachaman is faster. She leaps in front of me, her body a blur of motion. The enemy¡¯s blade comes down hard, but Yachaman¡¯s sword is already there to meet it, steel clashing against steel with a deafening ring. She grits her teeth, her arms trembling as she pushes back against the force of the strike.
The warrior growls, pushing forward with brute strength. But Yachaman stands firm, holding her ground. She lets out a sharp, guttural cry and twists her blade, sending the attacker¡¯s weapon flying out of his hand. In one swift motion, she drives her sword forward, piercing the enemy through the chest.
He stumbles back, clutching the wound, before collapsing to the ground in a lifeless heap.
For a moment, the world seems to stop. The sounds of battle fade into a dull roar around us. I stare at her, eyes wide with disbelief.
Finally reaching us, Xelhua pauses just behind Yachaman, assessing the fallen warrior. For a moment, he lingers. There¡¯s a quiet way he looks at Yachaman, as if acknowledging, without words, the strength it took to bring the man down.
Yachaman stands there, panting, blood spattering her clothes and hands. She looks down at the fallen warrior, then up at me. The same exhaustion lingers in her eyes, but there¡¯s a fierceness now, too¡ªsomething new, something I¡¯ve never before seen.
¡°You saved me,¡± I whisper with a trembling voice.
Yachaman wipes her sword on her tunic. She exhales through her nose, almost like a sigh, and gives a small shake of her head. ¡°No, Haesan," she murmurs, almost like an afterthought. ¡°If not for you, neither of us would be standing here.¡±
Xelhua approaches us, slowly regaining his breath. ¡°You fight well,¡± he remarks to Yachaman. ¡°I hate to admit such a thing, but I¡¯m relieved that you got the step on the guy.¡±
Yachaman nods but doesn¡¯t respond, her focus still on me. There¡¯s a moment of quiet, broken only by the distant clash of steel and the muffled cries of the ongoing battle.
I take a shaky breath, my chest still tight from the shock. ¡°Stay with me,¡± I plead, the words escaping me before I can stop them. She¡¯s about to protest, her eyes dropping to her feet, but I stop her before she can speak. ¡°Please.¡± It¡¯s all I can say as the pain of parting ways with her once again wells in my throat.
Xelhua¡¯s gaze watches us carefully, and then he nods slightly, as if to say Yachaman belongs with us. I can sense his wariness of the Qente Waila lingers, but to the Iqsuwa warrior who has seen so much, her actions have earned a degree of trust.
For a moment, Yachaman hesitates, glancing back toward the ongoing battle. Then, finally, she nods. ¡°All right,¡± she says softly. ¡°While I return to my group, I will stay.¡±
Yachaman stays close by my side as we move through the crumbling streets of Qapauma. The ground is littered with debris, the once-beautiful city reduced to rubble. Xelhua moves silently behind us, searching the surroundings with cautious eyes. The Qantua warriors trail behind, exchanging uncertain glances at the devastation.
My mind is tangled in a hundred directions¡ªAchutli, the prophecy, the Qente Waila, the Eye in the Flame.
From time to time, Yachaman glances over her shoulder at me. Seeing her in the turquoise and magenta of the Jade Hummingbird brings me discomfort, knowing what they sought to do with me as a captive. I can¡¯t help but wonder how she could so adamantly join their cause, now that I have questions about their ethics and morals. What they would do to get what they want.
Sensing my ever-lingering unease, she says, ¡°You look more troubled than usual. What is it?¡±
¡°The Qente Waila¡¡± I murmur aloud, barely audible. ¡°You should know they¡ They wanted to use me.¡±
She stops abruptly, turning to face me. Her brow furrows, a mixture of confusion and concern on her face. ¡°What do you mean?¡±
I swallow hard, struggling to find the words. ¡°After the assault by the Eye in the Flame, Achutli¡¯s loyalists and the Jade Hummingbird met in front of the palace. It was then that some members tried to take me captive, believing they could force my father to surrender the throne. But they do not know him. They do not understand that he would¡ He would let me die before giving in.¡± My voice wavers as I speak such a truth.
Yachaman¡¯s eyes widen, and she takes a step closer, shaking her head. ¡°No, that is not true. The Qente Waila¡ª¡°
¡°You do not know him," I cut her off. ¡°Achutli believes in that damned prophecy. Nuqasiq told me that he fears his death will come by the hand of his blood. That means me. He thinks that if I die, he will live. He wouldn¡¯t kill me himself, but he most certainly would sacrifice me to protect himself.¡±
Behind me, Xelhua¡¯s sharp intake of breath cuts through the air. ¡°Your own father? He would do this?¡± His voice is low and rough, like gravel being ground underfoot, filled with skepticism and disgust.
I nod somberly. ¡°He would. He has already tried, through Anqatil, one of his advisors.¡±
Xelhua is silent for a moment. ¡°I have fought many battles in my time, girl. I have seen rulers do despicable things for the sake of power. But for a father to turn on his own blood¡¡± His voice trails off, and he shakes his head in disbelief. ¡°There is no honor in that.¡±
¡°But¡¡± Yachaman still tries to grasp the shocking realization. ¡°But surely there must be another way,¡± she insists, her voice trembling. ¡°The Qente Waila may want to use you, but they are not like him. They would not¡ª¡±
¡°They would,¡± I say softly, cutting her off once more. ¡°You do not know what people will do when they think they can win. They would hand me over to him, let me die, just to break him. And Achutli¡ He would let it happen.¡±
The wind picks up, swirling dust and ash through the air. Xelhua looks me dead in the eye. ¡°So this is what your journey has brought you to,¡± he says quietly. ¡°A father who would see you dead, and rebels who would use you like a tool.¡±
¡°And what happens if we reach the palace?¡± I ask, my voice trembling as I break my gaze with Xelhua and stare at Yachaman. ¡°What happens if the Qente Waila find me there? What if they turn on me?¡±
Yachaman links her arm around mine. ¡°I will not let that happen,¡± she says firmly. ¡°I swear this to you. If anyone tries to harm you, I will protect you. Even if it is my own people.¡±
Xelhua grunts, shaking his head. ¡°I have seen betrayals for less,¡± he mutters, sounding bitter. ¡°But if she says she will stand by you, then I will hold her to it.¡± His eyes linger on Yachaman, scrutinizing her closely. There¡¯s an edge of mistrust still in his gaze, but he does not press further.
I nod, but it feels insincere. Yachaman may protect me from the blades of the Qente Waila, but no one can shield me from the looming shadow of my father. And if I am truly meant to be the hand that brings his end, how can I trust anyone? How can I trust myself?
As we move through the streets once again, I am lost in my thoughts. My heart pounds with every step, knowing that I am walking toward something inescapable.
¡°I don¡¯t know if I can face him,¡± I say suddenly. It¡¯s only when the others glance at me over their shoulders that I realize I¡¯ve spoken my thought out loud. ¡°Achutli. I don¡¯t know if I can do this.¡±
Yachaman slows, turning back to me with a softness in her gaze. ¡°You do not have to face him alone,¡± she says. ¡°We face him together.¡±
¡°And if it comes to it,¡± Xelhua says, ¡°then I will stand with you, as well. I may not know all the pieces of this game, but I know enough. I will not let you fall. Not to someone like that.¡±
Together. The word rings hollow in the vast emptiness of my heart. I never thought I¡¯d be part of something like this¡ªsomething that is both so powerful and so fragile. I am the daughter of Achutli, fighting for a throne he is only to possess temporarily, yet desires permanently. All he¡¯s willing to risk to keep it for himself, including my death, strikes terror within the depths of my being. But if I am to seek change, put an end to this, I¡¯m grateful to the gods and the Eleven that I don¡¯t have to face him myself.
¡°Come,¡± Yachaman urges, her voice a steady anchor in the storm of my thoughts. ¡°We¡¯re almost there.¡±
The sounds of the fighting grows louder as we press forward, pounding against my ears. It¡¯s an unrelenting storm that only brings more destruction, more needless sorrow and suffering.
I can feel the battle before I even see it. The ground trembles beneath my feet as the two armies crash into each other like waves smashing against a cliffside. It is a brutal and unforgiving battle of survival. There is no honor here¡ªonly death.
As we reach the edge of the battlefield, the full horror of it stretches out before me. Turquoise and magenta clash with orange and red. Blood spatters the ground in wide arcs, painting the scorched earth with a sickening blend of crimson and black. Warriors strike with obsidian blades, their jagged edges tearing through flesh as easily as though they were slicing through cloth.
To my left, Xelhua and the Qantua warriors hang back and watch carefully. Xelhua¡¯s grip tightens on his blowgun, though he hesitates to use it. ¡°Too many bodies in the way,¡± he mutters under his breath, his voice low and gravelly, like a distant rumble of thunder.
¡°Then we stay close,¡± I hear one of the Qantua warriors say. ¡°We fight only if we must.¡±
A man in orange falls, clutching his side as his innards spill from his stomach like coiled snakes. His killer, a Qente Waila warrior, moves on to the next target, as though this life he has just ended means nothing at all. A woman in turquoise lets out a war cry, her arms raised high as she brings down a club onto the skull of a royal warrior. The sickening crack echoes in the air as bone shatters. Another warrior, his tunic drenched in sweat and blood, grapples with an enemy, driving his knee into the ribs of his opponent until the man collapses, gasping for air.
The sounds of their agony mingle with the clang of bronze and the swish of spears slicing the air. Arrows whiz past from the high towers, the ones that haven¡¯t yet crumbled into a heap. For every moment one warrior falls, another rises to take their place. It is a battle with no end, and I can¡¯t help but wonder how many more must die before this madness ceases.
Yachaman moves ahead, cutting her way through a huddle of bodies. She is relentless, striking down anyone who dares stand in her way. Her eyes are fixed on the goal ahead as her blade flashes in the dim light of the overcast sky.
I try to follow, but my feet feel heavy. I want to stop. I want to turn away, to close my eyes and shut out the horrors that surround me. But I can¡¯t. I know I have to keep moving. I have to keep going, even though I do not know where this path will take me.
Behind me, Xelhua growls as he parries a strike from an Achutli loyalist who has gotten too close. ¡°Damn fool,¡± he curses as he drives the loyalist back with a swipe of his obsidian blade.
Yachaman has made it through the mass of bodies, her face streaked with dirt and blood. She moves with the grace of someone who has done this a thousand times before¡ªdodging blows, parrying attacks, each movement swift and deadly. There is no hesitation in her. No fear. She fights as though the very earth itself bends to her will. Has she always possessed these abilities? How did I not know?
As I look at the faces of the warriors¡ªboth Achutli¡¯s and the Qente Waila¡¯s¡ªI realize that peace is nothing more than a distant dream. Neither side will stop. Not until one of them is destroyed. There will be no negotiation, no compromise. They are locked in this fight, and it will only end when one side is crushed beneath the weight of the other. My intentions, my initial plan, is futile.
There is no peace. There never will be.
In the haze of battle, with blood, smoke, and ash thick in the air, everything slows down. Every shout, every clash of metal, every dying gasp becomes a distant echo.
Then I see him.
Emerging from the inferno like a specter, Achutli strides forward, his blood-stained armor gleaming like a false sun against the flames. Adorned with the motifs of the sun and mountains, his helmet makes him appear more like a god than a man, a deity descending into the fray to remind us all of our insignificance. The short feathers of red and yellow fan out behind him, framing him in a halo of fire.
And yet, despite the grandeur, the power he radiates, my heart sinks. I do not want to see him, not here, not now. Everything hits me all at once¡ªthe prophecy, the blood, the destruction that lies in his wake.
Behind him, his warriors move like shadows in his wake. And among them, I see the one who tortured me¡ªAnqatil. Her cold eyes glint with the same malevolent intent they did the last time I saw her. A shiver runs down my spine, my body remembering the pain, the terror. I had thought I would never see her again.
¡°Ah, the bastard himself,¡± he mutters darkly, his expression hardening at the sight of Achutli. ¡°So I take it, this is the one you spoke of¡ªthe one who wants you dead, eh?¡±
Achutli¡¯s gaze sweeps over the battlefield, assessing, calculating. His eyes are predatory, as if he¡¯s already decided who lives and who dies. His hand is bloodied, the dark red staining his fingers. I can¡¯t tell whose blood it is, but it does not matter. All I see is the blood, and the certainty that more will follow.
As I watch, a swirl of darkness begins to gather around him, coiling like a serpent at his feet. It slithers up, wrapping itself around his legs, his torso, clinging to him like a second skin. The air around him ripples with an unnatural energy, the same kind of dark magic I have only seen in the hands of the Eye in the Flame. It is as if the shadows themselves are bending to his will, obeying his command.
Yachaman steps closer to me, her breath quickening. ¡°Haesan,¡± she whispers, her voice taut with fear, ¡°we need to move. Now.¡±
But I can¡¯t. I am rooted to the spot, my eyes locked onto Achutli¡¯s. Our gazes meet, and for a brief, horrifying moment, it feels as if he can see straight into me¡ªas if he knows the role I am destined to play in all of this.
The shadows deepen, swirling faster now, enveloping him in a cocoon of darkness. The world around us seems to darken, as if the light itself is being swallowed by the malevolent force gathering around him. Once red with the glow of the fires, the sky now appears as though night is descending far too early.
The warriors around him, even Anqatil, seem to falter. Their steps slow as the darkness pulses outward, like the beat of some unnatural heart. The ground beneath us trembles, a low, ominous rumble that spreads through the city like a warning from the gods themselves.
And still, I cannot move. I can only watch as Achutli raises his hand, the blood glistening in the firelight. The darkness spirals up his arm, coiling around his wrist, his fingers, until it seems to seep into his very flesh. Whatever it is, it has taken hold of him.
I don¡¯t know what he is planning. I don¡¯t know what he is about to do.
But I know it will be terrible.
Suddenly, the shadows explode outward. A wave of darkness crashes over the battlefield. Warriors are thrown back, their cries swallowed by the roaring void. Yachaman grabs my arm, pulling me back. The darkness is here. It is all around us.
And Achutli stands at its center.
141 - Legido
Something about the city feels wrong the moment you step foot in it.
It¡¯s not the towering walls or the endless staircases that stretch toward the heavens. It¡¯s the silence, pressing against your skull like a slow-building headache you can¡¯t shake. It worms its way under your skin, curling around your ribs, and settles there, heavy and unwelcome. There¡¯s something wrong here, something festering beneath the surface, like an infected wound hidden under clean bandages. You can¡¯t see it, but you can feel it, the way you feel a splinter buried deep enough to be invisible, but sharp enough to remind you it¡¯s there with every breath.
The stone beneath your boots isn¡¯t just cold¡ªit¡¯s the kind of cold that creeps upward, like it¡¯s testing how much of you it can claim. The walls aren¡¯t right, either. Too smooth, too deliberate. But then you spot it: cracks running through the stone like thin and jagged veins. Here and there, blackened scars appear scorched deep into the surface.
You catch the faint scent of smoke, clinging to the city¡¯s bones. Ahead of you, the streets wind like a maze, every turn revealing walls blackened by fire, homes torn apart and patched together with whatever these people could salvage. The wounds are still fresh. This place is alive, but barely¡ªstruggling to hold onto whatever it was before.
The people here watch you. Always watching, though never for too long. They keep their heads down, their gazes flitting toward you like moths to a flame, only to retreat before they get too close. You¡¯ve never seen anyone like them¡ªshorter, dark-skinned, their faces lined with years of hard work and harder living. They wear simple white tunics, deep red sashes tied around their waists, and most are adorned with modest jewelry¡ªbone, hammered metal, nothing extravagant. They walk quickly, with purpose, but with cautious steps.
A woman¡¯s hand snaps around her boy¡¯s wrist, yanking him to her side like you¡¯re not just dangerous, but contagious. Her fingers dig into his arm, hard enough to make the skin there bloom red. The boy doesn¡¯t flinch. He just stares, big eyes locked on you, unblinking, as if you¡¯re not real. His gaze clings to you, searching your face like he¡¯s hoping to find some proof you¡¯re human after all.
The Great Xiatli walks just ahead, detached from the rest of the Legido. The glowing gold of His aura blurs against the dying light. You study Him closer¡ªthe dark waves of His hair, the deep tone of His skin¡ªand realize, with a small jolt, how closely He resembles the others. Too closely. It¡¯s unsettling, like a reflection that¡¯s just slightly off.
But He¡¯s meant to be more, you remind yourself. Something beyond what these people could ever be. A being who knows the ground beneath His feet as intimately as the stars above His head. But what if He¡¯s not what they say He is? What if He¡¯s something else entirely?
Settlers push and shove to get a better view of the scene. You shrug most of them off, fighting to position yourself to best take in the developments. Iker manages close behind, determined this time to not lose track of you. Seeing and feeling his presence amidst the occasional glances over your shoulder is greatly comforting, like there¡¯s a warmth that surrounds you with each sight of him.
You shift your gaze to the settlers and soldiers around you. Your people seem to have no fear here. Or at least, you try to convince yourself of that. They walk tall, towering over the people like gods with their armor and weapons gleaming. You have to confess, there¡¯s a quiet arrogance in the way they move¡ªthis unshakable certainty that nothing and no one here could ever stand against them. Criato wears it like a second skin, his hand resting lazily on his sword, and a smug smile pulls at the corners of his mouth. Ulloa, meanwhile, sneers at the people around him, his lip curled in contempt.
A flash of white catches your eye. You look closer and see them¡ªa group of people moving through the streets, dressed in white and deep red. The streets part before them as though even the walls themselves know to stay out of their way. Priests, maybe. Or something more. Whoever they are, they¡¯re different. They don¡¯t bow. They don¡¯t run. They don¡¯t hide.
¡°Look at them,¡± you hear Ulloa mutter with disdain. ¡°Is this some kind of performance? What are they trying to prove?¡±
Criato chuckles, his fingers tapping lazily on the hilt of his sword. ¡°Whatever this ridiculous display is, they won¡¯t be laughing for long.¡±
Your gaze shifts back to the Great Xiatli, expecting a reaction, but His face remains impassive. He doesn¡¯t flinch. Doesn¡¯t blink. His body moving with the same quiet purpose that makes you uneasy. Always focused. Always in control. You can see it in the way He carries himself, the way His shoulders tense ever so slightly as the white-robed figures draw closer.
And then, he arrives.
A figure stands on a raised platform in the distance, standing like a mountain amidst the tide of stone and bodies. His robes shimmer in the muted sunlight, the deep red silk rippling like blood against the stark white walls of the city. Silver and bone jewelry hang heavy from his neck, his arms, his ears, clinking together like distant bells. Above him, his headdress rises in a fan of brilliant feathers¡ªblue, green, yellow¡ªstretching out like a crown over his head.
He doesn¡¯t move. He doesn¡¯t speak. He watches. Like a lion, surveying the landscape, waiting for the right moment to strike. His dark and piercing eyes study you, and for a second, you feel small. Insignificant. This man, whoever he is, seems far more powerful than anything your people have seen before. Not since the Great Xiatli, that is. And yet he stands alone, flanked only by a small group of warriors. Their expressions are hard as the nearby mountains, with turquoise beads hanging from their necks like amulets of protection. They hold their spears high, shields painted with intricate symbols of their people.
The Great Xiatli walks forward, His steps measured, His presence as unnerving as always. There¡¯s no fear in Him, no hesitation. The people of this place¡ªthese warriors and their leader¡ªmay not recognize Him for what He is. Or maybe, you wonder, if this man¡ªthis king, this leader¡ªknows what¡¯s to come from this encounter. Maybe he does. Maybe he¡¯s waiting for it.
Something nags at you as you glance between Him and the man in crimson. They look¡ similar. The same skin, the same dark hair. It¡¯s like seeing two sides of the same coin.
Is He one of them? Or is this just another sign of His godhood?
You try to swallow the knot forming in your throat, but it sticks, stubbornly refusing to be cleared.
The man in crimson stares at the Great Xiatli with unwavering eyes. His face doesn¡¯t show fear, and you think that¡¯s what unnerves you the most. There¡¯s something almost regal in his stance, the way he holds himself, as if he¡¯s certain of his place in this world¡ªand yours, too.
Behind you, Criato carefully watches over the scene like a man appraising cattle at the market. You catch the barest smirk tugging at the edge of his lips, as if this whole procession amuses him.
¡°Interesting, isn¡¯t it?¡± Criato murmurs to his compatriot, his gaze fixed on the developing scene. ¡°He doesn¡¯t seem bothered by us.¡±
Ulloa hums in response, his eyes tracking the leader in crimson. But his focus seems distant, detached. ¡°They always think their world is too grand to be disturbed,¡± he says, just low enough for you to catch. ¡°The ones who believe their titles are worth something¡ªmakes them blind to the inevitable.¡±
You question if you heard Ulloa correctly. Was his remark made as an observation of this ruler in crimson, or was it a warning to Criato? Based on their recent exchanges in which you overheard, you can¡¯t be certain. But it¡¯s something you make a note of nonetheless.
You glance back, trying to gauge Iker¡¯s reaction. His brow furrows slightly, but he doesn¡¯t speak. He watches Criato and Ulloa like someone watching a play they don¡¯t fully understand. There¡¯s an unease settling between his shoulders. The same unease you feel.
The man in crimson calmly begins to speak again. The language is foreign yet commanding, almost harsh sounding. The Great Xiatli answers him without hesitation, and you can see the surprise ripple across the faces of the other settlers. But, of course, none of them would dare question Him. That He knows the tongue of this land, to you, is an unsurprising and unquestionable mark of His divinity.
Studiously watching the man in crimson, you notice the way he holds himself while confronted by the Great Xiatli¡ªhis chin slightly lifted, his eyes still locked on your divine ruler, as though he¡¯s assessing a peer, not an adversary. It¡¯s an eerie sense of calm, one that disturbs you greatly.
You try to shake the growing sense of dread creeping into your bones, but it clings to you like damp clothes in the autumn frost. The Great Xiatli continues his measured conversation with the man in crimson. Their words flow in the language of this foreign land, the sounds sharp and rhythmic, like stone scraping against stone. But it¡¯s not the words that unnerve you¡ªit¡¯s that their exchange is poised on the surface, yet you feel there is something brooding underneath.
This story originates from a different website. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.
Ulloa and Criato watch with the same intensity, their eyes locked on the leader in red. But now, something darker flickers behind their expressions. There¡¯s a brief glance between the two commanders, so brief you almost miss it¡ªa subtle, unspoken agreement passing between them. It¡¯s a strange thing to see, these two men who have spent so long undermining each other suddenly moving in concert. And that unsettles you more than anything else.
¡°I don¡¯t like this,¡± Iker whispers beside you, his voice barely audible over the pounding in your ears. You don¡¯t answer, but you don¡¯t need to. You both grasp that something is not right in this place.
The Great Xiatli¡¯s voice is calm, almost serene, as he continues speaking to the man in crimson. But now, there¡¯s an edge to it, a quiet intensity that makes the hair on the back of your neck stand on end. The man in crimson wavers for a split moment. It¡¯s barely noticeable, but you see it. And you know then, with a cold, sinking certainty, that this is about to go very wrong.
You can feel the ground slipping away beneath you, the thin thread holding everything together fraying at the edges. The guards of the man in crimson shift, their hands tightening further on their immaculate weapons. One of them takes a step forward, just a single step, but it¡¯s enough. Everything snaps.
Before you can blink, Criato moves. There¡¯s a flash of steel in the dim light as he unsheathes his sword, and he¡¯s upon the nearest guard in an instant. There¡¯s a sickening sound¡ªa dull thud followed by a gasp¡ªand the guard crumples to the ground, blood pouring from the wound in his neck. For a heartbeat, everything around you stops. The man in crimson¡¯s eyes widen in shock, his body frozen in place as the full horror of what¡¯s happening dawns on him.
Then the world explodes.
The remaining guards rush forward, weapons drawn. But they are no match for your soldiers. Criato and Ulloa¡¯s men descend upon them like wolves, swords flashing, blood spraying in every direction. You hear the clash of metal, the thud of bodies hitting the ground, the cries of men fighting for their lives. It¡¯s chaos¡ªpure, unrelenting chaos.
The man in crimson desperately shouts something in his language, but it¡¯s drowned out by the cacophony of violence. You can see him now, trying to hold his ground, trying to fight back, but it¡¯s hopeless. Your people are too many, too fast, too brutal. One of his guards hurriedly retrieves his sword and swings. He catches one of Criato¡¯s men in the side, but it¡¯s a futile effort. An instant later, Criato himself is upon him, his sword plunging into the man¡¯s chest with a sickening crunch.
You want to look away, to close your eyes and shut out the horror, but you can¡¯t. You¡¯re rooted to the spot, watching as more of the warriors protecting the man in crimson fall to the ground, blood pooling around them like a dark halo. The eyes of the fallen, wide with disbelief, stare up at the sky as if searching for something that will never come.
Iker grabs your arm, pulling you back, his face pale, his eyes wide with terror. ¡°We need to move,¡± he exclaims. ¡°This is¡ª¡°
Your gaze drifts over the scene, taking in the mayhem unfolding around you, the bodies lying in the dirt, the blood soaking into the ground. And then, out of the corner of your eye, you see them¡ªDorez and Benicto, the tormentors who have made your life a living hell since you arrived on this cursed expedition.
They¡¯re cowering behind a nearby column, their faces pale as they occasionally peek out to see the mortifying events. Usually so smug, so confident, Dorez looks shaken to her core. Her body trembles as she watches the carnage unfold. Benicto is worse¡ªhis face is a mask of pure fear, hands shaking as he clutches at the stone, as if it can protect him from the violence raging around him.
And in that moment, you realize something. They¡¯re not as strong as they pretend to be. They¡¯re bullies, yes, but when faced with real danger, real violence, they crumble.
Suddenly, bursts of shouting pull you back to the present. Criato and Ulloa are in the thick of it now. They fight side by side, their rivalry forgotten in the face of a common enemy. They hate each other, you know that, but here, now, they move as one.
As the battle rages on, you feel a cold knot of fear tightening in your stomach. This isn¡¯t a fight. It¡¯s a slaughter.
The moment is a whirl of confusion and rage, with shouts and the dull clash of metal and stone piercing the air. The settlers and guards, most of them unaccustomed to actual combat, lash out with a disgustingly crude brutality. The city¡¯s people push back, but their resistance is more a matter of survival than skill, more a desperate flailing than any real organized defense.
It¡¯s then that you hear it: a sudden, sharp crack that splits the air like a lightning strike. You flinch, momentarily stunned, along with everyone around you. The sound reverberates off the towering stone walls, sending a ripple of panic through the city¡¯s inhabitants. All eyes turn toward the source of the sound.
Up on horseback, one of the settlers¡ªone of your people¡ªhas fired his musket. The smoke still curls from the barrel. The blast has startled his horse, and the animal rears up, thrashing its hooves. The settler clings to the reins, barely managing to stay in the saddle. His face is twisted in panic, as if even he didn¡¯t mean to do it.
Though they had been holding their ground, the people of the city now break. They cry out, terror filling their voices, and many turn to flee. Do they believe the sound to be some kind of divine wrath? They falter in the face of what must seem like sorcery to them.
The Great Xiatli¡¯s glare slices through the air, sharp enough to leave you wondering if it might draw blood. His expression isn¡¯t loud with rage¡ªno, it¡¯s something quieter, colder, menacing. When he speaks, it¡¯s barely a whisper, but somehow it rises above the discordant noise of the panic and fighting.
¡°Who gave you permission to waste that bullet?¡±
The young settler¡¯s face drains of color. He stammers, trying to find words, but nothing comes. He¡¯s trembling, his hands still gripping the musket like a lifeline, knuckles white against the dark wood. The horse beneath him shifts as its hooves clatter against the stone.
¡°Answer me.¡± Xiatli says through gnashed teeth, somehow quieter now, more threatening.
The young settler swallows hard, not daring to look at the demigod in his eyes. ¡°I¡ªI was¡ª¡°
The sentence never finishes.
Without another word, without hesitation, He strides toward the rider who fired the shot. With a single, swift motion, the Great Xiatli yanks the settler from his saddle, throwing him to the ground with an almost inhuman strength. The man lands hard, gasping in shock, scrambling to find his footing.
But the Great Xiatli doesn¡¯t give him a chance.
In a blur of motion, He draws a blade¡ªone of the strange, curved daggers He carries¡ªand plunges it into the man¡¯s chest. The settler lets out a choking, wet gurgle. His hands clutch at the blade as blood seeps through his fingers. His eyes go wide, filled with disbelief and terror. The body crumples to the ground like a sack splitting at the seams. Blood spreads out slow and thick, soaking into the dirt like it¡¯s thirsty for it.
Around you, there¡¯s more stunned silence. The people of the city, already horrified by the sound of the musket shot, now stare in disbelief at the brutal efficiency of the Great Xiatli. Even the Legido forces¡ªyour own people¡ªlook on in shock, unable to process what just happened. His life ended in a blink, without ceremony, without hesitation.
The Great Xiatli wipes the blade clean on the settler¡¯s tunic before sheathing it once more. The horse rears again, hooves stamping, but the Great Xiatli is already turning away as if nothing has happened. As if the life He¡¯s just taken means less than nothing. His eyes scan the crowd, daring anyone to question Him. No one does.
¡°Round them up.¡± Xiatli¡¯s command breaks the stillness like a crack of dry wood in a fire. ¡°We take the city.¡±
No one dares hesitate for long. After a breath, the Legido forces move. There¡¯s no question of the orders, no room for doubt¡ªjust the need to move swiftly, to prove their loyalty to Him. The settlers begin sweeping through the city¡¯s streets, corralling its people like animals. They grab any who remain standing with rough hands, dragging them toward the center.
Criato and Ulloa share a quick, knowing glance. It may be an illusion, but you think you see a hint of nervousness as they look toward Xiatli, and then away again, as His command finally settles in. Despite this, you can see the hunger in their expressions, though¡ªthe hunger to prove themselves, to seize the spoils of this conquest.
¡°You heard Him,¡± Criato says, as a bead of sweat runs down his temple. He gestures sharply to his men, and the unspoken command is clear: do what needs to be done. And fast.
The leader of these people now stands among the captured, shackled and silent, eyes cast down. There¡¯s no fight left in him, no resistance¡ªjust the quiet acceptance of a man who knows his fate has already been sealed. You don¡¯t know what he¡¯s thinking, but his silence feels heavier than the chains that bind him.
You feel a sickness rising in your gut as you watch it all unfold. Once almost overwhelmingly timid and unsure, the settlers now move with a sort of savageness. There¡¯s no hesitation in them now, growing bolder with each passing moment. They rip through the city like a storm¡ªpillaging homes, tearing valuables from the dead, dragging weeping villagers into lines. There¡¯s a look in their eyes, a wildness that unnerves you. Maybe it¡¯s fear that drives them, fear of what the Great Xiatli might do if they fail to deliver. Or maybe it¡¯s something darker, something they¡¯ve always carried within them, waiting for the right moment to surface.
As the frenzy continues, you look at Xiatli, standing tall and unmoved amidst the destruction. The amulet on His chest glows faintly in the dimming light, casting eerie shadows on His face. This being, this god, cares nothing for the blood being spilled or the lives being torn apart around Him.
And then, for just a moment, your mind thinks back to that chest. The one Xiatli unearthed, the one filled with those strange scrolls. The amulet, the scrolls¡ªwhat connection do they have? What power do they hold? What secrets are locked inside them, waiting to be unleashed? Could they stop this descent into madness?
Xiatli¡¯s cold and merciless voice jars you away from your thoughts. ¡°You,¡± He says, pointing toward Ulloa. ¡°Take the palace. Secure their leaders. Burn what cannot be carried.¡±
Ulloa snaps to attention. To your astonishment, his voice trembles as he barks orders to his men. They move quickly, eager to please, eager to avoid the same fate as the man who lies dead in the dirt. They scurry about the grounds of this once-magnificent city, rushing into the grand building with weapons drawn.
Around you, the city¡¯s fall becomes complete. Homes are stripped bare, temples desecrated, the people herded into submission like cattle awaiting slaughter. The cries of the captured swirl around you, a sound that claws at your insides, and you feel the bile rise in your throat.
This isn¡¯t what you expected. This isn¡¯t what you wanted. When you joined this expedition, you sought adventure. Not this.
As the flames begin to rise in the distance, you question if you¡¯re on the wrong side of history. And for the first time since you set foot in this strange land, you wonder if the worst thing here isn¡¯t what¡¯s coming.
It¡¯s what¡¯s already arrived.
142 - Haesan
My pulse stalls, and for a moment, I wonder if I¡¯m even still alive. The look in his eyes¡ªAchutli¡¯s eyes¡ªis something twisted, something wrong. The pitch black shadows lash and coil around him like frenzied serpents, binding his arms and torso. An unnatural yellow-green glow spills across the decimated grounds, casting grotesque shapes on every surface the hideous light touches.
¡°What has he done?¡± I think I hear the question escape my lips.
His eyes are endless and hollow pits of darkness, yet filled with a warped clarity that chills me to my core. I search his face for some trace of humanity, of the father he could have been to me. But all I find is a stranger. A monster cloaked in shadows, wielding a power that I cannot begin to comprehend.
Behind him, his warriors hang back, unsure of what to do in the face of this overwhelming force. Even the ones who had been brutal in their own right¡ªpeople like Anqatil¡ªare keeping their distance. They know something¡¯s amiss, something even more dangerous than the battle raging around them.
And then, Achutli raises his bloodied hand, fingers slick with gore, and the air seems to ripple around him. The shadows at his feet surge upward, contorting into dark tendrils that snake through the air. They spread out, creeping toward the bodies strewn across the battlefield, latching onto the dead and dying like leeches. The unnatural light flickers and grows dimmer, as if what little life remains is being drained from everything it touches.
I stagger back, unable to tear my eyes away from the scene unfolding in front of me. My breath catches in my throat. A deep, primal fear claws its way up from the pit of my stomach.
The tendrils continue to writhe and pulse, wrapping themselves tighter around the fallen warriors. Slowly, agonizingly, they begin to drag the bodies toward Achutli. Some of them twitch, clinging to life, like their last moments of agony are being drawn out by the depraved force binding them.
Yachaman stands rigid, her hand clutching her blade tightly. ¡°We can¡¯t let him do this,¡± she breathes with a subtle tremor in her voice. ¡°We have to stop him.¡±
Of course, we do. But I can only watch as the shadows coil tighter, the lifeless eyes of the fallen warriors seeming to stare up at Achutli in silent horror.
His lips twist into a smile¡ªsmall, almost imperceptible. He¡¯s enjoying this. Reveling in the power that¡¯s coursing through him. The darkness around him pulses, growing thicker and more suffocating. I feel it closing in on me, too, like a vice around my chest.
I can feel my hands trembling. My breath is shallow and ragged, but beneath the fear, something else stirs¡ªsomething that¡¯s been buried for too long. Anger. Frustration. The sharp sting of betrayal that runs so deep, it cuts through this fog of terror.
I can¡¯t say where the courage comes from. Maybe it¡¯s rage, maybe it¡¯s desperation. But I find myself stepping forward. The battlefield blurs around me, fading into nothing more than a hum in the back of my skull. The only thing I can see, the only thing that matters, is him. Achutli. The man who is determined raze this world to nothing.
¡°Achutli!¡± The name rips from my throat before I can stop it. It¡¯s louder than I intended, carried by the fury burning in my chest.
He regards me with a hollow and twisted stare, and a cold smile tugs at the corner of his lips. There¡¯s a chilling calm he exudes that feels more dangerous than any anger. ¡°Haesan,¡± he says, his voice carrying across the battlefield like a taunt, smooth and mocking. ¡°My darling daughter. So you finally step out of the shadows. I wondered how long you would stay in hiding.¡±
He looks to size me up as if I¡¯m a mere distraction¡ªan insect buzzing in his ear. I tremble under his gaze, but I don¡¯t back down. I can¡¯t. Not when the world is crumbling around us, and every nightmare I¡¯ve ever had about this moment is coming true.
¡°You¡¯ve sold this land and the people you swore to protect for the sake of power,¡± I shout back. ¡°You¡¯ve betrayed everything you once stood for, everything Pachil once was. You care more about your throne than you do your own people, than you do your own¡ª¡°
¡°My own what?¡± Achutli cuts me off. ¡°Go on, Haesan. Speak the words. My own blood? My own daughter?¡± His laugh is cold and empty, as his eyes narrow further. ¡°Do you really think your existence matters in all this?¡±
The statement leaves me bewildered. He speaks as though he¡¯s no longer beholden to the prophecy that drove him to this point. Did I misunderstand what Nuqasiq spoke to me of it? Was Anqatil mistaken, as well? Or has this newfound power he¡¯s obtained undone the threads of fate that had brought him to the brink of insanity? He¡¯s trying to make me feel insignificant, like I¡¯m nothing but an inconvenience. A tool he no longer needs. But I know what Nuqasiq told me. Achutli fears me, fears what I represent. He has to. Why else would he have sent me off to Achope, or have sent Anqatil after me?
He tilts his head slightly, almost pitying. ¡°You have no idea of the burdens I carry. Of the sacrifices I¡¯ve made for this land. For Pachil.¡±
¡°Sacrifices?¡± I spit the word out like venom. ¡°You¡¯ve only sacrificed the people you¡¯re supposed to protect to feed your own obsessions with power. You were to be merely a caretaker of this throne. Yet you¡¯d rather tear this land apart than see it fall into the hands of someone else! You¡¯re so wrapped up in your delusions of grandeur that you¡¯ve forgotten what it means to care about anything beyond your own ambition. You¡¯d burn everything to the ground just to sit on a throne of ashes, wouldn¡¯t you?¡±
He lets out a soft, derisive chuckle. ¡°Ah, there it is. The self-righteousness. The sanctimony. The na?vet¨¦ of a child who thinks she understands the world.¡±
He gestures as if swatting away a fly. ¡°You talk about me being a tyrant, about power and control¡ªwhat do you think ruling is? The world isn¡¯t a tale told by the fire light where justice and virtue win the day. It¡¯s chaos, it¡¯s blood. And if you don¡¯t wield power, you lose it to those who will.¡±
He begins to descend the stairs with methodical, menacing steps. ¡°I¡¯ve made the hard choices. The choices no one could make. Wouldn¡¯t make. You would never make. Because you don¡¯t have the stomach for it.¡±
¡°No,¡± I say, shaking with barely contained rage. ¡°Because I care about the people you¡¯ve forgotten.¡±
¡°Care?¡± His cruel smile widens. ¡°You care about them? What have they ever done for you? What have they ever done for Pachil? They squabble. They fight. They tear each other apart over scraps, just like they¡¯re doing now. And when the time comes, they¡¯ll turn on you, too. I am the only one who can save this land. Without me, Pachil would fall into chaos. That¡¯s the difference between us¡ªyou believe in them. I know they¡¯re too weak to survive without someone like me leading them.¡±
I tremble with fury, but he doesn¡¯t stop. ¡°So yes, I¡¯ve made sacrifices. I¡¯ve done what needed to be done. I¡¯ve tried to save this land, but you and the others¡ªyou stand in my way. But it ends now.¡±
His eyes flash, and for a brief moment, I catch a glimpse of something beyond the cold, calculated cruelty. It¡¯s fear. Deep down, he¡¯s afraid. He fears losing control, losing everything he¡¯s fought so hard to build. He fears the prophecy because he knows it¡¯s true.
I stand taller now, feeling the conviction flowing through my veins. ¡°The prophecy doesn¡¯t have to end with blood. We don¡¯t have to keep feeding this endless cycle of violence and destruction. Pachil can be more than what you¡¯ve turned it into.¡±
¡°So that¡¯s what this is all about. The prophecy.¡± He lets out a small, contemptuous laugh. ¡°You think I fear you?¡± he jeers. ¡°You think I lose sleep over some words spoken by desperate mystics?¡±
Now, his face twists into a bitter scowl. ¡°Let me tell you something, child. Your blood means nothing if you¡¯re too weak to wield it. Your mother¡ª¡± he stops himself, and a cruel smile contorts his lips as some idea just occurred to him, ¡°¡ªyou really are your mother¡¯s child. Always expecting more than what the world can give.¡±
My body moves on its own; I don¡¯t even realize that I¡¯ve stepped back. My hand reaches for something, anything to steady myself. His words sting more than I¡¯d care to admit. The person I know nothing about, the person I¡¯ve been wondering about since the day Nuqasiq told me of my true father, and he¡ he is weaponizing the identity of the mother I do not know against me.
¡°Who was she?¡± I choke out. ¡°Tell me. Tell me who she was!¡±
But Achutli only laughs. ¡°Why would I waste my breath on such trivialities?¡± he says with a dismissive wave of his hand. ¡°You are not even worth her name.¡±
I¡¯m trembling now, every word he says like a dagger twisting in my chest. I want to scream, to lash out, to tear that smug smile off his face, but I¡¯m rooted to the spot, paralyzed by his contempt. He looks at me like I¡¯m nothing. Like I¡¯m less than nothing. And the worst part is, part of me believes him.
¡°Besides,¡± he sneers, ¡°It doesn¡¯t matter now. You¡¯re irrelevant to what¡¯s coming. To what I am going to do. For I am Pachil. I am its ruler. Its savior. And if it must burn to be reborn in my image, then so be it.¡±
My hands curl into fists, nails biting into my palms. Blood pounds in my ears. I know I have to say something, do something, but the words won¡¯t come. They¡¯re stuck in my throat, refusing to be released.
A sharp, discordant noise rips through the air¡ªshouts, war cries. I whirl around to see a swarm of turquoise and magenta surge from the shadows. The ground trembles at the stampede of Qente Waila charging into the fray. For a heartbeat, I think I see hope glimmer in their eyes.
This narrative has been purloined without the author''s approval. Report any appearances on Amazon.
I don¡¯t even have time to scream a warning.
Achutli¡¯s head snaps to the side, and his eyes narrow. The cruel smirk that distorts his face widens into something more sinister. ¡°Ah, how considerate of them to join us,¡± he says, his voice laced with amusement. ¡°The brave little rebellion. Come to meet their fate.¡±
He turns to face the charging warriors, the dark tendrils coiling tighter around his arms, feeding off his fury. The grotesque shapes of the shadows writhe with a life of their own, as if they¡¯re eager to devour anything that dares to approach. He raises his hands in a slow, deliberate gesture, and that yellow-green glow intensifies around him.
¡°Let them come,¡± he snarls, his eyes glinting with malevolent glee. ¡°Let them see what true power looks like.¡±
The ground beneath us shudders violently as tendrils of darkness explode outward from Achutli¡¯s form. They malevolently slash through the air like braided leather whips. The vine-like forms lash at the Jade Hummingbird, wrapping around arms and legs, dragging warriors to the ground. Cries of pain and horror echo across the battlefield as the tendrils constrict, squeezing the life out of them, twisting their wrecked bodies.
Suddenly, his hand grips my shoulder. ¡°Get back!¡± Xelhua¡¯s voice roars from behind me. He yanks me away from the encroaching darkness, cleaving through the shadowy tendrils that reach for us with his blade. Beside him, the Qantua warriors fight with a ferocity that matches the storm Achutli has unleashed¡ªcutting, blocking, throwing themselves into the fray to protect me.
But I can¡¯t look away from the mayhem. Yachaman¡¯s figure blurs in my vision as she charges forward with the Jade Hummingbird, disappearing into the maelstrom of violence. My throat burns as I call out for her, but my voice is swallowed by the din of war, by the relentless noise of metal on metal and the cries of the dying.
Achutli¡¯s triumphant laughter chillingly cuts through the battle. He stands at the center of the storm, eyes alight with that eerie glow. His arms are spread wide as if welcoming the destruction he¡¯s wrought. Warriors fall before him like leaves in a hurricane, their bodies gnarled and broken by the dark force he commands.
¡°Do you see now?¡± he bellows, his voice echoing across the battlefield. ¡°Do you see what happens to those who defy me? This is the price of your insolence!¡±
Xelhua cuts down another attacker¡ªa man in Achutli¡¯s orange-and-red colors¡ªbefore twisting his blade to parry a strike from a Qente Waila warrior who¡¯s turned on him, eyes wild with hatred. ¡°Haesan!¡± he shouts, not looking at me. ¡°Get back! There¡¯s nothing you can do here!¡±
But he¡¯s wrong. There has to be something. Anything.
I stagger forward, ignoring the chaos around me, ignoring the way my heart feels like it¡¯s shattering in my chest as I watch Yachaman vanish into the haze of combat. My eyes lock onto Achutli, this monster who wears my father¡¯s face, and I feel something inside me snap.
¡°You¡¯re killing them!¡± I scream, my voice raw and desperate. ¡°These are your people! Do you even see what you¡¯re doing?¡±
Achutli¡¯s gaze swings toward me, and for a moment, I see it¡ªthat tiny bit of something almost resembling doubt. But then it¡¯s gone, swallowed up by the darkness twirling around him. His smile returns, sharper, crueler. ¡°If they will not bow to me, they are nothing,¡± he says coldly. ¡°Just like you. Nothing.¡±
The shadows surge once more, tearing through the ranks of the Jade Hummingbird. Warriors are lifted into the air, limbs flailing as they¡¯re crushed by the force of Achutli¡¯s power. The ground splits open, seeming to rise against them, spitting fire and ash, consuming those who stand in its path.
Despite my throat hoarse, I desperately scream Yachaman¡¯s name again. But the battlefield is too loud, too chaotic. I can¡¯t see her. I can¡¯t see anything but the blood and the darkness and the man who¡¯s turned everything I love into a sick nightmare.
Xelhua fights his way to my side, breathing hard, his face streaked with blood and grime. ¡°Child, now,¡± he says, his voice rough but urgent. ¡°There¡¯s nothing left for you here. We have to pull back.¡±
I shake my head, wild and defiant. ¡°No! I can¡¯t! Yachaman¡ª¡±
¡°She made her choice,¡± Xelhua snaps, tightening his grip on my arm to where it¡¯s almost painful. ¡°And you need to make yours. This battle is lost.¡±
I look back at Achutli, at the devastation he¡¯s unleashed, at the faces of the Jade Hummingbird warriors contorted in agony. And I know, deep down, that Xelhua¡¯s right. There¡¯s no reaching him. No reasoning with him. The prophecy doesn¡¯t matter to him anymore, if it ever did. All that matters to him is power. And he¡¯s willing to destroy everything to keep it.
My chest feels like it¡¯s caving in from the failure that crushes me from the inside out. But I force myself to turn away. To follow Xelhua as he carves a path through the calamity of combat. Achutli¡¯s laughter follows me, echoing in my ears, cruelly reminding me that I was never enough to stop him. Never anything to him.
The last thing I see before the dust swallows us whole is Achutli¡¯s eyes¡ªdark, pitiless, and triumphant. And in that moment, I know: whatever hope I had of saving him is gone.
The battlefield is an inferno of chaos and destruction. The very heart of Qapauma is swallowed by a darkness that seems to seep from the soil itself. The once proud city, with its majestic stone structures and vibrant terraces, is nothing more than ash and ruin. The colors that once defined this place¡ªits warm ochres, its deep indigos¡ªare smeared with soot, broken underfoot, drowned beneath a tide of blood. Every pillar that once reached toward the sky now crumbles into dust, swallowed by a storm of shadows and fire that devours everything in its path.
Each drumming heartbeat in my ears drowns out the world¡¯s noise¡ªthe clash of metal against bone, the screams that rise and choke on the thick air, the sickening crunch of bodies trampled into the dirt.
My eyes scour the devastation, but all I can see is Yachaman. Or rather, I can¡¯t see her¡ªjust the memory of her silhouette swallowed by the smoke, lost in the whirlwind of violence that Achutli has unleashed upon this place. How I had found her, by a miracle of the gods, of the Eleven, only to lose her once again.
She¡¯s out there. I know she is. Somewhere in that churning maelstrom of shadows and shrieks, Yachaman is fighting for her life. But it¡¯s like looking for a single leaf in a wildfire, knowing that even if you find it, it might already be burning. The thought alone turns my veins to ice.
I have to find her. I have to. The need to see her¡ªto know that she¡¯s still alive, still fighting.
¡°Yachaman!¡± I scream, my voice raw, cracking as it tears from my throat. The name feels like it''s being ripped out of me, a desperate plea that vanishes into the bedlam. My feet move on their own¡ªI¡¯m running toward the chaos, toward the writhing mass of warriors and the darkness that surrounds Achutli like a cloak.
I¡¯m yanked back with a strength that feels like hitting a wall. It¡¯s Xelhua. His unyielding grip is iron, his eyes blazing with a fury that almost matches my own. ¡°Haesan, no!¡± he growls. ¡°You can¡¯t go out there! It¡¯s suicide!¡±
¡°Let me go!¡± I struggle against him, twisting, kicking, doing anything I can to break free. The thought of Yachaman out there, alone and vulnerable, makes my chest tighten until I can barely breathe. ¡°I have to get to her! I have to¡ª¡±
¡°Look at me, child!¡± Xelhua shakes me, not gently. I can feel his breath on my cheeks, his face is that close. And for the first time, I see something almost like fear in his eyes. ¡°You¡¯re no use to her dead! If you go out there now, Achutli or one of his minions will cut you down like the rest!¡±
The words hit me like a slap. My body goes still. I stop fighting, but my heart feels like it¡¯s breaking in half. I turn my head just in time to see Achutli unleash another wave of dark energy that rips through the ranks of the Jade Hummingbird, tearing warriors from the ground, flinging them into the air like rag dolls. The sight makes me sick to my stomach.
¡°Haesan, listen to me,¡± Xelhua says, his voice softer now, but no less intense. He pulls me somehow closer, holding my gaze. ¡°Achutli¡¯s power is demented, yes, but his words¡ªthose lies he spit at you. Don¡¯t let him win like that. You¡¯re stronger than this.¡±
I can see the worry etched into the lines of his face. I cannot describe it, other than it grounds me. My breathing steadies, just a little. And the fog of fear begins to lift, even if just a bit. I look back to the battlefield, to the bodies sprawled across the ground, to the Qente Waila being torn apart by Achutli¡¯s merciless onslaught, and I feel my resolve waver.
¡°He¡¯s going to kill them all,¡± I say, the despair seeping into my voice. ¡°He¡¯s going to destroy everything.¡±
¡°And we¡¯ll make him pay for it,¡± Xelhua replies, his grip tightening on my shoulder, almost shaking me out of my hopelessness. ¡°But not like this. We have to be smart about it. We have to survive.¡±
As Xelhua pulls me back toward a semblance of shelter, the battle continues to rage around us. All I can do is pray to the Eleven that Yachaman survives long enough for us to find her. We need to gather our strength, rethink our next move, live to see another¡ª
A low and thunderous horn blares in the distance. I turn toward the sound as I watch an army crests the horizon. Out of the swirling dust, I see them. It¡¯s a sea of warriors stretching as far as my eyes can see. And at the head of this army strides a warrior regaled in lavish, polished armor that shines brighter than any star. His movements are fluid, almost casual, as if the chaos around him is nothing more than an inconvenience.
He walks with a predator¡¯s grace, taking in the destruction like he¡¯s savoring it, like he¡¯s appraising it. His lips curl into a smirk on his way toward the destroyed palace. Yet he doesn¡¯t march; he strolls through the wreckage of Qapauma, as if he owns it, as if the ruins are a stage set for his arrival.
My mind scrambles to make sense of this new presence. He doesn¡¯t wear the colors of Achutli¡¯s loyalists, nor the sigils of the Eye in the Flame. But he¡¯s not Qente Waila either. Who is he? Who are these warriors who appear as if summoned by the gods themselves, striding into the shattered remains of my city? Reinforcements? Or another threat entirely?
The figures gradually come closer as they follow behind this overly confident leader of their. The setting sun gleams off their black-and-gold armor. They march in perfect, deadly rhythm, descending upon the city like a storm ready to break. Slowly, it becomes more and more clear what must be taking place.
Xelhua stiffens beside me, his grip on his weapon tightening as his eyes narrow at the sight. There¡¯s something in his expression¡ªrecognition, maybe? Or is it dread?
¡°Who¡ª?¡± I begin to ask, but my voice is swallowed by the terrible quiet that falls over the battlefield. Even Achutli¡¯s dark magic seems to hesitate. The tendrils waver in the air, as if the darkness itself is taken aback by this newcomer.
The young man stops just at the edge of the arena of devastation, where Achutli and his loyalists stand nearly a field¡¯s distance away. His smirk widens into a grin that¡¯s all sharp teeth and malice. He spreads his arms wide, like a king greeting his subjects, like a god welcoming his domain.
¡°What do we do?¡± I whisper, my voice barely audible over the thundering in my chest.
Xelhua doesn¡¯t answer right away. His eyes are fixed on the new arrivals. ¡°I don¡¯t know,¡± he finally says. ¡°But whatever comes next, it won¡¯t be good.¡±
The ground seems to tremble beneath us as the warriors in black and gold approach Achutli. I can¡¯t hear what they¡¯re saying due to their armor clinking softly, but I don¡¯t need to. I know, for certain, these are no friends. Whoever this man is, he isn¡¯t here for diplomacy.
The hundreds upon hundreds of warriors finally halt. Confirming our suspicions, the figure in the lead¡ªthe one with the smug smile and the cruel eyes¡ªspeaks.
¡°Well, well,¡± he says. ¡°Is this what passes for a rebellion these days? I expected more.¡±
The newcomer at the forefront bravely¡ªor na?vely¡ªcontinues striding forward, and I begin to see him more clearly. He¡¯s young, too young to have that kind of confidence, that kind of arrogance. Yet he walks as though he¡¯s already conquered this ruined world. Etched with a stoic face encased in a twelve-pointed sun, his armor gleams in the sickly light cast by Achutli¡¯s dark powers.
He tilts his head slightly, as the sardonic smile never once leaves his face. ¡°So, you must be the great Achutli,¡± he says. His eyes quickly inspect the foe standing before him, before his expression turns into one of disappointment. ¡°Hmm¡ I expected more, to be honest.¡±
Achutli¡¯s eyes flare with something primal, his jaw setting in a hard line. For a heartbeat, I think he might just tear this man apart where he stands. But to my surprise, he doesn¡¯t move. Instead, he lets out a low, dangerous chuckle, a sound that vibrates through the rubble. ¡°You should be careful what you expect, boy,¡± he remarks. ¡°I¡¯ve broken men far greater than you.¡±
The young warrior¡¯s ominous grin only grows wider. ¡°You know, I¡¯ll enjoy watching you fall. Just like the others.¡±
Before I can even grasp what¡¯s happening, the warriors in black and gold surge forward, blades gleaming in the fading light. Guards donning the orange and red of the Tapeu charge in response, weapons held aloft. Achutli¡¯s shadows burst outward to meet them, and the tense silence shatters into a storm of violence.
Xelhua pulls me back, away from the carnage, his voice urgent. ¡°We have to go¡ªnow!¡±
143 - Walumaq
The moment we crest the ridge, the world rips open.
Xutuina looms before us, a monstrous maw of black rock and sulfurous heat. It exhales clouds of steam that rise like the last breaths of a dying beast. The ground beneath my feet trembles with a low, rumbling pulse, as if it¡¯s beating from the heart of the land itself. The air is thick and scorching, like we¡¯re already standing at the edge of some infernal abyss. I¡¯ve never felt anything like it. The crisp, cool mists of Sanqo are a distant memory now, replaced by this sweltering nightmare.
As I step forward, the path widens into a vast basin, cradling the dormant volcano in its stone arms amidst the haze. Jagged boulders litter the ground, their surfaces scarred and blackened. Thin stone walkways stretch out like skeletal fingers, leading to platforms that rest uneasily over the sea of black lava rock. Here and there, cracks in the stone split open to reveal a dull, glowing redness¡ªthe volcanic blood of this place, simmering just beneath the surface.
Paxilche comes to a halt beside me, his eyes fixed on the volcanic basin below. He¡¯s quiet for a moment, just staring at the stone walkways and charred effigies scattered across the sacred ground. I watch as something shifts in his expression¡ªa twisted mix of reverence and betrayal.
He glances over at me, and when he speaks, his voice is laced with a bitterness that cuts through the oppressive air. ¡°The last time I was here, it was for the trial to determine the Tempered after¡¡± He struggles to finish the thought, about his brother¡¯s murder. His lips quiver as his eyes stay focused on the landscape before us. ¡°This place¡ it used to mean something to my people.¡±
He pauses, swallowing hard, as if the words themselves are too heavy to get out. ¡°If we allow the Eye in the Flame to defile this place¡¡± He shakes his head, the corners of his mouth curling in disgust. ¡°We cannot allow those maniacs to ruin this sacred place.¡±
His voice cracks like a dried leaf beneath a boot. I know this isn¡¯t just about the fire priest or the battle that awaits. It¡¯s about what¡¯s been stolen from him¡ªhis brother, his people¡¯s trust in the sacred, the very ground he¡¯s standing on.
Steam hisses up from fumaroles that dot the terrain. The vapor twists in jagged spirals that seem to claw at the sky. There¡¯s no wind here, no movement other than the angry boil of heat and smoke from the terrain itself.
I feel the sweat bead at my brow and run down my cheek in hot rivulets. The others are silent, their faces set in grim focus as they take in the sight of this ruined sanctum. For many, including myself, it¡¯s the first time we¡¯ve stepped foot in such a place, and are overwhelmed by the raw and rugged landscape. Saqatli¡¯s jaw is clenched so tight I half expect it to shatter; Upachu¡¯s eyes nervously dart across the scene; Teqosa and S¨ªqalat clutch their weapons tightly as they expectantly prepare for any and all threats.
Far off on the other side, the crimson-robed figure stands at the lip of the volcano. He¡¯s framed by the glow of molten rock and smoke that twists like serpents around him. From this distance, he seems almost serene, an unsettling calm draped over a sea of chaos. His back is to us, but there¡¯s no doubt he knows we¡¯re here. He¡¯s waiting for us, or perhaps he¡¯s just unconcerned with our presence¡ªa disturbing thought.
This priest of fire lifts his hands, and I see them shimmer¡ªnot with sweat, but with power, the kind that bends fire to its will. His low and rhythmic chant begins in a language I can¡¯t place, though it vibrates in my skull. It¡¯s sharp and grating, like metal grinding against stone. As his hands raise higher, the air around him shifts. Fiery illusions flicker into life, dancing in the haze.
The air catches fire before I even hear the first shout. One moment, we¡¯re climbing the ashen path, searching the smoking horizon for the priest. The next, it feels like the world is set ablaze, like the mountain itself is trying to shake us off its back.
I hear the roar before I see it¡ªa twisted column of flame spiraling from the ground, sucking everything around it into its molten maw. Paxilche yells something, but the sound is lost in the deafening wind of the tornado of fire. It rises, a monstrous thing that splits the air in two. We scatter. No time to think. Just instinct driving us apart before we¡¯re cooked alive.
"Move!" I scream, my voice cracking with the heat that scorches the air before it reaches my lungs. Atoyaqtli leaps one way, Chiqama another, everyone breaking off into their own fight for survival.
The fire priest turns and steps forward from the shadows of smoke. It¡¯s like the mountain bows to him, as the ground beneath us turns from rock to seething lava at his command. He continues raising his hands, and the land convulses. My heart slams into my ribs as cracks begin to form in the dirt, glowing orange and red. Molten rock starts to seep through. The ground is alive now, shifting underfoot.
¡°Split up!¡± Paxilche is yelling again, but his words are snatched by the roar of the fire.
I lunge forward, narrowly dodging a stream of lava that erupts from the ground where Chiqama had stood just heartbeats before. A scream rips through the air. I look back in time to see him fall, flames dancing up his body. He¡¯s gone, incinerated before the others even realize. I want to look away, but I can¡¯t. Because somehow, watching the place he once stood feels like the only way to honor what¡¯s left of him, even if the fire has already taken most of it.
The unrelenting heat bears down on me, causing me to stumble as my attention snaps back to Xutuina. It isn''t just physical¡ªit¡¯s inside me, gnawing at my bones, something more than fire. It¡¯s like the very essence of me is being singed and torn apart by invisible hands. I¡¯ve fought in battles, stared down the worst, but this¡
Pomaqli is next. The ground open with a deafening crack. Before he can move, a geyser of molten rock explodes upward. For a heartbeat, his body is weightless, flung into the air like a rag doll caught in a storm. He twists midair, arms reaching out. His desperate scream tears through the chaos, the kind that makes your stomach turn.
The molten spray catches him mid-fall. Flames lick greedily at his clothes, his skin. The fire spreads too fast, and I see the precise moment when his scream cuts short¡ªnot from relief, but from the fire taking his breath, swallowing his voice. The stench of scorched hair and charred flesh burrows into my nose. His limbs jerk once, twice, a grotesque imitation of life as his body burns.
He hits the ground with a sickening thud, his body a tangle of limbs that no longer seem to belong to the man I knew. His eyes are still open, staring at nothing. He was there. And now he isn¡¯t. Just like that.
I catch sight of Teqosa, his face twisted in agony as the priest seemingly focuses on him. The flames lick up his body, but they don¡¯t consume him entirely; instead, they crawl like something alive, something feeding off him. There¡¯s something more in Teqosa¡¯s eyes, like a helplessness, a horror that I don¡¯t understand. He¡¯s burning from the inside out. I can see it, feel it in the air. His blood boils, and I know¡ªI know this priest somehow has a hold on him.
A guttural scream tears from Teqosa¡¯s throat as he falls to his knees. I¡¯m moving toward him before I even realize it, but Paxilche grabs my arm, pulling me back.
¡°Don¡¯t!¡± Paxilche¡¯s face is drenched in sweat, and his eyes are wide with terror. ¡°He¡¯s using them. He¡¯s feeding off them. You could be next!¡±
Them? My eyes dart to S¨ªqalat. She¡¯s trembling, barely holding back the firestorm that¡¯s now pressing down on her from all sides. Her skin is blistering in patches, like the flames have an intimate knowledge of her essence, her being.
The priest lets out a jarring, menacing laugh. More fissures open in the ground, spilling lava like blood from a gaping wound. The flames respond to his swirling hands. They twist and reshape themselves into monstrous figures, warriors made of fire. Without warning, the warriors lunge at us in a flash. I¡¯m forced back, barely holding my own against the searing heat. I have no blade, no weapon to defend myself. I pivot, desperately looking for Paxilche, for anyone still standing.
This fire isn¡¯t just burning us¡ªit¡¯s tearing at our very spirits. I can feel it pulling at the edges of my mind, sapping my strength, my will to fight. My limbs feel heavy, my heart cold despite the flames. I look at Saqatli. He appears as though he¡¯s trying his best to fight through it, but the fire has reached a part of him he wasn¡¯t ready to confront.
A sudden crack splits the air, and the fire priest¡¯s attention snaps toward me. His eyes lock onto mine, and I can feel the might of his power, the way it reaches out to sink its claws into my very being. The firestorm around me intensifies, the flames biting at my skin. It¡¯s in my mind now, in my blood. It¡¯s everything I can do to keep standing.
And then I catch it¡ªa brief gleam in Teqosa¡¯s eyes, clarity breaking through the haze of pain. He¡¯s still fighting. He¡¯s still with us. Barely.
The fire priest¡¯s eyes narrow as the flames swirl around us, and I know¡ªhe¡¯s not done. His robes shimmer in the heat, crimson and gold threads catching the light like molten metal. He gestures with his arms again, and the air trembles as if it¡¯s about to strike.
The ground buckles beneath us, lava seeping through cracks, turning the battlefield into a boiling deathtrap. Paxilche is on one side, sweat streaking his face, eyes burning with defiance. Teqosa and S¨ªqalat stagger behind me as the flames continue clinging to them. They¡¯re not just hurt¡ªthey¡¯re unraveling. I can see it in their faces, the way their bodies jerk and tremble, caught between two forces: that of the dark magic entrenched in their bodies, and their own resolve.
The fire priest¡¯s hands twist in the air, and a wall of fire roars to life between us. I flinch as the heat scorches my skin. Then, I feel it: the pull of my amulet, the obsidian and copper stone humming at my chest. The flames hesitate, licking at the edge of its power, as if something in the darkness of the magic fears it.
I look to Teqosa, who¡¯s barely able to stand. The flames flare up, burning brighter around him. Something clicks in my mind, a realization. He¡¯s too vulnerable, too exposed. This fire is somehow breaking him from the inside.
But I might know how to stop it.
Without thinking, I¡¯m at his side, yanking the obsidian amulet from around my neck. ¡°Teqosa!¡± I shout over the roar of the fire, and my hand finds his. His eyes are wild and panicked, but they meet mine. And in that moment, I see past the fear to something deeper¡ªhope, maybe. Desperation, definitely.
If you find this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the infringement.
¡°Take it,¡± I urge, pressing the amulet into his hand. ¡°I can¡¯t explain it, but something about this amulet¡ it will protect you.¡±
He hesitates, his fingers barely able to curl around the amulet, like he¡¯s afraid it might bite. His whole body is shaking, and I can see the battle raging inside him¡ªnot just against the flames, but against something that¡¯s tearing at the very core of who he is. The flames dance over his skin, leaving dark trails like burns, but they aren¡¯t consuming him¡ªnot yet. They¡¯re just tormenting him, holding him on the edge of agony.
Slowly, as if every movement is a struggle, he lifts the amulet to his neck. The moment it touches his skin, there¡¯s a change. It¡¯s subtle at first¡ªa softening of the lines of pain etched into his face, a lessening of the tremors that wrack his body. Then, the flames recoil. They don¡¯t disappear, but rather, they draw back like they¡¯re suddenly wary, like there¡¯s a boundary they can¡¯t cross.
Teqosa takes a deep, shuddering breath. His eyes close for a moment as if he¡¯s just realized he can breathe again. When he opens them, there¡¯s a clarity there that wasn¡¯t before¡ªa spark of life, of strength returning. The flames still flicker around him, but they don¡¯t cling as tightly. They don¡¯t dig as deep. His shoulders straighten, and his posture shifts from someone braced for a blow to someone ready to face it.
His gaze finds mine again. It¡¯s steadier now, and he nods gratefully¡ªa quiet acknowledgment that he¡¯s not alone in this. His voice is still hoarse, roughened by pain and smoke, but there¡¯s a firmness to it now that wasn¡¯t there before.
¡°You¡ you seem to know more about these than I do,¡± he remarks. He reaches up, unclasping the turquoise and gold amulet from around his own neck. ¡°So, here¡ take this.¡±
Before I can respond, he extends the amulet toward me. Even before it touches my skin, I can feel the power thrumming in the stone. When he presses the cool surface into my palm, I inspect it, marveling at the turquoise and gold. Its texture is as smooth as water, but gleams like the sky at sunrise.
I slip it around my neck, feeling the cool chain against my skin. Instantly, there¡¯s a change. How can I begin to explain it? There¡¯s¡ a warmth that spreads from the amulet, but it¡¯s not like the heat of the fire around us. No, it¡¯s deeper, softer, like sunlight filtering through the canopy after a storm. My pulse steadies, and the tension in my muscles eases as the amulet¡¯s power unfurls within me.
The world shifts. Despite the flames, the ground beneath my feet feels solid again. The air clears, the ash and smoke parting just enough for me to breathe. And then I feel it: a connection, like my feet are rooted deep into the terrain, as the pulse of the land flows through me. Strong, ancient, alive.
I¡¯ve meditated on this connection before, sat in silence for long stretches of the day, simply waiting for the land to speak to me. But this¡ this is different. This is the land responding. I am not just part of it¡ªI am it. I feel the rocks shifting beneath the flames, the distant rumble of the volcano, the water far below, waiting to surge up and cool the molten fire. I feel the sky above, immeasurable and endless. I feel the wind at the edge of a storm that has yet to break.
For a moment, I forget where I am. Forget the battle raging around us. There¡¯s only the sensation of being part of something far greater, something vast and eternal. The power of the amulet hums in my blood, and I feel stronger than I¡¯ve ever felt before.
Then a mortifying, raw cry cuts through the haze. I snap back to the present, as the fire priest¡¯s laughter echoes through the smoke. His gaze is fixed on me now, his eyes burning with something more than hatred. He knows. He can feel the shift in power, and he¡¯s not about to let me take it.
A new, trembling roar rises from the depths of the mountain. The ground shakes, more violently this time. I know we¡¯re running out of time. The fire priest spreads his hands wide, as if pulling the heat from the very cracks in the land. I can see it now¡ªthe power flowing up from the volcano, rippling through him like waves of molten stone. His chanting swells, with each word scorching the air as it leaves his mouth.
¡°No¡¡± The words cling to the gasp that escapes my lips.
I know what¡¯s coming. Ninaxu.
The first hints of its form begin to rise from the smoke and molten rock. An enormous shadow looms against the sky. Its massive body is a mass of magma, glowing cracks running like veins through its surface, lava dripping down like blood. It starts to claw its way free from the volcano, pulling its immense form from the depths of Xutuina. Its monstrous shape shifts as it begins to climb, sometimes formless, sometimes humanoid.
The air crackles with heat, the ground shaking harder now, and I know¡ªif we don¡¯t stop this, if that thing breaks free, it¡¯ll be the end of us. The end of Qiapu. The end of Pachil.
I clutch the turquoise amulet at my chest, feeling the strength of it pulsing through me. There has to be a way to stop this. There has to. My mind races, searching through everything I know, every scrap of knowledge passed down from the old stories. If Ninaxu fully emerges, the volcano will erupt, and we¡¯ll all be buried in fire.
¡°We have to break the ritual!¡± I shout to the others, barely able to hear my own voice over the rumbling volcano. ¡°It¡¯s fueling him!¡±
I channel everything I can into the amulet, willing the power of the land and sky to disrupt the priest¡¯s magic. The air around me shimmers and warps as I gather what stirs beneath the surface¡ªa wild torrent of heat and light¡ªand hurl it toward the ritual site. The blast unfurls in ribbons of blue, twisting as it slices through the air.
But the priest sees it coming. With a shift of his arms, a wall of molten lava springs up in front of him. It easily absorbs the force of my attack like it was nothing. The lava cools, forming a barrier as solid as stone. The priest¡¯s eyes gleam, and simply laughs tauntingly.
¡°He¡¯s¡ too strong!¡± Paxilche yells. He hurriedly looks about the sacred site, searching for any hint of a clue. His eyes appear to catch onto something, and he points urgently. ¡°There! We need to take out those constructs first! Free up a path to the sorcerer!¡±
With my heart pounding through my chest, I quickly glance around. The twisted and contorted shapes of the flaming warriors swarm us. Even from where I stand, the heat from them is nearly enough to singe flesh; I don¡¯t want to know what is to become of us if we get too close. But we don¡¯t have a choice. We have to take them down before the fire priest completes the ritual, before Ninaxu rises.
Still possessing the obsidian amulet, Teqosa stands taller now. Whatever hold the fire priest had on him, it¡¯s visibly weakening. Without hesitation, he swings his long glaive at the specters, slicing through one of the flaming warriors. The thing shrieks, a sound like metal grinding against stone. Teqosa¡¯s weapon glows an otherworldly blue as the creature quickly crumbles into ash.
Paxilche is beside him, fiercely swinging his war club. Every swipe releases gusts of wind that howl like distant storms, ripping through the flaming warriors. The flames scatter, limbs blowing apart into embers and wisps of smoke. But almost immediately, they coil back together. Fingers reform from twisting plumes, shoulders and heads flicker back into existence.
One specter lunges at Paxilche, molten claws slashing through the air. It forces him back on his heels, twisting at the last second. The heat scorches close enough to make the skin on his arms prickle. But he gnashes his teeth and presses forward. Another warrior surges from the ground, rising in a pillar of fire. Paxilche meets it with a snarl, wind bursting from his club and sending it scattering into a storm of glowing embers. However, the flames snake through the wind like they were born to it, twisting and swirling until they reform again.
With a growl of frustration, Paxilche slams his war club into the ground. His hands spark and hiss with electric charge, as the air around him vibrates with a sharp hum. He lifts one crackling hand to the sky and pulls down a whip of jagged and white-hot lightning. The bolt snaps downward with a blinding flash, splitting the air in two as it strikes a fire specter square in the chest. The construct doesn¡¯t just dissolve¡ªit explodes, shards of flame scattering into the wind, leaving nothing but a faint hiss of smoke as it evaporates into the night.
More warriors crawl from the molten ground. Paxilche shifts his stance, sweat dripping from his brow, muscles tense as he prepares for the next wave head-on. The ground rumbles, like the volcano is breathing in time with the fire-born army, feeding them, summoning more. He tightens his grip on the war club, and the charge in his hands builds again.
But it¡¯s not enough. There are too many of them, and more keep coming. Their forms emerge from the edges of the fire priest¡¯s spell, fed by the very volcano surrounding us.
Pomacha charges into the fray, his giant battle axe raised high. With a bellowing war cry, he brings the axe down, cleaving through a warrior in a single blow. The flames scatter, and for a moment, it seems like he¡¯s won¡ªbut then the fire recoils, transforming into another shape, refusing to be vanquished. Pomacha swears under his breath but keeps swinging, hacking away at anything that gets too close.
Behind him, Atoyaqtli slices his obsidian blade through countless fiery forms, but the constructs are relentless, reforming as quickly as they fall.
Saqatli stands by the edge of the fighting. I see him hesitate for just a moment, his eyes locking onto the nearest fire warrior. Instead of lunging like he usually does, something¡ different shifts in him. His body twists, morphing in a way I¡¯ve never seen before. He¡¯s changing, not into the familiar jaguar, but into something larger, something covered in thick, stone-like scales. It¡¯s like the very essence of the volcano is reflected in his new form.
Saqatli charges the flaming warrior. His stone-like hide brushes against the fire, absorbing the heat without a single burn. His new form tears through the flaming constructs, scattering them into nothing but cinders. Though he¡¯s a beast, I can still see the surprise in his eyes. He¡¯s never done this before, that much is evident¡ªnever transformed into something other than his jaguar form. But there¡¯s no time for wonder. He presses the attack, using this new form to shield the others as the magic from the sorcerer in crimson begins to falter.
The turquoise amulet around my neck thrums again, vibrating against my skin as power surges through me. It feels like the tide pulling free from the grip of a storm, crashing forward all at once¡ªwild, unstoppable¡ªfilling every nerve, every muscle. I close my eyes for just a moment, and there it is: the connection, the pulse of Pachil beneath the volcano, ancient and fierce. The land breathes through me, grounding me, shaping me. It¡¯s all here. It¡¯s all part of me now, as though I¡¯ve become an extension of this place, as though the land and sky are waiting for me to act.
¡°Get to the sorcerer!¡± I shout the command. Paxilche opens his mouth to protest, watching the fiery forms closing in around me. I glare at him. ¡°Now!¡± It¡¯s all that I need to say. In an instant, he, along with the others, rush off toward the fire priest.
I raise my hand, fingers outstretched, feeling the charge gather along my arm¡ªcool currents of power waiting to strike. With their fiery weapons glowing white-hot, the flaming warriors circle closer, their forms flickering and twisting like smoke caught in a wind. One lunges toward me, slashing its blade through the air. But I step back, twisting on my heel just in time. The scorching heat brushes past my face, nearly stealing my breath.
I focus everything I have, every spark of strength the amulet feeds into me, and release it in a surge. A wave of blue currents explode from my palm, roaring toward the constructs like a flash flood crashing down a canyon. The wind Paxilche summoned howls through the battlefield, catching the wave and feeding it, twisting the currents into a vortex that tears at the flames. The fire warriors shriek as their bodies unravel. The flames splinter apart into ribbons of smoke and sparks. They fall, one by one, disintegrating mid-lunge. Their weapons crumbling into ash before they can even hit the ground.
The scent of charred stone and sulfur is thick in the air. Ash drifts lazily around me, like embers from a dying fire. For a heartbeat, I stand still, breathing hard, waiting for more to come. But the battlefield is quiet now. Eerily so. Only the wind remains, whistling through the cracks in the terrain, carrying the last remnants of the fire warriors away into nothing.
For the briefest moment, it feels like we¡¯ve won.
The ground shudders¡ªonce, then again. The tremors hit harder, rolling through the land in waves that buckle stone and nearly knock us off our feet. A jagged crack shoots through the volcanic rock, and from it spills molten lava, bubbling to the surface in thick, glowing pulses of red and orange.
A blast of heat rolls over us, and the air burns going down, like swallowing embers. I wipe my mouth, half-expecting blood to come away on my hand. The ash clings to my skin and throat. And then, through the smoke and fire, I see it.
Ninaxu.
Its eyes appear first¡ªtwo furious, molten orbs, glaring through the swirling ash as if they¡¯ve already judged us unworthy. Magma pools into rivers at its feet, and steam hisses as it claws its way out of the volcano.
The unbearable heat presses in on me, like my skin is shrinking over bone. My muscles scream as I move. But it¡¯s not just the heat or the smoke that threatens to crush me¡ªit¡¯s Ninaxu itself, the feeling that this ancient evil has been waiting far too long to emerge, and its chance has finally come.
And then it roars¡ªa sound so massive, like the mountains crumbling into the sea. The air shakes, and I feel it deep in my chest, rattling my ribs. The sky darkens, clouds swirling into a furious spiral overhead, as if even the heavens know what¡¯s coming.
We¡¯re out of time.
144 - Paxilche
When you grow up in Qiapu, you hear all the legends. They¡¯re like the air you breathe¡ªhow the land was sculpted from stone and fire, how the stars were forged and hung in the sky like jewels, how the gods wrestled with the sun to give us light. It was something to explain why the land trembled from time to time. Why Xutuina should be feared. They tell you about the wars, the sacrifices, the monsters locked away in the deepest parts of the world. They¡¯re meant to awe you when you¡¯re a child. To give you a sense of where you come from. To root you to our traditions.
I remember the way my father told the tale. Limaqumtlia and I would stare at him, captivated by his every word. His voice rose with excitement as his hands painted the story of Aqxilapu battling Ninaxu like it was something more than a fireside story. ¡°The giant, formed by lava flows, claws digging into the ground,¡± he¡¯d said, his eyes gleaming with the joy of storytelling, with the pride of our people and our history. ¡°Aqxilapu beat it down with a flurry of blows, fought it until his own hands burned from the heat.¡±
To him, it was a tale of strength, of the gods¡¯ power over the forces of chaos. A reminder that no matter how fierce the world became, someone would always rise to meet the challenge. It was comforting then, in the way all legends are¡ªdistant, untouchable.
But nothing prepares you for seeing one of those monsters in the flesh.
I feel the ground buckling beneath me, the deep rumble vibrating in my bones. Ninaxu¡¯s roar is a sound so primal, it feels like it¡¯s cracking the sky open. The heat is unbearable, like we¡¯re already inside the mouth of the volcano.
I can feel the storm inside me, the winds building, the lightning crackling in my veins. I could unleash it all right now¡ªstrike at Ninaxu, at the fire priest. But I know what¡¯ll happen if I lose control. I¡¯ve done it before.
But gods, I want to.
It¡¯s as if the whole mountain has come to life, awakened by the fire priest¡¯s cursed ritual. The massive Ninaxu towers over us. Its molten body shifts and seethes as lava drips from its claws like blood. The beast¡¯s glowing eyes lock onto us, burning hotter than anything I¡¯ve ever seen. It lashes out, fire trailing in its wake.
¡°Scatter!¡± I yell, but my voice is already drowned by the roar of the terrain splitting apart, by the rumble of lava beginning to pour from the mountain. My body moves before my mind catches up. Wind surges around me as I push off, sprinting to avoid the molten claws that swipe down like thunder.
The others scramble. All I can see is Ninaxu¡¯s massive clawed hand, the size of a house, crashing down. The ground explodes in a spray of molten rock, and I throw up my hands on instinct. The wind answers my call, and a gust howls past me, somehow deflecting the molten spray just before it hits. Teqosa barely dodges a wave of fire as it rolls toward him. Walumaq is holding her ground, the turquoise amulet glowing at her chest. But even with her powers, I can see it¡¯s a losing battle. We¡¯re too small, too fragile against this.
The ground pulses beneath us, sending tremors through my legs. Ninaxu stirs within the molten flow, claws of cooling rock dragging against the stone slopes. Its colossal frame shifts upward, blackened and cracked with glowing fissures, gaining size and strength with every passing moment. Smoke billows from its mouth, as the stench of sulfur and charred stone fills the air. The fire priest stands just beyond it, arms outstretched, drawing power from the molten flow as if summoning the mountain itself into the beast.
Teqosa moves first. He sprints through the smoldering rubble, dodging the columns of ash that sprout like weeds around him. He cuts down one of the molten specters with a clean swing of his blade. The specter falls apart in a burst of embers. But just as fast, another one takes its place, bursting from the ground.
I narrow my eyes, watching Teqosa fight. There¡¯s a steadiness in him now, a focus that wasn¡¯t there before. As he twists to avoid a flaming claw, the red light catches on something around his neck¡ªan obsidian amulet, dark and glinting in the firelight.
Is that the same one Walumaq had? I thought she kept it, but now¡
I glance at Walumaq. She stands just beyond the fiery haze. Closing her eyes in deep concentration, she mutters something under her breath and raises her hands. Without warning, water erupts from some hidden source beneath the mountain¡¯s crust. Where on Pachil did that come from? A turquoise amulet at her chest glows faintly as she lifts the water in a graceful arc, shaping it into a stream that rushes toward the nearest specter. The water smothers the flames with a hiss, extinguishing the construct before it can reform.
She¡¯s always had control over water, but this¡ this is different. The precision, the power¡ªit¡¯s as if the water is alive in her hands, moving with a force beyond her own. The turquoise amulet pulses once, and I swear¡ no, it must be a trick of the eyes, an illusion. For a moment, I swear, she almost glows with it.
A creature roars through the chaos¡ªa flash of stone-like armor darting through the smoke. It takes me a moment, but then I recognize the fierce glint in its eyes¡ªit¡¯s Saqatli. He¡¯s taken on a form I¡¯ve never seen before: a hulking armadillo, his hide thick and hardened, with plates of stone-like armor that shimmer as he moves. He barrels into one of the specters, claws scraping against molten flesh, sending up a spray of embers. The creature shrieks as its flames lick harmlessly against his shell, sliding off as though repelled by his very skin.
Saqatli lands with a heavy thud, dust and ash swirling around him as he pivots. His instincts kick in¡ªjust as a spray of molten rock erupts from the ground, he tucks and rolls, curling into a near-impenetrable ball. The fiery projectiles glance off his armor, leaving only faint, smoking marks on his plated hide. When the assault stops, he unfurls, standing his ground amid the flames around him. His claws dig into the ground, ready to strike again.
The priest snarls, hands twisting in a new pattern. The molten ground erupts in front of us, sending flaming specters surging forward in droves. Their bodies and outstretched claws drip with flame as they rush toward us.
¡°Keep them back!¡± I shout to the others. I release a burst of wind that whips through the battlefield. The constructs waver under the force, but they reform as quickly as they break apart. There are too many, and the priest isn¡¯t slowing¡ªif anything, his chanting grows stronger.
Teqosa lunges through the smoke. His glaive slices at the priest¡¯s summoned specters. The flames writhe away from him, as though the amulet around his neck commands them to recoil. Each swing is hard-earned¡ªhe¡¯s panting, his body slick with sweat and streaked with soot. But his strikes cut deeper than they should, scattering the constructs into embers that vanish into vapor.
I press forward, wind swirling around me in violent gusts, throwing off the specters that come too close. Teqosa is clearing a path toward the fire priest, but there¡¯s still the matter of Ninaxu. The creature¡¯s molten claws dig deeper into the volcanic rock, and its body emerges more and more with each breath. The priest¡¯s chant warps the smoke into symbols that twist like living beings, binding Ninaxu tighter to this world.
Walumaq isn¡¯t far behind Teqosa. She thrusts her hands forward, and water erupts from cracks in the rocky ground. It¡¯s not a river, not an ocean, but it¡¯s enough. She pulls the water upward, guiding it into coils that swirl around Ninaxu¡¯s emerging body. The turquoise amulet glows brighter with every movement, and I swear I see patterns flicker across the water like serpents swimming through rivers.
The water slams into Ninaxu. It hisses and steams as it maneuvers around the hardened body, hitting molten rock and causing the creature to falter. Its claws loosen their grip, and magma sloughs off its body in chunks.
But the fire priest is undeterred. His hands twist, sending a flare of heat so intense it evaporates some of the water mid-air, leaving only curling steam.
¡°More!¡± Walumaq growls, frustration tightening her voice. Her arms sweep in desperate, fluid motions, pulling every bit of moisture from the fractured rock beneath our feet. A second surge of water rises, forming walls that crash into Ninaxu¡¯s limbs, forcing them back. It¡¯s as if I can feel her will pulsing through the amulet, as if she¡¯s not just guiding the water but becoming it.
Teqosa presses closer to the priest, weaving through the firestorm. As another specter lunges toward him, he rolls to the side. The flaming claws swipe, but narrowly miss. He rises with a swift upward slash of his glaive. The obsidian blade hums through the air, catching the priest¡¯s attention for the first time.
The priest sneers, flicking his wrist to send a wave of fire directly at Teqosa. But instead of flinching, Teqosa lifts his hand. As the amulet glows at his throat, the fire splits, parting harmlessly around him. Whatever the priest had done to him, it¡¯s broken now. He¡¯s free.
I gather the storm inside me, lightning sparking along my arms, wind howling around me like it¡¯s hungry to be unleashed. I can feel the energy coiling tight, ready to tear through everything in its path.
¡°Teqosa! Now!¡± I shout, sending a surge of wind to drive the fire priest off balance.
Teqosa doesn¡¯t hesitate. He charges forward with renewed strength, his glaive gleaming blue against the black of night. With a final, decisive swing, the obsidian blade slices through the fire priest¡¯s outstretched arm, cutting deep. The priest staggers. His chant falters. The fiery symbols in the air dissolve, curling away like dying embers.
The connection to Ninaxu wavers. The massive claws that were burrowing into the slope slide back, the molten flow cooling and hardening into cracked rock. The beast lets out one last deafening roar, its form flickering like a flame on the verge of extinction.
Sensing the shift, Walumaq sends a final wave of water crashing into Ninaxu¡¯s chest. The torrent hits with a force that shatters the remaining bonds between the creature and the mountain. Ninaxu groans, its form collapsing into a river of cooling lava, sinking back into the volcanic pit from which it emerged.
Walumaq collapses to the ground in exhaustion. S¨ªqalat and Atoyaqtli rush to her side, helping her to her feet. With a limp wave, she brushes them aside as she takes in gasps of air. Saqatli, back in his human form, and Teqosa stand shoulder to shoulder, panting, as the grounds of the volcano fall momentarily still. An unnatural silence blankets the field, settling over the bodies, the scorched terrain, the smoldering remnants of the fight. There¡¯s just the faint hiss of dying flames and the soft, ragged breaths of the survivors.
It¡¯s over.
Or so we think.
The fire priest staggers to his feet, clutching his wounded arm. A twisted grin spreads across his soot-streaked face. His eyes gleam with something dark¡ªsomething desperate.
Before I can react, the priest¡¯s free hand claws through the air in a sharp, violent twist, like he¡¯s ripping something invisible apart. The atmosphere shifts. Pressure bears down, suffocating. It¡¯s as if the mountain itself is drawing a deep, sinister breath. Beneath my feet, the ground growls¡ªa low, guttural rumble that reverberates through my blood. A seething red heat pulsing between the jagged rock like exposed veins.
I can feel it¡ªthe raw, volcanic power curling downward, deeper, as though retreating back into the heart of the mountain.
¡°No!¡± Walumaq breathes. Her turquoise amulet dims as she realizes what¡¯s happening.
The priest¡¯s laughter rises over the trembling ground. His voice is hoarse, but victorious. ¡°Have it your way.¡± His words drip with malice. ¡°I will bring the mountain down upon you.¡±
Unauthorized use: this story is on Amazon without permission from the author. Report any sightings.
The cracks widen. The once-dormant volcano roars to life, belching smoke and fire into the sky. The already suffocating air grows heavier, hotter, choking us with the stench of burning stone. Lava bubbles up faster, pouring down the slope with terrifying speed, spreading fast. Too fast.
Panic grips my chest as I glance toward the horizon¡ªthe villages below are directly in the lava¡¯s path. If we don¡¯t stop this flow, everything down there will be consumed.
I clench my fists. The storm still thrums inside me, but my mind is fixed on the priest. Glancing in his direction, I catch him disappearing into the haze with that twisted grin on his face. He¡¯s slipping away, and every part of me burns to chase him, to put an end to him before he can cause any more destruction. I can¡¯t let him win. Not after all of this.
¡°We need to stop the eruption,¡± Walumaq says firmly. She now stands beside Teqosa, who gravely looks upon the flowing magma. The turquoise amulet still flickers faintly against her chest, as water swirls around her feet like tendrils waiting to be called into action.
¡°You can¡¯t be serious!¡± The words leave my mouth before I can stop them, the anger surging as wild as the storm inside me. ¡°We must stop the priest now, or this won¡¯t end. You think he¡¯s just going to walk away after this? He¡¯ll come back, and next time, we won¡¯t have a chance.¡±
Teqosa steps forward, his glaive gleaming through the smoke, eyes locked on mine. ¡°You think that¡¯s the smart play? Charging after him while the volcano tears everything apart?¡± There¡¯s a sharp edge to his voice, the kind meant to cut deeply. ¡°The sacred lands. The people below. Do they mean nothing to you?¡±
I glare back, lightning sparking at my fingertips. ¡°They mean everything. That¡¯s why we end this here. The priest dies, and it¡¯s over.¡±
¡°You¡¯re being reckless.¡± Teqosa¡¯s grip tightens on his glaive. ¡°Again.¡±
¡°Enough!¡± Walumaq¡¯s shout breaks through, and both of us freeze, her presence more commanding than I¡¯ve ever felt. Water swirls at her feet, and the turquoise amulet pulses faintly, matching the rhythm of her breath. ¡°We don¡¯t have time for this.¡±
Saqatli shifts uneasily near her, glancing between us. After a moment, he exhales sharply. ¡°We stop the lava,¡± his voice echoes through our minds. ¡°If we do not, nothing else will matter.¡±
Teqosa gives me a final, pointed look, like he¡¯s daring me to argue again, but I bite back the words. He¡¯s right. Walumaq¡¯s right. But it doesn¡¯t make it any easier to swallow.
¡°Fine,¡± I snap, releasing the storm within me just enough to keep it from erupting. The words taste bitter on my tongue, but there¡¯s no time for grudges.
The ground convulses, shuddering as if the mountain itself is coming undone. Cracks split wide open, jagged mouths yawning to reveal the fiery depths below, where molten rock churns and spits, the glow fierce and blinding¡ªa raw, seething red-orange that casts everything in shades of blood and embers. Lava spills over the edges, oozing at first like a sluggish beast. But within moments, it gains momentum, spilling down the slope in thick, unstoppable waves. This kind of eruption can swallow whole cities, wipe histories clean. The flow is a hungry, churning river of fire, creeping toward Qiapu like it¡¯s been waiting generations to claim it.
¡°Move!¡± Teqosa urgently commands. ¡°We have to steer it!¡±
He drives his enchanted glaive into the rock with a grunt, twisting the blade to widen a trench. The obsidian amulet at his throat glints in the firelight, though he doesn¡¯t seem aware of it. He pulls the glaive free and carves another channel with swift, practiced motions. The lava bubbles angrily, hissing as it spills into the makeshift path. It¡¯s a small victory¡ªbut the flow is relentless.
I plant my feet, calling the storm inside me. Wind rushes around us in fierce gusts, fanning the smoke and slowing the advancing molten tide. It¡¯s not much, but it buys us seconds. Seconds we can¡¯t afford to waste.
"Again!" Walumaq shouts, summoning every drop of moisture from the cracks in the ground. Water rises in spiraling currents around her hands, coiling like serpents as the turquoise amulet at her chest pulses with energy. She shapes the water into a wave and slams it into the lava with a flick of her wrist. Steam erupts in a blinding cloud, the air hissing with fury.
"It¡¯s not enough," she mutters, frustration bleeding into her voice.
Nearby, Atoyaqtli and Pomacha stand shoulder to shoulder, their weapons drawn. They launch into the fray as another wave of fire specters rises from the lava. The creature¡¯s forms twist and contort, mouths stretched in silent screams. Pomacha strikes first, his axe carving through one of the specters with ease, scattering it into embers. Atoyaqtli isn¡¯t far behind, slashing at a second specter, though his obsidian sword cracks with each impact.
¡°Hold them off!¡± Teqosa barks, carving another trench with his glaive. ¡°We just need a little more time!¡±
Atoyaqtli glances over his shoulder, catching sight of Upachu and the cart at the edge of a widening fissure. The ground splits open like an angry wound, veins of molten lava crawling dangerously close. The llama stands rigid, its wide eyes fixed on the fiery crevice. Upachu frantically tries to pull the cart to safety, but his movements are erratic in his panic.
¡°Atoyaqtli!¡± Pomacha shouts, already moving toward them and directing the Sanqo general¡¯s attention to the Qiapu elder.
Without a second thought, Atoyaqtli nods, and the two warriors surge toward Upachu. Pomacha swings his axe, carving through a fire specter that blocks their path. The creature shatters and disintegrates into the air, but another specter rises from the fissure, lunging toward Upachu and the llama.
Upachu scrambles back, grabbing the reins and attempting to pull the llama away, but the ground gives a sudden lurch, sending him stumbling. ¡°Move, Upachu!¡± Atoyaqtli yells, swinging his sword at the advancing specter. His obsidian blade bites through the creature, but the force sends cracks spidering along the weapon¡¯s edge.
Pomacha reaches the cart just as another fissure cracks open, sending lava oozing dangerously close. He plants himself between the cart and the oncoming threat, slashing at anything that dares come near. ¡°Get that beast moving, now!¡± he barks, hacking through a creature with one powerful strike.
¡°I¡¯m trying!¡± Upachu snaps. He stumbles to his feet, tugging the llama forward with all his strength. The animal finally responds. Its instincts kick in as it lurches forward, bringing the cart rattling along with it.
Atoyaqtli and Pomacha fall into step beside them, warding off the specters as they press forward. They finally pull clear of the fissures, reaching a more stable and settled patch of ground. Upachu slumps against the cart, breathing heavily, but a faint grin flickers across his face.
¡°Not the warmest welcome I¡¯ve ever had,¡± he mutters, trying to catch his breath.
Atoyaqtli nods, the remnants of his blade still clutched tightly in his hand. ¡°Just stay close, and keep that cart ready,¡± he says, glancing back at the fissures still smoldering in the distance. ¡°We¡¯re not out of danger yet.¡±
S¨ªqalat dives into the fray. Her spear swiftly slices through the air, leaving trails of heat and light in its wake. She moves like a tempest, vigorously cleaving the conjured creatures. The fire specters snarl as her weapon rips through them, contorting their bodies. They burst apart in spirals of flame and ash, snuffed out like sparks drowning in water.
Pomacha forcefully strikes down a specter with his battle axe, scattering its burning remnants across the slope. Another specter lunges at him, but Saqatli barrels into it, knocking it off balance. His claws tear into the flaming figure, ripping it apart before it can reform.
We¡¯re struggling to redirect the lava flow, Upachu peeks from behind the cart, his eyes searching the terrain. ¡°There!¡± he shouts, pointing to a narrow ridge where the lava is thinnest. ¡°Channel it toward the rocks! They¡¯ll hold¡ªif you can guide it there!¡±
Teqosa gives a curt nod, already moving toward the location. He drives his glaive into the ground, grimacing as he carves another trench.
¡°Walumaq¡ªblock the overflow!¡± he yells.
Walumaq raises her arms, water swirling around her. She sends a wave crashing into the molten river, hardening part of the flow into black rock. But the lava keeps coming in a never-ending stream.
¡°I need more water!¡± she gasps, her hands trembling from the effort as she drops to one knee.
¡°I¡¯ve got it!¡± I call, though my voice barely cuts through the roar of the storm. I throw everything I have left into the winds, feeling the last reserves of strength drain from my limbs. It¡¯s as if the storm itself is pulling life from my veins. The air trembles under my command, unleashing a wild, relentless howl that whips the steam into spirals. I grind my teeth like a mortar and pestle as I push, sending the gust toward the ridge. It forces the lava to follow Teqosa¡¯s trench.
It¡¯s working. Slowly, painfully, it¡¯s working.
My vision blurs. My muscles strain. My lungs burn with every gasping breath. The power feels like it¡¯s slipping through my fingers, demanding more than I know I can give.
The fire specters surge again, desperate to break our momentum. Through the smoke, Pomacha and Atoyaqtli hold the line. Pomacha roars as he swings his axe, cleaving through two specters in a single blow. S¨ªqalat¡¯s spear carves through the creatures like a sudden rip tide, as each strike is like a wave crashing against rock.
Saqatli shifts back into human form, panting and wiping the soot from his brow as he slowly recovers.
¡°Stay close,¡± I say, gathering the wind around me again. ¡°We¡¯re almost there.¡±
The ground shudders beneath us, the mountain groaning like a beast in its death throes. ¡°Now!¡± Teqosa orders. ¡°Drive it toward the ridge!¡±
Walumaq raises her hands, her fingers trembling as she channels the last of her strength into the turquoise amulet at her chest. The stone flares to life, casting an eerie, aquamarine light that pulses against the darkness like a heartbeat. With a sudden roar, water surges forward. A massive, churning wave rises impossibly high before crashing into the molten flow.
The collision is deafening¡ªa hiss so loud it drowns out thought, feeling, everything. Thick steam erupts in a furious explosion, consuming the air in a searing white cloud that blots out the world. The ground trembles beneath my feet, and for a breathless moment, we¡¯re all caught in the blinding fury of it.
When the steam finally begins to clear, I blink against the brightness, struggling to see what remains. The flow redirected away from the villages below. The lava is hardened into a jagged wall of black rock.
We did it.
I turn to where the fire priest stood, ready to lock eyes with him, to throw every ounce of fury I¡¯ve got left straight at his smug face. But he¡¯s already moving. His blood red robes blur through the haze of steam and smoke.
¡°No!¡± The word tears from my throat as I start forward.
But something shifts in the air. He steps into the smoke, his body dissolving into the swirling ash like a whisper lost in a storm. The light warps around him, shadows stretching unnaturally long, wrapping him like a cloak. One moment he¡¯s there, the next, the priest is gone, vanished into the murk.
Before he disappears entirely, his voice slithers through the smoke, sounding as if he¡¯s standing just behind us.
¡°This was only the beginning,¡± he taunts with a chilling certainty. ¡°A small taste of what awaits you. When the fires rise in Pichaqta, when the heart of this land beats with flames¡ even the strongest will be consumed.¡±
And then he¡¯s gone.
I stand frozen, the storm inside me crackling at the edges, desperate to release. My fists shake, not from exhaustion but from the sheer rage boiling inside me.
Walumaq¡¯s eyes drift beyond the mountainside, to where the distant city of Pichaqta lies shrouded in smoke. She doesn¡¯t speak, but I can tell something¡¯s wrong. Something¡¯s pulling at her. Her amulet pulses again, this time a little brighter. I watch as her hand brushes against it like she¡¯s trying to silence whatever it¡¯s telling her.
¡°You feel it too, don¡¯t you?¡± I mutter, unable to keep the bitterness out of my voice. ¡°This isn¡¯t over.¡±
She doesn¡¯t respond right away. Just stares at the horizon. It¡¯s like she¡¯s hearing something we can¡¯t, like the land itself is speaking to her. And I can¡¯t stand it¡ªthe quiet, the uncertainty. The priest escaped. Again. And here we are, standing in the aftermath.
¡°We¡¯ve only delayed him,¡± Walumaq says finally under her breath, almost like she¡¯s speaking to herself. ¡°Whatever his plans are, he¡¯s got more in store for us, for Pachil.¡±
Something inside me snaps. ¡°Then why didn¡¯t we stop him?¡± I bark, my voice louder than I intended. The wind stirs around me, the storm clawing at the edges of my control. ¡°We had the chance. Someone could¡¯ve gone after him. We could¡¯ve ended it, and now¡ªnow we¡¯re standing here like fools, waiting for whatever disaster he¡¯s got planned next.¡±
Teqosa straightens, leaning heavily on his glaive, his eyes catching the faint red light of the fading flames as he surveys the cooling rock. ¡°We did what we had to do,¡± he says, with that same edge to his voice he¡¯s had all day. ¡°We saved the villages. We stopped the flow. You saw how close it was¡ª¡°
¡°I don¡¯t care about ¡®close.¡¯¡± My hands are shaking, lightning sparking in my veins. ¡°He¡¯s still out there. We should¡¯ve gone after him!¡±
¡°Paxilche, enough,¡± Walumaq snaps. ¡°We made the right choice.¡±
¡°Did we?¡± The words taste like ash in my mouth. ¡°Because all I see is him slipping away¡ªagain. And now what? We wait for him to burn down more villages? To raise another monster?¡±
Saqatli shifts uncomfortably, his gaze lingering on the hardening lava, as if he¡¯s searching for something¡ªanything to avoid watching this confrontation. S¨ªqalat looks over, clearly caught between the impulse to intervene and the wisdom to stay silent. Atoyaqtli appears to be suffering some strain, as though he¡¯s waiting for someone to give a command he can act on. Pomacha grunts, his war axe hanging loosely in his hand, but even he seems unsettled by what we¡¯ve just been through.
Upachu takes a few steps closer, watching Walumaq with a look of veiled concern. He gestures toward the horizon, his hand trembling slightly. ¡°Pichaqta,¡± he murmurs, like he¡¯s saying the name of something long lost. ¡°If he¡¯s truly after it¡ we¡¯ll find nothing good there. But we have nowhere else to go.¡±
Walumaq nods slowly, her fingers wrapping around the turquoise stone at her chest. ¡°It¡¯s a trap, that much is certain. But we¡¯re not going to stay put. We can¡¯t.¡±
Bitterness rages inside me. We¡¯re playing right into the fire priest¡¯s hands, following him like a line of fools. Every step toward Pichaqta feels like sinking deeper into quicksand¡ªsomething pulling us in, eager to watch us struggle.
Pichaqta was my city once. Now it feels less like home, more like a snare. It¡¯s a place where Saxina waits with open arms and hidden knives. He¡¯s a ruler in name only, bending his knee to a cult that twists minds and corrupts souls. He¡¯s forgotten what it means to be Qiapu, to feel the pulse of our traditions, to carry the stories that anchor us to who we are. His influence seeps the city like rust in an old blade, spreading through the metal until it¡¯s too brittle to be reforged.
The priest of the Eye in the Flame is drawing us back into the heart of that darkness. Back to where Saxina¡¯s watching, waiting, ready to see me fall. He¡¯s let Pichaqta slip into the hands of these cultists, welcoming them like some warped alliance. Undoubtedly, they¡¯ll be ready for us.
Yet a sick satisfaction gnaws at me, thinking of the fire priest, Saxina, all of them. They think they¡¯re on the cusp of something great, something that ensures their inevitable victory. But I¡¯ll take every one of them down with me, if it comes to that.
145 - Teqosa
Victory never feels like it should.
It clings to you, refusing to fade, like something lodged deep in your chest. Even when you survive, part of you stays behind in the fight, like an unhealed wound that aches at the mere memory of each blow.
And the truth is, nothing we build really holds. We rally, we rise, and for a while, we think we¡¯ve won¡ªonly for the ground to shift again, eroding the work like rain on clay. The Timuaq were struck down, but we were left in their shadow, clutching fragments of what we thought was progress. It¡¯s as if every struggle is a step forward and two steps back, as though the land itself resists, grinding us down into ruin.
And yet we¡¯re here, standing in the wake of another fight, the ash still warm, the pain still raw. We beat the fire priest this time, but the question lingers: what comes next?
I sit on the cooling stone, my fingers brushing the haft of my glaive. Around me, the mountain settles with uneasy groans, as if the ground itself resents what we¡¯ve done.
The others are scattered across the slope, catching their breath or nursing wounds. Or, more solemnly, mourning the dead. Walumaq stands a few paces away, her turquoise amulet still glowing faintly, like the last ember in a dying fire. Water pools at her feet, evaporating in the strenuous heat. Her hands tremble from the effort it took to wield it. She doesn¡¯t say anything¡ªdoesn¡¯t need to.
Saqatli¡¯s ocelot, Nochtl, slinks through the mist, its golden eyes gleaming. It pads toward its companion, who stands exhausted and bruised, brushing ash from his arms. The strange mix of admiration and discomfort on his face tells me he¡¯s still processing the animal form he took¡ªsomething that surprised even him. The ocelot rubs against his leg, but he¡¯s too distracted to notice.
And then there¡¯s Paxilche.
He¡¯s pacing like a caged animal, the storm inside him refusing to die down. I can feel the tension in his steps, the way his fists clench and unclench, lightning dancing along his fingertips. His anger hangs in the air, sharp and unpredictable. He glances at me¡ªonce, twice¡ªbut neither of us says a word.
This silence won¡¯t last, I can assure him.
For now, however, I shift my gaze to the cart, where the llama stands. It chews lazily on a patch of singed grass as if it hadn¡¯t just witnessed the near end of the world. Nearby, Upachu mutters to himself. I can¡¯t tell if he¡¯s praying to the gods or just trying to make sense of everything that¡¯s happened.
It¡¯s strange, the way battles linger. Even after the dust settles, the scars remain. You revisit every decision, every mistake, over and over until the lines between past and present blur. I should¡¯ve been faster, should¡¯ve anticipated the priest¡¯s retreat. I try not to allow Paxilche¡¯s protests persist, yet they remain, unwelcome. Maybe if I¡¯d driven my glaive into his heart, instead of carving a path through the molten specters, things would¡¯ve ended differently.
But battles aren¡¯t made of ¡°maybes.¡± They¡¯re made of what happens, and what you live with afterward.
The obsidian amulet presses into my skin, settling in the narrow space between armor and flesh. It¡¯s as if it¡¯s found its rightful place there, nestled just above my heart. I glance at Walumaq again, noticing the turquoise stone hanging from her neck, the way it pulses quietly in rhythm with her breath. Though I¡¯ve known her for only a short while, already I can see that she¡¯s changed¡ªmore in control, more dangerous.
I close my eyes, feeling a thousand questions swirling inside my mind. Every step we¡¯ve taken, every fight we¡¯ve survived¡ªit¡¯s leading us somewhere. To Pichaqta. To the fire priest. To something worse waiting in the shadows.
Sualset. The Eleven. The Eye in the Flame.
We¡¯re all tangled in the same web, but I can¡¯t see the whole design yet. Just fragments¡ªpieces of a shattered clay pot scattered across the battlefield. And the amulets¡ they¡¯re part of it, somehow. Walumaq¡¯s, mine. How many more are out there, waiting for someone to claim them? And what happens when they do?
Atoyaqtli and Pomacha sit together near the edge of the slope, sharpening their weapons in silence. Each drag of stone against metal sounds harsh and alone, a steady rhythm that seems almost too loud in the quiet. I didn¡¯t know the fallen well enough to carry the same grief my companions do, but there¡¯s still an ache, a strange awareness of absence¡ªof something, someone, now missing. Only the soft rasp of metal remains, each mournful scrape a reminder of what¡¯s been lost.
This is the problem with battles. They don¡¯t end when the fighting stops. They fester in the pauses, in the spaces between words and the tension no one speaks of. You feel it like a shadow between you and your friends, turning familiar faces into strangers, a quiet, festering rift that grows before you even notice it¡¯s there.
Walumaq catches my gaze. There¡¯s something in her eyes¡ªsomething she¡¯s holding back, something I can¡¯t quite name. She seems burdened by something unseen, something we can¡¯t quite understand, but I sense it¡¯s somehow tied to those amulets. I wonder how much she knows, and how much she¡¯s yet to tell. But this isn¡¯t the moment. There will be time for questions later. Or maybe there won¡¯t. That¡¯s the problem with ¡°later¡±¡ªit¡¯s never a guarantee.
The cold mountain winds shift, carrying with them the distant scent of smoke. I glance down at my glaive, tracing a finger along the edge. I reflect upon what we¡¯ve overcome, and what¡¯s about to come. Because the real fight hasn¡¯t started yet. And I have the sinking feeling that, when it does, none of us will be ready.
Exhausted, I lean against my weapon. Every muscle in my body¡ªeven those I never knew existed¡ªaches. The night is unnervingly still. The others linger nearby. They restlessly toss and turn on their bedrolls, if they make any effort to sleep at all. For me, my thoughts churn too wildly to rest. The fire priest¡¯s escape needles at me. It¡¯s an itch I can¡¯t scratch. A mistake of which I can¡¯t let go.
I pick up a chunk of volcanic rock, turning it over in my hand. Good enough. I set to work, grinding the blade against it, letting the rough stone bite into the astonishing weaponry. It no longer glows, appearing only as an intricately-carved glaive that could otherwise be from some noble or high-ranking military leader. I¡¯m not confident that I¡¯m worthy of being entrusted with it, but I can only hope to do justice to this gift that Inqil bestowed upon me.
Out of the corner of my eye, I catch movement: Saqatli and his ocelot, Nochtl. The boy crouches by a patch of cracked volcanic stone, while his ocelot companion circles him with an eerie quiet. Saqatli traces his fingers along the soot-covered stones, investigating them curiously. Noch flicks her tail lazily, but there¡¯s something in her gaze that piques my interest. It¡¯s as if the animal knows something the rest of us don¡¯t.
Nah, couldn¡¯t be. I shake the thought off and continue sharpening my blade. Just a child messing with his animal companion. It¡¯s nothing worth focusing on, not with everything else on my mind.
¡°You¡¯ll wear a hole in that blade if you keep grinding the stone into it like that,¡± Walumaq¡¯s voice floats softly beside me, cutting through the mess of my thoughts.
I glance her way, not saying anything. The Sanqo princess is standing close with a relaxed posture, arms hanging loose at her sides. The turquoise amulet around her neck shimmers faintly in the low light. There¡¯s a calm familiarity in her gaze, a steady patience, those piercing blue eyes that seem to see straight through to my spirit. It¡¯s as though she already knows what¡¯s tearing at me and is waiting for me to be the one to say it out loud.
¡°I can¡¯t stop thinking about it,¡± I mutter, working the blade of the glaive with the volcanic stone more carefully this time. ¡°He got away again. That damn priest¡ we were so close.¡±
Walumaq sighs and steps a little closer. ¡°You did everything you could. We all did.¡±
¡°Not enough.¡± The bitterness flies from my scowling lips. I exhale slowly, trying to rein it in, but the frustration stays, clinging like smoke in my throat. ¡°Paxilche is right. It¡¯s the second time we¡¯ve let him slip through our fingers. We might not get that lucky to stop him a third time.¡±
She tilts her head, calmly studying me. ¡°We all wish we could have done more. But the truth is, we survived. And we saved the Qiapu people and these sacred lands.¡±
A harsh laugh escapes me. ¡°Surviving isn¡¯t the same as succeeding.¡±
¡°No,¡± she says softly. ¡°But sometimes, it¡¯s enough.¡±
The Sanqo princes sits upon the ground beside me. I notice her dainty, delicate features as she looks out onto the sparse volcanic landscape. The subtle breeze toys with the strands of her chestnut-colored hair, but she remains still, unfazed. For someone so young, she holds herself with a quiet composure. There¡¯s a grace in her stature, the way she carries herself. It¡¯s the kind of grace that belongs not to children, but to those who have seen the world shift beneath their feet and learned to stay standing.
She watches Saqatli and the ocelot rummaging through the pile of scattered stones that once constructed decorative columns and ritualistic structures. I return to sharpening my glaive when I begin to ask, ¡°How did you¡¡± The words fail me, ceasing to leave my throat. There is so much I wish to know and understand, yet where do I even start?
Her lips curl into a subtle smile. ¡°My abilities?¡± She has read my thoughts. I can only nod. She shrugs. ¡°I¡¯m afraid I don¡¯t quite understand that myself. It¡¯s something I¡¯ve always been able to do, tinkering with water. I thought I was the only one, until the day Paxilche exhibited his abilities. And when we met Saqatli in Auilqa.¡±
I¡¯m confused. ¡°Paxilche hasn¡¯t always been able to conjure up storms?¡±
She shakes her head. ¡°It wasn¡¯t until we arrived in Auilqa when he suddenly was able to form lightning from a clear sky. And Saqatli tells me that he¡¯s always been able to speak to animals, but the ability to transform into a jaguar is something he¡¯s never before experienced, to my knowledge.¡±
¡°You can speak to the Auilqa boy?¡± I ask. ¡°You know the language, like S¨ªqalat?¡±
¡°Well¡¡± she begins, searching the air around her for how to best respond. ¡°You¡¯re not going to believe me, but I believe he¡ speaks to me through¡ animals?¡± She sounds uncertain of this herself, but she attempts to explain. ¡°There was a moment where I could hear his voice as though he was speaking inside my head. Paxilche hears him, too. My suspicion is, anyone with such abilities as his and myself can communicate through our thoughts to one another, so long as there¡¯s an animal nearby. It¡¯s what makes Noch¡ª¡°
¡°¡his ocelot,¡± I clarify, quickly apologizing for my interruption.
¡°Yes, the ocelot. She is important, since she has a special connection with him, and can help us communicate. That¡¯s my understanding, anyway.¡±
I pause sharpening my blade, trying to take all she¡¯s shared into consideration. ¡°It¡¯s odd. I don¡¯t think I truly experienced any abilities until Auilqa, either. Maybe it has something to do with the Auilqa territory?¡±
Walumaq frowns. ¡°But I¡¯ve possessed my abilities for as long as I can remember.¡±
¡°Come to think of it,¡± I suddenly realize, ¡°Upachu has claimed since our time in Wichanaqta that I have possessed abilities. I suffered life-threatening wounds, but I was able to heal, as though no harm ever came to me. I thought it was some special water from Atima, but¡¡±
My voice trails off, as I try to make sense of it all. There doesn¡¯t appear to be any direct connection, no correlation to, well, any of this. Is this the act of the gods? The Eleven? Perhaps there are more answers in the papyrus left behind by Sualset. Until we uncover them all, however, it¡¯s unlikely we¡¯ll ever have a clear answer.
¡°And what of these amulets?¡± I wonder aloud, retrieving the obsidian amulet given to me by Walumaq. I inspect it as the gemstone rests in my hand. ¡°The ones you found were in the possession of Eye in the Flame sorcerers, and Paxilche mentioned you found one inside the palace in Pichaqta? You never had one since your time in Sanqo?¡±If you encounter this story on Amazon, note that it''s taken without permission from the author. Report it.
¡°I¡¯m afraid I¡¯ve only encountered these amulets on the mainland,¡± she answers. ¡°There was never such an item spoken of on Sanqo.¡±
¡°And you never saw any papyrus during your travels?¡±
Walumaq only shakes her head and frowns. My heart sinks. Could we be too late, and the Eye in the Flame has been to the other two destinations marked on the clay pots? Have they found the papyrus and translated the words? Do they have more information about what this all means? Is Pachil doomed?
The sharpening stone slides along the glaive¡¯s edge with a whispering scrape, but my thoughts are louder than the night around me. The deeper I dive into the quest we¡¯ve undertaken, the more tangled it feels, like roots that twist and choke each other beneath the surface. No matter how many victories we claim, there¡¯s always a new threat waiting, another riddle left unsolved.
I glance at the amulet around Walumaq¡¯s neck, the one I exchanged with her, still faintly aglow even now. The others seem so sure of their gifts¡ªPaxilche with his storms, Saqatli with his transformations. Walumaq wields her abilities with a grace I doubt I would ever possess. And here I am, sharpening a weapon I barely know how to use properly, questioning whether the healing I experienced in Wichanaqta was anything more than luck.
I trace the edge of the glaive with my thumb, feeling the intricate patterns carved along its shaft. Inqil must have seen something in me when she gave it to me. But what? What did she see that I can¡¯t?
I pause what I was doing and lean forward, resting my elbows on my knees and exhaling slowly. Entilqan wouldn¡¯t have questioned it. She always knew exactly who she was, what she was meant to do. If the gods had gifted her with these abilities, she would have accepted them without a second thought¡ªbecause she belonged among legends. Me? I feel like I¡¯m playing a part in someone else¡¯s story.
In an effort to calm my nerves, I glance toward Saqatli again. The boy crouches by the stone ruins as his ocelot companion circles him. I dismiss it at first, thinking it¡¯s just a child amusing himself by drawing on the old stones. But I watch as Saqatli¡¯s fingers trace something¡ªsymbols etched into the volcanic rock, half-hidden beneath soot and ash.
It¡¯s not play. They¡¯ve found something.
Walumaq¡¯s tunic rustles and her copper jewelry rattles as she shifts beside me, following my gaze toward Saqatli. Watching the boy and his ocelot, we see him brush more ash away from the symbols carved into the rock. Something inside me stirs as I start to recognize the symbols. They resemble those from the papyrus and the grounds of the palace in Wichanaqta. No, it couldn¡¯t be¡ could it?
And then, the voice comes.
At first, I think it¡¯s a trick of the mind¡ªan echo, a half-formed thought that doesn¡¯t belong to me. But the words are clear, sharp as a blade drawn in silence:
Over here! Look!
I freeze, and the glaive slips from my grasp, clattering softly against the rocky ground. I blink, staring at Saqatli in disbelief. It wasn¡¯t just any sound. The boy didn¡¯t speak aloud, and yet I heard him as clearly as if he¡¯d spoken the words into my ear.
I glance at Walumaq, expecting her to share my confusion, but her expression is calm¡ªknowing. ¡°You heard him, didn¡¯t you?¡± she asks quietly, tilting her head toward the boy.
I swallow hard. ¡°That¡ that can¡¯t be possible.¡±
She shrugs, that subtle, serene smile playing at the edges of her lips. ¡°It starts like that. You think it¡¯s impossible¡ªuntil it isn¡¯t.¡±
The significance of the moment crashes over me like a wave. It¡¯s real. All of it. Upachu was right. S¨ªqalat was right. If I have abilities like the others¡
Saqatli looks up from his work, his amber eyes glinting in the dim volcanic light. He offers me a small, mischievous grin, as if he knows exactly what I¡¯ve just realized. Nochtl pads closer to him, her turquoise-tipped tail casually waving about. They can both sense it, sense my confusion.
Come on, Saqatli urges, though his lips never move. The words pulse through my mind again, insistent and clear. You both need to see this.
I retrieve the glaive, requiring it to aid me in pushing myself to my feet. My mind races as I stand there in stunned silence. There are too many revelations occurring at once for me to comprehend.
I feel a hand clutch my forearm. Looking down, a concerned Walumaq stares into my eyes. ¡°Are you okay, Teqosa?¡± I don¡¯t know how to respond. Am I okay? What does this all mean?
Perhaps the symbols have the answers. I shake my head to clear the fogginess. ¡°Let us see what the boy found.¡± I call to Upachu, startling him awake as he rests his back among the wheel of the cart. Curious, the others look my way, though they remain where they are, for now.
The wind shifts as we approach the cluster of volcanic stones Saqatli uncovered, stirring ash into lazy spirals. Nochtl¡¯s turquoise-tipped tail flicks through the dust, as if marking the spot. The symbols carved into the stones seem older than anything I¡¯ve encountered, worn down by time, but somehow still holding their meaning.
I kneel beside Saqatli, running my fingers along the etched lines. They feel familiar, like the ones Upachu and I studied in Wichanaqta¡ªsimilar, but not identical. They pulse with subtle energy, as if each line is a thread connected to something vast and powerful.
Upachu shuffles beside me, peering at the markings with his usual muttering. His old eyes widen with recognition, starting to glow that ominous, opaque white I¡¯ve seen before. ¡°These are not Qiapu,¡± he whispers, mostly to himself. ¡°Atima, perhaps. And these are¡ older. Much older.¡±
I glance at Walumaq. She calmly nods, trying to absorb this new revelation. Saqatli looks at us eagerly, hoping we¡¯ve been able to uncover the meaning of these mysterious markings.
Upachu and I piece together fragments of the script aloud, murmuring to each other. ¡°Fire, iron, and shadow,¡± I mutter. ¡°The path forged in silence¡¡±
S¨ªqalat has been lingering at the edge of the group for the duration of this exchange, and has finally had enough. She steps forward, squinting at the symbols, trying to decipher them herself. ¡°So then what¡¯s this one?¡± She taps a particular section. ¡°It looks like it¡¯s something like ¡®shadow¡¯, but without shape. What could that mean?¡±
Upachu stares at it, studying it carefully. ¡°Hmm¡ It must resemble ¡®shadow¡¯, but something darker. Yet, no¡ that¡¯s not a thing of darkness,¡± he murmurs thoughtfully. ¡°That¡¯s¡ absence. Like something that¡¯s been hidden by choice, waiting to be revealed.¡±
¡°What could be hidden?¡± Atoyaqtli asks.
¡°Treasure?¡± S¨ªqalat says, suddenly¡ªand unsurprisingly¡ªgrowing more interested, more excited at the prospect.
Upachu is quick to dismiss her theory. ¡°Judging by the other glyphs that surround it, I believe it would be akin to something far more valuable than gold. Something they intended to keep out of reach.¡±
Walumaq crouches beside us. ¡°Yet it doesn¡¯t look like such a tangible item like a treasure. Perhaps¡ a door hidden in plain sight,¡± she says softly, brushing a hand along the symbols. ¡°Look, here. See how the lines curve inward, almost like a guide? And this pattern here,¡± she points to a series of interlocking lines, ¡°it¡¯s as though it resembles something like a pathway. It¡¯s as if they meant for it to be followed, but only by those who could read it.¡±
¡°That must be what this is,¡± Upachu says, beaming. ¡°Somewhere here, among these sacred grounds, lies a passageway. Well done, princess!¡±
¡°A passageway to what?¡± Atoyaqtli wonders aloud.
S¨ªqalat smirks. ¡°No, the question is¡ how do we open it?¡±
The symbols seem to rearrange themselves under our touch, like pieces of a forgotten map coming back together. Yet there¡¯s something of a riddle embedded in the lines¡ªcryptic, poetic, impossible to solve at first glance.
Upachu whispers the words aloud, slowly, as though saying them might make their meaning clearer:
¡±Three lie beneath, waiting to rise.
One is molten, one is bound,
One is forged in iron, but must be found.
Bring the silent to speak;
The gate will break.¡±
Paxilche scoffs from the back of the group. ¡°Sounds simple enough,¡± he says, crossing his arms. ¡°The molten one? That¡¯s clearly the volcano. So¡ we just need fire to get things started.¡±
Upachu gives him a dry, unimpressed look, as if waiting for the rest of his logic to catch up.
Paxilche shrugs, waving a hand in dismissal. ¡°Look, heat opens things. Everyone knows that. Just a little fire, and¡ªbam! The passageway opens. Basic stuff.¡±
S¨ªqalat smirks. ¡°That¡¯s such a warrior¡¯s answer¡ªbreak things until they open.¡±
Paxilche shrugs, unbothered. ¡°It¡¯s worked so far.¡±
As the others trade ideas, I stare at the lines again, feeling the pieces click together somewhere deep in my mind. One particular phrase has grabbed my attention. I recount it over and over again until, finally, the words slip from my lips.
¡°The silent must speak,¡± I recite the words slowly, quietly.
Walumaq looks at my curiously. ¡°What do you think that means?¡±
I look toward Saqatli. The boy¡¯s amber eyes look about our faces nervously, questioning what is going on.
¡°The silent¡¡± I murmur, and then it hits me. Nochtl¡ªthe ocelot. She¡¯s been circling the symbols the whole time, as if attempting to direct our attention to them.
Before I can stop myself, my hand reaches out, resting on the ocelot¡¯s sleek, spotted fur. Its warmth seeps into my skin, some extraordinary warmth that feels like it¡¯s coming from the very bones of this sacred volcano. The sensation travels up my arm¡ªa quiet rhythm, a hum that resonates in my chest, weaving through muscle and marrow, grounding me.
It¡¯s there, in that moment, that the words come. They spill from my mouth, not mine, yet deeply mine, as though they¡¯d been waiting inside me all along, waiting to be spoken.
¡°Iron calls to iron. Shadow calls to light. Speak the name that has been forgotten, and the gate will be opened.¡±
The words taste like iron and smoke, like the echo of something vast and distant. The spoken language feels both foreign and familiar as it flows through me.
The others look upon me with nervous curiosity, wondering what just occurred. Walumaq, however, doesn¡¯t flinch. Her gaze snaps to mine as she focuses on deciphering what I spoke. ¡°A name,¡± she murmurs with a quiet tremor in her voice. ¡°That¡¯s the key. We need to speak the name.¡±
¡°What name?¡± Paxilche asks. It¡¯s a fair question. All that I was instructed to do was speak some forgotten name. But whose name am I being summoned to say?
I stare at the symbols again, the realization dawning slowly, like the first light of dawn breaking through a foggy horizon. The words from moments ago¡ªIron calls to iron, shadow calls to light¡ªecho in my mind, circling like an eagle above its prey. I can feel it¡ªan answer, crouching somewhere just beyond my grasp, waiting to be unearthed. My thoughts turn to the tales of my youth, the stories my father told us under the stars, of gods and men, of those who bridged the worlds between, their names etched into time itself.
The name that has been forgotten. The words are foreign, yet they carry a strange familiarity, like a song you¡¯ve heard only in a dream. I feel something shift within me, an urgency blooming from a place I can¡¯t quite reach, as if something ancient is moving in my blood, urging me forward.
The symbols carved into the stone glow faintly, catching the light of Walumaq¡¯s amulet as it pulses. They form a pattern I recognize, yet one that seems to shift under my gaze, like iron caught in flame, melting, changing. Iron calls to iron¡ªthe phrase drums in my mind, rhythmic, insistent. I try to focus, grounding myself in what I know, though each breath feels heavier, weighted by something vast and waiting.
My mind searches for any name I¡¯ve ever come across. I go through friends, family, acquaintances¡ªanyone I¡¯ve ever encountered. Soon, I cast them all aside, fixed on my sister, Entilqan. The Eleven. People, demigods, with more importance than mere mortals.
Then, I consider the name must be something more than a human. For some reason, my father regales me with tales of the gods of Pachil in my mind¡¯s ear. The stories resurface, each detail vivid, sharp. I can almost hear his voice now, telling me and Entilqan this one tale with reverence. His favorite tale, one he would recite over and over. I can almost see the memory, where the fire casts shadows that danced over his face. A name buried by time itself¡ªkept hidden for only the bold or the desperate. I remember his words, how he¡¯d described the blacksmith as a spirit who was more than mortal, one who tempered the might of gods into blades that could reshape fate. His name¡ his name¡ I almost have it. The word forms just beyond my reach, like something I¡¯d once known but lost.
And then, like the first light of dawn breaking through fog, the realization dawns. There¡¯s only one name that fits. The name that has been forgotten, the one we need to speak, the one that will open the way¡ªit¡¯s his.
¡°Iachanisqa,¡± I whisper, barely daring to breathe.
The moment the name leaves my lips, the symbols carved into the stone blaze with blinding light. Each line flares as if it were carved not into rock, but into the fabric of the world itself. A low growl rises from deep within the mountain, and we all stand to brace ourselves for what¡¯s about to come.
Nochtl arches her back, hissing, her turquoise-tipped tail bristling. Saqatli grips her fur, desperately seeking to comfort his growing fear.
The mountain seems to take a breath¡ªa deep, shuddering exhale of ancient air, trapped for centuries beneath stone and fire. Heat rises from the ground, curling in tendrils that glow faintly red against the night, like veins of molten blood spreading through the ground.
¡°Step back,¡± I warn, gripping my glaive with both hands, though the weapon feels absurdly inadequate. The stone beneath us shifts, cracking like the shell of an egg ready to hatch. There¡¯s a low and terrible noise¡ªthe sound of the world groaning, as if something immense is stirring under the surface.
Atoyaqtli curses under his breath, and even Upachu, usually calm and measured, scrambles back from the glowing symbols.
¡°We should cover it back up!¡± Atoyaqtli shouts, his voice pitched with panic. ¡°Now, before¡ª¡±
It¡¯s too late. The symbols rearrange themselves, spiraling inward, each line feeding into the next with a dizzying fluidity. The ground cracks wide open, and a burst of scalding steam erupts from the stone, hissing like a serpent¡¯s breath. The ground bucks, throwing several of us off balance. A jagged fissure splits the stone open, yawning wide like a gaping, expectant mouth seeking to be fed.
Saqatli and Nochtl are the first to recover, standing at the edge of the fissure. They peer into the void, cautiously stepping forward. There¡¯s a tunnel beneath us¡ªdark and endless, its walls glowing faintly with ancient glyphs that pulse like the heartbeat of a sleeping beast. The smell of iron and smoke drifts upward, piercing my nose.
For a moment, none of us speak. There¡¯s a silent question that no one dares ask aloud: What have we just unlocked?
Upachu leans closer, eyes growing wide as he inspects the edge of the fissure. ¡°This must be¡ Ninaxu.¡±
¡°It can¡¯t be,¡± Walumaq says, frowning as she studies the fissure, the symbols, the faint heat radiating from the depths. ¡°We¡¯ve already faced it, didn¡¯t we?¡± She pauses, searching for the words. ¡°No¡ whatever¡¯s here is something else entirely. A passageway to something deeper, something the gods attempted to conceal.¡±
¡°We should leave,¡± S¨ªqalat says, his hand tightening around his spear. ¡°This was fun and all, but whatever this is, we probably shouldn¡¯t be standing here when it wakes up.¡±
Walumaq hesitates, her gaze lingering on the fissure. The light from her amulet pulses faster now, matching the rhythm of the tremors beneath us, as if it¡¯s calling to something below.
¡°We can¡¯t just walk away,¡± she murmurs. ¡°What if this is the only way forward?¡±
Atoyaqtli scowls, his grip on his sword tightening. ¡°Or what if we¡¯ve just opened a gate that was never meant to be opened?¡±
And then, from the depths of the fissure, a sound rises¡ªa deep, resonant rumble. It¡¯s not quite metal, not quite stone, but something in between. It¡¯s a grinding, scraping roar that echoes up the tunnel and fills the night air. The glyphs flare one final time, their light pulsing like a heartbeat. The mountain itself seems to exhale, sending a tremor through the ground that threatens to split it open further.
Then, with a sudden lurch, the fissure widens, and a rush of heat and shadow spills out like a breath held for generations upon generations. It wraps around us, heavy and suffocating. Whatever lies below is awake.
¡°Teqosa,¡± Walumaq whispers, her voice tight with fear. ¡°What did we just do?¡±
146 - Haesan
There¡¯s a stillness that comes before every storm, the kind that makes the tiny hairs on your skin stand on end before the first gust of wind stirs the air. The world might lull you into believing that nothing terrible could happen. But you feel it before you ever see it. The way the sky suddenly darkens just a little too quickly. Or how the birds fall silent, vanishing from sight as if they know better than to stick around.
I know that kind of stillness too well. It¡¯s the stillness in a noble¡¯s court before someone¡¯s life is quietly ruined by a careless rumor. It¡¯s the stillness in a merchant¡¯s house before debts are called and fortunes crumble. And it¡¯s the stillness I feel now, watching two bands of warriors prepare to tear each other apart.
The breeze is light, carrying ash and dust from the city¡¯s ruins. It¡¯s difficult to define the figures in the dimming light among the devastation. The two armies circle each other like serpents coiled in the sun, waiting for the right moment to strike. I¡¯ve watched Achope merchants scramble to prepare their water vessels as the winds shifted too suddenly, watched their faces pale when they realized it was too late to leave port. But even then, they knew what was coming¡ªwhat to expect.
The first strike comes almost without warning. Taqsame moves first. His obsidian sword flashes in the dying light as he charges straight for Achutli, who stands waiting like a man in no hurry. I can¡¯t tell if it¡¯s arrogance or certainty in his magic, but he doesn¡¯t move until the last possible moment. He meets Taqsame¡¯s strike with a practiced block. Shadowed tendrils curl around his rival¡¯s blade like some kind of living smoke.
Suddenly, more of Achutli¡¯s shadows lash out, snaking through the battlefield. They pull men into their depths as easily as a fisherman¡¯s net. Taqsame¡¯s warriors charge like jaguars starved for days. Blades sing through the air, but those loyal to Achutli won¡¯t yield. They press forward like a river of loose stone, meeting every strike with one of their own.
The Qantua warriors by my side stand rigid. I can almost hear the silent conversation passing between them. It¡¯s in the way their gazes linger on Taqsame¡¯s advancing warriors, in the way their bodies tense with hesitation. Taqsame is their blood. Their comrades fight for him now, for his ambition, his claim to something greater. And the Qantua, above all else, follow strength. They¡¯ve been assigned by the Queen Mother to protect me, yes, but it¡¯s evident they¡¯ll leave me the moment it becomes clear which side has the upper hand.
I can only watch as Taqsame and Achutli rip into each other with all the force of a hurricane. It¡¯s raw, violent, and I realize with a sinking feeling that there¡¯s no stopping this storm. I want to turn away, to unsee the raw, unchecked rage twisting their faces, but I can¡¯t.
This is a fight that goes beyond blood or pride. It¡¯s as if everything they¡¯ve lost, everything they¡¯ve endured, has been funneled into this violent, unyielding clash. They¡¯ve come too far, believe they¡¯ve sacrificed too much for any of this to end peacefully. There¡¯s no pulling them back from this edge. All I can do is brace myself for the inevitable carnage.
Xelhua grips my arm, pulling me back from the edge of the battle. ¡°Stay close,¡± he mutters, his eyes darting between the combatants, as if he can sense something worse coming. ¡°We¡¯ve got to avoid getting thrown into the middle of this duel.¡±
I barely register his words. My gaze is fixed on the center of the fight. Sparks fly as the two men snarl and spit venomous words at each other. There¡¯s a sudden, unstoppable surge of bodies colliding, fists swinging, blades cutting through the air. The Qantua fight like they¡¯ve already claimed victory, each swing of their jagged clubs and slashing swords brings them one step closer to conquering this city that refuses to give in.
The sound of obsidian on metal rings out like a thousand drums, and my ears are flooded with the sickening crunch of shattered shields and broken bones. A Tapeu archer, with a face pale beneath a layer of ash and grime, looses an arrow. The arrow arcs through the air before it finds its mark¡ªburied deep in the throat of a Qantua warrior. He stumbles forward, choking on blood. His hands grasp at the shaft as if he can pull death free from his body.
But he falls. And another warrior takes his place.
Achutli lifts his hand. The darkness around him writhes and twists, coiling through the air as the shadows come alive. They lash out, wrapping around limbs and throats, pulling warriors into the void with terrifying ease. I hear their screams¡ªmuffled, distant, as if they¡¯re being dragged into another world. Their bodies jerk and twist before they vanish entirely, swallowed whole by the abyss.
I shudder, subconsciously clutching Inuxeq¡¯s dagger tighter. Achutli stands tall amidst the chaos. The spear in his hand glows a sickly yellow-green, with symbols that pulse like living embers, casting an unnatural glow over his face. Shadows cling to him, as if drawn to his very presence. They swirl around his feet and climb up his arms, clinging to his skin, wrapping around him like a dark armor. It¡¯s as if the darkness is feeding off him¡ªor maybe, he¡¯s feeding off it.
And yet, even as Achutli¡¯s shadows lash out, Taqsame charges through them, his jaguar-hide cloak flaring behind him. The warrior is a force of nature in black and gold, ripping through Achutli¡¯s magic with nothing but willpower and fury. Even when the shadows loop around his legs, pulling him toward the ground, he slams his blade into the dirt, dragging himself free and surging forward again. A tendril snakes toward his throat, but he brings his sword down hard, briefly shattering the dark coil. He defiantly roars, as if daring these dark forces to try and take him.
Qantua and Tapeu warriors alike fight in a frenzy of obsidian and blood. A palace guard drives his spear through a Qantua archer, only to be cut down by another axe-wielding warrior. The air reeks of smoke and copper, sharp enough to catch in the back of your throat. It clings to everything like a stain, mixing with the scent of churned soil and the sour tang of blood-soaked leather, still warm from bodies that aren¡¯t finished bleeding.
I catch a glimpse of a Qantua woman with a face streaked with war paint, tearing the helm off a Tapeu warrior before plunging a knife into his neck. Blood spurts in an arc, splattering her face, but she doesn¡¯t flinch. She kicks his body aside and moves to the next target, eyes gleaming with the thirst for more bloodshed.
Those loyal to Achutli fight desperately, but they are outnumbered¡ªand the Qantua show no mercy. Clubs crush bone, obsidian blades rip through flesh, and the dilapidated walls of Qapauma tremble beneath the continuous violence.
Someone grabs ahold of my arm. Their fingers dig deep into my muscle until pain blossoms along my bicep.
¡°Move, girl!¡± Xelhua growls in my ear. ¡°This isn¡¯t where you want to die.¡± His grip tightens, and when I don''t immediately react, he jerks me back, hard enough that I stumble over the uneven stones. ¡°We don¡¯t have time for this,¡± he snaps. ¡°Get your head straight, or I¡¯ll carry you out myself.¡±
I wrench free, glaring up at him. His obsidian sword glints darkly, black as the void above. His weathered face twists in frustration. For all his bravado, Xelhua looks at me the way you look at someone drowning. Desperate. Eager. Too damn proud to say he¡¯s scared, but it¡¯s there. The tension in his jaw, the twitch of his left hand tightening around the hilt of his blade.
And then the first shape appears on the horizon.
Alongside those draped in robes of ash and crimson, grotesque figures emerge from the haze, moving in unnatural silence. Their limbs jerk as if controlled by invisible strings, heads tilting at angles no human neck should allow. There¡¯s a suffocating heat that follows them, rolling forward in relentless waves.
Another figure steps into view: a massive form with bulging muscles and sickly gray-blue skin, veins glowing like molten rivers beneath its surface. Its elongated claws scrape against the ground as it moves, and each step is accompanied by the unsettling crack of joints abnormally shifting. It doesn¡¯t walk so much as prowl, like a carnivore sizing up a wounded animal.
And there are more, more than my eye wishes to see. Lumbering things with glowing sapphire eyes and bodies twisted. There¡¯s no sound from these creatures¡ªno war cries, no rallying shouts. Only the crackle of distant flames and the thrum of their approach.
Once again, I¡¯m yanked out of my stupor. ¡°Don¡¯t be stupid, girl.¡± Xelhua spits the words like an insult, even as his hand hovers protectively near my shoulder. ¡°We shouldn¡¯t try to fight what¡¯s coming.¡± He pulls me, but my eyes remain fixed on what comes our way.
Before I can respond, the oppressive heat thickens. My lungs feel sluggish, struggling to pull in air that no longer seems to exist. A low hum vibrates beneath my feet, growing louder, resonating through the stones, the ruins, my bones.
Then I stumble. My boot catches on the shattered remains of a warrior beneath me, and I fall against a broken column. I gasp, steadying myself as the jagged stone digs into my side. My chest burns with the effort to breathe.
And that¡¯s when I finally notice it.
The sky is empty.
No moon. No stars. Just an endless void¡ªa darkness that swallows everything, stretching across the horizon like a black stain.
A new moon.
The first flame ignites without warning, bursting from one of the robed figures¡¯ hands. The fire spirals upward, twisting into grotesque shapes¡ªserpents made of flame, writhing through the night. The heat presses down until it feels like my skin might peel away.
The Qantua warriors at my side gaze at the emerging monstrous figures. One of the gray creatures snarls¡ªa guttural, bone-deep sound that seems to reverberate through the stones beneath our feet. And behind the otherworldly beasts, another figure steps forward, draped in crimson robes that sag off his arms like molten wax.
He walks without urgency, without fear. Every step he takes scorches the ground beneath him, leaving a blackened trail of ruin in his wake. His robes are splotchy, as though these garments were not dyed, but soaked in blood. Yet from here, I can see the immaculate gold trim and intricate patterns woven in, glimmering in the firelight of all that¡¯s being destroyed around him.
The man in crimson cooly raises his hand. Without a sound, a wave of fire explodes outward, roaring across the battlefield. Warriors are engulfed instantly¡ªbodies incinerated mid-scream, turned to ash that scatters into the night. Weapons clatter to the ground like forgotten relics of those too slow to escape the blaze.
Even from where I stand, the heat slams into me like a hammer. It singes my skin and rakes at my lungs. Desperately, I try to shield my eyes. I stumble again as the column at my side crumbles beneath the force of the firestorm.
Through the smoke, I see Achutli move unsteadily. The shadows he¡¯s conjured up swirl frantically around him, lashing out at the encroaching flames. But the darkness can¡¯t hold. The fire presses forward, burning through as if it were nothing more than dry grass. For the first time since I¡¯ve known him, there is genuine, raw panic in his eyes.
Achutli and Taqsame lock eyes across the battlefield. Neither speaks, but in that heartbeat of stillness, a mutual understanding forms between them. Their hatred must be postponed for survival. There¡¯s an overwhelming amount of resentment and grudging respect, but it¡¯s enough to briefly set their differences aside.
Taqsame tilts his head as he lifts up his obsidian sword. ¡°Don¡¯t slow me down,¡±I think I hear him say.
Achutli sneers as the darkness swirls around his hands.The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.
Then, without another word, they launch themselves into the fray.
I crouch low, pressing my back against the cracked stone of the ruined temple. My breath is shallow as I listen to the rhythmic scrape of dragging robes¡ªthe enemy closing in. Their figures shift in the gloom like restless spirits, gray fabric stained with soot and ash, firelight illuminating their pale, waxy faces.
Xelhua stiffens beside me. For a moment, he doesn¡¯t move. He stands like a stone sentinel, his gaze locked on the shadows flickering along the walls. Then, he grumbles a simple command through the noise:
¡°Stay behind me.¡±
A figure steps from the shadows¡ªa cultist draped in crimson robes, flame twisting around his hands. He surges forward, faster than I expect, and my heart seizes in my chest. But Xelhua is already moving, nimbler than I thought a man of his years could. His sword slashes through the air in one smooth, deadly motion, deflecting the flame with the flat of the blade.
The fire flares harmlessly to the ground, but Xelhua doesn¡¯t stop. He twists his body, pivots, and drives the blade into the cultist¡¯s chest. Blood sprays from the wound, hissing as it hits the scorched ground. The man crumples without a sound, and the fire in his hands sputters out as he collapses.
But they keep coming. More cultists spill out from the shadows like a writhing mass of gray robes and twisting flames.
A Qantua warrior at my side lets out a strangled gasp as a flaming blade pierces his stomach. He falls to his knees, clutching at the wound. The fire spreads quickly¡ªdevouring flesh and cloth alike. The stench of charred skin singes my nostrils, and I gag, choking on its acrid taste.
Another warrior rushes to pull him to safety, but it¡¯s already too late. A hulking gray beast barrels into them. Its claws slice through their armor as though it were loose cloth. The sound of their bodies tearing apart¡ªthe wet, sickening crunch of bone¡ªechoes across what remains of the courtyard.
Xelhua grabs me by the arm. ¡°We¡¯re moving.¡± He leaves no room for argument. He pulls me behind him, positioning his broad frame between me and the oncoming threat.
Another cultist lunges at us, his hands burning with unnatural flame. Xelhua is there to meet him. His sword slices clean through the man¡¯s outstretched arm, severing it at the elbow. The dismembered limb tumbles to the ground, still wreathed in flame, as the cultist crumples beside it, howling in agony. Xelhua twirls the sword around and slashes the felled foe¡¯s neck. A stream of scarlet joins the rest of the spilled blood on the ground, yet Xelhua pays it no mind.
¡°Don¡¯t stop moving!¡± Xelhua barks over his shoulder.
A clawed hand swipes at me from the side, too fast for me to react. But Xelhua¡¯s sword is already in motion. The blade flashes through the fire-lit air, cleaving the beast¡¯s hand from its arm. The severed limb drops to the ground, and the creature¡¯s glowing sapphire eyes narrow in rage.
Xelhua doesn¡¯t let it recover. With a fierce growl, he charges forward, driving his sword deep into the creature¡¯s chest. It lets out a low, guttural moan, something between a death rattle and a curse, before collapsing into the dirt.
He pulls his sword free with a wet, scraping sound, and for a brief moment, the two of us stand still amid the carnage.
¡°Not getting you today,¡± Xelhua mutters, more to himself than to me. There¡¯s no triumph in his words¡ªonly grim certainty from someone who has faced such a moment countless times before.
More cultists pour into the fray. One of them charges forward, fire in his hands, and I feel the heat before I see it¡ªhot, suffocating, pressing in on my skin. But Xelhua doesn¡¯t flinch. He steps into the cultist¡¯s path, wildly swinging his obsidian sword. The blade cuts through the man¡¯s arm first¡ªthen his throat. The fire fizzles out as the cultist collapses to the ground in a heap of ash and blood.
Another figure lunges from the side, hurling an orb of flame that soars straight for my head. There¡¯s no time to think, no time to dodge. All I can do is brace myself.
Then Xelhua is there, once again between me and death. He takes the full brunt of the attack, the flames licking his radiant armor, singeing the edges of his tunic. He¡¯s undeterred by the spreading fire. His sword cleaves downward, catching the cultist mid-strike, sending a spray of blood across the stone.
He grabs fistfuls of dirt and rubs it across his chest, trying to extinguish the flames. Yet it¡¯s no use. He frantically rips the armor from his torso, throwing it onto the ground.
Xelhua grunts, breathing heavily. I stare, breathless, as the cultist¡¯s body collapses at my feet. My pulse pounds in my ears, and I struggle to breathe as the crushing heat presses against my chest.
Another Qantua warrior falls beside us, flames engulfing him as he cries out. I can barely register the sound before a gray beast¡ no, it can¡¯t be! It¡¯s the beast Xelhua slain moments earlier. It¡¯s moving, barreling through the smoke. The creature¡¯s twisted limbs tear into the fallen warrior, shredding him before he can even draw his final breath.
I stumble backward, colliding with Xelhua. He turns, his eyes locking onto mine for just a moment¡ªlong enough for me to see the worry, the fear. He grabs my arm again, pulling me close, shielding me as he surveys the mayhem. ¡°Keep moving, girl!¡±
One by one, the cultists fall, but there are always more to take their place. I¡¯m shaking. I don¡¯t know if it¡¯s from the heat or the fear¡ªprobably both.
Another cultist rushes toward us. His eyes are wild, and his bent blade is raised high. But this time, I see it coming. My hand instinctively drops to the ground, fingers curling around a jagged piece of broken stone. Without a second thought, I hurl it at the attacker. He staggers, one knee buckling as he tries to steady himself. His snarl falters as blood drips down the side of his face.
Before he can recover, Xelhua steps in with his sword already raised. In a single, brutal swing, he cleaves through the cultist¡¯s torso. The force of the blow sends the man crumpling to the ground. He glances at me, and for a moment, I swear there¡¯s something like pride in his eyes. He gives an almost imperceptible nod in acknowledgement.
¡°Well, you¡¯re certainly no warrior,¡± he mutters, ¡°but you¡¯ve got guts. I¡¯ll give you that.¡±
Suddenly, the ground rumbles with a horrific tremor.
We both turn as a massive shadow falls over us, blocking out the flames. One of the grotesque gray beasts charges toward us with unnatural speed, its sapphire eyes glowing like distant stars.
I brace myself for the attack, but once more, Xelhua is already moving. He pushes me back, planting himself between me and the oncoming beast. His sword swings up, aimed directly at the creature¡¯s chest.
The beast¡¯s claws flash as the air ripples with the heat of the fire. I see the exact moment Xelhua¡¯s blade cuts deep into the monster¡¯s chest.
But it doesn¡¯t stop. No, instead, the creature surges forward, its claws raking across Xelhua¡¯s side. He grunts in pain, but he refuses to falter. With a final, brutal twist of his sword, he drives the blade deep into the creature¡¯s chest. The beast stumbles, and a low, guttural growl escapes its throat as it collapses at his feet. It lies still, and its massive body twitches. But there¡¯s something of a sinister spark in its eyes that hasn¡¯t yet gone out.
Xelhua¡¯s breathing is ragged, and blood seeps from the gash in his side, soaking into his tattered tunic. He stumbles but manages to catch himself. His hand is still clenched around the hilt of his sword as he looks on. He knows it isn¡¯t over¡ªthe beast¡¯s chest heaves faintly, as if drawing strength from some dark reserve. Any moment now, it¡¯ll rise again, and he¡¯ll have to be ready.
¡°We¡¯re not done yet,¡± he says almost reluctantly. ¡°We need to get away from this¡ thing. Let¡¯s move.¡±
I¡¯m unsure what to say, but Xelhua only nods, his eyes now fixed on me. And for a moment, even in the middle of a raging battle, I feel something in my chest that I haven¡¯t felt in a long time. Something that almost feels like safety, security.
The fighting carries on like a nightmare unfolding before my eyes. Obsidian blades clash against enchanted fire, shadows writhe, claws rip through flesh. For a fleeting moment, Achutli and Taqsame move in sync. Their movements are sharp, calculated¡ªthe obsidian of Taqsame¡¯s sword gleaming alongside the tendrils of darkness that coil from Achutli¡¯s hands.
And then the sorcerer in crimson steps forward.
The sorcerer¡¯s robes ripple, touched by heat that doesn¡¯t seem to come from any flame. Fire dances along his fingertips¡ªcasual, effortless¡ªas though it obeys him not by command, but by instinct. It doesn¡¯t blaze or flicker; it breathes, pulsing in rhythm with his heartbeat, waiting, patient and hungry.
His eyes become black pits, voids that drink in the light, making everything around him look faded and hollow. He lifts his hand, and the fire shifts as though it¡¯s savoring the moment before it¡¯s unleashed. There¡¯s no hurry, no urgency. It¡¯s the calm of someone that knows they¡¯ve already won, the stillness of a predator that knows the kill is inevitable.
Achutli¡¯s eyes narrow, jaw clenched tight. But even from here, I can see the shadows pooling around him, clinging to his frame like they sense his fear. His shoulders rise and fall with the ragged tempo of his breathing, each breath sharper, more strained. There¡¯s a wildness in his movements now, a frenzied rhythm to his magic. It¡¯s as though he¡¯s drawing on every last fragment of strength buried deep within him.
His fingers tremble as he gathers the magic into his hands. There¡¯s a desperate wisp of shadow that emerges from his palms, but it¡¯s as though it lacks the confidence they had before. They stutter and waver, as if sensing his doubt.
Achutli tries to look fierce, but his eyes betray him. They dart ever so slightly, searching the sorcerer¡¯s form for a weakness, for some sign that he might stand a chance. It¡¯s a small glimmer of hope, and yet the cracks in his magic spread with every moment he holds it.
The sorcerer in crimson is simply better. Faster. Deadlier.
Achutli thrusts his hands forward, and the black shadows leap half-heartedly from his fingers, aiming to constrict the sorcerer in crimson. For a moment, it seems to work¡ªthe tendrils snaking around the sorcerer¡¯s arms and binding him. But then the sorcerer¡¯s grin deepens. He doesn¡¯t flinch.
A flick of his wrist, and fire erupts from within the darkness. It sears through the shadows, reducing them to cinders. The tendrils writhe and recoil as though they¡¯ve been wounded, slithering back toward Achutli to seek refuge.
What seemed so powerful a moment ago, Achutli¡¯s magic falters in an instant, like a banner in the dying wind.
I can see it in his eyes. That moment of dread, when he realizes that this sorcerer is not like anything he¡¯s ever faced. Achutli has power, yes, but it¡¯s jagged and clumsy, a newly-forged blade in the hands of someone who hasn¡¯t yet learned to wield it. By contrast, the sorcerer¡¯s magic is precise, deliberate, as if every flame is an extension of his will.
Sensing the battle getting away from them, Taqsame lunges forward with his obsidian sword in hand. But the sorcerer moves too fast. With a sweeping arc of his arm, a wall of fire springs to life between them, forcing Taqsame back. He snarls in frustration, trying to find a way around the blaze, but the flames flare up, growing higher and higher until they reach the night sky.
Believing the sorcerer in crimson¡¯s attention is divided, Achutli doesn¡¯t waste the opportunity. His hands surge with dark energy, shadows contorting upward into jagged spears. He throws them with all his might, aiming straight for the sorcerer¡¯s heart.
But the sorcerer merely raises a hand. The spears of shadow halt mid-air, suspended like flies caught in amber. For a moment, they hang there, vibrating with the effort to break free. Then, with a snap of the sorcerer¡¯s fingers, they explode¡ªshattered fragments of darkness scattering harmlessly into the air.
Achutli¡¯s breath hitches. He staggers, visibly drained. His magic unravels around him. The sorcerer¡¯s menacing grin widens, and he strolls forward.
Achutli growls, summoning the last of his strength. The shadows return, coiling tighter around his frame, giving him shape, giving him power. But the sorcerer¡¯s flames rise higher, hotter. The ground beneath them begins to glow, cracks forming in the stone, leaking molten fire from the heart of the land.
The dark tendrils that once obeyed Achutli¡¯s every command now quiver, shaking violently, as if resisting his grip. He throws his hands forward again, desperately calling forth the shadows, but they don¡¯t respond with the same ease. His face contorts, muscles twitching as beads of sweat glisten on his brow. He¡¯s losing control.
A smirk curls at the edge of the sorcerer in crimson¡¯s lips, his eyes glowing with an unnatural heat. He doesn¡¯t fear Achutli. There¡¯s a calmness to him, a relaxed, quiet certainty.
Achutli doesn¡¯t notice. He¡¯s too busy grappling with the shadows that now writhe against his will. They fight him, resist him. I¡¯ve never seen him like this, never seen him struggle. Always in control. But now¡
The sorcerer¡¯s other hand rises slowly, fingers trailing through the air as if painting something. The deep, resonating hum vibrating through the stones pulses faster, more intensely. It feels familiar, like the heartbeat of the land itself.
Achutli¡¯s breath catches, and I see it in his eyes. Recognition. Panic. The shadows tremble violently, then retreat altogether, slinking away from him. His hand trembles as he reaches out, trying to hold on to the last remnants of his power, but it¡¯s slipping away. They don¡¯t return.
The sorcerer in crimson smiles, and that¡¯s when I see it¡ªa faint glow beneath the skin of Achutli¡¯s hands. It throbs, a sickly red light, moving like a river through his veins. His blood.
Achutli¡¯s lips curl into a snarl, but there¡¯s now genuine terror in his eyes as his own blood rebels against him. It pulses harder, brighter, as though ignited by some unseen force. The sorcerer¡¯s hands tightens into fists, and Achutli staggers.
The crimson sorcerer now watches him without emotion, merely observing as Achutli crumbles beneath his own power. Achutli gasps¡ªa sharp, choking sound. His hands fly to his chest, clutching at his armor, his garments, and I see it¡ªthe glow spreading beneath his skin, crawling up his arms, across his neck, into his face. His veins bulge, glowing like molten lava. He¡¯s being consumed from the inside.
He falls to his knees as his blood boils from within. A raw scream tears from his throat as the glow intensifies. The shadows that once followed his every command are now unwilling to come to his aid. His magic is abandoning him, and his body¡ His body is coming apart.
Blood seeps from his eyes, from his nose, from his mouth¡ªthick, red streaks trickling down his face like scarlet tears. His fingers claw at his chest, as though he could somehow rip the burning from his flesh. But there is no escape.
Then, with a final, broken gasp, Achutli collapses to the ground. His body twitches, convulses, until, at last, it stills. The glow fades, leaving only the charred remains of his veins, like cracks in brittle stone. His eyes are empty now, staring sightlessly at the empty night sky.
The sorcerer in crimson lowers his hands. ¡°Gone by the hand of your blood, it seems,¡± he murmurs, almost to himself. ¡°A pity.¡±
Taqsame stands motionless. His sword is still raised, but even he seems frozen, stunned by the suddenness of it all.
Achutli is gone.
There¡¯s no triumph. No relief. Only the hollow ache of something unfinished.
There¡¯s no time to say goodbye. No final words. Only the dull thud of his body hitting the stone.
I want to scream. I want to collapse. No one deserves this¡ªnot even him. But there¡¯s no time.
Because the sorcerer in crimson is still standing. And now, he¡¯s looking right at me.
147 - Legido
You stand at the edge of what remains of this place. The city feels like a body picked clean by scavengers. Ruins that were once homes, places of worship, or maybe palaces are now reduced to rubble beneath the relentless march of the Legido settlers. The smell of ash clings to everything, mixing with sweat, dirt, and blood. You don¡¯t know what this place is called, but that doesn¡¯t seem to matter anymore¡ªit belongs to the Legido now. What¡¯s left of the people who lived here are corralled into makeshift pens, herded like livestock, working under the crack of whips.
The city feels hollow, emptied of itself. The streets that once pulsed with voices¡ªmarkets filled with the scent of roasting maize and music carried on the breeze¡ªnow lie suffocated beneath the oppression of the occupation. The once-vibrant and polished stones beneath your feet are dulled, chipped under the boots of soldiers who track mud and blood wherever they tread. Even the light here seems muted, as if the sky itself is mourning what the city has become.
Everywhere you look, the native villagers are bent to the will of their conquerors. Their skin smeared with dirt, men and women haul timber and stone under the whip of Legido overseers. Children no older than a handful of years struggle to drag water from what¡¯s left of the city¡¯s aqueducts.
Small acts of resistance spark up here and there. Yet they¡¯re little more than embers swallowed by the dark. A woman presses a piece of bread into a child¡¯s hand, nervously looking over her shoulder as she does. But this act comes at a price. A soldier catches the woman giving bread, shouts vulgar things at her. The whip sings, sharp, abrupt. Her scream echoes down the street. And then silence rushes in, swallowing the sound, eager to pretend it never broke the night.
Criato stands at the center of it all, impatiently barking orders. His soldiers hurriedly drag logs and set up tents around him. He moves through the ruins of the city as if every stone was laid for his personal use. Any structure not used to house a Legido have been turned into armories¡ªwhat were once homes are now storage for weapons and supplies. Criato¡¯s presence is a constant torrent, always moving, always yelling. He doesn¡¯t care if the work is done well, just that it is done now.
In contrast, Ulloa is quieter, more deliberate. He watches the people with a calculating gaze, walking slowly through the calamity and taking stock. He has a ledger in hand, carefully marking which indigenous artisans or skilled workers are worth keeping and which ones can be sent to the mines or left to die under the sun. It¡¯s not personal to Ulloa. It¡¯s just the way of things.
Xiatli¡¯s presence looms over everything, heavy and cold as iron. He moves through the occupied city like a shadow given shape. The amulet around his neck gleams faintly. There¡¯s a deep, unnatural glow to it, like embers smoldering beneath coal.
When He passes, conversations falter. The natives avoid his gaze, their faces falling into blank masks when He drifts by them. The soldiers shift uneasily, their hands drifting to the hilts of their swords or muskets without realizing it. The birds refuse to sing. The very air seems to tighten around Him. Even Criato, who is usually so brash, noticeably lowers his voice when Xiatli walks by.
You glance at Him from a distance, and something about the way He moves unsettles you. It¡¯s not just the amulet, though its unnatural glow tugs at your eyes, drawing them back even when you try to look away. It¡¯s deeper than that. It¡¯s as if the city itself knows He doesn¡¯t belong here. It doesn¡¯t welcome Him; it endures Him, like a curse laid down on soil that was once sacred. He¡¯s like a blade pressed into flesh, an intrusion that can only end in blood.
You¡¯ve grown numb to the cruelty. It happened so gradually, you didn¡¯t even notice the shift, like calluses thickening over the hands of a farmer. Turning off the part of yourself that should have felt disgusted was easier than you ever imagined¡ªtoo easy, really. At first, the guilt flared up like a hot coal buried under your ribs, something you could ignore for a while, but never truly extinguish. Now it¡¯s more like a dull ache, a bruise you press on out of habit, as if testing to see if you¡¯re still capable of feeling anything at all. It¡¯s there, somewhere beneath the surface, but it never rises high enough to stop you from following orders.
Maybe you told yourself, once, that you¡¯d be different. That you¡¯d temper the Legido¡¯s violence, or that your presence here might make this conquest somehow cleaner. Gentler, even. But that fantasy has faded, stripped away by the raw, unrelenting reality of what conquest truly is. You see the truth now, stark and unadorned: you¡¯re here, and they were always going to do this. If it hadn¡¯t been you, it would¡¯ve been another, someone with fewer reservations, someone who wouldn¡¯t have hesitated at all. And so, you convince yourself that you¡¯re just a cog in the machine, that it¡¯s better you than someone worse.
But, whispered in the quiet spaces of your mind, the truth is simpler still. It doesn¡¯t matter who holds the blade¡ªthe land was always going to bleed.
You look at the city and wonder how much of it will be left when the Legido are finished. The native¡¯s stonework, worn smooth by centuries, is being chipped away. The murals that once told stories of gods and heroes are gouged beyond recognition, replaced by the crude marks of soldiers carving into the walls.
You walk through the marketplace¡ªor what used to be the marketplace. The stalls are gone, the tables overturned, now used to prop up supply crates and barrels of rations. A soldier sharpens a knife on what was once a jeweler¡¯s workbench, the scattered remnants of his craft trampled into the dust at his feet. This city is being gutted, hollowed out from the inside.
And still, life lingers, stubborn and defiant. You catch glimmers of it in the way the villagers glance at one another when the soldiers aren¡¯t looking. In the way their hands brush together briefly, as if passing some unspoken promise from one to the next.
You notice these things, and you hate yourself for noticing them. It would be easier to stay numb. To let the city die, piece by piece, without it mattering. But instead, you carry every fragment of it with you, like stones in your pockets, dragging you down into the depths of the sea.
A part of you wishes you could stop caring. But you can¡¯t¡ªnot entirely. And that¡¯s the worst part: you know exactly what¡¯s happening, and still, you do nothing.
Because what else is there to do?
You follow Criato¡¯s orders. You pretend not to see the fear in the eyes of the native¡¯s children. You walk through this broken city, numb and hollow, and you tell yourself it¡¯s not your fault.
But deep down, you know better.
Iker moves beside you, but he¡¯s not really with you. His steps are too brisk, and you know he¡¯s keeping pace only because he has something to say. You wish he¡¯d just leave it alone. But wishing hasn¡¯t stopped anything yet.
The two of you pass a group of villagers bent from hauling heavy stones, dragging them toward a new wall being built where the old one has crumbled. Their eyes are empty, movements sluggish, as if the effort of survival has drained them dry. A soldier barks at them, and one stumbles, catching herself before falling. You glance at Iker. His jaw clenches, and you feel the tension rolling off him in waves.
¡°You see this, right?¡± he mutters. ¡°You¡¯re not going to pretend it¡¯s fine, are you?¡±
You keep walking. There¡¯s nothing to say. What would he want you to do? Change it? Reverse the tide of conquest with a word?
He grabs your arm, pulling you to a stop. His hand is tight, but not aggressive. It¡¯s like he¡¯s desperately trying to pull you into something you¡¯ve drifted too far from.
¡°You don¡¯t even care, do you?¡± he says. He¡¯s not angry. Not really. Just¡ confused. Frustrated.
¡°You think I can do anything about this?¡± you ask quietly through your gnashed teeth, your words more a statement than a question.
Iker drops your arm, scoffing under his breath. ¡°But you don¡¯t even try.¡±
That stings more than you¡¯d like to admit, but you keep your face blank. You didn¡¯t ask for this, any of it. You¡¯re just here, caught between orders you don¡¯t understand and choices that aren¡¯t really yours. Is it a crime to survive? To keep moving forward, even when you don¡¯t know where the road leads?
¡°You don¡¯t get it,¡± you say finally, though even to your own ears, it sounds like an excuse. ¡°It¡¯s not our place to change what¡¯s happening. I mean, who are we to do anything? What could we even do?¡±
Iker¡¯s laugh is soft, bitter. ¡°That¡¯s what I mean. You talk like them.¡± He spits the word out, like it tastes foul. ¡°Criato. Ulloa. Like this is just how things are.¡±
You stare at him, suddenly feeling very small in this vast, foreign land. Neither of you knows what you¡¯re doing here. You¡¯re just children¡ªchildren pretending to be soldiers, pretending you know the difference between right and wrong when it¡¯s all tangled up in orders, survival, and fear.
¡°I just¡¡± Iker falters, running a hand through his tangled hair. His anger softens, bleeding into something more fragile. ¡°I thought maybe if we stuck together, we could keep each other from becoming like them. You know? Like we could hold on to something decent, even in all this ugliness.¡±
You blink, caught off guard by the honesty of it. He doesn¡¯t want a leader or a savior. He just wanted a friend. And somewhere along the way, you stopped being that friend.
You want to tell him that you never meant to push him away, that it wasn¡¯t personal. You didn¡¯t even realize you were doing it. But the words stick in your throat. It¡¯s too late for apologies, and even if it wasn¡¯t, what good would they do?
You start walking again, slower this time. Iker follows, quieter now, but the tension between you hasn¡¯t gone anywhere. It just sits there, heavy and unresolved, like a stone lodged beneath your ribs. He wanted something from you¡ªmore than you knew how to give.This story originates from a different website. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.
Ahead, a group of soldiers drags what must have been a sacred object from the ruins¡ªa massive stone disk engraved with spirals and symbols that mean nothing to you. A woman among the enslaved villagers lets out a soft, choked cry, and one of the soldiers shoves her down into the dirt.
Iker flinches beside you, and you know what he¡¯s thinking. How this only emphasizes his point. This isn¡¯t what you were supposed to be doing here. None of this feels like what you imagined when you first stepped onto the shore of this strange land.
¡°What¡¯s the point?¡± Iker mutters. It¡¯s not clear if he¡¯s asking you, or himself, or the sky. ¡°Why are we even here?¡±
Before you can answer¡ªif you even had an answer to give¡ªsomething shifts. A strange, rhythmic hum rises on the wind. It¡¯s subtle at first, but it grows louder with each passing heartbeat. The ground begins to tremble beneath you, not like a quake, but something far more¡ deliberate.
Iker freezes. ¡°What was that?¡±
A shadow falls across the city like the creeping edge of twilight, dimming what little sunlight pierces through the mist. You glance toward the horizon, and movement stirs within the haze. Dark shapes emerge¡ªtall, cloaked figures draped in robes of gray and crimson. Their faces are hidden beneath hoods that flutter in the thickening breeze. The wind carries strange scents of burned wood, scorched copper, and something acrid and sweet, like herbs left too long on an open flame.
Beside you, Iker takes an instinctive step back. ¡°Who¡ what¡¡± He can¡¯t finish either thought, and you¡¯re not sure you need him to.
A murmur of unease spreads through the soldiers gathered along the wall. It begins as a whisper¡ªa soldier clutching his sword tighter, muttering a prayer under his breath. But it spreads quickly, like sparks catching on dry kindling. Even the bravest among them move uneasily. Men stumble as they scramble to reinforce the gates, hands fumbling with ropes and oil casks.
Criato¡¯s voice rings out. ¡°Get into position! Hold the gates!¡± He shouts the orders like a man trying to convince himself this is just another enemy to crush. But you can hear it beneath his bark¡ªthe panic creeping in, coiling around every syllable.
There are no chants from the approaching enemy. No battle cries to meet. Just the slow and steady scraping of their feet across the stone.
The air suddenly grows warmer. It presses against your skin, and you feel as though you¡¯ve entered a forge. There¡¯s a creeping heat that seeps into your bones, leaving you brittle and dry. You try to swallow, but your throat feels parched, as if the very moisture has been sucked from the air.
The leader of the robed figures¡ªa towering form draped in crimson as deep as spilled blood¡ªsteps forward, raising both hands. There¡¯s something fluid, almost unnatural, in the way he moves, like a shadow stretched too long. The flame clutched between his palms grows¡ªsmall at first, a flicker, but then it swells into a roaring inferno, spilling from his hands like liquid fire.
Without warning, the wave of flame surges forward, licking the edges of the gate. Though reinforced with metal, the wooden beams glow red-hot within moments, as if kissed by the breath of a furnace.
The soldiers atop the walls scream, recoiling from the sudden burst of heat. Even where you stand, far from the gate, the temperature rises¡ªso hot it blurs the edges of your vision. The air warps, shimmering like the surface of a river in the moonlight. The ground beneath the flames blackens, charred as if by the touch of a torch.
Criato shouts orders from below, his usual confidence splintering under the weight of panic. ¡°Get the oil ready! Reinforce the gates!¡± His words are sharp, frantic, as his men stumble over their own feet.
The enemy draws closer. The crimson-robed figure steps lightly, as if he doesn¡¯t touch the ground at all. Where his hand brushes the stone, symbols scorch themselves into the surface, faintly glowing with ember-like light. Flames curl upward from the runes, twisting into shapes¡ªwrithing creatures, serpents with jagged fangs, shapes that should not exist. How do they exist?
A glint of gold pierces through the haze, shimmering as though the sun itself has cracked open above the city gates. The Great Xiatli stands there, His skin radiating a golden aura that presses against the mist, making everything around him look faded, lesser. His arrival is silent but absolute, a force that fills the space between heartbeats. He moves slowly and deliberately, as he calmly surveys the scene.
As His eyes settle on the crimson-robed figure, a faint smirk pulls at the edge of his mouth. It¡¯s the look of someone who has seen this play out a thousand times. The soldiers sense it, that unnatural stillness in the air. They glance at one another uneasily, as if waiting for His word, His permission to unleash the muskets¡ªis this the moment to use such a weapon?
But Xiatli says nothing. He only watches, as the gold light pulses from His skin. His eyes are fixed on the robed forms with the detachment of a predator watching prey walk willingly into its jaws. There is no fear in His gaze. No urgency. Just expectation.
One of Criato¡¯s soldiers lets out a brittle, desperate battle cry, breaking the tense silence. He snatches a bow from the rack beside him, hands shaking as he fumbles for an arrow. With a quick, fluid motion, he notches it, draws back, and looses it toward the nearest robed figure. The arrow slices through the mist¡ until it meets the figure¡¯s outstretched hand.
It never touches flesh. The moment the arrow crosses into the robed figure¡¯s reach, it disintegrates midair, reduced to nothing but a trail of ash that scatters on the wind. The figure tilts its head, a movement devoid of anything human, as if regarding an insect that dared to draw too close. In response, a wave of flame surges from the figure¡¯s palm, a searing wall of heat that floods toward gate like a tidal wave.
One raises his shield, hoping to block the fire, only for the metal to blister and warp. Molten drops splatter onto his hands. He screams, dropping the shield, but there¡¯s nowhere to go. The robed figures advance, unhurried, implacable, their bodies wreathed in twisting shadows and flame.
Another soldier reaches for his musket, sweat beading on his brow as he fumbles with the weapon. He knows the cost of wasting a precious bullet, knows what fate awaits him if he dares to defy the Great Xiatli¡¯s decree. But fear overrides reason. He lifts the musket, eyes narrowing as he lines up the shot, and fires. The explosion echoes through the streets, and the bullet races toward its target¡ only to flatten and fall, useless, against an invisible barrier a mere breath from the figure¡¯s chest.
The robed figure doesn¡¯t budge. Instead, it raises an arm. The ground beneath the soldiers¡¯ feet begins to crack and split. Tendrils of black smoke rise from the fissures, curling around the soldiers¡¯ ankles, winding up their legs. One man stumbles, his face twisting in horror as the smoke clings to him. It slips beneath his armor, searing his flesh. He drops his sword and claws at his chest, gasping, until his voice fades to a gurgling rasp.
From above, the Great Xiatli remains motionless. His expression is one of quiet, almost bored expectation. He doesn¡¯t interfere. Doesn¡¯t seem to feel the need. His soldiers look back, some of them pleading with their eyes, their faces pale and drenched in sweat. They want guidance. They want mercy. But Xiatli offers neither. He is stone, watching as His people are swallowed by fire and shadow, as if this is exactly what He anticipated.
The Legido fall back. Their defenses crumble, their courage fracturing. Screams fade to whispers amidst the mayhem. The gate buckles under the onslaught, wood splintering, metal twisting, as though it, too, understands that resistance is futile.
And then, finally, the Great Xiatli moves.
He steps forward, calm as a man walking through a garden, and raises His hand. There is no chant, no grand gesture¡ªjust the slow, deliberate flick of His wrist, as though the act itself requires no effort. The air warps around Him, folding in on itself like fabric being pulled taut. Reality strains under His will. The fire conjured by the crimson-robed figure freezes mid-surge, its wild dance halted, its violent hunger quelled. The magic collapses inward with a sickening crunch, like bones shattering under pressure.
At this, the crimson-robed figure falters. The creature-like flames that once coiled from his fire contort into gnarled shapes. Suddenly, their forms unravel into nothingness, vanishing into the air. The others¡¯ steps are no longer synchronized as the perfect rhythm of their approach shatters.
The enemy¡¯s flames disappear in an instant, snuffed out like a candle in gale force winds. The billowing shadows that once erupted from the ground now retreat back into the depths below. The robed figures stagger, exchanging startled looks. One by one, they clutch at their chests. Confusion ripples through them like a wave. And then it¡¯s their turn to panic.
The first of their screams pierces the night. It¡¯s a sound of such raw, primal terror that it twists in your gut, a sound that should not belong to any living thing.
One by one, the enemies ignite from within. Their robes begin to glow red-hot, their skin blistering beneath the fabric. Then, the fire erupts. But not from the outside. No, this flame burns deeper, spreading from within their very bones. Their bodies convulse violently, arms and legs jerking in unnatural directions as their flesh begins to char.
Their mouths gape open in silent screams, eyes bulging as tongues blacken and wither in their throats. Fire spills from their mouths like molten metal, and they claw at their faces, their hands, trying to tear the skin from their bodies, as if escaping from the flames consuming them from the inside out.
Their robes catch fire, but the fabric doesn¡¯t burn the way it should. The flames cling to them like they¡¯re alive, eating their way through flesh and bone without ever touching the ground. The foes fall to their knees, writhing, trying to pull themselves free, but it¡¯s no use. The fire devours everything¡ªflesh, blood, and whatever scraps of their spirit they might¡¯ve had left.
Their screams are shrill, endless. It¡¯s a sound that doesn¡¯t just stop at your ears; it crawls into your bones. It¡¯s a noise that vibrates deep in your chest, as if you¡¯re being hollowed out by the sound itself.
The one who materialized this magic staggers as the flames around him flicker and dim. He raises his hand in defiance, as if he might conjure another spell, but the Great Xiatli is already moving. Slow. Deliberate. Menacing.
The crimson-robed leader opens his mouth to speak¡ªto beg? To curse? You will never know. With a simple gesture, Xiatli snaps His fingers.
The crimson-robed leader¡¯s body contorts, folding inward on itself with a sickening crunch. Bones snap. Muscles tear. His spine bends at an unnatural angle. His ribs collapse. His legs twist beneath him as though the bones have turned to liquid. His scream is choked off mid-breath, cut short by the pressure crushing him from within. His body convulses once, then twice, before finally going still.
And then, the fire comes. It erupts from his chest, shooting upward like a geyser of molten flame. In an instant, his entire form is engulfed¡ªskin and flesh burned away in a flash of white-hot fire. His body crumbles to ash before the fire even has time to spread. There¡¯s nothing left but a smoldering heap, the ground beneath him blackened and scorched.
The Great Xiatli stands over the ruined, blackened body, staring down at it with an expression of quiet detachment. There¡¯s no satisfaction in His gaze, no triumph¡ªonly cold indifference. To Him, this was nothing more than a minor inconvenience.
The remaining enemies scatter, fleeing into the mist. But they don¡¯t make it far. One after another, the robed figures scream as fire bursts from their mouths, their eyes, their skin. Their bodies seize up, convulsing as the fire within them reignites, burning hotter, fiercer than before. You watch in stunned silence as they fall to the ground. Limbs twist and jerk, flesh melting away in the firestorm that consumes them.
Your ears can¡¯t avoid the revolting snap and crack, joints giving way as the fire devours muscle and bone. They¡¯ve been reduced to nothing more than ash and smoke. The wind picks up, carrying the remnants of their existence into the night, blackened clouds spiraling toward the heavens.
For a moment, all is still. The ash drifts lazily through the air, black snow on a lifeless wind.
Xiatli casually lowers His hand.
You stand there, body locked in place by a cold fear you¡¯ve never known. The other soldiers shift uneasily beside you, their weapons hanging limply at their sides. Even Criato stands frozen, his face pale and drawn. No one dares speak.
The Great Xiatli turns slowly, the amulet at His neck glows faintly, as if the power it holds is far from spent. His cold gaze sweeps across the stunned faces of soldiers, commanders, settlers, and you. There is no humanity in His eyes, no emotion¡ªonly the cold, unyielding truth that you are nothing before Him. None of you are.
His lips curl into the barest hint of a poorly-practiced smile¡ªa predator¡¯s smile.
¡°They were the first,¡± He says quietly. ¡°There will be others.¡±
The night stretches long around you. The stars above are distant and indifferent. And as the last wisps of ash drift through the air, you realize with terrifying clarity that there is no stopping Him.
Not with magic.
Not with armies.
Not with anything you can imagine.
148 - The Distant Shores
The prow of the ship knifes through the mist, splitting it into ragged shreds that curl and dissolve into the churning sea. Brine clings to everything¡ªskin, lungs, the damp wood beneath boots¡ªand the air feels heavy, taut, like the stillness before someone screams. Captain Ux¨ªo Lema narrows his eyes at the horizon, where steep cliffs rise from the fog. Their slopes drip with green, and their shadows don¡¯t shift beneath the overcast sky.
This isn¡¯t where they were supposed to land.
Gartzen silently moves beside him, cautiously inspecting this new land. Captain Lema can sense his unease. It¡¯s the same knot in his gut that tightened the moment they were pulled into those strange currents, like an invisible hand dragging them off course. They should¡¯ve been sailing straight for Legido¡¯s coast, months away. But after less than a month at sea, the ocean had changed beneath them. One moment the water was calm and blue, the next, the current shifted with a violent hunger, swallowing their route and spitting them toward this foreign shore.
The ship had bucked and groaned as jagged rocks scraped across its hull, cracking timbers with a sickening splinter. The rudder had snapped in the calamity, and the crew scrambled to pull the vessel free before the waves finished it off. Now the ship lists awkwardly in the shallows. Its wounded frame leans against the rocks like a soldier left behind in the field.
It doesn¡¯t make sense. The journey to Legido was supposed to be straightforward: no strange tides, no storms. So how in the nine hells did they end up here?
¡°We¡¯re lucky we didn¡¯t sink,¡± Gartzen mutters beside him, wiping seawater from his beard with a swipe of his hand. ¡°But the rudder¡¯s done for. We¡¯ll need materials if we¡¯re going to patch her up.¡± He gestures toward the listing ship with a tilt of his chin.
It¡¯s as if steam fumes from Captain Lema¡¯s ears. There¡¯s nothing he hates more than being at the mercy of unknown forces¡ªwhether they be strange currents or unfamiliar shores. But without a working ship, they¡¯re stranded.
He squints at the dark shoreline, tension gathering between his shoulders. He feels there¡¯s another looming problem: this place is too quiet.
¡°Any sign of life?¡± Lema asks, though the question feels like a whisper into the void. Gartzen shakes his head, but both men know better. There¡¯s always someone watching.
Captain Lema grips the worn wood of the railing, the familiar grooves beneath his fingers grounding him. This is how it starts. You step onto unfamiliar shores, surrounded by a world you don¡¯t understand, and everything feels calm enough¡ªuntil it isn¡¯t. You can sense it, that invisible line, the moment when curiosity curdles into danger, when the unknown turns sharp. One misstep, and you¡¯ll be the one sprawled in the dirt, staring up at a sky you¡¯ve never seen before, bleeding out from wounds you didn¡¯t know were coming.
The ship drifts closer, and the hull groans with every lurch against the shallows. The shoreline sharpens into view¡ªsparse beaches of wet stones and towering cliffs draped in blue-green foliage. The vegetation climbs like veins, strangling the rock. There¡¯s something suffocating about the landscape, something unsettling, something signaling that this land is beyond hostile.
A flash of bronze catches Captain Lema¡¯s eye.
Figures emerge from the tree line, moving deliberately, fluid as predators circling prey. They wear deep blue tunics with bronze adornments that glint under the pale sky, and their wickedly sharp spears catch the light. They move in formation, their expressions unreadable beneath masks carved from wood and painted with swirling patterns¡ªherons with sharp beaks, crocodiles with jagged jaws, and barracudas with gaping maws full of teeth.
The water slaps against the hull. Captain Lema inspects the faces of the warriors on shore. Cold eyes. Firm grips. Not a hint of welcome.
Gartzen leans close. ¡°We¡¯re not exactly getting a warm reception.¡±
Captain Lema grunts. ¡°I noticed.¡± He¡¯s been here before¡ªnot here, but places like this within Legido. Territories where a handshake hides a knife, and words you don¡¯t understand in the local dialect mean either ¡°welcome¡± or ¡°you¡¯re about to die.¡± Gartzen¡¯s observation, although obvious, is right: this is not a place for reckless moves. He knows better than to assume any measure of safety.
¡°Shall we announce ourselves, Captain?¡± Gartzen¡¯s tone carries the hint of a smirk, but it¡¯s the kind that means I¡¯d rather not be the one to say hello first.
Captain Lema shifts his gaze from the warriors to the ship¡¯s crew. The sailors look ready to jump out of their skins, fidgeting with ropes and oars, casting nervous glances toward the shore. No one will be calm until Lema makes the first move¡ªand even then, calm is asking a lot.
¡°Lower the boat,¡± Captain Lema orders. His voice is calm, though his gut twists tighter with every word. The crew hesitates, just for a breath, before they obey.
The boat hits the water with a dull thud, and Lema steps into it, followed closely by Gartzen and two more of his most trusted men. The oars slice through the surf, propelling them toward the waiting warriors.
The figures on shore remain still, statuesque. They lower their spears, though they remain at the ready, eyes unblinking behind their carved masks. As Captain Lema approaches, one of them steps forward¡ªa tall man, his bronze chest plate polished to a dull gleam. His spear taps once against the ground, a sound sharp enough to cut through the mist.
The language that spills from the man¡¯s mouth is foreign, thick and fluid like the flow of river water over smooth stones. Though there¡¯s something awe-inspiring about it¡ªceremonial, commanding, and wholly incomprehensible.
Captain Lema exchanges a glance with Gartzen. ¡°Any idea what he said?¡±
¡°Something about how they¡¯re thrilled to have guests,¡± Gartzen replies dryly.
The warrior on shore tilts his head slightly, as if studying the intruders like birds might study prey¡ªdeciding whether to pounce or let them wriggle just a little longer. The oarsmen fumble, and the boat wobbles awkwardly as they try to steady it against the shifting tide. Captain Lema notices the way the warriors¡¯ grips tighten on their spears at the motion. They don¡¯t trust sudden movements. Neither would he.
The boat scrapes against the rocky beach, and Captain Lema steps out onto the wet stones with slow, deliberate steps. The tall warrior watches him closely, cautiously. Captain Lema raises both hands, palms open¡ªno threat, no sudden moves.
¡°Tell them we mean no harm,¡± Captain Lema mutters to Gartzen, though both men know it doesn¡¯t matter. The only thing that speaks in a place like this is strength and confidence.
Before Gartzen can translate the gesture¡ªor fake it, more likely¡ªthe warrior barks another order. Spears raise in unison, pointed directly at Captain Lema and his men.
¡°Well,¡± Gartzen mutters, ¡°this is going well.¡±
Captain Lema bites down a curse, keeping his expression neutral. He¡¯s played this game before: one wrong word, one wrong step, and you end up gutted and left to rot beneath the trees. You can¡¯t win these people over with charm; you survive by making them believe you¡¯re not worth killing.
The tall warrior steps closer, peering through his mask, and Captain Lema can feel the cold scrutiny behind those carved eyes. The warrior says something else, sharp and impatient. Lema¡¯s hand twitches toward his weapon, but he forces it to stay at his side. Not yet. Not unless you want this beach to be your grave.
¡°Now what?¡± Gartzen asks under his breath as he awaits Captain Lema¡¯s cue.
Captain Lema smiles tightly. ¡°We wait.¡±
What seems like years pass as the two sides stare at one another, unblinking. Eventually, the warrior steps back, lifts his spear, and gestures inland.
¡°Looks like they¡¯re not killing us,¡± Gartzen mutters. ¡°Not yet, anyway.¡±
The moment comes without warning. One gesture from the warrior clad in deep ocean blue, and the natives begin heading inland. Their movements are silent and precise, like a tide pulling away from the shore. Captain Lema and the others follow, though the shift from the familiar sands to the shadowed interior feels jarring, like stepping unprepared into another world. Lema¡¯s jaw tightens. Every step into this land feels like sinking deeper into quicksand. You don¡¯t fight it. You move slow, careful, and pray the ground doesn¡¯t give way beneath your feet.
The trail winds through a dense tangle of moss and towering trees, their trunks thick as ship masts and draped in a lattice of lichen. The forest smells of wet stone, pine, and damp silt. Every step is muffled by the thick, springy undergrowth. Mist coils between the branches, snaking through the canopy like restless spirits. Strange birds flit through the treetops. Their calls are sharp and alien, echoing across the wilderness with a haunting beauty.
The further they travel, the more unsettling it becomes. Captain Lema¡¯s crew marches in uneasy silence. Every rustle of leaves, every whisper of wind feels like the prelude to an ambush. With an eerie calm, the warriors lead them, resting their spears comfortably against their shoulders. Not a word has been exchanged between them since leaving the shore¡ªonly silent gestures and the occasional harsh glance from their masked leader.
Captain Lema tugs at the collar of his shirt, feeling the humidity settle heavy on his skin. He catches Gartzen¡¯s eye, who walks beside him with his hand never straying far from the hilt of his sword. A silent exchange passes between them: Stay alert. This place isn¡¯t what it seems. Gartzen has been his second-in-command long enough to sense trouble before it arrives, and Lema knows better than to ignore him.
This could be a trap, for all we know, he thinks. If this is a trap, it¡¯s a well-disguised one. No signs of aggression from the warriors¡ªjust that same eerie, deliberate silence as they lead the crew deeper into the heart of the forest.
Gradually, the rainforest begins to thin, and signs of habitation appear along the winding path. First, small clusters of wooden longboats rest on the riverbank, with curved and sleek hulls that catch the captain¡¯s attention. The only sound is the faint lap of water against the boats and the occasional shuffle of feet along the path. A handful of fishermen linger at the water¡¯s edge. They pause mid-task as the outsiders pass, nets hanging from their hands as they watch on with half curiosity, half fear. Then, they hurriedly return to their work, as if hoping the strange visitors might disappear if ignored.
The path widens into a well-worn road, lined with colorful banners woven from fabric that ripples in the breeze. Beyond, the grand city reveals itself¡ªa marvel nestled between the sea and the forest. Tiered stone terraces rise toward the sky, connected by narrow bridges arching over flowing canals. Structures with walls carved from wood and stone tower over bustling markets filled with vibrant produce and wares. The colors here are a feast for the senses¡ªbrilliant greens, deep blues, and warm oranges. Beautiful, Lema thinks for a moment, taking in the bounty of sights, smells, and sounds.
The city bustles with life, but the arrival of the strange outsiders disrupts the rhythm. Conversations stutter to silence as villagers turn to stare with rightfully wary expressions. Mothers pull their children closer. Shopkeepers pause, their hands hovering over displays of pottery and dried fish. Everyone fixes their eyes on the newcomers with a mixture of curiosity, suspicion, and fear.
Gartzen leans toward Lema as they pass a particularly crowded market square, where even the vendors have stopped haggling to gape at the newcomers. ¡°Feels like they¡¯ve never seen the likes of us before,¡± he mutters. His head is on a swivel, continuously searching the crowd for any signs of danger.
Captain Lema gives a curt nod. ¡°I suppose they¡¯re trying to figure out what we are.¡± Invaders or guests. Friends or enemies. He can¡¯t blame them. Put in their position, how would he feel about seeing such a sight? He wouldn¡¯t fare much better, he¡¯s certain.
The group reaches a broad avenue leading to the heart of the city. Ahead, a towering structure rises above the rest¡ªa citadel carved from the bones of the land itself, with walls that shimmer faintly beneath the overcast sky. Balconies jut out from its heights, draped with intricate banners in more of the deep blue that flutter like sails in the breeze. A palace, perhaps? Or maybe a fortress?
At the foot of the citadel, the masked warriors finally halt, gesturing for the crew to do the same. Lema¡¯s heart races as the large doors begin to creak open, revealing an interior courtyard filled with yet more warriors. He knows to exercise caution at a time like this. One wrong move, he thinks to himself, not daring to finish the expression out of a superstitious fear.A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.
No one speaks as they¡¯re led through the halls of the citadel, where the scent of woodsmoke and salt lingers. At the far end of the hall, seated on a carved wooden throne, sits the person who can only be the ruler of this place.
Lema studies him from across the room. A young man, barely into adulthood, draped in a flowing cape too large for his thin frame. The hem trails down the steps of the dais like an ocean wave pulling against the shore. His deep blue robe is trimmed with bronze thread, embroidered with some kind of sigil appearing to be a sea serpent in teal. It coils and twists around his torso as if it were strangling him, rather than embracing him. Heavy bronze bracelets dangle from his wrists, too loose for his slender arms, and a necklace rests awkwardly against his collarbone, as if it weighs more than he¡¯s prepared to carry.
His posture is stiff, and it¡¯s evident that he is frequently reminding himself to straighten his back. There¡¯s an awkwardness in the way his cape keeps slipping off one shoulder, forcing him to adjust it with small, frustrated movements. His jittery gaze sweeps across the room, and he frequently lifts his chin as if daring anyone to challenge his authority.
Neither Captain Lema nor Gartzen speaks as the young ruler surveys them. He presses his lips tightly together, and his eyes dart briefly to his attendants before settling on the newcomers. He watches them closely, fingers drumming nervously on the armrest of his throne.
The silence stretches. It¡¯s clear no one knows quite what to do. Who speaks first? What do you say? Captain Lema fears that any gesture he makes could be mistaken for a threat, and that would be the end of that. Finally, mercifully, the young man clears his throat, before speaking in a language Lema does not recognize¡ªthe same as the warriors who escorted them to this place. The words are sharp and clipped, but Captain Lema catches a repeated phrase, one that sounds like¡ Sanko?
There¡¯s a pause. Gartzen frowns, mouthing the word quietly. ¡°Sanko,¡± he murmurs again, tasting the unfamiliar syllables as if trying them on for size. Is this a greeting? A warning? Surely, it has some importance.
¡°Sanko,¡± Lema repeats, louder this time, eyes locked on the young ruler. The room stills as the word seems to hang in the air between them.
The exchange of glances stretches into more uncomfortable silence. Captain Lema glances at Gartzen, who returns the look with the same silent question: What now? The young ruler sits stiffly on the throne, his dark eyes watching the crew with cautious curiosity. Then, as if deciding it¡¯s necessary to break the tension, the young man raises a hand to his chest and taps it once.
¡°Pahua,¡± he says, the name¡ªor perhaps a title¡ªfalling flat in the still air.
Lema narrows his eyes. Pahoowa. The unfamiliar syllables are strange on the ear. Gartzen tilts his head, mouthing the word silently before offering Lema a skeptical glance.
¡°Pahoowa,¡± Gartzen mutters under his breath. ¡°What do you think¡ªhis name? His title? What if it means ¡®lord¡¯? Or ¡®king¡¯?¡±
¡°Or it means nothing at all,¡± Lema contemplates. He watches the young man¡ªPahoowa?¡ªclosely, waiting for another gesture, another sign that will make sense of the encounter.
The young ruler taps his chest again, slower this time, as if explaining to children. ¡°Pahua.¡±
Lema finally nods. ¡°Pahoowa.¡±
The young man¡¯s tense expression softens ever so slightly. It¡¯s a start, at least.
Though they still don¡¯t know what exactly any of it means, something shifts in the room. A glimmer of understanding, tenuous as it is. A connection. No matter what, they don¡¯t need to understand each other to realize that neither side can afford a conflict. Not now.
The days blur together after that. A steady rain coats the forest, leaving the air thick with mist and the ground slick beneath their boots. Time stretches thin, shapeless. Only the shift from gray dawn to dusk marks its passing. No stars pierce the constant overcast sky, and without the familiar markers of their homeland¡¯s constellations, Captain Lema feels untethered, unmoored by anything resembling certainty.
The presence of the ruler¡ªthis ¡®Pahoowa¡¯¡ªlingers in the background. He appears occasionally, mostly in silence, watching the Legido crew as they move about their camp. The people¡ªthe Sanko?¡ªseem cautious but curious, keeping a polite distance as they go about their routines. Meanwhile, the Legido crew stays alert, wary of every sound that carries through the dense forest or drifts from the shoreline.
What little communication they¡¯ve managed has been clumsy at best. Words exchanged, gestures half-understood. Gartzen has learned a few words from the villagers. Basic things¡ªwater, food, gestures toward peace. Lema picks up on them too, though his patience frays with every passing day. He needs answers. More than that, he needs his ship repaired, and to get back on course.
Captain Lema lingers near the edges of the village whenever he can, pretending to watch the fishermen haul in nets brimming with strange, glittering fish. But it¡¯s not the sea he¡¯s worried about¡ªit¡¯s the sands of time trickling away silently in his head. Every breath feels like a wasted moment, every glance at the horizon a reminder of how far from Legido they are. Supplies. Instructions. Reports to the Great Xiatli. His incomplete mission sits like a stone on his chest.
And now they¡¯re here, marooned in this strange land with no sense of time and no clear way forward. Ever the pragmatist, Gartzen will occasionally remind Lema that they need to focus on survival. ¡°We¡¯re no use to the Great Xiatli if we don¡¯t make it back alive.¡± Lema knows he¡¯s right, but this does little to ease the knot twisting in his gut.
¡°Legido?¡± Lema asks Pahua one afternoon while the ruler looks on at their camp. He says the word, points at himself, then to the horizon. It¡¯s the first time he¡¯s used their name¡ªhis people¡¯s name¡ªin front of Pahua. He looks the leader directly in the eye, hoping to make his meaning clear. We need to repair my ship. We need to leave. The young ruler stands in his long, flowing cape of deep blue and bronze, watching the crew like a hawk. His fingers twitch slightly at the word, but his face remains unreadable. Does he understand?
¡°Lekito,¡± Pahua repeats, his tone more certain now, as though practicing the sound for his own understanding. His anticipatory gaze lingers on Lema.
¡°Legido,¡± Gartzen mutters again under his breath, arms crossed tightly over his chest. He spares Lema a sidelong glance, his frustration thinly veiled. ¡°Does it matter if he gets it wrong?¡±
Lema frowns, but doesn¡¯t answer. Pahua taps his chest again. ¡°Lehito.¡±
Gartzen exhales sharply through his nose. ¡°Close enough, I suppose,¡± he says dryly. ¡°At least he¡¯s trying.¡±
Pahua speaks quickly and deliberately in response, as if each word could be the last word Lema ever hears. Lema exchanges a glance with Gartzen, who shrugs.
We don¡¯t have time for this, Captain Lema thinks to himself. How much longer until the ship is seaworthy again? The Great Xiatli waits. And while Gartzen might not feel the urgency as heavily as Lema does, it¡¯s there. A quiet pressure building in the back of Captain Lema¡¯s mind, like the storm clouds that gather on the horizon. He¡¯s running out of time.
He runs a hand over his face, wiping away the moisture that clings to his skin in this ever-damp air. ¡°We need to find a way off this stinking island,¡± he mumbles, more to himself than to Gartzen. He¡¯s barely seen the sun since they landed here. It¡¯s as though the clouds themselves are conspiring to keep them trapped.
Gartzen clears his throat. ¡°That hull isn¡¯t taking us far. We¡¯d sink before we cleared the reefs.¡±
Captain Lema turns to him, scowling. ¡°I thought you said it wasn¡¯t that bad.¡±
¡°I said it¡¯s fixable. If we get the right materials.¡± Gartzen folds his arms, glancing toward the shoreline where their ship rests awkwardly against the rocks, listing to one side. ¡°Rudder¡¯s cracked. Lost some planks along the hull. And we¡¯re running low on pitch.¡±
Lema exhales through his nose. He¡¯s painfully aware of what Gartzen isn¡¯t saying. We can¡¯t leave until this is fixed. And they don¡¯t have the tools or resources to do it all themselves.
Gartzen leans closer, lowering his voice. ¡°We¡¯re going to need their help, Captain. Whether we like it or not.¡±
As though he¡¯s unaware of the exchange between Captain Lema and Gartzen, Pahua speaks again¡ªjust one word, short and sharp: Sanqo. He gestures to himself, the land, and his people. There¡¯s that word again.
¡°Sanko,¡± Lema repeats. His brow furrows. So this is the name of the land? Or is it a title? A kingdom? There¡¯s no telling for sure, but at least there¡¯s some kind of understanding between the two sides developing.
By now, Ux¨ªo has lost count of the days. He paces the length of the temporary shelter they¡¯ve been offered. Pahua¡¯s presence is everywhere. His influence gradually grows within the village. The power he exerts over his people is undeniable, even though Lema can see it¡¯s fragile, as if the cracks are ready to split open beneath the surface at any moment. Pahua demands respect, expects loyalty. But as Lema has begun to adjust to this island and its people, he quickly recognizes that none of this was earned.
It¡¯s during one of these restless days that Pahua approaches Captain Lema and Gartzen again. There¡¯s something different this time¡ªa purpose in his stride. He carries with him a rolled-up piece of hide, intricately marked with symbols that neither Lema nor Gartzen can make sense of. He unfurls it before them, laying it out on the makeshift wooden table made from driftwood in front of them with a thud.
The symbols seem to dance on the hide, but Captain Lema can¡¯t read a single one of them. What are they supposed to represent? Buildings? Mountains? Villages? They might as well be some ancient runes from a world far removed from Legido.
Pahua speaks again, pointing to the hide, then back to himself. His words are flowing now, but their meaning is lost to Lema. Only the tone is clear¡ªserious, grave, and filled with desperation. Gartzen frowns as he leans closer, tracing a finger along the edge of the hide.
Lema watches Pahua¡¯s expression closely. There¡¯s something at play here¡ªa bargain. The Sanko ruler needs something, that much is obvious, Lema thinks. But what he¡¯s asking in return¡ªLema isn¡¯t sure yet.
¡°This might be some kind of map,¡± Gartzen posits, ¡°judging by some of these shapes. But what is he getting at here?¡±
Pahua¡¯s hand hovers over the ¡®map¡¯. He assertively taps one area, just beyond what could be assumed to be their immediate location¡ªcloser to the coast but in territory unfamiliar to Lema.
¡°What¡¯s he saying?¡± Captain Lema asks exasperatedly.
Gartzen shakes his head, still puzzled. ¡°I don¡¯t know. But whatever it is, I think he wants us to go there.¡±
Lema straightens as a spark of understanding flashes in his mind. This is the bargain. ¡®Pahoowa¡¯ wants something¡ªan expedition, a raid, maybe even a show of force. In exchange, perhaps they¡¯ll earn the cooperation they need to repair the ship and finally depart this island.
Eventually, Pahua leaves Captain Lema to sit alone at the makeshift table, who absentmindedly spins a brass compass between his fingers. The needle stutters and shivers, like it¡¯s uncertain which way to point. Across the camp, the forest breathes in the late afternoon, a strange mixture of mist and rain clinging to the air. The ocean crashes rhythmically somewhere beyond the treetops, and he finds its call almost comforting¡ªalmost.
Close by, Gartzen leans back in his seat. He crosses his arms, his ever-watchful gaze fixed on the Sanqo figures moving quietly through the edge of village. Their bronze-and-blue tunics shimmer in the dimming light, but there¡¯s an odd stiffness in their movements.
¡°There¡¯s something going on in this place,¡± Gartzen mutters, just loud enough for Lema to hear. ¡°I don¡¯t like it. Not one bit.¡±
Captain Lema doesn¡¯t respond immediately. His gaze drifts to the young ruler standing at the far edge of the camp. He¡¯s cloaked in his elaborate cape, looking every bit the uncertain monarch trying to play the part of something greater than he is. He stands among a cluster of older men¡ªSanko nobles, Lema judges by their heavy jewelry and stern expressions. Their conversation seems cordial at first, but Lema catches the touch of tension in the way one man gestures, how the young ruler¡¯s jaw tightens just slightly before he forces a smile.
¡°It doesn¡¯t matter what¡¯s going on,¡± Lema says quietly. ¡°What matters is how we get them to help us leave.¡±
Gartzen glances at him from the corner of his eye, brow furrowed. ¡°This isn¡¯t our game to play. We meddle in their politics, and it¡¯ll blow up in our faces. We¡¯re here for supplies and safe passage, nothing more.¡±
Lema flicks the compass lid shut with a snap, frustration simmering beneath his calm demeanor. Nothing more? No. They needed this. The ship stranded, the mission incomplete, the Great Xiatli waiting¡ªwaiting for a report, for success, for proof that Captain Lema isn¡¯t another failure in a string of disappointments. He couldn¡¯t let that happen. Not now. Not ever.
¡°Of course. You¡¯re right,¡± Lema says softly, but the words feel like a lie, even to him. Because if there¡¯s an opportunity here, he needs to take it¡ªbefore the sands of time run out completely.
Later that evening, the fires crackle low as the village settles into uneasy silence. Captain Lema watches from the shadows as Pahua paces at the edge of the central clearing, his grand cape dragging in the dirt. The nobles are gone now, but it¡¯s evident their exchange still weighs heavily on the young ruler¡¯s mind.
Lema steps closer, just out of sight, watching the Sanqo leader mutter to himself, gripping his arms tightly. Gartzen had called it right: Pahua¡¯s confidence is a brittle shell, one that¡¯s already beginning to strain under the pressure. The burden of a throne that teeters beneath him.
Before Lema can retreat, Pahua spots him. Their eyes lock, and he strides toward him with purpose. In his hands, he rolls a piece of hide, the same one from before. He unfurls it on the nearest flat surface with an almost frantic energy, jabbing a finger at one particular spot.
¡°Sanqo,¡± Pahua says, sharp and urgently. He gestures to the map, to the place marked near the coast. Then he taps his chest, eyes wide and imploring.
Captain Lema exchanges a glance with Gartzen, who steps forward cautiously, arms still crossed. ¡°What is he even asking for?¡± Gartzen wonders under his breath.
Pahua points to the mark on the map again, then toward the forest as if the answer lies somewhere in the wilderness. He¡¯s visibly agitated, shifting from foot to foot, hands twitching at his sides.
¡°This boy¡¯s hanging by a thread,¡± Gartzen whispers.
Captain Lema stares at the map, then at the young ruler¡¯s wild eyes. It¡¯s more than desperation¡ªit¡¯s fear. A dangerous kind of fear. It¡¯s the kind that makes people do reckless things. ¡®Pahoowa¡¯ is afraid of losing something. Perhaps it¡¯s not just his throne, but his grasp on power entirely.
Lema clears his throat. ¡°What do you want from us, Pahoowa?¡± he asks slowly and carefully, though he knows the young ruler won¡¯t understand the words. He taps the map, then points at himself. ¡°What is it you are asking?¡±
Pahua stares at them, his lips parting slightly as if trying to form the right words, but nothing comes. Instead, he clenches his jaw and takes a slow, deliberate step forward. His hands twitch at his sides, uncertain. Then, with a sharp exhale, he drops to one knee, head bowed, pressing a fist over his heart and lowering his gaze.
The space falls into an uncomfortable stillness, and Gartzen shifts beside Captain Lema. ¡°What in the nine hells is he doing?¡± Gartzen mutters in astonishment.
Lema¡¯s stomach knots at the sight. The gesture is clear¡ªan unspoken plea for assistance. He kneels as if this is the only option left to him.
Captain Lema finally understands. The cracks in the boy¡¯s rule are deeper than he thought. His people are turning against him, and he¡¯s looking to the Legido for salvation. This is not a king securing an alliance; this is a drowning man reaching for anything that might keep him afloat.
¡°We¡¯re in deep now, Captain,¡± Gartzen says quietly, resigned.
Lema doesn¡¯t respond. He knows Gartzen¡¯s right. There¡¯s no clean way out of this. Not without getting their hands dirty. Not without consequences.
Pahua slowly raises his head, and his dark eyes meet Captain Lema¡¯s. He taps his chest once, then gestures outward¡ªfirst to his people, then to the horizon, and finally back to the map. The meaning is apparent: Aid me, and this will be yours to navigate.
They sit in silence for a moment while Captain Lema contemplates. He presses a hand to his temple, trying to piece together what they can do, what they should do.
But then, from across the clearing, a sudden commotion erupts. Voices rise in anger, and Captain Lema sees the Sanqo nobles gathered in heated discussion once more. One of them points directly at Pahua and Captain Lema, shouting something that makes the young ruler flinch as if struck.
Pahua turns to Captain Lema and Gartzen, desperation written across his face. Captain Lema realizes the truth. They¡¯re not just caught in someone else¡¯s storm¡ªthey¡¯ve become part of it.
149 - Haesan
The world tilts beneath me. I feel the ground drop out from under my feet, as if I¡¯ve stepped off the edge of a cliff. Achutli¡ªthe man I¡¯ve hated, the man I¡¯ve feared¡ªis gone.
And it shouldn¡¯t hurt. It shouldn¡¯t feel like this¡ªthis knot in my chest, this awful, gaping thing that steals the air from my lungs. But it does. It claws its way through me, leaving nothing but raw, jagged edges in its wake.
I steal a glance toward Taqsame, who remains rooted where he stands, still stunned from Achutli¡¯s death, the death of his foe. His sword arm droops, his expression is a mixture of rage and disbelief.
Xelhua¡¯s hand clamps down on my shoulder, steadying me. His grip is firm, grounding. But it can¡¯t stop the ache.
I try to take in the scene, force it to make sense, but nothing aligns. Achutli, the tyrant, the shadow that loomed over everything I knew, now lies crumpled on the stone like a discarded doll. All his power, his ambition, his dark magic¡ªeverything he did to seize this land¡ªextinguished in an instant.
I told myself that I would feel nothing if he died. That if it ever happened, I¡¯d shrug it off like a dull wind passing through an open window. No grief. No regret. And yet, the weight in my chest settles heavier than I imagined. Not sadness exactly¡ªmore like the numbness that follows after a venomous sting, when you realize too late how far the poison has spread.
This moment was supposed to change everything. The world should feel lighter. The sky clearer. But it doesn¡¯t. The war rages on, the enemy stands tall, and all the hatred I carried for Achutli now has nowhere to go.
Maybe it¡¯s not even hate anymore. Maybe it¡¯s loss.
He¡¯s gone, and I¡¯m still here. What do I do with that?
The wind shifts, dragging the acrid scent of ash and scorched terrain through the ruined city. Bodies litter the streets in grotesque contortions, armor shattered, arrows buried deep in flesh. Somewhere beyond the smoke and blood, I hear the scrape of obsidian on stone, the whimper of a wounded warrior calling for help that will never come. This city has known nothing but death for far too long.
There is no relief. Only emptiness.
The gods have a cruel sense of humor. The moment you think one nightmare is over, another steps in to take its place.
Xelhua¡¯s hand remains on my shoulder, but I shrug it off. My legs feel brittle, like they¡¯ll shatter beneath me if I try to move. Not now, I tell myself. You cannot fall apart now. I clutch the hilt of Inuxeq¡¯s dagger¡ªnot much against sorcery, but it¡¯s all I have.
Taqsame shakes himself free from his shock with a snarl. He raises his sword high, as if he can cleave the very sky apart. ¡°For Qantua!¡± he cries, his voice echoing off the stone ruins. He rushes toward the sorcerer, his black-and-gold armor glinting in the dim light, like a comet barreling straight at the heart of the enemy.
The sorcerer doesn¡¯t flinch.
There¡¯s no movement. No chant. Just a flick of his wrist. Then, suddenly, the air around Taqsame ripples with unbearable heat. A circle of flames erupts from the ground as numerous deep chasms open up around the palace, encasing him in a spiral of fire. The world bursts into orange and red, as if the very sky has ignited.
For a heartbeat, Taqsame disappears inside the blaze.
I notice I¡¯ve stopped breathing.
But then Taqsame stumbles out of the flames. His armor is charred, his skin is blistered and raw. He drops to one knee, gasping for air. His sword falls from his limp hand and clatters uselessly onto the ground.
He¡¯s alive. Barely. But the fight is already over.
And the sorcerer knows it.
¡°Is that all?¡± the sorcerer sneers, amusement curling the edges of his voice. ¡°Is that the best Qantua has to offer?¡±
Taqsame tries to rise, but his body betrays him. His knees buckle beneath his weight. He glares up at the sorcerer, defiant but broken, like a man staring at the collapse of his own legacy.
A pulse of heat erupts from the sorcerer¡¯s body, an invisible wave that slams into Taqsame like a wall. He¡¯s hurled backward, limbs flailing as he crashes into the stone with a sickening smack.
He groans, struggling to rise, but the sorcerer is already swiftly moving. Before Taqsame can regain his footing, a tendril of fire coils around his legs, tying him to the ground. He looses a brief howl as his free hand scrabbles at the burning rope of flame searing into his flesh.
From the shadows, the grotesque creatures emerge¡ªthose awful gray beasts with glowing sapphire eyes. Their hulking forms ripple with bulging, unnatural muscles that jut out in odd places from their arms and legs. Their claws scrape against the stone as they lumber toward us.
Taqsame pats the ground, his hand desperately searching for his dropped sword. He clumsily tries to fight against the flames that bind him, trying to stand and mount an attack against this all too powerful sorcerer. In his struggle, he flops about like a fish on dry land, hoping to find something, anything, to continue his hapless battle against this evil wrapped in blood-red robes. I know he¡¯s not strong enough to face this. Yet he persists, defiantly. Arrogantly. Ignorantly.
I grip the dagger tighter, the hilt slick with sweat. ¡°We can¡¯t just leave him.¡±
Xelhua glances at me. ¡°If we stay, we¡¯ll die, child.¡±
The gray beasts close in, their eyes fixed on Taqsame. One of them lets out a guttural growl, its fangs bared as it lunges toward him. Taqsame¡¯s hand barely manages to clasp the hilt of his sword and raises it just in time to put up a defense. But his movements are slow and sluggish, like a man fighting in muddy waters. The beast crashes into him, knocking him to the ground with a revolting thud.
The sorcerer chuckles¡ªa sound like dry leaves rasping against stone. He lifts his hand again, and the tendril of flame snakes toward Taqsame once more. The Qantua warrior doesn¡¯t move, doesn¡¯t resist. For a brief, agonizing moment, I think this is it¡ªthis is how he¡¯ll die.
But then the sound comes.
A low and mournful horn blares across the battlefield, cutting through the chaos. I¡¯ve heard this sound before. It¡¯s the signal of the Qantua warriors. Praise the Eleven¡ªInuxeq¡¯s army is here!
The ground beneath us trembles as the Qantua charge from the ruins, their war cries filling the air. They move as one, a surge of black and gold, clashing against the remnants of the Eye in the Flame like waves crashing against a crumbling shore.
The gray beasts lurch forward to meet them, their glowing sapphire eyes narrowing on their quarry. Their movements are wrong¡ªjerky, yet impossibly fast, like they¡¯re being tugged by invisible strings. One of the creatures lunges, swiping its massive claws through the air. The blow lands with a wet crunch, splitting flesh and shattering bone as though the warrior were made of nothing more than wet clay. Blood sprays in a crimson arc, painting the beast¡¯s matted hide as it pulls its claws free, strings of viscera clinging to its talons. The warrior doesn¡¯t even have time to scream¡ªhe crumples to the ground, lifeless, his mangled chest caved inward like a smashed fruit.
A shout rises from the ranks, rallying others forward. I squint through the calamity and realize that Taqsame¡¯s warriors, the Qantua who followed him so loyally, have not deserted the fight. They surge from the far side of the ruins, adding their strength to Inuxeq¡¯s forces. They fall into step, shoulder to shoulder with their brothers and sisters. They merge into a single line, one unified Qantua force, as they crash against the cultists and these horrific, unnatural gray creatures.
Inuxeq¡¯s first arrow is loosed before she even reaches the fray. It flies true, hitting a cultist draped in red. He stumbles, clutching his throat as blood spatters across the broken stones. But she doesn¡¯t stop to watch him fall. She¡¯s already nocked a second arrow, her movements fluid and deadly, as natural to her as breathing. One after another, her arrows fly. A figure falls, then another¡ªeach merciless shot leaving only gasping, crumpled bodies in their wake.
Xelhua moves like a storm unleashed. Gray-robed figures rush toward us, their faces twisted with fanatical rage. But Xelhua is a wall of unrelenting force. He pivots sharply, his blade catching one attacker in the chest before whirling to block another¡¯s strike. I barely have time to register the brutal efficiency of his movements¡ªevery swing, every step calculated to keep them away from me. The cultists hesitate for only a heartbeat, but it''s enough to see the fear in their eyes.
With this, Xelhua pounces. One after another, he twists and and shifts, slashing the nearly dozen or so robed figures and dispatching them with practiced ease. They flail desperately, trying to find some way to slow down this valiant warrior. But every effort is futile. In just a few quick movements, Xelhua has taken them all down.
The warriors around her swing their obsidian blades, ferociously clashing against the gray-robed cultists. For a moment, the balance shifts. I can see it. The Qantua are pressing forward, gaining ground, pushing the cultists back.
But then one of the gray beasts steps into their path. It¡¯s massive, towering over the warriors by a head, its muscles flexed and rolled under the sickly blue-gray skin. A Qantua warrior rushes it, sword raised high, but the beast swipes him aside as if he were nothing more than a fly. His body crumples against the stones, unmoving.
Inuxeq raises her bow once more, aiming at the creature that now lumbers toward her. Cooly, she releases an arrow. It strikes the beast square in the chest, but shatters uselessly against its twisted, unnatural flesh. Her eyes narrow, but she doesn¡¯t waver. Without missing a beat, she pulls a small vial from her belt, pouring its contents along her next arrow. She lights the tip with a quick flick of her flint and steel before launching it, a streak of flames seemingly trailing behind.
The arrow strikes the beast¡¯s shoulder, igniting a small patch of flesh. Pride washes over Inuxeq¡¯s face as she awaits the monster¡¯s inevitable fall. But the creature merely stumbles back a step as the flame flickers, then dies.
¡°Well, that¡¯s not a good sign,¡± Inuxeq remarks, scowling.
The gray beasts roar in unison, and the ground beneath our feet quakes. One of them lunges, covering an impossible distance in a single bound. It plows into a line of Qantua warriors, claws tearing through armor and flesh. Two warriors go down instantly, their cries of pain swallowed by the beast¡¯s furious growls.
With its attention fixed back on Inuxeq, another beast charges straight at her. Its claws scrape against the stone as it barrels forward. In a flash, she vanishes, and the creature swipes at air. She then reappears a few steps away, having somehow dodged the strike. Hurriedly, she retrieves a dagger sheathed at her hip and slices at it with a quick slash. The blade barely cuts into its tough, grayish skin, leaving only a faint line where blood should be. The creature¡¯s face twists in rage, and it swings one massive arm toward her. She leaps back, narrowly avoiding its deadly reach.
Inuxeq looses another arrow, hitting the beast squarely in its shoulder, but it only snarls and rushes forward, undeterred. She curses under her breath, fingers fumbling to nock another arrow, but her gaze shifts to the Qantua warriors at her flank. The line they¡¯re holding is buckling under the sheer weight of cultists and the relentless, hulking gray beasts pressing in.
¡°Fall back to the second line!¡± she shouts to her warriors, her voice carrying over the clash of weapons and the guttural roars of the beasts. ¡°Give yourselves room to strike!¡±
The Qantua hesitate, then slowly yield ground. They draw back in a controlled retreat as they angle their shields to deflect the worst of the cultists¡¯ blows. Inuxeq looses another arrow at a charging beast, but as it strikes its chest, the monster barely even slows. She steps back, breathing hard, realizing just how little their weapons seem to matter against this enemy.
But even as she pulls back her bowstring to release another arrow, the gray beast lunges at her, claws slashing through the air toward her throat. She pivots, narrowly dodging, feeling the rush of wind as its claws swipe past her face. In one motion, she steps back, steadies her aim, and releases. The arrow flies¡ªa perfect strike, sinking deep into the creature¡¯s eye. The beast rears back with a furious howl, but the wound only seems to ignite its fury.
Behind her, I see the Qantua forming a defensive line, their shields and obsidian blades at the ready, as they attempt to press back against the cultists who come at them in endless waves. Some warriors are dragged down by the cultists, overwhelmed by sheer numbers. Yet others hold their ground, fending off the attackers with relentless, brutal efforts. But every small gain costs blood, and it¡¯s clear that the warriors are struggling to hold the line.
Inuxeq lets out a frustrated exhale and pulls back to join Xelhua and me. The beasts are something otherworldly, defying all the tactics that have worked before. She locks eyes with Xelhua, and in that brief, brutal moment, they share a raw, wordless exchange between them¡ªthe kind that only surfaces when you¡¯re not sure you¡¯ll survive.
¡°Is there no way to kill these things?¡± Xelhua roars, wildly swinging his sword as he fends off another beast.
¡°If there is, we¡¯ll find it,¡± Inuxeq declares. She casts a quick glance at me, a silent command to stay back, to let them handle this. I don¡¯t argue. There¡¯s nothing I can do against monsters like these, nothing but get in their way.
And then, cutting through the chaos like a hot knife, comes a sharp, vaguely familiar voice: ¡°Keeping my daggers warm for me, I see.¡±Unauthorized use of content: if you find this story on Amazon, report the violation.
The words freeze her mid-motion, her arrow poised but not released. Her gaze snaps to the source of the voice, and there he is, striding toward them from the haze of battle like he owns the place. Blood streaks his face and arms, his crimson-and-black armor scratched and battered. But Mexqutli¡¯s expression is one of calm, as though he hasn¡¯t been in the midst of an intense battle.
¡°Of all the times,¡± Inuxeq mutters under her breath, lowering her bow. The beast before her growls, forgotten for the moment.
Mexqutli doesn¡¯t wait for a warm welcome¡ªor any welcome, really. He sprints past her with startling speed, ducking under a lunging beast and slashing upward in a single, fluid motion. His blade bites deep into its underbelly, and with a guttural howl, the creature collapses into a heap.
Another beast charges toward him from the side, but Mexqutli pivots gracefully, driving his sword into its neck with a savage efficiency. He pulls the blade free in one smooth motion, the black edge glinting as he spins to face the next foe.
¡°Are you just going to stand there gawking, or do you plan to help?¡± he shouts, not breaking stride as he slashes through another cultist.
Inuxeq glares at him, but her bowstring hums as she releases an arrow, striking a cultist advancing on his flank. ¡°You have a lot to answer for, Mexqutli,¡± she snaps.
¡°Add it to the list,¡± he retorts, his obsidian blade arcing through the air to decapitate another cultist. He spares her a quick glance, his eyes flashing to the dagger in my clutches. ¡°Now, about my daggers¡¡±
¡°Not a chance,¡± Inuxeq growls, her arrow already nocked and aimed at another target.
Mexqutli raises a brow, looking genuinely offended. ¡°They are mine, Tuatiu.¡±
¡°They¡¯re mine now,¡± she bites back, loosing her arrow. It strikes true, felling a cultist mid-charge. ¡°You lost your claim when you vanished into the night.¡±
¡°You wound me,¡± he quips as he cleaves through another enemy.
Xelhua steps forward, his massive frame tense as his eyes lock onto Mexqutli. ¡°Who is this¡ traitor?¡± he growls.
Mexqutli turns to him, and he notices the turquoise feathers of Xelhua¡¯s helmet and the long, flowing achiote cape. ¡°Another Iqsuwa, I see,¡± he says, his tone clipped. ¡°But I do not remember inviting you to this dance.¡±
Xelhua¡¯s grip tightens on his sword. ¡°You wear the colors of the Timuaq. Explain yourself.¡±
¡°Later,¡± Mexqutli says dismissively, already moving toward another cultist. ¡°Right now, I am busy saving your hide.¡±
Inuxeq hurriedly steps between them with her dagger in hand. ¡°Mexqutli, you¡¯re here. Great. Now fight. Xelhua, leave the accusations for when we¡¯re not being torn apart by monsters and cultists.¡±
Begrudgingly, the two warriors turn their attention back to the battlefield. Mexqutli charges ahead, his blade ferociously cutting down another cultist. A smirk creases the corner of his mouth, until he notices the beasts rising off the ground, appearing unfazed by his recent attacks.
¡°What is¡¡± Mexqutli is too stunned to finish his thought, staring at the creatures with his mouth agape in awe.
As the cultists press in, Mexqutli plants himself firmly at the front line. Each strike of his sword is swift, each kill clean and final. He moves like a man with nothing to lose, and the cultists fall back, hesitant to engage him directly.
Mexqutli glances over his shoulder at Inuxeq, a cocky grin on his bloodied face. ¡°Nowmay I have my daggers?¡± he calls out again.
Inuxeq narrows her eyes and lifts her bow. ¡°You¡¯ll get them back when you earn them.¡± She watches him with scorn, wrestling with conflicted feelings that are a tangled knot of anger, relief, and something she refuses to name. For now, she pushes it aside and focuses on the battle. There will be time for answers later.
Mexqutli chuckles, his blade slicing through another cultist. ¡°Challenge accepted.¡±
The battlefield shifts, the tide turning ever so slightly with Mexqutli¡¯s arrival. But even with his skill, the fight is far from over. The sorcerer watches from a distance, his golden eyes narrowing as he begins to weave his next spell, the air around him growing hotter and heavier.
Mexqutli pauses, his chest heaving as he catches his breath. His gaze locks onto the sorcerer, and for a moment, his usual bravado fades, replaced by something sharper, more focused. He tightens his grip on his blade, his posture shifting as he prepares to face the next enemy.
It¡¯s difficult for me to discern what Mexqutli mutters to himself, but it sounds something like, ¡°Sunfire¡¡±
The sorcerer in crimson watches with cold amusement, his arms folded across his chest, as if this is all a game to him. The flames reflect in his eyes, turning them into pools of molten gold.
And then I see it¡ªthe amulet around his neck. It glows faintly, pulsing with a dark, ominous light. The amulet¡ the power¡
Something inside me stirs, some moment of recognition. The amulet. It¡¯s just like the one worn by Inuxeq, who possesses such otherworldly power.
Without thinking, I step forward. ¡°The amulet!¡± I shout, my voice breaking through the mayhem. ¡°That¡¯s what he¡¯s using!¡±
Xelhua¡¯s eyes narrow. ¡°What on Pachil are you talking about, child?¡±
¡°The amulet¡ªhe¡¯s drawing his power from it. We need to take it from him.¡±
Xelhua looks at me like I¡¯ve lost my mind. Perhaps I have. ¡°And how do you suggest we do that?¡±
I don¡¯t have an answer. I don¡¯t know how we¡¯ll manage it. But I know one thing for sure: if we don¡¯t stop him, if we don¡¯t take that amulet, we¡¯ll all die here.
The world shudders around me, the sound of clashing metal and distant screams swallowed by the smothering heat. The sorcerer in crimson stands firmly in place, his form wreathed in a dark, undulating shimmer. He watches us¡ªno, he watches me, his gaze pulling me in like a tether, as if he¡¯s already decided something about me that I haven¡¯t realized yet.
A quick burst of movement¡ªXelhua pulls me back from the edge of my thoughts. His hand is firm on my shoulder, but his grip slackens as his attention shifts to the monstrous gray beasts pushing through the Qantua ranks. One of the creatures, with those gleaming sapphire eyes, fixes on him, each step a weighted tremor in the land.
Somewhere, Taqsame stirs on the ground, defying the flames scorching his flesh. His movements are labored, his fingers twitching around the hilt of his fallen blade. He hasn¡¯t registered the hopelessness of his fight¡ªnot yet.
Inuxeq materializes at my side, silent in a cold fury with her bow raised. She knows. They all know. There¡¯s no grand strategy here, no neat path to victory¡ªjust an instinctual, desperate drive to survive. Her gaze shifts past me, over my shoulder. She doesn¡¯t need to speak; I follow her eyes to the amulet glinting against the sorcerer¡¯s chest, its light pulsing like a second heartbeat.
Something inside me stirs¡ªa strange, distant echo that feels less like a thought and more like a memory I¡¯d rather not recall. I can feel it drawing me closer, that gem nestled against his robes, thrumming with the same dark energy I¡¯ve seen touch Inuxeq, touch the coral amulet she carries.
The beasts advance, their monstrous forms soaking in the blood that stains the ground. They are relentless, half-seeing, unyielding, tearing into Qantua warriors as though their lives are inconsequential. The sorcerer¡¯s fingers twitch against the amulet, and for a fraction of a second, his gaze drifts away.
My hand tightens around the dagger¡¯s hilt, though I can¡¯t say what I plan to do. I only know I have to get close, closer than anyone here could imagine. I feel Xelhua shift beside me, his breath harsh and shallow. His gaze lands on the sorcerer, follows the curve of his hand to the amulet, and a flicker of understanding passes over his face.
A beat. Inuxeq meets my eyes, the grim line of her mouth telling me all I need to know. There are no words exchanged, no pointed glances, only a shared understanding as her bow lifts, her arrow notched, aimed, her fingers tense.
And without a sound, she releases.
The sorcerer raises a hand, but his reaction is a heartbeat too slow¡ªthe arrow grazes his shoulder, its sharp edge slicing the thick fabric of his robe. A red stain blooms, and for a fleeting instant, his posture falters, his hand lowering ever so slightly.
In that small window of time, Xelhua lunges forward, a blur of motion, his sword angled toward the amulet. The sorcerer snarls, meeting Xelhua¡¯s strike with a slash of fire that arcs through the air, scorching stone and flesh alike. Xelhua staggers back, his face dark with frustration. He steadies himself, but his movements more cautious, like a puma circling prey it knows it can¡¯t easily kill.
One of the beasts lunges at Xelhua. Inuxeq instantly appears out of thin air, intercepting, slashing at the creature¡¯s legs with her dagger. It buys me a precious moment.
My gaze drifts back to the amulet, its light like a beacon against the darkness. I don¡¯t know how, but I can feel it¡ªits power seeping into the space around it, like poison leeching into water. It calls to something in me, something I¡¯ve spent my life refusing to acknowledge. It knows me. And I know it.
The sorcerer¡¯s hand clenches around the amulet. He looks at me, and a faint smile pulls at his lips. He senses my intent as I edge closer, my gaze locked on the amulet. His sneer is smug, like he¡¯s been waiting for this. He raises a hand, summoning a wave of heat so intense the air around him distorts.
¡°Do you think you can just take this power?¡± His voice rasps, grating through the din. He raises his hand, summoning a pulse that radiates through the ground beneath us, the stones hissing and cracking.
Inuxeq raises her bow and releases her one more arrow. The sorcerer¡¯s hand twitches, and the arrow disintegrates, nothing but embers before it reaches him. Her lips press tight, her frustration etched across her face, and she reaches for another arrow.
My heart slams against my chest, my breaths coming in shallow bursts as I feel my hand stretching toward the amulet. I feel its presence calling to me, not just some piece of jewelry, but a force¡ªalive and pulsing with power. The amulet thrums, its energy pulling at me, stirring my mind with fragments I can barely grasp. It feels like¡ destiny.
Xelhua lifts his sword. ¡°Draw him out, Inuxeq. I¡¯ll end this.¡±
Inuxeq snaps out of her haze and nods. She sidesteps, and her next arrow is aimed at one of the hideous gray beasts that lurches forward. The arrow sinks deep, and the creature lets out a guttural snarl. The sapphire light of its eyes narrow as it locks onto her. The beast lunges, and she disappears once again, vanishing from its reach.
Frustration crosses the sorcerer¡¯s face, just for an instant. It¡¯s subtle, barely a twitch of his mouth, but I catch it. In that moment, I notice that the amulet feels different somehow, like its hold is wavering. Like we might have a chance.
The sorcerer¡¯s hand flares, and a blinding wave of searing fire roars toward me. I stumble back, shielding my face, and Xelhua yanks me to the side. After confirming I¡¯m okay, Xelhua lets me go, then strides toward the sorcerer with his sword ready. The man in crimson watches him, his smirk twisting into something cruel as he raises his hand, flames coiling like living serpents toward Xelhua.
Inuxeq¡¯s voice cuts through the noise. ¡°Focus on the amulet, Haesan!¡± She releases another arrow, this one aimed for his chest. He swats it aside like a bothersome pest, but I feel it: his focus shifts, just for a heartbeat.
I reach out, my mind brushing against his. It¡¯s like plunging my hand into a seething cauldron. The connection hits me like a blow, a rush of chaos and fury that feels alive, writhing and clawing as if it could drag me under. His thoughts are a dark, roiling sea, currents crashing and churning in directions that defy logic. Ambition festers there like a wound, oozing with a hunger for control so consuming it feels like it could devour the world whole.
And beneath it all, there¡¯s a deeper layer, a shadowed undercurrent I can barely touch before I have to pull back¡ªa chorus of voices, shrill and dissonant, screaming over one another in a maddening cacophony. Some plead, some curse, and others laugh maniacally, their tones twisting into one another like strands of barbed wire. It presses against my mind, suffocating and vile, and I feel the edges of my sanity fray as I brush too close to that abyss. It¡¯s not just ambition or power. It¡¯s fractured, splintered chaos, the mind of someone¡ªor something¡ªthat has long since lost its way.
I wrench myself back, my breath catching as nausea twists my stomach. His gaze snaps toward me, his eyes widening in a flash of confusion before narrowing with rage. For a heartbeat, I see it¡ªthe jagged edges of his psyche, the madness that has turned his mind into a labyrinth of torment and delusion. And for that fleeting moment, I realize what I touched wasn¡¯t just the mind of a man. It was an untethered and uncontainable storm, feeding on itself with a hunger that would never be satisfied.
Xelhua seizes the moment, closing the distance with a powerful stride. His sword slashes down toward the amulet, but the sorcerer slips aside, the blade missing by a hair. With a snarl, he retaliates, sending an intense blast of heat at Xelhua. He flings back, sprawling across the stone.
Inuxeq doesn¡¯t falter. She pulls another arrow, fingers tightening around the bowstring, intently staring down the amulet, and releases. The arrow is perfect, once again aimed right for his chest.
The amulet pulses, its dark energy radiating outward, and the arrow splinters to dust as it nears him. Inuxeq¡¯s jaw clenches, and she shakes her head in frustration as she nocks yet another arrow. One has to strike, she knows. She hopes.
The amulet presses against my mind, consuming. I steady myself and reach out with my thoughts, focusing all my will on breaking the sorcerer¡¯s hold. His resistance is like oil, slipping through my grasp. But I push harder, pouring every bit of focus I have into the connection.
The sorcerer staggers as he tries to resist. He struggles to steady himself, gnashing his teeth in pain. Seeing this, Inuxeq doesn¡¯t hesitate. She steps forward, draws her bow, and releases¡ªthe arrow aimed at the amulet itself.
It hits true, snapping the chain around his neck. The amulet tumbles to the ground, glinting in the firelight. For a brief, breathless moment, everything stills.
The sorcerer¡¯s eyes widen, rage contorting his face as he reaches for the amulet. But my hand darts out, fingers closing around the cool, pulsing metal first. A surge of energy rushes through me, sharp and electric. I gasp, feeling its might and energy settle deep within me.
And in that heartbeat, I feel it. The amulet¡¯s raw and unrestrained power flows into me, sharpening my senses, amplifying my thoughts. I don¡¯t know how I¡¯m doing it, but I can feel the emotions of those around me¡ªfear, anger, resolve¡ªand I draw them in, weaving them into something solid, something I can wield.
The movement of the gray beasts slows, and then they freeze in place. The sapphire light in their eyes flickering like dying flames. I don¡¯t know how long I can hold them, but for now, it¡¯s enough.
¡°Haesan¡ªwhatever you¡¯re doing, don¡¯t stop!¡± Inuxeq¡¯s voice is faint, but I hear the urgency in it.
The sorcerer¡¯s gaze locks on me, his face contorted with rage, but he doesn¡¯t move, his hand clenched at his side. He knows. He knows he¡¯s lost control, that his power is slipping through his fingers, and I can feel his desperation, thick and rancid in the air.
Suddenly, I hear Inuxeq¡¯s voice crack with disbelief. ¡°Mexqutli?¡± She stares at him, bow faltering and frozen mid-draw.
¡°Keep moving!¡± he barks, even as blood trickles down his arm and splatters onto the scorched stone beneath him. His gaze doesn¡¯t meet hers¡ªhis focus is entirely on the sorcerer.
The sorcerer¡¯s eyes narrow, taking in this unexpected arrival with a sneer that twists into something cruel. ¡°And who are you, another llama for the slaughter?¡±
Mexqutli steps forward, planting himself between the sorcerer and Inuxeq, his blade raised, his battered armor reflecting the hellish glow of the battlefield. ¡°No,¡± he growls, his voice cutting through the din like the edge of his blade. ¡°I am the jaguar who will rip your throat out.¡±
With a speed that defies the pain etched across his features, Mexqutli charges. His blade slashes through the air, striking at the sorcerer in a blur of relentless, precise strikes. The sorcerer blocks him with arcs of flame and bursts of raw energy, but Mexqutli is relentless, his movements fueled by sheer will and fury.
¡°Inuxeq!¡± he shouts over his shoulder, his voice strained but unyielding. ¡°Take the others and go! Now!¡±
¡°No!¡± she cries, stepping forward. ¡°Not like this! You don¡¯t have to¡ª¡±
¡°Go!¡± Mexqutli roars, silencing her protest. I¡¯m confused by this exchange, but these two appear to have an understanding, and Inuxeq knows something about what Mexqutli is about to do.
The sorcerer¡¯s sneer deepens, and with a sharp twist of his hand, a wave of flame erupts, crashing toward Mexqutli like a tidal wave of molten fury. He doesn¡¯t budge. With a guttural cry, he thrusts his blade forward, slicing through the inferno, the obsidian edge glowing white-hot as it deflects the searing heat.
The sorcerer stumbles, his footing momentarily unsteady. Mexqutli doesn¡¯t miss his chance. He lunges, driving his blade toward the amulet. The sorcerer twists, and the blade sinks into his side instead, blood spilling in dark, steaming rivulets.
¡°You think this changes anything?¡± the sorcerer hisses, his voice dripping with venom as he clutches the blade embedded in his flesh. ¡°You¡¯re nothing¡ªa speck of ash beneath my flame.¡±
Mexqutli¡¯s gaze hardens, and he leans in, his voice low and steady. ¡°Maybe. But even ash can choke the fire.¡±
With a sudden burst of motion, the sorcerer releases a final, desperate pulse of a fiery energy. It slams into Mexqutli with enough force to send him flying. He crashes into the ground. His body skids across the stone, leaving a trail of blood in his wake.
The sorcerer staggers, his hand pressed to his side as he takes ragged breaths. ¡°Is that all?¡± he snarls, his voice faltering as he turns back toward Inuxeq.
But Mexqutli is already moving. Bloodied and broken, he pulls himself to his feet, his blade missing but his resolve unshaken. He charges again, unarmed but undeterred, his roar echoing like thunder across the battlefield.
This time, he doesn¡¯t aim for the sorcerer. He barrels into him, wrapping his arms around the sorcerer in a crushing grip, dragging him backward toward the edge of the crumbling platform.
¡°Go!¡± Mexqutli bellows one last time, his voice a ragged command as he locks eyes with Inuxeq.
Before anyone can react, before the sorcerer can retaliate, Mexqutli throws himself and the sorcerer over the edge of a deep chasm, soaring into the mouth that has opened up from the ground.
The air is filled with a deafening roar as they plummet into the fiery abyss below. We¡¯re all flung backward, thrusted away from the gaping wound in the terrain. I land with a searing pain in my back as I slide along the gravely ground. My hand throbs, and I open my closed fist just enough to see the amulet radiating inside my clutches. The land shakes, the heat intensifies, and then, silence.
150 - Teqosa
It¡¯s strange, the memories that rise up unbidden in moments like these. I can feel the tremors of the ground beneath me, but my mind is far away¡ªback in the flickering light of the small fire in our family home. There, shadows of the surrounding hills leaned in close, listening with the same stillness I shared as a child.
My father¡¯s voice was low and solemn. It¡¯s the kind of tone he used only for the stories that mattered most, the ones he told us with a hint of warning. That night, he spoke of the Forge of Stars.
¡°Once,¡± he began, his voice a quiet rumble, like far away thunder, ¡°there was a mountain that reached so high, it stole from the sun. Its peaks scraped the sky and caught the first light of dawn before any other place in the world. And at night, the moon kept its distance, wary of the mountain¡¯s reach.¡±
He paused then, letting the silence settle while his gaze drifted, as if he could see it himself¡ªthe mountain, burning with light at dawn, and cloaked in darkness by night.
¡°But the mountain was not just a mountain,¡± he continued. ¡°Inside it, a fire burned that was said to be as old as Pachil itself. It was a flame that could forge anything, could turn dreams to stone and spirits to iron. And in those days, the world was still young, still raw. Things could change as easily as the clouds on a summer day.¡±
I remember Xiqa leaning forward, the firelight casting his face in shadows, and even then, I¡¯d felt the tug of something bigger than the story, something I hadn¡¯t had the words for. But I knew it was important¡ªthat he was giving us more than a tale; he was giving us a lesson, a warning.
¡°The mountain¡¯s fire was not for the faint-hearted,¡± he said, his eyes fixed on mine. ¡°But for those who dared, the possibilities were endless¡ªpower enough to reshape fortunes, to bend the world to their will. That promise alone drew many suitors to its slopes. Only the boldest went seeking it, those whose ambition outgrew their sense.¡± His gaze shifted to my sister, Entilqan, lingering just long enough to underscore the danger of such ambition.
¡°One such man was Tahin, a great warrior and the finest metalworker of his age. He believed he could forge a blade so strong, it would cut through the sky itself. A blade that could shape the world as he saw fit.¡±
Tahin, the warrior with a spirit too bright and a mind too sharp. I remember feeling both awe and fear at his name, wondering what kind of mortal man could dream of changing the world with his hands.
¡°Like many who attempted it before him, Tahin climbed the mountain alone. His heart pounded with each step as he neared the fire¡¯s heart. When he arrived, he found the forge¡ªa place where the flames didn¡¯t burn as ours do. They were strange, the colors of twilight and dawn, and they danced like living beings, as though the spirit of the mountain moved through them.¡±
I close my eyes, picturing it again as I did then¡ªthe flames shifting and speaking, the promise of power drawing Tahin closer, the very air around him charged with an otherworldly energy no human could ever explain nor comprehend.
Xiqa¡¯s voice became soft then, almost reverent. ¡°Tahin reached into the flames, seeking the power he believed was rightfully his. And as he worked, his hands shaping metal and spirit alike, the fire showed him visions¡ªvisions of the world he could build, of the order he could impose. It whispered that it could give him the strength of mountains, the wisdom of rivers, the endurance of the oldest trees. And Tahin believed it.¡±
Xiqa looked at us both with an intense gaze, as if he needed us to understand something deeper than the words he was saying. ¡°But the mountain does not give freely. The mountain tests. And so it was with Tahin.¡±
¡°What did the mountain do?¡± I remember squeaking the question, a little afraid of the answer.
¡°The mountain showed Tahin his own heart,¡± Xiqa replied. ¡°As he forged his blade, it reflected his desires, his fears, every dark corner of himself he¡¯d never dared look at. The mountain tested his courage, yes¡ªbut also his humility. After all, the trek to that location was only part of the journey. And there, with the blade half-forged, Tahin faltered. His resolve was strong, but his heart¡ his heart was not.¡±
A pause. I recall my father looking at his feet, as though he was imparting this lesson not just to his children, but reminding himself, as well. ¡°Tahin did not know it, but the mountain had woven his spirit into that blade, binding his very soul to its edge. So when he looked upon his creation, he did not see a weapon¡ªhe saw himself. Every fault, every flaw, every dark thing he¡¯d kept buried. And in that moment, the fire turned on him.¡±
I remember the chill that crept over me, the firelight suddenly dimming as if the story itself held a power of its own in its simple telling.
¡°He tried to turn away, to leave, but the blade was his own, and it would not let him go. The flames caught hold of him, pulling him back, burning him from within. And though he fought, he knew in his heart that he could never escape, that he was bound to that forge and that fire forever.¡±
Xiqa looked at us then, his gaze searching, as if he could see the questions forming in our minds, as if he could see us grappling with what he¡¯d just told us.
¡°The Forge of Stars is still there. The gods use it to this day to craft new stars into the night sky. Its fires burn with the dreams of those who come seeking it, with the souls of those who were too proud, too stubborn to heed the mountain¡¯s warning. And so it will burn, until the world¡¯s end.¡±
In this moment, my father¡¯s warning rises in my memory. Because here, as I stand on the edge of what we¡¯ve uncovered, as I look down into the depths where Iachanisqa lies, waiting, I can feel it¡ªfeel that same pull, that same promise of power. The fire in the legend, the forge of Tahin, the whispers of the mountain¡ they don¡¯t seem so distant, so mythical now. The mountain does not give freely. It tests. And I wonder, as I peer into the darkness, if I am strong enough to face what lies below. If I am ready to see the reflection waiting for me.
We stand at the cavern¡¯s mouth, gazing into the black throat of Xutuina. Each step seems to echo into the dark, magnified until it feels like something far larger is walking beside us. Pomacha finds only a few dead tree branches, then wraps them in ripped cloth to form makeshift torches to light our way. Shadows play tricks on the walls, twisting our own reflections into strange, elongated shapes that ripple and disappear in the uneven glow of our torches and the ominous turquoise hue emanating from the glyphs carved into stone.
None of us speak. How could we? What is there to say? There¡¯s only the sound of our footsteps against the cold rock. Saqatli¡¯s hand brushes the wall, tracing the ancient glyphs that pulse faintly beneath his fingertips. Nochtl snarls low in her throat, and I feel her claws tense against the stone.
Upachu lingers back with the llama and cart, eyeing the cavern¡¯s entrance and shaking his head. ¡°I¡¯ll leave the ¡®wandering into the unknown¡¯ business to you all.¡± He smirks, tugging his robes a little tighter. ¡°Someone¡¯s got to keep the llama safe, after all. Can¡¯t have the poor thing bearing witness to my untimely death.¡± It¡¯s difficult for me to argue, with the unknown looming before us. I pat his shoulder in understanding, not saying anything about his decision to stay. He gives us a nervous chuckle and a last nod before settling back with his beast of burden, watching us disappear into the dark.
Atoyaqtli takes the lead, his torch casting an orange halo that barely pierces the darkness ahead. Saqatli and Nochtl somehow pick out each obstacle before we meet it. The ocelot leaps and bounds down the dark corridor, now surprisingly comfortable in this foreboding environment. Beside me, Walumaq remains calm, though her eyes dart to every shadow, every hint of movement.
The ground beneath our feet is a treacherous patchwork of stone that slopes and dips at odd angles. Some steps sink into the soil, soft as if warmed by something deep below, while others are so jagged they threaten to slice through our soles. The air changes immediately, thickening as we go deeper. Its damp, stale humidity is charged with a metallic tang that catches at the back of the throat.
As we press on, we pass natural formations that look almost sculpted¡ªa ledge that juts out like a spear, narrow corridors that twist into impossible angles, openings that look like the mouths of snarling beasts, ready to clamp down at any moment. The walls of the cavern ripple with veins of dark stone, and when I run my hand along the surface, it¡¯s surprisingly warm, almost feverish.
A faint rumble comes from deeper within the volcanic mountain, and for a moment, we pause, straining our ears. The sound reverberating through the stone is like a slow and steady heartbeat. The path winds downward in a steep, uneven descent, and the floor is slick with mineral deposits that gleam like polished stone, offering no grip. I place my feet carefully, but with every step, a thin layer of unease coats my skin.
Ahead, Saqatli pauses, raising his hand to signal something. I peer past Walumaq and spot what he¡¯s looking at: a narrow bridge of stone, arched across a gaping chasm that splits the path in two. It¡¯s no wider than a man¡¯s shoulders, slick with what might be condensation or some layer of strange residue, and it disappears into shadow on either side. There¡¯s no telling how deep the drop below might be, but the faint sound of rumbling magma echoes up from the depths, filling the cavern with a chilling hum.
S¨ªqalat gives a dry grin and points to the bridge. ¡°After you.¡±
I roll my eyes, but the dare is clear. With a steadying breath, I step onto the bridge, feeling its cold, unyielding surface beneath my boots. My foot slips slightly, and my heart leaps into my throat. But I regain my balance, spreading my arms to steady myself. The others follow slowly, single file, their shadows stretched out before them and blending into the vast darkness.
The bridge stretches out before us like a narrow spine of crumbling stone and frayed ropes swaying above a black chasm. The ancient planks bend and creak beneath our weight, sending loose bits of rock and dust tumbling soundlessly into the abyss below.
Halfway across, a low rumble reverberates from deep below, sending vibrations up through the bridge¡¯s ropes. The whole structure shudders violently. It tilts just enough to send Saqatli stumbling, his arms flailing as he fights for balance. Panic gradually recedes as he¡¯s able to collect his feet beneath him. A chunk of stone breaks free from the side of the cliff, falling away into the darkness.
¡°This bridge wasn¡¯t built to hold us all,¡± Pomacha observes, gazing at the loosening ropes.
¡°Keep moving!¡± Walumaq urges. She¡¯s gripping the rope so hard that her fingers are bloodless, nails digging into the ancient fibers.
As if proving Pomacha¡¯s words, one of the boards ahead splinters under Walumaq¡¯s foot with a sharp crack. Her leg suddenly drops through the gap. She gasps as her free foot scrambles to find purchase. I lurch forward, grabbing her arm to keep her from slipping through completely. We share a brief look of relief, now more eager to get across this infernal bridge.
Breath by breath, step by step, we carry on. The cavern inside this sacred volcano taunts us with every groan and sway of the bridge. I don¡¯t dare look down, don¡¯t dare acknowledge the fear clawing at the edges of my mind. Only the far end of the bridge matters, a few paces ahead.
Finally, one by one, we reach the other side. Our boots and sandals meet stable ground with a shared sigh of relief. As we step off, a final rumble shakes the bridge, and the ropes snap, the entire structure collapsing in on itself. Saqatli shouts, and we turn to see the ocelot racing to reach secured ground. Nochtl manages to leap just as the structure is swallowed by the abyss below. The Auilqa boy embraces the ocelot tightly, lovingly cradling his companion in his arms.
Our trek continues, each of us looking upon every stone with leery suspicion. I catch myself holding my breath as we move deeper, as each step carries us further from the safety of the world above. There¡¯s an indistinct scent of molten metal that grows stronger, mingling with the ever-present tang of sulfur. The heat intensifies, and beads of sweat trickle down my neck, dampening the collar of my black tunic.
The cavern widens suddenly, opening into a vast chamber. A faint hum rises from somewhere ahead, an eerie sound that makes my skin prickle. Atoyaqtli raises his torch, the light illuminating a massive archway carved into the stone, its surface etched with strange, spiraling patterns that seem to pulse with a faint, blueish glow.
A chill runs down my spine as I stare at the radiating symbols. The archway looms over us, its top lost in shadow. All around us are strange, ancient mechanisms. Massive, interlocking wheels and strange metal spokes, some as tall as a man, are embedded in the walls. The wheels appear to mesh together like colossal teeth, and their surfaces are encrusted with generations¡¯ worth of mineral deposits. They lie dormant, but it feels as though they could spring to life with the right touch.
¡°We¡¯re getting close,¡± I whisper, though the words feel small, swallowed by the cavern¡¯s vastness. Though I¡¯ve confronted numerous challenges on the battlefield, the sense of unease that has lingered since we entered intensifies. I¡¯d rather face a thousand foes than the unknown ahead.
We step through the archway, as formations rise from the ground that defy nature¡¯s logic. Jagged spires of stone glint in the torchlight, with edges as sharp as blades. Pools of molten rock bubble and hiss within the chamber. Shadows along the walls twist and contort, reaching out with clawed fingers before retreating into the dark.
A sudden noise¡ªa low, scraping sound¡ªechoes from somewhere nearby, and I freeze. The others halt too. Eyes search the darkness. Hands grip weapons. The sound comes again, louder this time, a grinding noise like metal on stone, setting my teeth on edge.
¡°There¡¯s something here,¡± I murmur breathlessly, stating the obvious.
Ahead, the path splits, one tunnel veering sharply to the left, the other descending into a steep incline. We exchange uncertain glances. Atoyaqtli steps forward, peering down each path with a frown.
¡°Well, which way?¡± he mutters uneasily.
Walumaq holds her amulet out a short distance from her chest. The turquoise stone glows faintly, pulsing gently. She closes her eyes, focusing. After a moment, she points toward the descending path. ¡°This way,¡± she says with a profound certainty. S¨ªqalat looks at me as if to ask, are we sure? But there¡¯s something in the way the Sanqo princess speaks that leaves me with little doubt she¡¯s correct.
We follow her lead deeper into the heart of Xutuina. Walumaq moves calmly, assuredly, taking confident, eager steps down the path. The tunnel narrows as we descend, the walls pressing close until I can feel the heat radiating off them, searing the skin on my arms.
Finally, we reach another chamber. It¡¯s smaller, but no less ominous. In the center, a massive anvil rests on a raised platform. Its surface is scarred and blackened, as if it¡¯s been used to forge a thousand weapons. Around it, strange tools hang from the walls. Their shapes are twisted and unfamiliar, and each one radiates a faint, malevolent energy I simply can¡¯t explain.
I swallow the lump in my throat as my gaze sweeps over the chamber. For all the tales I¡¯ve heard, I never imagined it would feel like this¡ªthis mix of reverence and dread, of awe and terror.
And then, there he is.
A figure steps forward from the shadows beyond the anvil, emerging like something born from the rock itself, sculpted from flame and iron. He¡¯s barely contained inside this chamber, his head nearly scraping the top of the cavern. His skin is a deep, weathered bronze, as if etched by generations of heat and soot. Tattoos coil along his shoulders and down his thick, muscular arms, depicting symbols of fire, sun, and stars. His intense and penetrating eyes burn with an ember-like glow, watching us with suspicion.Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on Royal Road.
A shimmering headdress crowns his head, crafted from polished metal and black feathers. It rises high, almost touching the stone above, reminiscent of the divine crowns of kings. Hanging from his neck is a necklace of jagged obsidian shards and glistening turquoise stones, and stones I¡¯ve never seen before. A scorched and worn apron of leather hangs around his waist, embroidered with intricate patterns that shift subtly, not due to his movements, but from some supernatural trick of the light.
In his right hand, he holds a gigantic hammer with a head that¡¯s been darkened by heavy use. The edges are chipped, and it glows ominously from some other source that isn¡¯t a torch or the sun. In his left, a twisted iron rod etched with carvings that seem to ripple like haze from the heat off a surface.
He regards us with a calm, unyielding gaze. It¡¯s a look that pierces through each of us, as if reading the thoughts hidden within. He doesn¡¯t speak immediately, letting his presence settle over us like the warmth of the forge. When he finally speaks, his voice is low and rough, a rumble that feels like it¡¯s been pulled from the depths of the land itself.
¡°Visitors,¡± he says simply, sounding somewhat surprised and impressed. ¡°It¡¯s been quite some time since I¡¯ve seen humans.¡±
At last, Walumaq steps forward, her fingers grazing the turquoise amulet at her chest as if drawing comfort from it, drawing strength from it. ¡°We¡ we seek answers,¡± she says, noticeably trying her best to remain calm, steady. ¡°Answers we believe only you can give.¡±
The blacksmith cocks his head, and for a moment, there¡¯s a glint of something in his eyes¡ªamusement, perhaps, or maybe pity. ¡°Answers,¡± he repeats, the word rumbling from him like a stone tumbling down a mountainside. ¡°What makes you think answers are something I would freely give?¡±
There¡¯s something about him, something ancient and untamed, that makes even my bravest thoughts feel foolish. Paxilche bristles, his hand twitching near his weapon, but Atoyaqtli rests a steadying hand on his shoulder. ¡°We came all this way¡ª¡± Paxilche starts, his voice barely contained, but Walumaq silences him with a look.
¡°We came because there are things happening in the world that we don¡¯t understand,¡± Walumaq remarks. ¡°There are forces¡ªpowers¡ªthat are spreading through the land. The Eye in the Flame, the Eleven¡¡±
Iachanisqa strolls over to the anvil and picks up an enormous hunk of metal. He pounds the slab with a thunderous thwap. ¡°There are forces beyond anything a mere mortal can comprehend,¡± he says, focusing on his unfinished work. ¡°Even the Eleven knew not what awaited them. The gods have plans for us all, though they will never share them with the likes of us.¡±
¡°But you¡¯re no mere human, either,¡± Paxilche notes. ¡°I mean, you¡¯re a blacksmith to the gods! How could they not share their wisdom with someone as important as you?¡±
Iachanisqa snorts, then emphasizes his response with more heavy thwacks. ¡°Like this hammer, I am but a tool. A simple device to be wielded by the gods.¡± He pauses, lifting the hammer to examine the glowing, half-formed shape under his grip. ¡°A tool does not ask why it strikes, only where it falls. I am a piece of their design, not its author. I forge, I shape, but it is not for me to decide the ends of my work. The gods know I have my place, and you have yours.¡±
¡°And what place is that?¡± I ask, trying to keep the edge out of my tone¡ªand likely failing. ¡°To be shaped and tossed aside? To be another weapon in their hands, only to be cast away on a whim?¡±
The hammer pauses mid-swing. Iachanisqa looks upon me almost¡ pityingly? ¡°Would you rather be something else, boy? Something the gods take no interest in at all?¡±
I don¡¯t back down, though every instinct tells me to. ¡°I¡¯d rather have a choice. To strike or be still, to wield or be wielded. Doesn¡¯t it matter to you? Don¡¯t you want¡ª¡±
¡°Choice,¡± he scoffs, muttering almost entirely to himself while shaking his head. ¡°A notion for those who forget their roots.¡± He lifts the hammer and brings it down with a final, resounding crash that echoes throughout the chamber.
Seeing that we remain wordless in his presence, he reluctantly explains. ¡°You mortals cling to the idea of choice as if it were a precious gem. You think it¡¯s something to cherish, to defend.¡± He pauses, his hand resting on the anvil, and a flash of solemnity crosses his face. ¡°But choice is a luxury woven from the fibers of ignorance. Those who truly understand their place in the world, in the design¡ª¡± he gestures around, his fingers tracing the air, ¡°¡ªthey know better.¡±
He resumes, his voice now deep and gravelly, like stone grinding against stone. ¡°Look to the roots of your ancestors. They knew the mountain would one day wear down, that the river would carve through it without asking. They didn¡¯t fool themselves into thinking they could shape the world¡¯s path. They walked within it.¡±
¡°You act as though we have no choice,¡± Paxilche interjects. ¡°That we cannot escape our destiny.¡±
He holds the hammer aloft, staring at it as if remembering something distant. ¡°You think the gods left this world to you for choice? They didn¡¯t. They left you to see what you would forge within its bounds. Whether you¡¯d learn your place.¡±
His eyes fall back on me, and he scowls. ¡°Your ancestors knew this. They were not fooled by the smoke and flame of independence. They understood, deep in their bones, that some things are older than choice¡ªthings that hold us all in place, whether we wish it or not. Your belief in choice is more a comforting illusion than an actual power. The gods have already laid out the threads of fate, and you are simply following a path that was set, whether you realize it or not.¡±
Walumaq tilts her head, eyes narrowing as she considers his words. ¡°Perhaps you¡¯re right. Maybe the river carves its path long before we set foot along its banks. But even the river chooses where it might flow fastest, where it winds and slows. Our ancestors walked within the path of the world, yes¡ªbut they also carved their own places within it. Perhaps choice isn¡¯t a matter of defying fate. Perhaps it¡¯s in deciding how we carry ourselves on the path that¡¯s been set.¡±
Iachanisqa rests his hammer upon the anvil. He stops his work, looking upon Walumaq with a rare reverence. ¡°For a mortal, you carry a wisdom that¡ well, let¡¯s say it would give even the oldest of my kin reason to pause.¡± He chuckles, though a shadow of something deeper flickers across his face. ¡°It¡¯s strange to hear such understanding from one of your age¡ª¡±
He falters as his gaze lands on the amulet around her neck. His brow knits in a sudden, unguarded scrutiny.
¡°Where did you get that?¡± He jabs his finger toward the glowing turquoise stone on Walumaq¡¯s chest. The hammer slips from his grasp, clanging loudly onto the anvil. He strides forward, bending at the waist and leaning closer to inspect the amulet.
¡°That¡ That amulet cannot be one of mine,¡± he says, sounding as though he doubts what he¡¯s seeing. ¡° But it looks¡ How dare you! Is this your doing? You make a cheap mockery of my work, girl?¡±
Walumaq looks stunned, eyes fearfully darting around the chamber for an answer. ¡°Wh-what to you mean? I didn¡¯t craft this. I¡ª¡°
¡°That turquoise amulet belonged to Inqil!¡± he thunders, cutting her off. ¡°What have you done to Her?¡± His gigantic face is a hair away from Walumaq¡¯s, glaring down upon the Sanqo princess. He extends his enormous hand, reaching for the precious stone. But Walumaq quickly shields it, protecting it like a child among an impending storm.
¡°It was given to me,¡± I interject, breaking Iachanisqa¡¯s harsh interrogation of Walumaq. ¡°Given to me by Inqil herself.¡± My heart races, but now¡¯s no time for cowardice. Walumaq, the noblest of all of us, doesn¡¯t deserve to be chastised in such a manner.
The blacksmith snarls, turning to look at the one who disrupted his inquisition. I hold my chin up high, defiantly, ready to take on his charges. His eyes are dark, smoldering embers that bore into me, as though he can see through to the very marrow of my bones. But I keep my gaze steady, refusing to be dwarfed by his towering presence. A muscle in his jaw tightens, and for a moment, I think he might reach back for that colossal hammer of his. But I stay rooted, shoulders squared, daring him to try.
He looks down at my chest. ¡°You,¡± he states. ¡°Are you concealing one of these counterfeits, too? Huh?¡± His nostrils flare, enraged. Unafraid, I retrieve both the obsidian and copper, and the lapis lazuli and gold amulets that were cradled behind my armor. His eyes instantly grow wide in shock, mortified to find there are more such pieces in existence.
¡°This¡ this can¡¯t be,¡± he whispers, staggering back a step. ¡°How many more exist?¡±
The young Auilqa boy shuffles forward meekly, holding out the jade and onyx amulet from around his neck. The blacksmith¡¯s attention snaps to him. I can tell that numerous questions swirl around in his head. His mouth opens as if to speak, but no words come. He stares at the amulet as though it¡¯s a spirit from his past.
¡°These are no forgeries,¡± I say quietly. ¡°They¡¯re the remnants of the Eleven, aren¡¯t they? Tools they used to protect Pachil. That¡¯s what we¡¯ve gathered.¡±
He doesn¡¯t respond immediately. Instead, he takes a slow, deliberate step back, his eyes flickering between the amulets. Finally, he exhales a deep, weary sigh. ¡°Perhaps they are not forgeries after all. But if they are the Eleven¡¯s...¡± He trails off, his expression clouded. ¡°Why now?¡± He murmurs to himself, wrestling with the question.
¡°I have been on a quest to learn more about the purpose of these mysterious amulets, and the papyrus left behind by Sualset of the Eleven,¡± I begin. ¡°Though I know not of what my companions have endured, I have faced multiple challenges and many trials to obtain these. I understand that there are two other locations where they could be, discovering them through clues left behind by Sualset herself.¡±
¡°The ones I¡¯ve discovered were found in various ways,¡± Walumaq adds. ¡°Paxilche was given some type of key that unlocked a chamber within the palace at Pichaqta, revealing the¡ª¡°
¡°The palace,¡± Iachanisqa echoes. ¡°The amulet left for the Tempered of the Qiapu. Are you¡¡± The humungous blacksmith looks among those of us gathered curiously, then narrows his eyes at Saqatli, studying the boy closely. ¡°Are you the Tempered? A bit young, don¡¯t you think?¡±
Paxilche winces. ¡°That is not the Tempered,¡± he responds. ¡°The true Tempered was my brother, Limaqumtlia. He¡¯s¡ been murdered. An imposter rules in his place.¡±
Iachanisqa considers this, then look back upon the jade and onyx amulet around Saqatli¡¯s neck. He lets out a long sigh. ¡°I suppose it¡¯s good that the amulet is not in such a person¡¯s hands, then.¡±
The blacksmith extends an open palm to the Sanqo princess. He asks simply, ¡°May I?¡±
Walumaq nods, retrieving the amulet from around her neck and placing it carefully into Iachanisqa¡¯s hand. He brings the piece close to his eyes, inspecting it scrupulously. After a few grunts while turning the jewelry over in his grip, he returns the amulet to Walumaq.
The blacksmith takes it, turning it over in his massive hands. He studies it intently, his expression shifting from disbelief to reluctant acceptance. Finally, he returns it to her with a small nod.
¡°This is Inqil¡¯s,¡± he says softly. ¡°And you¡¯re right. The Eleven perished. But the world has a way of holding on to things meant to be lost.¡±
Walumaq appears confused. ¡°What does that mean?¡±
¡°It means,¡± he says, returning to his anvil, ¡°there¡¯s more to their story than you know. And perhaps more to your own.¡±
After a grunt, Iachanisqa says, ¡°I didn¡¯t think they¡¯d reappear so soon. Or at all.¡± The great blacksmith lifts the hammer. He grips the handle tightly, then chuckles as he shakes his head before resuming his work.
¡°And if I may be direct,¡± he says, pausing until one of us nods to accept his request. ¡°You don¡¯t look like the kind who would possess the amulets of the Eleven. Perhaps pride clouded my judgement. I apologize for the¡ harsh accusations.¡±
¡°Apology accepted?¡± S¨ªqalat says.
Iachanisqa¡¯s massive shoulders rise and fall as he exhales deeply. The hammer remains poised mid-air as though he¡¯s debating whether to continue. Then, with a weighty glance toward each of us, he speaks: ¡°What I¡¯m about to tell you does not leave this volcano. Do you understand?¡±
The chamber reverberates as he bellows his demand, rocks tumbling down the face of the stone walls. There¡¯s a fire in his eyes as he speaks, one that is all the warning we need to understand the seriousness of the matter. We all, unquestionably, nod in agreement. ¡°Good. I would¡¯ve hated to cast you into the depths of this volcano.¡± He laughs heartily, but we¡¯re all too uncomfortable at this poorly veiled threat to join him.
Undeterred, the blacksmith continues. ¡°Sualset was clever, I¡¯ll give her that. Initially, I wasn¡¯t going to listen. Who does a human think they are to boss around an entity such as me? But I was impressed enough with her ingenuity to find me in the first place, and thus, I gave her an audience. She never told me how she discovered my location. Guess I¡¯ll never know.¡±
Iachanisqa pauses, letting the memory settle over him like the dust drifting in the dim light of the cavern. ¡°Anyway,¡± he smacks the metal slab in-between thoughts, ¡°when the Atima girl found her way to my forge, she came alone, fearless as a hawk diving through a storm. She had that reckless fire that comes from anger wrapped in love.¡±
Iachanisqa shakes his head, the faintest trace of amusement fading into something more somber. He doesn¡¯t stop his hammering, the rhythm steady, almost hypnotic as the story unfolds. ¡°She had witnessed the destruction wrought by the Timuaq¡ªsaw her people crushed under the heel of those titans. She wanted something that would give her and her allies a fighting chance against the gods themselves. And she believed I could give it to her.¡±
He pauses, wiping sweat from his brow with a calloused hand, his gaze turning distant. ¡°I told her it wouldn¡¯t be that simple. Power¡ªreal power¡ªalways has a cost. But Sualset, she wasn¡¯t interested in hearing warnings. She was willing to pay any price, if it meant freeing Pachil from the Timuaq. She looked me in the eyes and swore it. So I did what she asked. I forged the amulets.¡±
¡°What she didn¡¯t realize,¡± he continues, ¡°was that the amulets¡¯ strength had to come from somewhere. It wasn¡¯t just a matter of binding a bit of iron and stone. Not if she were to defeat gods. Thus, these amulets needed to draw power from the heart of Pachil itself¡ªthe land, the rivers, the life that pulsed beneath the soil.¡± His gaze sharpens, as if assessing whether we understand what he¡¯s saying. ¡°The more the Eleven used the amulets, the more they drained the life from this world. Piece by piece. They never knew. Not until the final battles.¡±
Walumaq¡¯s face twists in horror, and I can tell the others feel it too. I try to imagine it¡ªthe land itself weakening, falling away like a dying breath with each victory against the titans.
Sensing our mortification at this revelation, Iachanisqa halts. His hand hovers over the half-forged metal on the anvil, as if lost in memory or bound to something beyond sight. I can see that he¡¯s forging the words to explain why this had to be.
¡°It was a difficult truth to accept,¡± he begins, sounding slightly resigned. ¡°When Sualset came to me, demanding a power that could rival the Timuaq¡ I knew immediately what it would take. You see, strength that great cannot simply be called from nowhere. True power, the kind needed to break gods¡ª¡± he pauses, glancing between us as if measuring our capacity to understand, ¡°¡ªit comes from balance. For every force, there is an equal and opposite sacrifice. Pachil is no different.¡±
He straightens, the torchlight casting stark shadows across his rugged features. ¡°This world, Pachil, is alive in ways you mortals sense only in fragments. The rivers are its veins, the mountains its bones, the forests its breath. To disrupt its balance would be to wound it, to pull from it the vitality that keeps the land fertile, the rivers flowing, the very air rich enough for you to breathe. I tried to explain it to Sualset¡ªwarn her of what it would mean to wrench power from something so ancient, so deeply woven into all that lives here. But she was willing to take the risk, convinced it was the only path to freedom.¡±
Iachanisqa lets the silence settle, lets us steep in the harsh truth. ¡°To bring forth such power, I had to root it in the land itself, to connect it to Pachil¡¯s own lifeblood. Every time those amulets were used, they siphoned that strength, leaving scars¡ªsmall, at first. Almost invisible. But the more they fought, the more they tapped into that lifeline, pulling from the veins of the land, sapping its vitality with every strike, every surge of power. And, in time, it began to weaken.¡±
¡°So you see,¡± he continues, sounding grim, almost defeated, ¡°each victory the Eleven claimed cost this world something unseen¡ªland that would never bloom again, rivers that would run slower, skies that would darken. And Sualset, she had to bear that knowledge. She carried it in her heart, though I doubt she ever let her companions see it.¡±
Iachanisqa resumes his hammering, the thud echoing throughout the cavern. ¡°Years passed, and the Eleven fought on. They carved their way through the Timuaq¡¯s forces. Each victory harder won, each loss felt deeper. Until, at last, Sualset returned here. Her hands were stained with the blood of her people and her enemies. She wasn¡¯t the same then. Her fire had turned to ash. She had learned the price of her power.¡±
He glances at us, making sure his eyes connect with each one of us. ¡°Sualset realized, too late, that the amulets had done more harm than she ever intended. She told me she knew what had to be done: to preserve what remained, the Eleven would have to end the cycle¡ªreturn the power to Pachil, even if it meant sacrificing themselves. And so, that¡¯s what they did. They went into battle one last time, knowing it would be their end.¡±
I feel my grip tighten on my glaive as the words sink in like a knife between my ribs. All this time, the tales painted the Eleven as heroes, martyrs who had paid the ultimate price to save us. All the while, Sualset knew what they wrought onto the land.
¡°And what of the amulets?¡± Walumaq asks, her voice barely more than a whisper.
Iachanisqa pounds the metal strip once more, inspecting it as he responds. ¡°Sualset made one final request: she asked me to hide the amulets, to ensure they wouldn¡¯t bring more ruin upon this world. I honored her wish. But¡ª¡± he chuckles darkly, a mirthless sound that echoes in the cavern more harshly than the clattering of metal upon metal, ¡°¡ªas you can see, mortals have a way of uncovering what should remain buried.¡±
After a moment, Walumaq says almost in an exasperated whisper, ¡°And now they¡¯ve returned. Not through Sualset¡¯s will, but through ours.¡±
Iachanisqa lets out a weary sigh. His gaze never leaves the anvil, as if he¡¯s seen this unfold many times before. ¡°Well, perhaps. Sualset determined the amulets should only to be found if Pachil needed to be protected once again. So, I fear¡¡± Iachanisqa lets the thought go unfinished.
¡°But such is the nature of power,¡± he says softly, almost to himself. ¡°It never stays buried for long.¡±
He lifts his hand, letting it hover above the anvil, the gesture almost reverent. ¡°I am no god,¡± he says softly, ¡°but I understand the weight of creation, the toll it exacts. And Sualset learned, as you all will one day, that this world can only bear so much of that toll before it begins to crumble.¡±
A thought drifts into my mind: If the Eleven had to sacrifice themselves to save Pachil, what will it demand of us?
I glance around at my companions. S¨ªqalat, staring at the glowing glyphs with a look that¡¯s part reverence, part dread. Out of habit, Walumaq¡¯s hand drifts toward her amulet as if it might disappear from her neck. Even Paxilche stands silent, for once, his usual brashness tempered by an incomprehensible fear.
Iachanisqa¡¯s hand remains hovering above the anvil, his gaze distant, as if he¡¯s staring back through generations. ¡°When Sualset looked into the heart of what she¡¯d set in motion, she saw the end as clearly as I see you now. And still, she chose it. Because she knew what would happen if she didn¡¯t.¡±
His eyes shift as his gaze returns to the present. ¡°One day, you¡¯ll understand what it means to make a choice like that. And if you do take such a path, pray the land can bear what comes.¡±
My heart beats painfully in my chest, and the cavern around us seems to shrink, pressing in. There¡¯s a small part of me that wants to walk away, to leave the amulet buried and find another way to fight. But it¡¯s too late for that, isn¡¯t it? We¡¯re already bound to this power, to the promise of what it could do¡ªfor good or ruin.
151 - Haesan
The silence is heavier than the battle was.
I stand among the ruins of Qapauma, the amulet cold and inert in my hand. Its weight is a strange anchor in the surreal calm. Around me, scattered fires crackle in dying embers, casting faint shadows across the shattered stones and fallen bodies. The gray creatures erupted into plumes of ash upon the defeat of the sorcerer, their sapphire eyes floating into the air like embers from a fire before abruptly extinguishing. This city¡ªthis jewel of the Tapeu¡ªhas been hollowed out, its people left to wander through the ruins, searching for some semblance of order or hope.
The people of Qapauma are emerging from the wreckage¡ªnobles, merchants, servants, warriors¡ªeach bearing their own share of cuts, burns, and bruises. Some walk as if in a trance, their faces blank and eyes unseeing. Others clutch at each other, weeping or simply staring into the distance, dazed. A young woman with a gash across her forehead holds the hand of a child, leading him carefully through the rubble, eyes looking over the ruins with a wary kind of acceptance. Even the Qantua warriors look haunted, their expressions dim as their eyes look upon what¡¯s left of the once-mighty capital.
I see a young boy standing alone, clutching a half-burned bundle of cloth to his chest. His tanned face is smudged with soot and dried tears, shoulders slumped and black hair matted with dirt and blood. He stares at me with wide eyes, and I realize he¡¯s looking at the amulet hanging from my neck. He¡¯s not the only one. Others glance my way, some with the faintest glimmer of hope, others with wary confusion, as if they¡¯re waiting for me to explain what¡¯s happened or to tell them what comes next.
I had nearly forgotten the silver and amethyst amulet, resting neatly against my chest over my plain cloak. It glows faintly, pulsing along with my heart. The tattered chain is knotted awkwardly¡ªan improvised and clumsy fix¡ªbut it holds, for now.
Inuxeq moves quietly beside me, her gaze sweeping the surroundings. Her face is streaked with ash and sweat, and her dark tan leather armor is scarred from the battle. We stand shoulder to shoulder, watching as the palace guards and Qantua warriors round up the surviving cultists and unceremoniously execute them without any hesitation. But there is no real victory here¡ªonly the hollow echoes of what¡¯s been lost.
The palace towers¡ªor what remains of them¡ªloom like broken teeth above the city, casting long, disturbing shadows over the courtyard. The once-grand structure is gutted, its walls scorched and pitted The intricate tapestries and golden relics that once adorned its halls have been reduced to charred scraps. For a place so revered, so filled with symbols of power, it feels almost pitiful now, abandoned and empty.
A strange void twists in my chest, a hollow ache that feels both old and new. Achutli¡ªmy father, the Arbiter¡ªis gone. Yet his presence lingers, like a breath on the back of my neck. He died here, in these same broken walls, and it still feels unreal. I can¡¯t shake the image of him crumpling to the ground, struck down before I even had a chance to understand the depth of what I felt¡ªgrief, anger, confusion, all churning into something bitter and raw. I¡¯d spent so much time dreaming of his downfall, imagining what it would feel like to finally be free of him. And now, all I feel is the weight of it settling over me.
A murmur rises among the people, a ripple of movement as they shift their gaze toward me. There¡¯s something in their eyes¡ªa glimmer of hope, or maybe just a desperate need to believe that someone, anyone, has answers. I want to turn away, to hide from that look, but I know I can¡¯t. I place the amulet so it more visibly dangles around my neck.
¡°Achutli¡¯s daughter¡¡± I hear someone murmur, the words drifting to me on the wind.
I stiffen, the ache in my chest sharpening. They know who I am. But¡ how? How has word spread? Was it the Qente Waila? Someone from the palace?
More questions flood my mind, unanswered. Am I in danger? Who can I trust? Should I run? No, I cannot run anymore. I¡¯m tired of running. I try to escape this place, try to elude my fate, yet I¡¯m always drawn back here no matter how hard I resist, pulled back to Qapauma as though I¡¯ve been caught in the undertow.
Inuxeq¡¯s voice cuts through my thoughts. ¡°You know they¡¯re watching you,¡± she says, not unkindly. Her bow hangs loosely at her side, and there¡¯s a look in her eyes I haven¡¯t seen before. It¡¯s not quite respect, not quite fear¡ªsomething in between, something I don¡¯t yet have a word for. ¡°They¡¯re waiting.¡±
¡°For what?¡± My voice sounds hollow, even to my own ears.
¡°For a sign.¡± Inuxeq shrugs, but there¡¯s a heaviness in her movements. ¡°For what comes next. The Eye in the Flame is gone, Qapauma¡¯s in ruins, and the people¡ they need someone to follow.¡±
I swallow, the words sticking in my throat. I¡¯m no leader. Achutli may have been a tyrant, but he was respected¡ªor at the very least, feared. I¡¯m neither. And yet, here I stand, with the amulet that once belonged to a sorcerer, with people looking to me as if I have any right to rule them.
¡°There¡¯s no one left to lead them,¡± I mutter, more to myself than to Inuxeq.
Inuxeq studies me for a moment. ¡°That may be true,¡± she replies, ¡°but that doesn¡¯t change the fact that you¡¯re here, and they¡¯re waiting. They need something to believe in.¡±
I feel a hand on my shoulder and turn to see Xelhua standing beside me, his face somber. ¡°You have the amulet,¡± he says, as if that alone settles the matter. ¡°The people will look to you now.¡±
I want to laugh, but the sound catches in my throat, bitter and rough. ¡°I¡¯m no leader. And the people know who I am, know that I am the daughter of Achutli¡ªa tyrannical ruler who brought this place into ruin. They¡¯ll more likely execute me than follow.¡±
But Xelhua doesn¡¯t waver. ¡°You may not think you¡¯re a leader, but they do.¡± He nods toward the people watching us, their eyes filled with questions I don¡¯t know how to answer. ¡°You just rescued this city from the Eye in the Flame¡ª¡°
¡°Twice,¡± Inuxeq interjects.
Xelhua nods, taken aback by the interruption. He wants to inquire about that detail, but instead, he continues, ¡°You are a hero, something your father apparently never was to these people. They need someone to follow. Someone to believe in.¡±
It feels like a trap, somehow¡ªan invisible hand pushing me forward, daring me to take that step, to claim something I never wanted. I look around, at the ruins, the people, the devastation. The nobles who once served Achutli linger at the edges. Their faces are pale as they watch me with a mixture of caution and expectation, nervous about what fate awaits them. The Qantua warriors are scattered among them, some looking to Inuxeq, others to me. There¡¯s no unity here, no sense of purpose¡ªjust a crowd of survivors clinging to the faint hope that someone will tell them what comes next.
The thought settles over me like a shadow. What does come next? The city is in ruins, the Eye in the Flame defeated, but there¡¯s still so much left undone. The cult may be scattered, but their influence hasn¡¯t died with them. And who knows what other threats may loom beyond Qapauma.
Achutli might have had a plan, some vision of what he thought was best for Pachil. But now, whatever he left behind feels fragile, like a spider¡¯s web under the weight of a boulder. And I don¡¯t know if it¡¯s worth trying to mend it.
Some quick movement catches my eye¡ªa young warrior kneeling beside an elder, pressing a cloth against a wound. The elder clutches a small pendant, his lips moving in a silent prayer. Around them, others are tending to their wounded, patching what little remains of the lives they knew. It¡¯s a quiet, relentless act of survival, a refusal to let the darkness consume them.
Maybe that¡¯s all I can offer them. Not a promise of restoration or a vision of grandeur, but a chance to rebuild. To find some sense of stability in the wreckage of what was. To give them something to hold onto, even if it¡¯s as small as a fragment of hope.
I close my hand around the amulet, feeling the steady pulse of its power. It¡¯s a reminder that I¡¯m not entirely alone in this, that something beyond my understanding has chosen to place this burden on my shoulders. I may not be ready, but I can¡¯t walk away.
The people are gathering now, closer, forming a loose half-circle around us. Faces marked with soot and blood, eyes hollow but searching. I feel their silent questions as they look at me. They¡¯re expecting a leader, someone who will sweep in with promises and purpose. But that¡¯s not who I am.
A few voices rise, tentative. ¡°Daughter of Achutli¡¡± The cold and unwelcome words sink like stones into my chest. They don¡¯t know him like I did¡ªor like I didn¡¯t. Achutli was no father to me. He sent me away, locked me out of his life and out of his plans. And even if I¡¯d wanted revenge, I never wanted to become him. Yet here I am, with his amulet around my neck, facing the people he likely never thought of.
Inuxeq steps up beside me and leans in close. ¡°They see you¡¯re uneasy,¡± she murmurs, glancing at the crowd. ¡°But you should know, that¡¯s not a weakness. It means you¡¯re still human.¡±The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.
I look down at the amulet, its weight familiar now, though still foreign in some ways. ¡°But what if they expect someone like him?¡± I murmur, barely audible over the quiet sounds of the crowd.
Inuxeq shrugs, her gaze steady and grounded. ¡°Then they¡¯ll learn to expect something different.¡±
Xelhua¡¯s hand on my shoulder is steady, with a gentleness I hadn¡¯t expected from him. ¡°No one¡¯s asking you to be like Achutli. They¡¯re asking you to be here, now. To stand with them.¡±
It feels too simple, too clean. But maybe that¡¯s all they need: someone willing to stand among them, not over them.
What if I fail them? The dark and consuming thought claws at me, but there¡¯s no time to give it weight. I can feel the amulet¡¯s faint but constant pulse, reminding me of what I carry, of the power that¡¯s been thrust into my hands. It¡¯s a power I barely understand, but maybe that¡¯s enough to bring them out of the darkness.
I may not be the leader they deserve, nor the one they would¡¯ve chosen. But I¡¯m here, standing in the ruins of a city that needs rebuilding. I don¡¯t need to be Achutli. I don¡¯t even need to be a ruler. I just need to take the first step, to show them that there¡¯s a path forward, even if it¡¯s barely visible through the ash and smoke.
I take a breath, steadying myself as the crowd falls silent. Their attention presses against me like armor I¡¯m not yet accustomed to wearing. I¡¯m no ruler, no heir to some lofty throne. But I have this amulet. I have these people. And I can see, in their eyes, that they¡¯re clinging to the hope that someone, anyone, will give them direction.
I raise my voice, though it trembles. ¡°The Eye in the Flame is gone. Qapauma is¡ ours again. And we will rebuild, piece by piece, stone by stone.¡±
A murmur ripples through the assembly, one that grows louder and more pointed as I scan the faces around me. A woman steps forward, a thin, gaunt figure with a smudged face and wide, hollow eyes. Her clothes are torn, her hands shaking as she clutches a small child to her side. The child¡¯s eyes are wide, mirroring the fear etched into his mother¡¯s face.
¡°What will happen to us now?¡± she asks, her voice barely a whisper. ¡°Our homes¡ the palace¡ who¡¯s to say we won¡¯t be attacked again?¡± I meet her eyes, and in her gaze, I see something both fragile and unrelenting¡ªa quiet plea, a belief I don¡¯t know if I can live up to, but one I can¡¯t turn away from.
My mouth opens, but I don¡¯t know what to tell her. This was never a burden I wanted, and yet, as I look around, I see that I¡¯m the only one standing here with the amulet, the only one with the means to hold their attention.
Inuxeq¡¯s gaze sharpens beside me, and I sense her silent encouragement. She understands what¡¯s at risk here, perhaps more than I do. I take a breath and speak, though my voice sounds strange to my own ears, like I¡¯m borrowing it from someone else.
¡°Qapauma will be rebuilt,¡± I say, more confidently than I feel. ¡°And as long as I¡¯m here, I¡¯ll make sure it remains safe.¡±
The woman¡¯s eyes don¡¯t waver from mine, and I can feel her skepticism, her need for something secure to hold onto. Behind her, others begin to murmur, others merely waiting, as if testing my resolve.
Then a gruff voice interrupts. ¡°And who are you to promise that?¡± A man with a scarred face and a limp steps forward, his eyes narrowed with scrutiny. ¡°Achutli¡¯s daughter, sure, but what does that mean? The Arbiter¡¯s gone. What¡¯s left of Qapauma is broken.¡±
The words hit like a slap, a raw reminder that these people knew Achutli as a figure of power, not as I did¡ªas an absence, a deep wound I didn¡¯t know existed. The title ¡°daughter¡± feels strange, and I have to swallow down the bitter taste of resentment that rises at the thought of being tied to him now.
¡°I¡¯m not Achutli,¡± I say, forcing the words out past the tightness in my throat. ¡°And I have no desire to rule as he did.¡±
The man¡¯s gaze is hard, his eyes narrowing as if sizing up my words. ¡°Then what are you here for?¡±
For a moment, I don¡¯t know. The truth is, I don¡¯t have a grand vision, no master plan. But I do know what it felt like to live under Achutli¡¯s shadow, and I know that whatever I offer, it won¡¯t be the same thing he gave them. The amulet pulses against my skin, its warmth steady and grounding.
¡°I¡¯m here because you¡¯re still here,¡± I begin. ¡°I¡¯m not Achutli. And I won¡¯t be him. His rule ended in fire and ruin, but this city still stands. Its people still stand.¡±
I step forward, my eyes sweeping over the faces before me. Some are hollow with despair, others cautious, but I can see it¡ªthe faintest glimmer of something waiting to be ignited.
¡°If Qapauma has endured tyranny and war, then it can endure this, too. We will rebuild. Together. As survivors¡ªthose who refused to fall when the world burned around us. And if you¡¯ll let me, I will stand with you¡ªnot above you, but beside you¡ªto rebuild it. Not as Achutli¡¯s daughter. Not as your ruler. But as someone who refuses to let this city, or its people, fall into irreparable ruin.¡±
There¡¯s a pause, as if the words are hanging in the air, waiting to be claimed. A quiet murmur washes over the crowd, a wave of uncertainty rippling through them as they glance at each other. For some, my words seem enough¡ªat least for now. Others, though, remain unconvinced, their eyes filled with doubt, with questions I can¡¯t yet answer.
The noble remnants from the palace linger at the edges, their gazes wary and calculating. They¡¯re waiting, I realize¡ªnot for a ruler, but for someone to restore their comforts, their power. To them, I¡¯m a placeholder, an unknown. They won¡¯t follow me out of loyalty, only convenience, only because they have no other choice.
Inuxeq steps forward, her voice cutting through the murmurs. ¡°You may not trust her now,¡± she says, her voice firm and resolute, ¡°but she¡¯s the one who stood against the Eye in the Flame, who holds the power that once held you all in fear.¡± She turns, looking each of them in the eye, her gaze unflinching. ¡°If you can¡¯t trust her, then trust in the power she¡¯s wielded to save this city.¡±
One by one, people in the crowd nod, some murmuring agreement, others looking uncertain but willing to try. Standing off to the side, I see Xelhua, his broad frame half-shadowed by the broken palace wall. When our eyes meet, he steps forward, unsheathes his obsidian sword, and slams it point-first into the ground between us. The sharp crack of stone splitting beneath it cuts through the murmurs, and he looks at me with a steady, unwavering gaze.
¡°You¡¯ve got my blade,¡± he says simply, his deep voice echoing across the courtyard.
The nobles shift uncomfortably, exchanging glances, and the tension among the crowd seems to ease, if only slightly. I look at Inuxeq and Xelhua, gratitude mingling with something I can¡¯t quite name. They believe in me, in this choice, even if I¡¯m still finding my way through it.
Somewhere in the crowd, I hear it¡ªsoft at first, a single voice threading through the chaos like an errant breeze. ¡°Quya Haesan.¡± The title feels foreign, like wearing someone else¡¯s skin. Quya. It echoes in my chest, curling around my ribs like vines.
I¡¯ve heard the word before, in my youth. Back then, it was just a sound, a polished thing tossed around gilded halls by people who mattered far more than I did. Back when my only concern was learning which phrases would make indifferent nobles nod their approval. Those days were full of ceremony and pretense, and I thought I wanted that life¡ªa life of influence, of respect. But now, the title feels like an ill-fitting cloak, dragging at my shoulders.
Then it comes again. A murmur here, a whisper there, the voices multiplying, weaving together. Quya Haesan. The sound ripples through the crowd, faint but gaining strength. It brushes past the palace guards standing nearby. They begin to stand a little taller, their stances changing. The crowd around them stirs, and I can feel it: the faint, growing tide of hope and uncertainty. My hands curl into fists at my sides as I struggle to find my footing. I¡¯m no ruler. I¡¯ve never wanted to be.
What do they see when they look at me? A symbol of victory? A replacement for the tyrant they lost? I glance at the amulet against my chest, its soft pulse an uncomfortable reminder that I carry more than I ever asked for. Their stares settle over me, and for a fleeting moment, I want to throw the amulet away, cast off this title, leave the city and its broken walls behind.
But I can¡¯t. Their eyes pin me in place, their voices rising and falling in a rhythm I can¡¯t escape.
Quya Haesan.
I draw in a shaky breath, my chest tight. The title hums in the air, growing louder, entwining itself with the rubble, the ash, the raw wounds of the city. This wasn¡¯t supposed to be me. This wasn¡¯t supposed to be my life. And yet, here I am, with no plan, and no certainty about what comes next.
More whispers reach me first. They¡¯re faint and scattered, blending into the low murmur of voices still stirring among the survivors. At first, I barely notice, being so wrapped up in self-doubt within my own mind. But there¡¯s something about the way they ripple through the Qantua warriors that makes my skin prickle. A few of the warriors glance at each other, their eyes wide with disbelief, though they quickly drop their gazes when I look their way. It¡¯s a subtle shift, an undercurrent of unease, but it starts to build, gathering momentum with each passing moment.
Inuxeq straightens beside me, taking note of the shifting expressions among the warriors. She catches sight of two or three Qantua breaking away from the group, hurrying toward the edge of the crowd as if drawn by some unseen force. Other warriors seem torn, caught between following their brothers and sisters or staying at Inuxeq¡¯s side.
¡°What¡¯s going on?¡± Inuxeq demands, but none of the warriors dare to meet her eyes. Instead, they exchange uncertain glances, their silence stretching out like the aftermath of a thunderclap.
This only makes Inuxeq even more visibly infuriated. She steps forward, her posture rigid, her voice cracking like a whip. ¡°I asked what¡¯s going on. Someone speak!¡±
The silence hangs for a heartbeat longer before one of the younger warriors is bold enough to step forward. He swallows, glancing back at the others as if hoping for support, but they avoid his gaze. Taking a deep breath, he looks at Inuxeq, his voice barely more than a squeak.
¡°It¡¯s¡ Taqsame, Lady Inuxeq. He¡ he lives.¡±
The words land like stones dropped into a still pond, sending ripples of shock that freeze me in place. Inuxeq¡¯s face goes blank, her eyes widening as the revelation sinks in.
¡°Are you sure?¡± Inuxeq asks, barely holding together the disbelief and something else¡ªan undercurrent of¡ fear? Hope? I can¡¯t tell.
The warrior nods, glancing back over his shoulder where others are already pushing their way through the crowd, following the whispers that gather like storm clouds. ¡°They¡¯re bringing him here. He¡¯s¡ injured. Terribly wounded. But he¡¯s alive.¡±
Taqsame¡ªalive? After everything, after the flames, the battles, the direct confrontation with the grand sorcerer of the Eye in the Flame, how could he have survived?
Xelhua steps forward, watching over the crowd carefully. I can feel his tension radiating off him, uneasy with this news. He doesn¡¯t say a word, but his jaw clenches, his grip tightening on the hilt of his weapon as if bracing himself for whatever¡¯s coming.
And then I see it¡ªmovement in the distance, the crowd parting as a few Qantua lead a staggering figure forward. The murmurs rise, swelling into a low hum that vibrates through the air, thick with disbelief, awe, and something else¡ªa reverence that feels raw and uneasy. Slowly, almost painfully, the figure emerges, stumbling with each step as he¡¯s assisted by his compatriots in black and gold, his form battered and bloodied, but unmistakably alive.
Taqsame.
The crowd¡¯s whispers grow louder. They watch, their faces a mixture of shock and something close to awe, as if they¡¯re witnessing the return of a specter, a ghost risen from the ashes of the city. Taqsame¡¯s face is pale, smeared with soot and blood, his armor charred and battered, but his eyes¡ there¡¯s a fire in them that refuses to die.
¡°He should be dead.¡± Inuxeq speaks with a tremor beneath the words.
Yet here he is, each step bringing him closer, his gaze fixed ahead with a determination that defies everything we¡¯ve just been through. The crowd¡¯s attention is locked onto the man who, by all accounts, should have perished in the fires, should have fallen alongside the ruins of Qapauma. But somehow, impossibly, he rests before us, as if even death itself couldn¡¯t claim him.
152 - Legido
There¡¯s no dawn here today. Just the dim, reluctant light of a day that doesn¡¯t want to begin. The sky is still scorched, tinged with smoke that curls low, clutching at the broken ground. The stones, the twisted ruins, the mutilated bodies, all reek of something singed beyond recognition. Everything looks dull and drained of color, as if the city has been bled dry.
It wasn¡¯t long ago that this city teetered on the edge, battered by siege. Its walls were shuddering, one breath away from crumbling into nothing. But now, the stillness hanging over this place feels much, much worse.
You¡¯d heard legends, the myths. But legends are just stories, idle tales shared to break up the monotony of long days in the fields. You thought you¡¯d seen power before, too¡ªthe kind that shakes foundations, that makes men tremble. But what occurred the day before? That was something else. You¡¯re not even sure your mind is capable of wrapping around it, like trying to trap a river in your hands. How do you process the sight of such a being reducing an army of fire-wielding fanatics to nothing, as if they were just a patch of weeds He decided to torch from the garden? You can¡¯t.
So instead, your mind runs in circles, trying to make sense of it. Maybe there¡¯s comfort in denial, in clinging to the possibility that it was all just a trick of the light, a collective hallucination. But no¡ªthe ground still smolders beneath your feet, and you can almost taste the ash that still drifts in the air around you. Whatever you saw wasn¡¯t some fevered mirage. It was power¡ªthe kind that snaps worlds in half, that makes reality feel flimsy, as thin and useless as a damp sheet of paper.
You move through the deteriorating streets, careful not to trip over debris¡ªbits of clay, terracotta tile, shattered stone, the occasional shard of bone that crunches underfoot. Piles of scorched rubble form strange, twisted shapes in the morning sun, almost like faces caught in a silent scream. For a moment, you imagine the ground itself is watching, bearing witness to this violent transformation.
They¡¯ve already begun renaming this place. ¡°Xiatlaz¨¢n¡± is what they¡¯re calling it. ¡°Xiatli¡¯s domain¡± in your native tongue. You scoff at the lack of originality and creativity. It¡¯s not a far departure from the long-abandoned colony, Xiatlidar. Yet this place feels just as cursed.
Some of the Legido gather around the remnants of the city square. They bow their heads in reverence, hands outstretched, as if touching the very land might bring them closer to His power. You see them kneel, murmuring prayers that you¡¯ve only ever heard whispered in the homeland. But here, they are fervently shouted like a rallying cry. They wail, begging for His blessing. It¡¯s reverence that borders on something darker¡ªa submission to an all-consuming force. They call Him ¡°Savior,¡± ¡°Fire-Bearer,¡± and other names that taste wrong in your mouth. It¡¯s as if His victory has ignited a fervor in them, a hunger to offer something more than loyalty, something far greater and deeper than worship.
Others linger at the edges, watching with hollow eyes, their gazes avoiding the smoldering piles of ash and bones. They shuffle nervously, some glancing up at the hazy sky as if it might offer an escape. These people are silent, stiff. To them, Xiatli is no Savior. He is something darker, more inevitable. A force that even death cannot defy. They don¡¯t bow. They don¡¯t chant. They stay on the fringes, worried that, if they get any closer, He would consume them, perish them as he did the invaders. You wonder how long they¡¯ll last here.
The line between loyalty and terror blurs, bleeding into a deep reverence that feels both sacred and profane. You wonder how many here truly believe in Him and how many are pretending, hoping to blend in, to avoid drawing the attention of those who would call them traitors. There¡¯s a sick sense that something beyond mortal loyalty is growing here, like a poison slowly seeping into one¡¯s veins.
A woman steps forward, her red and blue dress in tatters, and her face streaked with ash. Her hands are clasped tightly as she begins to chant. Her words are foreign to you, speaking in some language you don¡¯t recognize. But the others join her, their voices rising until they fill the air with a cadence that¡¯s unsettling in its unity. They chant His name as if each repetition brings them closer to Him, closer to the power that razed the enemies in a single breath.
You feel your stomach churning as you watch. It¡¯s clear now that some of them have surrendered something far deeper than allegiance¡ªthey¡¯ve cast aside fear, doubt, even the fragments of their own humanity, and in their place, something feral has taken root. Their eyes are glazed, almost feverish, filled with a devotion that makes your skin crawl.
These aren¡¯t soldiers anymore, not settlers anymore. They¡¯re vessels, hollowed out and refilled with something raw and unbreakable, a fervor that burns with a heat too intense to be reasoned with. It¡¯s a loyalty so absolute it feels irreversible, the kind that doesn¡¯t leave room for mercy, for hesitation. With a twist of dread, you realize that they would die for Him without a second thought¡ªand worse, they would kill for Him with something close to joy.
The memory comes unbidden, slipping into your thoughts like an unwanted shadow, with Iker anxiously fidgeting nearby. For a moment, you¡¯re not here in the ruined palace of Xiatlaz¨¢n, but back in the homeland, in Legido, on the edge of the tall green hills that framed your childhood farm.
It was the Festival of the Burning Pride, and you were ten, maybe eleven. Too young to truly understand the significance of the occasion but old enough to sense that it mattered. The whole village of Rexurdir gathered at the great bonfire, its flames licking high into the sky, consuming the night with an amber glow. They called it the ¡°Bonfire of Lions,¡± a tradition meant to honor the courage of the hunters who brought meat to the table and warded off predators from the outskirts of the village.
You remember the faces of the hunters, painted with streaks of red and black, marching stoically in single file toward the blaze. Each carried a torch, which they tossed into the growing inferno. It was meant to be a symbol of sacrifice, of giving a part of themselves to the hunt. You¡¯d stood with your parents at the edge of the circle, wide-eyed and holding tight to your father¡¯s hand, feeling the heat of the fire on your cheeks.
Always one for stories, your father leaned down to whisper to you. ¡°Do you know why they call it the Bonfire of Lions?¡±
You shook your head, transfixed by the flames.
¡°Long ago,¡± he began, ¡°there were lions in these hills. Huge beasts with teeth like knives. The hunters would light fires to scare them away, but the lions¡ªthey were clever. They learned to wait, to watch, to let the fire burn out before they struck.¡±
You remember the way his fingers tightened around yours, his voice growing softer, more intense. ¡°But then, one night, the hunters did something different. They didn¡¯t just light the fire and walk away. They stayed. They stood guard, torches in hand, waiting for the lions to come. And when the beasts appeared, the hunters didn¡¯t run. They charged, driving them back into the dark.¡±
He paused, looking at you with a strange seriousness that didn¡¯t fit the festive atmosphere. ¡°Courage isn¡¯t about holding your ground. It¡¯s about finding the will to push forward when every part of you wants to turn back.¡±
You push forward through the rubble, past clusters of devotees and hollow-eyed onlookers, your gaze drifting over the ruined city, which is slowly losing all signs of what it once was.
Ahead, you spot Iker, sitting alone on a crumbling stone. hunched and staring blankly at the ruins in front of him. His face is drawn, ashen. His once-keen eyes are dulled by a curious mix of exhaustion and fear. He doesn¡¯t notice you at first, too lost in his thoughts. His lips move silently as he stares at a toppled statue, its features obliterated by blunt force.
You approach him, and he doesn¡¯t look up. ¡°This city¡¡± he mutters, almost to himself. ¡°What have we done to it?¡±
Iker¡¯s gaze lingers on the patches of markings already scraped from the walls, their emptiness overtaken by symbols in praise of Xiatli. The vibrant colors of the native artwork, the clay figures, the stone-carved faces¡ªthey¡¯re all gone, either smashed beyond recognition or painted over with red-and-gold symbols that barely dry before more appear. ¡°They¡¯re erasing it all,¡± he says, voice trembling slightly.
You walk in silence for a few steps, the only sound reaching your ears is the crunch of rubble underfoot. Iker¡¯s feet drag, his shoulders hunched as if the changes around you both are bringing him down. You can see it in the lines of his face, in the defeated droop of his posture. ¡°What good is any of this?¡± he wonders aloud, desolate and despondent.
¡°They¡¯re all so caught up in Him,¡± he says bitterly, gesturing to a group huddled nearby, their hands clasped in fervent prayer. Iker looses a sigh, a long exhale that seems to release whatever words he¡¯s been holding back. ¡°We were meant to settle, to build. That¡¯s what they told us, wasn¡¯t it? That we¡¯d come here to make something better.¡± He gives a short, harsh laugh. ¡°But we¡¯ve only destroyed. And for what? For Him?¡±
He¡¯s right, to an extent. But you recall the repetitious remarks about obtaining riches beyond your wildest dreams. How this new land was meant to bring prosperity to your people. Is this how they intended to achieve such wealth? Did they know all along that this was the inevitable result?
Around you, Legido soldiers are stripping the remnants of native artifacts, piling them in heaps like refuse, while others meticulously hoist the newly crafted banners, proclaiming Xiatli¡¯s dominion over what remains of the city. One banner unfurls over a half-destroyed wall. On it, a twisted iron knot and blazing sun emblem catches the faint light.
The two of you move solemnly toward the square. Everywhere you look, the knot appears, draped over countless buildings and structures, a symbol synonymous with Xiatli¡¯s rule. His followers work feverishly, plastering the new images over every surface they can find. They work without rest, muttering praises between breaths as they slap symbols of iron and fire onto walls that once held the marks of another culture. The sight of it, this rush to strip away every last trace of the place¡¯s history, turns your stomach.
You walk past a group gathered around a native monument, a statue once carved with intricate designs. Now, it¡¯s defaced, Xiatli¡¯s symbol scrawled across it, red paint dripping down its face like blood. They laugh as they finish their work, stepping back to admire the desecration, as if they¡¯ve created something beautiful in the ruin. Iker watches them, fists clenched, his breath shallow.Support the author by searching for the original publication of this novel.
¡°What can we even do?¡± he whispers, almost as if he¡¯s afraid someone might hear him.
A twisted impulse fills you, a momentary urge to tell him there¡¯s nothing left to do, that all that¡¯s left is to survive in whatever way you can. But you bite it back, letting the silence speak for itself.
They¡¯ve taken everything from this place¡ªthe people, the culture, the stories that once gave it meaning¡ªand in their place, they¡¯ve left nothing but ruin and devotion to a demigod who walks among them, demanding their loyalty, consuming their fears and doubts like fuel.
You¡¯ve had enough.
You turn to Iker, the question already forming in your mind. But he looks so worn, so defeated, that for a moment, the words refuse to depart your throat. However, the image of that chest, the faint memory of the scroll inside¡ªit keeps tugging at you. The idea feels reckless, even mad, but what choice is left?
¡°Iker,¡± you finally say conspiratorially, ¡°do you remember the chest that held the amulet?¡±
Iker looks at you, brows knitting in confusion before his eyes narrow with suspicion. ¡°I-I don¡¯t know. What are you getting at?¡±
You take a steadying breath, glancing around to ensure no one else is within earshot. ¡°There was a scroll inside. I didn¡¯t get a chance to look at it before, but maybe it contains something useful. Something that could help us stop this.¡±
Iker¡¯s face blanches. He takes a shaky step back, his gaze darting between you and the desecrated city square. ¡°Stop this? Stop Him?¡± His voice trembles. ¡°Are you mad? Do you even know what you¡¯re saying?¡±
¡°I know exactly what I¡¯m saying,¡± you reply, more firmly than you feel. ¡°I¡¯m saying that this¡ whatever¡¯s happening here¡ it¡¯s going to get worse. You know it, I know it. And if we don¡¯t act now, we¡¯re complicit in whatever comes next.¡±
Iker stiffens, his eyes widening in alarm. ¡°You can¡¯t be serious. We barely know what¡¯s on that scroll. It could be anything¡ªa trap, a dead-end, a curse. How can you even think about risking it?¡±
¡°What choice do we have?¡± you reply, your voice dropping to a strained whisper. ¡°Look around us. We¡¯re all walking shadows in His world now. We can¡¯t just stand by while He takes everything, and destroys the rest. Maybe that scroll has something we can use. Some hint, some¡ way out.¡±
Iker shakes his head, stepping back, his hands tightening into fists. ¡°We shouldn¡¯t even be talking about this here. Do you have any idea what would happen if anyone heard? If He heard?¡± He looks up at you, his face twisted with a fear that borders on horror as he attempts to drag you away from curious ears. ¡°Do you think Xiatli wouldn¡¯t notice? He sees everything, and if He thought for a moment you were plotting against Him¡ª¡±
¡°He doesn¡¯t have to find out,¡± you cut in, gripping Iker¡¯s shoulder. ¡°We¡¯ll be careful. It¡¯s just a scroll. We look, and maybe there¡¯s something in there that gives us a fighting chance. Don¡¯t the natives deserve a chance to survive, to fight for their freedom? Don¡¯t they deserve more than what we¡¯re doing to them?¡±
Iker runs a hand through his hair, eyes deliberately moving between the scattered groups of Legido in the square. ¡°And what if it¡¯s nothing? What if you read it, and there¡¯s no answer, no solution? Then what?¡±
¡°Then at least we¡¯ll know,¡± you reply, feeling the weight of each word press against your chest. ¡°Then at least we won¡¯t be here, pretending that this¡ª¡± you gesture to the square, to the Legido lost in their frenzied devotion, ¡°is all we can hope for. Because I refuse to believe that we came here for this. You said it yourself¡ªwhat we¡¯re doing here is erasing everything.¡±
Iker¡¯s gaze hardens, and for a moment, you see the fight in him flare, like a spark that could just as easily ignite or peter out. He closes his eyes, drawing in a deep breath, his shoulders slumping as he lets it out. ¡°You¡¯re going to do this, no matter what I say, aren¡¯t you?¡±
You nod, feeling a strange sense of calm settle over you. ¡°I have to. We both know it.¡±
Iker frowns, wrestling with the difficult decision. You place a gentle hand on your friend¡¯s shoulder, meeting his eyes with yours. ¡°I¡¯m not asking you to do anything reckless. Just¡ just help me find it. Help me see if there¡¯s something in there that can make a difference.¡±
He sighs, looking away, his face caught between resignation and fear. ¡°Fine,¡± he mutters. ¡°But don¡¯t expect me to come with you. I¡¯ll¡ I¡¯ll keep watch. Make sure no one else stumbles in on your¡ plan.¡±
You gently squeeze his shoulder, gratitude swelling in your chest. ¡°Thank you. That¡¯s all I¡¯m asking.¡±
You and Iker slip into the narrow alleys flanking the square, the towering ruins casting jagged shadows over the uneven cobblestone path. Every corner, every turn, offers a glimpse of how fast the city is bending to His will¡ªshrines erected seemingly overnight, relics of the native inhabitants replaced with crude symbols and banners. Your path is nearly blocked by scattered groups of Legido soldiers and civilians. Some are fervently praying, others go about their tasks with mechanical devotion, their eyes blank and mouths murmuring praises.
Iker¡¯s face is pale as he glances around. ¡°Look at them,¡± he says, sounding resigned. ¡°They¡¯re already gone, aren¡¯t they?¡±
You¡¯re about to respond when, just around the corner, you catch sight of Criato. He¡¯s kneeling, head lowered, his posture nearly supplicant. Beside him stands the imposing Xiatli, unconcerned with the activity taking place around Him. The glow of His amulet casts a faint red halo that almost looks like fresh blood in the morning light.
Criato lifts his head and clears his throat. ¡°Great Sapa, the city¡ªXiatlaz¨¢n¡ªit bows before you,¡± he says with a bit of uncertainty. ¡°We have done as you commanded, stripping the old ways, the old faces. The people are yours now, wholly devoted.¡± He hesitates, glancing up at Xiatli with something like cautious pride.
Xiatli barely acknowledges him, his gaze fixed somewhere beyond the city¡¯s borders. ¡°Pichaqta,¡± He mumbles. ¡°This place had a name once¡ but names have no bearing here.¡± His tone is indifferent, a god contemplating the nature of His dominion with a kind of remote detachment, as if He finds even the discussion of this city beneath Him.
Criato frowns, his face twisting in confusion. ¡°Pichaqta?¡± he echoes, clearly unfamiliar with the term. ¡°But¡ my Sapa, Xiatlaz¨¢n is¡ª¡±
¡°It is nothing but a vessel,¡± Xiatli interrupts, His voice flat, devoid of all emotion, ¡°a mere foothold in a world that has long awaited its proper master.¡±
Criato flinches, his lips parting as if to protest. But he quickly snaps his mouth shut, bowing his head low. Around you, a few of the devotees shift uncomfortably, exchanging quick and uncertain glances. There¡¯s an uneasy finality to Xiatli¡¯s words, ones that worry you about their implications. He has grander designs, a hunger that stretches beyond these walls, beyond even the horizon.
Your mission is now more urgent than ever, if you¡¯re to stop this path of destruction. You just hope the scrolls do, in fact, contain the solution.
You glance at Iker, who meets your gaze with wide, alarmed eyes. He grabs your arm, silently pleading with you to keep moving. You press yourself into the shadow of a crumbling archway. Your breath is shallow, and your ears strain for any sound of pursuit. Iker is somewhere behind you, doing his best to follow without drawing attention. But you can feel his unease radiating like heat off hot cobblestones. The corridors of the palace are alive with movement¡ªsoldiers patrol the halls, while devotees linger in clusters, calling out their prayers to Xiatli as though their voices could fortify the walls themselves.
As you sneak your way into the palace, your father¡¯s retelling of the Festival of the Burning Pride haunts your memories. At the time, you hadn¡¯t fully grasped his words. It had seemed like just another story, one of many he told to pass the time or keep you entertained. But now, crouched in this ruined palace, with the shadow of Xiatli looming over everything, those words return to you with startling clarity.
Courage isn¡¯t about holding your ground. It¡¯s about finding the will to push forward when every part of you wants to turn back.
You think of the natives of this place, their culture burned to ash and painted over with symbols of domination. You think of the Legido soldiers and devotees, their loyalty easily bending under Xiatli¡¯s power. Crouched here with Iker, you wonder if the scroll might hold the key to something greater¡ªor nothing at all.
You and Iker edge along the outer walls, ducking into alcoves whenever a group of soldiers or devotees passes. The palace looms ahead, transformed under Xiatli¡¯s dominion. The Legido banners, joined by those of Xiatli¡¯s knot, flutter over the stone walls, red, blue, and gold stark against the faded murals beneath them. Once depicting scenes of peace and prosperity, the murals are now disfigured, smeared with black paint or gouged with the marks of chisels. The stones themselves seem to carry a faint sheen, as if Xiatli¡¯s influence has tainted the very walls.
You step into the palace entrance, pausing just long enough to get your bearings. You take a sharp breath, inhaling the thick scents of smoke, incense, and something else that tastes unnervingly like blood. The faint outlines of carved, proud faces, chiseled with painstaking care, stare down at you. They¡¯re defaced and hollow-eyed, stripped of their former reverence. The remnants of the native ruler¡¯s crest or emblem can barely be seen under the claw marks gouged into the stone.
The two of you press forward, slipping into the shadows that cling to the high-vaulted corridors. The palace¡¯s once-pristine floors are littered with debris and trampled offerings left by the city¡¯s last defenders. Dressed in their polished breastplates and clanking armor, the Legido soldiers march through the halls with newfound confidence. Their eyes gleam with reverence whenever they catch sight of Xiatli¡¯s image emblazoned on the walls. Here and there, you catch sight of the twisted iron-and-blood knot symbol hastily painted over faded frescoes of the city¡¯s previous rulers.
¡°We¡¯ll need to get through there,¡± you whisper, nodding toward a side corridor as you duck behind a crumbling pillar. The path is narrow and dimly lit, but it leads toward the lower chambers, where you assume¡ªand hope¡ªthe ruler¡¯s personal artifacts might still be hidden.
Iker¡¯s face twists in worry. ¡°You think the chest¡¯s even still here?¡±
You bite your lip, casting a wary glance down the hall. ¡°We¡¯re about to find out.¡±
As you move deeper, the sights and sounds of the palace grow more unsettling. The walls seem to groan under the impact of their desecration. Every whisper and murmur echoes as though they¡¯re from some place beyond this world. Devotees prostrate themselves in small alcoves, muttering fervent prayers. Their voices rise and fall in unsettling harmony. You edge past them, straining to move without catching anyone¡¯s suspicious eye.
In the distance, a faint glow spills from a room up ahead. You hesitate, but the need to keep searching propels you forward. You glance at Iker, who offers a reluctant nod. Silently, the two of you creep closer, careful to stay within the shadows. As you reach the doorway, you peer in and find a room filled with relics of Xiatli¡¯s newly claimed dominion¡ªstone sculptures, banners, and offerings arranged in haphazard heaps. In the center of the room sits a chest, plain but somehow radiant in its simplicity, standing out against the gaudy display around it.
You step forward, eyes fixed on the chest, but before you can reach it, you hear voices approaching from down the corridor. The footsteps grow louder, marching diligently toward you.
¡°Move, now,¡± Iker hisses, tugging you toward a darker corner of the room.
You crouch down, heart hammering as two figures stride into the room. One is a Legido commander, his red-and-blue armor gleaming as he straightens and bows before the makeshift idol cast in the room, muttering words you can¡¯t quite make out. You hold your breath, watching as he meticulously inspects the offerings at the feet of this chaotically-built statue, reverently gazing at each relic.
After what feels like an eternity, the commander turns and exits, leaving the room empty once more. You and Iker exchange a tense glance before slowly emerging from your hiding spot.
You step toward the chest, with every sense on high alert. A modicum of relief washes over you as you approach it. The wooden surface is rough under your fingertips, worn from years of handling. You kneel down, reaching for the latch, then pull back the lid. Your heart thunders as you reach inside, hoping that this one piece of parchment might hold the answer to stopping Xiatli¡¯s destructive rule.
But before you can even fully grasp the scroll, a sudden hand clamps over your mouth, dragging you backward. Without thinking, you let go of the parchment, letting it drop back into the opened chest. An arm locks around your shoulders, pinning you in place. You twist, a flash of terror surging through you as you struggle against the iron grip. Your elbows jab and your body writhes, but the grip only tightens.
¡°Quiet, for gods¡¯ sake,¡± comes a low, urgent whisper. You freeze, the somehow familiar voice ceasing your panic. ¡°It¡¯s me.¡±
You turn, finding yourself face-to-face with none other than Landera.
153 - Walumaq
Iachanisqa¡¯s words replay in my mind, over and over, like a river carving its path through stone.
¡°This world, Pachil, is alive in ways you mortals sense only in fragments.¡±
It¡¯s a truth that settles into me like a thorn. I¡¯ve always felt the pull of the land, the way water bends to my will, the way the jungle seems to know my footsteps. But now, I wonder: is it me bending the land, or is the land allowing me to? Have I been drawing from something I can¡¯t see, something I can¡¯t feel, but something that feels me?
And if I have¡ what have I taken?
¡°Walumaq.¡± Teqosa¡¯s low and steady voice disrupts my thoughts. I look up to find his unwavering eyes on me. ¡°What do you make of this?¡±
I don¡¯t know how to answer. What am I supposed to say? That this revelation feels like it¡¯s stolen the ground from beneath me? That I¡¯ve spent this journey believing I was meant for something greater, only to find that greatness might mean the destruction of the world?
¡°I don¡¯t know,¡± I quietly admit. ¡°I don¡¯t know what to make of any of it.¡±
¡°That makes two of us,¡± Upachu mutters, his arms crossed tightly over his chest. ¡°If the amulets were made to stop the Timuaq¡ what does it mean that they¡¯re here again? What force is out there now, waiting for us?¡±
His words cut through me. My breath catches, and my hand instinctively drifts toward the amulet resting against my chest. Its weight feels different now, heavier, like it¡¯s somehow grown since Iachanisqa¡¯s revelation.
Teqosa frowns, his jaw tightening as he considers the question. ¡°Maybe it¡¯s not about a new force,¡± he says. ¡°Maybe it¡¯s about us¡ªwhat we do with the amulets, how we wield them.¡±
¡°That¡¯s a nice thought,¡± Upachu bitingly replies, ¡°but I don¡¯t buy it. Things like this don¡¯t just appear without a reason. The Twelve didn¡¯t sacrifice themselves for nothing, and I doubt we¡¯re carrying these things around just for decoration. Something¡¯s coming. I can sense it.¡±
Something cold coils in my stomach. I don¡¯t want to admit it, but Upachu¡¯s right. The amulets were forged for a purpose, bound to the life of Pachil itself. They were never meant to be wielded lightly. So why now? Why us?
The old crone¡¯s prophecy drifts back to me, unbidden, her voice rasping in the darkened hut in Chalaqta. ¡°You will unite them, or you will destroy them. The choice will be yours, and the cost will be theirs.¡±
I grip the amulet tightly, my fingers pressing into the cool surface of the stone. What did you mean? I want to ask her, even though I know I never will. Was this what you saw? These amulets, this burden? Or something worse?
Iachanisqa¡¯s steady hammering continues in the background, a rhythmic reminder of the choices that led us here. Choices made by Sualset, by the Eleven¡ªand now, by us.
Upachu shakes his head, pacing the chamber like he¡¯s trying to outrun his thoughts. ¡°We¡¯re playing with something we don¡¯t understand,¡± he mutters. ¡°If these things drained the life out of Pachil before, what makes us think we can use them without making it worse? What if we¡¯re the ones who end up breaking this world for good?¡±
¡°Then maybe we don¡¯t use them,¡± I say softly.
The others turn to look at me, their expressions ranging from confusion to disbelief.
¡°What are you saying?¡± S¨ªqalat asks, uncharacteristically cautious.
I swallow hard, the words sticking in my throat. ¡°I¡¯m saying¡ maybe we don¡¯t have to follow the same path. Maybe we can find another way to fight, to protect Pachil, without taking from it.¡±
¡°And what happens if we can¡¯t?¡± Teqosa asks. ¡°What happens if this¡ force Upachu¡¯s so sure is out there comes for us, and we¡¯re not ready? What then?¡±
I find that, once again, I can¡¯t answer. Because the truth is, I don¡¯t know. I don¡¯t have a plan, don¡¯t have a solution that doesn¡¯t involve using the very power of which I¡¯m terrified.
Paxilche scoffs. ¡°Great. So we sit around waiting to be overrun while we pat ourselves on the back for not making things worse. Brilliant strategy.¡±
¡°We don¡¯t know what¡¯s coming,¡± Teqosa charges, ¡°and we don¡¯t know what these amulets will demand of us. But standing here fighting about it won¡¯t change anything.¡±
He turns to Iachanisqa, who has been watching us in silence, his hammer still resting against the anvil. ¡°You¡¯ve seen this before,¡± Teqosa says. ¡°What would you do?¡±
The blacksmith¡¯s gaze shifts to Teqosa, then to me. ¡°I¡¯m not the one who has to decide,¡± he says simply. ¡°This burden isn¡¯t mine to carry.¡±
¡°That¡¯s not an answer,¡± Paxilche says with compounding frustration.
¡°Well, it¡¯s the only answer you¡¯ll get,¡± Iachanisqa replies with finality. ¡°You¡¯re the ones holding the amulets now. For some reason, they have revealed themselves to you. Because of this, you¡¯re the ones who have to live with the choices you make.¡±
I look at the others, at their faces lined with doubt and fear, and I feel the amulet pressing against my chest again, colder than before. Is this what it means to lead? I wonder. To stand here, surrounded by questions you can¡¯t answer, and still have to find a way forward?
The climate outside is sharper, cooler than I remembered. The heat of Iachanisqa¡¯s forge has baked itself into my skin, leaving the chill of Xutuina¡¯s highlands feeling alien. But before I can fully adjust, a deep, resonant groan cuts through the air behind us. With its towering obsidian arches and intricate runes, the volcanic entryway begins to shift. The symbols carved into the rock pulse one final time, their glow flickering erratically like a dying heartbeat.
The rumble grows louder, a low vibration that rattles my teeth and sends loose gravel skittering down the slope. The ground beneath us trembles as if the mountain itself is waking from some ancient slumber. Then comes the sound¡ªa grinding, scraping roar that feels impossibly large.
The entrance starts to collapse inward, not violently but deliberately, like a stone giant folding its limbs. Chunks of obsidian shift and slide, their edges catching the light of the waning sun before settling into place with ominous finality. The intricate runes etched into the surface dim, their once-brilliant glow fading to a lifeless gray.
And then, with a sharp, almost deafening crack, the gateway seals completely. The fiery glow that had illuminated its depths is snuffed out, leaving nothing but solid rock in its place. For a moment, the air feels unnaturally still. I await more seismic shifts, more otherworldly tremors, yet none arrive.
I take a step back, my gaze locked on the now-sealed entrance. The jagged seams where the rocks had shifted are almost invisible. The surface is smooth and featureless, as if the passage had never existed. At one time vibrant and humming with energy, the runes are now dull and cold.
A faint, acrid smell lingers¡ªburnt stone, molten metal, and something sharper, almost like sulfur. It clings to my senses, a ghost of the forge we¡¯ve left behind.
¡°What now?¡± Paxilche mutters, unusually subdued.
I don¡¯t answer. My eyes remain fixed on the sealed gateway, on the faint impressions of runes half-hidden in the stone. Saqatli and Nochtl had discovered them by happenstance, tracing them with their curious fingers. Their patterns once lit up like stars in the volcanic glow. Now, they are barely discernible, the faintest traces of an ancient language buried beneath layers of rock.
For a moment, none of us move. The enormity of what we¡¯ve learned¡ªand what we carry¡ªpresses down like the ash-heavy clouds above.
¡°Our place is out there,¡± Teqosa replies. He gestures toward the vast, rugged expanse stretching out before us, its peaks and valleys swallowed by the dim light of a sun struggling to break through the haze.
¡°And what exactly are we going to do out there?¡± Paxilche snaps. ¡°Wander around until this ¡®force¡¯ Upachu¡¯s so sure exists finds us? Hope we trip over some grand revelation about how to save the world?¡±
Teqosa doesn¡¯t rise to the bait, remaining impassive. Instead, he simply says, ¡°We go to Pichaqta.¡±
The name lands like a stone in the silence.
¡°Pichaqta,¡± S¨ªqalat echoes faintly. She exchanges a glance with Upachu, who nods grimly.
¡°The Eye in the Flame,¡± Upachu says, as if the name itself explains everything. ¡°If we¡¯re going to find answers anywhere, it¡¯s there, in Pichaqta.¡±
Paxilche throws up his hands. ¡°Because walking into the heart of enemy territory sounds like such a brilliant plan. Let¡¯s just deliver ourselves to them, why don¡¯t we?¡±
¡°Nobody¡¯s forcing you to come,¡± Teqosa says cuttingly.
Paxilche opens his mouth to retort, then closes it again, scowling as he folds his arms.
¡°Teqosa¡¯s right,¡± I say. The words taste bitter, but I speak them anyway, knowing there¡¯s no room for hesitation now. ¡°We have to go to Pichaqta. If the Eye in the Flame is still operating, they¡¯ll have answers¡ªor at least the closest thing to answers we can hope for.¡±
¡°And if they don¡¯t?¡± Paxilche asks somewhat confrontationally.
¡°Then we¡¯ll deal with that when we get there,¡± I reply, meeting his glare with what I hope is a semblance of confidence.
I watch Paxilche as he mutters something under his breath, his arms still folded tightly across his chest like a barrier against the world. His stance is stiff, almost combative. There¡¯s always been something prickly about him, a sharpness to his words that feels deliberate, almost practiced. But lately, that sharpness has turned jagged. Where before there was wit, there¡¯s now something angrier, something rawer, and I can¡¯t tell if it¡¯s born of desperation or fear¡ªor both.
He¡¯s been more confrontational than usual, picking arguments where there aren¡¯t any, throwing barbs even when they land nowhere. His gaze¡ªwhen he bothers to meet mine¡ªfeels almost defiant and resentful.
And yet, beneath all of that¡ªbeneath the tension in his shoulders, the set of his jaw, the fire in his eyes¡ªI see something else. Hesitation. The way his gaze darts toward the horizon when he thinks no one¡¯s looking, as if he¡¯s searching for something. Or running from it.
I don¡¯t know what¡¯s eating at him, at the core of the man he used to be. I only know that it¡¯s getting worse. And it worries me. Not just because we can¡¯t afford division now, when every step forward feels like teetering on the edge. But because whatever it is that¡¯s driving Paxilche to lash out, it¡¯s not just a threat to our plans¡ªit¡¯s a threat to him.
We¡¯ll need him in Pichaqta. We¡¯ll need all of us, sharp and focused, if we¡¯re to make it through what waits for us there. But Paxilche? I¡¯m not sure he¡¯ll make it through himself.
We begin our descent from the treacherous terrain of the volcanic plateau, stepping cautiously along a path that feels more like a scar carved into the ground. The jagged rocks jut up at cruel angles, their edges sharp and splintered, as though the land itself had been shattered and left to harden in the sun¡¯s relentless glare. Loose stones scatter underfoot with every step, the sound scraping through the unsettling stillness. The slopes fall steep and unforgiving, and the ground shifts beneath us with a kind of malicious indifference to our passage.If you discover this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.
The thin and dry air grows colder as we descend, stinging the back of my throat with every breath. The wind howls through the crags, slicing at our exposed skin like tiny blades. I involuntarily shiver, pulling my ocean blue cloak tighter around my shoulders. This land feels hostile, as though it resents my presence¡ªa landscape of brittle defiance, so unlike the soft, rain-soaked forests of Sanqo.
There, the air was thick with the scent of wet soil and cedar. Here, everything feels raw and stripped bare. The ground is cracked and scorched, veins of blackened stone slicing through the pale terrain like old wounds. Even the colors seem wrong¡ªthe muted reds, ochres, and ashen grays, so far removed from the lush greens and deep blues of home.
I find myself falling into step beside Upachu. The steady rhythm of his movements are a small comfort in the chaos of my thoughts, grounding me and putting my mind into a somewhat peaceful, meditative state. Yet despite this, my concerns remain.
¡°Do you think this is what it meant?¡± I ask quietly, glancing at him from the corner of my eye.
¡°What what meant?¡± he replies without looking at me, his nervous gaze fixed on the precarious path ahead.
¡°The prophecy,¡± I say, the word tasting strange on my tongue. ¡°There was a crone in Chalaqta¡ she told me I would unite them or destroy them. Do you think this¨C¡° I gesture broadly with a sweeping arm, ¡°is what she saw?¡±
Upachu is silent for a long moment, stroking the silver stubble on his chin as he considers his response. ¡°Prophecies are tricky things,¡± he says finally. ¡°They never mean exactly what you think they do. But if there¡¯s one thing I know, it¡¯s that they don¡¯t happen on their own. They¡¯re shaped by the choices we make, no matter what that jaded Iachanisqa says.¡±
His words settle uneasily in my mind, their truth undeniable but no less suffocating for it. I let out a frustrated breath, kicking a loose stone off the path and watching as it tumbles down the slope, vanishing into the shadows below. ¡°It¡¯s just¡ a lot,¡± I admit. ¡°All of this. What if I don¡¯t know the right choice? What if every path I take is the wrong one?¡±
Upachu glances at me. ¡°You¡¯re asking the wrong question, princess. It¡¯s not about which path is right or wrong. It¡¯s about where it leads. The prophecy doesn¡¯t care about your intentions¡ªonly the outcome.¡±
¡°That¡¯s not comforting,¡± I mutter bitterly.
He chuckles softly, his gaze returning to the rocky trail ahead. ¡°It wasn¡¯t meant to be. Truth rarely is.¡±
I chew on his words, the silence between not unwelcome. Eventually, I say, ¡°When Iachanisqa spoke about the amulets¡ and what they could do¡ I felt like I was holding something I didn¡¯t want. Like it was too much. Too big. Too dangerous.¡±
¡°That¡¯s because it is,¡± Upachu says simply.
I blink at him, taken aback by his bluntness. ¡°And you¡¯re not going to try to convince me otherwise?¡±
¡°Why would I?¡± he calmly replies. ¡°Fear is a reasonable reaction to power. The real question is whether you let that fear guide you or freeze you.¡±
I hesitate, peering at the uneven ground beneath my feet. ¡°What if it¡¯s both?¡± I ask softly. ¡°What if I¡¯m too afraid to do anything, but too afraid not to?¡±
¡°Then you¡¯ll learn,¡± he says gently. ¡°You¡¯ll learn because you have to. And you¡¯ll fail¡ªprobably more than once. But that¡¯s what power does. It forces you to decide who you are, even if you don¡¯t like the answer.¡±
¡°You speak like someone who¡¯s been here before,¡± I say.
He chuckles again, the sound tinged with something that might be regret. ¡°I¡¯ve been somewhere like it. Long ago. And I¡¯ll tell you this much, princess: there¡¯s no shame in leaning on those who walk beside you. No shame in doubting yourself. But there¡¯s no going back either.¡±
The trail dips sharply ahead, and he slows his pace, turning his full attention to the descent. I follow in silence, his words echoing in my mind. There¡¯s no going back.There¡¯s a part of me that wants to argue, to say that it¡¯s not that simple, that this prophecy feels too great to bear. But another part¡ªthe part that remembers the crone¡¯s voice, her warning¡ªfinds something in his words that feels like hope.
Behind us, the crunch of boots on gravel signals the presence of the others. Teqosa and S¨ªqalat walk a few paces back, their voices low as they exchange muted observations about the terrain. Paxilche lingers farther behind, his silence uncharacteristic, but not unwelcome.
The remnants of the volcanic eruption linger here, blanketed in a thin layer of ash. Charred vegetation desperately juts out, and the air carries the faint tang of sulfur. It feels like we¡¯re walking through the bones of a world that has already begun to die. And I can¡¯t help but wonder if that¡¯s from my choices, from what we¡¯ve done to protect Pachil from evil, only to scar it further.
Breaking the silence, Atoyaqtli asks, ¡°Do you think they¡¯ll even let us into Pichaqta?¡±
¡°Let us in?¡± Paxilche scoffs. ¡°We¡¯ll be lucky if they don¡¯t kill us on sight.¡±
¡°We¡¯ll find a way,¡± Teqosa says, leaving no room for argument.
I nod, though my chest tightens at the thought. The Eye in the Flame may have been dealt a blow, but their influence runs deep, their reach stretching across Pachil like a shadow. If they¡¯re still operating in Pichaqta, still holding their influence over Saxina, then entering their territory will be like walking into a den of jaguars.
But what choice do we have?
Ahead, the path levels out as we descend further. Sparse vegetation clings stubbornly to life¡ªgnarled bushes with brittle leaves, their roots gripping the soil like desperate fingers. Rocky outcroppings thrust upward toward the sky. Their sharp slopes cascade downward in steep, unforgiving angles, as if tracing the arc of a stone hurled high into the air before plummeting back to the ground. The others spread out along the path, each lost in their own thoughts. I glance at Teqosa, his broad shoulders hunched slightly as he moves with ease over the rough terrain.
¡°Teqosa,¡± I call softly, quickening my pace to fall in step beside him.
He looks at me, with patience and moderate curiosity. ¡°What is it?¡±
¡°I need your thoughts. About what¡¯s waiting for us in Pichaqta.¡±
Teqosa¡¯s gaze shifts to the horizon. ¡°What makes you think I know any more than you?¡±
¡°You¡¯ve seen more than I have,¡± I reply. ¡°You¡¯ve fought more battles, faced more¡ impossible things. I don¡¯t know how to make sense of what we¡¯re walking into, and you¡ª¡± I pause, searching for the right words. ¡°You¡¯ve always seemed certain. Even when you may believe you¡¯re not.¡±
Teqosa huffs a dry laugh, shaking his head. ¡°Certainty is a luxury I gave up a long time ago, dear princess. Out there, on the battlefield, there¡¯s no such thing as certainty. There¡¯s only survival. You act, you react, and if you¡¯re lucky, you live long enough to regret half the choices you made.¡±
I frown, noting that his words are not the comfort I was hoping for. I glance at the amulet resting against my collarbone, a constant reminder of the power I carry¡ªand the responsibility. ¡°But do you think we¡¯ll succeed?¡± I ask, almost afraid of his answer.
Teqosa exhales slowly, his breath visible in the cooling air. ¡°That depends on what you mean by success.¡±
¡°I mean¡ stopping them,¡± I say. ¡°The Eye in the Flame. The fire priest. Whatever they¡¯re planning.¡±
He looks at me, his dark eyes steady. ¡°Stopping them is one thing. But at what cost? And what comes after?¡±
The question catches me off guard. ¡°What do you mean?¡±
Teqosa hesitates, his gaze dropping to the ground as he steps over a jagged rock. ¡°Every battle leaves scars, Walumaq. On the people who fight it. On the ones who survive it. You can destroy an enemy, but you don¡¯t destroy the hatred, the grief, the cracks they¡¯ve left behind. Sometimes, all you¡¯ve done is scatter the pieces, only for someone else to put them back together into something worse.¡±
At this, my heart sinks. ¡°You think we¡¯ll fail.¡±
¡°I think success and failure are bigger than one fight,¡± he replies. ¡°You can¡¯t stop a fire by stamping out a single flame. You have to figure out what¡¯s feeding it. And sometimes¡±¡ªhe exhales, as if speaking the words makes them real¡ª"the fire only ends when there¡¯s nothing left to burn.¡±
The imagery unsettles me, and I glance at the charred landscape around us. ¡°You sound like Upachu,¡± I say softly. ¡°When I expressed my concern about making the right or wrong choice, he said that it¡¯s not about which path is right or wrong, but rather, it¡¯s about where it leads. I¡¯m starting to believe that the Qantua aren¡¯t the most comforting people in Pachil.¡±
Teqosa snorts, a wry smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. ¡°Smart man, Upachu. He¡¯s always provided me and my family sound advice, whether I¡¯ve wanted to hear it or not. Just don¡¯t let him know I complimented him. It¡¯ll get to his head.¡±
We walk in silence for a few moments, his words pressing down on me. I think of the crone in Chalaqta, her prophecy echoing endlessly in my mind: You can save them, or you can destroy them. The choice will be yours, and the cost will be theirs.
¡°I don¡¯t want to destroy anything,¡± I whisper, more to myself than to Teqosa.
He hears me anyway. ¡°No one does. Not at first.¡±
The trees draw closer, their skeletal branches reaching skyward like the hands of the dead. The path grows narrower, forcing us to walk single file. I can feel Teqosa¡¯s presence just behind me, a steadying force in the oppressive quiet.
¡°Do you think there¡¯s still time?¡± I ask, hearing my meek voice crack as I speak the question.
¡°Time for what?¡± he replies.
¡°To stop it. To keep Pachil from breaking under the strain of all this.¡±
Teqosa doesn¡¯t answer right away. When he does, his voice is low, almost reverent. ¡°If there¡¯s one thing I¡¯ve learned, it¡¯s that time is never on our side. But it¡¯s not about how much time you have. It¡¯s about what you do with it.¡±
Teqosa¡¯s words settle over me like the dry ash clinging to our boots. In what appears to be the typical Qantua manner, they offer no comfort, no reassurance. But maybe that¡¯s what makes them feel true.
Ahead, the jagged peaks of the Qiapu landscape flatten into a barren expanse of valleys, dotted with what remains of abandoned terraces and half-collapsed stone buildings. The closer we get to the city, the more the air changes. It¡¯s subtle at first¡ªa faint pressure, like a storm waiting to break. Then it deepens, a thrumming tension that settles into my bones.
¡°Do you feel that?¡± I ask quietly, more to myself than to anyone else.
Teqosa simply nods beside me, his hand instinctively resting on the hilt of his weapon. So, too, do the others¡ªS¨ªqalat, Atoyaqtli, and Pomacha.
We crest a rise, and Pichaqta comes into view, sprawling and defiant against the arid land. Its appearance is nothing like that of my memory when I was last present here. The city¡¯s walls are high and jagged, built from blackened stone that gleams faintly in the dimming light. Even from this distance, I can see the scars of battle etched into its surface¡ªcracks, scorch marks, places where the stone has crumbled away entirely. But there¡¯s something else, something I can¡¯t quite place.
¡°It¡¯s too quiet,¡± Paxilche mutters, his voice breaking the uneasy silence. He stops, staring at the city with a frown. ¡°Where are the guards? The patrols? The robes?¡±
He¡¯s right. In every other place we¡¯ve encountered the Eye in the Flame, their presence was impossible to ignore¡ªashen gray and crimson robes patrolling the streets, their symbols scrawled across every surface. But here, there¡¯s an absence so stark it feels deliberate. The gates are closed, the walls imposing, but there¡¯s no movement, no sign of the cult¡¯s usual dominance.
¡°It feels wrong,¡± S¨ªqalat says, stepping up beside me. ¡°Like we¡¯re walking into a trap.¡±
¡°We don¡¯t know that,¡± Teqosa replies, though his tone suggests he doesn¡¯t fully believe his own words. ¡°But we¡¯ll find out soon enough.¡±
As we descend toward the city, the feeling of unease grows. The air carries a faint metallic tang that sticks to the back of my throat. Shadows lengthen across the ground, twisting into strange shapes that seem to shift with each step. My grip tightens on the amulet against my chest, and I feel its unusually cold pulse of energy in my palm.
¡°You think it¡¯s abandoned?¡± Paxilche asks, his usual bravado tempered by the silence.
¡°No,¡± I answer. ¡°They¡¯re here. I can feel it.¡±
He glances at me, questioningly. ¡°Then why aren¡¯t they showing themselves?¡±
I¡¯m not sure. None of us are. I catch a glimpse of Teqosa ahead, watching the gates attentively, his hand never straying far from his glaive.
When we¡¯re close enough to see the faint carvings etched into the stone of the gates¡ªsymbols that once belonged to the Qiapu, now defaced and overwritten with something crude and violent in red and gold¡ªPaxilche stops abruptly. His head snaps to the side.
¡°Did you see that?¡± he whispers.
¡°See what?¡± S¨ªqalat asks, cautiously retrieving her weapon and clutching it tightly after it assembles.
Paxilche shakes his head as if clearing it of dust. ¡°I thought¡ Never mind. It¡¯s nothing.¡±
But his unease is infectious. I feel it in the pit of my stomach, a sense that we¡¯re being watched, even though there¡¯s no one to see. Then, all at once, something changes in the amulet. The pulsing is no longer steady but erratic, like a heartbeat struggling to find its rhythm.
¡°Walumaq¡¡± Teqosa wonders aloud. Suddenly, his attention fixes on Saqatli, who has stopped dead in his tracks, his body rigid. His eyes are wide, unfocused, and his chest rises and falls in shallow, rapid breaths. His hands clutch at his amulet, his fingers trembling.
¡°What¡¯s happening to him?¡± Paxilche asks, alarmed.
I step closer to Saqatli, reaching out. But before I can touch him, the world seems to tilt. A wave of dizziness washes over me, accompanied by a sound I can¡¯t quite place¡ªa low hum, distant yet deafening, vibrating through my skull. Then, Saqatli¡¯s voice cuts through, not aloud but directly into my mind, like a scream in the dark.
¡°Burning¡ it¡¯s burning me!¡±
I stumble back, clutching my head as the connection jolts through me. The others flinch, their eyes darting between Saqatli and me, though it¡¯s clear the others have heard it too. His thoughts flood into my mind¡ªimages of fire and ash, of something vast and suffocating pressing down on him. It¡¯s not just pain; it¡¯s terror, an overwhelming sense of something wrong, something out of place.
Noch circles him, her movements restless and uneasy. Her ears flatten against her head, and a low, uncertain growl hums in her throat, as though she¡¯s trying to ward off the pain she can¡¯t understand. She presses close, her wide amber eyes fixed on him with an intensity that feels almost human.
¡°Saqatli!¡± Teqosa moves to steady him, his strong hands gripping the younger man¡¯s shoulders. ¡°What is it? What do you see?¡±
Saqatli doesn¡¯t answer, not with words. Instead, the connection deepens, and I feel it¡ªan encroaching presence, cold and vast, brushing against the edges of my consciousness. It¡¯s something close, something ancient.
I grip my amulet, noting how the stone feels unnaturally cold against my skin. The pulsing has stopped entirely, replaced by a deep, resonant vibration that seems to echo through my chest. I look at Saqatli again, his face pale and slick with sweat, and I realize with a jolt that it¡¯s not just him. The amulet around my neck is reacting too¡ªnot in pain, but in warning.
¡°Whatever¡¯s in there,¡± I whisper, barely able to get the words out, ¡°it¡¯s waiting for us.¡±
Paxilche glances at me nervously and in disbelief. ¡°You¡¯re saying the city knows we¡¯re here?¡±
¡°I don¡¯t know,¡± I admit, my voice trembling. ¡°It¡¯s¡ something in the city.¡±
The dark gates of Pichaqta loom before us. The carvings etched into the stone seem to shift in the fading light, and the defaced symbols of the Qiapu twist into something unrecognizable, something ominous.
Saqatli¡¯s breathing steadies slightly, though his hand remains clamped around his amulet. Noch no longer tenses, though she continues to gently rub up against her human companion to comfort him. Still, his voice brushes against my mind again, quieter now, but no less urgent. ¡°It¡¯s watching.¡±
154 - Teqosa
The wind carries the ash of forgotten fires. It scrapes against my skin, fine and sharp, like it¡¯s trying to carve its mark into me. Pichaqta stands ahead, its gates swallowing the horizon. There, enormous slabs of blackened stone are etched with carvings of the Qiapu. The designs are still there, barely, but they¡¯ve been scraped over, crudely overwritten with symbols that don¡¯t belong¡ªtwisted shapes of fire and claws and things I don¡¯t want to name. The defacement hits me like a blow to the chest. This was once sacred. I can feel the mockery of it, the deliberate erasure of something beautiful, something that belonged to the people of Pachil.
¡°It¡¯s too quiet,¡± Paxilche mutters, breaking the silence. His voice is flat, but there¡¯s a nervousness he tries to mask with annoyance. ¡°Where are the guards? The patrols? The¡ those in gray robes?¡±
No one answers. I don¡¯t have one. My instinct says they¡¯re here, hiding in the shadows, waiting for us to stumble into their trap. The Eye in the Flame never leaves their territory unguarded. They¡¯re bold, unrelenting. This¡ absence¡ is wrong, indeed.
I catch a glance of the cart and its tired llama trudging behind us. Upachu walks alongside it, lightly resting his hand on the animal¡¯s flank, his face creased with worry. Noch pads close to her human companion, her ears swiveling with every sound, and with her body low to the ground.
Walumaq turns, her gaze lingering on the small procession. Her brow furrows as her hand drifts to her amulet, almost absentmindedly, fingers brushing the cool stone like it might grant her clarity.
¡°We need to decide what to do,¡± she quietly confides to me. ¡°Upachu, the cart, Noch and the llama¡ they can¡¯t come with us.¡±
She is, of course, correct. They all seem ill-suited for what we¡¯re about to face. And I can¡¯t, in my right mind, allow them to enter into the danger we¡¯re likely to face.
Sensing our uncomfortable deliberations must pertain to him, Upachu clear his throat. He straightens, his brows lifting in mock surprise. ¡°And leave you lot to face whatever¡¯s in there alone? No chance. I¡¯ve survived worse than this, princess.¡±
¡°You¡¯ve survived worse because you¡¯re smart enough to know when to stay back,¡± Walumaq calmly responds. ¡°I will place you in the capable hands of Atoyaqtli and Pomacha, who will stay back with you for protection.¡±
¡°Stay back?¡± Atoyaqtli scoffs uneasily. He glances at the looming walls of Pichaqta, then looks back to the Sanqo princess. ¡°And what happens if you don¡¯t come out?¡±
¡°That¡¯s exactly why you need to stay,¡± Walumaq replies. ¡°If something happens to us, someone has to be there to help. Someone has to be able to come in to interfere should this take a turn for the worse, or to warn others and seek reinforcements.¡±
¡°And what about you?¡± Pomacha, who rarely speaks, interjects. ¡°We were tasked with protecting you, not¡ him.¡± He gestures toward Upachu. ¡°Siunqi entrusted us with your safety.¡±
¡°And I¡¯m asking you to do this for my safety,¡± Walumaq counters resolutely. ¡°If Upachu stays behind, I want someone I can trust to protect him. If things go wrong inside, you¡¯ll be our only hope.¡±
Pomacha¡¯s jaw tightens, but he doesn¡¯t argue further. Atoyaqtli shifts uneasily, exchanging a glance with Pomacha before nodding in reluctant agreement. ¡°We¡¯ll keep him safe,¡± he says, though making it clear he¡¯d rather be anywhere else.
Upachu¡¯s lips press into a thin line, his pride battling with the logic of her words. Finally, after looking to me for solace¡ªand, to his dismay, not receiving much more than a consolatory glance¡ªhe sighs, waving a hand dismissively. ¡°Fine. But don¡¯t think for a moment I¡¯m going to sit around twiddling my thumbs. If things go bad, I¡¯ll find a way to make myself useful.¡±
¡°I know you will,¡± Walumaq says with a small nod and a smile. Her gaze shifts to Noch, who watches her with calm, knowing eyes. ¡°Keep him in line, girl.¡±
As though she understands, Noch tilts her head, her ears flicking in what almost looks like agreement. Then, the ocelot and Saqatli exchange a solemn, heartfelt look before he turns away to join us.
The cart creaks as the llama shifts, and Walumaq steps back, her focus returning to the looming city ahead. ¡°Let¡¯s go.¡±
With one last glance over her shoulder, she leads the party forward, leaving Upachu, the cart, and the others in the growing shadow of Pichaqta¡¯s walls.
We pass under the shadow of the gates. The faint metallic tang in the air sharpens, stinging the back of my throat. The streets are wide, paved with stones that must have been laid by the hands of the Qiapu generations ago. But the beauty they built has been marred. Walls that once held murals are smeared with crude paint, red and black streaks that claw across the surface like wounds. Statues lie broken, their faces smashed, the pieces scattered like bones.
Saqatli stumbles again, his hand clutching at his chest. He looks like he¡¯s suffocating, his breaths shallow, ragged. Walumaq touches his shoulder, and I feel a faint pulse of her power ripple outward. She¡¯s trying to soothe him, but whatever¡¯s wrong with him runs deeper than any comfort she can give.
¡°It¡¯s the city,¡± she says after a moment, her voice distant, strained. ¡°The land. It¡¯s¡ ill. Or wounded. Suffering. Everything here¡ it¡¯s wrong.¡±
I nod, and my gaze sweeps over the ruins. I don¡¯t have her connection to the amulet, but I don¡¯t need it to feel what she means. There¡¯s a heaviness here that settles in the chest and doesn¡¯t let go. It feels like the land itself is mourning, like we¡¯re standing on the tomb of something that¡¯s not done dying.
We round a corner, and the plaza opens before us. It should be the heart of the city, a place of life and gathering. Instead, it¡¯s a void. The ground is cracked, the stones scorched and warped. At the center stands a massive pyre, its wood blackened and splintered, as if it¡¯s been lit and relit too many times. Around its base lie the remnants of offerings¡ªbroken pottery, scraps of cloth, the charred bones of what I can only hope were animals.
The five of us move further into the plaza, as the shadows lengthen around us. Saqatli stumbles again, and this time, he doesn¡¯t catch himself. He falls to his knees, his face contorted in pain.
¡°Get him up,¡± I say, my voice sharper than I intend. Walumaq crouches beside him with grave concern, her hand on his shoulder.
¡°It¡¯s burning him,¡± she whispers, her eyes meeting mine. ¡°Again. The amulet. The city. Something¡¯s¡¡± She shakes her head, unable to find the words.
Paxilche¡¯s eyes sweep through the plaza as he retrieves his hefty war club. ¡°It¡¯s a trap,¡± he says, his voice rising. ¡°I told you, it¡¯s a¡ª¡±
The barked words come from behind us, shattering the heavy stillness of the plaza. I spin toward the sound, my glaive instinctively at the ready. A group of men and women marches toward us, clad in polished breastplates that gleam red and gold in the dim light. Their weapons are unlike any I¡¯ve seen before¡ªlong, metal rods resting on their shoulders, with edges that are cruel and unfamiliar. The warriors¡¯ faces are pale, their expressions twisted into something colder than hostility, more rigid than anger. They speak again, their language clipped and harsh, words rolling over each other in a rhythm that feels like an argument.
I can¡¯t make sense of it. None of us can. The sounds mean nothing to me, but the intent is clear. They¡¯re commands, orders. A warning, perhaps. Or a demand.
¡°Who are they?¡± Paxilche mutters, his hand strangling the hilt of his weapon. ¡°And what are they saying?¡±
¡°I don¡¯t know,¡± I reply, keeping my voice low. My grip tightens on my glaive, though I force myself to keep it lowered.
Walumaq steps closer. ¡°Don¡¯t provoke them,¡± she calmly suggests. ¡°We don¡¯t know what they¡¯re capable of.¡±
The warriors fan out into a tightening formation, and the lead figure¡ªa man with a plume of crimson feathers on his helmet¡ªsteps forward. His commanding voice booms, though his words remain incomprehensible. He points at us, then sweeps his arm toward the center of the city. The gesture is unmistakable: move. Now.
I can see the calculation in S¨ªqalat¡¯s eyes, the readiness to fight. She doesn¡¯t trust them. Neither do I. But we¡¯re outnumbered, and their weapons¡ªwhatever they are¡ªcarry a quiet menace that makes my heart leap into my throat.
The warriors bark more words, leaving no room for argument. One of them gestures severely with their weapon. Paxilche glares but steps back, reluctantly lowering his hand from his war club. ¡°This better not be a mistake,¡± he mutters under his breath. ¡°I don¡¯t like this one bit.¡±
We¡¯re herded like alpacas through the streets of Pichaqta. With every step, the city¡¯s transformation becomes clearer¡ªand more grotesque. The blackened walls rise high on either side, their surfaces defaced with jagged symbols scrawled in red and gold, looking twisted together like knots. The air reeks of burnt wood and something sharper, acrid, that catches in my throat and stings my eyes.
Around us, the signs of life are muted, broken. The streets are littered with debris¡ªshattered pottery, splintered wood, the remains of something once vibrant. Figures move in the shadows, their movements slow and furtive, like ghosts. I catch glimpses of them¡ªgaunt faces, hollow eyes that dart toward us and away again just as quickly. These aren¡¯t the proud Qiapu warriors I¡¯ve heard stories about. These are survivors, stripped of everything but the barest instinct to endure.
In one corner, I see a small group huddled around a fire, their faces streaked with soot. They whisper to each other, low and franticly, but as we pass, they fall silent. One of them, a woman with a scarred face and a child clinging to her side, meets my gaze. There¡¯s no recognition in her eyes, no plea for help. Just emptiness.
The warriors push us forward, their boots crunching over the scattered remnants of a city that once thrived. I try to imagine what Pichaqta must have been before this, but the destruction is so complete that the effort feels impossible. The Qiapu who built these streets, who carved these symbols, who stood on these walls to defend their home¡ªthey¡¯re gone. Vanished.
We pass what must have been a marketplace once, the stalls now reduced to splinters and rubble. The air is thick with the scent of rot, heavy and sour, clinging to everything. Flies buzz in lazy, infuriating swarms over what remains of the wares¡ªshriveled fruits no longer recognizable, gourds split and leaking their fermented contents, and scattered maize kernels ground into the dirt. Broken clay vessels lie in shards, their painted patterns dulled beneath a fine layer of ash. Spilled cacao beans gleam dully, mingling with wilted bundles of herbs, their once-vivid greens now reduced to lifeless brown. Woven baskets lie torn, spilling their contents: brittle feathers meant for adornment, blackened ears of corn, and clumps of what might have been dried chilies, now sodden and useless.
Bones have been picked clean by scavengers rest among the debris¡ªsome from the animals sold here, some too large, too human to ignore. The warriors shout at them sifting through the rubble, and they scatter like startled birds, their meager finds clutched to their chests.This story is posted elsewhere by the author. Help them out by reading the authentic version.
Saqatli stumbles again, and this time, he goes down hard. His body trembles, his breaths shallow. Walumaq crouches beside him, her hand on his back, her brow furrowed with worry.
One of the strangely clad warriors shouts impatiently. He gestures for us to move, his expression contorted with disdain. I step between him and Saqatli, my grip tightening on my glaive. The warrior¡¯s hand drops to his weapon, and for a moment, I think this will be it, the spark that ignites the fight.
But Walumaq rises, now stepping between me and these warriors. ¡°We¡¯ll move, we¡¯ll move,¡± she asserts. ¡°Give him a moment. Please.¡±
The warrior hesitates, then checks with his leader. The man with the crimson plume makes a sharp gesture, and the warrior steps back. Barely.
Saqatli pushes himself to his feet, his legs unsteady, his face pale as death. His eyes are wide, unfocused, and when he looks at me, it¡¯s like he¡¯s seeing something else entirely. He mutters something, attentively watching the walls that once stood erect to fortify a heavily battered palace.
Walumaq¡¯s hand tightens on his arm, grounding him. ¡°Stay with us,¡± she says softly, her voice steady. ¡°We¡¯ll get through this.¡±
The warriors urge us forward again, their weapons raised, their voices sharp. As we approach the heart of the city, the scale of the desecration becomes undeniable. The palace of the Tempered rises before us, its once-proud walls marred with deep gouges, its banners replaced with the crimson and gold of these invaders. The grand steps leading to its gates are stained with something dark, and the air is thick with the weight of what¡¯s been done here.
We¡¯re aggressively pushed toward the gates. Paxilche has to be restrained by S¨ªqalat before he picks a fight with our captors. I glance at Walumaq, who inspects our surroundings with suspicion, though her hand hasn¡¯t left her amulet.
The guards shove us forward, their foreign tongues grating on my ears like shards of obsidian grinding against stone. Their words are incomprehensible, and their tone is sharp and commanding. The palace of the esteemed Tempered looms ahead, though its grandeur twisted into something monstrous.
I¡¯ve seen battlefields, razed cities, the aftermath of horrors that linger long after the final blade falls¡ªbut this is different.
The once-pristine walls, carved with the proud history of the Qiapu, are now defaced entirely. Their intricate patterns have been slashed apart and smeared with red-and-blue or red-and-gold symbols. Symbols I don¡¯t understand. Their jagged lines are stark against the stone, almost glowing in the dim light. The crest of the Tempered and the Qiapu has been obliterated, replaced with crude emblems shaped into knots.
The warriors force us into a corridor lit by strange torches that sputter with a blueish flame. The stone beneath our feet is slick, stained with dark streaks I don¡¯t want to name. Paxilche walks ahead of me, his shoulders tense, his fists clenched tight at his sides or around his war club. I can feel the anger radiating off him like heat from a forge.
¡°Keep your head,¡± I mutter under my breath, though I don¡¯t know if he hears me.
We then pass a side chamber, and my breath catches in my throat. Devotees kneel in tight rows, their faces pressed to the cold floor. Their muttered prayers rise and fall in unsettling harmony, each voice blending into the next, creating a dissonant hum that claws at the edges of my mind. They wear no robes, no ornaments¡ªonly ash smeared across their skin in streaks and patterns that almost resemble tears.
¡°What is this?¡± Walumaq whispers, her voice trembling.
One of the guards snaps a command, then coils his arm back as if preparing to strike her. But Paxilche steps in, daring to grab the man by the wrist. The guard snarls, jerking his arm free and shoving Paxilche hard enough to send him stumbling back. Another guard reaches for his weapon, but the first man raises a hand to stop him, his lips curling into something between a sneer and a warning. I place a hand on Paxilche¡¯s chest, and he quickly steadies himself, though he doesn¡¯t look away. Whatever this moment is, it fortunately passes¡ªhanging in the air like a blade suspended by a fraying thread.
Where we are herded, the hallways widen, leading into grand chambers that should be filled with light and life. Instead, they are suffocated by darkness. The faint glow of those unnatural torches barely illuminate the destruction. Perhaps it¡¯s good we cannot see what these people have done to this place.
Stone altars, once adorned with offerings to Qiapu gods, now serve as pedestals for grotesque sculptures. Figures twisted and abstract, their forms resembling no living thing, only pain and power. The scent of incense burns faintly under the stench of charred wood.
The guards stop us at a set of massive doors. Once, they must have been carved with depictions of the Qiapu¡¯s greatest victories¡ªscenes of warriors and gods etched into the wood. Now, they are scorched black, the carvings barely discernible under the layers of claw marks and crude symbols.
With a shove, the doors groan open, revealing the heart of the desecration.
The chamber is vast, its high ceiling supported by enormous stone columns. At the far end, a figure sits upon a throne that doesn¡¯t belong here. It¡¯s not the simple, elegant seat of the Tempered, but a grotesque construction of iron and jagged stone, its angles sharp enough to wound.
He sits there, draped in crimson and gold. Yet his presence fills the room like a shadow that blots out the sun. His eyes glint like embers in a dying fire. I expected arrogance, maybe cruelty in his gaze. What I didn¡¯t expect was indifference.
The guards shout something again, and Paxilche stiffens. I can see his restraint cracking from everything we¡¯ve seen pressing down on him, threatening to split him open.
¡°Don¡¯t,¡± I quietly warn, stepping closer to him. ¡°Not yet.¡± But his fists clench tighter, his breathing uneven.
The figure on the throne glows faintly, as if he¡¯s swallowed the sun and it is trying to escape. His tunic and armor radiate an unnatural golden hue, each fold and plate catching light that isn¡¯t there. The feathers of his headpiece cascade down his shoulders like rays of sunlight, but the brightness isn¡¯t warm. No, it¡¯s harsh¡ªsomething otherworldly. His face seems carved, like the statues that now lie shattered outside these walls.
He doesn¡¯t move at first. His gaze sweeps over us, disinterested, as though we¡¯re merely insects that have wandered into his domain. And then he speaks.
¡°I wondered,¡± his smooth and resonant voice cuts through the silence, ¡°what kind of mortals would dare approach the city of My making.¡±
I stand there, stunned that I can understand the language he speaks. Merchant¡¯s Tongue. Walumaq, too stiffens at my side, her fingers continue brushing the amulet at her chest. We all exchange confused looks before we attempt to speak ourselves.
¡°How¡?¡± Walumaq starts, but the word falters as his apathetic gaze lands on her.
¡°You speak as the land does,¡± he says, dismissive. ¡°The tongue of trade, of simplicity. It makes no difference to Me what language you understand. All will kneel, in the end.¡±
He slowly rises from the throne, the golden radiance around him intensifying, casting terrifying shadows along the walls. His suffocating presence grows, as though the air itself bends to accommodate him. ¡°You are in the domain of Xiatli, the One who was cast aside so the weak could inherit a broken world. But I have returned to make it whole.¡±
¡°You¡¯ve desecrated Pichaqta!¡± Paxilche bristles with barely contained fury. ¡°The Qiapu¡ªmy people¡ªyou¡¯ve turned them into nothing more than slaves.¡±
There¡¯s something like amusement that curls at the corner of the mouth of this so called Xiatli. ¡°Your people? You think this place still belongs to them?¡± He leans forward slightly, his golden radiance pulsing faintly with the movement. ¡°The Qiapu were already crumbling. I have merely hastened the inevitable.¡±
The eyes of the one who calls himself Xiatli trace Paxilche¡¯s arms, lingering on the dark patterns etched into his skin. ¡°Even your marks¡ªyour tattoos¡ªspeak of a people trapped in time, too blind to see their own irrelevance. I¡¯ve always found your kind¡¯s obsession with such¡ ornamentation rather quaint. Perhaps I¡¯ve been too kind to call it archaic.¡±
¡°You dare mock what you don¡¯t understand,¡± Paxilche snarls, taking a step forward. ¡°These marks, our traditions¡ they¡¯ve endured longer than you ever will.¡±
This Xiatli ignores him, his focus shifting back to the group as a whole. ¡°You are all relics of a dying world. Clinging to your fractured tribes, your fleeting traditions, your pitiful gods. This land has cried out for order¡ªtrue order¡ªfor generations, and I will give it what it needs. You should thank Me for sparing you the slow decay of irrelevance.¡±
I cautiously step forward. ¡°You speak as if you understand Pachil, as if you know its people. But you don¡¯t. Clearly, you¡¯ve brought only destruction.¡±
For the first time, Xiatli¡¯s gaze sharpens, narrowing on me like a predator sizing up a potential threat. ¡°You think destruction is new to this land? The Eleven¡ªyour so-called heroes¡ªsowed more ruin than I ever could. Their amulets, their power, drained the very life from Pachil. I know because I was there.¡±
The words steal the air from my lungs. Walumaq looks at me, her eyes wide with alarm. The Eleven¡ This outsider knows of the Eleven?
I freeze, my breath catching in my throat as my gaze locks on the golden figure. Upachu¡¯s stories and discoveries suddenly slam into place like a blade finding its mark. My jaw drops, and the words escape me before I can stop them. ¡°The twelfth,¡± I practically whisper, the sound barely audible over the pounding of my heart.
Xiatli catches the murmur, and his expression shifts with a faint, amused smirk. ¡°The one cast aside by those who feared what true power could achieve. They called Me reckless, a danger to their precious balance. But balance is weakness. Control, domination¡ªthese are what hold a world together.¡±
Walumaq¡¯s voice trembles as she speaks. ¡°The amulets¡ their power was tied to Pachil¡¯s life. You can¡¯t believe¡ª¡±
¡°Life,¡± Xiatli interrupts, ¡°is a resource. Like iron, or stone, or blood. To shape a world, sacrifices must be made. The Eleven¡¯s weakness left the world broken. I will not let it remain so.¡±
At this, Paxilche¡¯s patience snaps. ¡°You¡¯re no savior,¡± he growls. ¡°You¡¯re a butcher.¡±
Before I can stop him, he lunges.
¡°Paxilche, no!¡± Walumaq warns, desperately calling out to him. But he doesn¡¯t hear her¡ªor he doesn¡¯t care.
The guards tense, raising their strange, gleaming weapons. They shout something sounding like a threat in more of that language I don¡¯t understand. Walumaq¡¯s eyes dart between the warriors and Paxilche, her hand unconsciously moving to her amulet as if she hopes its power might somehow shield us all from what¡¯s about to happen.
But Paxilche is a wildfire that refuses to be snuffed out.
A low rumble builds, a growl in the land itself as his hands twist and pull, summoning a force that feels like it could split the heavens. His shout is raw, primal, as if he¡¯s tearing the power from the sky by sheer will. A spark jumps from his fingertips. It¡¯s faint at first, but it grows and grows like an eager serpent coiling around his arms.
The guards advance, shouting more commands and leveling their weapons. Still, Paxilche doesn¡¯t flinch. The spark becomes a blaze, a jagged arc of blinding energy that crackles and twists, reaching toward Xiatli like a hunter¡¯s snare.
Xiatli watches it all with the same detached indifference. His golden radiance is unshaken, as if the lightning racing toward him were nothing more than an irritation in an otherwise uneventful day. But as Paxilche¡¯s power surges to its peak, a spark of something¡ªcuriosity, perhaps¡ªbriefly flashes across Xiatli¡¯s face. ¡°Interesting¡¡± he mutters, so faintly it might be lost beneath the storm¡¯s howl. Then, just as quickly, it¡¯s gone, and his expression hardens into one of faint disdain.
The brilliant glow around Xiatli intensifies into a blinding, golden aura that swallows the room. It pulses outward, a single wave of power that seems to stop the world for a heartbeat. The lightning fizzles mid-air, collapsing into harmless sparks that extinguish before reaching him. With his arms still raised, Paxilche halts, confusion flashing across his face.
Slowly and deliberately, Xiatli raises a hand as if he has all the time in the world. ¡°You think you can challenge Me?¡± he says, as if the very idea were an insult. ¡°A child playing with storms.¡±
Paxilche growls, taking a step forward, but Xiatli¡¯s hand flicks downward, casual as brushing away an insect. A force slams into Paxilche, invisible but something that overwhelms him, and he¡¯s thrown back like a doll. He hits the ground hard, skidding to a stop in a heap. His body doesn¡¯t move.
Walumaq cries out, rushing to his side, but Xiatli steps forward, his golden light blanketing the Sanqo princess¡¯s face. As a subtle smirk emerges on the demigod¡¯s face, he asks, intrigued, ¡°What else do you all bring?¡±
Before I can answer, I step forward¡ªan instinct, a reflex, a desperate move to shield Walumaq as she kneels over Paxilche. But I don¡¯t get far.
It happens before I even hear the sound like a clap of thunder.
A sudden force slams into my side, hot and wet, like someone¡¯s smashed a branding iron into me and then tried to shove it straight through my torso. I stagger, my body not catching up to the pain yet, just the impact. It¡¯s like I¡¯ve been punched by a god, some divine blow to remind me how small I really am. My legs falter, knees threatening to buckle, but I force them to hold.
Then it comes¡ªthe pain. Sharp, blinding, and all-consuming, as if the air itself has turned to shards of glass and I¡¯m breathing it in. The spot where I¡¯m struck feels alive in the worst way. A throbbing, pulsating thing with a will of its own. My breath hitches, shallow and fast. I taste something metallic and bitter at the back of my throat. Blood.
My hand moves to my side instinctively. There¡¯s warmth there. Sticky, spreading warmth. When I pull my hand away, it¡¯s red, slick, trembling. It¡¯s strange¡ªpart of me expected something more dramatic. An explosion of gore. A hole the size of my fist. But it¡¯s just blood. Too much blood.
The world tilts. The sky lurches sideways. Then back. Then sideways again. As if it can¡¯t decide which direction to fall. People are shouting¡ªvoices distant and muffled. Like they¡¯re speaking through water. I think someone¡¯s yelling my name. But it sounds wrong. Garbled. My knees finally give out. I hit the ground hard. The dirt is cool against my cheek. I feel grounded, even as everything else feels like it¡¯s drifting away.
I try to breathe. But each inhale is a struggle. A rattle that feels like it might tear my chest open. Every heartbeat feels slower. Heavier. Like the drum of a distant war fading into silence.
I should be panicking, I think. I should be screaming or crying or begging. But there¡¯s a strange calm creeping in. A numbing fog curling around the edges of my mind. It¡¯s not peace¡ªit¡¯s the absence of everything. No rage, no fear, no hope. Just this slow, inevitable unraveling.
My eyes flutter shut. The ground presses harder against me. The world slips into nothing.
155 - Haesan
The murmurs roll through the Qantua like a quake starting deep beneath the surface. It¡¯s subtle at first, then rumbles into something that cracks even the air. Warriors who moments ago stood stoic now break into clusters, their heads bowed together, their hands gripping weapons tightly.
Inuxeq takes a step forward, her bow lowered but her hand resting near her blade. Her gaze flicks to the approaching figure, every muscle in her body coiled as if preparing for an ambush. ¡°This¡ this can¡¯t be possible,¡± she mutters to herself.
Taqsame stumbles forward, supported by two warriors who practically carry him by the arms. His legs drag against the dirt, his steps uneven and trembling, but there¡¯s a fire in his eyes that doesn¡¯t dim. His chest rises and falls in shallow, labored breaths, his battered armor a patchwork of blackened leather and scorched metal. Blood crusts along his jawline and streaks down his arms, seeping into the torn fabric of his tunic.
¡°By the stars,¡± Xelhua says under his breath, the word more an exhalation than a prayer. His face hardens, his brow furrowed with suspicion, but he doesn¡¯t move.
I watch as Taqsame¡¯s head tilts slightly upward, looking over the crowd. He¡¯s barely standing, held together by will alone, and yet there¡¯s something undeniable in the way the warriors look at him¡ªlike he¡¯s already won a battle that no one else could.
The whispers swell again, louder now, and words begin to take shape within the hum: The gods saved him. He is chosen.
I glance at Inuxeq. Her nostrils flare as her sharp eyes cut through the crowd. She wants to say something to the warriors, I can tell, wants to silence their unabashed reverence for this foul person. But their gazes remain fixed on Taqsame, as though he¡¯s the answer to something none of them knew they were asking.
He raises a hand¡ªnot grandly, but shakily, as if it costs him everything to do so. ¡°Hae¡ª¡± His voice is barely audible. He coughs, a horrible sound that rakes through his body, forcing one of the warriors to tighten their grip to keep him upright.
Inuxeq stiffens, her expression unreadable as she steps between the young Qantua general and me. ¡°Taqsame.¡± She speaks his name like she¡¯s testing the word, trying to decide if it¡¯s worthy of her breath.
¡°Still¡¡± His voice rasps, and he looks up at her to meet her gaze. ¡°Still here.¡±
Her face is stone, her eyes sharp as obsidian. ¡°You shouldn¡¯t be.¡±
A faint, bitter smile touches his lips. ¡°The gods¡ disagree.¡±
His words settle over the crowd, and for a moment, even Inuxeq seems unsure how to respond. Behind her, the murmurs begin again, spreading like wildfire.
¡°He is chosen. He is protected. He will rise again.¡±
Now Xelhua steps forward, gripping the hilt of his sword. ¡°Faith is a dangerous thing,¡± he speaks aloud, as if to no one in particular and everyone, all at once, ¡°especially when it¡¯s misplaced.¡±
The nearest warriors bristle, their shoulders stiffening as their hands drift closer to their weapons. Are they truly ready for a confrontation? Ready to defend this hero they now worship?
Taqsame coughs again, a wet, rattling sound, but his gaze doesn¡¯t waver. ¡°You see it, don¡¯t you?¡± His voice cracks, but the words are clear, directed at Inuxeq. ¡°This isn¡¯t the end.¡±
Her hand hovers so close to her blade that I think she might draw it. But then she exhales sharply and takes a step back. ¡°You¡¯re still breathing,¡± she says, her tone flat, almost dismissive. ¡°But that doesn¡¯t make you a savior.¡±
Yet the murmurs don¡¯t die. If anything, they grow louder, more fervent. The Qantua warriors exchange glances, and it¡¯s all I need to see to know the implications Taqsame¡¯s resurrection has on the fate of Pachil. The shift, the way the warriors look at him now. He¡¯s not just as a leader, but a symbol, a spark of something greater.
The city feels like a broken bone, newly set, but still throbbing with pain. Its skeleton stands jagged and scorched, pieces of its spirit scattered like ashes in the wind. Yet somehow, against all odds, there¡¯s movement, life trickling back into the ruins like water finding its way through cracks in a parched riverbed.
I stand at the edge of what was once the grand square of Qapauma, now a hollow husk of its former self. Once proud and gleaming under the sun, the great obsidian pylons are toppled or fractured.
But the people are here. And already, they are rebuilding.
Having a face streaked with soot, a woman bends to gather what remains of a toppled statue. She is small, her shoulders hunched with fatigue, yet her arms are strong as she heaves the fractured piece onto a pile of rubble. Silent, wide-eyed, and solemn from all that they¡¯ve seen for their age, a group of children nearby picks through the debris, retrieving bits of charred wood and stone. They don¡¯t play, don¡¯t chatter, don¡¯t make a sound. Their small hands work methodically, tirelessly.
An older man limps past me, his gait uneven, and a deep cut on his temple is crusted with dried blood. He carries a woven basket filled with shards of pottery, each piece handled with care as if they¡¯re fragments of a memory he refuses to lose. He doesn¡¯t look at me. None of them do. Their focus is on the work, on the act of reclaiming what they can from the ruins, as if that alone might tether them to the lives they had before the flames came.
It¡¯s not the bustling energy of a city in recovery, though. There¡¯s no chatter, no barked orders, no laughter to break the heavy silence. Instead, it¡¯s a somber cacophony of shuffling feet, the scrape of stone against stone, the occasional grunt of exertion.
And yet, they continue. Step by step, stone by stone, they labor to fight back against their exhaustion and grief. Small acts of quiet defiance against the destruction that tried to consume them.
I can¡¯t tell if it¡¯s hope or futility that drives them.
They rebuild, but they do not mourn aloud. There are no public displays of grief, no wailing or lamenting the losses that hang heavy in the air. Instead, the sorrow is carried in their silence, woven into every movement, every lifted stone and salvaged fragment. It¡¯s an unspoken agreement, a collective understanding that there¡¯s no time for tears.
I feel the cold and inert amulet against my chest, like a stone pulled from some forgotten grave. Its presence is both grounding and unbearable, a reminder that my place here is tenuous at best. I¡¯m not Qantua, not Achope. I¡¯m not of this city or its people. Yet I¡¯m here, watching them stitch their lives back together with trembling hands and raw determination. And I wonder if they even want my help, or if my presence is just another burden they have to bear.
Xelhua steps up beside me, his broad frame casting a long shadow across the fractured square. He says nothing at first, just watches the people with a quiet intensity that feels heavier than words.
¡°These people,¡± I say finally, my voice barely more than a whisper. ¡°They¡¯re strong, indeed.¡±
He grunts in response, a sound that could mean anything. His hand rests lightly on the hilt of his sword, the gesture almost absent, like muscle memory. ¡°Strength doesn¡¯t rebuild cities,¡± he says bluntly after a moment. ¡°It just keeps you alive long enough to try.¡±
I nod, though his words make me feel a bit uneasy. ¡°Do you think it¡¯s enough? That they¡¯ll make it through this?¡±
¡°Enough?¡± Xelhua asks, almost exasperatedly. ¡°What¡¯s enough, Quya? Enough to keep them alive? Enough to make them whole again? In order to persevere, it¡¯s a question of what they¡¯re willing to give.¡±
I don¡¯t know what to say to that, so I don¡¯t say anything. Instead, I watch the people of Qapauma move through the ruins of their home, their backs bent but unbroken. A silence settles between us. My thoughts drift, not to the people bustling in the square, but to the battle. To the flame. To Mexqutli¡¯s last moments.
¡°Do you think he knew?¡± I murmur.
Xelhua tilts his head inquisitively. ¡°Who knew? And what?¡±
¡°Mexqutli.¡± I hesitate, feeling the name catch in my throat. ¡°Do you think he knew he wouldn¡¯t survive?¡±
Xelhua¡¯s face hardens, his hand tightening slightly on the hilt of his sword. ¡°He knew. He must have.¡±
The certainty in his voice makes my stomach twist. Before I can ask how he can be so certain, Inuxeq¡¯s voice interjects. ¡°Mexqutli was always a mystery,¡± she says as she approaches us.
Her eyes flick to Xelhua, then back to me. ¡°You think he knew? He was always lying. About where he was going, what he was doing¡ even why he came to Qapauma in the first place.¡±
Xelhua¡¯s gaze shifts to Inuxeq. ¡°And the colors he wore?¡± he asks pointedly. ¡°You traveled with him. Tell me, did he ever explain why he wore the black and crimson?¡±
Inuxeq frowns, the exhaustion on her face momentarily giving way to confusion. ¡°The black and crimson?¡±
¡°Of the Iqsuwa who served the Timuaq,¡± Xelhua clarifies, his words landing like a hammer. ¡°He knew what they meant. Anyone who wore those colors knew.¡±
Inuxeq stiffens, her shoulders squaring. ¡°He said he was an emissary for the Ulxa, sent to broker peace through diplomacy. But¡¡± Her voice falters, her eyes dropping to the uneven stone beneath our feet. ¡°But that¡¯s what he said. Nothing about him ever fully added up. He lied about why he came to Qapauma. Lied about his intentions with Achutli. Then he disappeared. And now¡¡±
¡°People lie for many reasons,¡± Xelhua asserts. ¡°Some lie to protect themselves. Others lie to hide their true intentions. Mexqutli¡ Mexqutli lied because he was running. From what, I don¡¯t know. But whatever he was, it wasn¡¯t for Pachil.¡±
¡°Is that what you think?¡± Inuxeq snaps. ¡°That he wasn¡¯t for us? He sacrificed himself, gave his life to stop the Sunfire! How do you explain that?¡±
Xelhua doesn¡¯t flinch. ¡°And you think that erases everything else?¡±
Before the tension can boil over, a sharp cry echoes across the square. A group of Qantua warriors struggles to lift a fallen beam from the rubble, their strained shouts drown out the murmurs of the crowd.
Without another word, Xelhua strides toward them. His broad hands reach to steady the wood as the others strain under its weight. Inuxeq lingers for a moment, then lets out a frustrated snort before she moves to help.This book is hosted on another platform. Read the official version and support the author''s work.
I remain where I am, watching. Watching the Qantua warriors as they nod their thanks. Watching Xelhua as he brushes dust from his hands. Watching Inuxeq as she wipes sweat from her brow.
And in the quiet that follows, I look back over all the subtle progress being made, the unity of people in an effort to rebuild. I think of everything that has led to this, everything that has allowed me to live. Mexqutli¡¯s secrets are ashes now. But questions still linger.
Taqsame. Mexqutli. Achutli. Myself.
The thought whispers through me like a chill: Is anyone truly for Pachil?
We gather in the shadow of a charred outcrop, the light of distant torches dimly illuminating this place. Xelhua, Inuxeq, and I stand in a loose circle, exhausted from a day¡¯s work. We share a silence of a job well done, doing our best to not allow the work that looms tomorrow to take away from what we¡¯ve achieved today.
Xelhua and Inuxeq swap a leather pouch between them. I hear the sloshing of liquid as they assertively yank the bag into their grasp. They take long¡ªlong¡ªpulls from the pouch, allowing the cloudy beige liquid to trickle down their cheeks. The fermented smell makes me gag, and every time it¡¯s offered to me, I passionately wave it away in disgust, trying to refrain from vomiting¡ much to their amusement.
It¡¯s Inuxeq who speaks first. ¡°You know we can¡¯t just let this¡ thing grow.¡± Her voice is deliberate, conspiratorial, and low enough to avoid catching the ears of any nearby warriors. ¡°If they think he¡¯s some kind of gift from the gods, there¡¯s no telling what they¡¯ll do.¡±
¡°They¡¯ll follow him,¡± Xelhua says bluntly, crossing his arms. ¡°These warriors¡ªthey¡¯re desperate. And that¡¯s not to mention the Tapeu. They¡¯ve lost their homes, their families, their leaders. The Qantua are likely to follow one of their own without question. But the Tapeu? Taqsame offers them a reason to believe they haven¡¯t lost everything.¡±
¡°That doesn¡¯t mean it¡¯s real,¡± Inuxeq counters, taking another gulp from the pouch before tossing it to Xelhua. ¡°He¡¯s barely standing. He should be dead.¡± She looks over to me, her body swaying slightly. ¡°You saw him, Haesan. Does that look like someone the gods are propping up? Or something else?¡±
I glance at Xelhua, then at Inuxeq. ¡°It doesn¡¯t matter what I think,¡± I say after a beat, choosing my words carefully. ¡°What matters is what they think. And right now, the people think Taqsame is their last hope.¡±
¡°If Taqsame still breathes,¡± Xelhua says, nodding, his voice suddenly more gravely, ¡°after what we¡¯ve seen, then the gods are with him.¡±
¡°He¡¯s merely a man,¡± Inuxeq scowls. ¡°A man who happened to survive when others didn¡¯t. That doesn¡¯t make him divine.¡±
Xelhua shakes his head. ¡°If Taqsame takes control of the Qantua¡ if they rally behind him, where does that leave the rest of us? What happens when he decides his survival is a sign that he¡¯s the only one to sit atop that throne?¡±
I hesitate. The truth is, I don¡¯t know what happens then. I don¡¯t know if Taqsame is a savior or a threat or something in between. But I do know that whatever he is, he¡¯s already changing the way the Qantua see the world¡ªand that kind of power is dangerous, no matter whose hands it¡¯s in.
The oppressive thought lingers until the murmurs of the crowd around us prick at my awareness. I blink, glancing toward the scattered groups of warriors and civilians. At first, I think it¡¯s just the usual tension¡ªexhaustion and frayed nerves taking their toll.
But then I hear it: a voice. Familiar, tinged with a warmth that cuts through the haze of gloom in which I¡¯m enveloped.
¡°Does trouble follow you, or do you drag it behind you like a shadow?¡±
I whirl around, my heart lurching in my chest, and there she is. She¡¯s leaning heavily on the arm of a shaman, her face pale but still set in that familiar wry expression. Her clothes are torn, stained with blood both hers and not, and a crude bandage wraps tightly around her left arm. Yet despite it all, she stands, her eyes sharp and alive as they find mine.
¡°Yachaman,¡± I breathe, my voice cracking and filled with relief. I take a step toward her, then another, and before I know it, I¡¯m running, closing the distance between us in a heartbeat. She straightens just enough to catch me as I throw my arms around her, her body solid and warm despite the tremor in her limbs.
¡°You¡¯re alive!¡± I exclaim, the words tumbling out in a rush. ¡°I thought¡ªafter the battle, I thought¡ª¡±
¡°Haesan,¡± she interrupts, grimacing as I realize I¡¯ve hugged her much too tightly, and let go only slightly. ¡°I¡¯ve been nearly killed twice since I met you. Are you trying to make it a habit?¡±
I laugh, a sound that¡¯s equal parts relief and disbelief, and step back just enough to look at her. ¡°You¡¯re insufferable, you know that?¡±
¡°And you¡¯re too sentimental,¡± she retorts, though her smirk softens the bite of her words. ¡°You know how much I care for¡ contact. But I suppose I¡¯ll forgive you this once.¡±
The shaman clears his throat, drawing my attention to the fresh bandages covering her side and arm. ¡°She shouldn¡¯t be standing,¡± he says, disapprovingly. ¡°It¡¯s a wonder she¡¯s alive at all.¡±
¡°I told you,¡± Yachaman mutters, waving him off with her good arm. ¡°I¡¯m fine.¡±
¡°You¡¯re not fine,¡± I say, frowning as I take in the state of her injuries. ¡°You look like you¡¯ve been dragged through several battlefields.¡±
¡°That¡¯s because I have,¡± she says with a faint, wry smile, though something darker lurks beneath the jest. ¡°But it¡¯s nothing I can¡¯t handle. I¡¯ve survived worse.¡±
The shaman shakes his head, muttering something about stubborn Aimue as he steps aside to let us talk. I don¡¯t miss the way Yachaman¡¯s shoulders sag slightly once he¡¯s gone, nor the wince she quickly hides when she shifts her weight.
¡°You should be resting,¡± I say, my concern outweighing my relief. ¡°You don¡¯t have to¡ª¡±
¡°Haesan,¡± she cuts in. ¡°I¡¯m here. That¡¯s what matters.¡±
I swallow hard, the lump in my throat making it difficult to speak. ¡°I¡¯m glad,¡± I finally manage, barely above a whisper. ¡°I don¡¯t think I could¡¯ve done this without you.¡±
Her smirk returns, softer this time, and she places a hand on my shoulder. ¡°You would¡¯ve managed. You¡¯re stronger than you think.¡±
The moment stretches between us, the noise of the square fading into the landscape. It¡¯s as though the world itself has stilled to make space for this reunion. Yachaman¡¯s eyes meet mine, and I feel the air shift with all the unspoken words and everything we thought we¡¯d lost. For so long, I¡¯d carried her absence, like a hollow ache I¡¯d taught myself to ignore. But now, standing here with her, it feels as though something long buried has surfaced. I don¡¯t know whether it¡¯s the work of the gods, the Eleven, or some cruel twist of fate that has brought us back together, but I don¡¯t care. She¡¯s here. Flesh and bone, stronger than I dared imagine, and yet, somehow, more human than I remember.
I should say something¡ªanything¡ªbut the words stick in my throat, swallowed by the tidal wave of relief and something I can¡¯t quite name. All I know is that for this fleeting moment, it feels like the world is right again, and the thought of losing her is more than I can bear.
¡°She¡¯s right,¡± Xelhua says, pulling me back to the present. ¡°You¡¯re stronger than you think. And you¡¯re going to need that strength.¡±
¡°What do you mean?¡± I ask, though I have a sinking feeling I already know the answer.
¡°This city,¡± he says, gesturing to the ruins around us. ¡°These people¡ªthey¡¯re looking to you now. Whether you want it or not, you¡¯re their Quya.¡±
The word still makes my stomach twist every time it¡¯s uttered. ¡°I¡¯m not a queen,¡± I say, shaking my head. ¡°I¡¯m just trying to help.¡±
¡°That¡¯s what makes you a good one,¡± Inuxeq says, surprisingly tender in demeanor. ¡°But if you¡¯re going to lead, you need more than strength. You need support.¡±
¡°Support?¡± I echo, frowning from not understanding.
¡°A council,¡± Xelhua says matter-of-factly. ¡°Not just warriors or advisors, but representatives¡ªpeople from all over Pachil. The Qantua, the Tuatiu, the Sanqo¡ all of them.¡±
¡°A council?¡± I repeat, the word feeling foreign on my tongue. ¡°You think they¡¯ll listen to me?¡±
¡°They¡¯ll listen if you make them,¡± Inuxeq says. ¡°And if they don¡¯t, you¡¯ll have us to back you up.¡±
I look at her, then at Xelhua, my mind racing. A council. A group of people from every corner of Pachil, coming together to rebuild, to protect what¡¯s left. It¡¯s an idea that feels both impossible and inevitable, a thread of hope woven into the fabric of everything we¡¯ve been fighting for.
¡°This could work,¡± I say as the vision of what such a council will look like. I look upon the faces of those gathered and can only smile warmly. ¡°And having you all here to be a part of it will give us the best chance we have to rebuild and unite Pachil.¡±
But then Inuxeq¡¯s expression hardens, resistance flashing across her face. ¡°I won¡¯t be part of it,¡± she says, firmly.
¡°What?¡± I ask, the word slipping out before I can stop it. ¡°Why not?¡±
¡°I can¡¯t stay here,¡± she says, shaking her head. ¡°My people need me. The Tuatiu need me. I¡¯ve been away for far too long. I can¡¯t abandon them.¡±
¡°Inuxeq,¡± I start, but she cuts me off.
¡°No,¡± she says, her tone final. ¡°I won¡¯t do it.¡±
¡°But you said it yourself,¡± I say, my voice rising despite myself. ¡°If we¡¯re going to rebuild, we need everyone. And that includes you.¡±
She hesitates, then looks away. The right words to say seem to elude me, but to my fortune, Xelhua steps in. ¡°You¡¯ve fought for this, Inuxeq. For a chance to make things better. A council like this¡ªit¡¯s something Achutli never would¡¯ve considered. But you can.¡±
The mention of Achutli seems to strike a nerve, and she exhales sharply, her shoulders sagging slightly. ¡°I can¡¯t leave my people,¡± she says again, though her voice wavers.
¡°You won¡¯t be leaving them,¡± I say, gently placing a hand on her shoulder. ¡°You¡¯ll be giving them a voice. A place in something bigger. There¡¯s never been a representative for the Tuatiu in Qapauma. You could be the first.¡±
She looks at me, her eyes searching mine, and I can see the conflict warring within her. Finally, she sighs, her expression softening just enough to give me hope.
¡°Fine,¡± she says, though the word is heavy with reluctance. ¡°I¡¯ll consider it. But don¡¯t think for a moment that this means I¡¯m staying here forever.¡±
¡°That¡¯s all I ask,¡± I say, relief washing over me like a wave.
Xelhua nods, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. ¡°It¡¯s a start.¡±
The night settles over Qapauma like a shroud. The air is cooler now, the faint breeze carrying the scent of ash and distant fires still smoldering beyond the city walls. In the courtyard below, I can hear the quiet murmurs of warriors tending to their wounds, sharing rations, and watching the stars as if the heavens have put on a display just for them. For the first time in what feels like an eternity, there is no shouting, no clashing steel, no chaos. Only this fragile calm.
I stand at the edge of the balcony, staring out at the jagged silhouette of the city. The rubble and ruin look different under the moonlight, the sharp edges softened by shadows. It should feel like a victory, this silence, this chance to breathe¡ªbut it doesn¡¯t. There¡¯s something about the quiet that feels wrong, feels uneasy.
I close my eyes and exhale slowly, trying to ease the knot in my chest. My thoughts drift back to the idea of the council, to the hesitant agreement, the tentative hope I saw in the eyes of those around me. It¡¯s a start. It has to be.
But the memory of Taqsame lingers, unsettling and vivid. His voice, his conviction¡ªit all felt too certain, like a blade held just a little too close to my throat. Even now, I can feel the way the Qantua warriors whispered his name like a prayer, their eyes alight with something I couldn¡¯t quite name. Something I didn¡¯t trust.
I step away from the balcony, turning back toward the dimly lit hall that leads to my quarters. My legs feel heavy, the exhaustion creeping in with every step. The torches cast a light that stretches and twists the carved faces of old rulers, now battered and cracked. I glance at them as I pass, their empty eyes staring back at me like silent judges.
Then I hear it.
A voice¡ªlow and hurried¡ªslipping through the stillness like a blade through cloth. I stop, and strain to listen. The words are muffled, indistinct, but they¡¯re there, layered and overlapping like waves crashing in the dark. My heart quickens as I take a step closer to the sound, my bare feet silent against the cold stone floor.
¡°¡not ready¡ too soon¡¡±
The words drift toward me, faint but unmistakable. My stomach tightens as I inch closer, my back pressing against the wall. The voices are just around the corner now, hidden in the shadows of an alcove where the light from the torches doesn¡¯t reach. I hold my breath, leaning in as much as I dare.
¡°¡she¡¯s weak¡ not like him¡¡±
A cold sweat prickles at the back of my neck. My hand brushes the amulet that feels cool against my chest. My fingers tighten around it as if it might somehow steady me. But it doesn¡¯t. Not while the voices continue.
¡°¡wait for the right moment¡ no mistakes¡¡±
My chest tightens, my mind racing. Who are they talking about? Who are they waiting for? The shadows shift, and I hear the scrape of boots against stone, the faint rustle of cloth. They¡¯re moving. I step forward, the hesitation falling away as I turn the corner, ready to confront them.
But there¡¯s no one there.
The alcove is empty, the darkness undisturbed. My eyes dart around, searching for any sign of movement, any trace of the voices I know I heard. The silence presses in. My pulse thunders in my ears as I step further into the alcove, my hand trailing along the wall. It¡¯s cold, as if it¡¯s been untouched for years.
I kneel, my fingers brushing over the floor, searching for something¡ªanything¡ªthat might explain what I heard. But there¡¯s nothing. No footprints, no disturbed dust, no sign that anyone had been here at all.
I straighten slowly, my breaths come in shaky gasps. The voices echo in my mind, each word a jagged edge that buries deeper into me.
I turn away, my steps slow and deliberate as I make my way back to my quarters. The light of the torches feels dimmer now, and the shadows darker, deeper. The faces carved into the walls seem to watch me as I pass, their empty eyes following my every step, judging me.
When I reach my door, I hesitate. My hand hovers over the worn wood. I glance back down the hall one more time, just to be certain. The silence stretches out before me like a vast, empty plain. The voices are gone, swallowed by the dark, yet their words linger.
¡°¡not like him¡¡±
I push open the door and step inside. The faint light of a single candle casts long, creepy shadows across the room. I close the door behind me and lean against it, my breath shallow and unsteady.
The calm I felt earlier, the fragile hope that had begun to take root¡ªit¡¯s gone now, swept away by the voices and the darkness they left behind.
156 - The Heart of Haqiliqa
Captain Lema watches Pahua pace furiously between the gathered Sanqo nobles, his bronze cape dragging through the mud. The young ruler¡¯s arms flail as he gestures toward Lema and Gartzen, and his voice rises and falls in heated bursts of his native tongue. Lema doesn¡¯t need to understand the words to know what¡¯s being said¡ªthe pointed fingers and tense postures are enough. The boy-king is losing his grip, and everyone knows it.
The nobles stand rigid, scowling, unamused by this spectacle. One, an older man with vast crevasses creasing his aged face and draped in bronze chains that catch the fading light, steps forward, shouting something sharp and accusatory. He spits his words at the boy, his hand slicing through the air in Pahua¡¯s direction before pointing squarely at Lema and Gartzen.
Gartzen grunts, crossing his arms as he leans casually against a tree. ¡°Well, that¡¯s not a friendly tone, I¡¯d reckon.¡±
Lema exhales, rubbing a hand over his face. The young king¡¯s desperation oozes from every erratic movement, every misplaced shout. It¡¯s not just that the nobles don¡¯t respect him¡ªit¡¯s that they see an opening. Weakness is an invitation in their world. But in which world would it not be?
¡°They¡¯re not wrong to be angry,¡± Lema mutters. He feels he and Gartzen are almost lost in the tension crackling between the two factions. ¡°He¡¯s floundering, and the worst part is that he¡¯s dragged us into his ordeal.¡±
¡°So what¡¯s the plan, Captain?¡± Gartzen asks dryly, his eyes never leaving the gathering. ¡°Because if Pahoowa¡¯s got one, I¡¯d love to hear it. Or, you know, understand it.¡±
Pahua spins toward them suddenly, his eyes wild. He jabs a finger at the two Legido, then hollers something that makes one of the nobles gasp. The older man steps forward again, angrily shouting and gesturing wildly toward the jungle. The exchange grows louder, more heated, until Pahua slams his hand against his chest and yells over them all. His voice noticeably cracks, the rawness of it cutting through the din like the first crack on a frozen lake.
Captain Lema straightens, and instinctively brushes his hand over the hilt of his sword. He doesn¡¯t move, doesn¡¯t make a sound, but the shift in his posture draws Pahua¡¯s attention. The young ruler taps his chest again, then the ground, then sweeps his arm toward the nobles, who regard him with confusion and more stern looks. His meaning is clear, even if his words are not: these men are a threat, and he doesn¡¯t know how to deal with them.
¡°He wants us to clean up his mess,¡± Gartzen grumbles.
Captain Lema¡¯s mind races, trying to piece together their next move. This isn¡¯t just about keeping the nobles in line¡ªit¡¯s about survival. He realizes Pahoowa doesn¡¯t have the political clout to control them, and if they turn on him, it bodes terribly for his crew and the prospects of getting out of this stinking place. But stepping in now, taking sides in a conflict he barely understands with a boy who is struggling to hold his own, feels like an even greater risk.
¡°Damn it,¡± Lema mutters under his breath. He steps forward, his boots sinking into the mud as he closes the distance between them. Pahua watches him carefully, tense in his expectant posture. Lema finally meets his gaze, then gestures to the jungle, mimicking the young ruler¡¯s earlier motion. ¡°What¡¯s out there?¡± he asks, knowing full well there will be no answer.
Pahua hesitates, then lifts his hand. He points to the nobles, then the forest, then back to himself. The message is disjointed, but Lema believes he¡¯s pieced together enough: the threat isn¡¯t just here¡ªit¡¯s out there, too.
Gartzen¡¯s jaw tightens into a glower. ¡°You think he¡¯s hiding something?¡±
¡°I think he doesn¡¯t know what he¡¯s dealing with to be hiding anything,¡± Lema replies. He looks back at Pahua, at the desperation etched into every line of his face. It¡¯s not just weakness¡ªit¡¯s a liability. But it¡¯s also an opportunity.
¡°Maybe this is not such a bad thing,¡± Lema says finally.
Gartzen raises an eyebrow, switching his attention between his captain and the boy king. He scoffs, his skepticism plain. ¡°What, you want to board a sinking ship? Thought you were smarter than that, Captain.¡±
Lema turns, his eyes narrowing as he watches Pahua¡¯s argument falter, the nobles exchanging smug glances. ¡°A sinking ship can still be steered,¡± he says. ¡°You¡¯ve seen it yourself. It¡¯s the ones gasping for air who are the most desperate to be rescued.¡±
¡°You planning to explain how this benefits us,¡± Gartzen inquires sarcastically, ¡°or should I start digging our graves now?¡±
Lema smirks, but there¡¯s no humor in it. ¡°Pahoowa¡¯s a puppet, and he knows it. And if he doesn¡¯t know it, he¡¯ll find out soon enough. But a puppet¡¯s strings can be pulled in more than one direction. If we help him now, he owes us. That¡¯s leverage.¡±
Gartzen snorts, shaking his head. ¡°And what happens when the nobles decide they¡¯ve had enough of this little alliance? They outnumber us, you know. You think they¡¯re going to let us walk away unscathed?¡±
¡°No,¡± Lema admits. ¡°But we¡¯re not walking away until we get what we need. Supplies, repairs, safe passage¡ªwe¡¯re not leaving until we have it all. And if we play this right, we might just get it.¡±
Gartzen doesn¡¯t reply, but his frown deepens. He doesn¡¯t quite like the sound of that, of what it implies with this situation. Still, Lema steps closer to the young king. He knows how this will look¡ªan intervention, an alignment¡ªbut that¡¯s exactly the point. If he¡¯s going to insert himself into this tangled web of Sanko politics, he needs to make his intentions clear, even if they¡¯re a lie.
Pahua¡¯s eyes snap to him as he approaches, a touch of relief breaking through the haze of frustration. The boy-king doesn¡¯t speak, but his gaze is pleading, almost childlike. Lema stops a few paces away, chin elevated to force himself to look down his nose at the young ruler and nobles. He doesn¡¯t need to understand the language to convey authority; he¡¯s spent years perfecting the art of making himself the center of attention without saying a word.
The nobles fall silent, their eyes narrowing as they assess this new development. Lema doesn¡¯t miss the way their suspicious gazes dart between him and the boy. Good. Let them wonder. Let them think twice before making their move.
¡°I don¡¯t know what you¡¯re saying,¡± Lema says calmly, his voice low enough that only Pahua can hear. ¡°But I know you need me. So let¡¯s make this work.¡±
Pahua stares at him for a moment, then, slowly, he nods. He steps back, gesturing toward the nobles, then the forest, then to himself. Lema turns to Gartzen, who¡¯s watching the exchange with a mix of amusement and exasperation.
Yet before any further words can be exchanged, the conversation is interrupted by a sharp shout from one of the nobles, a middle-aged man with a weathered face and a face littered with piercings of all sorts¡ªperhaps an indication of his authority, Lema thinks. He steps forward, pointing at Pahua and then at Lema. His voice rises with each word, and the other nobles murmur their agreement.
Pahua stiffens, and his hands ball into fists at his sides. He shouts something in return, his voice cracking under the strain. The exchange escalates quickly, as the nobles¡¯ disdain gives way to outright hostility.
Captain Lema steps forward, deliberately placing himself between Pahua and the nobles. The nobles falter, not expecting such a move, such a silent declaration of intent. Their attention shifts between this outsider and the boy-king. For a moment, the clearing is filled with nothing but the sound of the forest and the nearby sea, the tension thick enough to choke on.
Lema raises a hand, gesturing for calm. He doesn¡¯t speak¡ªthere¡¯s no point when they can¡¯t understand him¡ªbut his presence alone is enough to give them pause. He turns to Pahua, the thin line of his pressed lips almost forming a smirk.
¡°You want to lead?¡± he says quietly, almost urging the young ruler into action. ¡°Then act like it. Show them you¡¯re worth following.¡±
Pahua stares at him, and if Lema didn¡¯t know better, he¡¯d think the words were sinking in despite the language barrier. Slowly, the boy-king nods. He turns back to the nobles, his posture straighter, his movements more controlled. He says something, more assertive, more confident. The nobles exchange wary glances, but less defiant than moments earlier.
Gartzen steps closer, mumbling to Captain Lema. ¡°You think this¡¯ll hold?¡±
¡°For now,¡± Lema quietly replies. He continues watching the nobles attentively, his mind already working through the next steps. ¡°But it¡¯s not about holding¡ªit¡¯s about pushing. If we can push Pahoowa just enough, he¡¯ll do the rest for us.¡±
¡°And if he doesn¡¯t?¡± Gartzen asks skeptically.
Lema smirks again, this time with a hint of genuine amusement. ¡°Then we cut the strings and let the whole thing collapse.¡±
The answer hangs there, unsettling as it is confident. A whisper of gulls breaks the silence, carried on the briny wind that brushes the men¡¯s bearded faces. Jagged shadows stretch along the shores and twist with the breeze. To Gartzen, they probably look like omens.
To Lema, they¡¯re a map of possibilities.
When the decision is made, it feels inevitable. The rebellion is swift and brutal¡ªbut clumsily executed, a haphazard show of strength that reeks of desperation more than strategy.
Night unfurls itself across the isle of Sanqo. The darkness is broken only by a pale sliver of moonlight that cuts through the mist. Captain Lema moves with his men like a shadow through the broken streets, footsteps softened by the perpetually rain-slick stones.
Pahua leads from the front¡ªif you can call it leading. Flanked by Lema¡¯s contingent of Legido soldiers and his own disjointed band of Sanqo warriors, the boy-king marches toward the dissidents¡¯ stronghold. The village lies nestled against the cliffs, its defenses a jagged line of wooden barricades and watchfires, far more formidable than expected.
Captain Lema studies the scene with a practiced eye. Desperation breeds mistakes, he thinks. Pahua¡¯s orders come fast and sharp, barked in a voice that wavers under the strain. There¡¯s no finesse to it¡ªno real command¡ªonly a raw, trembling need to strike first, to crush resistance before it can find its feet.
¡°Fear makes men sloppy,¡± Gartzen mutters, barely audible above the wind.
Lema doesn¡¯t reply. He doesn¡¯t need to. He watches Pahua stumble through his own authority. Every cracked word and rushed movement exposes just how close the boy is to falling apart. The nobles who questioned him earlier aren¡¯t here now¡ªonly those desperate enough, or foolish enough, to fall in line.
This is how kingdoms break, Lema thinks. Not with war, but with clumsy ambition and a push in the wrong direction.
¡°This is going to be a disaster,¡± Gartzen mutters frustratedly. ¡°Boy doesn¡¯t have a clue what he¡¯s doing.¡±
¡°He¡¯s learning,¡± Lema replies tersely, though the words sound hollow. He gestures sharply to his own soldiers, issuing quiet orders. The Legido troops form up with their muskets at the ready. Unlike Pahua¡¯s warriors, they move as one, shaped by years of unbroken discipline.
The first crack of musket fire splits the air, followed by the unmistakable screams of those caught in its path. The defenders falter, their primitive weapons no match for the Legido¡¯s firepower. Smoke and chaos descend upon the village as Pahua¡¯s warriors surge forward, emboldened by the thunderous booms and the sight of their enemies falling.This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.
But the triumph is short-lived.
Inside the stronghold, the resistance stiffens. The rebels fight like cornered beasts, clawing and striking with the reckless fury of those who know they are already dead. Lema watches with a mixture of detachment and irritation as Pahua plunges into the fray, wildly swinging his bizarre and primitive weapon. The boy-king moves like someone trying to prove something¡ªnot to his warriors, not even to his enemies, but to himself. His unpracticed strikes lack finesse, his movements erratic and fueled by raw emotion.
¡°He¡¯s going to get himself killed,¡± Gartzen grumbles, already moving to signal a detachment of soldiers.
¡°Let him,¡± Lema says, though he knows he doesn¡¯t mean it. With a sigh, he gestures for the Legido to move in, clearing a path through the chaos with their muskets.
The tide of battle turns quickly once the Legido fully engage. Their formations are tight, their shots precise, and the rebels crumble under the unrelenting pressure. Within hours, it¡¯s over. The defenders lie in heaps among the smoking ruins of their village. Some are still breathing, though their groans of pain can barely be heard over the crackle of fires and the occasional cry of a Sanqo warrior finishing the job.
Pahua stands at the center of it all, his chest heaving, his weapon dripping with blood. His face is pale, his eyes wide and glassy as he surveys the carnage. There¡¯s no triumph in his expression, only a hollow sort of disbelief, as though he can¡¯t quite reconcile the destruction with his intentions.
¡°You did what you had to,¡± Captain Lema says, stepping up beside him. ¡°This will send a message.¡±
Pahua doesn¡¯t respond. His grip tightens on the hilt of his weapon, and for a moment, Lema wonders if the boy will shatter, the strain carved into his pale, tight-knuckled hands. But then he straightens, his shoulders squaring as he turns to his warriors and raises his weapon high. A fractured cheer rises from the Sanqo warriors, carried more by sheer will than strength.
¡°Idiots,¡± Gartzen mutters under his breath. ¡°Cheering for this mess like it¡¯s a bloody victory.¡±
¡°It¡¯s what they need right now,¡± Lema replies, though he knows Gartzen¡¯s right. The rebellion may be crushed, but the boy-king¡¯s grip on power feels as fragile as ever. And this was just one possible uprising that¡¯s been dispatched. Will there be others? Additionally, the Sanqo warriors are loyal for now, but loyalty built on fear and desperation is a shaky foundation, at best.
As the smoke begins to clear, Pahua orders the captured dissenters to be brought forward. With their ceremonial garb tattered and stained by blood, a handful of nobles are dragged to the center of the village square. Captain Lema can see the defiance burning in their eyes, even as they kneel before the young king. There¡¯s a hollowness in Pahua¡¯s eyes that Lema recognizes all too well. The cost of leadership, how every decision carved into his soul. But Lema doesn¡¯t linger on it. The boy will learn, or he won¡¯t. Either way, it¡¯s not Lema¡¯s concern.
One noble, an older woman with a deep gash across her cheek, spits at Pahua¡¯s feet. The act sends a ripple through the gathered warriors, some of whom mutter uneasily among themselves. Pahua¡¯s face hardens, his jaw clenching as he raises his black blade. He shouts something in his native tongue, his voice trembling, but loud enough to carry over the crowd.
¡°Here it comes,¡± Gartzen says grimly.
With their blades still drawn, Pahua¡¯s warriors step forward. But to everyone¡¯s surprise¡ªparticularly Captain Lema¡¯s¡ªthe boy-king raises a hand, stopping them. His voice rings out in sharp commands, and suddenly, the dissenters are dragged to their feet, their hands bound with rough cords. One by one, they¡¯re marched toward the remains of a fortified structure. Lema assumes it¡¯s been transformed into a makeshift prison, carved into the rock at the edge of the village.
The nobles resist as much as they can, some spitting insults or struggling against their captors. But their defiance is met with swift, forceful strikes from Sanqo warriors eager to silence them. Lema watches as the prisoners are thrown into the dark confines of the cell.
The crowd murmurs uneasily. Pahua¡¯s warriors exchange glances, some visibly relieved, others stiff with dissatisfaction. The cheers that might have erupted at executions are replaced by a quiet, strained silence. Even now, it¡¯s clear that not everyone agrees with the boy-king¡¯s decision, and the questions that course throughout the gathered residents come from a place of genuine concern.
Gartzen shifts beside Lema, skeptically asking, ¡°Imprisoning them, huh? Smart move or just delaying the inevitable?¡±
Captain Lema doesn¡¯t respond immediately. He keeps his eyes on Pahua, who stands at the center of the square, his chest rising and falling as though he¡¯s run a great distance. The boy¡¯s face is pale, his lips tight, but his gaze is steady¡ªresolute, even. For all his youth and inexperience, there¡¯s a determination radiating from him that catches Lema off guard.
¡°We¡¯ll see,¡± Lema mutters finally. His tone is measured, but his mind churns with uncertainty. Pahua¡¯s choice to imprison¡ªand not execute¡ªthe rebels may have spared him the immediate burden of bloodshed, but it¡¯s also left him with enemies who¡¯ll fester and plot in their confinement. And when they rise again, as they surely will, the boy will have an even greater challenge on his hands.
As the last of the prisoners disappears into the makeshift jail, Pahua turns to face his warriors. He raises his arms, shouting a string of sharp words in his native tongue. Whatever he¡¯s saying is enough to stir a response, albeit a muted one, as the Sanqo warriors let out a ragged cheer.
Captain Lema feels Gartzen¡¯s gaze of heavy, unspoken judgement upon him. He knows what his second-in-command is thinking: that they¡¯ve tied themselves to a sinking ship, as he put it. That this alliance is a mistake. And maybe he¡¯s right. But Lema also knows a captain doesn¡¯t turn back when the seas grow dark¡ªhe sails on. And besides, no ship ever made history by drifting safely in the shallows.
As Pahua turns to address his warriors, the Legido captain watches with a growing sense of detachment. The boy may have won today, but the cracks in his rule are widening. And Lema knows that when those cracks finally give way, the Legido will be there to pick up the pieces¡ªwhatever that might mean.
The executions begin the next day.
Emboldened by his victory the day prior, Pahua orders the immediate arrest of suspected conspirators. They are dragged into the village square, their wrists bound, their faces etched with terror. The young ruler watches stone-faced from his makeshift throne as the executions proceed one by one.
This takes up the entirety of the day. At first, the killings are met with intense rejoicing as each dissenter¡¯s murder is celebrated by those faithful to Pahua¡¯s rule. But as they continue on until the sun begins its descent back to the land, the people grow more tense, nervous, as the severity of what¡¯s being done finally starts worming its way into their conscious. Many begin to depart the square, returning to their homes. It¡¯s the ones who stay to witness the executions that Captain Lema finds to be the most concerning, the most disturbing.
Lema stands at the edge of the square. His arms are crossed as he observes the scene with disgust. Gartzen stands beside him, his face, too, is a mask of disapproval.
¡°Look at him,¡± Gartzen finally says, cuttingly. ¡°Boy doesn¡¯t even know what he¡¯s done yet.¡±
Lema doesn¡¯t respond. He keeps his eyes on Pahua, watching as the young king barks orders to his warriors. A few captured rebels¡ªSanqo nobles in tattered, ceremonial garb¡ªare dragged before him, their faces pale but defiant. One, a woman with streaks of dried blood across her cheek, spits at Pahua¡¯s feet. The gesture sends ripples through the crowd, murmurs rising like smoke.
Pahua hesitates, his hand twitching at his side. Lema can almost see the thoughts tumbling through his head, the indecision clawing at his resolve. But then the boy raises his arm and shouts something sharp and final. A warrior steps forward, sword gleaming in the firelight, and the rebels¡¯ fates are sealed.
Gartzen lets out a low whistle, shaking his head. ¡°Reckless,¡± he mutters. ¡°Short-sighted. And they¡¯re going to remember that.¡±
¡°They were already plotting against him,¡± Lema replies evenly. ¡°This was bound to happen.¡±
¡°Sure, but there¡¯s a difference between putting down a rebellion and painting a target on your back. He just made martyrs out of them.¡±
Lema doesn¡¯t argue. He knows Gartzen¡¯s right. Pahua¡¯s actions tonight won¡¯t inspire loyalty¡ªthey¡¯ll breed resentment. Fear only works for so long before it curdles into defiance. But this isn¡¯t Lema¡¯s kingdom, and Pahua isn¡¯t his king. He¡¯s here to survive, to secure what they need and leave this place behind. Whatever chaos follows is not his concern.
¡°This is madness,¡± Gartzen mutters. ¡°He¡¯s creating more enemies than he¡¯s eliminating.¡±
Once more, Lema finds his gaze lingering on Pahua. The boy¡¯s shoulders are stiff, but trembling, his eyes locked on the blood-stained ground. He¡¯s losing himself, Lema realizes. The fear, the desperation¡ªit¡¯s consuming him.
¡°It¡¯s not our place to interfere,¡± Lema says finally.
¡°Isn¡¯t it?¡± Gartzen counters, echoing Lema¡¯s earlier words. ¡°That¡¯s how all this happened! If he falls, we lose everything.¡±
Lema glances at him. ¡°He won¡¯t fall. Not yet.¡±
¡°How can you¡ª¡°
¡°He won¡¯t. Fall.¡± Captain Lema interrupts, punctuating each word.
But as the screams reverberate the square, and the Sanqo people avert their eyes, Lema can¡¯t shake the feeling that they¡¯re standing on a knife¡¯s edge¡ªand that the slightest misstep will send them all tumbling into the abyss.
Pahua turns suddenly, his gaze sweeping upward until it lands on Lema and Gartzen. He raises a hand, beckoning them forward. Lema exchanges a glance with Gartzen, whose expression is of pure irritation, before they descend the ridge to join the boy-king.
The smell of blood and smoke grows stronger as they approach. The captured dissenters lie in a crumpled heap, their lifeless eyes reflecting the flames. The warriors who surround Pahua are silent now, as their earlier shouts are replaced by a grim, oppressive quiet.
¡°Pahoowa,¡± Lema says, his tone carefully neutral. He gestures toward the scene around them, as if to ask, Was this worth it?
At first, Pahua only stares at him in silence. His eyes dart to the bodies, then back to Lema. He says something in his native tongue, the words sharp and clipped. Then, he turns to the remaining nobles, those who were somehow spared from the culling, and barks orders that send them scattering like leaves in the wind.
As the fires burn low, Lema and Gartzen stand in silence, watching Pahua retreat to his tent. The boy¡¯s silhouette is a sharp contrast against the flames, as he retires to his private quarters.
¡°You think he¡¯s salvageable?¡± Gartzen asks, his tone heavy with doubt.
¡°I think he¡¯s useful,¡± Lema replies. ¡°And for now, that¡¯s enough.¡±
The night air is heavy with the scent of damp terrain and woodsmoke. Pahua sits alone in his quarters. His fingers trace the smooth edges of the bronze pendant he wears around his neck¡ªa symbol of a rule he¡¯s beginning to think was never truly his after all. The shadows in the room feel alive, stretching and shifting along with the lone flame burning in a carved obsidian bowl. The whispers have returned, threading through his mind like roots seeking a crack to burrow into.
He presses his fingers to his temples, trying to drown them out. They are the words of his whisperers, the men and women who linger in the shadows of the court, gathering secrets like water from a leaking roof.
The latest secret drips slowly, steadily, into his ears.
The Lehito captain speaks with the nobles at night.
They linger too long in hushed tones.
They offer him what they denied you.
Pahua¡¯s fingers tighten around the pendant, his knuckles turning white. He had invited the Lehito here, hadn¡¯t he? Asked for their help, their guidance. He thought he could control them, bend their foreign strength to his will. But now, the whispers suggest otherwise¡ªthat perhaps the Lehito see him as weak as his own nobles do. That they, too, are waiting for him to fail.
Fool, the grating voice sneers, deep in the back of his mind. You thought you could play king? You, with your soft heart and trembling hands?
Pahua freezes, his breath catching in his throat. He knows that voice. It has haunted him since he was a boy, cutting through every moment of doubt with the precision of an obsidian blade. Siunqi. His father. Even in death, the old man¡¯s disdain hangs over him, like a mist that seeps into every breath.
¡°You¡¯re not here,¡± a trembling Pahua whispers aloud. ¡°You¡¯re not here.¡±
The cold voice laughs sharply. No, I¡¯m not. You saw to that. But look at you now¡ªfailing just as I knew you would. I warned you, didn¡¯t I? Walumaq was always the stronger one. The smarter one. She would have united the Sanqo. And you? You¡¯ve brought them to the brink of ruin. Everything I sought to build, you destroy in one simple action.
Pahua¡¯s pulse quickens, and he rises from his chair abruptly, pacing the narrow room. The shadows dance with each movement, darkening the corners. His mind spirals, his thoughts racing ahead to what this means. He imagines the one Lehito leader, with his sharp eyes and unreadable expressions, sitting in quiet conference with the rebels. And his general, always watching, always assessing, his silence more damning than any words. What promises were exchanged in those whispered conversations? What plans are being made?
Fire without discipline burns everything it touches, his father¡¯s voice sneers. Is that what you¡¯ve become, boy? A blaze left to rage wild until it chokes on its own smoke?
¡°Enough!¡± Pahua hisses, his voice sharp enough to cut the silence. He presses his hands to his temples, his nails digging into his scalp. The pendant around his neck feels like a chain tightening with every word, every imagined mocking remark from a father who never believed in him. ¡°You¡¯re dead. Your words mean nothing.¡±
The shadows don¡¯t answer. But the whispers return, louder now, almost accusing.
What will you do, Pahua?
He stops pacing and stares out of the small, barred window. The forest beyond is a black mass, its treetops swaying gently in the wind. Somewhere out there, the rebels are licking their wounds, plotting their next move. And somewhere closer, the Lehito are deciding whether to betray him.
Pahua¡¯s clenches his jaw. He must act. He must remind them all¡ªhis nobles, his warriors, the foreign interlopers¡ªwho holds the throne. Who wears the bronze cape. Who commands the Sanqo.
And yet, the voice creeps in again, softer now, almost mocking. But how, Pahua? How will you command when they see through you so easily? Even the Lehito. Even the foreigners know you are nothing but a fraud.
The words cut deep, but Pahua draws in a sharp breath, pushing the voice aside. He balls up his fists, his nails biting into his palms until they hurt. He cannot let this happen. Not after everything. Not after he has sacrificed so much to hold on to what little power he has left.
Foolish boy, Siunqi¡¯s voice murmurs, fading into the edges of his mind. In the end, you¡¯ll only destroy yourself.
Pahua exhales shakily. ¡°Then let it be so,¡± he whispers to the empty room.
Tomorrow, he will act.
The shadows press closer as the flame in the bowl dims, plunging the room into near darkness. Pahua lets it happen, lets the shadows swallow him whole. In their embrace, he feels a strange clarity, a certainty that has eluded him until now.
The Lehito cannot be trusted.
The decision is made.
157 - Legido
¡°Not. A word.¡±
Landera whispers her command and places her pointer finger across her lips. You wouldn¡¯t speak anyway if you could; you¡¯re too stunned for words. Is that really her?
Though she still wears her disguise as Lander, the fleeting familiarity of her face in the dim light stops your breath. She¡¯s changed¡ªhair shorter, clothes patched and roughened like a mercenary¡¯s, her frame leaner than before. But it¡¯s the unmistakable fire in her eyes that gives her away.
She doesn¡¯t give you time to process. Her hand releases your mouth, but her grip finds your arm. Tight. Inescapable.
¡°Do you have any idea how close you just came to getting caught?¡± she hisses, her voice barely audible over the blood pounding in your ears.
You glance back at the chest. So close. Inches away. Its lacquered surface gleams in the torchlight, practically urging you to return. What was she doing here? How did she find me? The questions swirl, but none reach your lips.
¡°I¡ª¡±
¡°Quiet.¡± Her hand flashes up again, cutting off your protest as a faint murmur drifts from the corridor. Landera stiffens, her eyes narrowing as she glances toward the sound. You hear it too: boots on stone, armor clinking. Guards.
The sound draws closer. Her grip on your arm tightens as she pulls you back into the shadows of an alcove. You resist for half a second, your gaze darting back to the chest¡ªthe object that has consumed your thoughts for days. The object that Xiatli had abandoned so casually, as though it was worthless except for the amulet it once held. But it¡¯s still here. Could it be that Criato¡ªand perhaps, Ulloa, too¡ªhad treated it differently, seeing something of interest in it?
¡°What¡¯s your plan?¡± you whisper, sounding more biting than you intended. ¡°To run? That chest could hold everything we need to stop them¡ª¡±
¡°Or nothing.¡± Her retort is immediate, her expression hard. ¡°You think there are secrets just sitting in an unlocked box, waiting for you? You think you¡¯ll survive long enough to find out?¡±
You feel the anger sparking in your chest. ¡°What are you even doing here?¡±
¡°I could ask you the same thing,¡± she snaps. ¡°I didn¡¯t come to save your skin. But I see that I came in time to stop you from getting us all killed.¡±
Before you can respond, a faint voice echoes down the hall, too distant to make out the words. Landera stiffens, pulling you closer into the shadows. Iker squeezes into the alcove beside you. He¡¯s silent, as he always is, but you can feel the unease radiating off him¡ªhis shoulders tense, his wide eyes darting between you and Landera in alarm.
The guards¡¯ footsteps grow louder. Three of them, by the sound of it. As they near, their voices become more distinct.
¡°Criato wants it examined before we leave,¡± one says, sounding almost bored. ¡°Says he saw something. Always sees something.¡±
¡°Sure he¡¯s not just losing it?¡± another mutters. ¡°It¡¯s a box of junk, just like the others. The Great Xiatli already got what He needed from it.¡±
¡°Not for us to decide. Keep moving.¡±
The voices fade, the sound of boots retreating. Landera exhales sharply, though the relief is fleeting. She turns to you, her expression grim.
¡°There. Happy?¡± she whispers. ¡°Now we know it¡¯s not important enough for him to guard it properly.¡±
You shake your head, the frustration boiling over. ¡°You don¡¯t get it. He saw something. They said that. If Criato thinks¡ª¡±
¡°If Criato thinks it¡¯s important,¡± she says, cutting you off, ¡°he¡¯ll still have it tomorrow. And the day after that. Do you have any idea what he¡¯d do to you if he caught you here? To all of us?¡±
You bite your lip to prevent yourself from saying something you might regret. You don¡¯t know if it¡¯s anger or shame twisting in your chest, but you can feel Iker¡¯s eyes on you. Somehow, his silence is louder than anything she¡¯s said.
¡°Listen to me,¡± Landera says, now a bit more softly. ¡°We don¡¯t have time for this. Whatever¡¯s in that chest, it¡¯s not worth your life. Or mine. You want answers? We¡¯ll find them. But not here. Not like this.¡±
You glance back at the chest one last time. Its surface gleams in the low light, a tantalizing mystery you can¡¯t shake. You¡¯re so close. It doesn¡¯t make sense to turn away from your prize now. Not after all you did just to get here. What if Landera is wrong? What if this is your only chance? Real quick, just reach in and grab the parchment. But the sound of footsteps¡ªmore guards, somewhere in the distance¡ªsnaps you back to reality.
¡°Fine,¡± you mutter, the word bitter on your tongue.
¡°Good.¡± She gestures for you to follow her, slipping out of the alcove and into the shadows of the corridor. Iker moves behind her, his movements quick and quiet. You hesitate for a moment longer, your thoughts lingering on the chest, on Criato, on the lingering question of what he might have seen.
The corridor twists and narrows as the three of you move deeper into the palace. The air grows colder, heavier, carrying the faint scent of damp stone and iron. Landera leads, her steps soundless despite the rough-hewn floor beneath her. She doesn¡¯t look back, doesn¡¯t need to¡ªevery flick of her hand, every shift of her body communicates what you need to know. Keep quiet. Keep close. Keep moving.
Iker follows her without question, his head low, his frame drawn tight like a spring. You bring up the rear, your thoughts still snagged on the chest, on Criato¡¯s strange obsession, on how close you were, on the lingering possibility that you¡¯ve left something crucial behind. It presses against you, threatening to slow your steps, but the distant clink of armor keeps you moving.
Landera freezes, throwing out an arm to halt you both. She presses herself flat against the wall, gesturing for you to do the same. The faint glow of torchlight dances on the far side of the corner ahead, accompanied by the low rumble of voices.
¡°You think it¡¯s true? About what He did to them? Those invaders?¡± one guard asks, stumbling over the words, as if afraid of speaking them aloud.
¡°Does it matter?¡± another replies. ¡°You saw them¡ªthe ones who were left. Could barely speak, let alone fight.¡±
¡°Yeah, but¡ snapping His fingers and just poof? That¡¯s not¡ that¡¯s not normal.¡±
¡°Nothing about Him is normal,¡± a third voice cuts in, flat and final. ¡°He¡¯s a walking god. Best we keep our heads down and do what we¡¯re told.¡±
A pause. Then, quieter: ¡°And the worshippers?¡±
The second voice snorts. ¡°Fanatics. Can¡¯t swing a blade to save their lives, but they¡¯d charge a wall of spears for Him. Let them.¡±
¡°Fewer mouths to feed,¡± the third mutters.
Landera doesn¡¯t move, doesn¡¯t breathe, as the guards¡¯ footsteps draw nearer. You hold your breath, your pulse hammering in your ears. The guards pass, their voices fading with distance.
¡°Did you hear that?¡± you whisper as soon as the corridor is clear.
Landera whirls on you, her eyes narrowing. ¡°Quiet.¡±
¡°They¡¯re talking about Him. About what He did. You heard them¡ª¡±
¡°I heard them,¡± she snaps, cutting you off. ¡°And if we stay here any longer, we¡¯ll be next on His list.¡±
She turns on her heel, stalking further into the shadows. You hesitate, glancing at Iker, who gives you a small, tense nod before following her. You grit your teeth and fall in behind them.
The walls close in as the three of you descend deeper into the palace. The stone grows darker, rougher. The torches here burn lower, their light barely enough to chase the shadows from the edges of the narrow hallways. You catch glimpses of strange carvings on the walls¡ªfigures intertwined, faces turned skyward in anguish or ecstasy. Every step feels louder than the last, the echo of your boots threatening to betray your position.
¡°Where are we going?¡± you hiss. ¡°You said we needed to get out, but this¡ªthis isn¡¯t out.¡±
Landera doesn¡¯t answer. She doesn¡¯t even glance back, her focus fixed forward.
You grab her arm, forcing her to stop. ¡°What¡¯s your plan? Because it doesn¡¯t look like you have one.¡±
¡°My plan is to get us out alive. Your plan, as far as I can tell, is to get us killed chasing answers you¡¯re not ready for.¡±
Her words hit harder than you¡¯d expected, and for a moment, you can¡¯t respond. She¡¯s been touchier, prickly. It¡¯s difficult to determine what to make of this. Perhaps it¡¯s the seriousness of the implications should you get caught. But the silence stretches between you, broken only by the distant drip of water and Iker¡¯s quiet shifting.
Finally, she exhales, the tension in her shoulders softening, as though she can read the concern on your face. ¡°Look,¡± she says. ¡°I get it. You want to know what¡¯s going on¡ªwhat Xiatli¡¯s up to. I do too. But running headfirst into danger isn¡¯t going to get you answers. It¡¯s going to get you dead.¡±
Her eyes meet yours, and for the first time, you see something else behind the fire. Doubt. Fear. A crack in the unshakable mask she¡¯s worn since the moment you two met.
¡°Why are you here?¡± you ask. ¡°Really. What are you doing?¡±
Landera hesitates, and for a moment, you think she won¡¯t answer. She wrestles with how much to divulge¡ªif she should at all. Then she glances away, her gaze cast down to the shadows ahead. ¡°Trying to fix something,¡± she says eventually, barely audible. ¡°Trying to make things right.¡±
Before you can press her further, Iker clears his throat. ¡°Someone¡¯s coming.¡±
Landera moves instantly, gesturing for you both to follow her into a narrow side passage. The three of you press against the wall as footsteps echo from the corridor you just left. The shadows here are thicker, the air colder, and the faint, metallic scent of blood lingers in your nose.
The footsteps pause, and your heart freezes. A voice calls out¡ªa single word you don¡¯t understand, spoken in a harsh, guttural tone. For a moment, the silence feels suffocating.
Then the footsteps resume, fading into the distance.
Landera exhales slowly, then gives you a glance. ¡°We¡¯ll talk,¡± she says. ¡°But not here. We need to find a way out.¡±
¡°A way out?¡± Iker repeats. ¡°But¡ how?¡±
¡°Look,¡± she says simply. ¡°If we stay out here, we¡¯ll run into more guards. The only way to avoid them is to stay off their patrol routes, and that should give us the opportunity we need to locate some kind of exit.¡±
Iker doesn¡¯t argue, but his discomfort is clear. You feel the same unease curling in your chest, but you nod anyway, following her lead. The questions in your mind remain unanswered, but for now, survival takes precedence.
As you move deeper into the palace, the shadows grow darker, the walls closing in like the grip of some unseen hand around your throat. You can¡¯t shake the feeling that you¡¯re being watched, that the darkness itself is alive, waiting for the moment you let your guard down. Landera silently and stealthily leads the way. You cling to the hope that she knows where she¡¯s going, and that you arrive soon.Unauthorized use: this story is on Amazon without permission from the author. Report any sightings.
¡°Keep up,¡± Landera mutters over her shoulder. Iker trudges behind her, his face pale, resting his hand on the hilt of his sword like a talisman.
A faint noise ahead stops you all in your tracks. Landera raises a hand, her eyes narrowing as she tilts her head, listening. The sound grows clearer: footsteps. Heavy boots on stone. Then, a harsh bark of orders in a tongue you can¡¯t quite make out.
Guards. No¡ªnot just guards.
You round the corner just in time to see them.
First, the guards. Their armor gleams dully in the torchlight, the sigil of Xiatli already emblazoned on their shields. Their faces are hard, expressionless, their disciplined steps marching in rhythm. But it¡¯s not the guards that make your breath catch.
It¡¯s the prisoners.
There are five of them, chained and flanked by guards. Their hands are bound, but their spirits are seemingly untouched. Despite appearing to be captives, they walk with a defiance that twists unease into your chest.
At their center, leading the group, is a woman unlike any you¡¯ve seen before. Her tunic is a deep blue, the shade of the ocean depths, with bronze jewelry gleaming at her wrists and neck. A single red-and-blue feather sits in her hair, its vivid colors a stark contrast to the dim surroundings. Her piercing eyes are the color of a cloudless sky, and they seem to see through everything¡ªthe walls, the guards, even you. She carries no weapon, but there¡¯s a coiled energy about her presence that suggests she wouldn¡¯t need one.
Behind her, a man walks with the bearing of a warrior carved from stone. His square jaw and sharp features are framed by long, flowing black hair that trails behind him like a dark banner. Gold necklaces hang over a tunic of black and gold, with intricate and mesmerizing patterns stitched in red. There¡¯s a quiet but commanding power in the way he moves, as though the chains around his wrists are mere inconveniences.
A boy follows them, a lean and wiry figure no older than fourteen, you¡¯d guess. His startling amber eyes catch the torchlight like trapped sunlight. He¡¯s dressed in earthy greens, his tunic embroidered with patterns that, you determine, must have some meaning. He¡¯s the most nervous out of all of them, yet there¡¯s something strange about him¡ªsomething you can¡¯t name, but it makes your stomach twist.
Beside him, a woman strides forward, glaring as she inspects her surroundings. Her dark hair is threaded with golden beads, and tattoos swirl across her sun-kissed skin in patterns that seem to shift as she moves. She wears rugged, practical clothing¡ªleather pants and a sleeveless tunic embroidered with gold thread.
At the rear of the group, a man whose features are accentuated by tattoos curling up his arms follows. His hair is unbound, falling to his shoulders over a red-and-white garment. His movements are restless, his gaze darting around the corridor like a hawk searching for prey.
For a moment, the group passes in silence, the faint clinking of chains the only sound. Then the leader¡ªthe woman with the ocean-blue eyes¡ªturns her head. Her gaze locks onto yours.
You feel it like a physical blow, a jolt that sends your heart racing. Though a chilling blue, her eyes are warm, assessing, and in that instant, you feel stripped bare. It¡¯s as though every thought, every secret, every lie has been laid open before her. There¡¯s power in her gaze¡ªan ancient, unrelenting force that makes your knees threaten to buckle.
¡°Move,¡± one of the guards growls, shoving the chain forward. The moment breaks, and the woman¡¯s gaze shifts back to the path ahead. She doesn¡¯t give away your position, doesn¡¯t let the guards catch on to what she saw. The group continues down the corridor, their presence swallowing the quiet, leaving silence brittle and strained in their wake.
Landera exhales sharply, her hand dropping from her blade. She doesn¡¯t look at you, her eyes fixed on the retreating figures. ¡°That changes things,¡± she murmurs, almost to herself.
¡°What?¡± you whisper, uncertain what she means.
She doesn¡¯t answer. Instead, she turns, her movements quick and purposeful. Iker follows without a word, but you hesitate, your gaze lingering on the path the prisoners have taken. Something about them lingers in your mind¡ªtheir defiance, their power, their sheer presence. For the first time, you feel a touch of doubt¡ªnot in yourself, but in the inevitability of Xiatli¡¯s rule.
¡°Did you see them?¡± you whisper, trying your best to control your eagerness. ¡°They¡¯re¡ª¡±
¡°Yes,¡± she cuts you off, sounding annoyed. ¡°I saw.¡±
¡°Who are they?¡± you press. ¡°Those¡ªthose people¡ª¡±
¡°I don¡¯t know,¡± she mutters, ¡°but now¡¯s not the time. We can learn more later, if we can just get out of this place.¡±
You glance over your shoulder as you move, the image of those five figures burned into your mind. Warriors. Heroes. Myth made flesh.
The vaulted room looms ahead, its arched doorway half-swallowed by shadow. Landera stops short, her hand raised in a signal for silence. You¡¯re already quiet, still pondering the captives you encountered.
The room is vast, its high ceiling disappearing into the gloom above. The musty air here feels heavier, older, as though it¡¯s been lingering inside this place for generations. Faint carvings line the walls, their patterns unfamiliar and unnerving. It¡¯s quiet, save for the distant echo of footsteps far above¡ªguards patrolling corridors you¡¯re thankful not to be in.
She doesn¡¯t speak at first. Her steps are slow, measured, her eyes sweeping the room as though searching for something unseen. Iker lingers near the entrance, his gaze darting between you and Landera. You glance at him briefly, but it¡¯s Landera who holds your focus.
After a pause that stretches an eternity, you¡¯re no longer able to contain it, and the question bursts from you. ¡°Who were they?¡±
For a moment, she doesn¡¯t answer. Then she exhales, her hand brushing against her side where her blade is hidden. ¡°Prisoners,¡± she says simply.
¡°That much I figured,¡± you reply, your frustration slipping into your tone. ¡°But prisoners of who? Criato? Ulloa? Or¡ Him?¡±
Her jaw tightens at the mention of Xiatli, her gaze flicking toward the door as though expecting someone¡ªor something¡ªto appear. As though speaking His name will somehow summon Him. When she speaks again, her voice is notably quieter. ¡°Does it matter? Whoever¡¯s holding them¡ it means they¡¯re important.¡±
You feel the anger building. ¡°Important enough to chain, but not to kill? What kind of threat are they if they¡¯re alive? Those invaders weren¡¯t given the same mercy.¡± You gesture back toward the corridor. ¡°They didn¡¯t look like soldiers. They looked like¡ªlike¡ª¡±
¡°People,¡± she finishes. ¡°They looked like people.¡±
¡°You¡¯re hiding something,¡± you accuse. ¡°You¡¯ve been hiding something since the moment you showed up. No more waiting until we¡¯re in the clear. We deserve answers. What are you doing here, Lander? What are you really trying to accomplish?¡±
She doesn¡¯t answer right away. Instead, she moves to the center of the room, her footsteps echoing faintly against the stone. She looks up, her gaze fixed on the shadows above. ¡°To stop Criato,¡± she finally answers. ¡°To stop whatever he¡¯s planning.¡±
Then she lets out a bitter laugh, shaking her head. ¡°Well, that¡¯s what I thought, once. I thought I understood what was happening here¡ªwhat Xiatli was to them.¡± She pauses, her hands clenching at her sides. ¡°I thought He was a symbol. Nothing more than an indifferent god among us who kept the Legido safe.¡±
Your stomach tightens at her words, the implications sinking in. ¡°And now?¡±
Her gaze shifts back to you, her expression dark. ¡°Now I think I was wrong.¡±
Her lips press into a thin line, worry forming creases in her forehead. Then she exhales, her shoulders slumping slightly. ¡°Whatever He is, He¡¯s more powerful than anyone imagined. More dangerous. He¡¯s set a plan in motion, and whatever it is, I fear we¡¯re not going to like what we find out when it¡¯s completed. The concern has been about Criato and Ulloa this whole time, when, really, it should have been with Him.¡±
Her words send a shiver down your spine. ¡°And the prisoners?¡±
¡°They¡¯re part of it,¡± she answers simply. ¡°His plan. I don¡¯t know how, but they are. Otherwise, they¡¯d be dead.¡±
You glance at Iker, who stands near the doorway. He doesn¡¯t say anything¡ªhe rarely does¡ªbut the way he hovers there, one hand braced against the stone, makes his unease plain. He¡¯s waiting, though whether it¡¯s for you or for some final calamity, you¡¯re not sure.
Landera moves toward you, her steps slow but deliberate. When she speaks again, there¡¯s an undercurrent of urgency. ¡°We can¡¯t stay here. Not now. Not after what we¡¯ve seen.¡±
You nod, knowing what is truly being spoken. She doesn¡¯t mean this room, this shadowed corner of the palace where you¡¯ve all been hiding in for too long. She means the whole of it¡ªXiatlaz¨¢n, the city, the strange land. You feel the truth of it settle into your chest like a stone.
The hallway beyond the door is empty, but the silence makes it worse. Every creak of the ancient floors beneath your boots, every shuffle of fabric, feels like a shout in the dark. You press forward, each step slower than the last, a constant war between urgency and the need not to be heard.
Landera gestures ahead, her finger a sharp jab toward a side passage shrouded in shadow. You nod and follow, with Iker at your heels. The corridor is narrow and cold, the walls slick where moisture clings to the stone. Somewhere, faintly, you hear a muffled shout, the sound bouncing through the empty palace like a ricochet.
Someone¡¯s looking. You don¡¯t say it, but you know they all feel it too.
The path twists downward, a stairwell carved into the rock itself, spiraling tightly like the throat of a snake. You grip the crumbling banister as you descend, counting each step as though it might anchor you to something solid. Below, the light is weaker¡ªjust the occasional sliver of light bleeding through cracks in the palace¡¯s battered walls.
Iker stumbles. The sound is a wet slap of boot against stone. You snap your head back, but Landera is faster¡ªher hand shoots out, clamps around his arm, and drags him upright before he can fall completely. She doesn¡¯t say anything, just presses a finger to her lips and waits until Iker¡¯s frantic breathing steadies again.
Finally, you see it: a splinter of open air beyond a cracked door at the far end of a storage chamber. The three of you freeze, staring at it like a mirage, as though it might blink out of existence if you move too quickly.
¡°Go,¡± Landera murmurs, her voice so low you almost don¡¯t hear it.
She pushes Iker first. He hesitates for just a moment¡ªlong enough to glance back at you¡ªbut then he ducks through the gap and disappears into the dark. You follow next, pressing your shoulder against the warped wood and squeezing through.
The cold hits you first, a sudden slap of mountain air. You¡¯ve made it outside. Not safe¡ªnot yet¡ªbut out.
The uneven ground catches your feet as you stagger forward, your lungs aching as they pull in the freezing air. You glance back just in time to see Landera emerge, her eyes darting across the courtyard, searching for any sign of pursuit.
The three of you move, half-stumbling, half-running toward the low edge of the outer wall. Beyond it, the arid landscape stretches out like a dead sea¡ªjagged rocks, pale dust, and long shadows that look too much like soldiers.
You drop to a crouch, pressing yourself against the cool stone of the outer wall. Iker hunches beside you, his breath misting faintly in the moonlight. Landera stays standing, scanning the darkness with a steady, calculating gaze.
¡°Do you hear that?¡± she asks softly.
You do. A low hum, almost imperceptible at first, but growing louder as though the stone itself is vibrating beneath you. A voice, or something like it¡ªtoo distant to be understood but close enough to make your skin crawl. You don¡¯t know if it¡¯s real or just the memory of everything you¡¯ve seen. You¡¯re not sure which would be worse.
Landera pulls you up by the arm, and you stumble into motion again. The three of you skirt along the base of the wall. Every step feels heavier, like the city itself is trying to drag you back.
Finally, the wall breaks. A fissure in the stone, just wide enough to slip through. Iker doesn¡¯t wait. He wedges himself through first, vanishing into the dark. Landera urgently motions for you to go next. You duck through, feeling the rough scrape of stone against your shoulders. And then you¡¯re out¡ªfully out¡ªon the other side of the wall.
You turn, waiting for Landera, but she¡¯s already there, brushing dust off her sleeves and looking back toward the palace. The hum is gone now, replaced by a silence that feels more unnerving than it should.
For a long moment, none of you move. You just stand there, breathing hard, staring back at the ruin you¡¯ve escaped. The palace rises behind you, its dark spires like teeth against the sky.
¡°We need to keep moving,¡± Landera says at last. Her voice is steady, but you hear the tremor beneath it.
You nod, swallowing hard. The moon gradually appears in the dimming sky, and the distant stars above hang like frozen pinpricks of light. The chill of the mountain air hits you as you step outside the palace walls. Every muscle in your body is taut with exhaustion.
Every step feels like a battle. The stone beneath your boots is uneven, threatening to twist your ankle with every misstep. The thin air claws at your lungs. Your legs ache, your mind races, but the memory of the figures in chains¡ªthose people¡ªpulls you forward. They didn¡¯t look like soldiers. They didn¡¯t look like the poor natives forced into captivity upon your people¡¯s arrival. They didn¡¯t look like anyone who should be here. And yet, they carried themselves like they were destined to be.
Landera slows as the rocky path narrows. She tilts her head slightly as though she¡¯s listening for something. You don¡¯t hear anything at first¡ªjust the wind whistling through the cracks in the stone, the faint rustle of loose gravel underfoot. But then, faint and distant, there¡¯s a sound. Voices.
She stops abruptly, holding out a hand to signal silence. You and Iker freeze, and you glance around the uneven terrain. The voices grow louder, closer, but you can¡¯t make out the words. The language is unfamiliar¡ªharsh, guttural, like the scrape of stone against stone.
Landera motions for you to slip behind something for cover, and the three of you sink into the shadows cast by an outcropping of rock. The voices are clearer now, and with them comes the unmistakable sound of footsteps¡ªlight, careful, deliberate.
Three figures emerge, their silhouettes blending into the darkness of twilight. The leader¡ªan elder clad in heavy white robes¡ªwalks with an almost ceremonial gait. His hands rest lightly on the crooked staff he carries. His face is weathered, and he astutely watches the landscape like someone who has learned to be wary of these mountains.
Behind him, a younger man moves with the fluid grace of a predator. His clothing¡ªa mix of coral, teal, and bronze¡ªgleams faintly in the starlight, and his every step seems measured, purposeful. His dark and piercing eyes sweep over the terrain, lingering just a moment too long in your direction. You feel your breath hitch, your body tensing instinctively.
The third figure is taller, broader, his copper skin is like polished stone in the faint light. His shaved head and minimal attire¡ªjust a loincloth and a few accents of sage green and slate gray¡ªseem incongruous with the cold night air, but he doesn¡¯t appear to feel it. His movements are slower, heavier, but there¡¯s a power in the way he carries himself, a quiet strength that slips under your skin, setting your nerves alight.
Landera¡¯s hand inches toward her blade. Her body is coiled and ready to spring. Iker glances at her, and nervously crouches low as if he¡¯s shriveling. All you can do is stand in place, hoping
The elder stops abruptly. His staff strikes the ground with a soft but assertive thud. To your dismay, his eyes fix on the outcropping where you¡¯re hiding, and your stomach drops. He knows.
Before you can react, he raises a hand, signaling to the two men behind him. The younger man in coral and teal steps forward, his hand drifting to the hilt of the weapon at his side¡ªa short, curved blade that¡¯s entirely black and gleams faintly in the dark. The broad-shouldered man beside him hefts a mighty paddle filled with obsidian blades.
The elder raises his staff slightly¡ªa subtle, but unmistakable signal. The younger man draws his blade with a quiet rasp of steel, and the broad-shouldered man steps forward, his bladed paddle angled menacingly low.
For a moment, everything stops¡ªmotion, sound, even the passing of time itself. The stillness thickens, as if the very air has forgotten how to move. It presses against you skin and ears like the weight of deep water. Then the elder speaks, his voice low and resonant, the words sharp and guttural, their meaning lost to you.
You glance at Landera, but her gaze is fixed on the elder. Iker shifts uncomfortably beside you, as though trying to make himself smaller still.
And then, as the elder raises his staff one final time, you realize there¡¯s no escape.
158 - Walumaq
It refuses to stop. As we sit inside the prison chamber, bound by chains, the horrific scene replays over and over in my head.
The thunderous sound¡ªthe kind of noise that splits the world in two¡ªstill echoes in my ears. Not the deep rumble of a storm, nor the crash of waves against a jagged shore, but something harsher, more alien. A crack of fire and iron.
Teqosa¡¯s body jerking backward, the bright red blooming like a cruel flower against his tunic, the force of it knocking him to the ground as though Pachil itself had reached up to claim him. The look on his face¡ªnot pain, not fear, but something worse. A hollow shock, the realization that his body had betrayed him, that even his strength could not stop what had happened.
I didn¡¯t even see the warrior who did it. A flash of motion in the chaos, a strange weapon pointed, then¡ the sound. And then Teqosa was falling.
I close my eyes, but the image doesn¡¯t leave me. It never does. Every time I blink, it¡¯s there again, as vivid and raw as if it¡¯s happening all over again.
Around me, the prison chamber is oppressively still. The only sounds are the faint clinking of chains as my companions shift uncomfortably, the distant drip of water, and the occasional echo of footsteps far above. The air is stale, carrying the faint scent of ash and something metallic, like rust.
Paxilche lies crumpled against the far wall, still unconscious. His breaths are shallow, his face pale, his normally restless energy snuffed out. For once, he¡¯s silent, and the absence of his voice feels almost as unnerving as the silence itself.
S¨ªqalat quietly sits cross-legged near the door. She hasn¡¯t spoken since we were thrown in here, hasn¡¯t even looked at me. Her stoic silence feels like a judgment, though I can¡¯t tell if it¡¯s aimed at me, at herself, or at the situation we¡¯ve found ourselves in.
Saqatli paces near the corner, his amber eyes flaring like trapped fire. His movements are restless, his hands clenching and unclenching as though he¡¯s holding an invisible weapon. He looks like a caged animal, his frustration and fear barely contained. Every so often, he glances at the door, his gaze sharp and questioning, as though trying to calculate the odds of escape.
I wonder if he¡¯s thinking the same thing I am: that we¡¯re not getting out of here. That this is it. The end of the journey. The end of us.
I shift slightly, and the chains around my wrists clink softly. My arms ache, my shoulders stiff from being bound for so long. The metal is cold against my skin, biting into my wrists with every movement, a constant reminder of how powerless we are.
Reflexively, I glance at the others again. My gaze lingers on Teqosa. He¡¯s still, too still, his chest barely rising and falling. The makeshift bandage I¡¯d pressed against his wound is already soaked through, the blood seeping through the fabric and pooling on the stone beneath him. The sight of it makes my stomach twist.
This wasn¡¯t supposed to happen. None of this was supposed to happen. We were supposed to be the ones who brought hope, who made things better. Instead, we¡¯re here, broken and chained, waiting for whatever comes next. At the hands of¡ him.
I think of the amulets¡ªthe symbols of our mission, of our connection to the Eleven, and to Pachil. The ones we thought would guide us, protect us. Foolishly, na?vely, I thought they meant we were chosen, that we had a purpose. But now, as I sit here in the darkness, I can¡¯t help but wonder if they were a curse instead of a blessing.
The crone¡¯s prophecy rings in my mind, cutting through the fog of despair. Unite them, or destroy them. The words that once felt like a guiding star now feel like a noose tightening around my neck.
The silence stretches on, broken only by Saqatli¡¯s pacing and the faint, labored breaths of Paxilche. I close my eyes again, trying to will the memories away, trying to ignore the questions clawing at the edges of my mind. But they won¡¯t go. They never do.
What if this is what the prophecy meant? Not unity, not triumph, but this¡ªfailure, defeat, destruction. What if we were never meant to save Pachil? What if all we¡¯ve done is hasten its end?
A change stirs in the room before he arrives.
It¡¯s subtle at first¡ªa faint vibration in the stone beneath us, a chill that seeps into the room despite the stifling heat of the torches. Then it deepens, grows heavier, as though the mountain is bracing itself, tensing like a body waiting for the strike of a hammer. Even Saqatli stops pacing, his movements arrested mid-step, his amber eyes darting to the door.
And then he is there.
Xiatli doesn¡¯t enter; he unfolds into existence, filling the room as though the universe itself is bending to make space for him. He moves with a deliberate, unhurried grace, and his footfalls are somehow soundless against the stone. The torchlight flickers as he passes, shadows rippling like water disturbed.
His slow and meticulous gaze surveys the room. His eyes are dark, fathomless, and when they meet mine, it¡¯s like staring into the void. Cold. Indifferent. Endless.
He speaks, his voice a low rumble that seems to reverberate through the very walls. The words are sharp and unfamiliar, guttural and clipped. I glance at S¨ªqalat, whose expression tightens at the sound. Whatever he¡¯s saying, she doesn¡¯t recognize it either.
Then his voice changes, and the words that follow freeze me in place. He speaks in Merchant¡¯s Tongue. Fluent. Effortless. Impossible. My mind stumbles over itself, trying to reconcile the sound of my own language in his mouth.
¡°Interesting,¡± he says simply, the words simple but laced with something that feels like mockery. ¡°You are not what I expected, I will grant you that. And you hold onto them so tightly, as if they¡¯re yours to keep.¡±
He gestures, and my stomach twists as I see what he means: the amulets. Their dull glow flickers faintly in the torchlight, almost like they¡¯re alive, pulsing with a slow and steady rhythm. They feel heavier now, pressing against my chest like dead weight, as if his presence has drained them of whatever life they once held.
Almost animalistic, Saqatli growls low in his throat, but he doesn¡¯t move. None of us do. Xiatli¡¯s heavy and suffocating presence seeps into the room, like the air has thickened into oil, clinging to our skin and lungs, slowing even the smallest motion.
He moves first to Teqosa¡¯s lifeless form. His steps are slow and deliberate, as though savoring the moment. His hand reaches out, fingers closing around the amulet still faintly pulsing at Teqosa¡¯s neck. For a moment, nothing happens. Then he pulls.
The effect is immediate. Teqosa¡¯s body seems to deflate ever so slightly, as though some unseen energy had been holding him together. The faint color in his cheeks begins to drain, leaving his already-pallid skin almost gray.
¡°No,¡± S¨ªqalat breathes. She takes an involuntary step forward, her hands curling into fists at her sides. But she¡¯s stopped abruptly by the chains that bind her. ¡°Don¡¯t¡ª¡± she starts, but the words die in her throat. Her jaw tightens, and she takes a deliberate step back, retreating back into the shadows.
Xiatli doesn¡¯t react. He holds the amulet in his hand, turning it over as though inspecting a trinket. The faint glow intensifies for a moment, then fades. He mutters something under his breath, a word or phrase I don¡¯t understand, and tucks the amulet into the folds of his golden robe.
He moves next to Saqatli. Saqatli balls his fists, looking ready to punch this ethereal stranger, but he doesn¡¯t fight. When Xiatli reaches for the amulet, Saqatli flinches, and a low hiss escapes his lips. But in the end, he puts up no resistance.
When the amulet is pulled free, Saqatli collapses to his knees with a strangled cry. The sound is raw, like it¡¯s been torn from deep inside him. His hands claw at his chest as though trying to tear something loose, his amber eyes wide and unfocused, darting as if searching for something that isn¡¯t there.
For a terrible moment, I think he¡¯s dying. His breaths come in jagged gasps, his entire body trembling like a bowstring stretched too far. Then, like a storm breaking, the tension floods out of him. His shoulders sag, his hands fall limp to his sides, and the tight lines of pain etched into his face begin to ease.
His breathing slows to something more uneven and shallow, and his head hangs low. His expression is stricken, haunted. The fire that¡¯s burned inside him since we came here is gone, extinguished, but it¡¯s left a hollowness behind. Relief, yes, but not without cost. It clings to him like a shadow, as though some piece of him has been stripped away with the pain, and he¡¯s only now realizing what he¡¯s lost.
And then it¡¯s my turn.
Xiatli approaches, and something primal seizes me. My chest tightens, my breath comes in shallow bursts. Every instinct howls to run, to lash out, to do anything¡ªbut my body refuses to obey. My legs feel heavy, as though they¡¯ve been poured full of molten lead, and a cold, electric current courses through my veins, locking me in place.Unauthorized tale usage: if you spot this story on Amazon, report the violation.
It¡¯s not fear¡ªit¡¯s something deeper. The kind of terror that roots prey to the ground when a predator¡¯s shadow falls over them. His gaze pins me like a blade through the chest.
His hand brushes the amulet at my neck, and the connection I¡¯ve always felt to Pachil¡ªthe warmth, the pulse, the life¡ªtrembles. My breath catches, my heart pounding in my chest as he grips the cord. When he pulls, it¡¯s like a part of me is being ripped away. The room tilts, the air thinning, and I feel a hollow ache in my chest, like an old wound reopened.
I watch as the amulet hangs in his hand, still faintly glowing. They felt like the means with which we could save Pachil from the likes of people¡ªof beings¡ªlike him. And yet, in his grasp, they feel like something else entirely. Was this what the Eleven intended? To leave behind tools of power that could be twisted and stolen? Or did they, like us, believe they were doing the right thing, except in our pursuit, we allowed evil to seep in? The thought churns in my stomach like sour fruit. If even the Eleven¡ªsaviors, legends, gods¡ªcould falter, what hope do we have?
He studies the amulet for a moment, then mutters another word in that unfamiliar language. The glow dims and fades, and I feel the loss like a physical blow. My connection to Pachil¡ªthe land, the rivers, the sky¡ªit¡¯s still there, but muted, distant, as though I¡¯m trying to hear a voice through a thick stone wall.
¡°You¡¯ve carried these,¡± Xiatli says coldly, blankly. ¡°But it appears you were mere messengers, delivering the good news to Me.¡±
He steps back, holding all the amulets now, their glow pulsing weakly in his hands. ¡°They are pieces of something greater. A power beyond you. Beyond your kind.¡±
Suddenly, the glow fades completely, and the amulets are still. In that moment, Xiatli¡¯s expression darkens. Without a word, he turns and strides out, his departure as silent as his arrival. The iron door slams shut behind him, reverberating like a grim toll.
I force myself to crawl toward Teqosa¡¯s body, the chains binding my wrists dragging along the cold stone floor. He lies unnaturally still, his skin pale, almost ashen, in the dim torchlight. His once-vibrant form now seems small and fragile, as if the life has already bled out of him.
My hands tremble as I press them against the wound at his side. The sticky warmth of his blood is jarring, a cruel contradiction to the chill that radiates from his skin. I¡¯ve never seen an injury like this before. There¡¯s no jagged tear, no familiar mark from a blade or arrow¡ªjust a small, brutal hole surrounded by bruised and broken flesh. Whatever those strange weapons were, they are nothing short of monstrous.
¡°Wasting your time,¡± S¨ªqalat says, her voice cold and distant. She¡¯s sitting against the far wall, her head tilted back and her gaze fixed on the ceiling. ¡°He¡¯s gone, Walumaq.¡±
I shake my head, more to myself than to her. ¡°We don¡¯t know that,¡± I say, though the words sound hollow even to my ears. I pull a strip of cloth from the edge of my tunic and press it against the wound, trying to stem the bleeding, though a part of me knows it¡¯s futile.
S¨ªqalat exhales sharply, her lips curling into a bitter frown. ¡°You saw what those weapons did to him. There¡¯s no coming back from that.¡± Her tone is pragmatic, almost clinical, but there¡¯s an undercurrent of something else¡ªsomething rawer, angrier, that she¡¯s trying to bury beneath her stoic fa?ade.
From the shadows, Saqatli paces restlessly, the chains on his wrists rattling softly with each movement. His wild amber eyes dart between the door and Teqosa¡¯s body. He mutters something in the tongue of the Auilqa¡ªlow, urgent, like a prayer or a curse.
Then, he stops abruptly, his gaze locking on S¨ªqalat. ¡°Qa''maq chutza!¡± he spits the words forcefully, though their meaning is lost to us. His frustration is palpable, his fists clenching and unclenching as though he¡¯s itching to strike something¡ªor someone.
S¨ªqalat meets his glare with a cold, steady gaze. ¡°You think pacing like a trapped beast will change anything?¡± she snaps. ¡°What would you have us do? Break these chains and fight our way past him?¡± She gestures toward the door. ¡°You¡¯d be dead before you took the first step.¡±
Saqatli growls low in his throat, his eyes narrowing, but he doesn¡¯t reply. Though he doesn¡¯t speak our tongue, perhaps, somehow, he knows she¡¯s right. Or perhaps he simply doesn¡¯t have the words to argue. Either way, his pacing resumes, more restless and erratic than before.
¡°Enough,¡± I assert. They both fall silent, their gazes snapping toward me. My hands are still pressed against Teqosa¡¯s wound, though I know it¡¯s pointless. The bleeding has slowed, not because I¡¯ve stopped it, but because there¡¯s nothing left to give. His body feels colder now, the faint warmth of life slipping away.
¡°We can¡¯t afford to fight each other,¡± I say, my tone softer now but no less firm. ¡°Not here. Not now.¡±
Saqatli mutters something low and unintelligible under his breath, as though in direct response to me. But, ultimately, he resumes his pacing, occasionally kicking the stone ground as his chains clink softly with each step. S¨ªqalat exhales through her nose, her lips pressing into a thin line, but she also doesn¡¯t speak.
Resigned, I lean back, my hands falling away from Teqosa¡¯s still form. My wrists burn where the chains have rubbed the skin raw, and my shoulders ache with every movement. I close my eyes, letting out a slow, unsteady breath. Everything¡ªthe prophecy, the journey, the lives we¡¯ve lost and those we still stand to lose¡ªcrashes down at once, pressing into my chest like a vise, stealing the air from my lungs and leaving me hollow.
Unite them, or destroy them. The crone¡¯s words repeat in my mind, as haunting as the day she spoke them. I thought I understood what they meant. I thought I knew my path. But now, with Teqosa¡¯s blood on my hands and the shadow of Xiatli looming over us, I wonder if I¡¯ve been a misguided fool all along.
The door creaks open, and the air grows heavy once more.
Xiatli¡¯s return is neither sudden nor loud, yet it pulls every breath from the room. His movements are unhurried, but there¡¯s an unmistakable finality to them. The torchlight dims as he enters, as if even the flames cower in His presence.
None of us speak. None of us move. Even Saqatli, who had been pacing restlessly just moments before, stands frozen, his chains limp in his hands. Xiatli¡¯s cold and oppressive gaze sweeps over us once again, like a predator deciding which prey to devour first.
He stops just beyond Teqosa¡¯s body, his gaze sweeping over each of us in turn. His eyes are like an empty abyss, and I feel as though he sees everything¡ªevery doubt, every weakness, every crack in the facade I¡¯ve tried to maintain. My heart pounds in my ears, and I force myself to meet his eyes, though it feels like staring into an endless void. Don¡¯t look away, I tell myself. Do not let him see your fear.
¡°You¡¯re the leader, are you not?¡± Xiatli asks, his voice calm, almost consoling, as though offering some kind of perverse kindness. ¡°The one they follow. The one they believe in.¡± His gaze lingers on me, studying me as if I¡¯m an insect pinned beneath his thumb. ¡°Tell me, did you think it would be worth it? All this pain? All this loss?¡±
I open my mouth, but the words falter before they form. My throat is dry, my tongue a dead weight. His question coils around my mind, probing every corner of my thoughts, dredging up every doubt and failure I¡¯ve buried. Did I think it was worth it? To unite Pachil? To find answers in the amulets? Or was I just chasing the impossible¡ªhoping to stand against something like him, a force of nature wearing the mask of a man?
Xiatli doesn¡¯t wait for me to respond. His tone sharpens, cutting through my silence like a blade. ¡°You came here crawling toward answers you were never meant to have, didn¡¯t you? Toward a victory that was never yours to claim. And look at you now.¡± He gestures faintly toward S¨ªqalat without turning his head. ¡°You¡¯ve dragged them all with you, broken and empty-handed. Tell me¡ was it worth their lives, Leader?¡±
¡°Don¡¯t,¡± S¨ªqalat snaps, her voice low but razor-edged, trembling with the effort to keep it steady. ¡°Don¡¯t you dare¡ª¡±
Xiatli doesn¡¯t so much as glance at her. His hand rises, palm outward, and the faintest ripple of energy hums through the air. It¡¯s barely visible, like the shimmer of heat above a fire, but the force of it jerks S¨ªqalat back as though she¡¯s been struck. Her words cut off, her breath comes in short, ragged gasps, though she doesn¡¯t fall.
¡°I wasn¡¯t speaking to you,¡± Xiatli says. He remains calm, indifferent. He turns back to me, taking a step closer. ¡°You, however¡ you interest Me.¡±
My nails press into my palms, the chains around my wrists biting into my skin. I force myself to breathe, to push back the rising tide of panic. Stay composed. Do not give him what he wants. But it¡¯s easier said than done. Every word he speaks, every apathetic glance my way feels like it¡¯s unraveling me, stripping away the veneer of strength I¡¯ve tried so hard to maintain.
¡°Do you even understand what you once possessed?¡± Xiatli asks condescendingly. He raises the amulets, still clutched in his hand, the spectrum of colors from the glowing stones casting eerie shadows across his face. ¡°These relics were never yours. They belong to something greater than you, something you cannot even begin to comprehend.¡±
He pauses, his gaze boring into me. ¡°And yet, here you are. Pretending to be saviors. Pretending to be anything more than children playing with fire.¡±
I think of the prophecy, the crone¡¯s words, the promise of unity¡ªor destruction. Were those words meant to guide us? Or were they a warning, a shadow cast by the mistakes of those who came before us? The Eleven, the amulets, the fragments of power we thought would save Pachil¡ªthey were all pieces we never truly understood. Did they know what they were leaving behind? Or did they, too, believe they were doing the right thing?
Xiatli¡¯s fingers tighten around the amulets, and for a brief moment, it¡¯s as if the chamber itself reacts. The air grows denser, vibrating with an energy I can¡¯t see but feel in my teeth, my bones, the tender hollow of my throat.
The amulets glow brighter in his hand, the colors bleeding into each other, wild and uncontrolled, like a storm trapped inside a cage of glass. He doesn¡¯t flinch. His gaze remains fixed on me, dissecting, searching.
¡°I see it in your eyes,¡± he says, tilting his head, his voice as soft as a lover¡¯s whisper, but sharp enough to cut through stone. ¡°The doubt. The fear. You¡¯ve felt it since the moment you took them. Deep down, you¡¯ve known that this wasn¡¯t your path, but you followed it anyway. Why? Because of some prophecy?¡± He laughs, a low, grating sound that makes my stomach churn. ¡°Prophecies are for the desperate. They¡¯re stories we tell ourselves when we can¡¯t bear the truth: that our lives are small. That we are small. You built your hope on lies. And now you¡¯ve come here to drown in them.¡±
The prophecy.
How does he know? The crone¡¯s words were spoken only to me. Yet here he stands, speaking as though he¡¯s always known. My thoughts stumble over themselves, trying to reconcile what¡¯s in front of me. Is he all-knowing? Is he¡ªcan he be what he seems? A god?
I want to ask. To demand answers. To challenge him, to tell him he¡¯s wrong. But my mind only churns, wild and chaotic. How does he know?
He watches me, and the faintest curl of amusement tugs at the edges of his mouth. It¡¯s as if he can hear every thought racing through my mind. And maybe he can. Maybe he doesn¡¯t need me to speak at all.
¡°You think you¡¯re here to save Pachil,¡± he says, his gaze flicking to the others behind me, their faces pale and drawn. ¡°But you¡¯re not. You¡¯re here to watch it burn.¡±
¡°No,¡± I whisper, the word dragging itself from my throat like a wounded animal. ¡°That¡¯s not¡ª¡±
His hand rises again, silencing me with a casual flick of his wrist. The ripple of energy that follows is subtle, surreal. I stagger, and the chains around my wrists pull taut. But I barely manage to catch myself before I fell.
¡°You still don¡¯t understand,¡± he murmurs. ¡°But you will. Soon, all of Pachil will.¡± He turns, his gaze sweeping the room, his shadow stretching long and uneven against the stone walls.
¡°But before then,¡± Xiatli says, his voice dropping low, ¡°you will tell Me everything. The relics. The journey. The ones who sent you.¡± He takes another step forward, and his vast and cold shadow stretches over me, swallowing what little light remains, what hope remains.
Xiatli tilts his head slightly. ¡°We¡¯ll start with you,¡± he says. His lips curl into the faintest semblance of a smile, and the words that follow are a dagger sliding between my ribs. ¡°Let¡¯s see how long it takes Me to break you.¡±
159 - Haesan
It was Yachaman¡¯s idea, if I¡¯m being honest. A ceremony to honor the fallen, to weave the broken threads of Pachil into something whole again. She said it with her usual bluntness, as though it were obvious. You want unity? Start by showing the people you care about their dead.
Now I stand before the crowd, who gaze at me expectantly. They¡¯re a patchwork of Pachil¡¯s fractured state. The Tapeu nobles sit closest with impeccable postures, wearing vibrant tunics in orange and red that are stiff with embroidery. A row of Qantua warriors stands apart, their expressions carved from stone. Tired glances exchanged, the slump of a shoulder here and there betraying the exhaustion beneath their stoic fronts. Among them, I catch a fleeting glance of unease¡ªa young warrior clutching his spear too tightly, his gaze darting between me and the brazier. Scattered among the common folk, the Aimue farmers who fought alongside warriors wear simpler garments, their hands calloused from work, their faces lined with grief.
At the center of what was once a bustling marketplace square, a brazier burns steadily. It¡¯s fed with cedar, copal resin, and bundles of sage, mingling with the ever-present tang of damp stone, ash, and something metallic, like old blood soaked too deeply into the land to be washed away. Somewhere, faintly, I catch the distant clatter of tools against stone¡ªthose who labor even now to rebuild, unyielding like the mountains that cradle this city.
In this moment, there¡¯s a quiet I¡¯m not used to. Not the peaceful kind, but the strained silence of a city that¡¯s waiting to see if we will allow it to crumble completely or cause it to rise once more. Where once stalls brimmed with color¡ªvendors hawking golden papayas, smoked chilies, carved obsidian figurines, painted gourds, jade jewelry, feathered fans, woven tapestries, and garlands of fragrant marigolds¡ªthe square is now stripped bare, its only adornments are the marks left by battle. Scorch marks streak the walls, and uneven rubble still lines the edges of the square, piled as though waiting to be carted away.
For all its ruin, though, there¡¯s something stubbornly alive about Qapauma. The people here¡ªthose who¡¯ve stayed, those who¡¯ve returned, those who¡¯ve fought and lost and keep fighting¡ªhave begun to stitch their home back together. I see it in the small things: patches of clean, repaired fabric on otherwise tattered clothes, children¡¯s toys carved anew from scraps of wood, the faint green of saplings planted near the square¡¯s edge. Where the cracked flagstones that spiderweb beneath our feet once told only of ruin and bloodshed, they now glimmer faintly beneath the glow of torchlight, meticulously cleaned and adorned with symbols etched in white ash. These glyphs¡ªborrowed from the Aimue, the Qiapu, and even fragments of Tuatiu tradition, among other factions¡ªspiral outward from the central brazier. Their patterns are intricate and deliberate, telling stories of battle and rebirth.
Around the square, the people of Qapauma stand in hushed reverence. Some hold small tokens: woven armbands, clay figurines, carved stones¡ªall made as offerings to their loved ones. Chosen from among the surviving elders of various factions, the ceremonial attendants move through the crowd, collecting these offerings with solemnity. Each is carefully placed into the fire, and the flames crackle as they consume the gifts meant to guide the spirits of the dead to their next journey.
The ceremonial attendants are dressed in garments that blend Aimue and Tapeu designs¡ªfeathered capes in deep indigo, accented with saffron red trim. They wear headdresses adorned with quetzal feathers, moving measuredly and deliberately as they approach the brazier in procession. Each attendant carries a bundle of offerings bound in bright cloth, and I note how the vivid colors are a stark contrast to the muted tones of the general crowd¡¯s attire. As they approach the brazier, they pause, chanting softly in Merchant¡¯s Tongue¡ªa prayer of unity, though its cadence is borrowed from the Aimue¡¯s burial songs.
This was Yachaman¡¯s doing, her way of preserving Aimue tradition while allowing it to evolve. But I made my own changes. At her suggestion, I had the ashes of the previous fires scattered into the land surrounding the square, planting saplings that now stand in a ring around us. These trees are young, but rooted deeply, representing a future that could grow from the ashes of our past¡ªa metaphor I hoped the people would understand.
The procession halts as the final offering is placed into the brazier. A sudden burst of light fills the square as the fire leaps higher, consuming the cloth bundle in a cascade of orange and gold. The crowd inhales collectively, as though the flame has drawn their breath. Then, one by one, the attendants step back, allowing the people to come forward.
It begins with the common folk¡ªAimue farmers, Qantua warriors, and Tapeu merchants stepping hesitantly toward the brazier. Some kneel before it, murmuring private prayers; others simply stand in silence before adding their tokens to the fire. A woman holds a tiny woven doll aloft, her lips trembling as she speaks a name too softly to be heard. With rigid shoulders and head bowed, a Qantua warrior offers a fragment of obsidian carved into the shape of a jaguar.
Each token carries its own story, its own grief. Each is consumed by the flames.
As the fire continues to burn, I rise from my place beside the brazier, stepping onto the dais. My gaze sweeps over the crowd. Even in their stillness, there¡¯s an intensity in their presence¡ªa hunger for something to believe in, for a leader who can make sense of their pain. My fingers tighten briefly around the edge of the dais as I draw in a breath.
I am not here to mourn alone I remind myself. This was meant to unify us, to remind them that we¡¯ve all suffered, and to lead. But as I step forward, the words I¡¯d rehearsed in my head crumble into dust.
I clear my throat, the sound too loud in the stillness. ¡°We¡ we gather here today to honor those who gave their lives in defense of Qapauma, and of Pachil. Their bravery¡ª¡± My voice falters, and I force myself to meet the eyes of the crowd. ¡°Their bravery will not be forgotten.¡±
The words feel hollow, devoid of emotion. I see it in their faces: the nobles¡¯ polite indifference, the warriors¡¯ skepticism, the farmers¡¯ quiet grief. A bead of sweat slides down my temple, but I don¡¯t wipe it away. My palms itch, but I clasp them together to keep from fidgeting.
I glance at Yachaman, standing off to the side. Her eyes meet mine, and I think I see the faintest nod. But it could just be the way the shadows shift across her face. Either way, it steadies me.
I let my eyes wander over the crowd, and for a moment, the faces blur together. I see only the shapes of loss¡ªthe absence of those who should be here, the gaping holes left by the numerous battles. A father without his son. A brother without his sister. Friends, comrades, lovers¡ all gone. The ache of it swells in my chest, and the words I¡¯d planned slip away, replaced by something rawer.
¡°I¡ I know words won¡¯t bring them back,¡± I begin, my voice faltering as the opening I¡¯d rehearsed falls flat in my mind. ¡°I know nothing I say can fill the spaces they¡¯ve left behind.¡±
I see it in their faces¡ªthose spaces. A mother clutching the woven shawl of a daughter who will never return. A warrior gripping a spear, his shoulders sunken with the weight of guilt or grief. The crowd feels vast, yet each face tells its own story.
I swallow hard and take a step closer to the brazier. Its warmth brushes my skin, grounding me. The smoke rises, curling into the overcast sky as if carrying our grief to a place beyond reach. To the heavens, as Yachaman had said when she explained the Aimue ritual to me.
¡°But we must honor them,¡± I say, finding my voice again. ¡°Not just in ceremony, but in how we move forward. They fought for Pachil, for all of us, and we owe it to them to build a future worthy of their sacrifice.¡±
The murmurs subside, replaced by a heavy silence. My pulse slows as I draw in a deep breath. I look at the faces before me¡ªnot the masses, but individuals. The farmer with calloused hands, the warrior with a jaguar pelt across his shoulders, the noblewoman sitting stiff-backed in her embroidered tunic. They¡¯ve all lost something. And yet, here they are.
¡°I won¡¯t stand here and pretend I have all the answers,¡± I continue. My words come slower now, more considered. ¡°I won¡¯t pretend I understand the pain each of you carries, or what you¡¯ve lost.
¡°What I can promise is this: I am here now.¡± I hear my voice strengthening, and I feel my confidence steadily growing. ¡°I may not have lived through the suffering you have, but I see it. I feel it. And I refuse to let it be for nothing. Qapauma has been shattered time and again¡ªby enemies from within and without. But every time, you have rebuilt. You have endured. And together, we will endure again.¡±
The flames crackle louder, as if in agreement, and the crowd leans in. I don¡¯t miss the burgeoning hope in the Aimue farmer¡¯s eyes, or the way one of the Qantua warriors shifts slightly, lowering his spear.
¡°This is not just a time to mourn,¡± I say, finding that the words coming easier now, ¡°but a time to remember that we are still here. Tapeu, Qantua, Aimue, Tuatiu¡ we are all still here. We are the pieces of Pachil that remain, and if we are to survive¡ªif we are to rebuild this land¡ªwe must do it together.¡±
The applause begins hesitantly among the common folk, swelling as the Tapeu nobles add their measured claps. Even some of the warriors join in, though not all. Yet among the applause, the Qantua warriors remain still. Their silence is not rejection, exactly, but something I can¡¯t quite name. Something perhaps like the absence of disdain.
As the applause dies down, I step back, the brazier¡¯s glow fading into the periphery. The ceremony has done its work, for now. But as I watch the smoke curl into the sky, a thought lingers: What if this fragile truce, held together by grief and fire, is all I can offer? Would it be enough?
The council chamber is a shadow of what it once was. Light spills through cracks in the high stone walls, dappled by the scaffolding and latticework erected by the workers repairing the palace. Streaks of ochre and faded indigo cling stubbornly to the walls where the old murals have not yet been restored. The echoes of footsteps and hammering drift faintly from the upper levels, where laborers replace shattered beams and fortify crumbling arches.
Once symbols of Tapeu dominance, the great hall¡¯s tapestries have been stripped away. In their place hang lengths of plain cloth¡ªinterim placeholders for the designs I¡¯ve has commissioned from the various factions. Each faction¡¯s contributions will hang side by side when finished, as a visual promise of unity. For now, the blank fabrics flutter faintly, like the gaps in the cohesion I¡¯m trying to build.
The hallway is quieter than I expect. The usual bustle of palace servants has been reduced to a handful of hurried footsteps echoing against the stone walls. The council chambers are just ahead, their heavy doors shut, and I pause to collect my thoughts before entering.
That¡¯s when I hear it.
¡°Lady Haesan! Our radiant Quya!¡±
I turn sharply, my chest tightening at the sight of the man approaching. Chalqo strides toward me, his long scarf trailing behind him like a banner in the wind. He bows extravagantly, his arm sweeping low, the flourish exaggerated to the point of absurdity.
¡°Chalqo,¡± I breathe, the tension in my chest easing, replaced by a rush of relief. ¡°You¡¯re alive!¡±
¡°Alive, well, and ready to grace the world with my brilliance,¡± he replies, his grin as bright as the sunlight filtering through the high windows. ¡°I must say, Lady Haesan, your speech earlier¡ªit was nothing short of magnificent. Rousing, poetic, and, dare I say, almost as captivating as my flute playing.¡±
A short laugh escapes me despite myself. ¡°Almost?¡±
¡°Well, I must leave room for improvement,¡± he quips with a knowing look. ¡°But truly, you have a gift for inspiring the masses. Even I, a humble purveyor of melody and mirth, felt stirred to action.¡±
I study him for a moment, his playful demeanor masking the weariness in his eyes. The chaos of Qapauma¡¯s recent battles has left its mark on all of us, but seeing Chalqo now, alive and intact, feels like a victory in itself.
¡°I was worried about you,¡± I admit softly. ¡°With everything that happened, I thought¡ª¡±
¡°That I had met some tragic, poetic end?¡± he interrupts, waving a hand dismissively. ¡°Perish the thought, my lady! Fate would never deprive the world of my talents so easily. Besides,¡± he adds with a wink, ¡°the rebels had no ear for music. A terrible crime, but one I chose to forgive in favor of survival.¡±
His words bring a small smile to my lips, but it¡¯s fleeting. ¡°Chalqo, I need your help,¡± I say, stepping closer. ¡°Nuqasiq¡ªshe needs to know about¡ her son. My¡ father. But also, that it¡¯s safe to return. Can you get word to her?¡±
His expression shifts, the playful glint in his eyes giving way to something more serious. ¡°You trust me with such a task?¡±
¡°I do,¡± I reply, meeting his gaze. ¡°You¡¯re the one she trusts most in this world, and one of the few who can reach her without drawing too much attention. And if anyone can convince her, it¡¯s you.¡±
Chalqo straightens, his grin returning, though tempered now with a hint of pride. ¡°Consider it done, Lady Haesan. Nuqasiq will hear your call, and she will not resist reuniting with her granddaughter.¡±
¡°Thank you,¡± I say sincerely.
¡°Think nothing of it,¡± he replies, inclining his head. ¡°Though, if I may ask for a small token in return¡¡±
I raise an eyebrow, wary of where this might lead. ¡°What kind of token?¡±
¡°A promise,¡± he says earnestly. ¡°When all this chaos is behind us, you¡¯ll let me perform at your formal coronation. No¡ªinsist on it.¡±
I can¡¯t help but laugh, the kind of laugh only Chalqo can pull from me¡ªsomething I haven¡¯t felt in what feels like a lifetime, but what I didn¡¯t know I needed. ¡°It¡¯s a deal.¡±
Before either of us can say more, a young servant appears at the far end of the hall, bowing deeply before speaking. ¡°Quya, the council awaits your presence.¡±
I nod, glancing back at Chalqo one last time. ¡°Be careful,¡± I tell him, placing a hand on his shoulder and squeezing gently.
¡°Always,¡± he replies, flashing one last grin before turning and disappearing down the corridor.
The servant gestures toward the council doors, and I take a deep breath. With one last glance at the now-empty hallway, I straighten my posture and step forward.
The council members are seated around a long table of polished stone, its surface etched with years of wear. The chairs are mismatched, cobbled together from what could be salvaged after the recent battles. It gives the room a feeling of impermanence, as though even this fragile moment of order could crumble with one careless word.This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.
I sit at the table¡¯s head, the position feeling both natural and foreign. Achutli had ruled from this very room, though under very different circumstances. But I try not to think of him now. This is my council, not his.
To my right sits the Tapeu representative, Tapanali¡ªshort and lean with graying temples. He had been suggested by a gathering of merchant guild leaders who valued his impartiality and expertise in brokering delicate trade negotiations. His distance from Achutli¡¯s administration, along with a reputation for fairness, made him an obvious choice to ensure the Tapeu¡¯s interests were represented without undue bias.
To my left, Yachaman is silent and watchful. Next to her, Xelhua leans slightly back in his chair, arms crossed. Admittedly, his presence is more like a stoic sentinel than a councilor. Seated across from Yachaman, Inuxeq shifts restlessly, her discomfort in this setting painfully obvious. Maqochi, the valiant Qantua veteran who whole-heartedly supported Inuxeq¡¯s efforts, rounds out the group. His burly frame is stiff with unease, and his eyes dart to the Qantua warriors stationed near the chamber¡¯s entrance like a nervous tic.
I clear my throat. ¡°Thank you all for coming. Before we begin, I want to recognize the monumental task ahead of us. Rebuilding Qapauma, restoring order, and ensuring all factions of Pachil are represented¡ªthese are not small undertakings. But I believe, together, we can achieve them.¡±
I gesture to the plain cloths hanging behind me. ¡°As you¡¯ve likely noticed, I¡¯ve asked the artisans to begin recreating tapestries for this hall, with each faction contributing their own. It is a symbol, yes, but symbols matter. If we are to rebuild Pachil, we must do so with unity, not division.¡±
A murmur of approval ripples through the room. Yachaman nods slightly. Even Maqochi¡¯s stern expression softens at the mention of representation.
At this, I continue. ¡°Our first matter: we must reach out to the remaining factions¡ªthe Achope, Qiapu, Sanqo, and the Atima in Qelantu Loh¡ªand invite them to join this council. Representation is not just ideal; it¡¯s necessary if we are to move forward. I¡¯ve also asked for quipus to be prepared for each faction, in their respective colors, to deliver our message.¡±
The Tapeu quraqa, Tapanali, speaks first. ¡°I agree, Lady Haesan. Full representation will lend credibility to this council and its decisions. I volunteer to oversee the crafting of these quipus and ensure they are delivered swiftly.¡±
The Qantua general, Maqochi, nods. ¡°I support this, as well. However¡¡± He glances at the warriors near the door. ¡°Taqsame will undoubtedly attempt to position himself as our representative. He is¡ not fit for such a role.¡±
A ripple of unease passes over the council at the sound of his name. Inuxeq stiffens, her jaw tightening as she glares at Maqochi. The Tapeu warriors exchange furtive glances, uncertain about what to do.
¡°That man will ruin us if given the chance,¡± Maqochi adds firmly.
¡°He nearly ruined us already,¡± Tapanali murmurs, earning nods of agreement from some and frowns from others.
¡°We can argue the role of Taqsame later,¡± Xelhua interrupts. ¡°Right now, we need to focus on securing the remaining factions. And that means addressing all of them.¡±
The council¡¯s attention snaps to him. ¡°That includes the Ulxa.¡±
Tapanali sits straighter, his lips pressing into a thin line. Maqochi¡¯s brow furrows, and he leans forward as though preparing to object.
¡°They are troublemakers,¡± Tapanali says coldly. ¡°Their history is one of defiance and disruption. They¡¯ve never cooperated willingly, and they won¡¯t start now.¡±
¡°They are part of Pachil,¡± Xelhua replies simply. ¡°You cannot unite a land by leaving pieces of it behind.¡±
The general grunts. ¡°The Ulxa are not just defiant; they are dangerous. To bring them into this council is to invite chaos.¡±
¡°They¡¯ve been excluded for years,¡± Yachaman calmly interjects. ¡°Perhaps if they¡¯d been included sooner, their defiance wouldn¡¯t have grown into hostility.¡±
Tapanali shakes his head. ¡°You can¡¯t rewrite history with good intentions. The Ulxa have earned their isolation.¡±
Inuxeq slams a hand on the table, her frustration boiling over. ¡°Isolation breeds resentment! You talk about unity, but you¡¯re too afraid to take the first step toward it.¡±
The room falls into a tense silence, broken only by the faint creak of the scaffolding above. Tapanali¡¯s gaze narrows, his tone cutting as he replies, ¡°Perhaps if you spent less time shouting and more time thinking, you¡¯d understand the cost of your ¡®first step.¡¯¡±
Inuxeq recoils slightly, her anger faltering into embarrassment. My heart twists at the sight, but I cannot waver.
¡°Xelhua is right,¡± I state, meeting my gaze with the Iqsuwa warrior. ¡°Unity cannot come from exclusion. But I also understand the concerns being raised. The Ulxa have been isolated for a reason, and inviting them will require careful negotiation.¡±
Tapanali exhales sharply, but I don¡¯t let him interrupt. ¡°We are rebuilding, not just Qapauma, but all of Pachil. If we allow old grudges to dictate our decisions, we are no better than the chaos we¡¯re trying to mend.¡±
Xelhua leans forward, his voice low but firm. ¡°Then decide, Lady Haesan. Do we move forward with unity, or do we keep dragging the past behind us?¡±
Suddenly, the doors burst open with a resounding thud. The sound abruptly silences the arguments as all eyes turn to the threshold. Two guards enter, their faces drawn and apologetic. Between them, they drag a figure bound and kneeling, and I recognize her immediately¡ªAnqatil. Her head is bowed, dark hair spilling over her face, but even in this state, there¡¯s no mistaking the rigid line of her shoulders, the simmering defiance in the way she holds herself.
The last time I saw her, she was a shadow behind my father¡¯s throne, whispering poison into his ear. Now, she¡¯s nothing but a prisoner, stripped of her power and dignity¡ªor so they think. I can see it in her posture, in the sharpness of her gaze when she finally raises her head to meet mine. Anqatil is not broken. She¡¯s waiting, biding her time.
My sandals scuff against the cracked stone floor as I step forward. More quraqas swarm around us, causing a spectacle as they¡¯re eager to see what will come of Achutli¡¯s councilor. Scorch marks streak the walls where Achutli¡¯s men made their last stand. The air smells faintly of ash and something sharper, like burnt hair. There¡¯s no grandeur here, no comfort. Just me, her, and a decision that feels impossible to bear.
¡°Anqatil,¡± I say, my voice as steady as I can make it despite the storm raging in my chest. ¡°You¡¯ve served my father for years. You advised him on matters of war, of trade, of law. You stood by his side as he ruled this city with cruelty and fear.¡±
She doesn¡¯t flinch. Instead, she lifts her chin, her dark eyes locking onto mine with an intensity that makes my stomach twist. ¡°I served him,¡± she says as sharp as obsidian. ¡°Your father was the only one strong enough to hold Pachil together.¡±
Her gaze hardens, making sure to emphasize every last syllable. ¡°And you? You are his blood. His curse. Do not forget why the prophecy spoke your name.¡±
The words land like a slap, and a ripple of outrage spreads through the room. A few of the quraqas step forward, their faces red with anger. ¡°She dares speak!¡± one hisses. ¡°Execute her, Quya, and be done with it.¡±
If Anqatil is afraid, she doesn¡¯t show it. And that makes it worse. If she¡¯d begged, pleaded for her life, this would be easier. I could wash my hands of it, tell myself I¡¯m doing what needs to be done. But she doesn¡¯t give me that. She just watches me, waiting to see what kind of ruler I¡¯ll be.
¡°This city has seen enough bloodshed,¡± I say finally to those who have gathered, my voice cutting through their murmurs. ¡°We¡¯ve lost too many lives, too much of what made Qapauma whole. Killing her might satisfy your sense of justice, but it won¡¯t bring us closer to unity.¡±
The room falls silent. Even Anqatil looks momentarily surprised, though she quickly masks it. I take another step forward, my shadow falling over her like a mantle. ¡°You served my father,¡± I continue. ¡°You stood by him as he oppressed his people, as he tore this city apart. For that, you will answer.¡±
She scowls, but doesn¡¯t speak.
¡°But I will not kill you,¡± I say, the words tasting strange but right. ¡°That would be too easy. You will be imprisoned, held accountable for your actions. If there¡¯s any justice left in this city, it will be found through truth, not vengeance.¡±
A gasp ripples through the crowd, followed by a surge of whispers. I ignore them, my gaze fixed on Anqatil. Her expression doesn¡¯t change, but there¡¯s something in her eyes now¡ªsomething I can¡¯t quite name. Respect? Resentment? Maybe both.
¡°Take her to the cells,¡± I order, turning to the guards. ¡°See that she¡¯s treated fairly. She is a prisoner, not an animal.¡±
The guards hesitate for only a moment before stepping forward. They lift Anqatil to her feet, her hands still bound, and lead her away. She doesn¡¯t struggle, doesn¡¯t look back, but I can feel her presence lingering even after she¡¯s gone.
When I turn back to the room, the quraqas are watching me with a mix of shock and barely concealed disdain. Some of them look ready to argue, but I raise a hand to silence them. ¡°This is how we move forward,¡± I say firmly. ¡°With justice. Not vengeance.¡±
They don¡¯t cheer. They don¡¯t applaud. But I don¡¯t need them to. I¡¯ve made my decision.
Emboldened, I take a deep breath, and turn back to the table. ¡°We will reach out to the Ulxa,¡± I declare. ¡°But we will do so cautiously. Tapanali, you and Yachaman will oversee the negotiations. Your experience and balance will be invaluable.¡±
With that, I determine the meeting over and abruptly depart the chamber. The others stand as I depart, and one of the guards announces that I am leaving¡ªthat the Quya is leaving. It¡¯s still not a title I¡¯m accustomed to hearing, nor the formality, and this only makes me want to escape the chamber sooner.
The courtyard is alive with movement as the messengers prepare to leave. Each is draped with quipus¡ªbraided cords adorned with intricate knots that speak in the silent language of their makers. The colors shift with every turn of the runners¡¯ movements: deep indigo for the Achope, vibrant saffron red for the Tapeu, emerald and gold for the Aimue. Even the Qiapu¡¯s signature crimson and ivory weave is represented.
I stand at the edge of the activity, hands clasped behind my back. The runners move with purpose, striding confidently as they briefly bow to me before departing. They carry not just cords and messages, but the fragile hope I¡¯ve tried to weave into every word we send.
Will the other factions listen? I wonder. Will they come? Will they even care?
The last messenger disappears through the palace gates, as the soft thud of their sandals against stone fades into the din of rebuilding efforts. I turn away, making my way to the quieter halls of what remains of the palace. The courtyards and chambers hum with the sounds of workers and artisans. At first, my ears were filled with the sounds of their tools tapping rhythms into the air, but I don¡¯t hear them anymore. My thoughts are louder, replaying the council meeting in disjointed fragments.
Inuxeq¡¯s voice, cracking from her immense passion.
Tapanali¡¯s cold and cutting retort.
Xelhua¡¯s steady presence, his words slicing through the tension like a blade.
I pull my cloak tighter against the chill as I turn away from the scene and head back into the palace.
The walk to my chambers is longer than I remember, though that could be the fatigue setting in. The corridors are cold and silent, save for the occasional echo of hammering from somewhere deeper in the building. These walls have seen so much¡ªtoo much. Jagged cracks run along the floor, and every now and then, I pass a pile of rubble waiting to be cleared.
The workers have done what they can to make the palace functional, but it¡¯s hard to ignore how temporary everything feels. The woven screens meant to block the wind flap weakly in the drafts, and the scaffolding creaks overhead like the groaning of an old giant.
My chambers are no different.
The room is small, tucked away in a corner of the palace that had miraculously escaped total ruin. I suspect it used to be a servant¡¯s quarters or perhaps storage for grain or linens. The walls are plain, the stone floors cold against bare feet, and the ceiling still bears faint smoke stains.
It¡¯s not the grand suite the palace workers keep insisting I deserve, but I can¡¯t bring myself to care. There¡¯s no sense in luxury when so much of Qapauma lies in shambles. My resources are better spent elsewhere¡ªon rebuilding, on the people.
I¡¯ve made small changes to make it livable. A simple reed mat softens the floor near the low cot I¡¯ve claimed as my bed. A narrow shelf holds a few items: a clay cup, a small woven pouch, and a single red feather resting on its surface. A few flowers I¡¯d plucked from the remnants of the palace gardens sit in a clay vase on the table. I note how their bright petals stand seemingly defiant against the drabness. The brazier from the ceremony has been brought here and sits in one corner. Its embers still glow faintly, causing the faint aroma of cedar and sage to linger in the air.
I close the heavy wooden door behind me and sink onto the edge of the cot, my head in my hands.
The council meeting replays in my mind like a song I can¡¯t shake. The arguments, the accusations, the sharp glances that cut deeper than words. Did I handle it well? Did I fail Inuxeq by not defending her more? Her passion was genuine, but her words were reckless, and the Tapeu representative wasted no time using them against her. Perhaps I should have said something, anything, to support her argument. But instead, I let the moment pass.
Tapanali¡¯s face comes to mind¡ªcalm, measured, and entirely too shrewd. He¡¯s what I needed to convince the quraqas of my intentions, but moments like today make me wonder if I¡¯ve traded too much in return. His disdain had felt so final, like a door slamming shut. Would stepping in have made a difference? Or would it have shattered the fragile balance I¡¯m trying to hold together?
And then there¡¯s the Ulxa. Inviting them to the council is the right choice; I know that. But I saw the tension in the room, the way Tapanali and Maqochi bristled at the suggestion. They think it¡¯s foolish at best, dangerous at worst. And maybe they¡¯re right.
I rub my temples, the beginnings of a headache creeping in. Unbidden, my thoughts drift to my father. Achutli wouldn¡¯t have hesitated to shut down the debate. He would¡¯ve silenced opposition with a single look, his authority unquestioned.
For all his faults¡ªand there were many¡ªAchutli never wavered. He didn¡¯t second-guess himself, didn¡¯t lose sleep over the opinions of others. Would that kind of ruthlessness have been better today?
The thought is bitter, but it lingers, persistent as the faint scent of smoke in the room.
The prophecy comes back to me then, the one spoken over my father¡¯s blood. By the hand of your blood, he was supposedly told.
I don¡¯t believe in prophecy¡ªnot truly. But I can¡¯t ignore the way its words have rooted themselves in my mind, like seeds planted in fertile soil.
Achutli believed the prophecy justified everything he did. He thought he was securing Pachil¡¯s future, but all he left behind was a fractured land and a daughter who barely knows how to hold it together.
The embers snap softly, pulling me from my thoughts. I realize my hands are trembling slightly and clench them into fists to steady myself.
I force myself to stand, pacing slowly as I try to shake the heaviness pressing down on me. For all the doubts that haunt me, one truth remains: I have to keep moving forward. For Qapauma, for Pachil, for everyone who has lost more than I can fathom.
The knock at the door is firm, not hurried, but insistent enough to pull me from my thoughts. I sit up, as the fragile cocoon of quiet I¡¯ve wrapped around myself has been shattered. For a moment, I consider ignoring it, letting the messenger or guard or whoever stands beyond it wait. But another knock follows, more insistent, and I know I can¡¯t.
¡°Enter,¡± I call, trying to mask my weariness, and knowing I¡¯ve failed.
The messenger steps in, his face flushed and damp with sweat. He¡¯s one of the younger runners, barely more than a boy, and his sandals are caked with the dust of the roads. His chest rises and falls rapidly as he struggles to catch his breath, clutching a folded strip of cloth knotted in a distinct Qantua pattern. He bows hastily, then straightens, casting his eyes low and to the ground, never meeting mine¡ªthe typical Tapeu signal of respect.
¡°Forgive the intrusion, Quya,¡± he says, the words tumbling out. ¡°But¡ I bring urgent news.¡±
I nod, gesturing for him to continue. ¡°Speak.¡±
¡°It¡¯s Taqsame,¡± he says, the name hitting the room like a gust of cold wind. ¡°He¡¯s recovered far faster than expected. Some say it¡¯s unnatural.¡±
I try to keep calm, though the knot in my stomach tightens. ¡°Go on.¡±
¡°It¡¯s said that,¡± he continues, ¡°before her capture, he was seen speaking with Anqatil. Openly. Some claim they spent a significant amount of time together, though what passed between them remains unknown.¡±
The name sends a ripple of unease through me. Anqatil¡ªcalculating, sharp-tongued, and dangerous in her pragmatism. The one who played the loyal counselor to my father. And Taqsame¡ªthe man who, after fighting to defeat Achutli, has already begun to turn the Qantua warriors against me. Why would Taqsame, of all people, seek her counsel?
The brazier¡¯s embers crackle softly behind me, the sound unnervingly loud in the silence that follows. Rallying support among the Qantua is obvious, this much I can understand. But what is his plan with such brazen acts? Why meet with Anqatil? Is this some effort to win her over, using what influence she has to gain support from the Tapeu?
¡°Thank you,¡± I say finally, dismissing him with a wave of my hand. He bows again and backs out of the room, leaving me alone with the suffocating quiet and the implications of his words.
Taqsame. Anqatil. The names swirl in my mind, tangling with the questions they raise. Two forces I thought I could control. Taqsame¡¯s recovery should¡¯ve taken time¡ªseveral moon cycles, at least. But here he is, already moving, already working to undermine me. And Anqatil¡ªwhat could he possibly want with her?
If their meeting was planned, if it was deliberate, then Anqatil has been playing this game longer than I realized. And worse, I walked right into it, letting her live, letting her linger.
What did they talk about? What was said between them? And what have I allowed to take root under my own roof?
I stand and move to the brazier, staring into its dying flames. The smoke rises in thin, curling wisps, dissipating into the dim light of the chamber. My hands grip the brazier¡¯s edge, the heat biting into my palms. I don¡¯t pull away.
The pain steadies me, grounding my thoughts as they threaten to spiral. Taqsame¡¯s name feels like a storm cloud on the horizon, growing darker, closer, with every moment I waste. The Qantua warriors¡¯ loyalty to him is a tide I can¡¯t turn back, but killing him outright would only make him a martyr¡ªif I even had the stomach for it. And I most certainly don¡¯t.
If they rally behind him, if they believe his promises¡ My breath catches as the thought blooms. Everything I¡¯ve built¡ªthis council, this fragile truce, this vision of a united Pachil¡ªit will crumble before it can take root. The factions will splinter further, dragging the land into chaos.
I press harder against the brazier, the heat searing through my skin. The smoke stings my eyes, blurring the edges of the room. I wonder, briefly, if this is what it means to lead: to feel your own pain and the pain of the land you¡¯re trying to save, to carry both like weights around your neck.
How do you stop a man like Taqsame? Not through fire. Not through force. And not through fear, because he doesn¡¯t seem to have any. He walks through my city, speaking with my prisoners, and the people cheer him for it.
The flames shrink into embers, but I don¡¯t move. I stay there, gripping the brazier, the pain sharpening my thoughts into one jagged, unavoidable question.
How do you unite a land that refuses to be tamed?
160 - Legido
You feel it in the air, the way their eyes cling to you like smoke, filling your lungs until it hurts to breathe.
You sit rigid on the cold, uneven ground, your back pressed against a jagged stone that jabs uncomfortably through your coat. It¡¯s the only thing that keeps you anchored as the three figures before you size you up with expressions that betray nothing. The one in the deep blue tunic, taller than the others, holds a blade so black it seems to drink the light. It¡¯s not steel, that much you¡¯re certain, but it gleams like it could shear through bone just the same.
Beside him stands a brute with shoulders as broad as a ship¡¯s mast. His weapon is massive, an axe with a polished stone head bound to the haft with intricate bindings. His eyes dart to you every so often, his lip curling in disdain. You don¡¯t need to understand his language to know he wouldn¡¯t hesitate to strike if given the slightest excuse.
And then there¡¯s the elder. His white robes are stark against the dim light, and his features are etched with the lines of a hundred battles or a hundred years. Maybe both. He leans on a staff that looks like it could snap under his weight, though he doesn¡¯t seem to need it. His gaze is the sharpest, cutting through the silence like the ringing of a distant bell.
Around you, the alien sounds of this strange land press in: the soft snorting of the beast they brought with them¡ªa creature unlike anything you¡¯ve ever seen, its neck absurdly long, its fur coarse. Its eyes regard you with almost human curiosity, as if it¡¯s trying to figure out what your motives are.
And then there¡¯s the feline. At first, you thought it was some kind of overgrown house cat. But now, with its sleek muscles rippling under its spotted coat as it prowls around the edges of the group, you know better. There¡¯s nothing domestic about it. It¡¯s a predator with a turquoise-tipped tail, and the way it watches you attentively alarms you.
¡°Iker,¡± Landera hisses beside you, her tone sharp enough to draw blood. ¡°Would you sit still? You¡¯re making them nervous.¡±
He stops fidgeting, though his hands still twitch against the dirt. ¡°They¡¯re already nervous,¡± he mutters, just loud enough for you to catch. ¡°Look at the way they keep shifting their weapons. We should run the first chance we get.¡±
¡°And go where?¡± she snaps. ¡°Straight into the arid mountains where we¡¯ll be hunted down within moments? They¡¯d have our heads on spikes by sunset.¡±
You glance at your captors again, and sure enough, the one in blue¡ªthe warrior with the obsidian blade¡ªtakes a step forward, tightening his grip on the hilt.
¡°Stop, you two,¡± you scold, turning to Landera and Iker. ¡°Just stop. You¡¯re going to get us all killed.¡±
The elder murmurs something in his language¡ªsoft, measured, and entirely incomprehensible to you. Though he appears to speak calmly, the warrior stiffens visibly at his words. The brute with the axe widens his stance like he¡¯s preparing for something, perhaps a fight.
Your chest tightens. Whatever the elder said, it wasn¡¯t good.
To her credit, Landera catches the shift in mood and falls silent, though her hand lingers near the hilt of the dagger at her belt. Oblivious as ever, Iker glances at you with a look that says, Well, do something.
You wish you knew what to do.
The elder calmly gestures toward the distance. The warriors¡¯ gazes follow the motion, looking on with uncertainty. You follow their line of sight, but see only shadows stretching into the thickening gloom. Whatever they¡¯re looking at, whatever they think is out there, it¡¯s hidden from you.
Unbidden, your mind drifts to the chest you left behind in the palace. The scrolls. The amulet that it once contained. You try to focus on the here and now, but the memory claws at the edges of your thoughts. The way Xiatli had taken the amulet and slipped it around His neck, like it was His birthright. The way He had changed after.
Your stomach churns. You can¡¯t let it happen again. Whatever¡¯s in those scrolls, whatever secrets they hold, you have to find a way back to them.
An elbow jabs you in your side. ¡°Focus,¡± Landera chides. ¡°You¡¯re staring.¡±
The elder¡¯s voice rises slightly¡ªnot in volume, but in urgency. He points again, his gnarled hand trembling slightly. This time, the warrior steps forward, holding his blade low. The brute follows, resting his axe on his shoulder.
You try to decipher the elder¡¯s gestures, to make sense of the exchange happening right in front of you. It¡¯s not anger¡ªit¡¯s fear. Whatever he¡¯s trying to say, it¡¯s making the others nervous. The tension wraps itself around you like a noose, tightening with every silent moment that passes. You¡¯re certain now¡ªthey¡¯re waiting for something. Or someone. Could it be your fate, your doom?
Iker shifts beside you, his boots scraping against the stone. You can almost physically feel his growing unease. He¡¯s been restless since the moment you were captured, becoming more and more anxious as the uncertainty of the situation continues. It¡¯s only a matter of time before he does something.
And then, right on cue, he does.
The tall one in blue (you¡¯ve started thinking of him as ¡°The Blade" because of how his hand never leaves that jagged weapon) narrows his eyes, his posture tensing, tightening. The axe wielder beside him shifts slightly, tilting the weapon just enough to more swiftly strike you down, you fear.
¡°Iker,¡± Landera remarks. ¡°What are you doing?¡±
He doesn¡¯t answer. Instead, he presses his palm to his forehead, then touches his chest. It¡¯s a clumsy, awkward motion, perhaps made out of nervousness. Or perhaps it¡¯s to wipe away the sweat that profusely streams down his chubby cheeks. Either way, you hope it¡¯s not taken the wrong way by your captors.
Alas, it¡¯s the reaction that catches you off guard.
The Blade moves first. He barks a word¡ªloud, sharp¡ªhis hand flying to his weapon. The Axe follows immediately, stepping forward and raising his weapon slightly.
The Elder doesn¡¯t move at first. He stands there, silent and still. He studies Iker as though he¡¯s trying to peel back layers of skin to see whatever lies beneath.
Then, slowly, gravely, he nods.
What is happening?
The Blade barks again, a flurry of sharp syllables that mean nothing, but sound like orders. The Elder raises his hand in response, gesturing broadly toward the horizon. The Axe moves closer, tightening his grip once more as if choking the weapon¡¯s handle. His gaze darts between the three of you as though he¡¯s expecting you to bolt.
¡°What¡ªwhat did I do?¡± Iker stammers, his voice higher than usual.
¡°I don¡¯t think they liked your little gesture,¡± Landera snaps out of nervousness.
¡°They¡ª¡± Iker¡¯s voice cuts off as The Blade steps toward him, pointing toward the path ahead with his weapon. It¡¯s not quite a threat, but it¡¯s close enough, you think.
The three of you exchange a look. There¡¯s no time to argue, no chance to resist. The Blade impatiently gestures again, and you don¡¯t need words to know what he¡¯s saying. Move, or be moved.
The air changes the moment the group starts moving. The faint breeze, tainted by ash and decay, carries distant echoes¡ªvoices, perhaps, or the metallic clatter of weapons being readied. Behind you, the cart creaks softly as it rolls over the uneven terrain. The creature pulling it moves without hesitation, its dark eyes placid. It¡¯s the only thing here that doesn¡¯t seem affected by the city¡¯s atmosphere, and you find its indifference both reassuring and unsettling.
The jagged remains of buildings loom on either side, their warped frames casting skeletal shapes against the dim sky. Windows gape like empty sockets, staring down at you. Whatever safety might have existed at the city¡¯s edges vanishes as the ruined streets of Xiatlaz¨¢n stretch before you.
The Blade stops abruptly, his head tilting slightly as though he¡¯s unsettled by the commotion in the city. The Axe takes the rear, gripping his weapon a little tighter. Even the Elder pauses, his lined face darkening with recognition, perhaps, or dread.
And then there¡¯s the three of you¡ªawkward, alien, and woefully out of place. Iker is pale, his hands clenching and unclenching at his sides as though trying to shake off the unease. Landera¡¯s jaw is tight, her eyes darting toward every shadow that shifts in the periphery. You catch her muttering something under her breath, too low to make out.
None of you speak. There¡¯s no point. The natives wouldn¡¯t understand you even if you tried, and their occasional murmurs in that strange, fluid language are just as incomprehensible to you. Instead, the silence is punctuated by the soft rustle of fabric, the scrape of metal against stone, and the distant, ever-present hum of a city brought to its knees.You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.
Your eyes keep straying back to the Elder. His age is impossible to guess, but his frail frame and lined face remind you of the ancient mariners back home who would sit and recount the endless expanse of the sea. He murmurs something again, gesturing toward a distant alley, and the Blade stiffens visibly. The Axe tilts his head, and both seem to understand the Elder¡¯s meaning instantly.
¡°They don¡¯t know where they¡¯re going,¡± Iker whispers, sounding somewhat annoyed despite the nervous quiver in his voice.
¡°Neither do we,¡± Landera snaps back, her tone sharp enough to cut. ¡°So unless you¡¯ve got a better plan, keep your mouth shut.¡±
Iker opens his mouth to retort, but you cut him off with a look. ¡°Quiet.¡±
The word comes out harder than you intended, but you don¡¯t regret it. The last thing you need is for your captors to think you¡¯re plotting something. The Blade glances back briefly at the sound, but when you hold up your hands, palms out, he seems to take the gesture as submission. He turns back to the path, but his grip on the weapon doesn¡¯t relax.
The ruins of Xiatlaz¨¢n are a labyrinth of broken stone and gutted buildings. The streets are littered with debris, some of it clearly remnants of the city¡¯s former life¡ªceramic shards, torn fabric, the occasional glimpse of a tarnished ornament. However, most of it is ash and rubble, the aftermath of the Legido¡¯s arrival, you knowingly confess. Here and there, you catch glimpses of crude fortifications: makeshift barricades, half-collapsed watchtowers, and pits that look more like hurried graves than proper defenses.
The carvings, though¡ªthey¡¯re what you can¡¯t stop looking at. Some are pristine, somehow untouched by the chaos. What stories their intricate lines weave, you can¡¯t begin to understand. Others have been defaced, scraped away or overlaid with crude marks. You saw symbols like these near the chest¡ªthe ones you left behind. You don¡¯t know what they mean, but you¡¯re only determined to find out the longer you go without any answers.
¡°Do you think they¡¯re looking for something?¡± you ask Landera quietly.
¡°I think they¡¯re trying not to get us all killed,¡± she replies flatly. ¡°Unlike you, apparently.¡±
Her words sting, but you don¡¯t respond. She doesn¡¯t understand. She hasn¡¯t felt the pull of the chest, the way it seemed to hum with something alive. You tried to forget it, to focus on survival as Landera wishes, but the memory keeps clawing its way back. You have to know what was inside. You have to.
It¡¯s then that it all comes together for you. The chest, those strangers captured in the cellar of this once-grand palace. These three must be searching for their companions! That has to be what they¡¯re looking for!
¡°I know where to go!¡± you say excitedly, to no one in particular. The sound of your squeaking, strained voice¡ªone that tries to restrain itself, yet can¡¯t contain the sensation of solving this riddle¡ªis jarring, and soon, you find five pairs of eyes glaring at you.
¡°Sorry,¡± you mutter, then, in an effort to placate everyone, you whisper exaggeratedly, ¡°I think they¡¯re looking for those captives led to the prisons. We need to return to the palace.¡±
¡°Are you mad!¡± Landera exclaims. Meanwhile, the three strangers look at you, confused. Ignoring Landera¡¯s tirade, you gesture toward the palace, then make some kind of awkward motion with your hands to mimic the feather in the hair of the blue-eyed captive.
Right away, the Blade perks up. He utters something to his companions, which causes them to stare at you with great urgency. They speak to you, but once again, you can¡¯t make out the words. Yet it¡¯s clear that they want you to lead them to the palace, to where they can find the rest of their party.
You crouch low and begin to move. But your momentum is immediately halted by a hand grabbing your shoulder and forcing you backward. You quickly find Landera glaring at you.
¡°What do you think you¡¯re doing?¡± she comments. ¡°This is suicide!¡±
¡°We need to lead these three to their friends,¡± you declare, as determined as ever. ¡°What happens after is their challenge, but I can¡¯t sit idly by any longer. Not while Xiatli¡¯s power is allowed to continue unchecked.¡±
Landera gnashes her teeth, but ultimately, the battle raging within her settles. She winces, as though she knows you¡¯re right, but hates what it means for her safety. ¡°Let¡¯s go,¡± she huffs.
You all move as hurriedly as you can down the torn apart streets. The Elder makes another sharp gesture, this time pointing toward a narrow alley. He urgently murmurs something to the others, to which the Blade nods, then motions for the group to follow.
The alley is barely wide enough for two people to walk abreast. The walls rise high on either side, cracked and pitted but somehow still standing. You don¡¯t like it¡ªtoo narrow, too enclosed¡ªbut what other choice do you have.
The Axe continues to take the rear, scowling as he looks left to right. You can feel his eyes on your back, a constant reminder that any wrong move could end with your head rolling across the stones. Not that you need the reminder.
And then, faint at first but unmistakable, comes the sound of voices¡ªlow, rhythmic, and growing louder with each passing moment. Not speech, but chanting. Eerie chanting, their syllables strange and guttural. You catch Landera¡¯s sharp intake of breath as the sound swells, and even Iker stops his nervous shuffling, frozen by the unnerving harmony.
The Elder¡¯s head tilts slightly, mutters something else to the others, then motions for the group to halt. The Blade¡¯s body coils like a spring, while the Axe¡¯s knuckles whiten around the shaft of his weapon.
¡°What are they doing?¡± Iker whispers, his voice trembling. ¡°Is that¡ª?¡±
¡°Quiet,¡± Landera cuts him off. Her eyes dart toward the source of the chanting, her hand inching toward her concealed dagger.
You peer around the edge of the crumbling alley, and your breath catches as the scene unfolds before you. A procession winds its way through what must have once been the grand thoroughfare of the place before it became Xiatlaz¨¢n, now a shadow of its former glory. Clad in the gleaming remnants of armor, Legido soldiers march in two disciplined lines. Between them, bare-chested men and women walk barefoot, their bodies marked with crimson streaks that glisten wetly in the torchlight. These are not Legido, but rather, natives of this strange place. They look panicked, uncertain about what¡¯s happening around them. Hemp ropes bind their wrists and ankles, and they shuffle along, flanked by soldiers that prod at them whenever they don¡¯t move as quickly to their liking.
In their hands, they hold peculiar objects¡ªgolden sunbursts, obsidian daggers, and bundles of herbs that smolder faintly, sending wisps of fragrant smoke curling into the air. At the head of the procession is a figure draped in dark robes, his face obscured by a heavy hood. His hands are raised, palms outward, as though addressing the heavens, and his voice leads the chant with a zeal that borders on madness.
¡°They¡¯re¡ worshiping,¡± you murmur, unsure of what your eyes are taking in. ¡°They¡¯re¡ª¡±
¡°Praying,¡± Landera finishes, her tone as disbelieving as your own. Your people have prayed to Xiatli before, but not like this. Not as fervently as this.
You watch as the procession halts before a makeshift altar¡ªnothing more than a slab of stone heaped with offerings of food, trinkets, and what might be bones. The robed figure raises an obsidian dagger high above his head.
¡°Don¡¯t look,¡± Landera hisses, pulling at your arm, but your feet refuse to move. You can¡¯t look away.
The dagger descends brutally. The cries that follow are sharp and fleeting, swallowed by the chants that rise to a deafening crescendo. The soldiers bow their heads in unison, their fists pressed against their chests in a gesture that strikes you as disturbingly reverent.
Before you can fully process the sight, another sound splits the air¡ªa distant crash, low and thunderous, echoing from the direction of the palace. The procession falters, the chant wavering as heads turn toward the source of the noise.
The Elder stiffens, his hand shooting upward in a sharp, commanding gesture. The Blade is already moving, his weapon drawn and his eyes fixed on the palace in the distance. The Axe follows, his massive frame cutting a path through the rubble.
¡°What¡¯s happening?¡± Iker stammers. ¡°What¡¯s going on?¡±
¡°I don¡¯t know,¡± Landera snaps, her hand now gripping her dagger tightly. She turns to you, scared, panicked. ¡°But whatever it is, it¡¯s not good.¡±
¡°They must think something¡¯s there,¡± you say, the realization dawning on you. They leave the three of you behind without so much as a backward glance.
¡°They¡¯re going in,¡± Landera mutters, incredulous and annoyed. ¡°What are we supposed to do?¡±
¡°I¡¯m going,¡± you say suddenly, stepping forward before you can second-guess yourself. ¡°We can help. I can help.¡±
The Elder pauses, seemingly assessing you. For a moment, you think he¡¯ll dismiss you, but then his attention shifts to the Blade. There¡¯s a brief exchange¡ªquick gestures, clipped words¡ªand then a begrudging nod.
Landera groans softly behind you. ¡°This is a terrible idea,¡± but she follows nonetheless, Iker trailing behind her like a reluctant shadow.
Your group moves cautiously, as though one wrong move could unsettle the fragile balance of whatever is keeping this place together intact. As you near the palace¡¯s entrance, the faint sound of voices drifts toward you¡ªlow at first, but growing louder with each passing step. The Blade halts abruptly, motioning for silence. You all freeze, your breaths shallow as the voices become clearer, resolving into fragments of a guttural chant.
Landera leans closer, her voice barely audible. ¡°That doesn¡¯t sound like¡ª¡±
She¡¯s cut off by a sudden commotion: a clash of metal, a barked command, and the sharp crack of what could only be gunfire. The Axe stiffens, and the Blade exchanges a tense glance with the Elder. Their quiet urgency turns frantic as they press forward, gesturing for you to keep up.
Inside, the palace is a maze of destruction. Hallways twist and split, their walls lined with the remnants of what must have once been lavish tapestries and ornate stonework. Now, they¡¯re nothing more than tatters and rubble, the air heavy with the scent of damp stone and decay.
The voices lead you to a narrow corridor, where the flicker of torchlight spills through a jagged opening in the wall. The Blade peers cautiously through the gap before stepping aside to let the Elder look.
When it¡¯s your turn, you step up hesitantly. All you can hear now is your heart pounding in your ears. Through the crack, the scene inside unfolds like a grotesque tableau. A wide, open chamber stretches before you, dimly lit by flickering torches. Crude iron bars section off a handful of figures, their movements sluggish and weighed down by heavy chains.
One figure stands out, bound to a central pillar by thick iron manacles. His tunic is more red than white now, due to numerous gashes and wounds that streak his garments. He looks dazed, struggling to breathe. A shell of the warrior you saw being marched to this place by the soldiers. What happened to him?
You know these figures. You know who these strangers are. You passed them as you attempted to escape. Now¡¯s your chance.
The feline moves first. The sleek, spotted creature darts across the room with a startling grace, heading directly toward the boy with the amber eyes. He flinches at her sudden approach, but relaxes almost instantly as she presses against him, her body curling protectively around his legs. The sight of her unsettles you¡ªnot because of her size or the predatory glint in her eyes, but because she is utterly unlike anything you¡¯ve ever seen. Not a lion, not a panther, but something in between. And yet the beast is so warmly embraced by the young boy, as gentle as a kitten.
The three strangers quickly run up to their companions, relief tangible in this dank and dark chamber. Words are exchanged, and the three you traveled with urgently examine the bindings of the captives. Confused and desperate looks are exchanged, and you wish more than anything that you could help rescue them, free them. The men you traveled with look around the chamber frantically, shouting something to the others. You can¡¯t make out any of what¡¯s being spoken between them amidst their anxious exchange.
All except one word.
Xiatli.
You try to make sense of what you¡¯re seeing, when a voice cuts through the tension like a knife.
¡°Ah, more guests.¡± The words are spoken in Legido, thick with derision and amusement.
Your stomach drops. Turning toward the source of the voice, you catch sight of him¡ªCriato. He steps into view, his smirk as sharp as the blade at his side. His eyes flicker over the group before landing on you, and the air in the chamber seemingly vanishes as you struggle to catch your breath.
¡°What perfect timing,¡± he continues, his voice dripping with condescension. ¡°I was just wondering what to do with the ones we already have.¡±
161 - Veil
You don¡¯t remember closing your eyes, but you awaken to warmth. Not the comforting kind, like the embrace of woven blankets or the padded grass of the hills. Something unnatural, something slightly unnerving. The ground beneath you shifts as though it¡¯s breathing, rising and falling, up, then down, in a slow, steady rhythm.
The air shimmers with an iridescent haze that bends the light into colors you¡¯ve never seen. Vast arrays of indescribable spectrums.
Your gaze drifts upward, and you see it¡ªthe jacaranda tree.
Its canopy is as vivid as you remember. A cloud of violet blossoms sways gently in the breeze that doesn¡¯t brush against your cheeks. The branches twist and weave into gnarled, disturbing patterns. The bark is split in several places, cracks glowing faintly with an inner light that pulses like a slow, faltering heartbeat. The blooms lazily drift to the ground. You expect them to land softly, but the moment they touch the land, they shatter with the harsh sound of clay breaking.
The shards liquefy instantly, pooling into dark streams that slither away. They carve jagged paths across the withering land. Veins of decay split the ground open, as the cracks spread and spider outward. You¡¯ve seen this before¡ªthis crumbling world, this endless rot. But this time, it doesn¡¯t feel as ethereal as before. Rather, it feels final, definitive.
Amidst the ruin, the jacaranda stands untouched, defiant. Soon, its petals fall faster and faster, the discordant crashing is all you can hear. Without warning, the sky suddenly droops, and the colors leach away. First, it¡¯s the gold of the sun, then the violet of the blossoms, until all that¡¯s left is gray. You remain tethered to this unraveling place, as if it refuses to let you go. Or perhaps it¡¯s you who won¡¯t let go.
¡°Brother.¡±
The voice is soft, familiar.
You turn your head, and there she is. A young woman stands beneath the tree, her dark hair hanging in loose waves over her shoulders and tattered black and gold cloak. Her form is exactly as you remember¡ªor it would be, if not for the glaring distortions that prickle your skin.
Her red and orange dress is frayed, as though it¡¯s been dug up and pulled from the depths of a grave. Her face is pale, and her lips move in slight delay to the words that spill forth, the synchronization just barely off.
¡°I¡¯m glad you¡¯ve returned,¡± she says, sounding slightly muffled like she¡¯s speaking underwater.
You try to speak, but your voice catches in your throat, swallowed by the air that thickens like syrup. As she steps closer, you notice her movements are almost jerky, disjointed, like a puppet on strings you can¡¯t see.
¡°You¡¯ve been gone too long,¡± she continues. ¡°I feared you wouldn¡¯t find your way back.¡±
You find your voice, but it feels distant, as though it doesn¡¯t belong to you. ¡°Back to what?¡±
Her smile flickers, there and gone in an instant. ¡°To what matters,¡± she says. ¡°To what¡¯s left.¡±
You take a step forward, but the ground ripples beneath your feet, rebelling against your movements. Her strange, quicksilver eyes meet yours, and you feel exposed, as if she sees something in you, as if she¡¯s staring deep into the essence of your being.
¡°The tree,¡± she says, gesturing to the jacaranda. ¡°Even when the world around it dies, it blooms still. An amazing thing.¡±
You glance at the blossoms again. Even more fall now, more than any one tree can possess. The sound of their shattering echoes louder. The liquid they leave behind snakes closer, and the smell of rot rises with it.
¡°What is this place?¡± you wonder aloud.
¡°This place?¡± She tilts her head, and for a moment, her expression softens, becomes almost childlike. ¡°It¡¯s ours. It¡¯s always been ours. Haven¡¯t you seen it before? Haven¡¯t you felt its pull?¡±
The haze thickens, and the dreamscape ripples like a mirage. The ground beneath you seems to sway, the rhythm no longer comforting, but erratic.
¡°This isn¡¯t real,¡± you mutter.
Her face darkens, and the air grows heavier. ¡°Real? What does that mean to you?¡± With each step, her body flickers slightly like a flame about to go out. ¡°Does it matter? It breathes, it waits, it listens. Isn¡¯t that enough?¡±
The blossoms fall faster now, shattering in a cascade of sound that feels like it¡¯s burrowing into your skull. The liquid spreads, rising in thin streams, reaching for you.
¡°Do you hear it?¡± she asks, whispering almost conspiratorially. ¡°Do you hear the voice? The one that calls even now?¡±
This woman is not making sense. What voice? you question. The only sound filling your ears are the shattering blossoms. But before you can respond, the ground beneath you lurches. The tree creaks as its branches twist into something grotesque, something like an open maw, reaching for the sky.
The jacaranda tree groans deeply like a beast is contained within it. Now the petals begin to fall in a sudden, violent cascade. They shatter against the soft, breathing ground. Instinctively, you reach out. But the moment your fingers graze the bark, it splits open beneath your touch.
The branches twist in on themselves, curling like claws. The tree bends, its form buckling inward as if collapsing under its own weight. The once-vivid purple blossoms darken, and their hues seep into the air like spilled dye, staining the shimmering haze around you.
¡°Brother,¡± the young woman says again, but her voice cracks and fractures, splitting into two, then three, then a dozen overlapping voices. Her face fractures and reforms, each iteration slightly different, distorted. Her lips move, but the words reach you out of sync, layered with otherworldly whispers that don¡¯t come from her mouth.
¡°You must listen,¡± she pleads. ¡°The threads are breaking. They¡¯re unraveling faster than they can be mended.¡±
¡°Threads?¡± you think you hear yourself ask. ¡°What threads?¡±
Her form blinks again, and she¡¯s no longer standing in front of you. Instead, she¡¯s farther away, beneath a vast sky that has turned discolored and disorienting. Mountains now hang inverted above you, with their peaks mirrored by roots that reach down toward the ground like searching fingers. River currents flow upward, carving jagged lines across the fractured sky.
The ground beneath your feet trembles, splitting into fragments that shift and tilt. The dark void between each segment faintly pulses like the beat of a distant drum. The young woman¡¯s voice comes from everywhere and nowhere all at once.
¡°It was never whole,¡± she says, layered with regret. ¡°Not even then. You¡¯ve always seen only the pieces.¡±
You stumble forward as the ground tilts dangerously beneath you. ¡°I don¡¯t understand! What are you talking about?¡±
She doesn¡¯t answer. Instead, the jagged cracks spread wider, revealing bizarre shapes within the void. They twist and writhe, coalescing into forms that are barely human, distorted faces with mouths full of rotting and decaying teeth that open and close without sound, features smudged as though wiped by an unseen hand.
It¡¯s subtle at first, the pull. Like a gentle tug at the edge of your consciousness, a nudge. Then it grows stronger, more insistent, dragging your unwilling body toward the void. You fight against it, your breath quickening as your feet skid across the trembling ground, hands clawing at whatever they can grab.
Instinctively, you reach for your chest. Your fingers search for the reassuring presence of the amulet. But it¡¯s gone. Panic rises within you like a tide, .
¡°Where is it?¡± you whisper, your hands clutching at empty air. ¡°Where is it?¡±
The young woman¡¯s voice echoes faintly, so far away now it¡¯s barely more than a memory. ¡°You¡¯ve always seen only the pieces.¡±
The pull grows stronger, and you can feel it now. There¡¯s a dark presence, watching. The faces in the void twist and stretch, their mouths forming silent words that somehow burn into your mind: He is here. He has always been here.
You stagger backward, your heart pounding against your ribs as if trying to escape your body. Your foot slips, gravel and pebbles cascading down the face of the cliff and into the abyss. As you try to regain your footing, the ground beneath you splinters further, leaving you teetering on the edge. The young woman appears again, flashing in and out of focus.
¡°The balance has tipped,¡± she says, barely audible over the roar of your own heartbeat. ¡°And it will fall further still.¡±
¡°What are you talking about?¡± you shout, though your voice feels small against the vastness surrounding you. ¡°What balance? What do I do?¡±This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.
Her gaze meets yours, and her eyes hold a glint of pity. ¡°You¡¯ll know soon enough,¡± she says softly, her voice trembling like the ground underfoot. ¡°Soon enough.¡±
Her form dissolves entirely this time, dissipating into the haze like smoke. The void surges forward, swallowing your surroundings¡ªthe tree, the mountains, the rivers, and everything else. You fall upward, and the last thing you hear is the rhythmic thrum of a far off heartbeat.
The air clings to you like wet fabric. It envelopes you, constricting your movement and closing in until you think your ribs might snap. The strange, cracked ground drags at your feet, whipping you to and fro. Shadows loom on the periphery, just outside your vision. Their slithering forms shift and twitch as though alive, before falling apart into a mist.
The jacaranda tree is gone now. There¡¯s no sign of the young woman or the strange voice that taunted you moments before. Ahead of you, a faint glow shimmers like a distant torch. You¡¯re helplessly drawn to it. You find you¡¯re not so much stepping toward it as you are floating above the fractured ground.
Figures begin to emerge from the darkness. At first, they¡¯re nothing more than vague and formless silhouettes. But as you move closer, they take a more defined shape. The first is a man. His broad shoulders and steady posture are unmistakable to you, except his weathered face is a pale reflection of what you remember. He wears ceremonial robes of deep red and black with gilded edges that somehow shimmer faintly in the dark. His long hair spills down onto his shoulders like a waterfall. With great sorrow and unbearable grief, he watches you.
You try to call to him, but the sound dies in your throat.
Then, beside him, the light shifts, and she appears.
A woman steps forward into the fractured glow. She moves gracefully, as though soaring above the ground like an eagle. Her skin is traced with deep black tattoos, forming elaborate patterns that spiral across her collarbones, coil around her arms, and bloom like jagged wings across her chest. Her headdress gleams like a sunburst, with circular stones that are etched with ancient symbols, symbols you feel must come from some familiar place. Could they be Atima? Some other lost faction? Around her forehead, there¡¯s a band of deep green that glimmers, and ghostly pale feathers are ethereally illuminated against the darkness.
You don¡¯t know her, and yet somehow, deep within your bones, you do.
She tilts her head, watching you as though she¡¯s studying something inexplicable. The air ripples and bends around her like heat off sun-scorched stones. When she speaks, her voice splinters like cracked clay, reverberating within the air that surrounds you, attacking you from every possible and impossible angle.
¡°So you¡¯re the one of whom she speaks, eh?¡± she says, assessing you. The voice fractures and folds over itself, one moment gentle, the next flint-sharp, as though her voice has been multiplied, like shouting across the valleys and having the mountains speak back to you. ¡°Hmm¡ Not what I would¡¯ve expected at this point in your journey.¡±
The words sink into you, anchoring you like stones in water. You want to move, to speak, but all you can do is watch her eyes¡ªthose dark, endless eyes like lakes under a new moon.
Her hand rises, hovering just above the spiral that pulses at your feet. For a fleeting moment, the ground steadies beneath her. Light curls around her fingers like fireflies, then fluttering about her palm and wrist.
¡°Why do you run?¡± she asks. But you¡¯re not running, though you very much want to. You want to leave this strange place behind, return to the waking world. Because, surely, this must be a dream. Some kind of bizarre realm where those who sleep travel to as their body rests peacefully. It is then that you notice the overwhelming sensation of cold, like the winters you grew up with back home.
Home. Where is your home? Why does the concept of home feel foreign and familiar, all at once?
Where are you right now?
The woman looks at the glowing embers now swirling about her arms with nonchalance. ¡°Some run because they fear the fire. Others run to it, because they fear what will happen if they don¡¯t.¡±
The pulse grows louder now, rattling through your chest, matching the rhythm of your own heart. Thump. Thump. Thump.
¡°Is there a difference?¡± you manage to croak. This voice still doesn¡¯t feel like yours. Who is speaking? Is it you? It continues anyway, ¡°Running to something¡ running away. No matter what, it¡¯s still running.¡±
Her lips curve into something that might have been a smile, if not for cold indifference in her demeanor. ¡°Perhaps,¡± she says softly. ¡°But one choice protects. The other merely preserves.¡±
She kneels at the spiral again, grazing her fingers at its surface. The symbol spreads, its lines and coils expanding across the void.
¡°We broke ourselves to protect this world,¡± she continues. ¡°Not because we wished to preserve ourselves. We broke to preserve you. All of you.¡±
Images flash in your mind. Figures you can¡¯t name, faces half-formed. A warrior holds a shattered spear. A woman with golden hands reaches out to hold back a storm. A child with eyes like embers, crouched in a field of ash.
¡°Why?¡± you ask. Your voice cracks like a whip, words piercing the silence like lightning striking the plains. ¡°You sound as though you regret your choice. So why do it at all? Why would anyone make that choice? Why destroy yourself?¡±
¡°Because someone always must.¡±
The cracks widen again, spilling dark into what little light remains in this place.
¡°When the gods call,¡± she says, ¡°some answer because they love this world. And some answer because they¡¯re afraid of what will happen if they don¡¯t.¡±
Now, she looks at you, judging you. ¡°Which are you?¡±
¡°I don¡¯t know,¡± you choke, and the admission tastes like blood. ¡°I don¡¯t know.¡±
Her face flashes with disappointment. Or pity. Or, perhaps, something far worse.
¡°You will.¡±
The ground beneath you vibrates harder now, each tremor crawling up your legs, into your ribs. The man, who this entire time has remained silent and unmoving, stays beside her. He doesn¡¯t look at you, can¡¯t bring himself to look into your eyes.
¡°Father?¡± you whisper, though you don¡¯t know why you use the word.
Though his mouth is closed, the man seems to speak, his voice resonating in your head, as soft as wind through reeds. ¡°Protect the balance. Don¡¯t let him unravel what was woven.¡±
The woman stands taller now, her tattoos seeming to glow like veins of dark light. ¡°We are only as whole as the wounds we hide.¡±
The hum becomes deafening. The man¡¯s image¡ªyour father¡¯s image¡ªcrumbles into dust, scattering like ash in the wind. The woman¡¯s silhouette lingers only a moment longer. Her green band shimmers one last time before she, too, begins to dissolve.
¡°All is not yet lost,¡± she murmurs, before her form evaporates into smoke. ¡°But you must act before it¡¯s too late.¡±
And then¡ª
You are standing in the middle of a battlefield.
The air reeks of ash and burning flesh. Fires bloom across the landscape, staining the sky black. Bodies are strewn like fallen leaves in autumn. Faces are obscured, lifeless hands somehow still gripping weapons.
It¡¯s every war you¡¯ve seen. Every battle fought in Pachil, past and present, merged into one.
A tremor draws your gaze upward.
There, towering over the chaos, stands a figure. His form is monstrous and immense, wreathed in fire and shadow. Gold rays emit from the silhouette¡¯s body, darting out at all angles like beams from the sun. You can¡¯t see his face¡ªthe white hot glow emanating from behind the person is too blinding¡ªbut you know him.
Xiatli.
He calmly raises an arm, and the ground quakes. The battlefield convulses. The figures on it collapse one by one. They¡¯re the blinking images of the Eleven, strewn about the land. Their contorted and gnarled forms shiver where they lay, before they vanish entirely, snuffed out like water dousing a campfire.
¡°No,¡± you whisper in a dry rasp.
You¡¯re kneeling before the spiral.
It pulses, getting brighter, and brighter. The coils of the markings shift and twist, floating about like fish in a pond. It¡¯s the only thing that feels real, something you can touch. You grab the symbol, noting how warm it is in your palms. You¡¯ve seen this before. You don¡¯t remember when or where, but it lives in you, is a part of you.
The hum grows louder, vibrating up through your knees, into your bones. It¡¯s the beat of your own heart now, pounding against your chest in frantic time.
Thump. Thump. Thump.
Then, you see the reflection¡ªyour reflection¡ªstaring back at you from the beyond. Except it¡¯s not you. Not quite. The eyes are wrong, darker, deeper. Though your mouth doesn¡¯t move, its lips twist into a faint, unkind smile.
You stumble back, but there¡¯s nowhere to go. The ground behind you crumbles, slipping into nothing. The spiral of the symbol is all there is in the black, empty void, drawing you toward it like a current pulling a ship into its depths.
And then you hear her again.
¡°I told you not to follow.¡±
You spin toward the voice. Standing at the edge of the spiral, the young woman from before, the one who called you ¡°brother¡±, watches you curiously. Her bare feet sink into the quavering stone. She looks almost real, almost whole, but her form continues to blink in and out of view. With her hand hovering just above its surface, she kneels beside the spiral.
¡°You don¡¯t belong here,¡± she says softly. The sadness in her voice is discomforting, unsettling. ¡°Not yet.¡±
Her hand lowers, and where her fingers touch the spiral, the stone cracks. Thin fissures spread outward, splitting the coils apart. You shout¡ªStop, please, stop!¡ªbut the words fall out of your mouth like stones.
The cracks spread faster now, veins of jagged black slicing through what little light remains. You feel it pulling at you again, the void stretching open beneath your feet. You try to stand, to fight against it. But you¡¯re being yanked into the abyss as though it were quicksand, each step, each effort of resistance only sinking you further.
The woman looks up at you solemnly. ¡°He¡¯s coming,¡± she almost mumbles incoherently, sounding wounded, helpless.
¡°He¡¯s always been coming. It was our fault.¡±
The spiral suddenly shatters completely. The hum becomes a roar, drowning out your thoughts, your gasping breath. You¡¯re falling now, falling without end.
The void shrinks around you, tightening like a closing fist. The heartbeat thunders in your ears¡ªbut it¡¯s not yours. It¡¯s too loud. Too deep. No, this is something older, something that has stood the test of time, something that has been here for generations upon generations.
Thump. Thump. Thump.
You can¡¯t move. You can¡¯t scream. The pressure builds, and builds, crushing you from all sides. Any remaining breath flees your chest in a soundless gasp as the walls of the void close in, folding you into yourself. It doesn¡¯t feel like death. It feels like erasure. Like being unmade, ground down to dust.
Through the violent roar, the woman¡¯s peaceful, calm voice comes through:
¡°Not yet.¡±
Her form blurs, slips into shadow. You realize you¡¯re no longer falling. You¡¯re floating. Suspended. You can¡¯t move, can¡¯t breathe, can¡¯t think. But you don¡¯t need to. You¡¯re too overcome with a sense of warmth, of calm. As if this abyss is nurturing you.
But then¡ª
The heartbeat slows.
You look down and realize something is clutched in your palm. You don¡¯t remember picking it up, but it¡¯s there. It¡¯s a small, carved stone, worn smooth and cool to the touch. The spiral, the symbol, is etched into its surface. The symbol that¡¯s been following you all this time, that you swear is carved into your bones, is here, on this rock.
What is this?
You call out to the void. You think you¡¯ve called out to the void. No answer comes. Only silence.
After several heartbeats, after several lifetimes¡ªjust faintly¡ªyou hear it.
A whisper.
It wisps through the dark. It brushes against your ear. At first, it¡¯s too soft to understand. Something spoken by someone from somewhere far away. You strain to hear it, to understand what it said, but the sound slips through your fingers like sand.
You open your mouth to speak, to ask for the voice to repeat itself, to ask something, anything. But a force slams into you, dragging you backward. The light disappears, replaced by dark.
Thump. Thump. Thump.
The heartbeat is slower now, fading into the distance. The stone with the spiral in your hand feels heavier, colder, like it¡¯s sinking into your skin. Like it¡¯s causing you to sink deeper into this darkness.
Before everything goes silent, the last thing you hear is the faintest hint of her voice. Two simple words that linger in your mind.
¡°Not yet.¡±
162 - Haesan
The map mocks me.
Every ridge, every carved river twisting across its polished surface, every tiny mountain range jutting out like accusations¡ªeach detail screams that I¡¯m too small for this, that I¡¯m not prepared for leading the people of Pachil.
My father must have seen this as his empire. He would have stood where I stand now, staring down at these slabs of wood like they were all meant to be conquered, claimed. He¡¯d trace his fingers over the borders, as his mind tirelessly worked out how to push them further.
I press my palm against the edge of the map, feeling the cool and polished wood beneath my hand. The sacred lumuli wood gleams faintly in the brazier¡¯s light. For a moment, I imagine the map moving. The rivers flow. The mountains grow taller. The cities stretch and sprawl. Each slab fits perfectly together, but instead of giving me clarity, it twists my thoughts into knots, its interlocking edges binding me to something I don¡¯t know how to hold.
The map is too perfect, and I am not.
Inuxeq slams her hand down on the nearest slab, which cracks through the room like a thunderclap. ¡°We¡¯re wasting time,¡± she snaps. ¡°Every second we sit here talking, he¡¯s gaining ground.¡±
¡°He¡¯s posturing,¡± Xelhua counters, keeping calm as an undisturbed lake in the morning. He doesn¡¯t flinch at her outburst. With his arms are crossed, he gazes at the part of the map where Taqsame¡¯s forces have reportedly begun to gather. ¡°Taqsame¡¯s making noise because he knows we¡¯re still recovering, that we haven¡¯t begun imprinting the land with our rule yet. He¡¯s hoping we¡¯ll act without thinking, so he can claim we¡¯re volatile and reactive.¡±
Inuxeq rounds on him, her frustration visible in every line of her body. ¡°And what? We just sit here and let him turn our people against us? Allow him this campaign of lies? Let him chip away at everything we¡¯ve only just begun to build?¡±
¡°Build?¡± Xelhua¡¯s voice hardens slightly. ¡°You¡¯ve just said it yourself, that we¡¯ve barely begun building, Inuxeq. If you think we can survive another full-scale conflict right now, you¡¯re either na?ve or reckless.¡±
¡°Enough,¡± I shout. The room goes silent, the tension crackling like fire catching dry grass. Perhaps it was louder than I intended, but my frustration with the continuous bickering has finally boiled over. Control needs to be regained in this room.
The palace servants freeze in place, not daring to move. Seated to my left, Maqochi clears his throat softly, while Inuxeq and Xelhua watch me closely. I glance over at Yachaman, who stoically stares at the carvings of the map.
I grip the edge of the map¡¯s wooden frame. My fingers brush over its smooth, polished surface, and I take in the sight of its curvatures that look ominous in the dim torchlight. Generations of rulers have touched this same wood, their hands shaping its history as much as their choices shaped the land. This revelation is enough to make me dizzy.
¡°We are not here to fight each other,¡± I say, forcing my voice to steady, then give a nod to the servants to carry on with their duties. ¡°We¡¯re here to figure out how to handle Taqsame. Together.¡±
Inuxeq¡¯s jaw twitches, but to her credit, she doesn¡¯t speak. However, her frustration radiates like heat. Xelhua stands as still as a carved figure himself, waiting for me to continue.
After a long exhale, I say finally, ¡°We need both. Caution and action. Xelhua, focus on strengthening our defenses. We need to be ready if Taqsame forces our hand.¡±
Xelhua inclines his head, in a gesture of quiet approval.
¡°Inuxeq,¡± I continue, meeting her restrained glare. ¡°Your instincts aren¡¯t wrong. If we wait too long, he¡¯ll only grow bolder. But we can¡¯t strike without preparation. Work with Yachaman to ensure we have the Aimue support, should Taqsame begin rallying support of his own. I fear¨C¡° I glance briefly at Maqochi before pressing on with my thoughts, my prediction, ¡°¨Cthat the Qantua warriors within the capital¡¯s limits cannot be trusted. I need to ensure that Qapauma has the strength to defend itself should, Eleven willing, it must come to that once again.¡±
Her lips press into a thin line, but after a tense pause, and glowering at Yachaman, she eventually¡ªand reluctantly¡ªnods.
¡°That means, Maqochi,¡± I turn to the Qantua general, ¡°I need you to gather intelligence. Find out exactly what he¡¯s planning. I don¡¯t want any surprises. When we reconvene, I expect complete updates.¡±
The silence that follows isn¡¯t relief. It¡¯s the kind of quiet that hangs in the air after a blade has been drawn but not yet swung. Yet, one by one, the council rises to depart. Their movements are stiff and careful, like they¡¯re afraid even the scrape of a chair might break something fragile. Even the servants linger for a beat too long, glancing at me and then at each other, as if waiting for permission to flee. When I nod, they scatter, relief more than evident in their hurried steps.
The heavy doors close behind them, leaving just me and Maqochi. The faint echo of the departing crowd lingers for a moment, and then even that fades, swallowed by the stillness of the chamber. He stands across from me, as tall and proud as the mountains etched into the map between us. His hands are clasped behind his back as he struggles internally about how to say what he feels needs to be said.
¡°You handled yourself well in there, Quya,¡± he says, his voice measured.
It¡¯s not the compliment it sounds like. His tone is too even, his words too deliberate. ¡°Thank you,¡± I reply, trying to remain cordial. ¡°Though I imagine you didn¡¯t stay behind just to offer praise.¡±
His lips twitch into a brief, wry smile. ¡°No, I didn¡¯t.¡±
He moves closer, his shadow falling over the map. The slabs of lumuli wood gleam faintly, as their interlocking edges catch the light. He doesn¡¯t look at me as he speaks, his eyes fixed instead on the carved rivers and valleys that stretch across Pachil.
¡°You know the whispers,¡± he says, sounding casual. ¡°Taqsame rallying defectors. Warriors questioning their loyalties. It¡¯s growing faster than anyone anticipated.¡±
I nod, curious as to where this is going. ¡°I¡¯m aware.¡±
¡°And?¡± He looks up at me now, his dark eyes narrowing slightly. ¡°What¡¯s your plan, Quya? It can¡¯t just be getting information and waiting.¡±
¡°I¡¯ve already given my orders,¡± I state plainly. ¡°We strengthen our defenses. We prepare for whatever move Taqsame makes next.¡±
¡°Defensive,¡± he says, sounding disappointed. ¡°Safe. Predictable.¡±
¡°It¡¯s strategic,¡± I counter, as his words burrow under my skin. ¡°It buys us time to gather intelligence, to understand his next move before we act.¡±
Maqochi exhales sharply, his fingers tapping lightly against the edge of the map. ¡°So you¡¯re being reactive, not proactive. What happens when he forces your hand before you¡¯re ready to move it?¡±
¡°Then we respond. Decisively.¡±
He leans forward slightly. ¡°Responding is what you do when you¡¯re already losing.¡±
My fingers curl into fists at my sides, but I force myself to stay still. ¡°Do you have a better suggestion, General?¡±
His silence stretches long enough to be an answer itself. Finally, he straightens, his hand brushing against one of the map¡¯s carved cities. ¡°Grant him territory.¡±
I blink, certain I misheard him. ¡°I beg your pardon?¡±
¡°You heard me,¡± he says calmly. ¡°A small concession. A portion of land he can claim as his own. Something to pacify him, to keep his ambitions contained.¡±
¡°You can¡¯t be serious,¡± I scoff.
¡°It¡¯s pragmatic,¡± he replies. ¡°Give him just enough to feel like he¡¯s won. You keep the rest of Pachil intact, and you avoid a conflict that could rip this land apart before it¡¯s even had the chance to heal.¡±
My pulse quickens, thundering in my ears, so loudly that I nearly miss what he says. ¡°And how long would that last, Maqochi? How long before he decides that what we¡¯ve given isn¡¯t enough? That he wants more? How long before he¡¯s at our gates again, demanding another ¡®concession¡¯?¡±
Maqochi¡¯s gaze hardens. ¡°You think this is about what he wants? It¡¯s about what you can afford to lose.¡±
¡°I won¡¯t lose anything,¡± I snap. ¡°This land is not to be bargained. That¡¯s not how this works. It¡¯s not his to take, and it¡¯s not mine to give.¡±
He looks at me for a long moment in silence, closely watching me. Finally, he steps back, his hands clasping behind his back once more.
¡°You have conviction,¡± he says quietly. ¡°That¡¯s good. But conviction alone won¡¯t keep you on that throne, Quya. Idealism is a luxury you can¡¯t afford.¡±
I¡¯m taken aback by his statement. What does he think this is? Who is misreading this entire situation, him or me? ¡°And what would you have me do, general? Rule without conviction? Without ideals? What kind of ruler would that make me?¡±
¡°A surviving one,¡± he says.
He doesn¡¯t wait for me to respond. Instead, he moves to one of the chairs, lowering himself into it with a heavy sigh, resting his hands on his knees. I can feel the tension coiling tightly between us, unsettling.
I stand motionless, my fists curling at my sides. Survival? The word echoes in my mind, sharp and cutting. A surviving ruler. That¡¯s what Maqochi thinks I should aim for? That¡¯s the height of his ambition?
I stare down at the map, tracing the carved rivers and mountains with my eyes, as though the ridges might offer me some clarity. The idea of giving up land¡ªof handing a piece of Pachil to Taqsame¡ªmakes my blood boil. What kind of ruler would I be if I caved to a man like him? Taqsame isn¡¯t just some rogue warrior. He¡¯s reckless. Arrogant. Insatiable. A man like him wouldn¡¯t stop at a single concession. He¡¯d see it as an invitation to take more.
I glance at him from the corner of my eye, irritation simmering just below the surface. He sits there calmly, his hands resting lightly on his knees. He stares off into the distance like he¡¯s wrestling with something that has nothing to do with me. Who is he to offer advice like this? He¡¯s a general, yes, but one who¡¯s already admitted he¡¯s only here as a stopgap until the Qantua appoint someone else. Why does he care so much what I decide? Have I made a mistake giving someone like him too much power?
But then, as I shift my gaze fully to him, I see it: the look. It isn¡¯t the expression of someone satisfied with the argument they¡¯ve just won, nor is it the smug face of a man who thinks he knows better than some undeserving child whose birthright gave them a throne. No, Maqochi¡¯s look is something else entirely. It¡¯s like he¡¯s already bracing for the next fight, the next empire he¡¯ll have to watch crumble due to someone else¡¯s choices.
¡°Inuxeq warned me about that look you¡¯ve got,¡± I say, breaking the silence before it becomes unbearable. His brow lifts a fraction, curious, as he leans forward now, elbows resting on the table.
¡°Oh?¡± he says somewhat halfheartedly.
¡°The one that says you¡¯re about to tell me something I don¡¯t want to hear,¡± I continue, narrowing my eyes.
He lets out a dry laugh. ¡°Does it matter whether you like it or not?¡± he asks dryly.
¡°No, but it¡¯s your job to tell me anyway. You¡¯ve already upset me with your advice about conceding territory to Taqsame. What¡¯s one more blow to pile on?¡±
Maqochi snorts, his lips curling into something that isn¡¯t quite a smile. ¡°Yeah, well, whether you listen is up to you.¡±
¡°Then tell me,¡± I press. Now I¡¯m leaning forward myself. ¡°Though you must think your words will fall on deaf ears, know that they won¡¯t. Not mine.¡±
For a moment, Maqochi seemingly weighs the truth of what I¡¯ve just said. As he makes his determination, the heavy and awkward silence stretches. And still, I hold his gaze, even though it feels like staring into the judgment of someone who¡¯s seen far more than I ever will. Someone who has walked through fires I¡¯ll never know. Seen battles I¡¯ll never understand.The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement.
¡°You¡¯re young,¡± he says finally. ¡°And young rulers always want to do everything. They want to act quickly and decisively, to prove to the world¡ªand to themselves¡ªthat they¡¯re the ones in control.¡±
He pauses, still uncertain whether he should speak his blunt observations about the world, especially to a young ruler who could take offense to his criticisms. But he shakes away his concerns, and continues, ¡°There¡¯s a difference between doing something and doing the right thing. And if you¡¯re not careful, Quya, Pachil will cause you to burn yourself out before you even figure out which is which.¡±
Heat rises in my chest, burning up my throat. ¡°You think I don¡¯t see that?¡± The words come out harsher than I intend, and I regret them almost as soon as they¡¯re spoken, but I can¡¯t pull them back now. ¡°I know the city¡¯s already been attacked twice. I know we¡¯re vulnerable.¡±
¡°And that¡¯s exactly why I¡¯m saying it,¡± he replies calmly, appearing unshaken by my tone. ¡°Because it¡¯s easy to let fear steer the reins. You¡¯ll think you¡¯re acting out of strength when you¡¯re really just running from shadows.¡±
I bite back my retort, my mind churning. He¡¯s not wrong¡ªhe never is, damn him¡ªbut that doesn¡¯t make his words any easier to hear. I quickly realize I¡¯m being defensive. This isn¡¯t some criticism of my rule, but rather words of caution, hoping I won¡¯t make the same mistakes.
¡°You¡¯ve seen this before, haven¡¯t you?¡± I ask quietly, almost somberly.
¡°More times than I¡¯d like to admit,¡± he says. ¡°I¡¯ve seen leaders try to crush every flame, thinking they can end the chaos by snuffing it out. But fire doesn¡¯t work that way. Left unchecked, it¡¯ll burn everything it touches, sure. But if you learn its nature, if you work with it, it can warm, it can protect, it can sustain. Ignore that, and you¡¯ll lose everything trying to put it out.¡±
I ask, folding my arms across my chest, trying to keep the petulant frustration out of my voice. ¡°Stand by while everything crumbles? Wait for the next attack to tear us apart?¡±
He shakes his head slowly. ¡°No. But I¡¯d have you think before you act. Measure your steps. You don¡¯t fight fire with blind strikes and rage, Quya. You understand where it burns and why. Taqsame is a flame, yes, but not one you can snuff out without consequence. If you try to crush him outright, you¡¯ll only scatter embers, and they¡¯ll burn where you least expect.
¡°A man like Taqsame doesn¡¯t fight without reason, no matter how reckless he seems. If you don¡¯t know what¡¯s driving him, you¡¯ll never stop him. You¡¯ll just spend your reign putting out sparks while he fans the flames somewhere else.¡±
I turn over his words in my mind. ¡°But I fear Inuxeq may be right. That, if I do nothing, he¡¯ll see it as weakness.¡±
¡°He¡¯ll see you as weak if you act without understanding,¡± Maqochi counters. ¡°Strength isn¡¯t in how quickly you strike¡ªit¡¯s in striking where it matters. Let him see you as a fire he can¡¯t predict. Warm when you need to be, but dangerous when he comes too close. Make him question his every step before he takes it.¡±
I press my hands flat against the table, staring down at the grain of the wood as if the patterns there might give me answers. ¡°And what if I can¡¯t control it, this fire? What if it burns everything before I figure out how to guide it?¡±
¡°It might,¡± he says practically. ¡°It¡¯s fire¡ªit doesn¡¯t always obey. Sometimes it burns too hot, too fast. Sometimes you¡¯ll make the wrong choice and add fuel instead of pulling it away. That¡¯s the nature of it.¡±
¡°That¡¯s not overly reassuring,¡± I lament.
He chuckles. ¡°But fire only destroys when you ignore it or fear it, Quya. But you can learn how to manage it, how to control its path. And when it burns too far, you don¡¯t run from it. You learn where it will burn next and prepare for it.¡±
¡°And what if I fail?¡± I ask after a moment, forcing myself to look up at him.
¡°Then you start again,¡± he says simply, letting out a slow breath. ¡°A scorched field isn¡¯t the end. It¡¯s the beginning. The ash feeds the next harvest, and the flames leave the soil soft and ready to grow. You just have to keep going, even when the fire feels too big.¡±
He gestures faintly to the world beyond these walls, where the scaffolding and half-built structures rise against the skyline of Qapauma. ¡°The city¡¯s doing it now. The fire took so much, but it¡¯s still here. Still standing. Rebuilding. Stronger, maybe, for what it endured. Maybe I¡¯ve been talking too long, mixing metaphors,¡± he interrupts himself with another hearty chuckle. ¡°But the same will go for you. For Pachil. Just don¡¯t lose sight of what you¡¯re growing.¡±
For a moment, the room is quiet except for the faint creak of his chair as he shifts his weight. I take in his words, let them fester in my head. My reflex is to pout, to meet him with hostility. But deep down, I know that, while he may not be reassuring or comforting me, he¡¯s giving me what I actually need: the truth.
¡°I¡¯ll learn,¡± I finally reply. ¡°I¡¯ll figure out how to work with it.¡±
Maqochi studies me, his expression unreadable, before he nods. ¡°Good,¡± he says, standing slowly, the scrape of his chair against the stone floor echoing through the chamber. He steps toward the door, but stops just before leaving, glancing back at me over his shoulder. ¡°Taqsame is young. Hot-headed. I was him once, in my own way. Make sure he understands who commands the fire¡ªand who gets burned.¡±
The door closes behind him, leaving me alone with his words. The brazier¡¯s embers pulse like a dying heartbeat, each flare struggling to hold against the dark. Wisps of smoke coil upward, twisting into shapes that dissolve into the sea of black.
The others have gone, but the map remains. Its smooth slabs glowing faintly in the dim light. The room feels hollow now, emptied of voices. But the silence isn¡¯t calm. I stand there, staring at the map, its intricate reliefs glowing faintly in the dim light. My gaze drifts over the borders Maqochi spoke of, the lines he would redraw to appease Taqsame. I run my fingers over its surface, tracing the ridges and valleys as though the answers might be hidden there, waiting for me to find them. Instead, what circles in my mind, over and over, is the one phrase, the one sentiment, Maqochi spoke of regarding my rule.
A surviving ruler.
Is that all this is meant to be? Survival? Holding just enough to stay on the throne, making decisions not to lead, but to endure? My father might have scoffed at the notion of conviction. To him, the throne was power, and power didn¡¯t need a reason beyond itself.
But I¡¯m not my father.
Power without purpose is nothing but a game of theft. My father taught me that, even if he never meant to.
I take a step back, my hands falling to my sides. For all its grandeur, the map can¡¯t offer me clarity. Only the reminder of how much I still don¡¯t know.
My footsteps echo faintly in the corridor as I leave the chamber. Outside, the cool night air brushes against my skin, gently caressing my cheeks. I breathe in deeply, letting the chill calm me, ground me.
The wind moves gently through what remains of the palace gardens. It rustles the brittle leaves of skeletal bushes that survived the destruction. Creeping vines crawl across shattered stone walls, their tendrils clawing upward as if reaching for a way out, a way to escape. The paths are choked with weeds, their once-precise lines now blurred and wild.
This place was meant to be beautiful. A space for peace, for contemplation. My father never mentioned it, and I doubt he ever set foot here. I¡¯m certain he wouldn¡¯t have seen the point in something that couldn¡¯t be conquered. But standing here now, I wonder if it once gave someone the kind of solace I¡¯ve been searching for, what I used to find when I visited here what feels like another lifetime ago.
Now, it feels like a monument to what¡¯s been lost. Cracked benches, overturned urns, the faint scent of damp soil mixing with ash and dust. It¡¯s hard to tell where nature ends and destruction begins. The flowers that haven¡¯t withered entirely grow at strange angles. The trees bow under the weight of broken branches.
And in the middle of it all, a single bloom catches my eye.
It¡¯s small, only a cluster of pale blue petals rising from the ruin of a stone planter. Somehow, it¡¯s survived the ash and the upheaval. Its fragile, little stem refuses to bow to the weight of it all. I crouch beside it, brushing away the dust that clings to its leaves.
It shouldn¡¯t be here. But it is.
I wonder if Qapauma can be the same. If Pachil can be the same. If the people and the land can rebuild from this wreckage. Find a way to grow again, even when it seems impossible.
Even when I doubt myself.
I stand, and note my uneven steps on the cracked stone as I begin to pace the narrow paths. My fingers brush against the cool and rough edge of a broken urn. The stars above seem brighter tonight. There¡¯s a peculiar serenity in this place, even amidst the devastation. A peace that has found its way here, among the life that fights its way through the rubble and ruin.
¡°You¡¯ll wear a hole in the ground if you keep that up.¡±
Startled, I turn and find Yachaman standing at the edge of the garden. Her soft silhouette is framed by the faint glow of the moon. She looks at me expectantly, pleased with herself and her comment, yet waiting for my reaction.
¡°I didn¡¯t hear you enter the gardens,¡± I say breathlessly, still somewhat surprised.
¡°Perhaps because you were so busy glaring at the dirt.¡±
I sigh and fold my arms, suddenly self-conscious. ¡°I needed¡ space. After everything today.¡±
She slowly steps closer, like she¡¯s wary of intruding. ¡°And did the dirt offer any wisdom?¡±
I can¡¯t help it¡ªI laugh, albeit faintly. ¡°Not yet.¡±
Yachaman tilts her head, eyeing me carefully. ¡°Well, whatever is in your head seems to be causing a lot of grief.¡±
¡°I don¡¯t have a choice,¡± I say, hating how much it sounds like I¡¯m pouting. ¡°Everyone has advice. Everyone thinks they know what I should do. Like my choices should be obvious. Inuxeq, Xelhua, Maqochi¡ Do you think I haven¡¯t already questioned myself enough? Do you think I don¡¯t know how close everything is to falling apart?¡±
The silence that follows is an eternity, and I brace myself for the reprimand. But when Yachaman speaks, her tone is surprisingly calm. ¡°That¡¯s quite the tantrum for someone trying to lead a nation.¡±
Heat floods my cheeks, and I look away. ¡°I¡¯m sorry,¡± I mutter. ¡°That was¡ uncalled for.¡±
¡°It was honest,¡± she replies with a shrug. ¡°And honesty isn¡¯t always clean or polite.¡±
She takes a seat on a low stone bench, gesturing for me to join her. For a moment, I hesitate. But given how this day has been going, I realize that I could use a much-needed rest, and I sit beside her with a frump.
For a while, neither of us speaks. The sounds of the garden fill the silence between us. The gentle wind rushing through the plants. The soft creak of the bamboo stalks leaning into one another. A bird calls out, then falls silent again. The chaos in my mind briefly fades, replaced by the steady rhythm of this place. Peaceful, but not still.
¡°When I was chosen to represent the Aimue,¡± Yachaman finally says, ¡°I thought you were making a mistake. I¡¯m not like the others. I¡¯m not a warrior, not a farmer, not anything they could pin a title to. I am just a servant. And I¡¯m just¡ here. And yet, somehow, I¡¯m supposed to speak for an entire people.¡±
A stray blossom drifts down from a tree overhead, landing softly at my feet. I want to say something, but I don¡¯t interrupt. Instead, I stare at the blossom while she continues.
¡°I¡¯ve made mistakes. I¡¯ve let people down. And every time, I wonder if someone else would¡¯ve done better¡ªif someone else, someone more worthy, should¡¯ve been standing where I¡¯m standing.¡±
Her confession is so quiet, so raw, that it takes me a moment to process it. ¡°Yachaman¡¡±
¡°But I¡¯m still here,¡± she says, cutting me off gently. ¡°And so are you. Whatever doubts you have, whatever mistakes you think you¡¯ve made, they don¡¯t matter as much as the fact that you¡¯re still here, trying.¡±
The words settle over me like a warm blanket. But the warmth doesn¡¯t last. There¡¯s a quiet ache that I can¡¯t quite shake. I glance down at my hands, tracing the rough calluses forming on my palms. They¡¯re small things, barely noticeable. But they feel like marks of everything I¡¯ve been trying to become. Days spent gripping quipu cords until my fingers ached. Helping to clear rubble and lift stones, much to the chagrin of the other quraqas. My hands are becoming the tools of a ruler, but I don¡¯t know if they¡¯re just holding everything together long enough to stop it from falling apart.
¡°I don¡¯t feel strong,¡± I admit, my voice barely a whisper. ¡°I feel like I¡¯m walking on the edge of a cliff, and every step I take is just one more chance to fall.¡±
I close my eyes for a moment, the garden sounds wrapping around me like a fragile cocoon. ¡°And it¡¯s not just the fall that scares me. It¡¯s what happens if I take everyone else down with me. Pachil deserves someone steady, someone who won¡¯t slip. Someone who won¡¯t hesitate.¡± My throat tightens, the words coming slower now. ¡°But I¡¯m not sure that¡¯s me.¡±
Yachaman reaches out, lightly resting her hand on mine. ¡°Then how them how you walk it. They don¡¯t need someone who never falters. They need to see someone who¡¯s willing to take the risk.¡±
¡°I can¡¯t promise I¡¯ll get it right,¡± I say with a tremble in my throat.
¡°Good,¡± Yachaman says with a faint smile. ¡°Only the gods could get it right¡ªand half the time, even they don¡¯t.¡± Her smile widens just a bit, warm but wry. ¡°Any ruler who thinks they¡¯re perfect is either a liar or a fool. Probably both.¡±
My hand darts to my mouth, trying¡ªand failing¡ªto stifle a gasp. Then the two of us give in, bursting into laughter. When it finally tapers off, fading into the stillness around us, my chest aches faintly from it, but in the best way¡ªlike something heavy has been shaken loose.
The garden feels quieter now, as though even the night has decided to rest. Yachaman and I sit, immersing ourselves in the silence. Even without a spoken word, we enjoy each other¡¯s company, taking in the scene around us. The cool stone of the bench presses into my back as I let my head tilt upward. The stars are still there, scattered across the sky like shards of bone-white light. They twinkle indifferently, accompanying the moon that hangs proudly among the sea of black.
Just for a moment, I let my eyes drift closed and focus on the sounds around me: the soft rustle of leaves, the faint chirp of an unseen insect, the steady rhythm of my own breathing.
And then the moment shatters.
The footsteps shatter the stillness. Quick, urgent crunching against the gravel like distant thunder. I glance at Yachaman, who stiffens beside me. She watches attentively as a figure emerges from the shadows at the edge of the garden.
The messenger is young, barely past his first cycle of service. His chest heaves with exertion as he grips something tightly in his hands. His sandals are caked in dust, and his face glistens with sweat despite the cool night air. A servant lingers behind him, her hands clasped tightly in front of her as though bracing for something unpleasant.
¡°Quya,¡± the boy gasps, bowing low before straightening. His voice trembles as much from nerves as exhaustion, I gather. ¡°I bring a message.¡±
I rise to meet him, my pulse quickening. ¡°From where?¡±
¡°Qelantu Loh,¡± he says. ¡°It came from the Atima musician, Chalqo, with urgency.¡±
Relief floods my chest. Of course, Chalqo would send word. Of course, it would be urgent. The thought of Nuqasiq, the last great matron of the Tapeu, returning to Qapauma¡ªreturning to me¡ªfeels like a salve against the day¡¯s mounting doubts. She would know what to do. She always does.
I extend my hand, and the boy stumbles forward, placing a bundle of quipu cords into my palm. I take it carefully, my fingers brushing against the rough fabric. The knots are intricate, each thread feels like a heartbeat under my touch. Or perhaps that¡¯s only my own.
¡°Have you read it?¡± I ask the boy.
He hesitates. ¡°I¡ I haven¡¯t, Quya. But Chalqo said the words were clear.¡±
I nod and glance at the cords again. ¡°And those words?¡±
The boy¡¯s gaze drops, his fingers twisting nervously at the edge of his tunic. ¡°He said¡ she told him to say it plainly.¡±
¡°Say what plainly?¡± I press, eager for my grandmother¡¯s message.
The boy swallows hard, and when he speaks again, his voice is barely above a whisper. ¡°She said, ¡®I come not to celebrate. I come because the embers still smolder.¡¯¡±
My breath catches. I pause, certain I¡¯ve misunderstood, and await his clarification. When he only stares back, I ask, ¡°Are you sure you translated it correctly?¡±
He nods, his face pinched with unease. ¡°Those were her words, Quya. Spoken directly to Chalqo.¡± The cords in my hand feel heavier now, set to knock me off-balance.
¡°She¡¯s angry,¡± Yachaman mutters.
¡°No,¡± I say quickly, laughing off the confusion. ¡°She wouldn¡¯t¡ªshe wouldn¡¯t come here angry. She¡¯s coming to help. To¡ to advise.¡±
Yachaman doesn¡¯t reply. Her eyes drop to the quipu, lingering on the patterns as though they might offer some clarity.
¡°She¡¯s always been direct,¡± I say, more to myself than to anyone else. ¡°Maybe this is her way of saying there¡¯s work to be done. That the rebuilding isn¡¯t finished.¡±
¡°Maybe,¡± Yachaman says evenly. But the doubt in her tone is clear.
I tighten my grip on the quipu, the fibers rough and almost cutting through my palm. I force myself to breathe, though I exhale in shallow bursts.
She¡¯s coming. That much is certain.
But why does it feel like a warning?
163 - Legido
Criato¡¯s voice drips with irritation as he surveys the scene. ¡°More guests,¡± he says, gesturing lazily toward the armed soldiers at his side. His gaze flicks to the natives standing before him, looking upon their strange weapons with disdain. ¡°What perfect timing. I was just wondering what to do with the ones we already have.¡±
You see his men shift uneasily, looking to one another in hopes that someone, anyone, knows what to do. One of the younger soldiers, barely more than a boy, raises his musket. The barrel trembles as he levels it at the group of captives.
¡°Stand down, you idiot!¡± Criato snaps bitingly. ¡°Have you already forgotten what happened the last time one of you fired that thing?¡± He steps closer, his polished boots thudding across the stone floor. ¡°The Great Xiatli forbade it. Do you want to end up like the others? Besides, look at the size of this chamber! Are you trying to make us all go deaf?¡±
You watch the soldier falter, and his face blanch as he lowers the weapon. The older man beside him sneers, looking at his lifeless gun. ¡°Useless. These should¡¯ve stayed on the ships.¡±
But Criato ignores them. His attention now is fully on the strangers standing next to you. He takes a step forward, tilting his head as though observing some peculiar insect. ¡°You can¡¯t even understand me, can you?¡± he says condescendingly. ¡°What¡¯s the point of showing up to Xiatlaz¨¢n if you don¡¯t even know what you¡¯re facing? Or do you want to get yourselves killed, as a sacrifice to the one true god?¡±
The natives who joined you don¡¯t flinch. You sense that their silence is not ignorance, but rather, they¡¯re merely biding their time, waiting for the right moment. One strangles haft of his massive war axe, while the other¡¯s grip on his obsidian blade is light, seemingly hoping to draw his foe nearer.
Oblivious to the storm building before him, Criato turns to his men with a smirk. ¡°They don¡¯t even have real weapons,¡± he mocks, pointing at the axe. ¡°This? A stick with a rock? Pathetic.¡±
A blur catches your eye. A streak of gold darts across your vision as the feline leaps from the gloom. Criato¡¯s smirk vanishes as a guttural scream rips from his throat. Her claws rake across his face, leaving angry red gashes that trail from his cheek to his jawline. He staggers back, flailing wildly. In an instant, his smug composure is shattered.
¡°Shoot it! SHOOT IT!¡± he screeches, voice cracking. But his men hesitate. Their hands remain frozen on their weapons, wrestling with his previous command¡ªand the repercussions, should word get back to Xiatli.
The native in coral doesn¡¯t hesitate. With a mighty roar, he surges forward with his obsidian blade. So, too, does the one wielding the axe, cleaving the air with devastating force.
Criato¡¯s men scramble, shouting in panic as the first blow lands. The obsidian blade slices clean through a musket¡¯s barrel. The soldier holding it stumbles back, clutching his mangled weapon, as The Axe barrels into the fray like a storm unleashed.
With blood streaming down his face, Criato shrinks back into the shadows, clutching his wounded cheek. His voice rises in a desperate scream: ¡°You imbeciles! KILL THEM! KILL THEM ALL!¡±
The roar of chaos ignites the chamber. Criato¡¯s flustered men scurry about, fumbling with their muskets as the natives descend on them. A musket is raised, but The Blade steps aside almost casually. The crack of a shot rings out, deafening in the enclosed space. But the bullet finds only stone, colliding with a heavy thwack! and sending chips of rock flying.
You flinch at the sound. That¡¯s what guns do¡ªcause you flinch. But the natives don¡¯t.
The Axe is something else entirely, driving each blow of his weapon as though he¡¯s trying to take down the palace walls. A soldier tries to parry, raising his musket to block, but the axe carves through wood and metal as though they were parchment. The soldier crumples with a cry, clutching his ruined arm as the axe comes back around in a brutal arc, slicing through his foe¡¯s limb.
Criato is screaming again, though his words are barely audible over the cacophony inside the cramped chamber. You catch flashes of him retreating further and further, as blood continues streaking down his face like a grotesque mask of scarlet.
The feline darts quickly among the chaos. She leaps onto a soldier¡¯s back, sinking her claws into fabric and flesh. His ear-piercing scream cuts through the noise of the fighting. He twists, trying to shake her off, but she holds firm, her teeth flashing as they find his shoulder.
Your heart hammers in your chest, each beat louder than the clash of weapons and the shouts of men. You¡¯re rooted to the spot, torn between the urge to run and the strange pull of the scene unfolding before you.
Landera grabs your arm, her grip like iron. ¡°We have to move. Now.¡±
¡°But¡ª¡±
¡°There¡¯s no time!¡± she shouts, pulling you back. Her glances at the captives, the ones chained beyond the fighting. A figure stirs among them¡ªa young man in crimson and white, seemingly coming to amidst the battle. He doesn¡¯t flinch as the melee rages around him, his foggy gaze watching Criato with an eerie calm.
You hesitate, eye switching between him and the warriors fighting to reach him. Something about his presence is magnetic, commanding in a way that makes your skin prickle. But Landera yanks you harder, her grip dragging you back to the moment.
¡°Do you want to die here?¡± she snaps, almost incensed.
Behind her, Iker stumbles, his face pale and damp with sweat. He doesn¡¯t speak, just nods nervously and follows as Landera pulls you both toward the shadows. The crack of another musket shot echoes through the chamber, followed by a wet, choking sound that turns your stomach.
Smoke and blood fill the air, making it nearly impossible to see or breathe. Your lungs burn with each shallow breath as you weave through the carnage, following Landera¡¯s lead. Your legs tremble beneath you, as the instinct to survive barely keeps them moving.
And then you hear it: a sound so jarring, it freezes you in place. It¡¯s a low and resonant vibration that seems to press against your skull. The fighting stops, and even Criato¡¯s men lower their as they glance around in confusion. Then, every figure in the chamber turns toward the sound.
From the far end of the chamber, a figure shrouded in shadow steps forward. The light doesn¡¯t seem to touch him. No, it¡¯s as though the light dares not get close, bending away from him as he approaches.
The natives stiffen, and for the first time, they lower their weapons. Even the feline retreats slightly, her golden eyes narrowing as she crouches low to the ground. But you know who it is before Landera even whispers the name.
¡°Xiatli¡¡± she says in astonishment.
Bloodied and wild-eyed, Criato drops to his knees the moment He appears. His voice, that was once so full of bluster moments ago, now cracks with desperation. ¡°Great Xiatli! These savages dared to¡ª¡±
Xiatli raises a hand, and Criato¡¯s words vanish, as if stolen from the air itself. He gapes, his mouth opening and closing like a fish gasping for air, but no sound comes. Xiatli doesn¡¯t even look at him, as if acknowledging his presence might sully His own divinity. Instead, He inspects scene before Him¡ªthe defiant strangers, the feline crouched low and coiled, and the shattered remnants of Criato¡¯s soldiers.
¡°You can¡¯t handle a few pesky natives on your own?¡± the Great Xiatli questions. ¡°Pitiful. Useless.¡± Criato visibly cowers, flinching at the rebuke.
In this still moment, in this pause, The Axe erupts into action. His grip tightens on the haft of his weapon, and he lunges forward. The woman with the tattoos struggles with her chains as she tries to get free. The Axe moves toward her, nostrils flaring as his eyes lock onto her bindings.
Xiatli tilts His head, watching the matter unfold with a faint, almost curious expression¡ªsomething slightly more than the usual indifference normally displayed. He takes a single, slow step forward, observing with interest.
The warrior swings.
The axe strikes the chains binding the woman, sparks flying as it meets metal. The links rattle, but still hold. The Axe growls low in his throat, wrenching the axe free and swinging again, then again, then again. Each strike brings with it a louder, more intense growl.
The Great Xiatli scoffs in amusement. ¡°You think that will save her?¡± He taunts. He speaks again, though this time, it¡¯s in a language you don¡¯t understand. Is He¡ speaking to them in their native tongue?
The warrior doesn¡¯t respond, doesn¡¯t even look at Him. He swings again. This time, one of the links snaps, sending a shard of broken metal skittering across the floor.
A soft chuckle escapes Xiatli¡¯s lips. ¡°Persistent,¡± He says, now in the tongue of your people, yet it¡¯s as though He speaking to Himself. ¡°But useless. The people of Pachil have always been needlessly stubborn.¡±
The axe-wielder pulls back for another strike, sweat gleaming on his brow. He pants, breaths coming in short, sharp bursts. Yet he carries on, undeterred by The Great Xiatli¡¯s words.
Xiatli lets out an exasperated sigh, as if this all bores Him. Then, He raises a single hand, His fingers spreading slightly. The ground begins to tremble slightly, as though it¡¯s nervous over what¡¯s about to happen. A low hum grows louder and louder, eventually drowning out any sound coming from the axe wielder¡¯s strikes. Just then, the axe freezes mid-swing, as though caught by an invisible force. The warrior strains against it, his muscles bulging, his teeth bared in a snarl. But no matter how hard he tries, the axe doesn¡¯t move.
The Great Xiatli¡¯s hand closes into a fist.
And just like that, the wielder of the battle axe vanishes.
No flash of light, no cry of pain. Just gone. Erased.
The axe clatters to the ground where he stood. The sound is startlingly loud in the sudden stillness.
The tattooed woman stares at the empty space, her hands still bound to the partially broken chains. Around her, the others freeze, unable to make sense of the sheer impossibility of what they¡¯ve witnessed.
You can¡¯t look away. Your stomach churns, a sour taste floods your mouth as bile rises, and the urge to retch claws at your throat. Landera¡¯s nails dig into your arm as she drags you back, but your legs don¡¯t move.
¡°Do you understand now?¡± Xiatli says, His gaze shifting slowly to the remaining natives. ¡°I could erase you all. But where would the lesson be in that? No, it is better to let you see how futile it is. To let you fight, and fail, and crumble beneath the weight of your own ignorance.¡±Reading on this site? This novel is published elsewhere. Support the author by seeking out the original.
He pauses, his face contorting into a subtle snarl as he looks upon the natives. ¡°You build your walls, carve your symbols, whisper your prayers¡ªbut they mean nothing. I have seen what comes of your unity, your trust. The ash remembers. The rivers carry it. And still, you stumble forward, blind to the truth: you were always your own undoing.¡±
As he speaks in your language, you wonder who this is for, who He is speaking to. It¡¯s when He begins speaking in the foreign tongue again that you question what this is all about, why He is here, why the Legido have been led to this strange land in the first place.
During his speech, the Blade looks mortified, for the first time, you note. He almost reluctantly takes a single step forward, overcoming his sense to run. His eyes are locked on Xiatli with a defiance that borders on suicidal. The feline growls low, her golden eyes narrowing, and the chains binding the captives rattle faintly as the others move.
The Blade halts, his attention snapping to the space where his companion once stood. Chains clatter to the ground as they fall away from another captive, and the feline darts to their side. The Elder is crouched beside the young boy with amber eyes, and both the feline and the boy appear beyond relieved to be in each other¡¯s company, as though reunited after eons apart. They know each other? Is she his animal companion?
Landera pulls you away, and you¡¯re quickly dragged out of the chamber, past the indifferent Xiatli. You can barely hear her over the pounding in your ears. You don¡¯t get more than a couple steps beyond the threshold when your gaze locks onto the captives.
¡°They¡¯re going to die,¡± you mutter to no one in particular.
¡°Not our problem,¡± Landera replies, still tugging on your arm. ¡°Do you want to end up like him?¡± She jerks her head toward the space where the axe-wielder once stood.
You hesitate. The rational part of you screams to follow her, to run and never look back. That would be the wise option, to leave this place. To survive. But something in you pulls toward the captives, toward the warriors still fighting despite the impossible odds.
Before you realize what you¡¯re doing, you¡¯ve freed yourself from Landera¡¯s hands¡ and you¡¯re moving.
¡°Are you insane?¡± Landera snaps in panic. ¡°What are you¡ª¡±
¡°I can¡¯t just leave them!¡± you shout back over your shoulder.
Iker lets out a small, concerned whimper, but he doesn¡¯t follow. Landera curses under her breath, but doesn¡¯t attempt to stop you either.
The chains on one of the captives clink and clank on the stone ground as they eagerly pull against them. You stumble forward, your hands trembling as you grab hold of the links. Your eyes meet those of the man in crimson and white, who spits something at you, some venomous words.
A shadow falls over you, and you freeze. Slowly, you glance up, and you¡¯re overwhelmed by the fear that consumes you. Xiatli glares at you, one corner of his mouth curling into a snarl. His fingers curl as though he strangles the air between you, and you feel your throat slowly begin to close. You can¡¯t breathe. Instinctively, your hand leaves the chains and clutches at your throat. Your eyes bulge as your panicked stare begs to Xiatli to stop, to let you free. You¡¯ll stop what you were doing, you swear! You swear! Just let go of your windpipe, please!
A flash of light nearly blinds you, as a crackle of lightning soars past your face. Suddenly, you can breathe again! You take in large gulps of air, coughing as precious breath returns to your lungs. Next to you, the hands of the man in crimson and white being glowing as bright as torches, even in their bindings. His fingers splay toward The Great Xiatli, and another bolt of lightning rushes toward Him. Xiatli is thrown off by this abrupt attack, staggering back for just a moment.
But the blade-wielder steps between you and Him, weapon raised. The Great Xiatli smiles menacingly, almost lustfully. He wants this fight, yearns for it.
¡°Move!¡± Landera¡¯s command cuts through the haze. She¡¯s closer now, pulling at your arm with an unreal strength you didn¡¯t know she had. ¡°We can¡¯t help them if we¡¯re dead!¡±
You persist, heart hammering like a war drum. Your fingers dig into the icy metal of the chains, trembling as you fumble with the bindings. The crimson-and-white-clad man looks at you, his dark eyes wide, clouded with pain and desperation. He tries to speak, but his voice is drowned out by the oppressive hum of the air itself¡ªthe sound of the Great Xiatli¡¯s power shifting like an impending tidal wave.
¡°Leave him!¡± Landera¡¯s voice cracks, her nails biting into your arm. She yanks hard, nearly toppling you. ¡°You can¡¯t¡ª¡±
The chain resists your frantic pull, its rusted links biting into your palm. Your teeth grind together as you lurch forward with all the strength you can muster. A sharp pain shoots up your arm, but the chain gives. It finally gives! The man in crimson and white slumps forward, dropping into your arms for a brief moment before he pushes himself upright, shaking off his daze.
¡°Go!¡± you urge, shoving him toward the others.
A guttural roar fills the chamber as the feline lunges toward Xiatli, her golden form a streak of defiance against the suffocating shadows.
Landera screams, something incoherent. But your legs obey, stumbling into motion as the Great Xiatli turns His gaze toward the feline, glaring at the disruptive creature.
Landera pulls you toward the far side of the chamber, where a narrow passage opens into darkness. Iker follows, clumsily hurrying behind you. The sound of the battle fades behind you as you flee.
You don¡¯t know if the captives will make it. You don¡¯t know if you¡¯ll make it.
The shadows of the passage swallow you, the air growing colder and damp with every step. The faint glow of torchlight flickers ahead, illuminating jagged stone walls and uneven steps carved into the rock. The passage twists and turns, a labyrinth that seems to fold in on itself, and every step feels like you¡¯re descending deeper into the mountain¡¯s grasp.
You¡¯re disturbed by a sound, faint at first, but growing louder¡ªa rhythmic pounding, like boots against stone.
¡°Who¡¯s following us?¡± Iker questions nervously.
¡°It might be the soldiers,¡± you murmur, though even as you say it, doubt creeps into your mind. Something about the cadence feels off, like a heartbeat that¡¯s been tampered with.
Iker stifles a cry, his trembling hand clutching at your sleeve. ¡°What do we do? They¡¯ll kill us¡ªthey¡¯ll¡ª¡±
¡°Quiet!¡± Landera shushes him, her head snapping toward the faint light spilling into the tunnel behind you. ¡°Keep it together.¡±
Your eyes strain against the dark, watching the shadows shift and twist unnaturally in the torchlight. Your pulse quickens as the shapes move closer, figures carrying torches, their long, warped shadows stretching toward you like gnarled claws. The smell of burning resin is thick and cloying as it wafts toward you.
You hear it before you see it: a low, guttural murmur of voices, mumbling in an eerie cadence. It¡¯s more of a chant than speech, but regardless, the sound burrows into your mind like a creeping vine.
And then you see it¡ªthe chamber ahead. The one you recognize.
Your heart stutters. The scroll. You¡¯re certain of it now. The chamber is unmistakable, the remnants of the chest scattered across the stone floor. The memory of your last attempt flashes in your mind, the way you were forced away. The missed opportunity gnawing at you ever since.
Not this time.
¡°I¡¯m going for it,¡± you declare.
¡°Going for what?¡± Iker¡¯s question barely registers in your ears as you start to sprint forward.
Landera¡¯s eyes are wide with disbelief. ¡°Are you mad?! They¡¯re right there! We barely made it out the last time, and now you want to¡ª¡±
¡°If it¡¯ll stop Xiatli,¡± you cut her off. ¡°If there¡¯s even a chance, I have to try.¡±
¡°Try what? Getting yourself killed?!¡± Landera is fuming. ¡°You don¡¯t even know what¡¯s on that thing! It could be useless!¡±
¡°Or it could save us all,¡± you snap, shaking her off. Your chest heaves as your breaths come faster, louder. ¡°You don¡¯t get it. Neither of you do.¡±
¡°Don¡¯t you dare¡ª¡± Landera starts, but the sound of approaching boots cut her off.
Iker lets out a choked gasp, pointing toward the advancing figures. ¡°They¡¯re coming!¡±
You lunge toward the chamber. Your feet pound against the stone as Landera curses under her breath. She grabs Iker and pulls him back into the shadows of the passageway. The chest is closer now, you can feel it. The scroll is there, taunting you with its presence, summoning you toward it.
You slide and practically tumble toward the chest. Without hesitation, you throw open the lid. Your fingers close around the parchment. The brittle texture of the aged material sends a jolt through your arm. For a moment, everything else falls away¡ªthe pounding boots, the rising voices, the cold sweat dripping down your cheeks and back. All that exists is the scroll in your hands, the potential it holds, the answers it might reveal.
But the moment doesn¡¯t last.
¡°They¡¯ve seen us!¡± Landera¡¯s panicked voice rings out. The chanting grows louder, the figures move faster now. Your time has run out.
¡°Run!¡± you shout, clutching the scroll tightly as you sprint back toward Landera and Iker. Ahead, the stone walls press in on either side. Your lungs burn with the effort, as the three of you bolt through the twisting, crumbling corridors. The relentless steps of their pursuit grows louder, closer.
You stumble forward, the uneven stone ground seem to claw at your feet. The pounding grows louder, the torchlight brighter, and you feel constricted by the continually narrowing passageway.
Iker trips, scraping his hands against the rough stone as he falls. The sound of his yelp loudly reverberates through the passage. Landera whirls around, heat rising to her cheeks, and her hands twitch at her sides as though she needs something to grab, to break.
¡°Help him,¡± she orders, shoving you toward Iker.
You drop to your knees, grabbing Iker¡¯s arms and pulling him upright. His face is pale, eyes wide with terror. He apologizes profusely as you haul him to his feet.
¡°Come on!¡± Landera presses. ¡°They¡¯re getting closer!¡±
The muffled panting of the pursuers keeps getting louder and louder. They¡¯re on to you. Quickly, you rush off, hoping to make up ground. The passage ahead twists sharply to the left. Landera doesn¡¯t wait, darting around the corner and you and Iker chase after her, desperate to keep up.
The light ahead grows brighter¡ªa faint promise of freedom. Landera leaps into an open chamber. The sudden and seemingly vast space is disorienting after trudging through the claustrophobic tunnel. You can see the faint glow of the moon filtering through a jagged crack in the ceiling. For once, you have hope.
She glances around, searching the room for another exit. ¡°There,¡± she says, pointing to another narrow passage on the far side.
But before you can move, the first zealot emerges from the tunnel behind you.
He¡¯s young, barely older than you, just as surprised to find you. He clutches his musket tightly in his hands. As he raises the weapon, you notice how the barrel subtly trembles.
Landera lunges forward, blade in hand. The young cultist stumbles back, fear emanating from his wide eyes. His cry is cut short as her knife strikes, rammed deep into the boy¡¯s ribs. The weapon clatters from his hands as he collapses. The stunned expression that precedes death rests permanently on his face.
¡°Go!¡± she shouts through gritted teeth.
You don¡¯t need to be told twice. Grabbing Iker¡¯s arm, you sprint toward the far passage. Landera follows close behind, her blade slick with blood.
Another cry rings out, followed by the crack of a musket. The sound is deafening, and there¡¯s a ringing in your ears as you run away. You flinch, and your steps falter as the shot ricochets off the stone wall.
A sharp pain slices through your side. Instinctively, your hand clutches at your ribs. The burn of the searing wound is immediate, and you bite back a cry as you push on.
¡°Almost there!¡± she exclaims, now more encouraging than chiding, as she has been.
The light ahead bursts into view. The cool night air rushes to meet you as you stumble out of the tunnel and onto a rocky outcrop. The jagged edges of the mountain stretches out before you, and seeing the open sky above feels like a tremendous relief.
You collapse onto the stone, gasping to catch your breath. Iker stumbles out of the tunnel behind you, sweat beading across his forehead and staining his shirt. He collapses beside you, his chest heaving.
For a moment, the world is silent, as the chase fades into the night. But Landera doesn¡¯t allow you to rest, doesn¡¯t allow you a moment of respite.
¡°They¡¯re not stopping their pursuit,¡± Landera mutters reluctantly. ¡°They¡¯re still coming after us. We need to go.¡±
You know she¡¯s right. This brief, rare instance of relief was always fleeting. You don¡¯t know when you¡¯ll ever feel safe, but that time is certainly not now.
You force yourself to your feet, the flaring pain in your side reminds you it still remains as you stagger forward. The outcrop narrows ahead, dropping into a steep, winding path that cuts down the mountain. The light of the moon barely brushes the jagged stones, and the drop beyond the edge is a merciless void.
The stone shifts beneath your feet. Loose gravel tumbles into the abyss below. Iker nervously clings to your arm, pulling you slightly off balance. The drop feels impossibly close, and the edge crumbles away with every hurried step.
A musket fires.
The deafening crack of the shot ricochets off the mountain. A chunk of stone explodes near your feet. You stagger, and the edge of the path digs into your boot as you catch yourself. Iker yelps, and his grip tightens on your sleeve.
¡°They¡¯re gaining on us!¡± he wails.
You can¡¯t make out the incoherent bursts of shouting behind you, but it sounds like your pursuers are wondering how to navigate these mountains. You can break away. If you just persist and keep going, you can break away.
After carefully traversing the cliff edge, the path splits. Two jagged trails diverge, one climbing steeply into the darkness, the other descending toward a narrow ravine. Which way do you go?
¡°This way!¡± Landera barks, choosing the lower path.
You don¡¯t question her. You follow. Your steps are clumsy, each one a fight to keep from tumbling into the abyss. To your relief, the path ahead eventually widens just enough, opening into a small, uneven plateau. You¡¯re about to make it, about to reach freedom, if you can just get to the other side.
Another shot. This one misses high, the whistle of the bullet slicing through the air above your head. You duck instinctively, slipping on the loose gravel. Landera¡¯s hand shoots out, grabbing your arm and hauling you upright. ¡°Keep going!¡± she barks. ¡°We can¡¯t stop now!¡±
You feel it before you see it. As you flinch from the gunshot, the scroll¡¯s weight vanishes from your hands. Time slows as you watch it tumble, descending down the cliffside.
¡°No!¡± The word tears out of your throat. You lunge forward instinctively, your fingers brushing the frayed edge of the parchment as it spins, impossibly out of reach.
164 - The Gathering Storm
The storm is coming.
It can be felt in the salty air, the electricity of it. The wind carries the sound of drumbeats¡ªnot the rhythmic pulse of ceremony, but a jagged, uneven pounding. Discordant. Unnerving.
Captain Lema stands at the edge of the encampment, staring down at Haqiliqa. The Sanqo capital sprawls beneath the cliffs, its narrow streets winding like veins, clogged with the movements of Pahua¡¯s loyalists. Their ranks are thin and ragged, a patchwork of spears, shields, and grim faces that look more suited for fishing boats than battlefields.
It¡¯s a mess. A fractured kingdom pretending it can still hold itself together.
Lema stands at the cliffside fortification¡¯s edge, stoically watching the disorganization with disgust. Below, the rebel forces gather in uneven clusters, frantically moving about the encampment. Crude weapons glisten in the dim moonlight¡ªaxes sharpened from repurposed steel, spears tipped with obsidian, and slings loaded with stones that appear too jagged to fly smoothly.
¡°Desperate,¡± Gartzen grunts from behind him. Captain Lema barely hears him over the distant sound of voices shouting orders in Sanqo tongue.
Gartzen¡¯s boots crunch softly against the gravel. He gestures toward the activity below, his face nearly entirely concealed by the light of the torches. ¡°That boy¡¯s warriors are desperate, the rebellious Sanko nobles are hungry to seize control for themselves, and we¡¯re sitting in the middle of it all like fools.¡±
Lema exhales slowly, nonchalantly watching the chaos unfolding. ¡°Desperate people can learn to swim. If they want to survive, that is.¡±
Gartzen folds his arms, shaking his head at the analogy and standing rigidly now. ¡°He thinks everyone¡¯s plotting against him¡ªincluding us.¡±
Lema¡¯s lips twitch into a faint smirk. ¡°He¡¯s not wrong.¡±
¡°That¡¯s exactly my point,¡± Gartzen presses. ¡°He¡¯s going to snap. He¡¯s going to turn on us, and when he does, we¡¯ll be stuck fighting both sides of this little skirmish at the same time.¡±
Lema finally turns to face him. ¡°What would you have us do? Sail back to Xiatli empty-handed?¡±
¡°If it keeps us alive a little while longer? Yes,¡± Gartzen says bluntly. ¡°Pahoowa is a sinking ship, and we¡¯re clinging to the mast. You promised him our aid, if you happen to forget. I told you, we should just let him drown. Let this whole damned island burn. It¡¯s not worth dying for. We can explain what happened to us to Xiatli.¡±
Lema¡¯s gaze hardens. ¡°Xiatli won¡¯t listen to us if we return with nothing. However, Sanko has resources, and a strong position. If we play this right¡ª¡±
¡°Play this right?¡± Gartzen cuts him off, thrown off by the remark. ¡°You think this is a game? They¡¯re going to keep fighting each other until there¡¯s nothing left. These people are going to kill each other for scraps. There won¡¯t be nothing left here, Captain. Nothing worth saving. So what could we possibly salvage from all that?¡±
Lema doesn¡¯t flinch. He looks back toward the Sanqo city, and his mind turns over the possibilities, the risks. Gartzen isn¡¯t wrong. But there¡¯s more opportunity here than his right-hand man realizes. What this island contains may not be what Xiatli directly commanded he retrieve, but there is something more precious here, he can sense it.
¡°This place is more than just a kingdom heading toward ruin,¡± Lema says finally, quietly now. ¡°It¡¯s an opportunity.¡±
¡°An opportunity?¡± Gartzen¡¯s laugh is bitter. ¡°What could possibly be an opportunity in this place? All that remains are a handful of Legido sailors and a boy who can barely hold his throne. These people have little to offer us; if they did, we could¡¯ve been rid of this stinking place long ago.¡±
Lema doesn¡¯t respond immediately, instead looking on at the scene in silence. The wind shifts, carrying with it the faint hum of voices from the boy king¡¯s loyalists below. It¡¯s not the sound of confidence. It¡¯s the sound of people clinging to something they likely no longer believe in.
¡°We stay,¡± Lema says finally, decisively.
¡°Captain¡ª¡±
¡°We stay,¡± Lema repeats, turning to face Gartzen fully. ¡°But we don¡¯t fight for Pahoowa. We fight for what¡¯s left when this is over. If Sanko is going to fall, we make sure we¡¯re the ones holding the pieces.¡±
Gartzen can only stare at Captain Lema, his jaw working as though searching for an argument that hasn¡¯t already been made. Finally, he exhales sharply, and his shoulders slump slightly. He nods only a single time, before turning and disappearing into the dark of night.
The drumbeats are relentless. Low, guttural rhythms that roll up from the battlefield below like the tide, swelling and breaking against the cliffs. They remind Lema of a heartbeat¡ªhis heartbeat¡ªhammering faster with each passing moment. The sky, streaked with ash and smoke, presses down on him as if Pachil itself were leaning in to watch what unfolds.
Lema lingers at the edge of the cliff, his boots planted firmly on the rocky ground. Below, the Sanko people are assembling. Their warriors are disjointed and unorganized¡ªa far cry from the rigid precision of Legido formations. Still, there¡¯s something raw about them, ferocious, eager to prove their might.
But Lema knows all too well: it¡¯s a ferocity that will ultimately destroy them.
Lema exhales slowly at the realization, at what this all means. He¡¯s conveyed confidence to Gartzen in their long history together, made it appear he¡¯s the steady hand guiding the wheel at all times. But here, alone with the echo of those drums, he allows himself the truth: he doesn¡¯t know if this will work. He doesn¡¯t know if he¡¯s making the right decision. All he knows is that doing nothing isn¡¯t an option.
The wind shifts, carrying the faint scent of blood and smoke. Or maybe that¡¯s in Captain Lema¡¯s head. His jaw tightens as he imagines the battlefield below¡ªthe boy king¡¯s forces, barely holding themselves together, and the rebels, driven by anger. The outcome seems inevitable, no matter which way he tilts the scales. And yet¡
This isn¡¯t the first time he¡¯s stood on the precipice of a decision that could end him. But it¡¯s the first time he¡¯s felt so powerless, so uncertain. The people of this land aren¡¯t like the Legido. They don¡¯t move with the same predictability, don¡¯t break the same way when pressure is applied. They¡¯re a tide he can¡¯t control.
And yet, there¡¯s something valuable in that unpredictability. Something he can¡¯t quite put into words, but Xiatli would recognize instantly. The Great Xiatli, whose will burns hotter than the sun. Lema can already hear His voice. He can imagine the disappointment, the fury, if he were to return with nothing but excuses.
Lema swallows hard, the lump catching in his throat as he thinks about the prospect. Xiatli doesn¡¯t forgive failure. Lema¡¯s seen it firsthand, the way His anger manifests, swift and absolute. No. Returning empty-handed isn¡¯t an option. But if he can¡¯t deliver the muskets and gunpowder, he¡¯ll deliver something else. The Sanko people themselves. Their land, their resources, wrapped in a bow of conquest.
He stares down at the haphazard battlefield below. Pahua¡¯s warriors are forming lines, their leaders barking commands that barely carry over the rushing winds. The rebels are rallying on the far side, their voices rising in a feverish roar. It all looks awful. A bloodbath waiting to happen. And here he stands, watching from above, like a vulture waiting for the scraps.
¡°What am I doing?¡± he mutters under his breath. The wind doesn¡¯t answer, of course. Nor do the drumbeats, which grow louder now, faster, like thunder rolling in.
For a brief moment, he considers stepping in. Joining the fight. Lending his men to tip the scales. But the thought dies as quickly as it comes. Sure, it¡¯s what he agreed to with Pahoowa, but maybe there was a misunderstanding. Something lost in translation. Besides, this isn¡¯t his fight. These people aren¡¯t his responsibility. Why risk Legido lives unnecessarily? All that matters is what he can take from them when the dust settles.
But that justification feels hollow, even to him.
His gaze drifts back to the battlefield, as the drumbeats surge in his ears. He imagines the blood, the screams, the bodies that will litter the ground by the end of the day. And he imagines himself, standing amidst the ruins, sifting through the wreckage for whatever he can salvage.
Without warning, the battle begins. Not with a roar, but with the clatter of obsidian scraping against stone. With the unsettling noise of a conch shell horn, followed by half-hearted war cries.
Captain Lema watches from high above as the first warriors break from their ranks, sprinting toward the rebel line. The rebels respond in kind, their own shouts rising to meet the charge. He grinds his teeth in anticipation of the two sides meeting, wincing at the inevitability.
They meet in a savage collision of bodies and weapons. There¡¯s no method to the chaos, no elegance¡ªjust the raw, animal sound of combat. Obsidian-tipped macanas rise and fall, smashing against bone and flesh with dull, wet thuds. Warriors twist their round and brightly-painted shields to deflect strikes. But the brutal edges of stone blades still find gaps, biting into exposed arms and legs. Blood sprays in dark arcs, descending to stain the dirt below.
A rebel warrior swings a star-shaped stone mace, and its jagged edges catch one of Pahua¡¯s men in the side of the skull. The crack of bone reaches Captain Lema¡¯s ears, and the man crumples lifelessly into the dirt. But he¡¯s barely down before another warrior barrels into the rebel. With a face streaked with soot, he drives a bronze-tipped spear through his chest. The rebel gasps a wet choke before falling back, dragging the spear with him.
Pahua¡¯s warriors press forward, holding for now against the fervor of the rebels. A woman leaps over a fallen comrade, spinning a short war club in her hands. She swings low, taking out the knees of an advancing warrior, and finishes him with a savage blow to the throat before disappearing back into the fray.
Captain Lema watches from his perch, tightening his fingers on the hilt of his cutlass. He can see the desperation in Pahua¡¯s warriors, wide eyed and frantic like cornered beasts. They dig their heels into the terrain, shouting as they throw everything they have into each strike.
From the corner of Lema¡¯s eye, he spots a rebel hurling a slingstone with a snap of his wrist. The polished rock whistles through the air before slamming into a warrior¡¯s shield with enough force to split the wood. As the shield shatters, the warrior stumbles, clutching his arm as another stone whips past his ear. He doesn¡¯t have time to recover before a rebel armed with twin bronze axes charges him, teeth bared in a feral grin.
Captain Lema is overwhelmed by the sounds. The crunch of shields splintering. The slap of sandals on blood-slick ground. The guttural cries of men locked in combat. Somewhere below, a wounded man screams, but the sound is swallowed by the roar of warriors surging forward again.
The hillside trembles beneath Lema¡¯s feet. But he doesn¡¯t flinch. Refuses to show how much he¡¯s sickened by the sights. He searches the battlefield for any sign of a shift in momentum, any sign of hope. But the rebels hold fast, and they keep pressing forward. Lema curses under his breath, his mind already racing ahead to the assured conclusion of this battle.Support the creativity of authors by visiting the original site for this novel and more.
No, it¡¯s not a battle. It¡¯s a massacre. Savage. Grotesque.
¡°Captain.¡±
Gartzen¡¯s voice pulls him from his thoughts. The older man stands at his side, with his grim gaze fixed on the carnage below. ¡°This is worse than the last encounter. They¡¯re tearing each other apart like animals.¡±
Lema can only watch the shifting lines of warriors, the broken bodies scattered about the ground like debris after a hurricane, the blood that glistens like oil in the moonlight.
¡°We can leave now,¡± Gartzen insists. ¡°Slip away while they¡¯re too busy killing each other to notice our departure.¡±
Lema shakes his head. ¡°Not yet.¡±
¡°Not yet?¡± Gartzen snaps, his frustration boiling over. ¡°If we wait any longer, we¡¯ll be caught in the middle of it! Pahua¡¯s already lost control¡ªyou can see it as clearly as I can. His men are breaking, Captain. They¡¯re breaking, and when they do¡ª¡±
¡°I know,¡± Lema cuts him off with a growl. Nostrils flare as he stares down Gartzen. His loyal right-hand man wants to protest, wants to declare how this is all madness. Yet he stands down. Reluctantly.
A group of Pahua¡¯s warriors breaks from the main force and frantically retreat. The rebels see an opportunity and press the advantage. They¡¯re already shouting rising in triumph as they cut down the fleeing loyalists without mercy.
At the center of the fray, Pahua stands in his ornate armor, raising his obsidian blade high. His voice is hoarse from shouting orders, and his movements are frantic, but he swings wildly at the rebels closing in around him.
But no one is listening. His warriors falter, their resolve crumbling as the rebels press forward, their sheer numbers and desperation overwhelming the young ruler¡¯s forces.
Lema swears under his breath. ¡°He¡¯s going to get himself killed.¡±
¡°And why does that matter to us?¡± Gartzen asks bitterly. ¡°You just said this isn¡¯t our fight. That we only pick apart what¡¯s left. So let him fall, Captain. Let him reap what he¡¯s sown.¡±
Lema doesn¡¯t hesitate. Doesn¡¯t hear Gartzen. He turns, stepping quickly and deliberately as he descends the hill.
¡°Captain!¡± Gartzen¡¯s voice fades into the background. ¡°What are you doing?¡±
¡°What I have to,¡± Lema responds, more to himself than to Gartzen.
Lema moves through the chaotic battlefield like a specter. He doesn¡¯t charge blindly into the fray¡ªhe flows through it, weaving between clashing bodies. This is where he belongs. Not in council chambers, not barking orders from a hilltop, but here. Where death lingers on every breath, and survival is earned with every swing of a weapon.
A rebel lunges at him, spear thrust forward. Lema pivots to the side, as the tip of the weapon just grazes his shoulder. He counters with a downward slash. The cutlass bites deep into the man¡¯s collarbone with a loud crack as he splits bone. The rebel crumples, and Lema doesn¡¯t even pause to watch him fall.
A slingstone whistles past his ear, close enough to leave a burn on his skin. Another rebel with an obsidian sword rushes him. Lema meets him head-on, ducking low at the last moment. He drives the hilt of his cutlass into the man¡¯s ribs. The rebel staggers with a grunt. Lema finishes him with a brutal upward slash. The blade carves through his neck in a spray of blood that streaks the air.
Pahua¡¯s sword is knocked to the ground as one of the rebels slams his macana into the flat paddle of the weapon, leaving him unarmed. He stumbles against the wall as his attackers close in. One swings his club, but before the blow can land, Lema¡¯s cutlass whistles through the air. The strike cleaves through the man¡¯s side. The rebel lets out a gurgling scream and collapses, clutching at the gaping wound.
The second rebel turns to face Lema, his war paint streaked with sweat and blood. He roars and charges, wielding a bronze axe with both hands. Captain Lema steps forward to meet him, deflecting the first wild swing with his cutlass. Their weapons collide in a shower of sparks. Lema presses the attack, driving the rebel back with quick, relentless strikes. His blade soon finds its mark, cutting deep into the man¡¯s thigh. The rebel falters, dropping to one knee. Lema ends it with a clean strike to the chest.
He reaches Pahua just as the boy-king stumbles, his footing slipping on the blood-slick ground. Another rebel warrior lunges at him. Their spear is aimed right for his chest. Lema steps between them, and he slices his cutlass through the attacker¡¯s torso in one move. The rebel falls, crumpling to the ground.
Captain Lema turns to Pahua, and coldly commands, ¡°Get up.¡±
Pahua looks up at him. His face is pale, and his eyes are wide with fear and disbelief. He growls something, something fast and sharp-edged. The boy spits the last of his sentence like venom, his face contorted in rage.
Lema exhales through his nose, as his patience grows thin. He takes another step forward, motioning to the ground with his cutlass. ¡°The battle is over, Pahoowa. Kneel. Surrender while you can.¡±
But Pahua doesn¡¯t. He barks another string of words, his raw voice rises with every syllable until it cracks. Against better judgement, there¡¯s a pride that blinds him to the reality closing in.
¡°Fool,¡± Lema mutters under his breath. He¡¯s seen too many stubborn leaders dig their own graves. It appears this boy is no different.
Pahua lunges. It¡¯s clumsy, the strike of a boy swinging more out of uncontrolled rage than skill. Of course, Lema sidesteps easily. Pahua stumbles, as his own attack nearly takes him off balance. Somehow, he catches himself and swings again.
This time, Lema doesn¡¯t move back. He parries the strike with a simple twist of his shoulder, then steps into Pahua¡¯s reach. The boy flinches as Lema¡¯s free hand snaps out. He grabs the boy¡¯s wrist and contorts the arm back and up. For a brief moment, they¡¯re locked together¡ªLema¡¯s strength against Pahua¡¯s anger.
The boy snarls something, his teeth bared in frustration, Lema shoves Pahua back, sending him staggering.
¡°That¡¯s enough, boy,¡± Lema spits. He gestures again with the tip of his cutlass aimed at the ground. Stop it.
For a moment, Pahua¡¯s body seems to sag, the realization of his failure pressing down on him. But then his gaze hardens again. He wills his body back into a defiant stance.
Lema sighs. He doesn¡¯t lower his blade, but he doesn¡¯t strike, either. ¡°Stubborn little bastard,¡± he mutters.
And then the rebels break through.
The cries of the dying fill the air, mingling with the faint crackle of flames consuming what¡¯s left of Haqiliqa. Blood pools in the uneven ground, staining the jagged rocks and the broken remains of shields and weapons.
Lema watches as Pahua stumbles through the wreckage, his ornate armor dented and smeared with mud and gore. The boy-king retrieves his blade from the ground and rushes toward his warriors to lead them in battle once more. He swings his weapon wide, but there¡¯s no strategy to it, no skill¡ªjust fury and the refusal to fall without a fight.
Behind them, the battle continues in broken fragments. Small skirmishes. Desperate final acts. The rebels are relentless, brutally cutting down the last of Pahua¡¯s loyal warriors.
Pahua¡¯s hands tremble as he raises the ornate obsidian blade with blood-streaked arms. He shouts something again, louder this time, his voice cracking with fury. Whatever the words mean, it¡¯s one last gasp to rally his warriors, meant to defy death that is staring them down.
Lema doesn¡¯t move. He doesn¡¯t even react. He just watches as the boy takes one shaky step forward, then another, toward the oncoming rebels.
Pahua swings the blade with both hands, a sloppy arc that leaves him wide open as he staggers forward. One of the rebels with a macana almost casually steps into his path. The boy lashes out with a clumsy strike. The rebel has to jerk his shield upward to block the frantic blow. Lema almost winces at the blundering sight.
Another swing. Another miss. Pahua¡¯s feet slide in the blood-slick mud. His next strike barely grazes a rebel¡¯s shoulder, drawing nothing more than a sneer. Still, the boy pushes forward with a shaking blade in his hands.
The rebels surround him now, circling like wolves scenting weakness from their trapped prey. One lunges forward, testing him with a feint. Pahua¡¯s footing gives way for a split second, causing him to stumble. He barely catches himself, but the slip costs him.
Captain Lema knows what¡¯s coming. Yet he doesn¡¯t step in. What is the point? The boy¡¯s pride won¡¯t let him yield, and the rebels won¡¯t let him live.
The spear comes from the edge of the melee. It flies through the air and strikes Pahua cleanly. The obsidian-tipped blade punctures through the thin metallic armor and punches through his chest with a sickening crunch.
For a moment, the boy just stands there, frozen, stunned. His blade is still raised as though he might strike again. His wide, startled eyes meet no one, staring instead at something far beyond the battlefield. Then the strength drains from him all at once. His blade falls first, slipping from his fingers and clattering to the dirt.
The boy-king follows soon after, crumpling to his knees. Blood spills freely down his chest, soaking the tattered remnants of his tunic. He gasps, choking on the blood that he coughs up in quick bursts, before toppling forward into the mud.
The rebels surge past him. Their focus is already shifting to the next target, the next kill. But Lema doesn¡¯t move. He watches as the life fades from the boy¡¯s body.
For a moment, the captain feels nothing. Not anger, not triumph. Just a hollow, unshakable certainty.
It was always going to end like this.
When the combat finally concludes, the rebels move through the battlefield and search the bodies of the fallen. They don¡¯t look at Lema, don¡¯t even acknowledge him. Nor does Lema look up to meet their eyes, doesn¡¯t even acknowledge them.
Gartzen approaches slowly. He glances down at Pahua¡¯s lifeless form, then at Lema.
¡°Well?¡± he asks, his voice quiet.
Lema is still looking down at the dead king. Something on the boy¡¯s chest catches his eye. He crouches down next to the body, eyes sweeping across the torso. When he sees it, he reaches out and snatches the pendant from around the boy¡¯s neck. The cord snaps, but he can find some thread, some piece of leather to tie it all back together. What¡¯s important is what¡¯s in his hand. This vibrant pendant in deep reds and oranges, like a misshapen stone that¡¯s been smoothed by something¡ªby diligent hands? No, something bigger than that, something more forceful, powerful.
He clutches the pendant in his hand, feeling the soft contours of the off-white stone. Then, after he rises, he turns to Gartzen. Now his gaze shifts to the broken remnants of the capital city in the distance.
¡°We leave,¡± he says finally. ¡°Get the men ready.¡±
The battlefield smolders beneath the pale morning light. Smoke curls lazily into the sky, carrying with it the acrid scent of blood and ash. Bodies lie scattered across the ground, their weapons gleaming faintly in the sun¡¯s first rays. The sounds of the fight have faded into silence, leaving only the occasional groan of the dying and the quiet rustle of scavengers picking through the debris.
Captain Lema stands at the edge of the ruin, with his hands clasped behind his back. His gaze sweeps over the wreckage, the once-proud city now little more than rubble.
¡°It didn¡¯t have to end like this,¡± Gartzen grumbles beside him.
Lema tilts his head slightly. ¡°Didn¡¯t it?¡±
Gartzen frowns. ¡°They tore themselves apart while we stood by and watched.¡±
¡°We didn¡¯t watch,¡± Lema corrects, almost detached. ¡°We facilitated.¡±
Gartzen glances at him, his brow furrowing. ¡°Facilitated? That¡¯s what you¡¯re calling it now?¡±
Lema steps forward, his boots crunching softly. ¡°The Sanko were already broken. We just let them show it.¡±
¡°And what did that get us?¡± Gartzen presses. ¡°A city in ruins? A kingdom that can¡¯t rebuild itself? What¡¯s left for us to take back to Him now? Rubble?¡±
Lema¡¯s lips twitch into a faint smile, though there¡¯s no warmth in it. ¡°Rubble can still be useful,¡± he says quietly.
Gartzen stares at him with growing unease. There¡¯s something in Captain¡¯s voice, something cold and calculating that he doesn¡¯t recognize. Something unsettling.
After another stretch of silence, Lema feels the need to explain, ¡°He was never going to lead them. Not for long, anyway. He was a child playing king. They needed someone who would give them purpose.¡±
¡°And did we give them one?¡± Gartzen snaps, his frustration bubbling over. ¡°You think handing these people over to Xiatli is going to save our souls, and theirs?¡±
Lema¡¯s smirk fades. ¡°The Sanko have been tearing themselves apart long before we arrived. Their hatred, their division¡ªthat¡¯s not on us, Gartzen. That¡¯s just who they are. You saw how savagely they ripped each other apart. And I¡¯d wager they¡¯re going to continue to do so until we return with Xiatli. He made a civilized people out of us, and He can do the same for the Sanko.¡±
Gartzen exhales sharply, his hands clenching at his sides. He doesn¡¯t respond. Knows that whatever he says, whatever sense he tries to put into Captain Lema¡¯s head, is going to fall upon deaf ears.
The ship sways gently against the dock. The repaired hull is a sight to be seen, and a tremendous relief to the captain and crew alike. The Legido sailors move methodically through the rubble, gathering what supplies they can salvage.
Lema stands at the edge of the pier and inspects the broken city one last time. The rebels have claimed what remains, and what they¡¯ll do with it is anybody¡¯s guess. It won¡¯t matter. Xiatli will see to that. He takes a deep breath, cringing while his lungs are filled with the decay-laced air, and exhales slowly.
Then he turns around, and his gaze sweeps over the horizon. The endless expanse of water calls to him with a quiet, insistent pull. It¡¯s there, just beyond reach¡ªthe freedom he¡¯s craved since the moment they set foot on this cursed island. Finally.
¡°Captain,¡± Gartzen¡¯s voice interrupts his thoughts.
Lema doesn¡¯t turn. ¡°What is it?¡±
¡°We¡¯re almost ready to sail,¡± Gartzen replies mechanically. ¡°Shouldn¡¯t be long now.¡±
Lema nods, though he doesn¡¯t move. His eyes remain fixed on the water, his mind churning with thoughts that refuse to settle.
Gartzen hesitates, then clears his throat. ¡°It¡¯s done, Captain. Whatever this was, it¡¯s done. We leave, we report to Him, and we put this place behind us.¡± He knows it¡¯s pointless to try, to attempt to sway Captain Lema¡¯s thoughts. When Ux¨ªo sets his mind to something, he¡¯s committed. There¡¯s no changing it. But he has to try.
¡°You think it¡¯s that simple?¡±
¡°It can be,¡± Gartzen says.
Lema lets loose an exasperated laugh. He shakes his head and waves away the notion. The anticipation of returning to Xiatli with what little they¡¯ve managed to gather only breeds doubt. Maybe Sanko will be a suitable replacement for what they failed to retrieve. But instead, there¡¯s a hollow ache that he can¡¯t quite shake.
¡°We can only hope this is something that proves we¡¯re worthy of His favor,¡± Lema says to no one in particular. ¡°This is a piece of the new world that could belong to Him. It¡¯s ours for the taking. Every empire starts with a single stone. Why not this one?¡±
Captain Lema steps closer to the edge of the pier, fixing his gaze on the ship as his men continue to load the last of the supplies. The sunlight catches the edges of their muskets, their bayonets, the faint sheen of sweat on their brows.
He thinks of Xiatli, of the impossible expectations that have followed them since they first set sail. He thinks of the endless expanse of this foreign place stretching out before them, a land untamed, unclaimed, and waiting. For a moment, everything presses against him¡ªXiatli¡¯s demands, the crumbling kingdom behind him, the endless possibilities ahead.
And then, like the tide receding, the decision becomes clear.
165 - Inuxeq
Even out here, where all I should be hearing is the shuffling of my boots against the loose gravel scattered everywhere around Qapauma, the rumblings from the council meeting still flood my ears. The cold, indifferent gazes cling to me like smoke after standing around a fire. I clench my fists, forcing my breath to steady, but my pulse drums louder and louder and louder in my ears with every step through the palace corridors.
How do they sit there so calmly? Debating, repeating the same words, the same ideas, over and over, as if they¡¯ll mean something different this time. I wanted to slam my hand on that polished map and shout, Do you think Taqsame is waiting for a debate? Okay, maybe I did one time. But watching Maqochi flinch, and the rest of them scrambling for their composure, was pretty thrilling, I must admit.
But Haesan¡¯s glance stopped me. That calm, measured glance of hers, like she thought she could hold it all together just by looking at it hard enough. That is what hurts the most. I can tell she was disappointed, that I had let her down in some way. But it was Xelhua¡¯s fault, goading me on like that! Insufferable fool. We should¡¯ve left him on that solitary cliffside.
I kick at a loose stone on the pathway, sending it clattering against the crumbling palace walls. This place feels more like a tomb than a revered capital. What¡¯s left of Qapauma isn¡¯t worth fighting over¡ªscarred and blackened stone, shattered gates, and people too tired or broken to rebuild it all. Yet here we are, talking about rebuilding it anyway. Like that¡¯s going to stop Taqsame, or anyone else with ambition, from taking it again.
Fighting makes sense. You see the enemy, you aim, you strike. It¡¯s simple. You win or you die. The Eleven will sort it out, whomever they deem worthy of victory. But this? Sitting around a table, arguing over whose warriors should do what, who gets to lead this or defend that¡ it¡¯s maddening. They want me to lead? Fine. I¡¯ll lead. I¡¯ll lead an army. I already have. I¡¯ll take the fight to Taqsame¡¯s door myself if I have to.
Except¡ no one wants to be fighting wars forever. Not even me. Or, so I think. It¡¯s difficult to determine.
Long, slow breath in. Long, slow breath out.
The courtyard is empty except for a few stragglers, Aimue farmers-turned-warriors who linger near the broken fountain like it¡¯s some kind of meeting place. They glance up with wary gazes as I pass. One of them mutters something too low for me to catch, and the others nod. I keep walking. Let them talk. I¡¯ve got nothing to say to them right now.
I find Yachaman waiting for me near the edge of the garden. Her arms are crossed, and she slightly shifts her weight onto one leg like she¡¯s been standing there too long. She doesn¡¯t flinch at my approach, doesn¡¯t so much as blink when I stop a few paces away. She just watches me walk over to her, staring at me stoically.
¡°What, are you just going to stand there?¡± I demand.
She tilts her head, unimpressed. ¡°I wasn¡¯t aware I needed to speak first.¡±
We fall into silence. Her eyebrow arches, like she¡¯s waiting for me to realize how ridiculous I sound. When I don¡¯t, she lets out a small, exasperated breath.
¡°Well, that behavior is certainly not going to help,¡± she remarks.
¡°I¡¯m not here to help,¡± I snap. ¡°I¡¯m here to¡ª¡± I stop, biting down on whatever half-formed excuse was about to spill out.
¡°To what?¡± she asks.
I wave her off. ¡°To¡ not make things worse.¡±
¡°And how¡¯s that going?¡±
¡°What do you want from me, Yachaman? To act like they¡¯re all going to suddenly fall in line because I ask nicely? I¡¯ve got to tell people they¡¯re not going to go home just yet. Your people, who¡¯ve already given up everything to be here. And now I¡¯m supposed to tell them to stay? How do I do that without disappointing them?¡±
My voice wavers, and the words start spilling out from me like a broken pot. ¡°You think I don¡¯t know what that feels like? To be stuck in a place I don¡¯t want to be, doing something I never asked for? I¡¯d rather be back home, where the air doesn¡¯t taste like ash and the trees don¡¯t look half-dead. But I can¡¯t. And now I have to tell them they can¡¯t, either.¡±
All I can do now is shake my head and scowl. ¡°It¡¯s not fair. None of it is fair.¡±
¡°It¡¯s not about fair,¡± she says calmly. ¡°It¡¯s about what needs to be done.¡±
The simplicity of her words only makes my frustration boil over. ¡°Easy for you to say.¡±
¡°Do you think this is easy for them?¡± Yachaman replies. ¡°Or for anyone? The Aimue are scared. And angry. And they don¡¯t need me to tell them why they¡¯re still here. They need to know that they¡¯re seen. That someone understands what this is costing them.¡±
¡°So then why don¡¯t you do it?¡± I mutter as we walk down the path that was likely surrounded by vast plants and greenery once. ¡°I mean, why are you even here if you¡¯re not going to talk to your own people? You¡¯re good at all this¡ªtalking, leading. So why don¡¯t you do it?¡±
Yachaman frowns, and I think I see the faintest hint of weariness in her eyes. ¡°Because I¡¯m not the one they look to. And because I¡¯m not sure I¡¯m the one they should look to.¡±
The admission catches me off guard. I stare at her, unsure of what to say. She doesn¡¯t wait for me to find the words. Instead, she abruptly turns and starts walking away, toward the decimated gates of the palace grounds.
I hurry to catch up, trailing behind her. ¡°Hey! Wait!¡± I shout. ¡°So, what¡¯s the plan then? I mean, they don¡¯t even like me!¡±
Yachaman stops suddenly. Then, she turns to face me, her eyes meeting mine. ¡°Then give them a reason to. It¡¯s not about liking you. It¡¯s about believing in you. It¡¯s about knowing that someone is fighting for them, when no one else has.¡±
I nod, but Yachaman doesn¡¯t see. She whips around and resumes walking toward the gates, and I do my best to pick up my pace. The uncomfortable silence that follows is like the aftermath after a botched hunt. A twinge of frustration wells up inside me as we briskly move toward the Aimue settlement. But I force myself to swallow whatever biting comments come to mind and quietly walk alongside her.
Ahead, the streets open up to what used to be a bustling city. The Tapeu people work tirelessly amid the rubble. Their stooped figures haul stones and timber. The faint clang of tools echoes across the open space, mingling with the occasional murmur of voices. A child laughs, a bright sound that cuts through the heavy air like a spark in the dark.
I¡¯m overcome by a strange and foreign feeling of hope. These people lost everything. Families. Homes. Futures. And they¡¯re already piecing it back together.
I glance sideways at Yachaman. She walks with her head high, her shoulders squared, like she¡¯s not bothered by any of it¡ªnot by the destruction around her, or our precarious predicament. Or maybe she is, and she¡¯s simply better at hiding it than I¡¯ll ever be.
Perhaps I¡¯m unnerved by silence, or the way it leaves too much room for my thoughts to spiral. Either way, I clear my throat and say, ¡°Your people¡ they¡¯re from the plains, right? You¡¯re fine with all of that open sky, flat land?¡±
¡°You¡¯ve never been, have you?¡±
I shrug, forcing a smirk. ¡°I¡¯ve been through Aimue. All that open land, beige as far as the eye can see. Never thought so much nothing could be crammed into one place.¡±
Yachaman slows her pace. ¡°It¡¯s not nothing,¡± she replies, while her face notably remains impassive. ¡°It¡¯s just not what you¡¯re used to.¡±
¡°Oh, come on,¡± I say, waving a hand dismissively. ¡°What¡¯s there to miss? A whole lot of dry grass and endless sky? I¡¯ll take my jungle any day.¡±
Yachaman¡¯s calm gaze flicks toward me. ¡°You must¡¯ve been in a hurry to miss what was right in front of you.¡±
¡°Like what?¡± I scoff. ¡°Dust storms and endless stretches of flatland? Sure, I was a bit ¡®distracted¡¯ because I was, you know, fighting the Eye in the Flame and what have you, but I¡¯m confident I wasn¡¯t missing much of the scenery.¡±
Her shoulders shift slightly, like a hawk adjusting its wings before the dive, a movement so small it might have been missed. ¡°Like the way the wind moves when a herd crosses the horizon. Or how the light changes just before the rains come, and the grass turns gold for a moment. Like how every sound¡ªevery bird, every rustle¡ªtells you something, if you know how to listen.¡±
I open my mouth, then close it again. I¡¯d meant it as a joke, a jab, but the way she speaks, I can feel the reverence for her homeland in her words. A longing for the familiar tranquility home. There¡¯s a ping of regret for my poorly executed quip. I should¡¯ve known better anyway. I don¡¯t know her well enough to attempt such a thing.
¡°Well,¡± I say, shrugging again, ¡°I guess you¡¯d have to grow up there to notice that kind of thing.¡±
¡°And I guess you¡¯d have to grow up in the jungle to know what you¡¯ve been missing there,¡± she calmly counters.
¡°Heh, I know the jungle alright. The heat that wraps around you like a wet cloth, sticking to you no matter how much you fight it. The noise, too¡ªbirds screeching at the dawn, insects humming like they¡¯re trying to carve their way into your ears. The way everything is alive, all the time. The jungle doesn¡¯t give you time to think twice¡ªit just teaches you how to survive. You figure it out, fast, or you don¡¯t last long.¡±
She hums, a sound somewhere between acknowledgment and dismissal. ¡°The plains are quiet. Peaceful. Not like here. And not like your jungle.¡±
I snort. ¡°Quiet sounds boring.¡±
Yachaman glances at me out of the corner of her eye, and I think I see a hint of amusement tugging at the edges of her lips. ¡°With quiet, you can hear the herds before you see them. You feel the wind change before a storm rolls in. That kind of quiet? It¡¯s never boring.¡±
A chuckle escapes my pressed lips. ¡°When something¡¯s hunting, it¡¯s like the jungle goes quiet right before something bad happens.¡±
Yachaman nods slowly, thoughtfully. ¡°That sounds familiar.¡±
Another pause stretches between us. My thoughts are restless, and initially, I decide not to bother Yachaman with them. But, unable to keep it to myself, as always, I glance her way and say, ¡°You ever notice how it¡¯s always us? The Aimue, the Tuatiu. We don¡¯t get the luxury of pretending the silence means peace. Not like the others.¡±
¡°You think it¡¯s only us?¡±
¡°Yeah. That¡¯s what the Tapeu, the Achope, all of them think. They see us as feral¡ªnot monsters like the Ulxa or the Auilqa, but not far off. We¡¯re just simple savages to them.¡±
Yachaman keeps her focus fixed on the path ahead. ¡°They call you ¡®simple savages¡¯ when they don¡¯t want to understand you. When they want to think they¡¯re above you. It¡¯s easier to dismiss what you don¡¯t know. They can think what they like, but that doesn¡¯t change who we are.¡±If you come across this story on Amazon, it''s taken without permission from the author. Report it.
¡°Right. But it doesn¡¯t change anything, does it? They¡¯ll always look down on us.¡± I hesitate, caught off by the bitterness in my voice. ¡°You think Haesan¡¯s different? That she really believes this ¡®unity¡¯ nonsense she¡¯s preaching?¡±
She looks like she¡¯s about to say something, but then stops herself before committing to saying, ¡°I think she believes in what she¡¯s trying to do. Whether that¡¯s enough¡ unfortunately, I don¡¯t know.¡±
¡°You don¡¯t sound so sure,¡± I press.
¡°I confess, my time with her has been brief, but what I¡¯ve seen¡¡± She trails off, then shakes her head. ¡°She¡¯s trying to hold something together that¡¯s been broken for generations. That¡¯s not easy. Maybe it¡¯s not even possible.¡±
¡°So you think she¡¯s doomed to fail? That we¡¯re all going to fail?¡±
¡°I didn¡¯t say that,¡± Yachaman corrects. ¡°I believe in what she¡¯s trying to do. That doesn¡¯t mean I don¡¯t have doubts. But doubt doesn¡¯t excuse inaction. Rebuilding trust is harder than rebuilding stone, but that doesn¡¯t mean we shouldn¡¯t try.¡±
¡°More of that sagely farmer wisdom?¡± I tease. This time, Yachaman allows the tiniest of smiles to cross her lips, before we both fall contemplatively silent again.
The Aimue camp starts to come into view. It¡¯s a cluster of makeshift tents and scattered belongings around the remnants of an old courtyard. Farmers, every single one of them¡ªthough you wouldn¡¯t know it at first glance. Their hands are calloused and cracked, their skin bronzed from years in the fields, but there¡¯s a wary edge that wasn¡¯t there before. Like they¡¯ve seen too much, and don¡¯t trust that they¡¯ll survive what¡¯s coming next.
Their weapons tell the same story. Spears and clubs carved from wood that¡¯s seen more harvests than battles. There are a few swords¡ªAimue-crafted, judging by the rough-hewn edges and the dark stains that haven¡¯t been entirely scrubbed clean. Their shields are mismatched, some reinforced with leather patches, others barely holding together.
They¡¯re gathered near the broken fountain, sitting or leaning or pacing in that restless way people do when they don¡¯t know if they should stay or run. Some are packing what little they have left, while others lean on their spears like they¡¯ve already carried too much. Conversations buzz low, and the fragments of mutterings reach me even from here.
¡°We¡¯ve done enough.¡±
¡°When do we get to go home?¡±
¡°Qelantu Loh needs us more than this place does.¡±
Yachaman slows her pace, attentively watching the group. She stops at the edge of the clearing and waits, giving me a sidelong glance.
¡°Well?¡± she says quietly, nodding toward them. ¡°Show me how a jungle warrior does it.¡±
I bristle at her words, knowing she¡¯s trying to be friendly, but finding her less than encouraging. ¡°Fine,¡± I say, eventually pushing past her and walking toward the group.
As I approach, the murmurs among the Aimue fade into uneasy silence. Dozens of eyes turn to me¡ªsuspicious, tired, and so full of doubts I can almost feel them burning into my skin. I take a breath, but the air feels heavy, sticking to my ribs like the heat of a jungle morning before the storms roll in.
I ignore the knot twisting in my stomach as step toward the group that¡¯s gathered to address them. ¡°Aimue,¡± I call to them, simply. ¡°I need your attention.¡±
A few heads turn, then more. The movements are slow, reluctant, like they¡¯re weighing whether to bother. Those who don¡¯t look are nudged by neighbors or glance up warily as the silence creeps in. I hold my ground, letting the quiet stretch just long enough before I speak.
¡°You¡¯ve fought hard,¡± I begin, though it feels like every word scrapes against my throat. ¡°Harder than anyone should ever have to. And you¡¯ve lost more than anyone deserves to lose.¡±
Their eyes are on me now, more curious than combative. I see a woman clutching a bundle of tattered blankets, her shoulders hunched as she watches me warily. A young man with a makeshift spear leans forward slightly with a guarded expression.
¡°But I need you to hear me,¡± I continue. ¡°Because this isn¡¯t over. Taqsame¡ he¡¯s not done. Not with Qapauma. Not with Tapeu. And certainly not with you.¡±
A few Aimue glance at one another skeptically, but they don¡¯t speak. Despite this, I press on. ¡°I know what you¡¯re thinking, that you¡¯ve done enough. That you¡¯ve earned the right to go home, to rebuild, to rest. And you have. You have. But if you leave now¡ªif we let Taqsame regroup, rebuild¡ªhe will take over the throne here in Qapauma, and then he will come for everything you¡¯ve fought to protect. Your homes. Your families. All of it.¡±
The grumbles start again with a low, buzzing unrest that prickles my skin. A man whose leathery face lined with years of labor under the sun steps forward from the crowd. He plants the butt of his farming tool into the dirt.
¡°We¡¯ve already given all we can,¡± he yells to me, sounding exhausted, like he hasn¡¯t rested since marching south from Aimue territory. ¡°And what did it get us? More war. More blood.¡±
His words ripple through the crowd, stirring nods and muttered agreements. I want to snap back, to tell him he¡¯s wrong, challenge him about whether he thinks I don¡¯t understand. That I don¡¯t know what it feels like to give everything and wonder if it¡¯s enough, or why it isn¡¯t enough and have more demanded of me. But for a moment, I falter as I try to hold my tongue. And in that moment, Yachaman¡¯s hand lands lightly on my arm.
¡°They¡¯re scared,¡± she says softly, low enough that only I can hear it. ¡°You can¡¯t fix that with orders.¡±
I pull my arm away. ¡°And what do you suggest?¡± I hiss through my clenched teeth. I want to call them cowards, simple farmers clinging to old ways. But instead, I just glare at her, waiting for her answer.
Yachaman shakes her head and exhales slowly. Moving past me, she steps forward without hesitation, placing herself between me and the crowd. She doesn¡¯t raise her voice, but somehow it cuts through the restless murmurs like a blade through tall grass.
¡°You¡¯re right to feel the way you do,¡± she says, looking over the group. ¡°You¡¯ve lost so much already. Your homes, your fields, your families. No one here can deny that. And no one is dismissing your pain, nor asking you to forget it.¡±
The crowd falls into a hush, leaning in as her surprisingly calm demeanor draws them in.
¡°What she¡¯s trying to say¡±¡ªshe gestures briefly to me without looking back¡ª¡°is that everything you¡¯ve fought for, everything you¡¯ve given, it still matters. You¡¯ve kept it alive by fighting for it. But Taqsame won¡¯t stop until it¡¯s gone. All of it. Forever. And that¡¯s why we¡¯re asking you to stay.¡±
The farmers shift uncomfortably, and the grumbles start up again. But Yachaman carries on, ¡°We¡¯re not asking for more than you can give. Just for enough to make sure that what you¡¯ve already given wasn¡¯t for nothing.¡±
¡°I know what it¡¯s like to watch the fields you poured your life into turned to ash,¡± she says. ¡°To lose the people you thought you¡¯d always have by your side. I know because I¡¯ve felt it, too. But so has she.¡±
Her words settle over the group like a heavy rain, sinking into the cracks left behind by anger and doubt. One by one, their postures shift. Tense shoulders relax. Wary eyes soften. They look to one another, to see if anyone is brave enough to respond. No one is.
¡°I¡¯m not asking you to fight for Tapeu,¡± Yachaman continues. ¡°Or for Quya Haesan. I¡¯m asking you to fight for Aimue. I¡¯m asking you to fight for the people you left behind. For the ones who can¡¯t fight anymore. For the ones who are counting on us to protect what¡¯s left. And that can only be done if we defend the throne.¡±
The man who spoke earlier clenches his jaw, his gaze locked on the ground. Slowly, he nods. One by one, the others follow, some with reluctant shrugs, others with quiet determination. Not all of them. Not enough to make me feel like we¡¯ve succeeded entirely. But more than I expected.
Yachaman calmly steps back, her eyes meeting mine for a brief moment. There¡¯s no smugness there, no cruelty. Just a quiet resolve. A relief that it¡¯s done.
I nod, swallowing the frustration knotting my throat as I turn back to the group. Because my voice struggles to speak, I mouth the words ¡°thank you.¡±
As the Aimue begin to disperse, I linger near the fountain, watching them go. Yachaman stands silently beside me. We take in the scene, in that rare pause between moments that appears to be an unspoken ritual we share.
¡°That was¡¡± I search for the right words, but they don¡¯t come. ¡°Something.¡±
¡°It was about being honest,¡± she says quietly. ¡°I will never lie to my people, and I will never take their trust for granted.¡±
Yachaman closes her eyes and lifts her chin slightly, as though she¡¯s taking in the breeze that brushes her cheeks. Her beige tunic gently flutters, and she inhales deeply, holding the air in her chest and releasing it slowly before speaking. ¡°People are like the fields. They need to be tended to, nurtured, shown that someone cares enough to pull the weeds and plant the seeds. If you neglect them, they wither. But if you give them the time and care they deserve, they flourish¡ªand they¡¯ll give back more than you ever expected.¡±
She doesn¡¯t say anything after that, instead taking in the sun that fights its way through the dark gray clouds. I let her words wash over me, resonating within me like a distant drumbeat. I linger as the last of the Aimue drift away, their murmurs fading into the restless air. I should feel relief. Yachaman convinced them, or at least some of them, to stay. That¡¯s what matters, isn¡¯t it? But all I feel is this overwhelming sense of failure, of inadequacy, that won¡¯t let go. I can lead a charge, take down a dozen warriors without flinching. I can track prey through the dense jungle without losing my footing, or my way back home. But this¡ªthis¡ªisn¡¯t a battlefield I know how to fight on.
I thought words would come as easily as commands, that the farmers would feel the fire in me and follow it. But they didn¡¯t. They saw through it, through me. And Yachaman¡ªshe stepped in like it was the easiest thing in the world. Like she didn¡¯t have to try, like she¡¯s been leading them all her life.
I dig my nails into my palms to keep from punching the crumbling stone of the nearby fountain. This isn¡¯t about Yachaman. She did what I couldn¡¯t, what needed to be done. It¡¯s not her fault I¡¯m not enough.
The thought stings worse than I want to admit. My whole life, I¡¯ve fought to prove myself¡ªagainst the jungle, against the warriors who doubted me, against anyone who thought I couldn¡¯t stand where they stood. But now, with these Aimue, and this council, it¡¯s obvious I don¡¯t belong, and I feel like I¡¯m scrambling for footing on uneven ground.
They don¡¯t see a leader when they look at me. They see someone who talks too much and knows too little about the lives they¡¯ve lived, the losses they¡¯ve carried. And maybe they¡¯re right. While we¡¯ve both fought on foreign soil for people who are indifferent to us, at best, what do I know about farmers who¡¯ve become fighters, who¡¯ve seen their fields burned and their homes destroyed? I know war, but I don¡¯t know their war.
With a concerted effort, I swallow back a rising lump in my throat. I glance at Yachaman, still beside me, quiet and composed as ever. She doesn¡¯t say anything, doesn¡¯t even look at me, but I can feel her presence like a steadying hand on my shoulder. She¡¯s not judging me. That almost makes it worse.
I can only shake my head, as if I can cast off the doubt clinging to me. There¡¯s no time for this. Whatever I am or am not, they need to believe I¡¯m steady. Strong. Even if I don¡¯t believe it myself.
¡°You¡¯ve got that look on your face.¡±
Yachaman¡¯s voice interrupts my thoughts. Somehow, I¡¯m both grateful and annoyed.
¡°What look on my face?¡±
¡°Like you¡¯re about to yell at someone,¡± she observes. ¡°Like you¡¯re about to needlessly hit some innocent bystander. Just don¡¯t let it be me.¡±
¡°You act like you know me,¡± I say. I know I¡¯m pouting, but I don¡¯t need someone to call me out for it.
¡°I know enough to see when someone¡¯s beating themselves up for no reason,¡± she says plainly.
I turn away from her, focusing on the cracked stones beneath my boots. I don¡¯t need her pity, or her quiet reassurances. I need to be better.
¡°Well, I¡¯d say there¡¯s a reason,¡± I mutter. ¡°I messed up.¡±
¡°Yes,¡± Yachaman says simply.
My head jerks up, and I glare at her. She remains stone faced.
¡°But so what?¡± she continues. ¡°You messed up. It happens. You think no one else has?¡±
¡°It wasn¡¯t supposed to happen to me,¡± I snap. The fire in my chest surges, though it burns more at myself than her. ¡°I¡¯m supposed to be better than this. Stronger than this. How can I lead¡¡± I¡¯m too upset to finish the thought, the rhetorical question she¡¯s probably going to answer anyway.
Yachaman tilts her head slightly, like she¡¯s studying me, trying to figure out how much I¡¯ll let her say without me snapping again. ¡°You are strong,¡± she says after a beat. ¡°But strength doesn¡¯t always mean charging forward. Sometimes it¡¯s knowing when to stop, to listen. These people don¡¯t need someone barking orders. They need someone who understands what they¡¯ve been through.¡±
I swallow hard, the lump in my throat threatening to choke me. ¡°I don¡¯t know how to be that person,¡± I admit quietly.
¡°You don¡¯t have to know everything right now,¡± she says gently. ¡°No one does¡ªnot at the start. But you can¡¯t stop trying. That¡¯s what they¡¯ll see. And that¡¯s what matters.¡±
The two of us watch as the Aimue move through their preparations. They¡¯re no longer packing, but instead, getting ready to fight. Once again.
Slowly, my breathing evens out, the fire in my chest dimming to a low ember. ¡°Thanks,¡± I say finally, the word awkward on my tongue. Yachaman nods, offering me a faint, knowing smile before turning back toward the courtyard.
Then, we hear the commotion¡ªa ripple of unease that spreads through the Aimue like the first hint of a storm. Urgent shouts rise from down the long, wide road that leads to the palace as figures stumble into view.
Two Aimue bloodied and battered fighters collapse onto the uneven stone. Their tunics are torn, darkened with streaks of dirt and blood. Their breaths are ragged as they clutch at their sides. What was once so full of quiet preparation only moments ago, the settlement now stills into a tense silence.
¡°Get them water!¡± Yachaman barks, already moving toward them. Her voice snaps the Aimue out of their daze, and a flurry of movement follows as someone fetches a jug while others help the fallen fighters sit upright.
I follow close behind and crouch beside the nearest fighter. His face is pale, his eyes wide with a mix of pain and fear.
¡°What happened?¡± I demand. ¡°Who did this?¡±
The man struggles to speak. His breath hitches as Yachaman presses a damp cloth to his forehead. The other fighter, a younger woman with a gash running down her arm, lifts her head just enough to meet my gaze.
¡°They came out of nowhere,¡± she says, her voice trembling. ¡°On the road, in the fields to the south. No colors, no banners¡ but they said they came for him.¡±
Her words land like a blow. ¡°Who?¡± I ask, though I already know the answer. ¡°Who did they mean?¡±
The fighters exchange a glance, their fear deepening. The man finally finds his voice, though the words threaten to be lost to the gentle breeze. ¡°The one they called the Sun. They said they followed him.¡±
One of the fighters lifts a trembling hand, offering something clutched tightly in his fingers. It¡¯s a crude blade with uneven edges, and its metal is dark and pitted with rust. But it¡¯s the symbol etched into its hilt that makes my breath catch.
A twelve-pointed sun.
The image burns itself into my mind, familiar yet elusive, like a memory just out of reach. My heart races as I turn the blade in my hands, inspecting the symbol that defiantly glimmers in the dimming light.
¡°I¡¯ve seen this before,¡± I mutter, more to myself than to Yachaman or anyone else. ¡°I know it¡ but from where?¡±
I force myself to stand with the blade still clenched in my grip. My voice cuts through the mounting noise. ¡°We need to be ready. This isn¡¯t just an ambush¡ªit¡¯s a warning. He¡¯s coming.¡±
166 - Paxilche
The ache in my skull pulses in time with the distant echoes of shouting. My vision swims, the torchlight smearing the edges of the room into strange, shifting shapes. I blink hard, willing myself to focus, to push through the fog that clouds my mind.
The faint scrape of boots against stone pulls my attention to the far side of the chamber. The invader''s military leader, the invader who reeks of arrogance and cowardice in equal measure, is on his knees. His bloodied face glistens in the dim torchlight of this chamber. He babbles in his grating foreign tongue, and I wish so badly to understand what he¡¯s rambling on about.
It¡¯s when a cold pressure settles over the room that everything abruptly and unsettlingly changes. The invaders¡¯ voices falter, and their movements appear to be stilled as though they¡¯ve been caught in an unseen grip. When I look toward the chamber¡¯s entrance, I realize why. I can¡¯t see him at first, but I feel him¡ªthat oppressive presence that turns my blood to ice.
When Xiatli steps into view, the torches fade as if simply being in this chamber commands the light to bow. His gaze sweeps the room, taking in the chaos, the broken chains, the shattered weapons. When he eventually speaks, his voice is soft, almost gentle. Disturbingly so. ¡°What a mess you¡¯ve made of my plans.¡±
I¡¯m still disturbed by this one¡¯s ability to speak the language of our land. How does he know it? Has he learned it this quickly, or is he of Pachil? Something in his appearance makes me think the latter, but I can¡¯t be sure.
The invader¡¯s warrior leader scrambles forward on his knees. The words leaving his bleeding lips sounds desperate, almost pleading. The foreign words tumble out of him in a rapid stream, and though I can¡¯t understand them, the meaning is clear: excuses, apologies, pathetic attempts to shift blame. Xiatli doesn¡¯t speak. He doesn¡¯t need to. Simply staring at the babbling fool causes the invader general¡¯s voice to falter, and his pleas trail off into a whimper.
The chains bite into my wrists, and every time I move, their jagged edges scrape against my skin. I grit my teeth and pull, straining against the rusted links. Every muscle in my body screams for release, for the chance to fight back, to strike at the monster standing so smugly in the center of this nightmare.
I glance to the side, and that¡¯s when I see it¡ªa stranger. Pale-skinned, soft-looking, their eyes wide with fear as they fumble with the chains. They¡¯re touching my chains. For a heartbeat, I think they¡¯re one of Xiatli¡¯s, here to secure my bindings. Through my clenched teeth, I snarl, ¡°Do your worst, you pathetic child!¡±
But then their eyes meet mine. Their raw, unguarded terror stills my seething anger. It¡¯s as though they realize they¡¯ve stumbled into a fight they¡¯re hopelessly unprepared for. They¡¯re no warrior. Just a desperate, young fool. And for some reason, they¡¯re trying to help me.
What are they doing? The thought rises unbidden, tangled with suspicion. Nearby, I see Upachu bent over Saqatli¡¯s bindings. Others are here. We could be rescued. Strangely, I begin feel¡ hope. As though this entire situation will finally turn around.
That hope quickly fades as I catch a figure out of the corner of my eye¡ªTeqosa¡¯s body sprawled on the cold stone floor, motionless. His arms lie limp at his sides, his face pale, and his chest unnervingly still. My stomach twists. Teqosa was the one who always seemed indestructible, and now, he¡¯s been reduced to this. What happened to cause him to be in this state?
Mid-thought, my lungs seize as I follow the stranger¡¯s gaze upward to the towering figure of Xiatli. His hand curls into a claw, and suddenly, the stranger¡¯s throat collapses. It¡¯s as though invisible fingers have wrapped around it, squeezing the life out of them. They drop their hands, clawing at their neck, their face contorted in panic as they choke, nothing but gargled sounds escaping their trembling lips.
Something in me snaps. My own body trembles with rage, with the need to do something, anything, even as the bindings hold me down. My fingers tingle, the familiar surge of power clawing its way through my veins.
The storm inside me demands release.
With a guttural roar, I thrust my bound hands forward. A rumble quakes the ground. My fingers splay as lightning tears free from me. It arcs wildly through the air and slams into Xiatli¡¯s torso. The crackle of power is deafening, and for a brief, glorious moment, the invisible grip on the stranger breaks. They stumble back, gasping for air as their hands clutch their neck.
I don¡¯t wait for Xiatli¡¯s reaction. Another searing bolt follows, aimed directly at him. My energy is unfocused, but it does the job. He falters¡ªnot much, but just enough. Enough to remind me that even he isn¡¯t untouchable.
A sharp voice shouts amidst the chaos. A smaller figure, equally pale pulls at them, dragging them away. The stranger¡¯s companion, I think, and I hold off on loosing another bolt of lightning toward the sound. The stranger hesitates, and their eyes dart to me again. But their companion jerks them hard, practically hauling them away.
I grit my teeth and try to summon another bolt, but the storm inside me sputters, drained by the effort and exhaustion. I¡¯m still exhausted from whatever happened to me before. The metal cuffs dig deeper into my throbbing hands as I strain against them. Stunningly, the stranger hasn¡¯t left entirely. Their hands return to the chains, fumbling and trembling as they tinker with them, but determined to finish what they started.
Another shadow falls over us, and I barely have time to react before Xiatli steps forward. I feel the energy within me barely able to form a spark, and I worry I won¡¯t be able to prevent Xiatli from whatever he plans to do to my rescuer. But then, Atoyaqtli moves between us with his blade raised.
Xiatli says something, then smirks. Like this is exactly what he wanted. Like he¡¯s savoring the though of what horrific act he¡¯s about to do.
The stranger¡¯s panicked hands yank at the chains. Despite the metal constricting my wrists, I pull with them. We tug, and tug, and tug, putting all the strength we have into loosing my bindings. My eyes are drawn to a glow, and I realize the source is Xiatli¡¯s hands. We don¡¯t have much time! With whatever energy remaining inside me, I jerk and pull at the chains. The stranger¡¯s eyes grow wide in fear as they, too, desperately work the clasps. Finally, the rusted links are forced to give. The chains fall away with a clatter, and I nearly collapse forward, catching myself on the cold stone floor.
The stranger shouts something again, more urgent this time, and gestures wildly toward the passage behind us. Xiatli¡¯s gaze shifts to us, and I see the young invader flinch. My body reacts before my mind can catch up¡ªI surge forward, placing myself between the invader and Xiatli. It¡¯s a foolish move, reckless. But they have risked their life for mine, so what other choice do I have?
Xiatli tilts His head with a cold expression. ¡°Interesting,¡± he murmurs. ¡°You think to shield them?¡±
My hands flex, instinctively curling into fists. I glance at Teqosa again, then at Upachu struggling with S¨ªqalat¡¯s chains. The invader who freed me steps back, their companion shouting something incomprehensible as they pull them toward the corridor. I see the hesitation in their movements, the brief glance over their shoulder, but then they¡¯re gone.
Upachu grunts as he tries to break S¨ªqalat¡¯s chains. Xiatli watches us with the calm indifference of a predator that knows its prey has no chance of escape. The invader''s general lies in a heap, while the warriors grip their strange weapons, seemingly frozen between fear and indecision.
¡°You¡¯ve caused quite the mess,¡± he says, peculiarly without a hint of anger. His gaze sweeps over the room, lingering on each of us in turn. ¡°And now you will face the consequences.¡±
He calmly stands in the center of the room, returning his focus to Atoyaqtli as his hands glow blindingly white. My fists clench so tightly that my nails bite into my palms. As Xiatli raises his hands, Atoyaqtli coils with his sword to strike, bracing for impact. My legs move before my mind catches up.
¡°Paxilche, no!¡± S¨ªqalat¡¯s voice cuts through the din. But it¡¯s already too late.
I lunge at him with a roar that tears from my chest. I raise my arms and summon the storm that¡¯s been building up within me. Lightning arcs from my fingertips, illuminating the dim chamber with bursts of electric fury. A blinding streak crackles toward my foe.
But Xiatli doesn¡¯t move. He lifts a single hand, and the lightning bends.
I barely have time to realize the impossibility of it before my own power is hurled back at me. The bolt splits the air. It slams into my chest, sending me sprawling to the ground. An all-consuming pain rips through my body, like molten metal poured into my veins. My muscles seize, locking me into a contorted spasm. Every nerve screams at once. The world around me blurs, shrinking into a haze of white-hot agony that blocks out everything else.
¡°You fight as if your rage is a weapon,¡± Xiatli says, sounding bored. ¡°But anger doesn¡¯t make you strong.¡±
With ragged breaths, I stagger to my feet. Through gnashed teeth, I desperately loose another crack of lightning that bursts from my hands. It streaks toward him, splitting into twin arcs as it nears. Xiatli raises both arms, and the lightning collides with his palms. As he traps the bolts within his grasp, he tilts his head slightly. Another one of those annoying, faint smiles tugs at the corners of his lips.
¡°You don¡¯t even understand the storm you wield,¡± he says, his voice carrying over the roar of the lightning. With a simple flick of his wrists, he disperses the energy, sending it crackling harmlessly into the walls.
Behind me, I hear the sound of chains falling to the ground. S¨ªqalat flies forward, her spear now split into three jagged blades. She dances around Xiatli, aiming each strike at his throat, his joints, his heart¡ªanything to bring down the enemy. Sparks fly as her blade meets his defenses, the clash of obsidian and bronze ringing out.
His expression turns from disdain to mild curiosity. ¡°And you,¡± he says, stepping smoothly aside as her blades slice through the air. ¡°Well, I respect the gumption. But that is enough, child.¡±
Her blade connects¡ªor it should. Xiatli raises a hand, and the weapon stops a hair¡¯s breadth from his chest. It¡¯s as if her trifurcated weapon is held in place by an invisible force. Then, he merely flicks his fingers, and S¨ªqalat is sent flying backward. Her body slams into the wall with a sickening crunch.
Saqatli cries out at the sight, and charges wildly toward Xiatli. In a few breaths, his form blurs, and his features stretch and morph. Within moments, his body shrinks into the sleek, deadly frame of a jaguar. With claws extended, he leaps at Xiatli while loosing a thunderous roar.
Xiatli pivots, and his hand snaps up to meet the beast mid-air. Saqatli¡¯s claws rake against an unseen barrier, sparks flying as his momentum is abruptly halted. Xiatli simply takes a singly step forward, then slams Saqatli to the ground, instantly dropping him like a stone.
Nochtl is a streak of gold and black as she darts under Xiatli¡¯s arm and sinks her claws into his calf. Xiatli hisses, with the first sign of irritation crossing his face as he shakes his leg to dislodge the small cat. The ocelot is flung across the room, her body hitting the ground with a soft, heart-wrenching thud.
When Saqatli comes to, he howls at the sight of his injured companion. His form quickly shifts back into human as he scrambles to the ocelot¡¯s side. She appears to be breathing, but her movements are sluggish, her eyes half-lidded.
The invaders then charge, jabbing with the knives fixed to their weapons. Atoyaqtli meets them head-on with his obsidian blade. He ducks beneath a thrust, then slices his blade upward to catch the warrior under the ribs. Another comes at him from the side. He spins, and the sharp edge of his weapon catches the attacker¡¯s neck.
¡°Paxilche!¡± S¨ªqalat¡¯s voice alarms me. She¡¯s on her feet again, spinning the spear in her hands as she fends off two warriors. ¡°Now would be a really good time to unleash a storm of some kind, please!¡±
I hesitate, as the memory of Xiatli bending my power remains fresh in my mind. But then I see her struggling to fend off the relentless warriors who have suddenly found renewed vigor. I see Atoyaqtli overwhelmed by the sheer number of warriors. I see Saqatli kneeling over Nochtl, lovingly cradling her with his shaking hands.
The storm doesn¡¯t hesitate. Neither should I.
I raise my hands, and the air around me hums with static. I feel lethargic, as though I¡¯ve been pushing a large boulder up a hill. Maybe I¡¯ve been expending myself too much. The lightning comes slower this time, like coaxing a reluctant beast. But when it strikes, it strikes with ferocity. A crackling arc surges through the air, slamming into the ceiling above Xiatli. It¡¯s not where I was aiming, but stone crumbles and falls, forcing him to step back. I¡¯ll take it.
I pull at the storm again, the energy flowing through me like fire in my veins. This time, I aim lower, sending a bolt streaking toward the warriors. It crashes into the ground at their feet, scattering them like leaves in a gale.
Xiatli steps forward, unharmed by the calamity. His eyes lock on mine, and for a moment, the room seems to shrink, the walls closing in around us.
¡°You think this will stop me?¡± he asks, slightly amused.
I don¡¯t answer. I let the storm speak for me.
With every measure of fury left in me, I call upon the storm one last time. There are no windows to this chamber, no access to the outside world. Yet a sweeping wind begins to howl throughout the room, kicking up the dirt and dust and debris. The air shudders as the untamed lightning arcs from my hands. The bolt hurtles with a deafening crack, and slams into Xiatli with everything I have.This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.
For a heartbeat, he staggers. Not much, just a step back. But it¡¯s enough. The glow of his piercing eyes dims, the light goes out from his hands, and a faint grimace flashes across his face. It¡¯s the first sign of struggle I¡¯ve seen from him¡ªan encouraging sight.
But the hope is short-lived. Xiatli straightens as if the storm were a mere annoyance. His robes remain unscathed, and now his expression hardens into something colder than death.
As the crackle of energy dissipates, he growls, ¡°You will see, all storms pass.¡±
A blur of movement rushes by me, as silent as a shadow. Atoyaqtli moves like the wind, positioning himself behind Xiatli. Can he do it? Will he strike down this deific foe?
The invaders snap out of their stupor. One barks in their guttural tongue, lifting his long, metallic blade. The others follow hesitantly, but are too eager to obey.
Atoyaqtli is forced to pivot, deflecting a crude swing with his obsidian blade that aimed for his ribs. The force of the blow sends him staggering, but he doesn¡¯t fall. He glances at me, then points with his head, telling me to move.
I don¡¯t want to leave him surrounded by these enemies. I refuse to allow him to be overwhelmed by these invaders. But the moment I begin to run over to him, he snarls, ¡°I¡¯ve got this. You need to grab Teqosa and go!¡±
Reluctantly, I grab the Qantua warrior¡¯s limp body, slinging him over my shoulder with a grunt. The weight nearly topples me¡ªI shouldn¡¯t be so surprised with how heavy he is¡ªbut I grit my teeth and push forward. My legs burn, and I feel them wanting to give out, but I tell myself I must keep going.
S¨ªqalat spins her trifurcated spear in her hands in a flurry. She blocks an incoming overhead strike, and then her weapon splits into two jagged ends that lash out in quick, successive jabs. The invaders recoil, unprepared for the ferocity of her attacks, trying to figure out what to do next.
In the midst of their confusion, S¨ªqalat shouts, ¡°Go!¡± She parries another attack, then another, stepping between Xiatli and the rest of us with no hesitation. ¡°Go find Walumaq. Make sure she¡¯s safe!¡±
Her words pierce through my haze. Walumaq. I¡¯d almost forgotten in the mayhem. The thought of her, defenseless, alone in some other chamber, sends a new surge of adrenaline through me.
But I hesitate. What do I do with Teqosa? I should be the one fighting Xiatli, not them. But Atoyaqtli¡¯s glare is all the command I need, leaving no room for argument.
There¡¯s no way I can carry Teqosa¡¯s lifeless body and search for Walumaq. It¡¯s too impractical. It makes no sense. My eyes connect with Upachu, and I signal for him to take care of his friend. I lay down the Qantua warrior and stumble toward the corridor. Behind me, I hear S¨ªqalat letting out a feral cry as her spear crashes against another invader¡¯s blade. Maybe something is shouted to me. But as much as I want to, I don¡¯t look back.
The dim and suffocating corridor stretches ahead. Everywhere I turn, the walls close in on me, eager to halt my search. My pulse pounds in my ears, drowning out the distant echoes of clashing weapons and shouted commands. I can¡¯t stop. I can¡¯t fail her.
Suddenly, the corridor splits. From the left come distorted shadows stretching across the walls. More of those guttural voices follow. The invaders.
I could turn back. I could take another path. But the thought of leaving Walumaq here alone¡ªof what Xiatli might do to her¡ªroots me in place. No. I must face the challenge head-on.
I press myself against the wall. The cold stone bites into my shoulder. The voices grow louder, clearer. Three of them. Maybe more. The invaders round the corner. Their weapons are raised¡ strange, jagged blades, unlike anything I¡¯ve seen crafted by Qiapu blacksmiths. Their leader barks something incomprehensible, and they fan out.
The storm explodes from my hands before I can second-guess the decision. Just as they see me, lightning races from my hands down the corridor. It slams into the one of the men. His armor glows white-hot for a fraction of a heartbeat before he collapses.
The others leap out of the way, shouting in their harsh, alien tongue. What I would give to never hear such a grotesque language again. One lunges at me, swinging his blade low. I twist aside, but the edge nicks my thigh. Not enough to slow me. I unsheathe the dagger at my side. The blade catches him in the ribs, and he stares at me in stunned silence.
The third warrior stalls. His eyes dart between me and his fallen comrades. He¡¯s smart enough to realize he¡¯s outmatched, but not smart enough to run. Before he can decide, another crack of lightning leaps from my palm. It finds him before he can raise his blade. The smell of smoke and singed skin permeates the air. He lets out a quick yelp before being flung onto his back, then ceases to move.
The corridor falls silent again, save for the faint hum of the storm dissipating around me. My chest heaves, my lungs straining against the suffocating air. I nearly collapse, having expended everything within me. I step over the bodies, forcing myself to move, to keep going. No matter what.
The corridor ends at a heavy wooden door. Its surface is scarred with deep gouges and scorched marks. What could have done this? Was this remnants from the assault by the Eye in the Flame? I press my ear to it, straining to hear anything over the rush of blood in my ears. Nothing.
I shove the door open. The room is dimly lit, the torches barely causing the darkness of the oppressive gloom to retreat. And there, in the center, bound to a chair and slumped forward, is Walumaq.
Her blue tunic is torn, and the bronze jewelry that once adorned her is shattered and scattered across the floor. Her hair hangs in dark, tangled strands around her face, streaked with dirt and blood. But it¡¯s her eyes that hit me hardest. Even as she raises her head, I see the exhaustion, the pain she¡¯s trying so hard to hide behind those piercing blue eyes.
¡°Paxilche,¡± she says weakly, coughing as soon as she speaks my name.
I don¡¯t answer. I sprint over to her side. Unsure how much time we have, my hands fumble with the chains as I frantically attempt to loosen the cold metal that bind her wrists. I curse under my breath, frustration boiling over as I yank at the links.
I think she says something, but I can¡¯t hear her over the clattering of metal and my heartbeat thundering in my ears. With a snarl, I raise my hand. The storm gathers instinctively, lightning crackling at my fingertips.
¡°Stop,¡± she warns. ¡°You¡¯ll break it.¡±
¡°That¡¯s kind of the idea,¡± I snap back as the energy builds and builds.
¡°Paxilche,¡± she warns, but it¡¯s too late. The bolt slams into the chains, shattering them with a deafening crack. The recoil sends me stumbling, and the smell of burnt metal fills the room.
Walumaq glares at me as she pulls her wrists free. She rubs at the raw, bruised skin. ¡°You could¡¯ve killed me!¡±
¡°But I didn¡¯t,¡± I say, offering her my hand. She doesn¡¯t take it.
¡°Where are the others?¡± she demands.
¡°They¡¯re waiting outside,¡± I reply, avoiding her gaze. ¡°They managed to escape, but I remained in the building to search for you. Now that I¡¯ve found you, we need to move, because those invaders are looking for us.¡±
She narrows her eyes. I try to mask my lie through my stare, but she¡¯s clearly unconvinced. I can tell she wants to say something, to ask me to explain in detail what happened while she¡¯s been trapped here. Yet for some reason, thankfully, she doesn¡¯t press the issue. She starts to get up off the ground, and I go to help her, to rush us out of this gods forsaken place.
She abruptly brushes me off. ¡°My feather!¡±
¡°Your what?¡±
In a panic, she searches the ground. ¡°My blue and red feather! I had it in my hair, but it must have been jostled loose.¡±
¡°We can get you another one,¡± I remark, aware that my annoyance is not disguised at all. ¡°We need to move! Now!¡±
¡°Not until I find my feather,¡± she insists, stubbornly. I go to pull her away from this prison, but she pushes me away¡ªshe actually punches my shoulder! ¡°Can¡¯t you see? It was given to me by my mother! If I don¡¯t find it¡¡±
She doesn¡¯t finish the thought, but her lip begins to quiver. I let out a sigh. ¡°We¡¯ll find it. I promise.¡±
The bronze jewelry remains broken on the floor. Precious gemstones wedge themselves between the cracks of the stone. She retrieves none of them. Her head swivels hurriedly like a bird inspecting the ground for its potential meal. Her breathing starts to hasten as she desperately pats the floor, hoping her hands will find it.
Footsteps slowly begin to resound off the stone walls. They¡¯re coming. It takes every measure of restraint within me to not force this spoiled Sanqo princess out of this prison so we can try to reach safety. No, no. We must find this stupid feather. As if hundreds upon hundreds can¡¯t be found the moment we leave Pichaqta.
¡°Walumaq,¡± I say, trying my best to gently urge her to give up this ridiculous search. She ignores me. She continues to look at every stone, every bit of this cursed chamber for a feather.
I feel the fury welling up inside me. Like Xutuina about to erupt. Are we seriously going to be recaptured and killed, all because of some stupid feather?
Mercifully, she triumphantly raises the blue and red feather high above her head. ¡°Oh, praise the Eleven!¡± she exclaims. She dutifully places the feather into her hair, securing it with a pin or something¡ªfrankly, I don¡¯t care at this point. All I care about is getting out alive.
¡°Can we¡¡± I wave toward the heavy wooden door, willing her to finally move, to finally get out of this place.
She calmly strolls out of the chamber, as though there¡¯s nothing more urgent than escaping the clutches of Xiatli. With another sigh, I follow behind, checking both sides of the hallway for enemies. We take off in the direction I came, back toward the prison where we were held initially, only because it¡¯s the place with which I¡¯m familiar. And I just hope we¡¯re heading toward the exit.
We snake our way through the twisted corridors. At every sound of hurried footsteps and muffled voices, we dart into the shadows, hoping to not be seen. It takes several such instances before the halls start to become illuminated in something other than torchlight.
¡°The outside,¡± I remark, growing equal parts excited and impatient in reaching freedom. We¡¯re so close. Just a little further¡
More footsteps thump behind us. ¡°We need to¨C¡° I don¡¯t need to finish my thought; she¡¯s already running as fast as her legs will carry her toward the sliver of light. There are footsteps surging toward us from another hallway. My heart leaps into my throat, and my grip tightens on my blade. But it¡¯s not the invaders.
Atoyaqtli rounds the corner first, his obsidian sword slick with blood. He¡¯s carrying Teqosa¡¯s limp body, and when he recognizes me, his glare nearly burns me alive. Behind him, Saqatli helps Upachu, who struggles to keep up, cradling the wounded ocelot in his arms. S¨ªqalat brings up the rear, pivoting her head from side to side as she watches for incoming threats. To my great relief, they¡¯re all alive. Well, most of them, that is.
Walumaq looks over the group, eyes growing wide. ¡°What happened?¡± she asks with grave concern.
¡°Later,¡± Atoyaqtli grunts, still glaring at me. ¡°We need to move.¡±
Saqatli¡¯s amber eyes glance at me with some kind of unspoken accusation. Walumaq, too, doesn¡¯t hide her disdain. ¡°What did I do?¡± I ask, but my question appears to fall upon deaf ears as the group quickly hurries away.
After trudging through the narrow corridors for what feels like an eternity, we finally see it. The exit. The faint light of the outside world spills into the hallway, beaconing us forward. It¡¯s just the pale glow of a struggling moon, but after the suffocating confines of the palace, it feels blinding. We stumble into the open air, taking in the sweet, sweet outside air that refreshingly chills our lungs. We¡¯re safe, for now.
Upachu lowers himself onto a jagged stone in the ruined courtyard. He cradles the wounded ocelot in his arms draped with the heavy cloth of his white robes. The small creature is barely stirring, and Saqatli looks on with concern. Atoyaqtli sets Teqosa¡¯s limp body down carefully, sagging his own shoulders under the strain of carrying him.
Walumaq turns to me and furiously points a finger near my face. ¡°You lied to me,¡± she says sharply. ¡°You said the others were outside. You left them to die, didn¡¯t you?¡±
¡°They didn¡¯t die,¡± I answer. ¡°They¡¯re here, aren¡¯t they?¡±
¡°Only because they fought their way out,¡± she retorts.
Before I can respond, S¨ªqalat interrupts. ¡°You both can sort this out later. Right now, we need to move. Those strangers are hunting us, and they could find us any moment.¡± Atoyaqtli grunts in agreement, his focus on Teqosa¡¯s unconscious form.
¡°Before we do anything,¡± Upachu chimes in, ¡°we need to tend to the wounded. The ocelot should recover, but Teqosa won¡¯t survive if we keep dragging him around like this.¡±
¡°We need a safe place,¡± Atoyaqtli states. ¡°Somewhere to regroup. Somewhere they won¡¯t find us.¡±
¡°There¡¯s a place,¡± I note. ¡°It¡¯s not far, just beyond the palace walls. There¡¯s an opening near the aqueducts¡ªwe once used it to slip into the palace unnoticed. But we¡¯ll need to move quickly.¡±
The party agrees to my plan. But even so, I can tell they¡¯re doing so reluctantly. It¡¯s as if they no longer trust me or something. I¡¯m telling the truth, I want to shout to them, to clear their minds of this fog of doubt they appear to be in. But they carry on with my idea, as Atoyaqtli lifts Teqosa once again, while Upachu holds the ocelot in his arms.
¡°They¡¯re this way.¡± I gesture toward the far side of the courtyard, where a crumbled section of wall offers a glimpse of the shadowy ruins beyond. The aqueducts were once a lifeline for the palace, feeding its fountains and gardens. Now, they¡¯re little more than a forgotten escape route¡ªa memory of better days.
I lead the way, motioning for them to follow. The path is tight and treacherous, leaving very little room to squeeze through. Every sound feels amplified¡ªthe crunch of stone under boots, the sharp scrape of metal against rock, even our breath. It feels like anything we do will give away our position. We need to hurry.
I reach the aqueducts first. The narrow opening is barely visible in the faint glow of the night sky. There¡¯s a jagged gap in the palace wall partially hidden by fallen stones and overgrown brush. ¡°There,¡± I whisper, pointing.
Atoyaqtli hesitates as he surveys the gap. ¡°It¡¯s too small,¡± he mutters, shifting Teqosa¡¯s weight again. ¡°I¡¯ll need help.¡±
Without thinking, I step forward. ¡°Here,¡± I say, extending my arms to offer my help. Atoyaqtli forces his way through with Teqosa draped over him like a broken banner. Together, we manage to guide Teqosa¡¯s unconscious form toward the opening. The sharp edges of the rocks catch at his tunic and scrape his skin, but we manage to maneuver him through, little by little.
¡°Move faster,¡± S¨ªqalat urges us through the opening. ¡°They¡¯re close.¡±
The rhythmic thudding of footsteps grows louder. She guards the rear, holding her spear steady as her eyes dart toward every flicker of movement in the shadows. My fingers clench into fists as I squeeze through the gap, the rough edges tearing at my sleeves.
Behind me, Upachu makes it through with surprising ease, as his wiry frame slips into the narrow space. The ocelot stirs in his arms, letting out a faint growl that causes Saqatli to exhale in relief. Motivated, he follows next, gracefully moving through the cramped space.
Finally, S¨ªqalat ducks into the opening, twisting her body to keep her spear at the ready. She pauses for a moment, checking the darkness behind us before slipping through the last of the gap. ¡°Clear,¡± she mutters, and she hurries away from the opening.
We emerge on the other side of the wall, stumbling into the embrace of the Qiapu mountains that stretch endlessly before us. The air here is colder, thinner, yet it¡¯s a relief to have it fill my lungs. The palace looms behind us, foreboding under the pale light of the stars.
We tirelessly march through the rugged landscape, wordlessly pressing onward. I don¡¯t look back once, fearing that doing so will cause our pursuers to suddenly appear behind us. We navigate the rough and uneven terrain under the light of the moon, hoping our presence will be shrouded just enough to allow us to reach safety.
The sharp cliffs jut out like teeth from the ground. Sparse vegetation clings to the rocky terrain, as stubborn tufts of grass and thorny shrubs seem to mock the desolation around them. We continue on, and each one of us listens for the faintest sound of pursuit.
Finally, Atoyaqtli stops ahead of us. ¡°There,¡± he says, pointing to a dark hollow nestled between two towering boulders. The space is just wide enough to shelter us, shielded from prying eyes by the natural formation of the rocks.
We slip into the crevice, passing through the cool stone. Inside, the hollow opens slightly, offering a narrow but functional refuge. The ground here is softer, padded with scattered debris of dried leaves and crumbling terrain. The wind whistles faintly through the gaps above, carrying the chilling air that prickles my skin.
With great care, Atoyaqtli gently lowers Teqosa onto the ground. S¨ªqalat joins him as they treat the Qantua warrior of his scrapes and wounds. Upachu hands Nochtl to Saqatli, who kneels nearby, cradling the ocelot as he murmurs something under his breath¡ªa quiet prayer in his native tongue, perhaps, though I can¡¯t tell. Walumaq leans against one of the boulders, staring blankly at the crevices.
I slump against the stone, as my muscles ache, my lungs heaving. My thoughts switch between relief and frustration, while my mind replays the chaos of the escape.
I glance around, waiting for someone¡ªanyone¡ªto acknowledge what I did back there. The lightning, the chains, the effort it took to pull Teqosa free. But no one says a word. My teeth grind as I bite back the urge to demand recognition. ¡°A thank you would be nice,¡± I almost say, but the words die in my throat.
Before anyone can move, a noise cuts through the stillness¡ªa low, rhythmic thudding, like footsteps on stone. We freeze, every muscle in my body going taut. The crunching steps grows louder, closer.
Saqatli¡¯s eyes narrow, his body coiled like a spring. S¨ªqalat grabs her spear, pointing the tip toward the sound. Atoyaqtli raises his obsidian blade and crouches into a defensive stance. Even Upachu shifts, his grip on the ocelot tightening as his eyes dart toward the shadows.
¡°Who is it?¡± Walumaq whispers.
No one answers. The shadows seem to shift, the darkness taking on shapes that aren¡¯t there. The soft scrape of something against stone.
Whoever¡ªor whatever¡ªit is, they¡¯re close.
167 - Legido
¡°Move!¡±
Landera¡¯s command cuts through the chaos. Her hand clamps around your arm, yanking you back from the cliff¡¯s edge. ¡°Forget the damn scroll! We¡¯ll die for it if you don¡¯t start running!¡±
But you can¡¯t. You won¡¯t. Your feet skid against the loose gravel, slipping on the crumbling edge as you fight against her grip. ¡°I can¡¯t leave it!¡± you shout, twisting free. The scroll is wedged precariously on a jagged outcropping, taunting you from a few feet below.
Landera curses a string of words too venomous and rapid to fully catch. Behind her, Iker stumbles clumsily in his state of panic. His wide eyes dart between you and the dark ridge above where shadows shift and grow.
¡°They¡¯re coming!¡± he exclaims with a trembling voice.
You don¡¯t have time to think. You drop to your stomach, your palms scraping against the rough stone as you reach for the scroll. The biting wind pulls at you, threatening to jostle the scroll loose, or even unmoor you completely.
¡°Are you insane?!¡± Landera snarls. ¡°We¡¯re not dying for a piece of parchment!¡±
You grind your teeth as your fingers barely brush the parchment again. The shouts grow louder, closer¡ªalmost on top of you. You think you hear the hurried crunch crunch of boots against the loose rock, and the rhythmic clatter of muskets.
One more inch. One more stretch. The edge of the scroll is maddeningly close, making a mockery of your straining fingertips. Your shoulder burns as you extend more and more, and every instinct in your body begs you to stop, to pull back.
But you know you can¡¯t stop. Not until the scroll is back in your hands.
The parchment flutters slightly, caught in the mountain¡¯s fickle breath. You lunge again, cutting your fingers as they scrape stone, digging deep into cracks and crevices to anchor yourself as you draw closer, and closer. Just a little more, you keep telling yourself. A little¡ more¡
Your hand brushes the edge of the scroll. Relief flares before it slips through your grasp once again. A strangled sound escapes your throat¡ªhalf curse, half cry¡ªas you twist your body, ignoring the burn in your muscles and the precarious sway of the ground beneath you.
This time, your fingers hook the scroll¡¯s frayed edge. Its coarse fibers feel glorious as they scrape across your palm. You cling to it like a lifeline, relishing in victory. You¡¯ve done it! you exclaim internally. It¡¯s back in your hands!
But the victory is short-lived. The ground shifts beneath you, loose rocks tumbling and clattering down the cliffside. The sound is a thunderous warning that reverberates through your bones. This could all fall apart at any moment. Your balance wavers, and the world tilts violently as you begin to lose your grip on the scroll you¡¯ve fought so hard to retrieve.
¡°Hold on!¡± Landera calls out. Her hand grabs your arm, and she uses all the might she possesses to pull you back. Your knees scrape against the uneven ground, pain flaring as you¡¯re dragged away from the edge.
When you finally collapse onto the plateau, your entire body trembles. The world blurs for a moment, but the sensation of the scroll beneath your fingers is the only thing you care about.
¡°Got it!¡± you gasp, clutching the scroll to your chest as Landera drags you up in one swift, panicked motion. Her face is pale with fury and fear, but there¡¯s no time for her to unleash the tirade building behind her clenched jaw and flaring nostrils.
¡°Run,¡± she spits instead.
The terrain is a labyrinth of rugged paths and jagged cliffs. You¡¯ve barely gotten your footing before the shouts turn into a deafening roar, echoing through the narrow gorge.
¡°There!¡± one of the zealots shouts feverishly. A shot rings out again, this one smashing into the rock just ahead of you with a thwack, spraying shards of stone into the air.
Your legs move before your mind catches up, driven by pure instinct. Landera is ahead of you, moving swiftly while keeping her body low. Iker stumbles behind, muttering curses under his breath. His panicked breaths hitch each time the terrain betrays him¡ªa loose stone, a sudden dip in the path.
¡°Faster!¡± Landera barks. ¡°Or we¡¯re dead!¡±
The gorge twists, and suddenly you¡¯re plunging into deeper darkness, the moonlight above swallowed by the sheer walls. The shadows shift, as if they¡¯re eager to devour you. You clutch the scroll tighter, feeling its edges biting into your fingers.
¡°Left!¡± Landera calls, skidding into a narrow crevice. The walls are so close you can feel the scrape of rough stone against your shoulders. Iker yelps as he follows, his footsteps uneven and desperate.
For a moment, the world narrows to the sound of your breathing, the hammering of your heart, the faint smack of your boots against the ground. The shouts start to fade slightly behind you, as the zealots are momentarily thrown off by the sudden turn.
¡°Stop,¡± Landera whispers harshly, pressing herself into the jagged wall. Her hand shoots out, motioning for you to do the same.
You comply, even though every muscle in your body screams in agony as you flatten yourself against the cold stone. Iker crashes beside you, clutching his side and wheezing like a broken bellows.
Silence.
There¡¯s nothing but an unsettling silence.
And then, a low murmur. The scrape of hurried boots against rock. The clattering of weapons and armor. The zealots are close¡ªyou can almost feel their presence. They shout to one another, confused as to where you might be.
You hold your breath with the scroll pressed tightly against your chest. Landera¡¯s hand brushes against your arm¡ªwhether for reassurance or a silent warning, you¡¯re not sure.
The shadows shift again. One of the zealots steps into view, his form barely visible in the faint light filtering through the gorge. He¡¯s tall and gaunt, and his movements are jerky and awkward as he searches the area. The muzzle of his musket glints dully, while his fingers flex against the weapon¡¯s stock.
Time crawls. Your lungs burn, screaming for air you can¡¯t risk taking. The zealot¡¯s head tilts, and his body tenses as he listens, strains his ears to hear any indication of where you are. For a moment, you¡¯re certain he¡¯ll turn, that his eyes will meet yours, and the chase will begin again.
The night folds itself tightly around you. The cold pierces through your clothes and seeps into your skin as you crouch in the shadows. Landera¡¯s hand clamps over your arm. Her face is just a faint outline in the darkness, but you can feel her intense glare burning hot despite the frigid air.
¡°Not another word,¡± she mouths.
You don¡¯t dare argue, not with the muffled sound of boots crunching just a few paces away. The zealots haven¡¯t given up. Their murmured voices are closer now, like a rising tide ready to pull you under.
Beside you, Iker shifts uncomfortably. Clearly, every instinct he has is telling him to run. But to his credit, he¡¯s fighting the urge to flee in panic, doing his best to remain still.
Another voice rises with a single, clipped command. You can¡¯t make out the words, but it¡¯s unmistakable that they¡¯ve grown frustrated, and can barely restrain their fury. The pursuers stop moving, and you notice their silhouettes through the jagged gap in the ruined wall. One of them gestures sharply, pointing toward the path ahead. A brief, heated exchange follows¡ and then they move on. To your surprise, their footsteps recede into the night. Their shadows stretch and shrink as they follow the path ahead. One storms off in irritation of the failed pursuit, and the others follow in his wake as their voices fade into the distance.
It¡¯s only when the last echo dies that you dare to move.
¡°They¡¯re gone,¡± you exhale in relief.
You let your head fall back against the rocky wall. The scroll crumples into your side, crinkling as it digs against the worn fabric of your cloak.
¡°Barely,¡± Iker mutters with lingering panic. ¡°They almost had us.¡±
Landera¡¯s head whips toward you, ¡°That¡¯s because you,¡± she points at you accusatorially, ¡°have been dragging us through the nine hells for that piece of parchment. Now we¡¯re running for our lives because of it. If we die out here, it¡¯s on you.¡±
You fight back the vitriolic response welling up inside you. ¡°If we die out here, it¡¯s because of them,¡± you point to the open space beyond, in the direction of the strange natives, in the direction of Xiatlaz¨¢n¡ you think. ¡°Not the scroll. Not me.¡±
¡°That¡¯s rich, coming from the one who couldn¡¯t let it go,¡± she shoots back, her words like flint striking stone. ¡°You¡¯re obsessed. You don¡¯t even know what it says. That scroll better be worth all of this.¡±The author''s content has been appropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.
¡°I¡ª¡± Your response dies in your throat.
The silence that follows is heavier than the night. Landera breaks it first, turning away with a frustrated exhale while shaking her head. ¡°Let¡¯s go,¡± she mutters, pushing past you. ¡°Before they figure out we doubled back.¡±
She doesn¡¯t say anything else, just starts moving. She deliberately edges toward the faint path leading further from the grounds.
You linger for a moment as your gaze falls to the scroll clutched tightly in your hands. Landera¡¯s words play over and over again in your mind. She¡¯s not wrong¡ªyou don¡¯t know what the scroll says. But you know it¡¯s important. You feel it, in the same way you can feel the pulse in your veins.
¡°Come on,¡± Iker says softly, tugging at your sleeve. ¡°We can¡¯t stay here.¡±
You nod, patting the scroll to reassure yourself that it¡¯s still there. The path ahead is faint, barely visible under the weak light of the stars. Somewhere in the distance, you hear a faint shout. Landera stiffens, and her head tilts slightly as she listens. Another shout follows, and the three of you freeze in unison. It could be a ways away, or just beyond the next ridge. It¡¯s impossible to tell.
Without another word, Landers takes off, not bothering to look back. Iker looks at you with panicked eyes, then stumbles after her. You clutch at your sides, as the fiery pain reminds you the wound is still present. You can only suck in air through your teeth, trying your best to cast the pain aside in order to keep up with your friends. You hopethey¡¯re still your friends, that is. If you survive this.
The path eventually widens into a shallow, rocky hollow. Its edges are softened by tufts of wiry grass, though ¡°softened¡± is putting it lightly. Landera stops abruptly, carefully searching the area before gesturing for everyone to crouch. ¡°We¡¯ll rest here,¡± she says curtly, glancing at your wound. ¡°But not for long.¡±
Iker collapses against a jagged boulder, clutching his side and wincing. ¡°I think my ribs are trying to murder me,¡± he mutters, earning a bitter look from Landera.
¡°You¡¯re lucky it¡¯s just your ribs,¡± she snaps. Her gaze flicks to you, and something in her face goes cold, set like drying clay. ¡°Alright, let¡¯s see it. The thing you risked all our lives for.¡±
Your hands tremble as you unfasten the scroll from its makeshift bindings. The edges are worn, and the fibers fray in places, but the intricate patterns woven into the parchment are untouched. The material faintly crackles in the stillness as you slowly unfurl it.
The markings are unlike anything you¡¯ve ever seen¡ªelegant swirls and sharp angles that flow together like water and stone. They seem to shift under the faint starlight, as if the patterns take on a life of their own. A breath shudders loose as you trace the symbols with your eyes, each one tugging at the edges of your mind like a half-forgotten memory.
Landera leans in with a furrowed brow. ¡°What is this?¡± she demands. ¡°A code? A map? What are we even looking at?¡±
¡°I don¡¯t know,¡± you admit, somewhat disappointed that whatever these markings are isn¡¯t more apparent and obvious.
Now her voice rises, incredulous. ¡°You dragged us through hell for this¡ªthis¡ gibberish?¡±
¡°It¡¯s not gibberish,¡± you snap defensively. ¡°It¡¯s¡ª¡± You falter, searching for the right words. ¡°It¡¯s¡ important. It has to be.¡±
¡°Important?¡± Landera¡¯s laugh is humorless. ¡°To who? To what? Because right now, all I see is nonsense. You risked all of our lives for nonsense!¡±
Iker isn¡¯t totally paying attention, as he continuously looks out into the mountainous landscape in search of potential threats. ¡°It could be anything,¡± he says cautiously, quietly and almost distant. ¡°A ledger. A prayer. How can we even know if it¡¯s important?¡±
They¡¯re not wrong. The markings are incomprehensible. Their meaning is locked away behind a wall you can¡¯t scale. And yet, deep in your gut, you know they matter. You can feel it, like the pull of the tide or the whisper of a storm before it breaks.
¡°It¡¯s important,¡± you repeat, forcing yourself to exert your conviction, no matter how much it might be fraying at this point. ¡°I don¡¯t know how or why, but it is. I just know it.¡±
Landera¡¯s eyes narrow, her frustration palpable. ¡°And what exactly are we supposed to do with it? Huh? Take it back to Criato and hope he doesn¡¯t gut us for wasting his time?¡±
¡°No.¡± The word comes out sharper than you expect, startling even yourself. ¡°We can¡¯t go back to Criato. Maybe not even Xiatlaz¨¢n.¡±
Landera¡¯s laugh this time is bitter in disbelief. ¡°And what¡¯s your brilliant plan, then? Wander around this forsaken place until the answers fall out of the sky? Or maybe we should just march back to those savages in the palace and hand it over. Maybe it¡¯ll help them pass the time while they¡¯re imprisoned, if Xiatli hasn¡¯t struck them down by now.¡±
Your chest tightens at the word ¡°savages,¡± the memory of the chain-bound warriors flashing in your mind. You see the defiance in their eyes, the strength in their movements, even in captivity. They fought for something larger than themselves, something you can¡¯t name, but envy all the same. The one you helped¡ªthe one whose chains you tried to loose before Xiatli beared down upon you¡ did he survive? Did they all? Did they make it out alive?
¡°We have find them,¡± you say, the realization hitting you like a thunderclap. ¡°We have to find them and take it back to them. They¡¯re likely the only ones who might know what this means.¡±
¡°Take it back?¡± Landera stares at you like you¡¯ve lost your mind. ¡°You can¡¯t be serious. We don¡¯t even speak their language. Beyond that, we don¡¯t even know where they are, or whether they survived! Let¡¯s just say they are actually still alive, and we somehow find them. How are you going to explain this to them, huh? Just wave it in their faces and hope for the best?¡±
¡°It¡¯s our only option,¡± you insist. ¡°If this scroll is as important as I know it is, then they¡¯re the only ones who can help us figure it out.¡±
Landera throws up her hands in exasperation, turning away with a frustrated exhale. ¡°You¡¯re insane,¡± she mutters. ¡°Absolutely insane.¡±
Iker shifts uncomfortably, watching you and Landera. ¡°It¡¯s risky,¡± he says hesitantly. ¡°But¡ they might know something we don¡¯t.¡±
Landera whirls on him, her expression a mix of disbelief and betrayal. ¡°You¡¯re taking their side? After everything?¡±
¡°I¡¯m just saying,¡± Iker begins, his tone placating, ¡°if we¡¯re already stuck out here, we might as well¡ª¡±
¡°No way,¡± Landera cuts in. ¡°I can¡¯t believe you¡¯re falling for this plan. You¡¯re not helping matters any.¡±
¡°And you are?¡± Iker shoots back, his frustration finally breaking through. ¡°Because all I¡¯ve seen you do is argue.¡±
¡°I¡¯m keeping us alive,¡± Landera snarls. ¡°Which is more than I can say for you, with your whining, or for them¡ª¡± she jabs a finger toward you, ¡°dragging us into this mess.¡±
Her accusation stings, even if you know she¡¯s somewhat got a point. You open your mouth to respond, but before you can summon a defense, Iker speaks again.
¡°You think you¡¯ve got all the answers, don¡¯t you?¡± He¡¯s speaking louder now¡ªjarringly so. ¡°But no one does. Not even Criato. We¡¯re all just trying to survive. That¡¯s all we¡¯ve been doing since we arrived at this place!¡±
Landera takes a step closer to him, her eyes narrowing. ¡°Then maybe you should stop talking big and do something about it.¡±
You charge in between them. ¡°If we¡¯re going to make it out of here, we need to work together.¡±
For a moment, no one speaks. Landera¡¯s glare is as sharp as the edge of a bayonet, and Iker¡¯s fidgeting only adds to the unbearable tension. The scroll presses against your side, and you suddenly find its coarse fibers biting into your skin like a thorn at your side.
You tell yourself it¡¯s worth it. That everything¡ªthe running, the arguing, the fear¡ªis worth it because this scroll holds something vital. Something that could tip the scales, change the course of everything. But the doubt creeps in anyway, coiling itself around your thoughts like smoke. What if it¡¯s nothing? you think. What if all I¡¯ve done is doom us for a piece of parchment that means nothing to anyone?
The image of Xiatli flashes in your mind. His towering presence, His indifferent voice that grates the inside of your skull just thinking about its sound. You shudder involuntarily. His power is unlike anything you¡¯ve ever seen¡ªraw, untethered, and vast beyond comprehension. He could snuff you out without a second thought, as effortlessly as one blows out a candle.
And then there are the strangers. The warriors, who somehow defiantly took on such a powerful being without hesitation. You see them again in your mind¡ªthe one with the storms in his eyes, the old man fumbling with the chains, the fierce woman wielding her spear like an extension of herself. They were something else. Something¡ captivating. Not like you, not like Landera or Iker. They moved as if the very ground, the very land beneath their feet, responded to their will.
You can¡¯t shake the memory of them, their desperation to free their fallen companions, their unyielding resistance even in the face of Xiatli. For a fleeting moment, you wonder if they¡¯re the ones who can make sense of the scroll. No, you are certain they can decipher its meaning. They have to be the ones to do it. The thought lingers like a faint ember of hope in the cold, oppressive dark.
But then Landera¡¯s voice snaps you back to the present.
¡°Well, none of it matters if we don¡¯t make it out of here alive anyway.¡±
She¡¯s wrong, you tell yourself. It does matter. It has to. Because if it doesn¡¯t, then all of this¡ªevery step, every risk, every breathless moment of running and hiding¡ªhas been for nothing. And you refuse to believe that.
A sound claws its way out of the mountainous terrain. At first, it¡¯s barely there¡ªjust a vibration that prickles at the edge of your senses. It¡¯s almost dismissible, like the whisper of a breeze through dead leaves. But then it grows. It builds. A relentless, grinding resonance that makes your teeth ache, your bones hum.
¡°Wait¡ what is that?¡± Iker breathes.
Landera¡¯s eyes narrow, searching the darkness beyond while resting her hand on the hilt of her blade. The noise is in your skull now, worming its way through your thoughts. You strain your ears, trying to make sense of the sound. It¡¯s a pounding rhythm that could be boots on stone, the faint clash of metal on metal, and distant voices, too faint to parse. Your heart quickens, with every beat pounding like a sharp drumroll in your ears.
¡°They¡¯ve found us,¡± you whisper, chilled to the bone with fear.
Landera doesn¡¯t waste time. ¡°Get ready to move,¡± she snaps. Her hand gestures urgently toward Iker, who fumbles with his satchel.
The rumble grows louder, and the vibrations become more pronounced. You clutch the scroll tighter, securing it and desperate to protect it from whoever approaches. Every muscle in your body screams to run, but you stay rooted.
¡°Go,¡± Landera orders in a harsh whisper. ¡°We need to find cover. Now.¡±
Iker hesitates for just a heartbeat too long. Landera grabs him by the arm and hauls him forward. ¡°Move, unless you want to find out what¡¯s making that noise up close.¡±
The three of you slip into the nearest opening, a narrow fissure between two towering rock faces. The passage is tight, with jagged edges scraping against your shoulders as you push through. Above, loose gravel dislodges with every step, skittering down the incline. The rumbling grows louder, almost unbearable, vibrating through the mountain like a distant avalanche waiting to break free.
Your foot slips on an uneven outcrop, sending a small cascade of pebbles tumbling down the slope. You freeze, as your heart hammers against your ribs. The rumble falters, and just for a moment, there¡¯s silence. An unsettling, unnatural silence.
¡°Keep going,¡± Landera whispers harshly, her voice barely audible over the rush of blood in your ears. She pushes you forward, willing you to press on.
The narrow passage spits you out onto a windswept ledge. The jagged spine of the mountain stretches out before you. Towering rock formations cast fractured shadows under the faint starlight, with edges as sharp as broken obsidian. Landera halts suddenly, throwing up a hand. You stumble to a stop beside her, and your chest heaves with silent gasps as the thin mountain air does little to steady your breath.
¡°They¡¯re close,¡± she mutters nervously, her eyes fixed on the horizon.
You follow her gaze and feel your stomach twist. Bile climbs your throat and nearly escapes your lips. You see them. Dark shapes move in the distance, silhouettes barely discernible against the broken landscape.
One of them stops.
The figure turns, head tilting as though sniffing the air. You realize they¡¯re listening, waiting, sensing something. You hold in your breath, and you press yourself into the shadows, tightly clutching the scroll to your chest.
The figure raises an arm, pointing directly toward your hiding place.
Landera¡¯s grip tightens on your arm. ¡°Run,¡± she hisses.
Before you can react, a deafening roar erupts from the distant figures. Their voices rise in unison¡ªa cry of pursuit, a signal to hunt. The shadows surge forward, the pounding of their boots is now a stampede, heading straight for you.
168 - Teqosa
I wake with the taste of iron on my tongue and the cold bite of stone against my back. My chest aches¡ªnot the sharp pain of a wound, but a dull, hollow ache, like something vital has been ripped away. My hand drifts to my neck, searching for the weight of the amulet that should be there. My fingers find only bare skin. The absence feels heavier than the amulet ever did.
Around me, the world slowly comes into focus. Out of the haze, shapes sharpen. The jagged stone walls, the faint flicker of dying embers, the strained faces of those who must have carried me out of that nightmare. Walumaq crouches nearby, her jaw tight as she diligently monitors the shadows. Paxilche paces restlessly, his movements jittery like a storm looking for something to destroy. S¨ªqalat leans against the wall, clutching her spear in one hand with a distant gaze. Noticing I¡¯m stirring, Saqatli gently tugs at Walumaq¡¯s sleeve and directs her attention toward me.
¡°You¡¯re awake,¡± Walumaq says as relief flickers across her face. But no sooner than it appears, it¡¯s quickly buried beneath urgency. ¡°Can you move?¡±
I try to sit up, but my body resists and fights me. My limbs feel sluggish and heavy. A hand presses firmly on my shoulder, steadying me. Saqatli. His amber calm and watchful eyes meet mine. He doesn¡¯t speak, but strangely, I find his presence comforting.
¡°What happened?¡± My voice is a cracked and dry rasp.
¡°What do you think happened?¡± Paxilche snaps, still pacing. ¡°Xiatli happened. He walked through us like we were nothing. Like we didn¡¯t even exist. We¡¯re only alive because for whatever reason, he didn¡¯t pursue us. At least not urgently.¡±
My fingers curl into the dirt, grounding me as I wrestle with the fragments of my dream and the reality we¡¯ve returned to. Glimpses of that moment before my world turned black come to me, but they¡¯re lost in the haze of everything that occurred after. I can¡¯t determine what events happened when, and who was involved with what.
¡°Pomacha is gone,¡± Upachu says quietly from where he sits cradling Nochtl, the ocelot barely stirring in his arms. His voice is steady, but his expression is haunted. ¡°And we¡¯re lucky the rest of us aren¡¯t.¡±
Paxilche halts his pacing, crossing his arms with a sharp exhale. ¡°We¡¯re not lucky,¡± he mutters, his voice low. ¡°We¡¯re trapped. Outnumbered, outmatched, and barely holding on. It¡¯s only a matter of time before Xiatli and his savages hunt us down, and we have to confront him again.¡±
¡°We survived,¡± Walumaq interjects bitingly. ¡°All things considered, we¡¯re fortunate to have escaped with our lives. But he¡¯s right¡±¡ªshe sighs, casting her eyes to the ground and speaking to everyone and no one in particular¡ª¡°we can¡¯t stay here.¡±
¡°Where would we go?¡± Paxilche asks, voice rising. ¡°Every step we take just leads us deeper into his territory. There¡¯s nowhere safe. Not in Qiapu. Perhaps not anywhere. We don¡¯t even know what happened to the Eye in the Flame; they¡¯re still out there somewhere.¡±
Walumaq¡¯s gaze narrows. ¡°You¡¯re not helping. We find safety by making it. We don¡¯t sit here and wait to be hunted down.¡±
¡°And what about him?¡± Paxilche points toward me. ¡°How he¡¯s still alive is a clear blessing from the gods, but he can barely walk, let alone fight.¡±
¡°I¡¯ll manage,¡± I say, even though I¡¯m not sure it¡¯s true. I force myself to sit up, ignoring the way my body protests. The world tilts slightly, and my vision blurs, but I grip the rough fabric of my tunic and hold steady.
A faint sound echoes through the cavernous corridors. A rhythmic noise¡ªlow, deliberate, like heavy boots pounding against the loose rocks. Paxilche¡¯s eyes widen, and he jerks his head toward the direction of the disturbance.
¡°There¡¯s that noise again,¡± he notes, tightening his grip on his huge war club. ¡°I told you. They¡¯re already looking for us.¡±
The group stiffens as the sound grows louder, closer. Walumaq is the first to move, looking gravely in the direction of our pursuers. ¡°We can¡¯t wait for them to find us. Let¡¯s move.¡±
Atoyaqtli hefts my weight onto his shoulder without a word, wincing slightly, but powering through the strain. Upachu rises slowly, cradling Nochtl, while Saqatli positions himself protectively at the rear. S¨ªqalat joins Walumaq at the front, holding out her spear at the ready.
Walumaq gestures for us to follow, her eyes carefully inspecting the shadows ahead. ¡°Stay close,¡± she murmurs.
The group moves as one, slipping through the jagged passageways of the fractured rock formations. The air feels colder now, the natural walls pressing in closer as the faint light of the embers fades behind us.
No one speaks. The only sounds are the shuffle of our footsteps and the faint rustle of cloth and armor. My chest tightens with every step, with the absence of the amulet being a constant reminder of what we¡¯ve lost.
Though we¡¯ve tried our best to evade them, the footsteps grow louder. They¡¯re too deliberate to be aimless. Whoever is behind us must know the terrain better than we do. Walumaq gestures sharply, leading us through a narrow crevice in the stone. The rough walls scrape against my shoulders, forcing me to focus on the immediate moment and not the storm of thoughts swirling in my mind.
We reach a small clearing, and Walumaq signals for us to stop. Everyone presses into the shadows, weapons drawn, breaths held. The footsteps slow, and for a moment, the only sound is the distant hum of the wind through the arid landscape under the night sky.
Then, a voice rises¡ªa clipped command in a language I don¡¯t understand. It¡¯s followed by another, closer now. They must be the ones searching for us. My grip tightens on Atoyaqtli, who clutches me as we navigate this rugged terrain.
Walumaq¡¯s hand shoots up, signaling a halt. We press into the uneven grounds of the narrow crevasse. She peers ahead, investigating every shadow and corner. The faint light from the distant moon filters through a fractured opening in the natural ceiling, scattering patterns across the ground.
¡°This way,¡± she whispers, pointing in a direction with her head before advancing onward.
We follow her lead, the group moving tentatively through the caverns. Saqatli¡¯s footsteps are unnervingly quiet, and I¡¯m alarmed at how his movements are almost too smooth, too fluid. He lingers near Upachu, who struggles to carry Nochtl, with the ocelot limp in his arms. Atoyaqtli adjusts his grip on me as he continues to assist my clumsy movement. Paxilche takes up the rear, his gaze alertly darting back and forth. Storms swirl just around his palms as they begin to glow like lightning waiting for an excuse to erupt.
A faint scrape of stone ahead stops us in our tracks. Walumaq raises a hand again, her posture shifting as she crouches slightly. The sound grows louder, a shuffling noise, like someone¡ªor something¡ªis being dragged across the ground. My fingers twitch, instinctively seeking the weapon I no longer carry.
Paxilche leans close, his voice barely a breath. ¡°That¡¯s not them.¡±
¡°What do you mean?¡± S¨ªqalat asks. ¡°Then who?¡± Amidst the confusion, her grip on her spear never loosens.
Walumaq gestures for silence, her eyes narrowing as the sound fades. She motions for us to keep moving, stepping away more cautiously now.
The narrow path widens into a rocky overhang. Its ceiling is jagged and uneven, like the broken ribs of the mountain. Towering spires of stone jut from the ground, their weathered forms reaching skyward like the remnants of some ancient, crumbling spine. Walumaq inspects the area quickly before signaling us to stop.
¡°We¡¯ll rest here,¡± she says, barely audible. ¡°Just for a moment.¡±
Atoyaqtli carefully lowers me gently onto a flat slab of rock. Upachu settles beside me, with his weathered hands never leaving the ocelot¡¯s fur. Saqatli closely watches over his animal friend, whispering something like words of encouragement to her. Nochtl stirs faintly, her tail twitching, but she remains still, and her breathing continues to be shallow, much to Saqatli¡¯s chagrin.
Meanwhile, Paxilche¡¯s stormy demeanor doesn¡¯t waver. He grows restless in the short time we¡¯ve paused our escape, fidgeting with his tunic and shaking his head. ¡°We shouldn¡¯t stop. They¡¯re close.¡±
¡°We need to regroup,¡± Walumaq counters, her tone brooking no argument. ¡°We find a place to regroup. Somewhere to think. Somewhere to recover. Somewhere safe.¡±
¡°Safe?¡± Paxilche laughs bitterly, the sound hollow in the damp, lichen-scented air. ¡°Nothing is safe anymore. You think Xiatli¡¯s just going to let us go?¡±
¡°No,¡± she says firmly. ¡°But we can¡¯t fight him in this state. I know it. And deep down, so do you.¡±
I get the sense that something occurred between these two, something that has placed their trust in one another into question. The way they¡¯re so short with one another, how they are quick to confront the other, to challenge the other¡¯s opinions or observations. It¡¯s unsettling, and I worry what the fractures in their friendship means for us moving forward.
Support creative writers by reading their stories on Royal Road, not stolen versions.
We sit in the quiet, the kind of quiet that feels too fragile to last. Paxilche ultimately relents, muttering something under his breath. I lean against the jagged wall of rock, the cold seeping through the fabric of my tunic. Without having her eyes meet Paxilche¡¯s, Walumaq makes her way over to where I¡¯m resting and crouches beside me, her ocean blue tunic spilling around her onto the ground.
¡°How do you feel?¡± she asks softly, her piercing blue eyes looking upon me with great concern.
¡°Like I fell off a mountain,¡± I manage, sounding more like a croak. ¡°Twice.¡±
I adjust my posture slowly, but find that the movement makes my head spin. ¡°I saw her,¡± I say quietly, the words surprising even me. I¡¯m not sure what compels me to talk about it, yet I am too exhausted to resist.
Walumaq tilts her head slightly, furrowing her brow. ¡°Who?¡±
¡°Entilqan.¡± Her name feels strange on my tongue, like speaking it gives life to something I¡¯m not ready to face. ¡°In the dream¡ or whatever it was. She was there.¡±
¡°And what did she say?¡± Walumaq asks, leaning in closer now.
¡°She spoke of cycles,¡± I say, my gaze drifting to the jagged ceiling above us. ¡°Of ends feeding beginnings. Of¡ balance. I don¡¯t know what it means yet, but it felt important. Like she¡¯s trying to tell me something, to warn me about something, but I don¡¯t know what.¡±
¡°Entilqan was one of the Eleven. If she¡¯s reaching out to you, it¡¯s because she believes you can face whatever comes next.¡±
Overhearing us, Paxilche scoffs, breaking the moment. ¡°She could¡¯ve been more helpful if she told you of a way to survive the night.¡±
¡°We will,¡± Walumaq says firmly, her gaze snapping to him. ¡°We will find a way to persevere. Of this, I am certain.¡±
I let out a slow breath, as the ache in my chest eases slightly. The dream still lingers in the back of my mind. Who I saw. What occurred. I still can¡¯t make sense of it all, of what it¡¯s supposed to mean. But for now, I push it aside. There¡¯s too much at stake in this waking world to dwell on what I don¡¯t understand.
¡°We need to move soon,¡± I say, as I attempt to steady myself on the nearby rocks. ¡°If they¡¯re still looking for us, it won¡¯t take them long to pick up our trail.¡±
Walumaq nods, shifting her focus back to the group, and signals for us to move. She walks ahead, not stopping once to catch her breath, though I can see the stiffness in her movements, the way her shoulders stay just a little too tense. She thinks no one notices, but I do. I notice everything now.
Behind me, Paxilche mumbles something under his breath. It¡¯s clear that he¡¯s angry¡ªhe¡¯s always angry, I¡¯d argue¡ªbut this anger feels different. Restless. Like a fire burning too hot, too fast. I half-expect him to start another argument, but he doesn¡¯t. For now, he keeps pace, his storms brewing quietly beneath his skin.
Upachu lags behind with Saqatli, who still refuses to leave the ocelot¡¯s side. The old man moves like he¡¯s made of brittle wood, as though testing the ground for traps only he can see. Saqatli murmurs something to him, his voice low and soothing, meant more for the feline than the elder, I take it. The sight stirs something deep in my chest¡ªsomething close to admiration, or guilt, or maybe both. All of this is happening because I undertook this quest, and what fate and the Eleven and the gods have planned for us seems to only be occurring because I refuse to leave the secrets of Sualset and the Eleven alone. Or maybe there was never a choice to do so. Maybe this was always going to be my fate.
¡°Teqosa,¡± Walumaq says, breaking me out of my downward spiral. She doesn¡¯t look back, eyes fixed on the setting unfolding before us. ¡°Do you feel it?¡±
I don¡¯t answer right away. I know what she¡¯s talking about, but the words won¡¯t come. Instead, I close my eyes and let the world around me seep in. The air hums faintly, like a string plucked just out of tune. It¡¯s not a sound, exactly, but a resonance¡ªa pressure that sits behind the ears, just shy of pain. It¡¯s familiar, and that familiarity makes my skin crawl.
¡°Yes,¡± I say finally. ¡°Whatever it is, it¡¯s close.¡±
¡°What¡¯s close?¡± Paxilche demands. ¡°You keep talking about this¡ this feeling, but the rest of us can¡¯t see or feel a damn thing. What on Pachil do you keep going on about?¡±
Walumaq stops then, turning to face him. Her expression isn¡¯t angry, but there¡¯s something hard in her eyes, something unyielding. ¡°Just because you can¡¯t see it doesn¡¯t mean it isn¡¯t there,¡± she says evenly. ¡°You¡¯ve felt it before. In Analoixan. In Qasiunqa. Don¡¯t pretend you don¡¯t remember.¡±
Paxilche doesn¡¯t respond right away, but his jaw tightens. I can see the storms flickering in his irises. ¡°What I remember,¡± he says slowly, ¡°is almost dying. Over and over again. And every time, it¡¯s because we¡¯re chasing something we can¡¯t fight, or get lucky to survive.¡±
¡°We¡¯re not chasing anything,¡± Walumaq snaps, her calm finally cracking. ¡°We¡¯re defeating the evil that threatens the prosperity of Pachil. This was never going to be an easy quest, but it¡¯s a fight we must all undertake if humanity is to survive. And if you¡¯d stop looking to fight your allies, maybe you¡¯d see that.¡±
I step forward, placing myself between them before the sparks can catch. ¡°Alright, stop it, you two. We don¡¯t have time for this. Whatever happened between you two while I was¡.¡± I¡¯m not sure where I was, and I struggle for the words to explain it. ¡°You two need to figure it out.¡±
Walumaq¡¯s gaze flicks to mine, and for a moment, I think she¡¯s going to argue. But then she exhales sharply, turning away with a shake of her head. Paxilche doesn¡¯t look at me, his jaw set tight as he mutters something I can¡¯t quite catch. It¡¯s better this way. We can¡¯t afford another fracture.
¡°Where are we even going?¡± S¨ªqalat asks. She¡¯s been uncharacteristically quiet most of the journey. Now, though, there¡¯s an edge to her tone, a weariness that is a result of the exhaustion that has dulled her otherwise sharp observations. ¡°You keep leading us further into the shadows, but what¡¯s the plan? Where do we go? Where do we stop?¡±
Walumaq hesitates, just for a moment. ¡°We stop when we¡¯re safe,¡± she says finally. ¡°And not a moment before.¡±
¡°And where¡¯s safe?¡± Paxilche presses, his storms flickering again. ¡°Because the way I see it, we¡¯re running out of places to hide.¡±
Walumaq doesn¡¯t answer. She doesn¡¯t need to. The silence speaks for her.
I swallow hard, my gaze drifting to the horizon¡ªor what little I can see of it through the jagged cliffs and dim glow of the moon. The feeling is stronger now, the resonance buzzing at the base of my skull. Atoyaqtli follows close behind with his obsidian blade at the ready.
The mountainside opens before us like a raw wound in the stone. Its edges are splintered where time and erosion have carved their mark. Towering rock spires jut at odd angles, some leaning precariously as if frozen mid-collapse. The ground is uneven, fractured by deep crevices and strewn with loose shale that shifts underfoot. In the center of the clearing, a weathered rock formation¡ªonce a cairn, perhaps, or the remnants of an altar¡ªstands defiantly against the elements, half-buried by windblown debris. The distant wind howls as it threads through the peaks.
And then, there it is again. The faint shuffle of footsteps in the near distance. If I had to guess, I¡¯d believe that not a one of us dared to take a breath upon hearing the sound.
¡°Told you nowhere is safe,¡± Paxilche complains. ¡°We just walked right to them.¡±
¡°Stay close,¡± Walumaq whispers, ignoring Paxilche¡¯s remark. She doesn¡¯t look back, her focus fixed on the darkness ahead. ¡°And stay quiet.¡±
The sound grows louder, closer¡ªa measured rhythm that sets my teeth on edge. Everyone tenses, and Paxilche¡¯s storm is barely contained. We need to determine what our next move is, before he forces our hand.
¡°Three,¡± Atoyaqtli quietly informs us. ¡°Maybe four. They¡¯re moving together.¡±
Walumaq nods, then commands, ¡°Spread out. Keep to the edges. We don¡¯t know who we¡¯re dealing with, so use caution.¡±
We fan out, sticking to the shadows as best we can. The air feels colder now, with each breath of the chill mountain air feeling brittle in my chest.
The creeping figures slowly emerge from the shadows. Three of them, with features obscured by their hoods. Their clothing is strange, unlike anything I¡¯ve seen before¡ªlayers of muted fabric, belts and buckles that seem more ornamental than practical. They stop at the edge of the clearing, and I note how their silhouettes are stark against the faint light.
¡°Who are they?¡± Paxilche mutters, bringing his war club out in front of him. ¡°Zealots? Eye in the Flame?¡±
Walumaq is too focused on the strangers to answer. She takes a step forward, looking upon the figures with curiosity. ¡°They don¡¯t¡ move like those zealots,¡± she says measuredly. ¡°And they¡¯re unarmed. At least, visibly.¡±
One of the figures is clutching something in their hands. My eyes strain to make out what it is, and eventually, I determine it must be a scroll or parchment, with its edges frayed and worn. It¡¯s being secured tightly to their chest, as though they¡¯re protecting it from whatever threat they fear is out in the darkness. Perhaps we¡¯re that threat about which they¡¯re worried.
¡°What is that?¡± Atoyaqtli asks, his grip tightening on his blade as he holds it aloft.
¡°A trap,¡± Paxilche growls, his storms flickering brighter now, his hands glowing faintly. ¡°It has to be.¡±
¡°Wait,¡± Walumaq says, holding up a hand. ¡°Let¡¯s see what they want.¡±
The figure stops a few paces from us, the item still held tightly. Their companions remain behind warily, but not indicating any sign of aggressiveness.
¡°Can you understand us?¡± Walumaq calls out to them.
S¨ªqalat looks at her as though she has lost her mind. ¡°Are you mad? You don¡¯t know what their intentions are! Why are you risking our position?¡±
¡°They¡¯re invaders,¡± Paxilche spits, his storms flaring brighter. ¡°They don¡¯t belong here. This is most certainly a trap¡±
¡°It is not a trap,¡± Walumaq retorts, her eyes never leaving the strangers. ¡°They¡¯re just as scared of us as we are of them.¡±
¡°How can you be so sure,¡± Paxilche counters, his statement less a question than a fact.
¡°Lower your weapon, Paxilche,¡± Walumaq commands. She takes another step forward, staring him down as though to confront him, challenge him directly.
For a moment, I think he¡¯s going to defy her. His storms crackle faintly, his jaw tight with anger. But then he exhales, the energy fading from his eyes as he lowers his hand.
The strangers speak to one another, conversing. It¡¯s likely they¡¯re trying to figure out their next steps just as we are. There¡¯s this sense that we both might be running from the same threat.
¡°Why don¡¯t they say something?¡± S¨ªqalat wonders aloud. ¡°What are they waiting for?¡±
¡°They¡¯re scared,¡± Walumaq says without turning. So she agrees with my assessment, it appears. Good. Perhaps we can figure out what is going on, without any blood being needlessly shed.
¡°We need to act,¡± Paxilche hisses. ¡°We can¡¯t stand here waiting for them to make the first move.¡±
¡°Agreed,¡± S¨ªqalat mutters, drawing her spear and crouching down low. ¡°That they haven¡¯t done anything decisive yet makes me even more nervous.¡±
Atoyaqtli shifts beside me, adjusting his grip on his obsidian sword, while Walumaq, Upachu, and Saqatli look on anxiously.
I take a slow breath, steadying myself. The ache in my body lingers, a dull reminder of how close I came to dying in that cursed city. And yet¡ I step forward.
It¡¯s the only thing that makes sense.
¡°What are you doing?¡± Paxilche scolds in a whisper.
I ignore him.
Walumaq notices my movement and immediately stiffens. ¡°Teqosa¡ª¡±
¡°I¡¯ll go.¡±
The words leave me before I fully comprehend saying them.
Atoyaqtli¡¯s head snaps toward me. ¡°You¡¯re barely standing.¡±
With a grunt, I gingerly begin shuffling toward the three strangers. ¡°I¡¯m standing enough.¡±
Paxilche doesn¡¯t even try to mask his irritation. ¡°This is the dumbest¡ª¡±
¡°They¡¯ll see me as less of a threat,¡± I interrupt. ¡°Look at me. I¡¯m injured, limping, unarmed.¡±
¡°You are never unarmed,¡± Walumaq states. ¡°Here, you should take your¡ª¡°
I hold up a hand to silence her, then let out a quiet breath. I feel a flicker of a smile pull at the corner of my mouth.
She¡¯s right.
But I need to do this.
I¡¯ve spent my life watching others make choices about war and peace. I¡¯ve followed orders, carried out duties. But here, now, I choose.
Paxilche exhales sharply in both frustration and resignation. ¡°Fine. Get yourself killed if you want.¡±
¡°I won¡¯t.¡±
I push forward before anyone can say another word.
169 - Legido
The first thing you notice is the loud pounding in your chest, like a war drum, thum, thum, thum, driving you forward. The sound behind you¡ªthose relentless footsteps, that guttural murmur¡ªmatches the rhythm. You don¡¯t risk looking back. Looking back means slowing down, and slowing down means¡
Don¡¯t finish the thought. Instead, keep running.
Landera moves ahead, weaving through the treacherous terrain with the ease of something born to it. Iker lags behind, pale and panting as his muttered curses are barely audible over the rush of blood in your ears.
¡°Faster!¡± Landera calls, her voice sharp and urgent, cracking like a whip against the night. Her silhouette is barely visible in the faint starlight, a flicker of motion in the blackened wilderness.
Your foot catches on a jagged rock, and you stumble, clutching the scroll tighter to your chest as you lurch forward. The coarse parchment digs into your ribs, and you panic, hoping you didn¡¯t destroy the scroll in your clumsiness.
¡°This is madness,¡± Iker gasps from somewhere behind you. ¡°We don¡¯t even know who¡ªwhat¡ªis chasing us!¡±
You know he¡¯s right, but that doesn¡¯t seem to matter right now. Not when the threat¡ªwhatever it is¡ªis breathing down your neck. Not when every instinct screams at you to move, to keep moving, to run until your legs give out.
The ground shifts beneath your feet, loose stones tumbling away with every hurried step. The narrow path winds unpredictably, forcing you to navigate by instinct more than sight. The air is thin, each breath grating against your throat. Nevertheless, you push on.
Ahead, Landera pauses just long enough to glance back at you. Her eyes glint with a mixture of frustration and something sharper. Fear, maybe. She¡¯s about to say something, but then the noise behind you swells. It¡¯s closer now. They¡¯re gaining on you. You can almost feel their presence bearing down upon you.
¡°Move!¡± she shouts desperately.
You surge forward, ignoring the burning in your legs. The path narrows again. The natural walls of the gorge close in like the jaws of some great beast. The shadows seem alive, shifting with each step. For a moment, you swear you see movement ahead¡ªsomething tall, dark, and impossibly fast.
The thought barely registers before Landera skids to a halt. Her hand shoots up in a silent command to stop. You slam into her back, nearly losing your grip on the scroll.
¡°What now?¡± you think you whisper, except maybe your voice carries further and louder than you realize, what with your heartbeat pounding in your ears.
She doesn¡¯t answer immediately. Her head tilts slightly, as her eyes scan the darkness ahead. Iker finally catches up, as his breaths come in ragged gasps. ¡°Why are we stopping?¡± he dares to question.
Without look at him, Landera says, simply, ¡°Listen.¡±
You strain your ears, trying to make sense of the sounds around you. The footsteps behind you have grown fainter, but they haven¡¯t stopped. And ahead¡
There¡¯s something else. A faint rustle, like fabric brushing against stone. The soft crunch of gravel underfoot.
Someone¡ªor something¡ªis out there.
Landera¡¯s hand moves to the knife at her belt. ¡°Stay close,¡± she murmurs, her tone leaving no room for argument. She takes a cautious step forward, her movements as silent as the shadows themselves.
You follow, your grip on the scroll tightening until your knuckles ache. Iker mutters something under his breath¡ªanother complaint, another curse¡ªbut he falls in line behind you.
Your mind races, replaying the recent events, trying to piece together who could be out there. The restless natives? Xiatli¡¯s zealots? Or something worse?
Your foot slips on a loose stone, and the sound echoes louder than it should. Landera freezes, her head snapping toward you with a glare that could cut through iron.
¡°Sorry,¡± you mouth with a wince, knowing she is already not your biggest supporter as of late. She doesn¡¯t respond, just turns back toward the path ahead. The rustling sound grows louder, more deliberate, and your heart sinks as a dark figure steps into view.
He stands like a figure carved from the land itself¡ªtall and almost daunting, his lean, muscled frame barely contained by his black tunic with yellow or gold threads. His dark hair is pulled back from his face and falls like the shadows of leaves swaying in a forest breeze. It frames a stoic expression, and his jaw is set while he gazes at you without any emotion. There¡¯s a gravity to the way he moves, as though he¡¯s never known uncertainty in his steps.
In his hands rests a weapon unlike any you¡¯ve seen¡ªa long staff-like pole with a blade affixed to its end. The shaft is etched with intricate symbols that pulse faintly with an otherworldly blue hue, as if the markings themselves are alive with energy. A crescent blade of obsidian shimmers unnaturally, reflecting a spectrum of colors like oil on water. It hums faintly in the still air with a presence all of its own.
Is this a god? Someone of Xiatli¡¯s ilk? You don¡¯t know who he is, but you don¡¯t need to. Everything about him¡ªthe way he moves, the way he stands¡ªtells you exactly what you¡¯re dealing with.
A warrior.
Landera steps in front of you with her dagger held low but at the ready. ¡°Stay behind me,¡± she whispers.
Iker doesn¡¯t move. His eyes are wide, his hands trembling slightly as he stares at the figure. ¡°Who¡ who is that?¡± he sputters out his whispered question.
The scroll now feels hot in your hand. The dry and cold mountain air bites at your skin, but your palm sweats against the rough parchment. Your grip tightens reflexively, as though you fear it might slip away if you don¡¯t hold on hard enough. The warrior doesn¡¯t move, his broad frame silhouetted against the faint glow of the moonlight. There¡¯s something almost reverent in his expression, like he¡¯s seeing something he thought had been lost forever.
¡°Maybe¡¡± Landera wonders aloud, ¡°he wants something. Maybe you should give him the scroll. We can run while he looks at it and is distracted.¡±
¡°I¡¯m not giving it to him,¡± you whisper, though the words come out weak and unconvincing. They¡¯re not even for her, really. They¡¯re for you, a last-ditch effort to anchor yourself against the tide of doubt swelling in your chest.
The warrior still doesn¡¯t speak, nor reacts to the exchange you¡¯re having. His stillness is maddening, the kind of quiet that leaves too much room for your imagination to fill in the gaps. You can feel Landera stiffen beside you, every muscle in her lean frame coiled tight. Behind you, Iker fidgets, the faint rustle of his satchel grating against your nerves. You can hear his ragged and shallow breathing, like he¡¯s trying not to panic, but failing miserably.
¡°Landera, what do we do?¡± he whispers with a trembling voice.
¡°Just stay quiet,¡± she snaps, her words clipped, and her eyes never leaving the warrior.
You glance back at Iker. His hands now clutch the strap of his satchel so tightly his knuckles have gone white. He¡¯s half-hidden behind you, like he thinks you¡¯ll shield him if things go south. The fear in his eyes is a mirror of your own, and for a moment, you hate him for it. You¡¯re all scared, but somehow, seeing it on his face makes yours feel worse.
The warrior shifts. It¡¯s subtle¡ªjust a tilt of his head, a small fraction¡ªbut it feels monumental in the oppressive silence. His gaze flickers briefly to you, then back to the scroll, like he¡¯s measuring the distance between himself and it, calculating something you can¡¯t quite follow. He raises a hand, and you immediately flinch, fearing and expecting the worst. Except his gesture is not done as a threat, but in question. His palm opens and his fingers are relaxed. The motion is slow, deliberate, almost gentle.
There¡¯s something in the way he moves¡ªor rather, doesn¡¯t move¡ªthat gives you pause. He doesn¡¯t have the stance of someone about to strike. His grip on that strange weapon is loose and easy, like he¡¯s ready to respond, but not eager to. His eyes keep glancing back to the scroll, and there¡¯s something in them¡ not anger, not even threat, but something quieter. Curiosity, maybe. Or recognition.
¡°Yeah, he definitely wants the scroll,¡± Landera says, now a bit flatly. ¡°That¡¯s all he¡¯s after.¡±
¡°And I¡¯m not giving it to him,¡± you say again, this time with more force, like repeating it will make it true.
The warrior takes a small step forward. It¡¯s not aggressive, not even fast, but your body reacts anyway. Your legs stiffen, your heart pounds against your ribs, and you can feel the blood rushing in your ears. He calmly points at the scroll now with a steady hand.
Then, he speaks. The words are a low, deep murmur that rolls like distant thunder. You don¡¯t understand them, not a single syllable, but there¡¯s a musicality to the language, to what he¡¯s telling you. If you didn¡¯t know any better, you¡¯d believe the words to be almost¡ kind.
¡°What¡¯s he saying?¡± Iker asks. ¡°Do you understand him? What is he saying?¡±
¡°How am I supposed to know?¡± Landera snaps, her patience fraying. ¡°Does it seem like I understand him?¡±
If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. Please report it.
You don¡¯t know what to do. Every instinct screams at you to run, but your legs won¡¯t move. Your fingers clutch the scroll tighter¡ªit¡¯s all you can think to do. The warrior¡¯s gaze shifts again, meeting yours directly now. There¡¯s no malice there, only a question, and it makes your stomach twist in ways you don¡¯t understand.
Then, his eyes widen slightly, his expression shifting into something closer to wonder. His hand lowers slowly, and he murmurs another string of words you can¡¯t understand. But once again, his tone is soft. He points again, not at you this time, but at the scroll.
¡°What do we do?¡± Iker whispers again. ¡°What does he want? Is he going to kill us?¡±
¡°Look at him,¡± Landera states. ¡°He¡¯s not attacking. He¡¯s waiting. He doesn¡¯t want to fight us.¡±
¡°And how would you know that?¡± The words tumble out of you before you can stop them, before you realize how defensive you sound. ¡°For all we know, he¡¯s just waiting for the perfect moment to¡ª¡±
¡°Think,¡± Landera cuts in. ¡°If he wanted the scroll badly enough to kill us for it, he would¡¯ve already done it. He¡¯s not a fool. He¡¯s¡ negotiating.¡±
¡°Negotiating?!¡± Iker¡¯s voice is a strangled whisper. ¡°You call this negotiating?¡±
¡°Iker, shut up,¡± Landera barks. ¡°This isn¡¯t a fight we win. I mean, look at him! So, unless you¡¯ve got a better idea¡¡±
Her unfinished words hang, daring you to find a counterargument. But you or Iker can¡¯t. Not because you don¡¯t have one, but because the warrior¡¯s gaze is back on you. You can feel it pulling the air from your lungs.
Your hand trembles as you hold the scroll a fraction closer to your chest. ¡°What if it¡¯s a trick?¡±
¡°Then it¡¯s a risk we have to take,¡± Landera says, her voice suddenly calm now. ¡°If you¡¯re wrong, we die. If I¡¯m wrong¡¡± She doesn¡¯t finish the sentence.
You exhale shakily, hearing the crinkle as your grip loosens just enough to feel the parchment shift in your hands. The edges are frayed, the fibers worn soft from years of handling. You¡¯d risked everything for it¡ªnearly lost everything for it. And now you¡¯re about to give it up.
You hesitate for a heartbeat, then, reluctantly, extend the scroll toward the warrior. Steadily and calmly, he reaches for it, treating the object like it¡¯s something sacred¡ªsomething fragile that he¡¯s been searching for a very long time. When his hands close around the parchment, you notice the faint tremor in his fingers, though his expression remains calm. Contemplative. He glances at you briefly, then back at the scroll, unrolling it with great care.
Having braced for a confrontation, Landera now exhales quietly beside you. Though her hand remains loosely at her side, brushing the hilt of her knife, the tension in her posture eases just a fraction. Her eyes dart between the warrior and the scroll, then to you, her brows knitting together in something closer to uncertainty.
The warrior¡¯s gaze fixes on the parchment, his brow furrowing as his finger traces the symbols etched into its surface. He mutters something low and rhythmic, like he¡¯s speaking more to himself than to any of you. There¡¯s something about the way he examines the scroll, like it¡¯s both familiar and strange, that sends a ripple of unease through you.
¡°What¡¯s he doing?¡± Landera asks to nobody in particular, just questioning aloud.
¡°I don¡¯t know,¡± you murmur back, your curiosity piqued. ¡°Maybe he¡ recognizes it?¡±
Landera¡¯s gaze lingers on him for a moment longer, then shifts to Iker, who¡¯s been more quiet than usual. He¡¯s standing a few steps behind you, his eyes fixed on the scroll. His lips are slightly parted, as though he¡¯s caught on something. You see his brow furrow, his mouth working silently, and then he takes a hesitant step forward.
¡°Wait,¡± Iker says wondrously. ¡°I¡¯ve¡ I¡¯ve seen that before.¡±
Both you and Landera turn to him in unison. ¡°What are you talking about?¡± Landera asks, more out of curiosity than being dismissive.
Iker doesn¡¯t answer immediately. He¡¯s too engaged with deciphering what¡¯s on the parchment. He moves closer, his attention locked on the scroll. ¡°That symbol,¡± he says, pointing to one of the markings near the top. You worry that his reaction will startle the warrior into attacking, but the stranger only watches with subtle interest. ¡°I¡¯ve seen it before. Back in Rexurdir. On the old buildings. It was carved into the stone above the main hall¡ªright in the center, above the arch.¡±
Landera blinks, her mouth opening slightly in surprise. ¡°What? Are you sure?¡±
Iker nods, and you can see and feel his confidence swelling. ¡°It was always there, weathered and half-hidden by the ivy, but I remember it. I used to pass by it every day on my way to the library.¡±
The warrior¡¯s gaze snaps to Iker. His eyes narrow slightly as he studies your friend. Not with hostility, but with a sharp, assessing curiosity. He shifts the scroll slightly, turning it to reveal more of the symbols, and then glances at Iker again, as though inviting him to continue.
¡°I think¡¡± Iker starts, pausing as he studies the scroll more carefully. He takes another step closer, gesturing toward the parchment. ¡°I think it¡¯s part of a name. Or maybe a title. There were other symbols like it on the wooden columns and beams inside the hall, but I never knew what they meant. Nobody ever explained them. They were just¡ there.¡±
¡°Relics?¡± Landera questions, mystified. She glances at the warrior, then back at Iker. ¡°Were they placed in some position of prominence, like near a council chamber or something?¡±
¡°I don¡¯t know,¡± Iker admits, shaking his head, now sounding extremely disappointed that he has no answer, no clear memory of the symbols¡¯ locations and significance. ¡°But they were old. Older than the Founding, older than anything else in Rexurdir. Like they didn¡¯t belong there. Like they were¡ transported there, from another time or place.¡±
The warrior¡¯s lips move again, forming words you don¡¯t understand, like he¡¯s attempting to sound out the words or find meaning in the symbols. He points to another symbol, this one near the bottom of the scroll, and looks at Iker expectantly.
¡°I¡¡± Iker falters, his brow creasing as he stares at the marking. ¡°I don¡¯t know that one.¡± Iker is just about to give up, when he notices something. ¡°But¡ wait.¡± He tilts his head, his eyes narrowing in thought. ¡°It¡¯s similar to one of the symbols on the columns. Almost the same, but not quite. The ones on the columns were¡ bigger. More elaborate.¡±
He looks up at the warrior, his expression equal parts confusion and determination. ¡°Does that mean something to you? Is this¡ is this connected to your people? Or to this land?¡±
The warrior doesn¡¯t respond verbally, clearly unable to determine what Iker is saying to him. But there¡¯s something in his eyes that might be recognition¡ªor confirmation. He points again, this time to the entire scroll, then gestures outward with a sweeping motion, as though encompassing the mountains, the land, everything around you.
¡°I think it¡¯s part of a name,¡± Iker suggests. ¡°There were these inscriptions at the hall¡ªjust fragments¡ªbut I think they kept referring to something, or someone. A title, maybe. Or a place.¡±
The warrior¡¯s hand shifts slightly, his finger tracing one of the symbols with intentional care. He speaks again, his tone rising and falling like the ebb of a tide. It¡¯s almost hypnotic, the way the sounds flow, and for a moment, you wonder if the symbols are tied to his language.
¡°What are you saying?¡± Iker whispers, his frustration bubbling just beneath the surface. He steps back, his eyes darting between the scroll and the warrior as his shoulders sag from disappointment. ¡°I don¡¯t¡ I can¡¯t make sense of this.¡±
Landera stops pacing abruptly¡ªwas she always doing that during this moment? Her head snaps toward the ridge line as if she can feel them coming. The threat, whatever it is. Her knife is already in her hand, gripped tightly as her muscles tense. Iker freezes, his wide eyes darting toward the path behind you, clutching the scroll.
You glance at the warrior, and he¡¯s already standing at attention. His mysterious weapon is held poised and ready. The eerie blue glow of the etched symbols on the shaft seems to pulse faintly, almost like it¡¯s alive, matching one¡¯s heartbeat. He hasn¡¯t spoken a word, but it¡¯s clear that he¡¯s prepared to fight, as he has been trained to do, even if the rest of you aren¡¯t.
And then you hear it again¡ªthe crunch of gravel, the scrape of boots against stone. This time, the sound is unmistakable. They¡¯re close. Too close.
¡°They¡¯re here,¡± Landera whispers harshly, almost panicked. Contradicting her tone, however, it¡¯s evident that she¡¯s about to dive headfirst into a losing fight.
¡°We need to move. Now.¡±
The group doesn¡¯t wait for a plan. There isn¡¯t time. The moment bursts into chaos as you scatter, each of you moving in a different direction. You want to shout to Landera, to stay close, but you don¡¯t want to give away your position, so you resist. But there¡¯s a pang of regret as you watch her disappear into the shadows. You grab Iker¡¯s arm and drag him with you, his feet stumbling as he struggles to keep up.
The harsh syllables of the voices grow louder. You can¡¯t understand the words, so you start to think that maybe these are more of the warrior¡¯s companions. But you know, deep down, you just can¡¯t take that chance. They¡¯re closing in, and you feel as though they¡¯re herding you like prey toward some unseen trap. Your stomach twists at the thought, but there¡¯s no time to dwell on it.
¡°This way!¡± you whisper at Iker, yanking him toward a narrow gap between two jagged boulders. The passage is barely wide enough to squeeze through, and the rough stone scrapes against your arms and legs as you force your way forward. Iker lets out a grunt of pain as he catches his elbow on a sharp edge, but he doesn¡¯t stop moving.
A sudden clatter of rocks behind you sends a jolt of panic through your chest. You glance back just in time to see a shadowy figure silhouetted against the moonlit ridge. Your heart lurches as the figure raises something¡ªa weapon, maybe¡ªand you duck instinctively as a sharp crack echoes through the canyon. A burst of stone explodes near your head, showering you with dust and shards.
¡°They¡¯re shooting at us!¡± Iker cries, his voice cracking with fear.
¡°No kidding!¡± you snap, pulling him forward with renewed urgency. Your foot catches on a raised root from a nearby gnarled tree, and you begin to tumble. Iker lets out a small yelp as he haplessly reaches for you. Fortunately, you barely manage to catch yourself before you fall.
Ahead of you, the gap opens into a narrow ledge overlooking a steep drop. The wind howls through the canyon as you gradually make your way along the precarious path. Iker clings to the wall with sharp, panicked gasps. Behind you, the voices grow louder, accompanied by the clatter of weapons and the steady drumbeat of boots on the ground.
¡°We¡¯re not going to make it,¡± Iker remarks.
¡°Keep moving,¡± you command, refusing to let the fear take hold. ¡°We don¡¯t have a choice. We must keep going.¡±
The ledge narrows further. You¡¯re forced to press your back against the cold rock as you edge your way forward. Telling yourself to not look down does you no good, and you look down anyway. You can¡¯t resist. The drop below is dizzying. The jagged rocks wait like teeth to catch anyone who has the misfortune of falling. You immediately regret looking down.
A sudden shout from above draws your attention, and you glance up to see another figure silhouetted against the ridge line. They¡¯re moving fast, too fast, and you realize with a sinking feeling that they¡¯re trying to cut you off. You don¡¯t have time to think¡ªonly to act.
¡°Jump!¡± you yell, grabbing Iker and shoving him toward the edge.
¡°What?!¡± he shrieks, his eyes wide with terror.
¡°Just do it!¡± you shout, not giving him a chance to argue. You leap first. The wind tears at your clothes as you sail through the air. The ground rushes up to meet you, and you land hard. The impact jars every bone in your body, almost loosening them from their joints. Pain shoots through your legs, but you force yourself to roll and keep moving.
To your pleasant surprise, Iker lands beside you, though it¡¯s with a graceless thud. He lets out a pained yelp as he sprawls onto the rocky ground. You grab him by the arm and haul him to his feet, ignoring his protests and complaints as you push forward.
The terrain levels out slightly, giving you a brief reprieve from the treacherous climb. But the voices are still there, closer than ever. You know you¡¯re running out of time. Your legs burn with exhaustion, your lungs feel like they¡¯re about to collapse. But you can¡¯t stop. You can¡¯t stop.
Ahead of you, the warrior appears again, though his figure is barely visible in the dim moonlight. He doesn¡¯t look back, doesn¡¯t wait for you to catch up. Instead, he raises his weapon. But rather than swing it at an incoming foe, he points it toward a narrow crevice in the rocks.
You don¡¯t question him. ¡°This way,¡± you state to Iker. You shove him toward the crevice. The walls close in around you as you delve deeper into the shadows. But even here, you can¡¯t escape the sound of pursuit. The distorted and disorienting voices echo through the canyon. You grit your teeth and push forward, your mind racing with half-formed plans and futile prayers, out of habit. Who are you even praying to? Xiatli? No, you don¡¯t want Him to find you. Not here, not now.
And then, just as the path begins to widen, you hear it¡ªthe unmistakable sound of rocks shifting, the sharp crack of stone giving way.
You don¡¯t have time to react. The ground beneath your feet collapses, and the world tilts violently as you fall into the darkness below.
170 - Haesan
The crumbled remains of what was once a window frames a fractured view of the chaos below. I watch the courtyard as though staring hard enough might force it into order. Once a monument to Tapeu elegance, the palace grounds now feel like the skeletal remains of a dream. Workers move in uneven rhythms, lifting beams, and hammering stone into what can only be described as temporary repairs. Dust hangs in the air like a curtain no wind is strong enough to pull aside. Much work has been done, yet, sadly, so much more work remains.
Somewhere behind me, a clay plate sits untouched. Its contents cool under the dim morning light of the room. The rich aroma of atole and roasted maize lingers in the air, mingling with the fainter scent of fresh tamales wrapped in steaming banana leaves. A piece of golden fruit that¡¯s ripened to perfection has been sliced neatly beside a bowl of thick cacao, and its surface is still dusted with the ghost of foam that has long since dissipated. It should be comforting. It should be familiar. But the food may as well be stone for all the attention I can give it.
The quipu rests heavily at my side. The fibers feel rough against my palm as I run my fingers over the knots. I don¡¯t know why I keep touching it¡ªit won¡¯t give up its meaning any more than the embers can be asked to explain their smoke. I keep hearing her words. I come not to celebrate. I come because the embers still smolder.
It¡¯s maddening. What fire, grandmother? What flames do you see that I don¡¯t? I grip the deteriorated edges of the windowsill under my fingers. My thoughts are running wild, and there¡¯s no space to outrun them. The courtyard doesn¡¯t help. Everything there speaks of ruin. The scattered debris, the workers¡¯ faces creased with exhaustion, the ache of what this place once was.
When I was a child, I used to run barefoot through the shaded courtyards of my family¡¯s estate in Chopaqte. The scent of crushed hibiscus was thick in the air, and my nursemaid¡¯s voice was always calling after me to slow down. The fountains there were alive with green and gold light, their water so clear I could see the carved stone fish resting at the bottom.
Qapauma¡¯s fountains are silent now. Their basins are cracked, and their once-proud sculptures¡ªthose that survived the slew of assaults on the capital city¡ªhave been swallowed by vines. The gardens that once framed the palace in color have turned brittle and gray, and the air is filled with the scent of dust and old stone.
Everything is a ruin now, I think. Not just the palace. Not just Qapauma. Everything. And it all feels like its capability for renewal sits squarely on my shoulders.
I glance back at the quipu, as though the knots might suddenly untangle into something useful. They don¡¯t. Instead, Nuqasiq¡¯s warning rings in my mind again.
I pull the quipu tighter into my grasp, hating how much her words have unsettled me. Is it a warning? A threat? A promise? Her timing, her cryptic phrases¡ what can they mean? Should I be worried?
The door creaks behind me. A servant enters, his footsteps careful as though afraid to disturb my thoughts. He bows slightly, his head low. ¡°Quya,¡± he says softly, cautiously. ¡°The council is gathering.¡±
¡°Thank you,¡± I reply. He doesn¡¯t linger, doesn¡¯t wait for me to add anything more, retreating just as quietly as he came.
I turn back to the courtyard one last time. With their slow and uncoordinated movements, the workers below are struggling with a shattered beam. Each strain of muscle, each groan of effort, feels like a reflection of my own state. They¡¯re trying to rebuild something they don¡¯t believe in, I realize. And I¡¯m asking them to do it anyway.
The thought weighs heavier than the quipu. I tuck it into my sash, as its fibers press into my side like a brand. There¡¯s no time to linger, no time to let this spiral of doubt swallow me whole. The meeting with Maqochi and the Qantua leaders looms ahead, and if I don¡¯t have answers for them, they¡¯ll find their own¡ªanswers I won¡¯t like.
The corridors feel colder as I move through them. The once-polished floors are dull and gritty underfoot. My footsteps echo faintly, reminding me of how empty this place feels now. I pass by a fractured mural, with its colors dulled and chipping away. I¡¯m struck by how much it mirrors the state of the world I¡¯ve inherited. Not built. Inherited.
I reach the doors to the council chamber and hesitate. What lies beyond presses against me like a tide threatening to spill through the cracks. I find it difficult to calm myself, to will myself into the room. I know I must, but I struggle to persevere.
The words of Maqochi, Yachaman, and even Inuxeq from the last meeting churn in my mind. Their doubts, their challenges, their questions. All of it feels like a storm I can¡¯t control, a tide I can¡¯t hold back.
I press my palm against the door, taking a steadying breath. You can¡¯t hold back the tide, but you can ride it. The thought doesn¡¯t feel comforting, but it¡¯s something. I straighten my back, lifting my chin, and push the door open.
The council awaits, and with it, the fire I¡¯ve been tasked to quench.
The council chamber feels colder than it should, with a quiet hostility in the air that clings to the room like the dust in its neglected corners. The Qantua leaders sit in a loose semicircle and scowl, and their postures vary between being guarded and openly defiant. These are the faces of people who¡¯ve endured war, who¡¯ve tasted victory and loss in equal measure, and who now find themselves caught between loyalty and survival.
Maqochi stands beside me, and I find his broad frame to be a silent anchor in the shifting currents of their moods. His presence is supposed to lend me strength, and it does, but it¡¯s also a reminder of how tenuous this moment is. Maqochi¡¯s loyalty is solid, but it¡¯s not gentle. He¡¯s a hammer in a room full of cracked clay, and I¡¯m trying to rebuild without breaking what¡¯s left.
¡°Thank you for coming,¡± I begin, trying to steady my voice steady despite the pressure threatening to choke me. ¡°I know many of you would rather be home. That¡¯s what I want for you, too. For all of us. But we¡¯re not done yet.¡±
A low murmur ripples through the group, quiet enough to seem like agreement at first, but the edge in their tones cuts deeper the longer it lingers. One of the leaders¡ªa man with a weathered face and a scar running from his temple to his jaw¡ªcrosses his arms. He doesn¡¯t speak, but the way his gaze narrows feels as though he¡¯s waiting for the right moment to strike down my statement of declaration to them.
Nevertheless, I press on. ¡°We¡¯ve all fought to protect our homes, our families, the factions to which we are loyal, and to Pachil. To push back the darkness that threatened to swallow us. And we won. But that darkness hasn¡¯t disappeared. It¡¯s only waiting, growing stronger while we turn away.¡±
Maqochi steps forward, appearing as though he¡¯s already heard enough, though I¡¯ve only just begun. ¡°Do you all really think Taqsame will be the one to lead Qantua into something better? You think once he takes the throne, he¡¯ll stop? That the war ends there? It won¡¯t. It never will¡ªnot for him. Because Taqsame doesn¡¯t want peace. He wants power. And you all know it.¡±
A few faces harden, but no one speaks.
Maqochi presses on in frustration. ¡°He doesn¡¯t see Qantua as something to be strengthened¡ªhe sees it as something to control. The moment he sits that throne, he¡¯ll need another war to keep his claim. First, it will be the factions that didn¡¯t bend the knee. Then it¡¯ll be the ones who did, but aren¡¯t loyal enough. Then, when no enemies remain, he¡¯ll turn to us¡ªbecause men like him always need someone to fight.¡±
The murmur grows louder, more agitated. A woman with silver streaks in her braids shakes her head. ¡°We¡¯ve given everything we had,¡± she says wearily. ¡°Qantua has given its sons, its daughters, its land and resources. And now you want more, for us to resist our own.¡±
Before I can respond, another leader¡ªthis one younger, his tunic still bearing the stains of the battlefield¡ªcuts in. ¡°The real war is over,¡± he says. ¡°Our duty is done. You can¡¯t command us anymore.¡±
Maqochi¡¯s jaw tightens, and for a moment, I think he might snap back. Instead, he looks to me with his hard and unyielding eyes. The room feels like it¡¯s closing in, the walls pressing against my ribs. Everything is still so fragile. Somehow, I must find a way to meet this challenge. Think, I command myself. Think¡
¡°You¡¯re right,¡± I say quietly, calmly. ¡°You¡¯ve given more than anyone should ever have to. And if I could tell you to go home, to rest, to rebuild, I would. But if we let Taqsame rise, if we let him tear apart what we¡¯ve started to rebuild, then all of this¡ªall of your sacrifices¡ªwill be for nothing.¡±
The scarred man leans forward with skepticism clear across his marked face. ¡°And what makes you think you¡¯re any different? You speak of unity, and that¡¯s a sweet sentiment. What young and hopeful ruler doesn¡¯t claim to want peace? But all I see is another Tapeu leader trying to drag the rest of us into Tapeu problems. The Qantua must take care of their own, and their future, however that must be done.¡±
This content has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.
¡°This isn¡¯t about Tapeu,¡± I reply. ¡°This is about Pachil. About all of us. Taqsame doesn¡¯t care about unity or sovereignty. He cares about power. He¡¯ll use any means to take it. And he¡¯ll wield it any way he chooses, against any and all he deems a threat¡ªincluding his own people.¡±
The murmurs rise again, louder this time. My declaration may be somewhat speculative, certainly, but it¡¯s steeped in truth¡ªthat, I am absolutely most confident. Maqochi abruptly steps in. ¡°She¡¯s right, and you know it. You think Taqsame will fight for you? For Qantua sovereignty? The only thing he cares about is his own ambition.¡±
It appears that his words don¡¯t land the way he intends. A woman in the back stands with her piercing gaze. ¡°And what if that ambition actually aligns with ours? He¡¯s promised us a chance to rebuild, to lead ourselves without answering to Tapeu or anyone else.¡±
The revelation sends a shockwave through the room, and I feel the ground shift beneath me. My mind races, scrambling for a response, but it¡¯s Maqochi who reacts first.
¡°His promises are lies,¡± he scoffs in disbelief, teetering on the edge of fury. ¡°You¡¯ve seen what he¡¯s capable of. What he did to the innocent Aimue. The blood on his hands isn¡¯t just Tapeu¡¯s¡ªit¡¯s ours. He doesn¡¯t care about you. He doesn¡¯t care about Pachil. He cares about the throne, and what catastrophes he can conduct from it.¡±
The leaders exchange doubtful glances. I take a calming, deep breath, then force myself into their line of sight. ¡°I know you¡¯re scared,¡± I say, softer now, even among the din of debate and deliberations. ¡°I am, too. But we can¡¯t let that fear divide us. If we stand together, we can stop him. But if we let him turn us against each other, against the other factions seeking to defend Pachil in the name of peace, then he¡¯s already won.¡±
The room falls into a tense silence. For a moment, no one speaks. No one moves. Blinking even comes across as seeming to be too loud. And then, slowly, the scarred man nods.
¡°You speak well, Quya,¡± he says with grudging respect. ¡°For a young ruler, I admire your drive, your passion. But words won¡¯t be enough.¡±
I meet his gaze, refusing to let nerves interfere. ¡°You¡¯re right,¡± I confess. ¡°Words alone won¡¯t stop Taqsame. But neither will wars we cannot afford. Neither will¡ª¡±
¡°Taqsame isn¡¯t some distant threat,¡± Maqochi interrupts, too infuriated to sit silently. ¡°He¡¯s already moving, plotting, scheming, preparing. Not joining his misguided cause will absolutely paint a target onto your backs, but running is not an option. You think you can hide in Qantua lands? He¡¯ll find you. He¡¯ll break you. The only chance we have is to stand together.¡±
¡°And follow her?¡± one of the younger leaders shoots back, gesturing toward me. ¡°A Tapeu ruler who claims to care about Pachil but sits on a throne built on the backs of the rest of us?¡±
¡°All Taqsame can offer you,¡± I respond, looking directly into the young leader¡¯s eyes, ¡°is endless battle, endless sacrifice. A fire that never stops burning until nothing is left of Pachil but ash.¡±
I see it in their faces, the lines of doubt, of anger, of fear they won¡¯t address. ¡°You call yourselves warriors, and you are. But warriors don¡¯t just fight¡ªthey choose their battles. And the greatest battle is knowing when to fight, and when to build something worth fighting for. You think Taqsame will give you that choice? No. He wants to rule through you, not with you. To use Qantua¡¯s strength for his own, until you¡¯re too bloodied, too broken to resist him.¡±
They stare at me curiously, but I press on nonetheless. ¡°I know what you¡¯ve lost,¡± I say, my voice quieter now but no less resolute. ¡°Your sons. Your daughters. I¡¯ve seen it. Felt it. And I know it wasn¡¯t just the Eye in the Flame that took them from you.¡±
The younger leader bristles, clenching his fists at his sides. ¡°Careful, Quya,¡± he warns. ¡°You tread on dangerous ground.¡±
¡°I know,¡± I say, refusing to back down. ¡°But you¡¯re not wrong to question me. The factions have been at each other¡¯s throats for generations, well before the Timuaq came to power. We¡¯ve all suffered because of it. But we can¡¯t keep fighting each other while Taqsame tears us apart. He¡¯s the real enemy, and we can¡¯t afford to lose sight of that.¡±
¡°Easy for you to say,¡± the scarred man retorts. ¡°You sit in a palace while we bury our dead.¡±
The words strike harder than I expect, but I force myself to stand firm. ¡°You think I don¡¯t understand? I¡¯ve lost people, too. My home. My family. And now I¡¯m here, trying to keep this from happening again¡ªto you, to all of us. But I can¡¯t do it alone. We can¡¯t do it alone.¡±
¡°Why should we trust you?¡± another leader asks skeptically. His prominent, black beard drapes over his worn leather armor, bouncing erratically as he speaks. ¡°You say you want unity, but you¡¯re still a Tapeu. Your people have always taken more than their share. Why should we believe this time will be different?¡±
Their relentless and persistent doubt feels insurmountable. Why should they believe this time will be different? Because it¡¯s me! But that¡¯s no answer, I know. I look to Maqochi for support, but he stays silent. Then, even though it addressed a different matter altogether, I remember Yachaman¡¯s words: They need to see that you care. Yes, that applies here, as well.
¡°Because I¡¯m not just asking you to follow me,¡± I say. ¡°I¡¯m asking you to stand with me. To fight for a future where no one has to bury their children because of another faction¡¯s war. A future where we¡¯re not just surviving but thriving. Together.¡±
I feel myself standing taller now, my chin inclining, making the effort to address them as though I was speaking directly to each individual. ¡°You don¡¯t have to let Taqsame decide your future. You have that power. Here. Now. Stand with me, with Pachil¡ªnot for me, but for yourselves, for your families, for a Qantua that isn¡¯t just strong in war, but strong in its own right. A Qantua that doesn¡¯t kneel to any ruler, but walks beside them.¡±
¡°And what happens when this is over?¡± the man with the scarred face asks. ¡°When Taqsame is gone? Do you expect us to bow to Tapeu rule again?¡±
¡°No,¡± I say firmly. ¡°I don¡¯t want you to bow to anyone. I want us to build something better¡ªtogether. Where every faction has a voice. Where decisions are made not by one ruler, but by all of us.¡±
Silence swallows the room. Each leader is too deep into thought, contemplating the choice that sits before them. The leaders exchange skeptical glances, but in their eyes, I can see a hint of something¡ªcuriosity, maybe, or hope. All but the younger leader, who crosses his arms and remains guarded. Eventually, the scarred man says, at last, ¡°You ask a lot of men who have only ever won their freedom with steel.¡±
I nod. ¡°Then let¡¯s win something greater.¡±
There¡¯s a crease in the corner of the mouth of the man with the scarred face. ¡°We¡¯ll stay,¡± he says. ¡°For now. But if you go back on your word¡ªif you betray us¡ªwe won¡¯t hesitate to walk away.¡±
¡°Fair enough,¡± I reply, my voice steady despite the tightness in my chest. ¡°All I ask is a chance to prove myself.¡±
I keep my hands folded tightly before me, as though the simple act of stillness might hold me together. The Qantua leaders disperse into smaller clusters, speaking in hushed tones. Their words slip away like sand through fingers. Even Maqochi now seems distant, standing by the brazier with his back turned. The faint smell of charred herbs drifts through the chamber.
I take a steadying breath, but it feels thin. My thoughts churn, still tangled in the barbed thicket of everything that was said¡ªand everything that wasn¡¯t. It doesn¡¯t feel like a victory. It feels like an extremely fragile truce.
Then, a sound like the soft rumble of a gathering storm reaches my ears. It grows louder, clearer¡ªthe unmistakable rhythm of heavy footsteps echoing through the stone corridors. The murmurs fade, the Qantua leaders turning toward the noise with wary eyes.
¡°What now?¡± I whisper, more to myself than anyone else.
The footsteps stop just beyond the doors. For a moment, there¡¯s nothing but silence and held breaths. Then the doors creak open, their hinges groaning under the deliberate force.
She steps inside, and the room shifts around her.
Nuqasiq.
She¡¯s somehow smaller than I remember, though her presence is anything but diminished. Once streaked with threads of silver, her hair is now wholly white, pulled back in a tight braid that trails down her back. Has it been that long since I¡¯ve seen her? Her eyes sweep the room, taking in everything and everyone with a gaze that feels like it could strip the palace down to its foundation. Her clothes are uncharacteristically simple¡ªa dark tunic cinched at the waist with a woven belt, wearing no jewelry. But the way she wears them makes her seem regal, as though the fabric itself has been imbued.
Behind her, a handful of guards linger in the doorway. Their weapons remain sheathed, but the stand at the ready, perhaps expecting a confrontation with the Qantua. They don¡¯t need to say anything. Her presence alone commands enough power to silence the room.
Nuqasiq¡¯s gaze lands on me, and I feel the breath leave my lungs. She doesn¡¯t speak at first, doesn¡¯t move, but her attention is crushing, like the stillness before an avalanche.
Finally, she steps forward, her plain leather boots tapping against the stone floor. ¡°This,¡± she says with a touch of disdain, ¡°is what I¡¯ve come back to?¡±
She doesn¡¯t wait for an answer¡ªI don¡¯t believe she much expected one. ¡°A house divided,¡± she now continues, shifting her gaze to the Qantua leaders, who bristle under her scrutiny. ¡°A throne teetering on the edge of collapse. And you, Haesan¡±¡ªher eyes snap back to me¡ª¡°standing at the center of it all.¡±
I¡¯m confused entirely. Why am I suddenly receiving scorn when I have hardly sat atop this throne of which she speaks? From where does this vitriol for me come? I open my mouth to speak, and my mind races, trying to find something¡ªanything¡ªto say that won¡¯t sound hollow in her presence. But she doesn¡¯t give me the chance.
¡°Do you know what I saw on my way here?¡± she asks, her tone deceptively calm. ¡°Villages left in ruin. Fields burned to ash. People wandering aimlessly, their faces etched with fear and doubt. That is the legacy of this war. That is what you¡¯ve inherited.¡±
This only confuses me more, but she carries on anyway. ¡°And now,¡± her voice begins rising, ¡°I find you here, squabbling over scraps of power while the embers of rebellion threaten to ignite once more. Have you learned nothing?¡±
The room feels smaller, the walls pressing in as her words settle over us. The Qantua leaders shift uncomfortably as their bravado is stripped away under her scrutiny. Even Maqochi, who had stood so resolute moments ago, now looks uncertain, watching her with guarded eyes.
Nuqasiq¡¯s gaze softens¡ªjust slightly¡ªas it returns to me. ¡°You took the throne, Haesan,¡± she says, her voice quieter now. ¡°You accepted the mantle. Now you must bear it.¡±
Her words sink into me like stones dropped into still water, each one rippling outward until it fills the room. I want to argue, to tell her I didn¡¯t choose this, that it was thrust upon me. She makes this seem as though this was all my doing. That I am a conduit for the prophecy that took her son, and I did nothing to resist nor stop what fate had planned for Achutli. Is this her way of mourning my estranged father?
Instead, I lift my chin, forcing my voice to remain steady. ¡°I¡¯m doing everything I can,¡± I say. ¡°But this won¡¯t all be rebuilt with the snap of my fingers. I can¡¯t fix this alone.¡±
Nuqasiq studies me for a long moment. Then she nods, just once. ¡°Good,¡± she says simply. ¡°Because you won¡¯t have to.¡±
She turns to the Qantua leaders once more. ¡°And as for you,¡± she says, ¡°you would do well to remember that your loyalty to this throne is not a favor¡ªit is an obligation. If you cannot see that, then perhaps you are not the leaders your people need.¡±
The silence that follows is deafening, as the confounded leaders look at one another with confusion. Nuqasiq turns back to me, her eyes locking onto mine with a fierce intensity.
¡°This is not the end,¡± she says. ¡°It is only the beginning. And if you are not prepared for what comes next, then Pachil will burn.¡±
Before I can respond, she turns and strides toward the door, and the guards fall into step behind her. All that remains in the room is the stillness from the aftershocks of an earthquake.
171 - Haesan
I barely slept.
I thought I would find some peace in the quiet of my chambers, that the impact of the quipu message would lessen with time. Instead, it sits on my table as though an unspoken accusation has been woven into its knotted fibers. I come not to celebrate. I come because the embers still smolder. The words have gnawed at me through the night. Their meaning has been elusive and suffocating all the same.
Nuqasiq has arrived. And with her, a storm I may not be strong enough to withstand.
I inhale deeply, steadying myself as I step onto the stone terrace overlooking the city. The view does nothing to soothe me. Qapauma still bears the scars of war¡ªcharred rooftops, collapsed walls, streets littered with the debris of what once was. The rebuilding has begun, but it is slow and uncertain. The people go about their tasks with cautious movements, their eyes wary, waiting for the next disaster to strike.
They look to me to prevent that disaster.
My hands tighten against the balcony¡¯s edge. You never wanted this, Haesan. But here you are.
¡°Up early, child.¡±
The voice slithers into my ear, smooth, deliberate. I stiffen before I even turn, already knowing who stands behind me.
Nuqasiq moves like she¡¯s always belonged here, stepping onto the terrace with measured ease. Draped in indigo and embroidered silks, she looks every bit the royal figure my father once was¡ªcomposed, commanding, effortlessly in control. She meets my gaze with eyes that are too knowing, the kind that see past words and into the marrow of things.
¡°I couldn¡¯t sleep,¡± I admit, though it¡¯s an unnecessary confession. Of course she knows. Nuqasiq always knows. And I¡¯m sure I look worse for wear.
She hums in response, stepping to my side and resting her hands lightly on the balcony¡¯s edge. Her nails are clean, trimmed, uncalloused¡ªhands that have held power, not weapons. ¡°A restless night, then. That is good. A ruler should not sleep too easily.¡±
The way she says it unsettles me¡ªlike it¡¯s a lesson, like I¡¯m meant to absorb this as truth.
¡°This city, this throne¡ it is not kind to those who hesitate.¡± Her fingers tap idly against the stone. ¡°Even if it has seen better days.¡±
Her nose scrunches up as though she¡¯s smelled something repulsive as she looks upon the remains of Qapauma in the morning light. ¡°I suppose it¡¯s in better condition than I expected, but¡¡± She doesn¡¯t finish her thought, much to my relief.
¡°Besides,¡± she carries on, ¡°Taqsame is watching. Waiting. And you?¡± She tilts her head slightly, studying me. ¡°What are you waiting for, child?¡±
I bristle, squaring my shoulders. ¡°I¡¯m not waiting for anything. I¡¯m preparing.¡±
¡°Are you?¡± she muses, smiling wryly. ¡°It does not seem so. I¡¯ve been updated on what¡¯s occurred in my absence. You hold court, but do you rule? You call councils, but do you command?¡± She exhales, something like pity laced in the breath. ¡°You remind me of Achutli when he was young. He, too, thought he had time. That the future would wait for him to decide its course.¡±
My fingers curl into fists at my sides. Through my teeth, I forcefully declare, ¡°I am not my father.¡±
Nuqasiq¡¯s gaze lingers on me, though her expression betrays nothing. If I may be honest, her silence is worse than any reprimand.
I exhale sharply, trying to steady myself, but my hands remain clenched at my sides. She doesn¡¯t understand. She thinks being his daughter means knowing him. But I never did. Not beyond the stories, the resentment that clung to his name like rot on old wood. I grew up hearing of him in bitter whispers, in the warnings of mothers clutching their children closer, in the fearful murmurs of merchants of Achope. Only now do I realize it¡¯s because they knew. They must¡¯ve known. Why else was I treated the way I was? Regardless, his rule was something to be endured, not followed. And by the time I finally stood before him, it was already too late to be anything but a stranger in his eyes.
She speaks of him like she understands something I don¡¯t, and maybe she does. She was his mother, after all. She knew him before he was The Arbiter, before he was the ruler who sent out decrees like threats, who saw every faction of Pachil as a piece in a game only he could win.
But I knew him only as Achutli, the ruler who hoarded power like a miser hoards gold. The man who saw his people as tools to be used, as means to an end. I knew him as the force that swept through Tapeu like a storm, taking what he wanted and leaving everyone else to bear the consequences.
I never had the chance to know him the way Nuqasiq did. And maybe that¡¯s why I hate this comparison more than anything.
But she¡¯s right. I have hesitated. I have faltered, waiting for an opportunity that may never come. For a peaceful solution that may not exist. I have spent these past weeks calling councils, listening to grievances, measuring my steps carefully¡ªtoo carefully, perhaps.
Did he do the same, once? Before he became the Achutli the world feared, was he ever like me? Did he start with doubt before he chose a path that could not be undone?
I shove the thought away. It doesn¡¯t matter. I will not be like him. Ever.
But the truth is that Nuqasiq¡¯s words still linger, like the scent of smoke in my clothes after standing close to a bonfire. I can resent the comparison, I can reject it all I want, but she has power over me that I cannot fight. I respect her. She has been right too many times before, and even now, I cannot shake the sinking feeling that she is right about this, too.
¡°I am not my father,¡± I say again, softer this time, as if repetition will make it true.
Nuqasiq does not argue. Because she knows I¡¯m inside my own head, even though there is no time to process, no time to untangle the resentment from the doubt. And anyway, the conversation has already moved forward, leaving me scrambling to keep up.
I feel her scrutiny as she continues, casting aside my statement, ¡°If you do not move first, Taqsame will. Do you understand what that means?¡±
I nod, but she isn¡¯t satisfied.
¡°Do you truly?¡± she presses. ¡°Taqsame does not dream of coexistence. He dreams of erasure. The old ways will be torn apart to make way for his rule. And the longer you wait, the more ground you cede.¡±
The knot in my stomach coils tighter.
¡°I will not sit idly by and let him claim Qapauma,¡± I say, forcing steel into my voice.
Nuqasiq smiles¡ªa small, knowing thing. ¡°Good. Then act like it.¡±
The command lingers between us, an unspoken challenge.
She straightens, smoothing the embroidered folds of her garment. ¡°The council is expecting a leader. When we meet with them later, do not let them see uncertainty, Haesan.¡±
With that, she turns and disappears into the corridors of the palace, leaving me alone with her words.
We? I can¡¯t help but think as she vanishes. What did she mean by ¡°we¡±?
The meeting should have ended already. I should be walking out of this chamber, my decisions finalized, my word carried out. But instead, I sit at the head of the carved wooden map, watching Nuqasiq take my rule apart piece by piece, thread by thread, as if it was never mine to begin with.
The discussion started simple. Supply routes, troop rations, repairs to the palace¡¯s outer walls¡ªmatters I have been struggling to keep in order, true, but ones I have made efforts to understand. I came prepared today. I had a plan. A decision.
I barely get a word in.
Nuqasiq speaks, and the room listens. She does not need to raise her voice or press for attention. It is given. Where I have had to demand my council¡¯s respect, she receives it in full, unquestioned. She directs, never suggests. And the room moves around her as she does.
A servant approaches, bowing low before carefully refilling her cup. She never even needs to gesture for it¡ªit just happens. Another stands nearby, waiting with a fresh cloth. His eyes are fixed attentively on her, in case she so much as lifts a hand. When she speaks, they move. When she pauses, they hover just enough to remind me that their deference belongs to her first.
I do not receive the same treatment.
A brief glance at my own cup reveals that it remains untouched, the dregs of tea long cooled at the bottom. A small thing, insignificant on its own, but I notice.
The others notice, too.
Maqochi is the only one who hesitates when she speaks, the only one who glances at me first before acting on her words. Xelhua does not even bother to mask his distaste. But the rest? Tapanali and the quraqas? They bow to her presence, subtly, but completely.
Tapanali leans in when she speaks, nodding at every proposed change, as if her will is some divine decree. When a lull in the conversation presents itself, he clears his throat and shifts forward with an expression of carefully measured solemnity.
¡°Queen Mother,¡± he says, and the words fall so naturally from his lips that I feel something in my stomach twist. ¡°I would be remiss not to acknowledge the gravity of your loss. All of Pachil mourns for your son.¡±
If you discover this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.
Nuqasiq receives the words as if she had been waiting for them. She does not weep, nor does she bow her head in grief. Instead, she inclines it ever so slightly, an acknowledgment without submission.
¡°The loss of a ruler is the loss of a nation,¡± she says softly, yet still sounding sure. ¡°But the true tragedy would be to let that loss fester into disorder. What Achutli built cannot be allowed to crumble.¡±
What Achutli built? Is she being serious? And the way she says it, so easily, so absolutely, as if she still stands in his place, as if his throne was never truly empty.
Tapanali nods, brow furrowed in agreement. ¡°Your wisdom is well received, Queen Mother. We are fortunate to have your guidance.¡±
We.
Not me, not my rule. We.
Nuqasiq exhales a slow breath. ¡°Pachil must be held together by strong hands,¡± she says, and when she looks at me, it is not with the warmth of a grandmother speaking to her granddaughter. No, it¡¯s more like the gaze of a potter measuring what is hers to mold.
¡°We must ensure our hold on Qapauma does not waver,¡± Nuqasiq says with that tone of effortless certainty. ¡°Without firm leadership, without direction, this city will fall apart.¡±
She continues smoothly, barely noticing my discomfort¡ªor maybe she does and simply does not care. ¡°We must set firm laws in place. Reinforce order, redistribute authority where necessary.¡±
My laws. My authority. But I say nothing.
Tapanali clears his throat, yet does not look me in the eyes when addressing me. ¡°With all due respect, Quya, your efforts are noble, but without structure¡ªwithout decisive action¡ªwe risk losing what was gained. The people of Qapauma follow strength. That is what has always guided them.¡±
Not you. Not your leadership. Strength. I hear what he isn¡¯t saying. Implying that I¡¯m not strong enough.
Nuqasiq inclines her head, as if in agreement. ¡°He is right, Haesan,¡± she says, and the way she says my name, without addressing me by my title, makes me feel smaller. ¡°You must be willing to make the difficult choices. Those who falter in times of uncertainty are swept away by those willing to act.¡±
What is she saying? Is she telling me to act according to her wishes, or I will be replaced?
I straighten in my seat, lifting my chin. I will not sit here and let her talk over me. ¡°I have been making those choices. I have been securing Qapauma. There is more to leadership than mere displays of power.¡±
Nuqasiq nods, but there is something patronizing in the motion. ¡°Of course. And that is why you need support. Guidance. Even the strongest leaders require wise counsel.¡± She gestures around the table. ¡°That is why we are here, after all.¡±
The council nods. All of them. The quraqas in attendance, too.
I tightly grip the edge of the wooden map. My fingers press into the smooth grooves of the carved rivers and valleys, as though my hands are trying to reshape the lands. This was supposed to be my rule. My choices. My voice. Though it was never a position I sought for myself, I have done all I can to lead these people out of the darkness. To rebuild Qapauma in spite of everything it¡¯s been through. And yet, the moment Nuqasiq entered these halls, the council turned to her, without question. It¡¯s as if the past moon cycles had been nothing but a temporary phase until the true authority returned.
I swallow my frustration. I cannot lose my composure here. Not in front of them. Not in front of her. It would only prove them right, justify their biased perceptions. ¡°Then allow me to make a decision now,¡± I say. ¡°Regarding the distribution of rations¡ª¡±
Nuqasiq smiles¡ªif I didn¡¯t know better, almost condescendingly. ¡°I have already arranged for that,¡± she says smoothly. ¡°I took the liberty of instructing the stewards this morning.¡±
¡°Without consulting me?¡±
¡°I acted in your name, of course. It was clear the decision needed to be made swiftly. If you were present and available, it¡¯s what you would have done, I¡¯m certain.¡±
Maqochi shifts slightly in his seat. Xelhua tightly crosses his arms over his broad chest. Neither say a word.
I glance at Tapanali, who does not even look up from the map. The attending quraqas nod fervently, some even clapping at the declaration. With all of this combined, it¡¯s as if my authority has already been resigned to the past tense.
Nuqasiq sits back, the matter settled in her mind. ¡°There is much to do. It is good that we are of the same mind.¡±
I do not respond. I cannot. Because if I speak, I will give something away¡ªthe anger, the humiliation, the quiet, simmering fear that my rule is already slipping away.
I press my fingers harder against the wooden ridges of the map. The relief of the carved land is still there, still tangible beneath my fingertips. I take a slow, steadying breath.
I am still here, I remind myself. This is still my rule.
For now.
I sit stiffly in my chambers, still gripping the edge of the table as if bracing for an argument that¡¯s already ended. My tea has gone cold, untouched. I don¡¯t bother calling for more. My mind swirls with everything that just happened.
I want to tell myself that my voice mattered, that the agreements made were shaped by my will, my authority. But that would be a lie.
Nuqasiq led that meeting, and I let her. Not once did I stop her. Not when she redirected the conversation, not when she dictated terms with the confidence of someone who had already made the decision before stepping into the chamber.
I exhale slowly, pressing my fingertips against my temple.
A knock at the door.
Before I can answer, Maqochi subtly steps inside. His expression is unreadable, as it often is, but his posture is relaxed¡ªarms crossed, stance firm. I¡¯m thrown off by this, wondering what¡¯s coming, what he has to say. But more so than anything, I grow slightly annoyed with the fact that, even in my own chambers, I have no control over anything; he just helped himself and entered.
¡°You should be proud of how you handled things,¡± he says, voice even, something that feels less like praise and more like an assessment.
I scoff, shaking my head as frustration curls tight in my gut. ¡°Is that what you think happened? That I handled anything? My council meeting was completely overrun by her!¡±
He studies me for a moment, and I hate that I can''t tell what he''s thinking. Then, he shrugs. ¡°You chose your battle today.¡±
I let out a short, humorless laugh. ¡°No, she chose the battle¡ªshe made several decisions on her own, in fact¡ªand I nodded along.¡±
Maqochi doesn¡¯t argue. He moves toward the window, peering out over the city. The fires of the forges glow faintly in the distance, flickering like stars brought to the ground against the dark.
¡°A ruler doesn¡¯t win by fighting every battle,¡± he says. ¡°You knew when to push and when to step back. That¡¯s not weakness, Quya. That¡¯s strategy.¡±
I cross my arms, suddenly feeling cold despite the thick walls of the chamber. ¡°I suppose I picked my battle today, didn¡¯t I? Letting her set the course instead of waging a war on every front. I mean, after all, she just wants to help,¡± I mutter, but even I can hear the weakness in my own voice.
¡°Help,¡± he repeats, turning from the window to face me fully as he sharply exhales. ¡°And how long before that help is no longer offered, but expected? How long before people stop looking to you for guidance, because they already know she¡¯ll speak first?¡±
I open my mouth, then close it again. I have no answer for him.
His gaze sharpens, though his tone remains level. "This is how rulers lose their thrones, Haesan. Not in a single night. Not in some grand betrayal. It¡¯s a slow bleed. A decision made without you. A voice louder than yours in a room you should command. And by the time you realize it¡¯s happening, you¡¯ll have to fight to take back what was yours to begin with.¡±
I look away, focusing on the flickering brazier in the corner of the room, watching the way the flames dance and shift. Weak. Flickering. At the mercy of the wind.
¡°I don¡¯t want to be like him,¡± I say quietly. I don¡¯t need to clarify. We both know who I mean.
Maqochi doesn¡¯t hesitate. ¡°Then stop acting like a child.¡±
My breath catches, but I manage to utter, ¡°It¡¯s not that simple.¡±
Maqochi¡¯s expression remains unreadable. ¡°Nothing about ruling is simple. If it were, we¡¯d have far fewer dead kings rotting beneath Pachil¡¯s soil.¡±
I clench my jaw. I hate how easily he says it. Like it¡¯s just another lesson, another thing I should already know. Everyone teaching me lessons, unsolicited.
I press my knuckles against the table. ¡°You think I should push back?¡±
¡°I think you should act like you belong on that throne,¡± he says. ¡°Or one day, you¡¯ll wake up, and it won¡¯t be yours anymore.¡±
I push away from the table suddenly. ¡°I need air.¡±
Maqochi doesn¡¯t stop me. He just inclines his head slightly, as if he expected this.
I step past him and out the door, my pulse thrumming uncomfortably in my ears. I tell myself I¡¯m going to clear my head.
I¡¯m uncertain what¡¯s changed and when or how, but the palace is different in the light. Softer. Less like a ruin, more like something trying to stand tall and proudly again.
Maqochi¡¯s words still linger in my mind, tangled with the ones spoken in council, the ones I didn¡¯t say, the ones I should have said. A ruler who does not rule is nothing more than a puppet.
I step out into the open corridors, past the wide stone balustrades that overlook the palace courtyard. Below, workers move in steady rhythm, hauling beams, resetting stones, patching the wounds left behind by war. The scorch marks on the walls are still there, but faded, like old scars that time hasn¡¯t fully erased. No matter what, it¡¯s progress. Qapauma is being rebuilt, perhaps even stronger and better than before.
A group of laborers carry bundles of dried reeds for the roof repairs. Among them, a woman wipes sweat from her brow with the back of her hand. She catches sight of me and stops mid-step. The others do the same. Then, as if pulled by an unseen string, they bow their heads.
It still startles me¡ªthis instinctive deference. It feels unearned. Yet, after the events in the council chamber earlier today, I can certainly appreciate it now more than before.
Servants quietly drift past with lowered gazes and hands clasped. One approaches with a tray, a small clay cup of steaming tea balanced on it. The faint scent of coca leaves and mu?a rises with the vapor. Without a word, they hold it out to me, offering warmth, clarity. I take it, though my throat feels too tight to drink.
Everywhere I look, people are moving, working, rebuilding. For me. For my rule.
One of the architects overseeing the repairs calls out and gestures toward the scaffolding, explaining something to a scribe who hurriedly makes notes onto a quipu. They are planning, strategizing. Rebuilding the palace I am meant to rule.
And yet, I can¡¯t shake the feeling that I am the only thing not being built up in these walls. I exhale slowly, rubbing my thumb over the rim of the cup. I haven¡¯t seen Nuqasiq since the council meeting, but I feel her presence everywhere, settling into the palace like she was never gone.
I sip the water, more out of obligation than thirst. It¡¯s warm and soothing against my lips. But it does nothing to loosen the knot in my chest.
I turn away from the courtyard, stepping back into the shaded corridors. The quiet of the hallways is almost suffocating after the steady rhythm and commotion of the workers outside. Even my own footsteps seem too loud, echoing off the stone in a way that makes the silence feel deeper.
Then I see movement in the corridor. A figure slipping down the hall, quiet as a shadow. A familiar sight, though at first, I believe my eyes are playing a trick on me. It isn¡¯t until I squint, looking hard to discern the person that I recognize him immediately.
Chalqo.
My heart tugs instantly at the sight of him. He survived! He¡¯s here! But, he looks around almost nervously, as though attempting to avoid being spotted. He slips between the shadows of the hallway, fleet of foot. Why is he sneaking about?
Without thinking, without hesitating, I move to follow him.
Chalqo weaves through the hallways, slipping past servants unnoticed. He doesn¡¯t see me. He¡¯s too focused on his destination.
I stop just before the open doorway, pressing myself against the stone wall, listening.
And that¡¯s when I hear her voice.
Nuqasiq.
I crawl ever so slightly closer, leaning toward the opening to listen to her conversation without being noticed. One more step, then another, until their words eventually become clearer, more intelligible. She is speaking in low, measured tones, but I know command when I hear it.
¡°I will arrange the negotiations,¡± she says. ¡°Not Haesan.¡±
I do my best to stifle a gasp.
Chalqo speaks next. ¡°Are you certain? If she finds out¡ª¡°
¡°She will find out when it is done.¡±
The floor beneath me might as well vanish.
Nuqasiq¡¯s voice is unwavering. This is not a discussion. This is a declaration. One being made at my expense.
¡°Taqsame¡¯s men are already reaching out to the Qantua leaders,¡± she continues. ¡°We do not have time to waste. We must pull them back before they are lost to us completely.¡±
She is negotiating behind my back. Taking my authority. Taking my rule.
I swallow hard, pressing closer to the wall. My fingers clutch the rough stone.
This is what Maqochi meant, about waking up to find the throne is no longer mine.
Nuqasiq isn¡¯t helping me. She¡¯s replacing me.
Chalqo¡¯s voice lowers. ¡°And if they refuse?¡±
There is a long, heavy pause. Then Nuqasiq answers, her tone smooth as water over stone. ¡°Then we remind them of what happens to those who defy the will of Pachil.¡±
A cold shiver runs down my spine. I step back, careful, quiet, my heart hammering so loudly I fear they might hear it. I don¡¯t need to hear any more.
Nuqasiq is taking control. And I have no idea how to stop her.
172 - Saxina
Are you there? Are you listening?
I can never tell if you¡¯re there, or if I¡¯m only speaking into the darkness of this prison.
It¡¯s funny, in a way. I used to talk to the dark when I was a boy, whispering into the deep caves outside of Pichaqta. I¡¯d eagerly wait for my voice to come back to me. I liked the way my own words sounded when they returned¡ªdistorted, stretched, like they belonged to someone else. I thought if I spoke long enough, the echoes might become another person entirely, someone wiser, someone who could tell me the things I needed to know.
I thought I heard the dark here answer back. Maybe I¡¯m mistaken.
The silence presses down like a hand over my mouth. I¡¯ve tried measuring time by the torches outside my door, by the distant murmurs of my captors. But the light never moves anymore. The voices never change.
Either I¡¯ve lost track of the days, or there are no more days left to lose.
The last time I saw the sun, it was bleeding.
Sinking behind the jagged cliffs of Pichaqta, it bled in great strokes of dark orange and crimson, swallowing the sky in its ruin. My lip had already been split open from the backhand of the one they call Qliato. I could taste the raw copper of my own blood as I watched the sunset from the palace steps while I was being dragged away.
I had thought, then, that this was temporary. A setback.
I suppose I was wrong.
I became The Tempered because I was the only one who knew what Qiapu trullyneeded to prosper. I was the only one who saw what was coming.
I was the only one who understood that power is a wheel, and if you don¡¯t break it, you get crushed beneath it.
The fool that he was, Limaqumtlia thought himself immovable. He thought the old ways would hold. That our people would stand behind him, no matter what. He thought being just was enough.
It wasn¡¯t.
Achutli knew it. The Eye in the Flame knew it. I knew it.
They came to me with their offer, and I said yes before they had even finished speaking.
A new era. My era.
The first chasqui arrived in the dead of night. A shadow moving swift-footed through the mountain pass. His arrival was signaled by nothing but the quiet shift of wind against the palace banners.
I remember the way he knelt, barely out of breath, holding out the bundle of knotted cords¡ªAchutli¡¯s words twisted into fiber. The message itself was brief.
The Tempered will fall.
The sun will rise anew.
Stand ready.
And I understood.
Limaqumtlia¡¯s reign was already over. He just didn¡¯t know it yet.
It was not the first chasqui, nor the last.
Achutli¡¯s voice wove through the mountains on the backs of men who ran with the wind. His instructions were always careful, precise.
Hold your ground. Watch for signs. Stand ready.
I was not his first choice. I knew that.
In his mind, the Qiapu were a stubborn, divided people, too tangled in tradition to serve his grand vision.
It¡¯s why, I¡¯m sure he believed, we became enslaved to the Timuaq in the first place.
But he needed a hand to steady them, a voice to speak where his could not reach.
He needed someone hungry enough to listen.
And I listened.
Limaqumtlia was no tyrant.
That was his failing.
I still remember the way he spoke of Qiapu, the way he talked about our people as though we were the strongest faction of Pachil. As though we had been his since the beginning, and it was only a matter of time until we ascended.
He believed in the people. In their loyalty. In their love for him.
But love does not keep power.
Love does not hold a throne.
Power holds a throne.
And I had power.
The Eye in the Flame came after.
They did not send messengers, no chasqui. They did not whisper words on woven cords.
They sent their sorcerers, their veiled figures, men whose mouths barely moved when they spoke.
They made promises, and I listened.
We will make you strong.
We will protect your rule.
We will burn those who stand in your way.
It was me they wanted, not Limaqumtlia.
And why wouldn¡¯t they?
Limaqumtlia was a man of stone¡ªfixed, unyielding, refusing to see the shape of things to come.
But I?
I was water. I was fire. I was whatever the gods needed me to be.
And I believed¡ªnot in them, no, but in myself.
The Eye in the Flame thought I would be theirs.
But I knew better.
I would take what they offered, sure. But I would use them as they thought they were using me.
I would rule, and when I no longer needed them, I would cast them aside.
I knew I could control them.
I knew I could outlast them.
I knew¡ª
Are you listening?
Are you there?
It was not supposed to happen like that, you know.
The boy was too eager.
He believed in the cause too much, I would argue.
I watched from the crowd, heart steady, breath measured. The procession moved through the streets. Limaqumtlia waved to the crowd, though his gaze was distant, serene. He had always been that way¡ªbelieving his rule was divinely woven, that Qiapu¡¯s loyalty was unshakable.
He never saw the knife coming.
But I did.
The assassin was young¡ªtoo young¡ªbut his conviction burned brighter than his sense. He had carved the symbol of Eztletiqa into his own chest in jagged, uneven lines. It was a crude mimicry of the sigils the Eye in the Flame used, but he had done it himself¡ªbecause he wanted it to mean something.
Because he wanted to prove that Eztletiqa had already claimed him.
He had been among the palace guards for weeks. Watching. Waiting. A spirit in the periphery, unnoticed by those who thought they knew their own.
That was the brilliance of it.
He was one of them.
And when the moment came, he moved without hesitation. I will acknowledge his bravery in that sense.
The knife was too eager, just like the boy.
It sank in deep, just below Limaqumtlia¡¯s ribs, where the bone wouldn¡¯t catch it. A perfect stroke. Clean, practiced.
But too soon.
It was meant to be later. Closer to the palace, away from so many eyes.
Instead, it was here, in the open, in the streets.
I remember the sound Limaqumtlia made¡ªa sharp inhale, not a cry, not a scream. A sudden absence of breath. The shock of what occurred. The quiet acceptance of what¡¯s to come.
Then, the chaos.
Screams.
Cries for help.
The boy held his blade high, as though expecting Eztletiqa to reach down and anoint him in the moment.
Instead, Qumuna reached him first.
The general tore him from the body, trying to wrench the blade free. He tried to interrogate the boy, but the assassin¡¯s blade ended up in his own belly, stabbed during the efforts to capture the assailant.
Not a death of honor.
Just a death.
And then Paxilche was there, too, pushing past the calamity, dropping to his knees beside his brother. I could see the blood on his hands from where I stood, the way he cradled Limaqumtlia like he could force him back to life through sheer refusal.
For a moment¡ªjust a moment¡ªI felt the stirrings of regret.
Not because I wished it undone.
You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.
But because this was not how it was supposed to happen.
Because I had not wanted Paxilche to be there.
There was no heir.
That was the truth of it.
Paxilche refused. He turned his back on it, just as he had turned his back on his family when he went to war. He did not want the burden, the weight of the throne pressing down on his shoulders.
The people whispered of their loss. A ruler gone. A future uncertain.
But I knew.
I had always known.
The people suffered from uncertainty. Yet they did not need a period for mourning.
They needed an immediate answer.
And I would be that answer.
The ceremony in Xutuina was from an old tradition, generations past.
It was meant to be sacred.
It was meant to test strength, wisdom, resilience.
It was meant to let the gods choose the next Tempered.
But I did not leave it to the gods.
The trials were rigged before the first fight was underway. The shamans whispered their blessings before the challenges had begun.
They would not let a true contender rise.
I was supposed to win.
And then¡ Qumuna. Curse him!
Qumuna, who had led the armies of Qiapu, who had stood by Limaqumtlia¡¯s side for decades.
Qumuna, who should have just bowed his head and stepped aside. But instead, he allowed himself to be swayed, to be nominated.
He nearly ruined everything.
And the worst part was¡ªI respected him.
I did not want to fight him.
He was an elder, a warrior, a leader.
But I would not let him stop me.
And so, I did what I had to do.
I beat him.
I beat him until he could not stand, until his vision swam, until the strength in his legs failed him. I was ready to leave him suspended over the cliff¡¯s edge.
And when I stood above him, victorious, I did not reach out a hand to help him up.
Because I knew¡ªhe would not have taken it.
Because he knew¡ªhe was now beneath me.
I was The Tempered.
And I had won, by whatever means necessary.
The damp stench of the cell has long since settled into my skin. I press my palms against the cold stone, tracing the rough grooves and imperfections in the rock. If I push hard enough, I can almost convince myself that I still exist.
The sound of dripping water echoes in the distance.
I listen, counting the beats between each drop.
One.
Two.
Three.
Four.
Five.
Six.
I close my eyes and wait for the dark to speak.
But the dark never speaks back. Why won¡¯t you speak back to me?
There¡¯s a moment between pain and recognition where you understand exactly what¡¯s happening to you.
It¡¯s when the knife first touches the skin, and you¡¯re still na?ve enough to believe they¡¯re only trying to scare you. When the brand hovers just above your flesh, and you convince yourself that they won¡¯t press down, that they won¡¯t claim you, ruin you.
It¡¯s when you hear your name spoken in a language that isn¡¯t your own, muttered in that sharp, foreign tongue.
Saxina.
It¡¯s not a question. Not even a command. Just a simple confirmation of what they already know.
Saxina.
The way Qliato says it, it isn¡¯t a name.
The cell is cold.
I have counted the cracks in the stone so many times that I¡¯ve given them names. There¡¯s a long, jagged one just above my head that reminds me of the canyon that runs through the hills outside Qiapu. The one below my feet curves like the path leading up to the the great cairn, Intitapayuq Illa.
I think if I push hard enough, I can fit my fingers into the grooves. Maybe if I keep pressing, the walls will remember me, will pull me into them so that I can disappear.
But I don¡¯t disappear. I remain.
Like the bloodstains on the floor.
Like the echoes of the screams before me.
Like the breath in my lungs that won¡¯t stop, no matter how much I want it to.
The Eye in the Flame promised me everything. They promised me the throne, the power to do what others had only dreamed. I saw it, too¡ªthe future they painted. The Qiapu were mine to rule, no longer shackled by outdated traditions. No longer held back by fools like Limaqumtlia, who would rather die defending the past than embrace what was coming.
And for a while, I thought I had won.
I sat in the great hall of Pichaqta, beneath banners that bore my sigil. I stood above my people, above their people, and I made the rules.
But power is a wheel.
And if you don¡¯t break it, you get crushed beneath it.
I hear them coming before I see them.
Boots on stone. The scrape of metal against leather. A whispered conversation in¡ what do they call themselves, their language? Lehito? It doesn¡¯t matter. The words are too fast, too clipped for me to understand.
I wonder if Qliato is with them, if he¡¯s the one leading them here. I wonder if he will speak my name again.
Saxina.
I must repeat my name, lest I forget it.
The iron door groans open. Light from the corridor slashes through the darkness of my cell. Long accustomed to the void, my eyes recoil. I turn my head, squinting against the sudden glare. But I do not cower. I will not cower.
The footsteps stop just beyond the threshold. Then, a tall and angular shadow steps forward, blocking out the light. I recognize his shape before my vision fully clears¡ªthe stiff posture, the smug tilt of his head.
Qliato, he is always smiling, always sneering, always carrying himself as if he owns everything he sees. His boots click against the cold stone as he moves closer. He stops just short of my reach, as if I could do anything, bound as I am, my arms twisted behind me, the chains cutting into my shoulders.
I try to shift, but the metal digs into my raw skin. A reminder. A leash.
Qliato crouches, leveling his gaze with mine. His eyes assess me, amused. He says something in Lehito, the syllables rolling off his tongue like a joke at my expense. The guards behind him chuckle.
He clicks his tongue, as if disappointed in me. Then his hand moves, fast and sudden, slapping me across the face. The smack of his open palm hitting the meat of my unshaven cheek rings through the chamber. Pain blossoms, but I refuse to give him the satisfaction of a reaction.
Another blow, this time with the back of his hand, knuckles scraping across my cheekbone. I taste blood. I smile.
His sneer deepens. His fingers dig into my chin, jerking my head up, forcing me to meet his gaze. He mutters something, his breath hot and stinking of whatever foul drink these invaders indulge in.
¡°Do you think I fear you?¡± I rasp, my throat raw from days without water. Not that I would trust anything they handed me anyway.
His grip tightens. My jaw aches.
He speaks again, slower this time, dragging out the syllables, as if that will make me comprehend his wretched tongue.
I don¡¯t need to know his words. I know what he is saying. I know that expression¡ªthe condescension, the revulsion, the self-satisfaction.
I have seen it before.
When the Qiapu murmured about my betrayal.
When Qumuna stared at me as he knelt in the dust of Xutuina, defeated but unbowed.
I know exactly what Qliato is thinking.
You are nothing.
You lost.
And that is why I smile.
Because he is wrong.
Because I am the one who paved the way for what comes next. Because I will be the one to watch them burn.
The Sunfire is coming. The Eye in the Flame will rise again.
And when they do, Qliato will kneel before me.
And then¡ªonly then¡ªI will give him my answer.
His grip loosens just slightly, and I spit blood onto his pristine boots.
The laughter dies in his throat.
His eyes darken. His lip curls. And then, pain.
The first punch sends my head snapping back against the stone.
The second leaves me gasping, ribs caving inward.
The third makes everything white-hot, pulsing, distant.
The fourth causes the world to blur at the edges, go dark.
I hear his words, the snarled syllables. I do not care.
I laugh, even as blood spills from my lips.
And that is when he stops.
Because he sees it.
Because they always see it, in the end.
The fire in my eyes.
The certainty.
The promise.
He mutters something, spitting on the ground beside me, before standing and stepping back.
The guards hesitate, waiting. He waves a hand, dismissive, and they follow him out.
The iron door slams shut.
Darkness returns.
I lean my head back against the wall, breathing through the pain, through the taste of blood and sweat.
And I wait.
I should have been ready.
I should have seen it coming.
I knew what they were, what they worshipped, what they would do if things didn¡¯t go their way.
I saw it in their eyes when they spoke of sacrifice, of power beyond reckoning.
I should have known.
But I didn¡¯t.
I believed them when they said I was meant to rule. That I would rise above the rest.
But power is a wheel.
And if you don¡¯t break it, you get crushed beneath it.
Are you listening?
Are you there?
Are you there?
The dark stretches. Deeper than it was before. It is not a room. Not a place. It is something else. Something vast. Something endless.
I reach for it.
I think I reach for it.
But there is no hand, no skin, no sensation of movement.
Just emptiness.
Just thought.
Just memory.
I have lived this moment before.
The day I took control of the Qiapu, the sky was clear.
No omens. No storms. No blood-red sun sinking into the horizon.
Just blue. Endless blue.
The kind of sky people pray under.
The kind of sky people feel hope under.
I stood before my people, and I spoke the words I had practiced a hundred times before. Loyalty. Stability. A future greater than the past.
My voice did not waver. My hands did not shake. I told them the old ways were chains. That we would be free. That I would lead us into something better.
They did not cheer.
They did not cry out in defiance.
They only watched.
Like the mountains that stand sentinel as they surround Pichaqta.
Like they were only tolerating me.
Or, worse¡ªindifferent.
I had made my choice long before then.
Before Achutli¡¯s emissary arrived in the dead of night, cloaked in secrecy, speaking in quiet tones of revolution, of restoration, of a world where the Qiapu did not answer to a council, but to a king.
Before I watched the assassin do his worst to Limaqumtlia as easily as one culls a lamb.
Before I took his seat soon after.
Before the people knelt before me, calling me Tempered, as though I had earned the right.
As though I had not taken it with bloody hands.
Paxilche was the last to turn away.
He didn¡¯t speak. Didn¡¯t spit or curse my name like the others did.
He just looked at me.
And it was worse.
It was worse than anything they could have done.
Because in his eyes, I saw it¡ª
The moment I became nothing.
But what did he know of ambition?
What did he know of what it meant to crawl up from nothing?
He was born into his place. And yet he still spurned it. That jaded fool. I had to carve mine from stone.
If it hadn¡¯t been me, it would have been someone else.
If it hadn¡¯t been me¡ª
Qliato.
Butchering my name in his tongue. It feels deliberate.
I am nothing to him.
Less than nothing.
He speaks about me like I¡¯m not there. Like I am a relic. A thing to be dealt with.
A trade.
A sacrifice.
A gift for their god.
That¡¯s how I understand it to be.
I laughed.
I don¡¯t know if it was out loud.
I don¡¯t know if it was in my head.
But it boomed through the chamber.
Me? A sacrifice?
The Eye in the Flame will reclaim what¡¯s been stolen.
The Sunfire will burn them to ash.
It happens quickly.
Hands on my arms.
Hands on my throat.
Thrust to the ground.
Pinned to the ground.
My head pulled up, back.
The world tilting. The stone beneath me vanishing.
And then¡ª
Nothing.
I open my eyes.
No.
I think I open my eyes.
But the dark does not change.
The walls are gone.
The floor is gone.
I reach out.
But I have no hands.
I speak.
But I have no voice.
I am thought.
I am memory.
I am¡ª
Are you listening?
Are you there?
No.
Not anymore, I fear.
I used to think the dead were carried on the wind. That the breath of the gods scooped them up, lifted them toward the stars, let them scatter across the sky.
Now, I know better.
Now, I know the dead do not rise.
They sink.
I don¡¯t know how long I¡¯ve been falling.
Or if I¡¯ve been falling at all.
I¡¯ve been inside this darkness for too long to know what is what.
Maybe this is still the chamber.
Maybe the stone is still beneath me, the chains still around my wrists. Maybe the knife never cut.
Maybe I am still alive.
Maybe¡ª
No.
That¡¯s not true.
I know it¡¯s not true.
Because I can see now.
Not the walls.
Not the cell.
Not the world I built and bartered for.
I see them.
The ones before me.
I had always imagined the nine hells as a thing separate from the world. A place you go. A destination.
But now I understand.
They were always here.
Layered. Woven into the land.
Buried beneath our feet, just beneath the surface.
And now, I am beneath the surface too.
They watch me.
The ones before me.
Eyes like empty and endless pits.
They are drowning in this darkness.
Something I cannot name.
I wonder if they were once like me.
I wonder if they thought they could cheat the fall.
I wonder if they still believe they can climb back.
I hear them.
Not words.
Not speech.
But want.
The yearning.
It moves through them like wind through reeds.
A soundless howl, a plea without a tongue.
I do not answer.
I do not move.
Because I know¡ª
The moment I reach back, the moment I acknowledge them¡ª
I will never stop falling.
I do not belong here.
I do not belong here.
I do not belong here.
I do not belong here.
I do not belong here.
But then I see him.
Paxilche.
Not here.
Not one of them.
But standing above the pit, looking down.
His eyes like they were that day.
The moment I became everything and nothing.
I reach out to his figure.
¡±You can¡¯t blame me for doing what I must to survive,¡± I tell him.
¡°You can¡¯t blame me for doing what needed to be done for the Qiapu to prosper,¡± I tell him.
¡±You would have done the same,¡± I tell him.
He does not answer.
Much like you.
He only stares.
And I know¡ª
This is not Paxilche.
This is me.
The me I left behind.
The me who thought he could take everything and not lose a thing.
The me who thought he could be the Tempered and still have honor.
The me who was wrong.
The last thing I saw was the knife.
The jagged edges.
The strange way it caught the light of the torches.
The way it moved, like an eagle descending upon prey.
And then¡ª
Pain?
No.
Not pain.
Something else.
Something deeper.
Something final.
And then¡ª
Nothing.
How long have I been here?
A day?
A harvest?
An eternity?
Does time move when you are not?
I wait.
I listen.
The dark shifts.
I know what it is now.
It is not a place.
It is a door.
And I am caught in the threshold.
Neither in.
Neither out.
Neither alive.
Neither dead.
The dead do not rule.
The dead do not outlast anything.
The dead do not control their legacy.
I know that now.
I had never believed in the nine hells.
Not truly.
They were stories. Warnings. Myths meant to keep fools in line.
I had never believed in them.
Until I could see how it awaits my arrival.
Until now.
Are you listening?
Are you there?
Are you listening?
Are you there?
The cell fades.
The body fades.
The world fades.
I am alone.
I am nothing.
173 - Inuxeq
I¡¯m disgusted by the realization, but the truth is undeniable: Taqsame¡¯s camp is larger than I expected.
From our cover in the sparse brush, I count at least four rows of tents, each one arranged with a precision that tells me this isn¡¯t just a haphazard gathering of rogues or rebels. This is a methodical assembly of a well-disciplined army. The camp sprawls across the valley floor like an infection, with flickering campfires in the cold, dry night air. I watch figures move between them¡ªwarriors sharpening weapons, men hunched over small fires and sharing a meal between them, scouts returning from their rounds.
A hand on my arm pulls me from my thoughts. I glance at Yachaman, who barely spares me a look before her eyes return to the scene below. She doesn¡¯t need to say anything¡ªI already know what she¡¯s thinking.
Taqsame is preparing to overrun and overwhelm Haesan¡¯s forces. We should leave and warn her.
I exhale slowly and force my grip to loosen on my obsidian dagger. Not yet. Not before we know what we¡¯re completely dealing with.
Behind me, the Aimue scouts crouch low, their faces shadowed. Some press themselves flat against the ground, ensuring that their bodies are barely visible against the brittle grass and dirt. For a bunch of farmers, they¡¯re proving they could be good hunters¡ªsilent, careful, patient. Not warriors in the way I was raised, but capable nonetheless. That¡¯s not a compliment I give out lightly, mind you.
A cold wind slides between the trees, kicking up dust. The scent of burning wood and roasting meat drifts from the camp, mixing with the more familiar stink of sweat and iron. This close, I can hear deep, confident voices belonging to warriors who believe they¡¯ve already won. Just look at them, striding about the grounds and joking with one another. Being so arrogant, just like their leader.
Speaking of their leader, Taqsame¡¯s voice doesn¡¯t carry above the others, but he¡¯s very clearly here. He¡¯s always here, weaving himself into the minds of the warriors who¡¯ve chosen to follow him. They believe in him, like a demigod, the chosen one by the gods themselves. What else can explain how he survived the attack by the Sunfire?
An unbidden memory rises. Two wounded Aimue warriors collapsing at our feet. Blood drying in streaks against their faces. Their tunics were torn and dirt-stained. Their breaths ragged as they told me about the ones who attacked them.
¡°No colors, no banners¡ but they said they came for him.¡±
The one they called the Sun.
A hint of movement near the camp¡¯s center draws my focus. With their heads bowed and voices low, a group of men clustered around a patch of dirt, using twigs to draw lines into the ground.
Yachaman shifts beside me, her voice barely above a breath. ¡°Okay, Tuatiu. I think we¡¯ve seen enough.¡±
I don¡¯t answer. Instead, I let my gaze trace the movements of the warriors below, watching how they organize themselves, how they carry their weapons. I know these men. Not personally, but in the way all warriors know each other. The way they move, the way they stand, the way they grip the hilts of their blades. This is what they¡¯re built for. War. This is the challenge we¡¯re set to face. And I don¡¯t know if Haesan is ready for it.
The fire crackles, sending out a slow coil of smoke into the cool night air. The Aimue sit in loose clusters, eating, sharpening weapons, or just staring into the flames, hoping the embers hold all the answers to the multitude of questions that plague their tired and restless minds.
I stand near the edge of the encampment, watching them. Waiting.
Yachaman is beside me, arms crossed. We simply remain in silence. But what more is needed to be said to one another? The Aimue agreed to stay. She managed to convince them, cutting through their reluctance like a blade through old rope. They¡¯ll fight, to protect Qapauma, Tapeu, and, tangentially, their own homelands.
But scouting? That¡¯s another matter entirely.
¡°Alright,¡± I say, loudly enough that most heads turn, and startling Yachaman with my abruptness. ¡°We need a small group to scout Taqsame¡¯s camp. Just to get a count on their numbers, their movement. No heroics. Just sharp eyes and quick feet.¡±
I¡¯m met with nothing but silence.
None of the faces before me meet my gaze. Some pretend to look busy, inspecting their weapons, or wiping their hands on their tunics, as if that somehow removes them from the conversation. One of them coughs. Another stokes the fire, suddenly fascinated with rearranging the embers.
I exhale sharply through my nose. ¡°Well?¡±
Still nothing.
Yachaman doesn¡¯t look surprised.
¡°This isn¡¯t a battle,¡± one of them finally mutters. ¡°It¡¯s just sneaking around. Not really worth the risk, is it?¡±
Another Aimue, a middle-aged man with scarred knuckles, grunts his agreement. ¡°If Taqsame¡¯s men catch us, we¡¯re dead. Better to face them head-on in battle where it matters, rather than skulk in the shadows like rats.¡±
I grind my teeth. ¡°Right. So you¡¯ll march blind into a fight without knowing how many warriors he has? What weapons he¡¯s gathered?n How they¡¯ll likely set up on the battlefield? Where his weaknesses are?¡± I let the words sink in before adding, ¡°Sounds real smart.¡±
More silence.
Then, someone shifts. A young boy, barely out of adolescence, stands up. His shoulders are squared, and he looks me directly in my eyes, even though his hands tremble as he grips his tattered spear.
¡°I¡¯ll go.¡±
The others turn to look at him. Someone chuckles under their breath. A few shake their heads.
¡°Sit down, boy,¡± one of the older farmers mutters. ¡°You¡¯ve barely fought in a real battle.¡±
The boy winces. Something in his face cracks, like a mask he¡¯d barely managed to hold in place. His fingers shift on the spear¡¯s shaft, gripping tighter, then looser, as if he can¡¯t decide whether to stand up for himself or flee to the shadows. His confidence evaporates, and his lips press into a thin line as the defiance in his gaze wavers, like he¡¯s already halfway back to his seat.
I know that feeling.
It¡¯s a familiar sting, that sharp collapse of courage when met with the world¡¯s scorn. Standing in that council chamber, where I clearly didn¡¯t belong, feeling the nobles¡¯ stares as they dismissed me before I¡¯d even opened my mouth. The rest of the session went similarly, or perhaps even worse. I had felt that same creeping humiliation then¡ªthe silent confirmation that I was not meant to be there, not worthy of the fight.
I should have made them regret underestimating me.
I look at the boy again, as his knuckles pale around his spear. If he sits down now, it will not be because he was wrong or unworthy, but because they made him believe he was.
And I won¡¯t allow that.
My eyes flick between the boy and the others. I recognize this for what it is.
Cowardice. That¡¯s all these farmers have. And it grates against every fiber of my being.
¡°At least this one has the spine to face a challenge,¡± I say flatly, cutting a sharp glance toward the men still hunched near the fire. ¡°The rest of you? I guess you¡¯d rather wait for the fight to come to you.¡±
The laughter dies instantly. A few of them bristle, hands tightening around their weapons.
Good.
I fold my arms across my chest. ¡°So? Who else?¡±
A long, begrudging silence stretches between us.
Then, a man stands. The same one who told the kid to sit down. He rolls his shoulders, muttering something under his breath before stepping forward.
¡°Fine,¡± he grunts. ¡°I¡¯ll go.¡±
Then, another.
And another.
Before long, we have just enough.
Yachaman¡¯s lips press together¡ªnot quite a smirk, but close. She gives me the smallest nod before turning to the others. ¡°We move before dawn.¡±
I exhale through my nose, pulling myself back to the now. The Aimue scouts are waiting for my signal. Yachaman is waiting. I curl my fingers into fists, my knuckles pressing against the cold terrain.
We¡¯re not in the throes of battle, but my heart beats like a war drum anyway. I have never belonged in Haesan¡¯s world. I never will. She talks of unity. Of something greater than ourselves.
This? This is where I am meant to be. In the dark, hidden among the brush, feeling the wind shift and the ground beneath me hum. This is where I excel. This is where I have always belonged. Haesan wants me to be something more. But this¡ªthis is all I know.
The dull, beige grasslands stretch below me under the moonlight, rippling in slow, uneven waves as the wind rolls across the valley. I breathe slow and steady, keeping low, my body pressed against the ground. The scent of damp soil and dry grass clings to me as I shift my weight, trying to remain out of sight, but trying to get a better view all the same.
Taqsame¡¯s sprawling camp sits in the basin. There are too many fires, too much movement for warriors who claim to fight for the will of the gods. If he really believed in their favor, he wouldn¡¯t need this many men, wouldn¡¯t need to gather deserters and restless blades like a condor picking through a battlefield.
I press my back against a knotted tree at the edge of the clearing. The Aimue scouts and Yachaman murmur somewhere behind me. Their voices weave into the wind, into the rustling of the dry grass. They talk about numbers, about warriors I used to command, men who woke up one morning and decided their loyalty belonged to Taqsame instead.
Support the creativity of authors by visiting the original site for this novel and more.
Because he survived the Sunfire. Because he is the chosen one.
Because he gave them something to believe in while I was busy fighting battles to protect Pachil. How ignoble of me.
Instinctively, I retrieve Sachia¡¯s bow, as some kind of means for comfort, for consoling. My fingers curl around it, now resting the weapon across my knees. His bow. The lacquered wood is warm against my palms, warmer than it should be in the cold night air. My grip tightens. This should be his hands holding it. Not mine.
¡±They don¡¯t trust you.¡±
I haven¡¯t heard that voice in ages.
¡±Maybe they shouldn¡¯t.¡±
The voice isn''t real. It isn¡¯t. But I don¡¯t turn around. If I do, I¡¯ll see him, sitting against the tree next to me, arms draped over his knees, head tilted in that easy, insufferable way that always meant trouble. I can already feel him there, like an itch just under my skin.
¡°Go away,¡± I mutter.
¡±Can¡¯t. I¡¯m you, remember?¡±
I dig my fingers into my temples. Not now. Not now.
¡±You¡¯re brooding. Like a damn orphaned dog. And you don¡¯t even like dogs.¡±
¡°I know exactly what I¡¯m doing.¡±
¡±Do you? ¡®Cause last I checked, you¡¯re perched up here, watching like some miserable spirit while Taqsame steals your men.¡±
I grip the bow tighter, letting the edges bite into my palms.
¡°They were never my men,¡± I say, keeping my voice low. ¡°They were the Qantua¡¯s, remember? They were merely a borrowed sword¡ªuseful for as long as they were needed. They don¡¯t owe me their loyalty.¡±
¡±But they owe it to Taqsame?¡±
I say nothing.
¡±You fought beside them. Ate with them. Bled with them. And you think that meant nothing?¡±
¡°They followed orders, Sachia. Just like me.¡±
¡±Right. And now that there aren¡¯t any orders, they¡¯re following the loudest idiot who calls himself a god.¡±
The camp below swells with movement. A shifting beast of warriors and flickering torchlight, a thing with no true shape, just hunger. Hunger for battle. A needless battle.
¡°They¡¯re scared,¡± I admit. ¡°And Taqsame gave them something to cling to. That¡¯s all it takes. Fear and faith. That¡¯s all it¡¯s ever been.¡±
¡±You think that¡¯s why they followed you? Fear? Faith?¡±
I scoff. ¡°They aren¡¯t here for me. They were never here for me. It¡¯s all because of Teqosa. They followed me because I was the best bridge between them and their real goal¡ªfighting the cult. That¡¯s done now. So they¡¯ve gone back to following their own.¡± I gesture toward the camp, toward the lingering shadows of warriors who no longer belong to me.
He¡¯s quiet. And that¡¯s worse than his usual quips.
I shake my head. ¡°They¡¯ve made their choice.¡±
¡±So that¡¯s it? You¡¯re just gonna let them go?¡±
¡°They were never mine to begin with,¡± I snap. ¡°They fought beside me, not for me. There¡¯s a difference.¡±
¡±And that¡¯s why you¡¯re up here, staring at them like a dog waiting for scraps?¡±
I tense. ¡°My mind is crafting too many dog analogies. And besides, I¡¯m scouting them. Not hoping or wishing for them to return to me like some long, lost lover.¡±
¡±Yeah. Sure. And I bet you tell yourself you carry my bow because it¡¯s a good weapon, not because you can¡¯t stand the idea of letting go.¡±
I grit my teeth. The campfires blur at the edges. Not because I¡¯m tired. Not because of the cold wind slithering through the grass.
He sighs, and for a moment, I swear I can hear him shifting beside me, brushing the bark with his shoulder.
¡±Remember the jaguar?¡±
The question is so out of nowhere that I actually turn my head before catching myself. ¡°What?¡±
¡±The one we found near the river when we were kids. The starving one.¡±
I hesitate. It comes back to me in pieces, stitched together by memory¡ªdappled fur stretched over sharp bones, ribs pressing against skin, the smell of rot where the flies had started their work. It had been half-dead, slumped by the water, too weak to hunt, too stubborn to let itself die.
I nod. ¡°Yeah.¡±
¡±And remember what you said?¡±
I do.
¡±You said we should put it down,¡± Sachia continues. ¡±Said it was cruel to let it suffer. And I said¡ª?¡±
I close my eyes. ¡°You said it would get back up. That it just needed time.¡±
¡±And?¡±
¡°And you were wrong,¡± I mutter.
Sachia chuckles. ¡±Was I?¡±
It takes a second for me to realize what he means.
That damn jaguar. It had gotten up. Days later, when we¡¯d come back, expecting to find a carcass, it was gone. Just a few tufts of fur left in the grass, a streak of blood leading back into the jungle. Moon cycles later, I swear I saw a jaguar with a scar where the wound was. It just nodded at me, like a sign of respect, before slinking back into the jungle. At least, that how I took it to mean. Maybe I was seeing what I wanted to see. Like I am doing now.
I exhale, slow. ¡°This isn¡¯t the same.¡±
¡±Isn¡¯t it?¡± He sounds amused now. ¡±They followed you because they needed to. And now they follow him because they need to. But it doesn¡¯t mean they¡¯re gone forever. Doesn¡¯t mean they don¡¯t remember.¡±
I shake my head. ¡°You really think they¡¯ll remember and choose me over their own blood?¡±
¡±Not all of them. But some? Maybe.¡±
The wind shifts, dragging the dry scent of grass and smoke through the trees. Below, Taqsame¡¯s warriors move like currents in a river, swirling between the torchlight. I can pick out faces I know. Men who once stood beside me, shouted war cries beside me, bled beside me. And yet here they are.
They chose him.
But Sachia¡¯s voice lingers, a splinter under my skin.
The jaguar got back up.
I look up.
Sachia is gone.
Of course, he is.
But the bow feels lighter in my hands.
I focus. The tents aren¡¯t haphazardly scattered like those of desperate raiders. They¡¯re placed strategically. Larger tents sit in the center, surrounded by smaller ones, forming a core of leadership, with the rank-and-file positioned around them in tight, controlled formations.
I count at least six posts, each manned by at least two warriors. They stand with spears and bows, as their eyes search the darkness unamused.
I spot a group of men near the eastern ridge, working with ropes and wooden stakes. Fortifying defenses, digging trenches. They know something is coming, as only they would know, and they¡¯re preparing for it.
Yachaman grinds her teeth quietly. ¡°So he¡¯s planning a siege.¡±
I nod, watching as warriors drill in the open spaces, practicing with spears, shields, and swords. Taqsame isn¡¯t waiting for an opportunity. He¡¯s creating one.
A group of warriors moves toward the campfires. I grip my obsidian dagger tighter. My stomach twists as the firelight catches a familiar mark on the hilt of their weapons.
A twelve-pointed sun. The same symbol as the blade the wounded Aimue had shown me. The same symbol that stirred something unsettlingly familiar in the back of my mind.
I glance at Yachaman, who is staring hard at them, her jaw clenched.
The warriors with no colors, no banners. Just that sigil. A sun, stretching out like jagged teeth.
I don¡¯t just see defectors. I see cowards hiding behind the illusion of duty. The same warriors who once stood with me, who shed blood alongside me to protect our land from the Eye in the Flame, now fall in line under a man like Taqsame, as if their loyalty is nothing more than a shifting tide, dictated by whoever spews rhetoric out the loudest.
And what disgusts me most is that they must really believe they¡¯re doing the right thing. That Taqsame is somehow the rightful ruler of Qantua, of all of Pachil. That this¡ªthis¡ªis what our ancestors fought for. They¡¯re blind, willingly so, just as I suspect so many others will be.
But I remember him. Taqsame.
The first time I met him, back in Hilaqta, when Teqosa still commanded warriors with the kind of steady, unquestionable presence that even I respected. Taqsame had been arrogant, talking like the world owed him deference just because of the blood in his veins, because of his few good battles against the Timuaq. I remember how he dismissed Teqosa¡ªTeqosa, of all people¡ªlike he was some old relic of a forgotten time, unworthy of speaking to the future of the Qantua.
I wonder if he¡¯s any different now. If anything, I imagine he¡¯s worse. Insufferable. A man who already thought he deserved power now finally given the means to take it. A man who sees all of this¡ªthese warriors, this growing army¡ªnot as people, but as tools to build the legacy he envisions for himself.
And that¡¯s the part that cuts the deepest. That these warriors¡ªthe ones I once thought of as comrades¡ªwould throw their lives away for him.
That maybe this isn¡¯t so different from what we all fought for in the War of Liberation after all. Maybe we didn¡¯t carve a path for a better Pachil. Maybe we just made room for another tyrant to take his turn at the throne.
I hate this. I hate feeling powerless. Hate watching them¡ªwarriors who should know better¡ªfall into line with unquestioning obedience, waiting for their next command.
I don¡¯t realize I¡¯m grinding my teeth until Yachaman touches my shoulder. A small reminder, an anchor to keep me from doing something stupid.
But my rage burns hot, coiling in my gut like a viper waiting to strike.
And I think, You¡¯re all fools. And if you can¡¯t see it now, I¡¯ll make you see it soon enough.
I shift my focus toward the far end of the camp, where a makeshift forge has been constructed. Men pound metal into shape, hammering out weapons and armor over a roaring fire. The rhythmic, constant ringing carries over the wind. A warrior strides past the forge, inspecting a newly made spear. The smith offers it up with a respectful bow.
I feel a growl rise in my throat. He¡¯s got them making weapons now?
And it¡¯s not just for his loyalists. These are meant for more warriors. For new recruits.
The realization slams into me, and I have to fight the urge to move now, to run in and put an end to this before it festers. A fight now would be suicide. But every heartbeat we let this grow, Taqsame gets stronger.
The dagger in my grip feels small, useless. I want to break something, to shatter the careful order Taqsame has created in this place.
But I hold still. Patience. I unclench my jaw and exhale, steadying myself.
Long, slow breath in. Long, slow breath out.
¡°We need to go back,¡± Yachaman whispers, then points away from the camp with her head.
I move back slowly, and my body sinks into the shadows as Yachaman signals for the scouts to retreat. The night air clings to my skin, thick with the lingering heat of the forge, the acrid bite of burning charcoal threading through the crisp cold that rushes through the plains.
The camp is alive with movement. It¡¯s a slow, rolling tide of warriors sharpening blades, tending wounds, murmuring over steaming bowls of food. Not the makeshift gathering of desperate men I had once assumed as we approached this encampment. This is something else entirely.
I glance at Yachaman, catching the subtle furrow in her brow. She can sense what I¡¯m feeling, what I¡¯m planning, what¡¯s churning inside my mind like a swirling storm. She has to. It¡¯s why she follows up by murmuring, ¡°We have enough. Let¡¯s move before¡ª¡±
¡°Before what? Before we see something worse?¡±
A sudden motion draws my eye. A figure stepping out from a cluster of tents, moving with the kind of easy confidence that sets my teeth on edge.
At first, I think my eyes are deceiving me. That I¡¯ve been too long in the shadows, too exhausted from exerting myself in concentration, my vision twisting the dim firelight into something it¡¯s not.
But no. It¡¯s him.
Chalqo.
I almost don¡¯t recognize him at first. Not because he¡¯s changed¡ªhe still wears the same loose, flowing garments, the same air of practiced nonchalance¡ªbut because he shouldn¡¯t be here.
The firelight dances across his face as he laughs at something one of the Qantua warriors says. Laughs. Like he isn¡¯t standing in the middle of Taqsame¡¯s war camp. Like he isn¡¯t betraying everything he once stated, to comfort Haesan.
I grip the dirt beneath me, pressing my fingers into the dry terrain to ground myself. Yachaman is still beside me, but I barely feel her anymore.
The Qantua warrior Chalqo is speaking to listens with an air of familiarity, nodding along occasionally in agreement. Not like a subordinate to a commander. Like an envoy. A messenger. A chasqui. Someone passing along information.
Chalqo¡¯s hands move in lazy gestures as he speaks, emphasizing points with an easy confidence. Then, he reaches into his sash and pulls out a sealed bundle. I tense as he hands it over.
The Qantua warrior takes it, glancing at the bundle of knots from the quipu, then back at Chalqo. A slow, knowing nod. I think I hear it¡ªor maybe the wind is playing tricks on my ears. It¡¯s a remark that I barely catch from this distance: ¡°The old woman is more reasonable than the girl.¡±
¡°She¡¯s negotiating behind the Quya¡¯s back,¡± Yachaman can barely get the whispered statement out from behind her lips.
I should¡¯ve expected this.
Nuqasiq didn¡¯t return to Tapeu just to advise Haesan. She came to rule. I saw it in the way she commanded the palace courtyard while it was under attack, the way people bowed a little deeper. And now, here¡¯s more proof.
She¡¯s reaching outward, to Taqsame. To the very war we¡¯re trying to prevent.
I exhale slowly, steadying the anger rising in my chest. My knuckles ache from how tightly I¡¯ve curled my fists.
Chalqo. That lying, smooth-talking¡
The Qantua warrior tucks the bundle into his tunic, muttering something else. Chalqo smirks, shaking his head as if to dismiss whatever was said.
Then¡ªhis eyes flick toward the darkness.
Toward us.
I go still, breath caught in my throat. For a heartbeat, it feels like he¡¯s looking right at me. Does he see us?
His gaze lingers a moment too long. Then, the faintest twitch of his lips¡ªa hint of amusement, of acknowledgment. A knowing smile. And just as quickly, he looks away.
Yachaman grabs my arm with a firm, urgent grip. ¡°We need to go. Now.¡±
But I don¡¯t move. I can¡¯t. If we leave now, what do we have? A stolen glance. A half-heard exchange. It¡¯s not enough. Not for me.
I glance at Yachaman, at the Aimue scouts waiting for my command. I know what she wants. I know what¡¯s smart.
But I can¡¯t leave. Not yet.
I push Yachaman¡¯s arm away. ¡°Go,¡± I tell her. ¡°Inform the Quya.¡±
She stiffens. ¡°What?¡±
¡°You heard me,¡± I hiss. ¡°Take the scouts. Get back the palace.¡±
Her expression tightens, frustration flashing in her eyes. ¡°You¡¯re not seriously thinking¡ª¡±
I don¡¯t let her finish. I shove her.
¡°Go.¡±
Yachaman curses under her breath. I watch as she signals the scouts, pulling them back toward the safety of the trees. They vanish into the darkness, swallowed by the night.
Then, I turn back toward the camp. One more look. Just to see what Chalqo is really up to.
174 - Teqosa
The Great Forge of Pachil has been cold for several moon cycles. No smoke, no hammer strikes, no sparks catching in the dark. Only silence. How can such quiet be so jarring, so disturbingly loud?
I stand beneath the forge¡¯s gaping maw, where the light of dying embers once pooled like molten gold. Now, it is just shadow and dust, the skeleton of something that used to breathe. The remnants stretch around me¡ªscattered slag, rusting tools, massive bellows half-deflated like the lungs of a dying beast. The air is dry, cracked with the scent of old ore. A place meant for war, now left behind by a war it did not get to forge.
In the center of the wreckage, a slab of stone that¡¯s blackened from generations of heat serves as our table. The scroll is laid bare upon it, its edges curling like something reluctant to be read. The glyphs crawl across the parchment, etched by a hurried hand. I have read them already, once with the young invaders¡ªthose strange, pale-faced things who speak in tongues that slant like broken reeds.
One of them, the short, stocky boy, had recognized a symbol. There was a flicker of recognition in his soft, foreign face. The same way a hunter knows the silhouette of a predator in the dark, even if he has never seen the beast before.
Upachu crouches over the scroll now, fingers following the markings as if he could feel the history beneath his fingertips. He mutters to himself, tracing the lines, piecing meaning together like pulling sinew from bone.
¡°They wrote this quickly,¡± he finally says, his voice rasping against the stillness. ¡°Perhaps while in fear. The script is fairly difficult to discern because of how hastily it¡¯s been written. Nothing like the markings we¡¯ve seen elsewhere.¡±
Paxilche huffs from where he stands near the broken mouth of the forge. ¡°Does it at least tell us something useful?¡± His arms are crossed, his fingers digging into his biceps, the way a man braces for a blow before it lands.
I keep my eyes on the parchment, on the markings that should have faded but haven¡¯t. ¡°The markings themselves haven¡¯t yet, but the invader¡¯s reaction to one of them has.¡±
Walumaq steps closer, curiosity gleaming behind her piercing blue eyes. She¡¯s quick, I know. Picks things apart like a chasqui reading the knots in a quipu, untying the world thread by thread. ¡°How did you read it?¡±
I exhale through my nose. ¡°We spent moon cycles deciphering what little we could from the ruins in Wichanaqta. The glyphs were everywhere¡ªcarved into stone, hidden in murals, embedded in the very bones of the palace. When we returned to Hilaqta, Upachu studied them in every moment of stillness he could afford. But for me, well, I didn¡¯t have that luxury.¡± I drag a hand down my face, memories of those trials resurfacing. ¡°He did his best to teach me when he could, but after the incident with¡¡± I struggle to find the words to explain the miserable assassin that sought us out multiple times during my trials. I shake away the horrific memory of Upachu¡¯s near death. ¡°I learned them the hard way. Part of retrieving the lumuli chest, and the journey to reach it, forced me to understand them¡ªor die trying. The trial wasn¡¯t just about proving my worth, it ended up being a lesson in understanding the ancient glyphs.¡±
Upachu nods, his fingers still ghosting over the parchment. ¡°While he was away, I passed the time while I was recovering to learn as much as I could about the glyphs. The more I studied, the more I realized they weren¡¯t just letters or symbols. They carried weight of significance. Intent. Some of them were warnings. Others, commands. It felt like the person creating these glyphs was trying to convey a message to us, to teach us something invaluable. But the thoughts and messages told in the scrolls were fragmented, incomplete. We have yet to determine what they mean in their entirety.¡±
The sound of movement jostles us alert. A creature? A foe? Following soon after, there¡¯s an unmistakable sound that echoes through the still air¡ªa lazy, contented¡ chewing. We all cautiously turn toward the broken archway at the forge¡¯s entrance. There, standing like it had never been lost, is our llama, munching absently on the sparse tufts of dry grass growing between the cracked stone. Its ears twitch at our stares, but it doesn¡¯t stop chewing.
I close my eyes, shaking my head. ¡°Of course.¡±
Upachu folds his arms, staring at the creature bemusedly. ¡°How¡?¡±
Paxilche glares at the animal, but even he looks more bewildered than irritated. ¡°Isn¡¯t that¡¡± Upachu, S¨ªqalat, and I nod, staring at the llama as though seeing its spirit. ¡°But that thing has been missing for days.¡±
I let out a breath of laughter, rubbing the bridge of my nose. ¡°Not missing. Just being¡ what it has always been.¡±
The llama flicks an ear as if acknowledging my words, then turns away and resumes its slow, indifferent grazing. Paxilche looks unamused¡ªI¡¯d argue, just as much so as the llama. How it manages to survive and find its way back to us is something I¡¯ll have to ask the fates one day.
The fragile scroll lies open between us. I flatten its brittle and reluctant fibers against the stone slab, pressing my fingertips to the edges, feeling the delicate crumbling. The faded markings linger in the deep grooves.
Beside me, Upachu leans closer to the papyrus, narrowing his eyes in deep focus. Walumaq crouches to my left, lightly tracing her fingers along the edge of the glyphs, as if touching it might coax some deeper meaning from it. Paxilche paces, the sharp slap of his sandals against damp stone the only sound for a long while.
The forge, or what remains of it, is bloated with the scent of rot, with damp breaths puffing up from the cracks in the stone. How did it get this way so suddenly? It¡¯s as if the life from this place has been drawn out from it. Could this be what the great blacksmith, Iachanisqa, had spoken of? Has the drought reached our shores?
I shake the thought from my mind and return my attention to deciphering the papyrus. The words come to me slowly, but I manage to determine the meaning behind the glyphs. There are some words I don¡¯t recognize, some that I¡¯ve never before seen. It takes me several attempts, but I read, and reread¡ªand reread some more¡ªuntil the meaning makes itself clear to me, like a morning fog lifting from the hills. I inhale, then begin reading aloud.
There was always something wrong with him.
He was the war-god incarnate. We needed that. Or we thought we did.
Even before the first betrayals. Even before the horror at Mahuincha.
I never spoke his name in reverence. Never in caution, either. I thought I understood him. I thought, if nothing else, that he was ours.
I was wrong.
Paxilche stops pacing. A bead of sweat traces down his forge, though the air is cool and damp. Saqatli shifts from his place near the forge entrance, watching. He hasn¡¯t spoken much. His eyes, too large for his thin face, glint in the weak light. I don¡¯t think he blinks. Does he understand what I¡¯ve read?
S¨ªqalat asks the question likely on all of our minds, ¡°Who¡¯s the ¡®he¡¯ being referenced? This ¡®war-god incarnate¡¯?¡±
¡°It could be Aqxilapu,¡± Upachu ponders. ¡°A god of thunder and the mountains.¡±
¡°A deity of Qiapu would never be one for betrayal, as this person claims through their glyphs,¡± Paxilche charges, offended.
Upachu doesn¡¯t appear as convinced, frowning at Paxilche¡¯s protest. But he humors the Qiapu man anyway. ¡°Then perhaps Tlaloqa. Or Eztletiqa.¡±
I press on, my voice tightening as I translate the next passage, hoping for more clarification.
If we had listened¡ªif we had let him go before he could sink his teeth into us¡ªperhaps it would have been different. But we mistook hunger for loyalty. Vigor for devotion.
When Mahuincha fell, when we stood among its ruins, its people scattered, unmade¡ªI turned to him, waiting for the fury, the regret, the explanation.
He only smiled.
A bright, terrible thing, the kind that turns a blade into a god¡¯s hand.
And that is when I knew.
He was only built for destruction. As though Pachil was something for him to claim for him, and him alone.
He did not walk among us. He did not stand beside us. He had never been ours.
Walumaq exhales through her nose. ¡°So he was part of them.¡±
¡°Who?¡± S¨ªqalat asks, visibly confused.
¡°The Eleven,¡± Upachu murmurs. He leans closer, eyes scanning the glyphs with a slow and practiced gaze.
¡°Obviously, the Eleven,¡± S¨ªqalat says, annoyed. ¡°Who is the ¡®he¡¯? I still don¡¯t understand.¡±
¡°¡®He was only built for destruction¡¯,¡± Walumaq echoes. ¡°¡®As though Pachil was something for him to claim for him, and him alone.¡¯ This must refer to the one who has brought the invaders to Pichaqta. This must refer to Xiatli.¡±
Support creative writers by reading their stories on Royal Road, not stolen versions.
I nod. It¡¯s true¡ªXiatli was never sung of as protector, nor named among the revered. From what Upachu and I determined through our quest and reading these glyphs, his existence always felt like a hole in the narrative, a shape cut from the fabric of history. A presence known by its absence.
S¨ªqalat still appears confused. ¡°But¡ it mentions the Mahuincha. I thought the Timuaq were responsible. That¡¯s what¡¯s always been said.¡±
¡°They were wiped out by one of our own,¡± I say, the truth like a blade sliding slow beneath the ribs. ¡°By one of the Eleven.¡±
By him. The one who is present in Pichaqta. Dangerously close to the rest of the factions. He has returned. To finish what he started then, when he was one of the Eleven?
Paxilche lets out a rough, bitter laugh. ¡°Well, I guess there goes the possibility that he has some redeeming moment, some ancient excuse. That he might¡¯ve fought for Pachil, even if it was for the wrong reasons.¡±
S¨ªqalat exhales with a wry smile. ¡°Oh, I don¡¯t know,¡± she says. ¡°I rather like this version. It¡¯s much simpler. No heroism to argue over.¡± She turns toward us, her eyes half-lidded, her mouth curling like she might be tasting something. ¡°You have to admire the purity of it.¡±
No one responds.
I press forward.
We cast him out. The others, they had to be convinced, but they saw, in the end, what I saw.
He would have razed everything in time, until nothing remained but him and the ruin he built.
I wonder now if it was exile or a gift.
Perhaps we did not remove him from Pachil.
Perhaps we gave him what he had always wanted.
The words of the papyrus crawl in my skull, dig their roots deep.
We gave him what he had always wanted.
Paxilche slowly cracks his knuckles. ¡°And what was that, exactly?¡±
I don¡¯t answer. But I think I already know.
The forge is silent except for the mountain¡¯s endless, creeping murmur beyond its broken boundaries. The damp stone beneath me is cold through the fabric of my tunic, but the weight pressing against my ribs, against my thoughts, burns hotter than ever.
And then¡ª
¡±They call him the dawn of a new era.¡±
The words do not come from my mouth, nor from anyone else¡¯s. They are inside my head, crawling through my skull like fingers pressing against the bone. The voice is small. Trembling.
Saqatli.
I turn, but he¡¯s already staring at me¡ªat Walumaq, at Paxilche¡ªhis dark eyes wide, rimmed with an anxious sheen. Noch looks uncomfortable beside him, or as uncomfortable as an ocelot can appear. His thin arms are wrapped tight around his knees where he crouches at the edge of the weak torchlight, as if trying to make himself smaller, as if hoping the words he speaks in silence will shrink with him.
¡±They gather resources for him. Gemstones. Gold. Silver. Iron. Powder.¡±
Paxilche¡¯s breath comes sharp through his nose. ¡°Powder?¡±
A pause. He sees the perplexed look on my face after he mentions the last resource. There¡¯s a shallow inhale that I feel more than hear.
¡±They call it ¡®the fire of gods.¡¯ Their leaders plan to take Pachil, as if it was always theirs.¡±
I repeat the words aloud, for S¨ªqalat, Atoyaqtli, and Upachu. Walumaq¡¯s expression hardens. Saqatli shudders. His tiny shoulders tremble beneath the tattered cloak draped over them, but he presses on.
¡±And they kneel before him. The Lehito, they are called. They worship Xiatli. But they do not know what he truly is.¡±
Paxilche scowls, his hands gripping his belt so tight his knuckles pale. ¡°Of course they do,¡± he mutters. ¡°Why not? A god of war. A god of slaughter. Of course they¡¯d want to worship that.¡± He turns, looks at me, at Walumaq, as his fury is barely contained.
I swallow down the sharp taste rising in the back of my throat and turn back to Saqatli, whose small fingers nervously dig into the fabric of his tunic.
¡±There was more,¡± he says, reluctant to continue.
¡±What more?¡± I ask, barely realizing I¡¯m speaking back to him with my thoughts.
His gaze flickers between the three of us, his lips pressing into a thin, bloodless line.
¡±They were speaking of the fire priest. Of the sorcerers.¡±
His voice shakes.
¡±They laughed at the defeat of those who conjured fire. They mocked them. They questioned if that was the only power our land contained. They said our people do not know. That we will not know until it is too late.¡±
Paxilche curses under his breath. Walumaq¡¯s fingers press to her temples, absorbing, thinking. I close my eyes, and the weight of it all¡ªthe iron that releases fire like arrows, the invaders, this deity that was once of the Eleven¡ªsettles into my bones like rot creeping through wood.
Xiatli has been gathering his forces since his exile. He has been waiting. And now, the Lehito are merely another branch in his ever-sprawling shadow.
I inform the others of Saqatli¡¯s words. A movement to my right¡ªSaqatli is shifting back, shrinking, pulling his knees tighter against his chest, as if the knowledge inside him is something he no longer wants to carry.
Still lounging against a fallen pillar, S¨ªqalat lets out a long, thoughtful hum. ¡°Well,¡± she says, ¡°I can¡¯t say I find this particularly shocking. I mean, think about it. Those savages have no gods of their own, so why not take one of ours? Especially one who seems determined to claim Pachil for himself, now out of spite.¡±
Upachu nods grimly. ¡°And the moment they believe Pachil is already theirs, the fight changes. There¡¯s no conquering when you think you¡¯re just taking back what belongs to you.¡±
Atoyaqtli exhales. ¡°So. What now?¡±
I release a slow breath and stand. ¡°We have to tell the others. We have to warn the other factions of what¡¯s reached our shores.¡±
Upachu straightens. ¡°And we need to find the last scroll.¡±
Walumaq glances at him. ¡°You think there¡¯s more?¡±
Upachu nods. ¡°There has to be. The records weren¡¯t written in a single scroll. Sualset wrote this, but Teqosa and I believe that one last papyrus remains.¡±
Atoyaqtli frowns. ¡°And where would it be?¡±
¡°Sanqo.¡±
The others are still speaking, voices bouncing off the forge¡¯s broken stone walls, but I¡¯m already moving. Away from the damp, the closeness, too many words pressing into the same space.
I step out into the night. The mountain exhales around me, its breath cool and thick with mist. I climb until the already sparse vegetation thins further, until the ruined forge and the voices inside it become a murmur beneath me. A broken terrace, half-swallowed by vines, juts out over the cliffs. I settle there, hands bracing against the cool stone, my lungs drinking in the high, thin air.
Above, the sky is swollen with clouds, moonlight bleeding through their tattered edges. Below, the valleys rolling deep into the bones of Qiapu.
I close my eyes.
Breathe.
And listen.
The mountain doesn¡¯t speak, not like Saqatli does. Not in words. But in the shifting of the wind through the canopies, in the distant groan of the bushes and trees, in the hollow hush through the cliffs, there is a voice here. One that does not care for gods or wars or history pressing into my skull. And yet, history is here, too. Clawing at me, sinking its teeth in deep.
We gave him what he had always wanted.
Sualset¡¯s words, markings in a trembling, steady hand.
He was only built for destruction. As though Pachil was something for him to claim for him, and him alone.
I open my eyes and press my palm to the stone, the spiral carving warm against my skin.
Every ending feeds a beginning.
Entilqan¡¯s voice, a whisper against memory. The stone she placed in my hand, smooth as river-worn bone. I clutch it now, feel its shape, its heft. It is light, but it anchors me, pulls me from the jagged, spinning edge of thought.
What followed the day the gods died, the day the Eleven sought to sacrifice themselves and destroy the Timuaq, to liberate us once and for all, were countless stories of their feats. Not as myth, but as truth. And in every version, Xiatli was an absence, a shadow between the lines. An unspoken silence, thick as smoke.
I had never questioned that silence before. But now, that silence is broken. Now, I know what was hidden.
We were raised to believe that the Eleven stood together. That they chose their sacrifice with clear minds, that they stood shoulder to shoulder against annihilation. That the day of the breaking was one of valor, of martyrdom, of finality.
But Sualset¡¯s words have put an end to that long held belief. And still, there is more.
Another scroll. Another buried truth.
I exhale, long and slow. The mountain carries it away. I turn back toward the forge. And I descend.
The forge is quiet when I return, though not silent. The others have shifted, some resting against the stone, some crouched near the embers of a dying fire, eyes flickering in the low light.
Paxilche stands apart, shoulders tense, fingers twitching at his side, as if resisting the urge to lash out at something. Saqatli is curled into himself near the wall, his small frame swallowed in his too-large cloak, his gaze distant. Walumaq watches me from the other side of the forge, arms folded, expression unreadable. Upachu sits beside the scroll, one hand resting on his knee, the other tracing absent-minded patterns in the dust. He looks up as I approach.
¡°Did the air give you the clarity you sought?¡± he questions.
I nod. He knows me well.
Upachu taps his finger once against the papyrus. ¡°The pots we found. The ones with the maps.¡±
Walumaq straightens, now joining our discussion. ¡°The burial sites of the papyrus.¡±
¡°Indeed,¡± Upachu says. ¡°Places where Sualset left her words before everything¡¡± He flits his hand in the air, which indeed says it all, about what they did, and what came of their efforts. How futile it all feels, to drive one¡¯s head into the mountainside, hoping that, one day, it will cause it to crumble into the sea.
I sigh, knowing that this may be yet another thud of our collective heads against stone. ¡°So, the last scroll is in Sanqo,¡± I say. ¡°I think we know what we have to do.¡±
Walumaq¡¯s gaze darkens, calculating. ¡°If it¡¯s there, it won¡¯t be easy to reach. But at least we¡¯ll have my family there to assist us. Whatever resources we need, we should be able to attain.¡±
"Nothing about this has been easy," Atoyaqtli says.
Paxilche scoffs. ¡°And we¡¯re going to leave this place behind while these invaders pick Qiapu apart?¡±
Upachu frowns gravely, saying, ¡°I¡¯m afraid we have no choice.¡±
¡°If this scroll holds more of the truth,¡± I add, ¡°if it can tell us what remains of Sualset¡¯s guiding words, then we need it. Our efforts to stop Xiatli are futile, especially as he possesses our amulets. If there¡¯s any hope of stopping the Lehito from destroying our land, we need to find out how we can, and the last scroll may contain the solution.¡±
¡°So Qiapu gets left to feed these scavengers,¡± Paxilche remarks, almost incensed. ¡°We just allow my homeland to suffer, my people to be enslaved, so yours can survive?¡±
I rest a hand on his shoulder. He flinches at the touch, but I don¡¯t pull away. I meet his gaze and speak softly, but firmly, knowing that anything less will be lost to his fury.
¡°I understand your anger¡ªI truly do. And I do not ask you to set it aside. What is happening to Qiapu should never happen to any land, to any people. But if we stay here, fighting skirmishes while the enemy gathers its true strength elsewhere, and without the knowledge of how to defeat this invader, then we are not protecting Qiapu¡ªwe are condemning it.¡±
I pause, expecting him to push back, to refuse. To my surprise, he doesn¡¯t. Not yet, anyway.
¡°If we leave now,¡± I continue, ¡°it isn¡¯t to abandon your homeland. It¡¯s to ensure it has a future at all. And if we do not find the full truth, if we do not find the means to truly stop Xiatli, then what happens to Qiapu today will happen to all of Pachil tomorrow.¡±
His jaw tightens. His fists clench at his sides. I can see it, the war inside him¡ªthe need to act now, to strike at the enemy he can see, even if it means losing the war against the one he cannot.
¡°We are running out of time, Paxilche,¡± I say, gentler now. ¡°And no faction, no land, no people, will be safe if we fail.¡±
I think of the mountains stretching far beyond this forge, its cliffs rolling down to the rivers, the lands that scatter outward like veins from a heart. Pachil is vast. Our world is vast. And yet it can be stolen in an instant if no one fights to keep it.
I feel the spiral stone warm against my palm.
Every ending feeds a beginning.
We are running out of time.
But we are not yet out of chances.
I turn to the others. ¡°We go to Sanqo in the morning.¡±
175 - Legido
Just before the body registers the pain, there¡¯s a moment where the mind suspends itself between impact and oblivion. A breath held in the lungs, the flicker of recognition¡ªyou are falling¡ªand then the sensation rips through your body like a thousand iron-tipped arrows.
The world spins as a storm of dust and jagged rock blur past. You feel the air leave your chest in a sudden rush when your ribs slam against a craggy outcrop. A rock catches your shoulder, spinning you midair. Your hands scrape against stone while trying desperately to grab ahold of something.
Then, impact.
To no one¡¯s surprise, the ground does not welcome you. The sharp bite of stone carves into your back, into your hip, into the side of your skull where it cracks against the dry, baked terrain. The taste of dust and dirt fills your mouth, iron-tinged from where your teeth have caught the inside of your cheek.
For a moment, all you can do is exist in the wreckage of yourself. The pain arrives in stages¡ªfirst, a dull roar in your ribs, then a bright and searing throb where your left arm caught the worst of it. Your lungs struggle against the impact, causing your breath to come shallow¡ when it comes at all.
The wind moans through the cliffs above, dry and laced with the scent of the brittle and sun-bleached iron-rich stone. Above, the sky is a heavy slate of colorless light. The edges of the jagged cliffs bite against it like the broken teeth of some decrepit beast.
Slowly, your mind claws toward coherence. Where?
The last thing you remember flashes in your memory¡ªthe fight, the scrambling escape, the ground crumbling beneath you. Iker. Landera. The others.
Your shifting movement is slow and agonizing. Grit and gravel grind against your skin as you heave yourself onto your side, fingers digging into the dirt for something¡ªanything¡ªsolid. You can¡¯t feel the weight of your body correctly. The ground tilts. Or maybe your limbs aren¡¯t where you left them.
There¡¯s ringing in your ears¡ªor maybe it¡¯s whispering. A high, keening noise that doesn¡¯t come from the wind. Something slick slides down the side of your face. You touch it with trembling fingers. Blood. Probably.
There¡¯s movement in the corner of your eye. A rustle. A hush. Something more felt than heard. You blink toward the sound, but the world responds in delay, like a poorly drawn map turning too slowly to match your compass.
It¡¯s not the wind. Not the sound of loose debris tumbling down from the cliffs.
What is that?
A shadow lingers beyond the rocks, half-caught in the hollow of something long dead¡ªa structure? A wall? The memory of architecture. It folds in on itself like fabric, slumped into the terrain like it¡¯s trying to hide.
Something pale flickers near it, and then nothing. You blink again. Maybe it was just the blood in your eyes. Maybe it was light, or your mind fraying at the edges.
And near the ruin, like the ribs of something picked clean long ago, you see the remains of a passage. A trail, half-swallowed by stone.
Your eyes move slowly across the wreckage, tracking the fragments. The burnt-out skeleton of a campfire. Blackened ends of torches strewn like fallen teeth. A discarded satchel with the straps torn off. Footprints pressed sharp and certain into the dirt. Fresh. Too fresh.
Someone has been here.
Someone might still be.
The light bends wrong. The shadows stretch too long, then snap back like taut cords. You blink again. Or maybe the blink happened before the thought. You can¡¯t tell anymore.
A voice. It¡¯s low, at first, distant, like it¡¯s coming from underwater, bubbling up through miles of stone. It slips through the ringing in your ears, wrapping around you like mist.
Iker.
¡°¡ªI saw you go down, but I don¡¯t see¡ oh my.¡± A pause. A shift in the wind as dust rolls down the cliffs above. Then, closer now, ¡°Hold on, I¡¯m coming down!¡±
You barely manage a breath before the loose shale above gives way under Iker¡¯s weight. He skids down the rock face in a reckless free fall, arms pinwheeling, boots kicking up dust and debris.
Just a short distance away, he lands hard with a grunt of effort. His knee smacks against the rock, and for a moment, he stays where he is, catching his breath. Then, after wiping the grit from his lashes, he turns his head toward you.
Iker pushes himself up, grunting while rolling his shoulders as if trying to convince himself he meant to fall that way. He takes a second look at you, frowning. ¡°How bad?¡±
You breathe through your teeth, testing each movement before answering. ¡°Well, I¡¯ve been worse, I suppose.¡±
He grins, but his gaze lingers on your arm and the way you¡¯re favoring it. He doesn¡¯t press, though. Instead, he glances around, finally taking in the remnants of the abandoned outpost.
And just like you, he notices. The footprints. The campfire. The deliberate stacking of stones over a passageway, as if someone planned to return, but wanted it sealed, just in case.
Iker exhales. ¡°Someone else is here, aren¡¯t they?¡±
You shrug, then nod. You¡¯re not certain, but deep down, you somehow know. Given how everything has gone thus far, you know how miserable your fortunes are.
The two of you exchange a look, the same thought forming between you. Whoever left this place did so in a hurry, not expecting to be found.
You and Iker move in silence, skirting the edges of the crumbling outpost. The dry wind hums through the broken structures, slipping through jagged gaps in the fragmented stone walls and splintered beams.
You step over a rusted chain half-buried in the dirt. Your best guess is that it¡¯s the remnants of some long-collapsed pulley system. Mining equipment, perhaps¡ªold, ruined, left to rot. The crafters of this place dug their hands into the belly of these mountains and pulled wealth from their bones. And when it ran dry, or when it became too dangerous, they left it behind.
You exhale slowly. That¡¯s the story of everything, isn¡¯t it? Strip it bare, take what you can, leave the ruin for someone else to haunt.
Crouched ahead of you, Iker lifts a hand in warning. He tilts his head toward an opening in the largest structure, appearing like some sort of storage chamber.
The two of you exchange a glance. Move closer. Listening.
A creak. A shift of boots on dirt. Voices. Low. Tense. Wary.
Iker nods once, and you step forward into the open doorway. Inside, the air musky and foul, like stagnant water. Then, piercing your nostrils, the acrid scent of sweat and unwashed bodies. The top of this place has partially collapsed, spilling jagged slats of sunlight across the floor. The walls are lined with makeshift bedding, scattered supplies, piles of gear that suggest a group ready to move at a moment¡¯s notice.
You come around the bend and nearly stumble into the jaws of a trap. Eight of them. Maybe nine. Silent, still, and suddenly aware of you. Weapons aren¡¯t raised, but they might as well be¡ªhands hang at belts, shoulders stiffen. None of them look happy to see you.
The man at the center is the largest¡ªscarred forearms, a jaw like old stone, and the kind of quiet that doesn¡¯t come from wisdom but from watching too many people bleed. He takes a single step forward, eyes locked on yours. Not welcoming. Not hostile. Just¡ measuring.
Before you can say anything, someone moves at the far end of the hall. A thin, frail figure emerging from a shadowed alcove.
Landera.
Her face is drawn and pale, her braid frayed and hanging loose in parts, like rope cut at odd angles. Dried blood flecks her sleeve. Her voice is flat when she says, ¡°You¡¯re late.¡±
Your throat sticks. You mean to run to her. To hold her, or at least check her¡ªmake sure she isn¡¯t just another dream stitched from exhaustion. But your legs stay locked. She doesn¡¯t come to you either. Her eyes flit between you and Iker. It¡¯s like she¡¯s looking at strangers.
¡°Iker,¡± she says with a nod. ¡°Still breathing?¡±
¡°I do what I can,¡± he replies, glancing past her at the others. ¡°Though it looks like your new friends were thinking of stopping that.¡±
Landera tilts her head toward the broad-shouldered man standing just behind her. ¡°They helped me escape.¡±
The man says nothing. One of the others¡ªthinner, with sunburnt skin and a lazy hand resting on a sword hilt¡ªgives a grunt. It might¡¯ve been a laugh. Or indigestion. Hard to tell.
If you encounter this story on Amazon, note that it''s taken without permission from the author. Report it.
¡°Right,¡± Iker says. ¡°They look like real heroes.¡±
Landera shoots him a warning look, but it doesn¡¯t land. Her voice drops a half-octave. ¡°They¡¯re the resistance. They¡¯ve been hiding out here for months, biding their time, waiting for the right moment to push back. To do what no one else here seems willing to do.¡±
She looks to you, then to Iker, seemingly gauging your reactions to this new development. Her words are quickened now, almost carried away by the current of her own convictions. ¡°I thought I was dead when Criato¡¯s men dragged me out back in Aitzabal. But these men¡ªthey saw me. Saw what I could offer. And I saw what they were doing, what they were trying to do. Not just fight Criato. But fix things. All of this.¡±
She turns back toward the burley, scarred man, gesturing toward the others. ¡°They¡¯ve lost comrades. Supplies. They¡¯ve risked themselves to stand up against what Criato represents. Not just because he¡¯s cruel, but because he¡¯s wrong. Because someone has to say no to that.¡±
She breathes, finally. There¡¯s a faint shine in her eyes¡ªpride, maybe. But the scarred man only lifts a solitary, humorless brow.
One of the others¡ªsunburned, rail-thin, with a twisted scarf hiding a poorly shaved chin¡ªleans against the wall and spits onto the cracked stone floor. You notice how the sound echoes, it¡¯s so startlingly silent.
¡°We came to make sure Criato didn¡¯t keep everything for himself,¡± he says. ¡°Let¡¯s not start pretending this was about principles.¡±
Landera blinks. ¡°What?¡± she says, almost breathlessly. ¡°That¡¯s not how you described it,¡± she adds, stepping forward a pace.
The scarred man gives a shrug that might as well be a guillotine falling. ¡°That¡¯s because you were bleeding and half-starved and babbling about justice and balance and other poetic nonsense. Thought it was easier to let you dream a little. Figured you¡¯d wash out or die trying.¡±
Another of the men chuckles. ¡°Turns out you didn¡¯t. Not bad for a sea whelp.¡±
Landera freezes. Her mouth opens, closes. Opens again. ¡°But¡ I saw your notes, your maps. The supplies you raided¡ª¡±
¡°Which we sold,¡± the man cuts in. ¡°Or kept. Or traded for influence. Depends what you¡¯re talking about.¡±
Landera goes rigid. ¡°You weren¡¯t fighting for the Legido workers? Or to protect the natives of this land?¡±
The man¡¯s eyes narrow. ¡°I don¡¯t fight for ghosts.¡±
She looks at the others now, the fighters she thought were her people. these strangers she¡¯d somehow convinced herself were comrades. Their shoulders are slouched, their eyes darting, avoiding hers. A few chuckle under their breath. One adjusts a belt, one scratches at a scab on his neck, but none of them meet her gaze. Not even the scarred one.
And something in her buckles. It doesn¡¯t happen all at once. There¡¯s no collapse, no outburst. Just a slow retreat. As though her spine has softened. As though her voice has curled up inside her throat and gone quiet.
She takes a step back, but not from fear. It¡¯s more like she¡¯s shrinking into herself, trying to occupy less space in the world she no longer understands.
She shakes her head. ¡°You let me believe¡ª¡±
¡°You wanted to believe,¡± the thin one says, grinning. ¡°You practically painted it for us. ¡®Rebels fighting tyranny in the hills.¡¯ Nine hells, I almost started believing it myself, the way you went on.¡±
The scarred man doesn¡¯t laugh like the others around him. He¡¯s just watching her, like you might watch a fire burning itself out.
¡°You weren¡¯t supposed to last this long,¡± he grunt. ¡°Yet here you are.¡±
And that¡¯s when you see it fully¡ªsee her falter in the way her shoulders slope forward, the way her hands curl inward at her sides, fists not of fury, but of someone trying to hold the pieces of herself together. Her chin just barely dips, the way a ship lists just before it capsizes.
That bright defiance she always carried¡ªit dims now. Like a candle run out of air.
Something inside you coils in grief. Because you know Landera. You know how much she wanted this to be true. How much she needed to believe there were still people who fought for the right reasons. That maybe there was a version of the world worth defending. And you see now how fragile that belief really was.
You want to say something to pull her back. But nothing fits the shape of this moment. Nothing would make it hurt less.
So you just stand there, your own throat thick with shame¡ªfor them, for her, for everything that led to this. And she just keeps staring, like she¡¯s staring at the sinking shape of her own conviction, dissolving into the dirt.
¡°We took you in because you looked like someone who¡¯d cause trouble for Criato,¡± the scarred man says flatly. ¡°That made you useful. But don¡¯t start selling fables to your friends. We¡¯re not here to save anything. We¡¯re here to make sure we get paid.¡±
¡°But¡¡± Landera sputters, ¡°you saw what Xiatli did.¡±
¡°Sure,¡± the man says. ¡°We all did. That¡¯s why we¡¯re not looking to play hero anymore. Let the zealots bow and scream. Let Criato pretend he¡¯s a chosen vessel. We¡¯re just going to make sure when this place gets carved up, we¡¯re not left with the scraps.¡±
You can see Landera¡¯s certainty unraveling, thread by thread. She came here, to these men, expecting a battle plan. A fight worth fighting. But there was never a noble cause. Just another pack of men fighting over scraps.
¡°Where¡¯s the rest of you?¡± you ask. Your hand splays at the plethora of empty bedrolls scattered about these ruins. ¡°Seems like there should be more to this ¡®resistance¡¯.¡± You can¡¯t help but spit the last word in disdain.
The broad-shouldered man exhales through his nose, shaking his head. ¡°Gone,¡± he says simply.
Landera snaps toward him, as surprised as you are at the monosyllabic response. ¡°What do you mean, gone?¡±
If he was going to answer, the broad-shouldered man is interrupted by sharp and sudden sounds¡ªwhistles slicing the air, a scatter of boots on gravel, the dry pop of matchlock fire echoing down the valley. Shouts erupt. The dull thud of bodies hitting dirt. The scent of burning powder rolls in like an oncoming storm.
More shouting, closer now. You whirl, and they¡¯re already moving.
Criato¡¯s men.
No charge. No storm of fury or sound and blood. Just pure intention. A surgical purge descending through the canyon ruins.
There¡¯s no war cry, no signal. Just a man¡¯s throat cut clean across as he turns, still half-drunk on his morning ration. Just a blade sliding beneath another¡¯s ribs while he fumbles with his belt.
And then it breaks¡ªpanic. Not from you. Not from Iker. Not even from Landera. But from them. The ¡°resistance.¡±
They scatter like kicked-up rats. No cohesion. No ranks. No resolve. Half of them don¡¯t even draw steel¡ªthey just run.
Someone screams, ¡°They found us!¡± in disbelief. One man bolts past you so fast he stumbles into a crumbling column and clips his shoulder. Another throws down his weapon entirely, choosing flight with empty hands over the clumsy heft of iron. You swear he¡¯s crying.
Another voice¡ªa rasping accusation¡ª¡°You told them! You bastard, you told¡ª!¡±
Then steel on bone. Silence.
Landera stumbles, almost gets knocked over by a fleeing man. She spins after him, grabs the back of his collar and yanks hard. He topples into the dirt with a choked cry.
¡°You¡ªhow did they find us?¡± she hisses.
He¡¯s young, maybe younger than her. Pimples still raw along his cheek. Doesn¡¯t even wear armor, just a belt with a sheathed blade no longer than your arm.
¡°I didn¡¯t tell anyone!¡± he yelps, voice cracking halfway through the sentence. ¡°I swear, I was just on guard!¡±
Landera holds him there for a breath. Maybe two. Her arm draws back, fist clenched, but doesn¡¯t strike. She lets him drop, stumbling back a step like she can¡¯t trust herself not to cave his skull in.
You duck low, grabbing a weapon¡ªsome battered, short blade, iron-stained and off-balance, more tool than sword. Doesn¡¯t matter. Your fingers close around it all the same.
Iker¡¯s already in motion, in a surprising ball of fury. He charges one of Criato¡¯s soldiers in the open, low and clumsy and angry. You¡¯ve never seen him in such a fit of rage, and it¡¯s clear by his movements, neither is he. His swing is wide, but somehow lands. A scream follows. He moves on.
Landera draws her weapon, but it¡¯s not with purpose. It¡¯s instinct, muscle memory. She steps into the fray, but the rhythm¡¯s gone. The old nimbleness that made her so elusive on deck, so quick with a blade, isn¡¯t there now.
She parries once. Stumbles on the second clash. Whatever carried her this far, it isn¡¯t lighting her feet now.
Criato¡¯s men close in, pressing inward. Not in a wave, but a spiral. Herding. Encircling. Cutting the exits.
You lose track of how many fall. Most of them are the so-called rebels. Not even fighters, really¡ªjust angry men with too much trust in their feeble abilities and too little training.
The same thin man who mocked Landera earlier tries to rally a stand. Tries to shout something about flanking left. He gets an axe buried in his chest before the sentence finishes.
You look to Landera. She¡¯s breathing hard, bent slightly at the waist, blade shaking in her grip. That snap from earlier¡ªthe shame when she realized the truth about the men she followed¡ªit¡¯s still inside her. Still unwinding. You see it in the way her gaze flits from body to body, friend and foe alike. Like she¡¯s no longer sure which way she¡¯s meant to point her sword.
You catch a movement from the corner of your eye¡ª
A rifle barrel swinging toward her.
You don¡¯t think. You just move.
A gunshot rips past you, close enough that you feel the heat of it graze your shoulder. You slam into the enforcer, knocking him off balance, your blade driving forward.
Landera stares at you, breathing hard. She nods, once in silent thanks. Then, she grabs a rifle and keeps moving. This was what she needed, something to snap her out of the dazed stupor she found herself in. She¡¯s back to reality, back to this moment, back to trying to survive.
Without needing any further instruction, the three of you run. Gunfire kicks up the dust at your heels, the hot sting of powder-cut air raking your exposed skin and burning your eyes. You move between the structures, or what¡¯s left of them, ducking under collapsed beams, vaulting over cracked stone.
Your lungs burn. Your legs ache. There¡¯s nowhere to go but up, toward the high ridge where the rest of the men vanished.
Criato¡¯s men follow. They¡¯re not in a rush. That¡¯s what¡¯s terrifying. They know they have you. They know there¡¯s nowhere left to run.
Feet pounding the cracked ground, the wind like a blade against your skin. The mining outpost is already a ruin behind you, consumed by dust and gunfire, the echoes of Criato¡¯s enforcers chasing you up the ridge line.
Iker reaches the first outcrop and vaults over it, sliding down a loose patch of shale before turning, scanning for the next route up. You follow, the climb stealing what little breath you have left. Landera stumbles, but keeps going, fingers clawing against stone, dragging herself upward.
The sounds of pursuit grow louder¡ªCriato¡¯s men aren¡¯t stopping. You don¡¯t have time.
¡°What do we do now?¡± asks a panicked Iker. It¡¯s a fair question, as you stare down the sharp cliff that drops suddenly, nowhere to turn or run or climb. What do you do now?
Then¡ªa thunderclap from the horizon. Not thunder, though it sounds close to it. But something else.
A distant and deep report rolls across the mountains like the growl of a waking god. It¡¯s not near, but not far either. It reverberates through the stone beneath your boots, echoes through the ridges, unsettles the sky.
There, another boom¡ªmore measured this time. Then, somewhere just beyond the next ridge, or the next ridge after that, a horn answers. Sharp. Staggered.
Then silence.
You hear Criato¡¯s men behind you, slowing. Muttering. One of them curses. Another calls out¡ªasking if anyone else heard it. They¡¯re overwhelmed by the confusion of that sound, that boom. Just like that, the footsteps behind you stop.
Landera tilts her head slightly. Her hand rests near the pommel of her blade, but she doesn¡¯t draw. Her face is turned toward the sound, drawn tight with confusion.
¡°A signal cannon,¡± he says quietly. ¡°A ship¡¯s announcing arrival.¡±
¡°How?¡± you ask. ¡°This region¡¯s landlocked.¡±
¡°It¡¯s not far from the coastal shelf,¡± Landera murmurs, blinking rapidly as realization hits. ¡°Maybe a day¡¯s ride or two through the shale basin, I¡¯d wager.¡±
¡°And these mountains seem to carry sound much further than I¡¯d expect,¡± Iker adds. ¡°I wonder where it¡¯s really coming from?¡±
Criato¡¯s men are shouting now, more confused than combative. One of them demands answers. Another yells to pull back. You hear steel sheathing. Boots scraping stone, retreating.
You feel it in your chest now¡ªnot relief exactly, but reprieve. Like the edge of the noose loosening, just enough to suck in air again. You lean forward, hands on your knees, trying to steady your breath.
The canyon is still quiet, but the threat has shifted. Retreated. Paused.
Landera swallows hard, quickly looking from side to side. ¡°This is our chance,¡± she says, voice quiet. ¡°We should move.¡±
176 - Legido
The three of you crawl into the cliffs like wounded animals. Your breath is still ragged from the run, your legs aching from the climb. The air is thin up here, the rocks sharp beneath your palms as you scramble over them, pushing deeper into the mountainside. Behind you, the ruined and abandoned mining outpost is swallowed in shadow, its broken walls glowing faintly in the moonlight.
Landera hasn¡¯t spoken since you fled. She moves mechanically, her body still operating on pure instinct. But her mind is clearly elsewhere. You see it in her eyes when she turns to search the valley below, that hollow stare of someone looking for something that isn¡¯t there anymore.
¡°Here,¡± Iker mutters, bringing your attention back to the present. He ducks under a rocky overhang, where the stone juts out just enough to form a natural alcove. ¡°It¡¯s not much, but it¡¯ll keep us out of sight.¡± After inspecting the location, you nod in approval. You drop onto the dirt, pressing your back against the stone, as your heartbeat still hammers against your ribs.
For a long moment, none of you speak. The wind howls through the canyon below, carrying the distant sounds of execution. Gunfire. Screams, cut short.
The last remnants of the resistance are being hunted down. Or maybe not the last¡ªjust the ones who weren¡¯t fast enough to run like you did.
Landera exhales sharply. She buries her face in her hands, fingers pressing against her temples as if trying to keep something from breaking loose.
¡°I¡ I really thought we were fighting for something.¡± Her voice is hoarse, almost lost to the wind. ¡°Turns out they just wanted a bigger share of the spoils.¡±
Iker exhales, rubbing a hand down his face. ¡°Yeah. That¡¯s usually how it goes.¡±
You glance down toward the valley below. You didn¡¯t climb that high, you think, but even from here, you can see a hint of Criato¡¯s forces moving in the distance.
Torchlight bleeds through the ruins, flickering against the jagged remains of the mining outpost. Men sift through the wreckage, some stripping bodies of weapons, others checking for survivors. Not to save them, of course, but to make sure they¡¯re dead.
The wind slips its fingers through the rocks above, colder now. You press your palm to the warm curve of stone beside you, trying to steady the spiraling. One of Criato¡¯s men had said something earlier¡ªCheck the ridge. Make sure the fire caught. Was it just a phrase? Or did they light something? Signal something?
Then the horn again. This time, there¡¯s no answering call.
¡°You think it¡¯s Criato?¡± Iker asks. ¡°Calling in more men?¡±
¡°No,¡± Landera says quietly. ¡°That horn was too far away. That came from the sea.¡±
You all look up. Not toward the coast¡ªyou can¡¯t see it from here¡ªbut to the mouth of the canyon, as if sound could leave footprints. The horn was deep, too slow to be alarm, too solemn to be celebration.
You wait until the last of Criato¡¯s men disappear from view, vanishing like termites into the canyon¡¯s edge, kicking through ash and bodies. Their laughter fades, muffled by distance, but not the sound of armor clanking and boots scraping against stone.
Landera kneels beside the ledge, arms resting on her knees, chin dipped low. Her face is a jagged mosaic of grime and sweat, all while trying to mask her grief. ¡°They¡¯re heading for Xiatlaz¨¢n,¡± she mutters.
¡°So, what do we do now?¡± Iker asks. He¡¯s still catching his breath, but his shoulders slump from the realization that you¡¯re all helpless. That, perhaps, this was all for nothing.
You glance down the path where the resistance once stood¡ªif you can call them that. Where the bodies lie still. Most of them didn¡¯t even fight. Some didn¡¯t even run.
¡°That horn wasn¡¯t random,¡± you ponder aloud. ¡°Something¡¯s happening out there.¡±
¡°Something usually is,¡± Landera mutters. But she stands, wiping her hands on her shirt, eyes flicking between the broken trail of footprints left by Criato¡¯s soldiers and the cliffs that rise to the east. ¡°We could go the other way. Try to reach the other side of these peaks. Maybe find the ones who got away.¡±
Iker¡¯s brow furrows. ¡°And then what? Hope we stumble into a village that hasn¡¯t been burned down yet?¡±
¡°We should find out what that signal meant,¡± you say. ¡°If someone¡¯s arrived¡ªsomeone else¡ªwe¨C¡° you wave your hands around this abandoned mining outpost, ¡°might be the only ones who know about it.¡±
Landera snorts. ¡°If we could hear that horn and cannon from here, I¡¯m sure every settlement on this new land could hear it.¡±
Resigned, you all descend. The wind picks up again, howling between rocks like a furious beast. The sun presses down, baking dust to your necks and drying the blood to rust-red streaks on Landera¡¯s sleeves.
Landera leads, while Iker follows her like a nervous shadow. You bring up the rear, ears straining for any sounds from below¡ªCriato¡¯s men, maybe doubling back, maybe smelling unfinished business in the dust. The cliffs grumble beneath your boots. Gravel shifts. Every few steps, the mountain threatens to betray you, sending a pebble bouncing, echoing down the face. Somehow, Criato¡¯s men never notice you, too consumed with their jokes and scrapping over scraps from the outpost.
The emergence of the city from between the statuesque mountains couldn¡¯t have come any sooner. Xiatlaz¨¢n yawns like a cracked bowl¡ªjagged rooftops and ragged market tents, a dozen voices arguing through a hundred different walls. From this height, as the rocky path descends toward it, the city looks almost peaceful. But when you step into its outer fringes, the noise returns in full.
Murmurs. Everywhere. You pass a cluster of settlers¡ªtwo men, a woman, a child with a reed doll in hand¡ªand they barely glance at you. Eyes pointed east, toward the square. Their faces are taut with curiosity, lips barely moving.
¡°What¡¯s going on?¡± Iker whispers.
You don¡¯t answer. Because you don¡¯t know. But you feel it. The air is swollen. Like something¡¯s trying to press its way out of the lungs of this place. Even the livestock have gone quiet. Could this be the result from the horn and cannon fire you heard from the peaks?
Landera keeps her hood low, eyes darting to the gathering knot of people ahead. ¡°They¡¯re heading for the square,¡± she mutters. ¡°Something¡¯s happening.¡±
And then you see them: A procession of men in dirtied clothing walking with purpose. But these aren¡¯t the hollow strides of Criato¡¯s lapdogs. These ones cut through the crowd with an air of detachment. And at the center of the procession¡ª
Gartzen.
Your heart stutters. He looks older. More sun-burnt, more tattered. If that is even possible. A new scar across the left brow. But it¡¯s him. His posture, proud as ever. That slight limp in the left leg. Alive.
You feel your breath catch¡ªjoy snarled up in disbelief. You almost call his name.
But then your gaze drops to what they¡¯re carrying. Six men, three on each side of an iron-handled crate. The thing is massive, wrapped in canvas that sags low from its weight. Behind them, more crates¡ªdifferent shapes, but just as heavy-looking. One jolts over a loose cobblestone, and the fabric slips. A glint flashes¡ªgold, unmistakable, sunlight caught on a jagged edge of something bright and shimmering.
Another crate is splitting at its seams, sloppily repaired. A slash along its edge weeps red silk in a long coil, like a cut throat unspooling a tongue. From within, glimmers of of ochre and topaz, and something that looks like a rolled parchment, capped with silver.
You hear the crowd inhale in unison. Not gasps. Not awe. But in hunger.
All around you, settlers press closer¡ªLegido workers in soot-streaked garments, merchants gripping their belts, children standing on crates just to glimpse the spectacle. A man near you licks his lips. Another grips his child by the arm, hard. Whispers ripple like a breaking wave.
¡°Treasure,¡± someone whispers.
¡°From the sea.¡±
¡°From the new land.¡±
Landera stiffens beside you. ¡°That¡¯s not Criato¡¯s banner,¡± she says.
You follow her gaze to the rear of the procession. One of the men in the rear holds a long standard¡ªa tapered pennant of sapphire and bronze, stitched in a style that mimics Legido military banners, but without the insignia of any known house.
A new flag? New power?
Iker leans in. ¡°That man in front. That¡¯s Captain Lema, isn¡¯t it?¡±
You spot him now, emerging from the middle of the column. Captain Ux¨ªo Lema , cutting through the heat and clamor like a blade in its own scabbard. Taller than you remember. Weathered. Worn. But carrying himself like the tide itself answers to him. His eyes sweep the crowd, and he moves not like a man who¡¯s returned home¡ªbut like one who intends to carve a new one, here, with what he¡¯s brought back. His attention drifts toward the center of the square, toward the polished steps of Xiatli¡¯s perch.
The procession slows. Seemingly out of nowhere, Criato himself steps from the stone corridor, flanked by Ulloa and two men you recognize from the forge. One gestures toward the crates. Criato shakes his head. No words loud enough to hear. Just dismissal, which causes looks of confusion between Captain Lema, Gartzen, and their crew.
Ultimately, Lema doesn''t flinch. He nods once, turns, and speaks to his men. A few break formation, heading toward the hastily-constructed storehouse¡ªthe one with the iron-banded doors that¡¯s been quickly erected. Within moments, the crates are being carted in. One after another.
And then Lema vanishes into the inner sanctum. Leaving the treasure behind. Exposed. Vulnerable.
You feel your heart flutter in your ribs. It¡¯s not excitement. It¡¯s not fear, either. It¡¯s that space between knowing something¡¯s a mistake¡ªand doing it anyway.
¡°We have to get into that storehouse,¡± you say.
Iker chokes on a laugh. ¡°No. No, we don¡¯t.¡±
Landera doesn¡¯t answer at first. Just stares at you. Then, at the crates. At the doors now swinging shut behind them.
¡°He¡¯s right,¡± she says, eventually. ¡°We could go anywhere else. Literally anywhere else but there.¡±
But she¡¯s still staring at the crates. At the slip of silk caught on a splintered edge. At the shimmer of something too bright to belong here, like an ill omen of what¡¯s to come.
If you discover this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.
¡°We could,¡± you say. ¡°But we wouldn¡¯t learn a damn thing.¡±
Iker shifts beside you, eyes glimpsing over at the storehouse. He exhales sharply through his nose, the way he always does when he¡¯s trying not to scream. ¡°How do you even know there¡¯s anything in there worth learning?¡±
¡°I don¡¯t,¡± you admit. Landera glances at you, surprised by the honesty.
You shrug. ¡°But I know there¡¯s something in there someone wants to keep hidden. Criato didn¡¯t even pretend to play diplomat just now. And Captain Lema¡ he didn¡¯t argue. Just handed it off and disappeared.¡±
¡°He didn¡¯t hand it off,¡± Iker mutters. ¡°He put it away. There¡¯s a difference.¡±
¡°Exactly,¡± you say. ¡°He didn¡¯t offer it. He stored it. Quietly. Away from the crowd.¡±
¡°And here we are, deciding we should do what?¡± Iker throws his arms wide. ¡°Break into the most secure-looking building in town?¡±
There¡¯s a pause before Landera¡ªbless her bone-deep deadpan¡ªsays, ¡°Didn¡¯t we already do that once before?¡±
You blink. ¡°Once?¡±
¡°I was being generous.¡±
You can¡¯t help it. You laugh. Just once, sharp and dry. ¡°So let¡¯s not get caught and chased out of town this time.¡±
¡°Good plan,¡± Iker mutters. ¡°Why didn¡¯t we think of that last time?¡±
¡°Because last time we thought the people here might still be human.¡±
Landera doesn¡¯t laugh. She just keeps looking at the crates. That hunger in the crowd hasn¡¯t faded. It¡¯s shifted, become something meaner. Quieter. People are dispersing, but their eyes linger. You can feel it. The want. The tension under their skin. A storm before the looting begins.
¡°We wait until nightfall,¡± she says. ¡°That storehouse won¡¯t be left unguarded forever. But if Criato¡¯s dragging Captain Lema to Him, and Lema¡¯s men are told to stand aside, there might be a gap. Just enough for us to slip in.¡±
¡°I can¡¯t believe we¡¯re doing this again,¡± Iker grumbles. But his hands are already fidgeting¡ªchecking pockets, feeling for his dagger. ¡°You realize if we get caught, we¡¯re not getting chased this time. We¡¯re getting flayed.¡±
Landera¡¯s eyes flick toward him. ¡°Then let¡¯s not get caught.¡±
You glance back toward the storehouse. The doors have been shut now for quite some time. No guards posted yet. But they will be. The plaza¡¯s emptying fast. The spectacle is over. For now.
¡°Tonight,¡± you whisper, mostly to yourself. ¡°We find out what Lema brought back.¡±
Even under the hush of night, Xiatlaz¨¢n shifts like something dreaming in its unrest¡ªshadows curling behind adobe walls, murmurs leaking through slats and cracks, the smell of cooked millet and rusted metal tangling in the damp wind. You crouch behind a low wall just off the main square, the stone still warm from the day¡¯s sun.
The storehouse squats across the plaza, a makeshift thing hastily constructed from scavenged timber and nailed iron. It wasn¡¯t there a week ago. Already, it looks like it¡¯s always been. Ugly, functional, imperial.
The guards are sparse. Not many. Two at the front, one pacing the east side, his lantern a swinging dot of flame in the dark. They¡¯re not expecting trouble. But they aren¡¯t careless, either.
You track the rhythm of their steps, the way their boots scuff against gravel, the moments they pause to light a pipe or scratch at their collars. Every beat is a door waiting to be pried open.
Landera taps your shoulder and points. A supply cart that¡¯s been long empty is parked near the back wall of the building. Its wheel is cracked, one of the spokes bent like a snapped bone. But it¡¯s tall enough to obscure movement, and near enough to a loading platform that you might slip behind it and up the rear side of the building without being seen.
¡°That¡¯s our way in,¡± she murmurs.
Iker squints at the shadows. ¡°You two ever consider just not doing the incredibly stupid thing?¡±
¡°You¡¯re still here,¡± you say, glancing at him.
He grumbles something under his breath. ¡°Fine. But if I get stabbed, I¡¯m bleeding on your boots.¡±
You nod. ¡°Understood.¡±
The wind shifts. You catch a scent of dried, brittle stalks¡ªsomething like straw or parchment¡ªas well as burning oil, and the faint brine of something metallic hidden too long underground. It¡¯s the same smell that clung to the ships that brought you here. Same smell that seeped into your hair during the crossing. You don¡¯t realize you¡¯ve stopped breathing until Landera nudges you.
¡°Now,¡± she whispers.
You move, low, quick, following the gaps between moonlight and movement. A pause behind a broken stack of bricks. A scurry across hard-packed clay. Iker stifles a cough with his elbow as dust kicks up. Your palms scrape against rough stone. Every step is louder in your mind than it probably is in the air.
You reach the cart. Duck behind it. Wait. A guard coughs, mutters something, then continues his round.
Another beat.
Another pause.
Then you slip along the side of the platform, fingers skimming the edge of a warped plank. There¡¯s a window here¡ªhalf-boarded, too high for anyone normal-sized to use. Yet Landera shimmies up with practiced ease. She glances down, hand extended. You grasp it and haul yourself up beside her.
The window leads into a narrow catwalk above the main floor of the storehouse. No one below. The crates are there¡ªdozens of them. Some familiar from the parade earlier. Others new. Sealed. Stamped with the wax crest of Legido¡¯s expansion office. A few broken open, their contents barely covered by stray linens.
One crate yawns slightly ajar, its lid askew. Something glints inside. Gold. Coins. Trinkets. A circlet with sapphires too large to be ceremonial.
Another crate is torn at the corner, where something spilled¡ªa heap of deep crimson fabric, too rich for a settler¡¯s wardrobe, too gaudy for trade.
This is a haul. Plunder. Wages for betrayal. Rewards for conquest.
There¡¯s a sound of scuffing from below. A muttered voice. You drop into a crouch, heart thudding hard against your ribs. But it¡¯s not a guard. It¡¯s rats. Or something like them. Their brief, scurrying movement behind barrels.
You exhale, slow. Iker bumps your shoulder. Points down.
There. A smaller crate, tucked behind the others. Not gaudy. Not gilded. Simple. Marked in Legido script. The paint is smudged, but you catch one word¡ªor what you think is a word¡ªbarely legible in the flickering lamplight:
Sanko.
Landera leans in. ¡°What in the nine hells is that?¡±
You shake your head. ¡°I don¡¯t know. But Captain Lema brought it back.¡±
You edge along the catwalk, eyes searching for a way down. A ladder, maybe. A stack of barrels.
But then somewhere, something creaks. Footsteps. Boots. Real this time.
Down below, near the main doors, the latch shifts. Metal scrapes wood.
And then¡ªvoices.
You don¡¯t hear them at first amidst the soft scrape of movement, the shuffle of feet. Then a single low voice speaks with irritation.
¡°¡ªyou think I don¡¯t know that?¡±
You halt, making yourself as small as possible in the hopes of not being seen, listening. Landera and Iker stiffen beside you.
A second voice answers, raspy, tired.
¡°I know what I¡¯m saying.¡±
A dim lantern glow seeps through the crack of the half-open door ahead. Beyond it, two figures stand in the narrow space between stacks of supply crates, backs half-turned, their shoulders hunched in quiet, secretive conversation.
Dorez and Benicto.
Dorez¡¯s posture is tight, arms folded as she listens. Benicto, however, is unraveling. You can see it in the way he moves from side to side, in the way his hands twitch, restless, as if itching to grab something, to lash out.
¡°You don¡¯t get it, do you?¡± Benicto mutters, seething.
Dorez doesn¡¯t respond right away. She just tilts her head, studying him with that cold, assessing gaze¡ªthe one that used to make your skin crawl whenever she watched you struggle, the way a child observes an insect pinned beneath glass.
Finally, she exhales. ¡°Oh, I get it,¡± she says, exasperated. ¡°I just don¡¯t see the point of talking about things we can¡¯t change.¡±
Benicto lets out a short, bitter laugh. ¡°Of course you don¡¯t. You never do. You just keep on, like there¡¯s some plan that¡¯ll make it all work.¡± His hands clench at his sides, nails digging into his palms. ¡°But this time¡ªthis time there is no way out.¡±
She narrows her eyes, her fingers flexing slightly. ¡°So that¡¯s it?¡± she murmurs. ¡°You¡¯re giving up?¡±
Benicto flinches like she struck him. ¡°That¡¯s not¡ªDorez, come on.¡±
He steps closer, lowering his voice, and suddenly the venom is gone, replaced by something you¡¯ve never heard from him before.
Pleading.
¡°You and I¡ªwe always had something. We always had a plan. But look at us now.¡± He gestures around them. ¡°Look at where we are. Look at what we¡¯ve done.¡±
Dorez tilts her head slightly. ¡°And what have we done?¡±
He only stares at her. ¡°You know,¡± he says. Soft. Almost a whisper. ¡°You just won¡¯t say it.¡±
Dorez shifts slightly, her gaze flicking to the crates, to the sealed orders, the stacks of letters, the weight of everything unspoken between them.
For the first time, you think she looks tired. Not exhausted, not afraid¡ªbut worn thin. Like a blade that¡¯s been sharpened so many times there¡¯s barely anything left.
Benicto steps closer again. His voice drops lower, his frustration cracking into something else¡ªsomething closer to fear.
¡°They sent us across the world, Dorez. Across the damn world for this. And what do we have to show for it? What do we have left?¡±
Dorez goes still, exhaling slowly, closing her eyes for a second longer than necessary. Then she opens them and meets his gaze, steady and unreadable.
¡°Each other,¡± she says simply.
Benicto sucks in a sharp breath. He looks away, rubbing a hand down his face, like he wants to say something, like he has something more, but can¡¯t bring himself to push past the truth of that statement.
Dorez rolls her shoulders, stretching, as if shaking off the moment. Her face hardens again, back to business. ¡°Let¡¯s go,¡± she mumbles. ¡°We don¡¯t have time for this.¡±
Benicto hesitates, jaw set tight. But then he nods in silent agreement.
You flinch back just as Dorez moves toward the door. She pauses, searching the dim corridor. For a single, agonizing moment, you think she sees you. Then¡ª
A dismissive voice outside leaks in through the cracked shutters of the storehouse. Both Landera and Iker look toward the sound. But you don¡¯t wait. The moment the distraction takes their attention, you urgently grab Landera¡¯s sleeve and duck low, scurrying down as quick as you can, and slip behind the nearest stack of crates.
Iker is right behind you, panting short breaths in your ear as the three of you ghost deeper into the structure¡¯s ribcage, threading through narrow paths between crates too tall and too haphazardly stacked.
The clutter gives way to a larger chamber. The air changes. Cooler, drier. Dusty. Smells of cordite and oil hang thick in your nostrils. In the dim lantern light hanging from a rusted bracket, you make out row upon row of muskets and military provisions. Crates stacked to the ceiling, their lids branded with military insignias, each one marked for transport. Some crates are sealed. Others hang open like split fruit¡ªinside, glints of metal, bundles of powder-caked cloth, musket barrels stacked with methodical care.
Landera moves to one of the open crates, pulling the lid fully aside. Inside are neatly arranged rows of lead shot, packed tight, prepared for war. She exhales slowly, her fingers skimming the edges of the box before she glances at you. ¡°There¡¯s enough here to level a city,¡± she mutters.
Iker, lingering by the musket racks, scratches the back of his neck, his discomfort almost palpable. ¡°Why store it all here? If Captain Lema¡¯s waging war, shouldn¡¯t this be at the front?¡±
You exhale through your nose and step toward the next passage. ¡°Come on,¡± you whisper. ¡°There¡¯s more ahead.¡±
You enter a chamber where the air is different. It smells of ink and aged parchment, of candle wax melted into wood. The walls are lined with maps, scrolls, and stacks of documents, some pinned haphazardly, others neatly rolled and tucked into shelves. Notes and manifests are layered like molted skin across the central desk.
Landera drifts toward the maps, her fingers trailing over the edges of the pinned documents. You move toward the desk in the center of the room, where stacks of parchment are spread out, marked with figures and routes.
You then retrieve a map, though different from the others. The coastlines are unfamiliar, the names scribbled in Legido script, but the words feel wrong. And then, you notice that word again.
Sanko.
You whisper the name aloud, testing the way it feels in your mouth, and it doesn¡¯t sit right.
Landera¡¯s gaze sharpens as she leans over your shoulder, studying the map. ¡°Where is this?¡±
You shake your head. ¡°I don¡¯t know.¡±
Iker hesitates before stepping forward, his brow furrowed as he picks up one of the scattered documents. He skims the lines of text, his expression darkening. ¡°This doesn¡¯t look like battle orders.¡±
You take the page from him, searching the inked words, the carefully penned notations along the margins.
¡±The territory of Sanko is pacified.¡±
¡±The native houses have been made to swear fealty, though some holdouts remain.¡±
¡±Reinforcements are required for the next stage of integration.¡±
Your hands tighten around the parchment. The ink is dry, the paper worn. These aren¡¯t plans for conquest. It¡¯s already happened.
Your stomach churns. You look back at the map, at the twisting coastlines, at the scribbled routes leading toward something larger. Plans for further conquest.
Landera exhales slowly. ¡°How many places are they prepared to do this to?¡± she asks, though you¡¯re not sure any of you want to know the horrifying answer.
Iker swallows, rubbing at his arms as if suddenly cold. ¡°More than we thought,¡± he mutters.
You move to the next stack. Another rolled scroll, marked with dates. Supply chains. Shipment tallies. Gold. Cloth. Ivory. Lives.
Your gaze flicks to another stack of documents, more lists, more names. You skim the ink, searching for something that might tell you what Captain Lema¡¯s next move is.
Then, a sound. Wood under strain. A creaking footfall. Not above, but close. Within the structure.
You stop in place, fingers still on the page. Landera glances at the lantern. One breath. Then she snuffs it with a twist of cloth.
The room vanishes. All that remains is breath and heartbeat and the dark.
A door creaks somewhere in the structure. The hinges are loud in the absence of light. A voice follows, muffled by timber.
¡°¡he already knows, doesn¡¯t he?¡±
The words float within the darkness, muffled by the distance, but clear enough. The voice doesn¡¯t belong to Criato. It belongs to Captain Lema.
Another voice¡ªflat and formal. ¡°He does. But he will hear it from you.¡±
They¡¯re close. Walking just beyond the chamber¡¯s entrance.
You slip back into the shadows, spine pressed against splintered wood. Landera is already crouched behind the map table. Iker has disappeared into a nook between two support beams. Your breathing slows. Slows more.
Lema speaks again. ¡°Then let¡¯s not waste any more time.¡±
Footsteps recede. A creak of hinges. Then silence.
You wait. Ten breaths. Then twenty.
A shuffling of feet. Coming from inside.
A voice murmurs.
¡°¡thought I heard something back here.¡±
You search the darkness. No shadows left to vanish into. No crates tall enough to hide behind. Only stillness, breath held, limbs tense.
Another footstep.
The shuffling of more feet. Closer now.
Landera¡¯s hand finds yours in the dark, fingers steady, grounding.
¡°Probably nothing,¡± a second voice mutters. ¡°Just the rats again in this infernal place.¡±
And then¡ªsilence.
Your fingers twitch, a slow flex, a readiness you can¡¯t act on. There¡¯s nowhere to run. If they step any closer¡ªif they so much as glance toward the wrong shadow¡ªyou are caught.