With the sun descending upon the horizon and time slipping through my grasp, I press on, running with a fierce determination along the road. Every passing moment means exposure to peril, urging me to reach safety as quickly as I can. The village, potentially threatened by the savage beast that assailed me, must wait—I cannot afford delaying a pursuit of Sianchu. Allowing the traitorous Tapeu champion, who treacherously imperiled some of the greatest warriors in Tuatiu, to go free while he may be holding our leader, Haluiqa, captive would be unforgivable.
My understanding was that the warrior party was headed to Pachil’s capital, Qapauma, to receive instructions from the Arbiter himself, Achutli. From my recollection, there’s a trading post located on the Maiu Qoli, the river that divides the Tuatiu and Achope territories. From there, a road carving through the jungles and weaving through the valley between the mountains leads to Qapauma—the road on which I’m running.
This seems simple enough, except the road is frequently used; despite the Tuatiu’s best efforts to remain secluded and independent, Haluiqa insists on making us available for trade with the nearby factions, for some reason. Therefore, picking up on their tracks, assuming they used the road because it was supposed to be a simple journey to the capital city, will be a challenge. It has already been difficult to find a band of warriors on this route, which I happened to discover by accident with a clearing near a stream while I had decided to rest and refresh my supply of water. How am I supposed to find two men (although hopefully more) who are likely trying not to be found by ferocious creatures wanting to devour them?
I allow myself to feel a brief moment of despair and hopelessness before snapping out of it to focus and think.
Long, slow breath in. Long, slow breath out.
If you were trying to lose rabid brutes that have likely caught your scent and wanted to rip you to shreds, what would you do? Avoid the roads, since mixing my sandal prints with others won’t do me any good, as I might assume the creatures can probably smell me from extremely far away. Plus, that could endanger any unsuspecting merchants or travelers. So you stick to the stream to simultaneously mask your scent and stay close to a source of hydration. Let’s start there.
Standing still and closing my eyes, I hear burbling close by and locate a nearby stream. Judging by the time of day and focusing on the direction of the water’s flow, I deduce it’s heading south toward Maiu Qoli. I’m thankful nobody is around to witness my embarrassing, subtle celebratory outburst, punching the air with a slight jab. I move alongside it, keeping the stream between me and the setting sun to help identify any possible tracks.
As if I wasn’t facing a difficult task to begin with, another problem is trusting that my assumptions are correct. What if those I’m tracking aren’t wading through the water? Or what if their exit point from the stream was further back, and now they have taken a different route entirely? What if they went back to Iantana to regroup? Or, worse, they have already been caught by the creatures and I’m heading further away from them? I have to remove any doubt from my mind, and as if that can be achieved physically, I briskly shake my head and focus on the matter at hand. I have to trust my instincts, and I have to believe Haluiqa wouldn’t want to endanger the people in Iantana by returning and luring the creatures that attacked him to the village. I won’t know I’m correct until I stumble upon a clue, but I have to press on.
The trees and bank of the stream are hardly varied in appearance, so it’s difficult for me to determine how far I’ve traveled. By now, the low sun barely pokes through the spaces between leaves, shading the floor of the jungle more and more. The daunting task of finding our leader weighs more heavily on me with each fruitless step, and self-doubt grows while daylight fades.
Casting my eyes down, I spot what I’ve been longing for: Footsteps emerge from the water and follow along the bed of the stream. I observe that it’s only a single pair of footsteps. Perhaps the person had enough with their feet getting soaked, or they slipped in the water and wanted to take a moment to regain their composure on land? It’s hard for me to say, but I am grateful for the change in fortune and follow the footprints in the track trap of the muddy banks.
Thanks to the person leaving the water, their steps are wet, making it easier to spot as they walk in-between the stream and the main road. I’m perplexed at their reasoning—they appear to want to avoid being spotted on the road, yet they aren’t masking their steps well enough to avoid being tracked. I’m easily able to follow where they’ve walked due to the wet footprints, and not only that, but there are broken branches and snapped twigs from where they’ve stepped. Could it be they’re exhausted from fighting supernatural beings and traveling all day? An experienced hunter and warrior such as Haluiqa wouldn’t be so careless, but fatigue and hunger can cause missteps from the soundest of us.
To make matters worse for the person I’m tracking, I find a black thread twisted around a broken twig. If they were trying to conceal the direction they’re heading, they have let themselves down. Even a novice tracker would know what to do with this information, and a knot forms in my stomach when I think of what a ravenous monster would do by finding it. If this is Haluiqa, I have to assume he’s leaving such clues on purpose. Perhaps he’s in trouble, and he’s doing this to identify his location for anyone searching. The black color is certainly one of those of the Tuatiu, so he could be discreetly marking the direction he’s going if he’s being held captive by Sianchu.
As if the evening sun wasn’t already a cause for concern, finding them has become more urgent with this new discovery. I don’t want to be too reckless and hurry so that I miss more clues, but I pick up my pace slightly with the hope that I’ll catch up to them in time, before I lose too much light.
The footprints still follow alongside the stream, and after some more time, snagged on a low, protruding branch, I find another thread—this time, a brown one. A brown one? That isn’t one of the Tuatiu colors; our people wear black, gray, and green. Perhaps Sianchu had his garment caught this time? I don’t recall him wearing anything brown. This might mean Haluiqa isn’t sending clues. And since I’ve only been following one set of footprints, both threads are likely to belong to the same person. But who wears black and brown, especially in Tuatiu lands?
I’m deep in thought while contemplating what this means when I notice the tracks heading back into the stream. Great, I think, I’m about to lose their tracks. Although if they’re as careless as they have been up to now, maybe I’ll be able to pick up their tracks again.
The breeze rustles the leaves, nearby animals move about the jungle floor, kicking up fallen leaves and snap twigs, and the hoarse croak of the hoatzin and whistling of cotingas in flight fill the humid air. I barely find the footprints stepping out of the stream again, not far from where they first entered, heading further from the road and deeper into the jungle. Perhaps the person is attempting to seek shelter away from the well-traveled path for the night?
I hear more rustling in the distance, much larger and more intense as if it’s coming from a large creature. It could be a jaguar, it could be a tapir, but it could be another one of those gray beasts. I can’t take a risk, and I reach behind me to draw Sachia’s turquoise bow and an arrow from my quiver. I walk cautiously on the balls of my feet, scanning the tapestry of jungle foliage for any movement. I bring the bow around to my front, nock an arrow, and gradually pull back the string as I draw it up to my chest.
Long, deep breath in. Long, deep breath out.
The rustling has ceased, and now I begin to feel as though I’m being watched, my every step monitored by a predator tracking me. I stop moving forward and search the area. No motion other than the swaying branches, the dusk light making it difficult to spot any threats. Every action I take is slow and methodical, waiting for my would-be assailant to give away their position. If it’s one of those gray creatures, I expect it will charge at me without any thought or consideration, so I brace myself for the possibility.
I consider exchanging my bow for the dagger sheathed at my side, in case the beast lunges for me before I can fire a shot. I’m concerned at the thought of having to fight off another one of those creatures, since I was fortunate to barely dispose of the first one, and I was overwhelmed by the last one, in which I was saved by Sachia.
I start switching weapons when I hear a whooping yell and the snapping of branches to my left. Without thought, I leap forward and roll out of the way of my attacker, tumbling to my feet in a crouch. However, I drop my bow and arrow in the process, and the weapons now lay closer to my assailant than me. Not ideal.
I have a brief moment to grab my dagger and see who is attacking me. For a brief moment of relief, I observe that their skin isn’t gray, but rather tanned like leather, and their dark brown hair is tied up in a bun at the back of his head. The person is tall and slender, but somehow still athletically built with finely toned arms and legs. They wear a tan… tunic? It’s more of a very loose-fitting shirt with a small tear in it that covers much of the torso, and dark cloth pants, the colors of the items nearly blending in with his skin. Based on the outfit alone, this person is clearly not Tuatiu, as we would suffocate by the constraining and restricting clothing. Is it a robber from a foreign land?
Moving nimbly, the man quickly turns to face me, his right hand reaching for something at his side. He crouches slightly like a jaguar ready to pounce, feet wide apart, and a scowl is barely visible through his heavy, black beard blanketing a boxy, rugged face. As if the garments weren’t enough of an identifier, facial hair is a dead giveaway that he has to be an outsider. Is he from Tapeu? Qantua? Qiapu?
I’m eager to know so I can anticipate my opponent’s fighting style, but wracking my brain, I can’t deduce where he’s from. Despite all the time serving with warriors from all over Pachil during the War of Liberation, I’m coming up with nothing. Besides, his movements are nothing like I’ve ever seen: His posture is loose and in a low squat, swaying on the balls of his feet from side to side. With his left arm extended and parallel to the ground, he holds a dagger made of obsidian by his side in a reverse grip with his right hand, its edge out and his thumb on the butt of the handle. Now I believe I definitely have seen this before, and the obsidian blade should be an important clue, but I still can’t place it.
He takes a quick hop toward me, then bounces back, as if to test me and see how I will react. I don’t: I stay still, predicting this exact move from him, and study his eyes to see if they give away what he plans to do next. They do, and I catch him glimpsing at my left arm, most likely checking its position to see if I can block a swing from his right. He must assume I can’t, since my arm is low along with my crouching stance, and he lunges forward, keeping his left arm between him and me while punching a cross at my head, the blade trailing his fist and shielding his forearm. I duck, perhaps lower than he anticipated I could since I’m so low to the ground, and roll to my left, away from his swinging arm and the left forearm he has shielding his torso.
The man is between me and my bow and quiver of arrows that are strewn about the jungle floor, but I don’t need them to put the attacker down. Looking about the ground, I spot a fallen branch with the thickness of an arm, and about as long as one, too. I grab it and propel myself toward the man, immediately swinging the tree limb before he can recover into his attacking stance. Using my momentum and all the force I can muster, the branch collides with his lower back. As he writhes in pain, I regain my footing, crouch low, and use the limb to swipe the back of his legs.
I connect with only his right leg, but the blow is enough to serve its purpose. He stumbles backward and, amateurishly, uses his right hand—the one with the blade gripped in it—to attempt to prevent himself from falling completely onto his back. He loses his hold of the dagger and it tumbles a few lengths away from him, out of reach. As he goes to push himself up, I swing the branch to bat away the dagger. He watches it skitter along the ground, and I use the branch as a staff and jab him in the ribs with the butt. The splintered wood gashes his body, and he falls to his left. He uses his left hand to clutch at the wound, then holds up his now-free right hand to signal that he yields. Still, I hold the tree limb toward him, ready to jab him again at the faintest sign of trickery.
“Where is Sianchu and Haluiqa?” I yell forcefully. He says something in a strange language that I can’t understand, and I demand that he speaks in the common Merchant’s Tongue. He shakes his head and scoffs, visibly annoyed by the request.
“I said, ‘I have to admit, this result is a bit unexpected,’” he says, a bit breathlessly and… nonchalantly? He attempts to lift himself from the ground, but I use the branch to tamp him back down. His accent is difficult to discern: He talks as if he’s in the middle of chewing food, he hisses the S sounds, replaces a lot of sounds with a hard T, and he speaks as if he can’t decide whether to stagger every syllable or jumble each sound together.
“Answer my question!” I command.
“I don’t know who either of those people are.”
“Liar!” I shout, now pressing the branch into his neck. He doesn’t seem to be in a hurry to get up or retaliate, and inspecting him during this tense pause in the action, I notice specs of gray in his beard and some gray strands of hair.
“Is one of them the Tapeu combatant sent to the south?” he inquires. Sent to the south? To get to Tapeu, you have to first travel south. Is that what he means?
I try to not let his question throw off my focus and attention. I keep my eyes on his hands, waiting for him to swipe at the tree limb and knock it aside to break free. He occasionally grimaces in pain, sucking air through his yellowing teeth, and he puts more weight on his left arm to support himself.
“I take your long silence,” he says, forcing the words out in spite of his pain, “to mean that one of them is the treacherous Tapeu dog.”
“Explain yourself,” I say, with a bit of a growl of my own.
“Look, you have no reason to trust me—I did come at you with a knife, after all—but can we please discuss this like civilized people?” he asks pleadingly. It’s difficult for me to consider, since, as he mentioned, he attacked me. And the hissing quality to his words make everything he says sound sinister.
Perhaps it’s from seeing him helplessly struggling through his injuries, or acknowledging that he did what I would do by defending himself, but seeing a disarming look in his eyes causes me to lower the branch just a little and allow him to shift into a seated position. There’s a sack for water made of an animal hide resting at the base of a nearby tree, and I determine we could both use some hydration. As an offering of peace, I walk over, grab the pouch, and take a sip as I return to where he sits, intending to share a drink. To my alarm, the liquid is actually chicha—or, rather, some kind of hard liquor that burns harshly as it travels all the way down my throat. I cough and spit up a little of the substance, and this greatly tickles the man. I hurl the pouch at him and scowl, admittedly out of embarrassment, and he fumbles it in an effort to snatch it before the contents completely spill out.
“I would have warned you of what’s inside, perhaps,” he says, half-apologetically, half-amused. “I think better after I’ve had my oxtli.” I can only assume that is the name of this intense beverage. Even for me, the liquid is like consuming fire, with very little that tastes appealing. I can’t fathom how anyone can drink this stuff.
“If that’s so, you should’ve had more,” I say with some snark. “I was able to track you fairly easily.” He considers this, then nods.
“That’s likely the cause of the first pouch I already finished,” he says, pointing to a flattened, deflated pouch that rests among a plain-looking bow made of a very dark wood, a thin bedroll, and some garments tossed in a pile. Sure enough, the shirt is brown and green with a large tear in it. This is clearly the man I’ve been tracking, and realizing this leaves me completely disappointed and frustrated, followed by a sudden wave of worry for the safety of Haluiqa.
The man says something else, but his words are drowned out by my thoughts of fearing for my Tuatiu leader. If I’ve been tracking this fool all this time, where are Sianchu and Haluiqa? Did they make it to Qapauma? Or have the returned to Iantana after all? Are they hiding somewhere I can find them to rescue them from the beasts? Or are they in great peril? Or is it too late?
He must’ve sensed my panic because I suddenly feel a hand placed on my shoulder. Instinctually, I strike his arm and land a punch square across his jaw. With my hands balled into fists, I realize he has both of his hands up, palms facing me.
“By the stars!” he exclaims, now rubbing his cheek. “That is quite a punch!”
I apologize, then chuckle at the notion that I believe his words are more slurred than they were before. He laughs, too, and goes to grab the pouch of this oxtli, of which he takes many large swigs. I cringe at the thought of how that must taste, but he appears completely unfazed.
“Are you tracking the Tapeu man?” he asks. His voice is calm, as though he doesn’t want to stir up any more animosity while still determined to figure out what is happening here. Rather than flying off to irrationally chase down where I think Haluiqa might be, I take a moment to collect myself.
“Him, and my people’s leader,” I say. Something compels me to tell the truth to him. Could one sip of that oxtli be potent enough to disarm me? I need to keep my wits and not give away any more than I have to. Preventing myself from revealing much more, I turn the focus back onto him.
“Those threads and your colors… What faction do you belong to?” I ask. Without alerting him, I slowly reach for the tree branch, making sure that if he says the wrong answer, I’m ready to strike or defend myself.
“I am from Auilqa,” he says with pride. Something in my face must have tipped him off to my suspicion, because no sooner than he reveals his faction does he splay his hands out to pat the air, as if pacifying a fierce animal.
“Hold on a moment,” he quickly interjects, speaking loudly as if he is talking to drown out my instinct to strike him down, repeating his command a couple more times for assurance. Something about his answer doesn’t seem right, and it takes a lot in me to not attack this man where he sits. He is in a vulnerable position, and knowing I have the upper hand if he doesn’t appeal to my merciful side, I reluctantly give him one more chance to explain himself, now aiming the pointed end of the branch at his chest.
“That is quite a reaction to me being from Auilqa,” he says, almost jokingly as if his life isn’t on the line.
“What is a person from Auilqa doing in Tuatiu?” I ask, demanding an answer loud enough to probably be heard from every corner of Pachil. “Those colors don’t look to be Auilqa colors. And outside of the War of Liberation, Auilqa never leave their lands.”
To this, he lets out a hearty laugh, then winces in pain. I’m startled by this, and his reaction takes me a moment to comprehend.
“Believe it or not,” he says. “not every Auilqa stays put. There are those like myself who are eager to see the world. And we all don’t wear the same color outfits—we have a bit more individuality than that.”
“Is that why you are this far north,” I ask again, more cynically this time, “to ‘travel and see the world?’ You didn’t answer my question.”
“Alright,” he says, hands in the air to express he concedes, “I didn’t want to say because I fear you won’t believe me. However, it appears no amount of explanation will appease you.”
I coax him to carry on with his statement, poking the air with the tree branch. He lets out a sigh and stops making eye contact with me, instead inspecting the ground for assistance with his answer.
“My people have been informed,” he starts, “that the Tapeu plan to attack the factions of the south. They’ve already begun by razing the Ulxa village of Tlequatlan, and we fear that is just the beginning. The Auilqa, being between both of their lands, are likely to be caught in the fray. I’m trying to prevent the conflict from escalating any further.”
To be perfectly honest, I doubt I would be able to trust the Tapeu or the Ulxa. If I had it my way, I would leave them to fight each other and hope someone more worthy would take up the position of Arbiter. However, having them settle their conflict on my land would be a problem, certainly. The Tuatiu, like the Auilqa, have found themselves between warring factions for generations, before the rule of the opportunistic Timuaq, who seized the chance to rule the land while all the factions were weakened from fighting one another.
As I consider this, the man takes another large gulp from the pouch, offers the sack to me, and after I wave a hand to decline, takes another large gulp.
“Is that why you hunt the Tapeu scum?” I ask while I gradually, but not entirely, lower my makeshift weapon.
“Partly,” he says, taking another swig. “On my way north to negotiate with the Arbiter, I thought I spotted a Tapeu raiding party. Somehow, I lost track of them.”
Could he be referring to Sianchu and Haluiqa marching the band of Tuatiu warriors to Qapauma? I grow concerned that our fighters might get caught in this Tapeu conflict, hoping that we don’t get confused for anyone raiding the Auilqa.
“I wonder how that happened,” I say, pointing the branch at the emptied pouch on the ground near his belongings.
“Fair point,” he says with a chuckle. “It’s been a while since I’ve had to track anything, I suppose.”
It could be due to the amount of drink he’s consumed, but the relaxed manner in which he’s handled much of this interaction slightly disturbs me. I don’t appreciate being made to feel as though I’m not a threat, and it’s discouraging to not see an ounce of fear in his eyes. Given his age, it’s likely he’s experienced much to not fear death anymore, but I determine his courage stems from the oxtli, if only to comfort myself with this notion.
“Considering I’m on Tuatiu lands, it’s fair for me to assume you must be Tuatiu, correct?” he asks, interrupting my self-loathing. I nod and grow slightly skeptical at where he’s about to direct the conversation. He continues, “and like your Tuatiu, it’s fair to say the Auilqa relationship with the Tapeu is tumultuous, at best. Even before the Timuaq’s rule, the Auilqa have always isolated themselves from the other factions, which I am certain the Tuatiu can relate.”
Wanting independence and keeping to themselves is unquestionably a trait both factions share, although that could be said about almost all of the factions. There was always a going to be a shaky alliance among the factions while Pachil is rebuilt, and everyone has their own vision as to how that should be done. However, if what he says is true about the Tapeu attacking the Ulxa—and there’s certainly the possibility this man is attempting to mislead me, of course—then who knows what the Arbiter’s intentions and agenda are. As if I didn’t want to trust Sianchu before, now I am very eager to find him and see what he has to say for himself.
“I’m Mexqutli, by the way,” he says, and extends his hand. I’m unsure what to do with this gesture, and after seeing the confused look on my face, he withdraws it, slightly embarrassed. I comment that his name sounds more southern than the typical Auilqa name. Then, realizing I may have come across a bit rude, I offer my name as a measure of apology, despite a part of me wanting to resist.
“Inuxeq, eh?” he says. “Hmm, that’s a pretty southern-sounding name, too. Are you sure you aren’t Ulxa? You’re just as stubborn and serious as one.” I’m about to take offense, but he laughs heartily and takes another drink from his pouch, and I force myself to lighten up a little.
As night blankets the jungle, shrouding the trees and obscuring our path, a sense of trepidation settles within me. Reluctantly, I come to a realization: It's far too perilous for either of us to continue alone. We make a choice, Mexqutli and I, to establish our camp amidst the mysterious depths. Together, we gather ample firewood, sparks of survival flickering in the darkness. Mexqutli, in his inebriated state, still possesses a semblance of strength to deter predators, or perhaps, I contemplate with a wry smile, he could serve as a cunning diversion, luring them away and becoming their unwitting prey.
“You’re aware,” I say, “that I can’t trust or believe you just yet. There are too many questions that need to be answered.”
“Understandable,” he says with a nod, and he pokes the fire with a branch, the same one I had used at one time to fight him. “But you’re also inclined to not trust the Tapeu who is with your leader. I’m willing to stake my honor as that my claim will be proven right, and you will see that the Tapeu are not telling you everything.”
“That’s not saying much,” I say. “It’s pretty easy to guess Sianchu—the Tapean, that is—is being dishonest. But despite it appearing we have a common enemy, we’ll have to see how much truth you’re speaking. Something that we can begin pursuing at dawn’s first light.”
Mexqutli lays down and almost immediately falls asleep. For the remainder of the night, I watch to make sure he stays that way.
With the sun descending upon the horizon and time slipping through my grasp, I press on, running with a fierce determination along the road. Every passing moment means exposure to peril, urging me to reach safety as quickly as I can. The village, potentially threatened by the savage beast that assailed me, must wait—I cannot afford delaying a pursuit of Sianchu. Allowing the traitorous Tapeu champion, who treacherously imperiled some of the greatest warriors in Tuatiu, to go free while he may be holding our leader, Haluiqa, captive would be unforgivable.
My understanding was that the warrior party was headed to Pachil’s capital, Qapauma, to receive instructions from the Arbiter himself, Achutli. From my recollection, there’s a trading post located on the Maiu Qoli, the river that divides the Tuatiu and Achope territories. From there, a road carving through the jungles and weaving through the valley between the mountains leads to Qapauma—the road on which I’m running.
This seems simple enough, except the road is frequently used; despite the Tuatiu’s best efforts to remain secluded and independent, Haluiqa insists on making us available for trade with the nearby factions, for some reason. Therefore, picking up on their tracks, assuming they used the road because it was supposed to be a simple journey to the capital city, will be a challenge. It has already been difficult to find a band of warriors on this route, which I happened to discover by accident with a clearing near a stream while I had decided to rest and refresh my supply of water. How am I supposed to find two men (although hopefully more) who are likely trying not to be found by ferocious creatures wanting to devour them?
I allow myself to feel a brief moment of despair and hopelessness before snapping out of it to focus and think.
Long, slow breath in. Long, slow breath out.
If you were trying to lose rabid brutes that have likely caught your scent and wanted to rip you to shreds, what would you do? Avoid the roads, since mixing my sandal prints with others won’t do me any good, as I might assume the creatures can probably smell me from extremely far away. Plus, that could endanger any unsuspecting merchants or travelers. So you stick to the stream to simultaneously mask your scent and stay close to a source of hydration. Let’s start there.
Standing still and closing my eyes, I hear burbling close by and locate a nearby stream. Judging by the time of day and focusing on the direction of the water’s flow, I deduce it’s heading south toward Maiu Qoli. I’m thankful nobody is around to witness my embarrassing, subtle celebratory outburst, punching the air with a slight jab. I move alongside it, keeping the stream between me and the setting sun to help identify any possible tracks.
As if I wasn’t facing a difficult task to begin with, another problem is trusting that my assumptions are correct. What if those I’m tracking aren’t wading through the water? Or what if their exit point from the stream was further back, and now they have taken a different route entirely? What if they went back to Iantana to regroup? Or, worse, they have already been caught by the creatures and I’m heading further away from them? I have to remove any doubt from my mind, and as if that can be achieved physically, I briskly shake my head and focus on the matter at hand. I have to trust my instincts, and I have to believe Haluiqa wouldn’t want to endanger the people in Iantana by returning and luring the creatures that attacked him to the village. I won’t know I’m correct until I stumble upon a clue, but I have to press on.
The trees and bank of the stream are hardly varied in appearance, so it’s difficult for me to determine how far I’ve traveled. By now, the low sun barely pokes through the spaces between leaves, shading the floor of the jungle more and more. The daunting task of finding our leader weighs more heavily on me with each fruitless step, and self-doubt grows while daylight fades.
Casting my eyes down, I spot what I’ve been longing for: Footsteps emerge from the water and follow along the bed of the stream. I observe that it’s only a single pair of footsteps. Perhaps the person had enough with their feet getting soaked, or they slipped in the water and wanted to take a moment to regain their composure on land? It’s hard for me to say, but I am grateful for the change in fortune and follow the footprints in the track trap of the muddy banks.
Thanks to the person leaving the water, their steps are wet, making it easier to spot as they walk in-between the stream and the main road. I’m perplexed at their reasoning—they appear to want to avoid being spotted on the road, yet they aren’t masking their steps well enough to avoid being tracked. I’m easily able to follow where they’ve walked due to the wet footprints, and not only that, but there are broken branches and snapped twigs from where they’ve stepped. Could it be they’re exhausted from fighting supernatural beings and traveling all day? An experienced hunter and warrior such as Haluiqa wouldn’t be so careless, but fatigue and hunger can cause missteps from the soundest of us.
To make matters worse for the person I’m tracking, I find a black thread twisted around a broken twig. If they were trying to conceal the direction they’re heading, they have let themselves down. Even a novice tracker would know what to do with this information, and a knot forms in my stomach when I think of what a ravenous monster would do by finding it. If this is Haluiqa, I have to assume he’s leaving such clues on purpose. Perhaps he’s in trouble, and he’s doing this to identify his location for anyone searching. The black color is certainly one of those of the Tuatiu, so he could be discreetly marking the direction he’s going if he’s being held captive by Sianchu.
As if the evening sun wasn’t already a cause for concern, finding them has become more urgent with this new discovery. I don’t want to be too reckless and hurry so that I miss more clues, but I pick up my pace slightly with the hope that I’ll catch up to them in time, before I lose too much light.
The footprints still follow alongside the stream, and after some more time, snagged on a low, protruding branch, I find another thread—this time, a brown one. A brown one? That isn’t one of the Tuatiu colors; our people wear black, gray, and green. Perhaps Sianchu had his garment caught this time? I don’t recall him wearing anything brown. This might mean Haluiqa isn’t sending clues. And since I’ve only been following one set of footprints, both threads are likely to belong to the same person. But who wears black and brown, especially in Tuatiu lands?
I’m deep in thought while contemplating what this means when I notice the tracks heading back into the stream. Great, I think, I’m about to lose their tracks. Although if they’re as careless as they have been up to now, maybe I’ll be able to pick up their tracks again.
The breeze rustles the leaves, nearby animals move about the jungle floor, kicking up fallen leaves and snap twigs, and the hoarse croak of the hoatzin and whistling of cotingas in flight fill the humid air. I barely find the footprints stepping out of the stream again, not far from where they first entered, heading further from the road and deeper into the jungle. Perhaps the person is attempting to seek shelter away from the well-traveled path for the night?
I hear more rustling in the distance, much larger and more intense as if it’s coming from a large creature. It could be a jaguar, it could be a tapir, but it could be another one of those gray beasts. I can’t take a risk, and I reach behind me to draw Sachia’s turquoise bow and an arrow from my quiver. I walk cautiously on the balls of my feet, scanning the tapestry of jungle foliage for any movement. I bring the bow around to my front, nock an arrow, and gradually pull back the string as I draw it up to my chest.
Long, deep breath in. Long, deep breath out.
The rustling has ceased, and now I begin to feel as though I’m being watched, my every step monitored by a predator tracking me. I stop moving forward and search the area. No motion other than the swaying branches, the dusk light making it difficult to spot any threats. Every action I take is slow and methodical, waiting for my would-be assailant to give away their position. If it’s one of those gray creatures, I expect it will charge at me without any thought or consideration, so I brace myself for the possibility.
I consider exchanging my bow for the dagger sheathed at my side, in case the beast lunges for me before I can fire a shot. I’m concerned at the thought of having to fight off another one of those creatures, since I was fortunate to barely dispose of the first one, and I was overwhelmed by the last one, in which I was saved by Sachia.
I start switching weapons when I hear a whooping yell and the snapping of branches to my left. Without thought, I leap forward and roll out of the way of my attacker, tumbling to my feet in a crouch. However, I drop my bow and arrow in the process, and the weapons now lay closer to my assailant than me. Not ideal.
I have a brief moment to grab my dagger and see who is attacking me. For a brief moment of relief, I observe that their skin isn’t gray, but rather tanned like leather, and their dark brown hair is tied up in a bun at the back of his head. The person is tall and slender, but somehow still athletically built with finely toned arms and legs. They wear a tan… tunic? It’s more of a very loose-fitting shirt with a small tear in it that covers much of the torso, and dark cloth pants, the colors of the items nearly blending in with his skin. Based on the outfit alone, this person is clearly not Tuatiu, as we would suffocate by the constraining and restricting clothing. Is it a robber from a foreign land?
Moving nimbly, the man quickly turns to face me, his right hand reaching for something at his side. He crouches slightly like a jaguar ready to pounce, feet wide apart, and a scowl is barely visible through his heavy, black beard blanketing a boxy, rugged face. As if the garments weren’t enough of an identifier, facial hair is a dead giveaway that he has to be an outsider. Is he from Tapeu? Qantua? Qiapu?
I’m eager to know so I can anticipate my opponent’s fighting style, but wracking my brain, I can’t deduce where he’s from. Despite all the time serving with warriors from all over Pachil during the War of Liberation, I’m coming up with nothing. Besides, his movements are nothing like I’ve ever seen: His posture is loose and in a low squat, swaying on the balls of his feet from side to side. With his left arm extended and parallel to the ground, he holds a dagger made of obsidian by his side in a reverse grip with his right hand, its edge out and his thumb on the butt of the handle. Now I believe I definitely have seen this before, and the obsidian blade should be an important clue, but I still can’t place it.
He takes a quick hop toward me, then bounces back, as if to test me and see how I will react. I don’t: I stay still, predicting this exact move from him, and study his eyes to see if they give away what he plans to do next. They do, and I catch him glimpsing at my left arm, most likely checking its position to see if I can block a swing from his right. He must assume I can’t, since my arm is low along with my crouching stance, and he lunges forward, keeping his left arm between him and me while punching a cross at my head, the blade trailing his fist and shielding his forearm. I duck, perhaps lower than he anticipated I could since I’m so low to the ground, and roll to my left, away from his swinging arm and the left forearm he has shielding his torso.
The man is between me and my bow and quiver of arrows that are strewn about the jungle floor, but I don’t need them to put the attacker down. Looking about the ground, I spot a fallen branch with the thickness of an arm, and about as long as one, too. I grab it and propel myself toward the man, immediately swinging the tree limb before he can recover into his attacking stance. Using my momentum and all the force I can muster, the branch collides with his lower back. As he writhes in pain, I regain my footing, crouch low, and use the limb to swipe the back of his legs.
I connect with only his right leg, but the blow is enough to serve its purpose. He stumbles backward and, amateurishly, uses his right hand—the one with the blade gripped in it—to attempt to prevent himself from falling completely onto his back. He loses his hold of the dagger and it tumbles a few lengths away from him, out of reach. As he goes to push himself up, I swing the branch to bat away the dagger. He watches it skitter along the ground, and I use the branch as a staff and jab him in the ribs with the butt. The splintered wood gashes his body, and he falls to his left. He uses his left hand to clutch at the wound, then holds up his now-free right hand to signal that he yields. Still, I hold the tree limb toward him, ready to jab him again at the faintest sign of trickery.
“Where is Sianchu and Haluiqa?” I yell forcefully. He says something in a strange language that I can’t understand, and I demand that he speaks in the common Merchant’s Tongue. He shakes his head and scoffs, visibly annoyed by the request.
“I said, ‘I have to admit, this result is a bit unexpected,’” he says, a bit breathlessly and… nonchalantly? He attempts to lift himself from the ground, but I use the branch to tamp him back down. His accent is difficult to discern: He talks as if he’s in the middle of chewing food, he hisses the S sounds, replaces a lot of sounds with a hard T, and he speaks as if he can’t decide whether to stagger every syllable or jumble each sound together.
“Answer my question!” I command.
“I don’t know who either of those people are.”
“Liar!” I shout, now pressing the branch into his neck. He doesn’t seem to be in a hurry to get up or retaliate, and inspecting him during this tense pause in the action, I notice specs of gray in his beard and some gray strands of hair.
“Is one of them the Tapeu combatant sent to the south?” he inquires. Sent to the south? To get to Tapeu, you have to first travel south. Is that what he means?
I try to not let his question throw off my focus and attention. I keep my eyes on his hands, waiting for him to swipe at the tree limb and knock it aside to break free. He occasionally grimaces in pain, sucking air through his yellowing teeth, and he puts more weight on his left arm to support himself.
“I take your long silence,” he says, forcing the words out in spite of his pain, “to mean that one of them is the treacherous Tapeu dog.”
“Explain yourself,” I say, with a bit of a growl of my own.
“Look, you have no reason to trust me—I did come at you with a knife, after all—but can we please discuss this like civilized people?” he asks pleadingly. It’s difficult for me to consider, since, as he mentioned, he attacked me. And the hissing quality to his words make everything he says sound sinister.
Perhaps it’s from seeing him helplessly struggling through his injuries, or acknowledging that he did what I would do by defending himself, but seeing a disarming look in his eyes causes me to lower the branch just a little and allow him to shift into a seated position. There’s a sack for water made of an animal hide resting at the base of a nearby tree, and I determine we could both use some hydration. As an offering of peace, I walk over, grab the pouch, and take a sip as I return to where he sits, intending to share a drink. To my alarm, the liquid is actually chicha—or, rather, some kind of hard liquor that burns harshly as it travels all the way down my throat. I cough and spit up a little of the substance, and this greatly tickles the man. I hurl the pouch at him and scowl, admittedly out of embarrassment, and he fumbles it in an effort to snatch it before the contents completely spill out.
“I would have warned you of what’s inside, perhaps,” he says, half-apologetically, half-amused. “I think better after I’ve had my oxtli.” I can only assume that is the name of this intense beverage. Even for me, the liquid is like consuming fire, with very little that tastes appealing. I can’t fathom how anyone can drink this stuff.
“If that’s so, you should’ve had more,” I say with some snark. “I was able to track you fairly easily.” He considers this, then nods.
“That’s likely the cause of the first pouch I already finished,” he says, pointing to a flattened, deflated pouch that rests among a plain-looking bow made of a very dark wood, a thin bedroll, and some garments tossed in a pile. Sure enough, the shirt is brown and green with a large tear in it. This is clearly the man I’ve been tracking, and realizing this leaves me completely disappointed and frustrated, followed by a sudden wave of worry for the safety of Haluiqa.
The man says something else, but his words are drowned out by my thoughts of fearing for my Tuatiu leader. If I’ve been tracking this fool all this time, where are Sianchu and Haluiqa? Did they make it to Qapauma? Or have the returned to Iantana after all? Are they hiding somewhere I can find them to rescue them from the beasts? Or are they in great peril? Or is it too late?
He must’ve sensed my panic because I suddenly feel a hand placed on my shoulder. Instinctually, I strike his arm and land a punch square across his jaw. With my hands balled into fists, I realize he has both of his hands up, palms facing me.
“By the stars!” he exclaims, now rubbing his cheek. “That is quite a punch!”
I apologize, then chuckle at the notion that I believe his words are more slurred than they were before. He laughs, too, and goes to grab the pouch of this oxtli, of which he takes many large swigs. I cringe at the thought of how that must taste, but he appears completely unfazed.
“Are you tracking the Tapeu man?” he asks. His voice is calm, as though he doesn’t want to stir up any more animosity while still determined to figure out what is happening here. Rather than flying off to irrationally chase down where I think Haluiqa might be, I take a moment to collect myself.
“Him, and my people’s leader,” I say. Something compels me to tell the truth to him. Could one sip of that oxtli be potent enough to disarm me? I need to keep my wits and not give away any more than I have to. Preventing myself from revealing much more, I turn the focus back onto him.
“Those threads and your colors… What faction do you belong to?” I ask. Without alerting him, I slowly reach for the tree branch, making sure that if he says the wrong answer, I’m ready to strike or defend myself.
“I am from Auilqa,” he says with pride. Something in my face must have tipped him off to my suspicion, because no sooner than he reveals his faction does he splay his hands out to pat the air, as if pacifying a fierce animal.
“Hold on a moment,” he quickly interjects, speaking loudly as if he is talking to drown out my instinct to strike him down, repeating his command a couple more times for assurance. Something about his answer doesn’t seem right, and it takes a lot in me to not attack this man where he sits. He is in a vulnerable position, and knowing I have the upper hand if he doesn’t appeal to my merciful side, I reluctantly give him one more chance to explain himself, now aiming the pointed end of the branch at his chest.
“That is quite a reaction to me being from Auilqa,” he says, almost jokingly as if his life isn’t on the line.
“What is a person from Auilqa doing in Tuatiu?” I ask, demanding an answer loud enough to probably be heard from every corner of Pachil. “Those colors don’t look to be Auilqa colors. And outside of the War of Liberation, Auilqa never leave their lands.”
To this, he lets out a hearty laugh, then winces in pain. I’m startled by this, and his reaction takes me a moment to comprehend.
“Believe it or not,” he says. “not every Auilqa stays put. There are those like myself who are eager to see the world. And we all don’t wear the same color outfits—we have a bit more individuality than that.”
“Is that why you are this far north,” I ask again, more cynically this time, “to ‘travel and see the world?’ You didn’t answer my question.”
“Alright,” he says, hands in the air to express he concedes, “I didn’t want to say because I fear you won’t believe me. However, it appears no amount of explanation will appease you.”
I coax him to carry on with his statement, poking the air with the tree branch. He lets out a sigh and stops making eye contact with me, instead inspecting the ground for assistance with his answer.
“My people have been informed,” he starts, “that the Tapeu plan to attack the factions of the south. They’ve already begun by razing the Ulxa village of Tlequatlan, and we fear that is just the beginning. The Auilqa, being between both of their lands, are likely to be caught in the fray. I’m trying to prevent the conflict from escalating any further.”
To be perfectly honest, I doubt I would be able to trust the Tapeu or the Ulxa. If I had it my way, I would leave them to fight each other and hope someone more worthy would take up the position of Arbiter. However, having them settle their conflict on my land would be a problem, certainly. The Tuatiu, like the Auilqa, have found themselves between warring factions for generations, before the rule of the opportunistic Timuaq, who seized the chance to rule the land while all the factions were weakened from fighting one another.
As I consider this, the man takes another large gulp from the pouch, offers the sack to me, and after I wave a hand to decline, takes another large gulp.
“Is that why you hunt the Tapeu scum?” I ask while I gradually, but not entirely, lower my makeshift weapon.
“Partly,” he says, taking another swig. “On my way north to negotiate with the Arbiter, I thought I spotted a Tapeu raiding party. Somehow, I lost track of them.”
Could he be referring to Sianchu and Haluiqa marching the band of Tuatiu warriors to Qapauma? I grow concerned that our fighters might get caught in this Tapeu conflict, hoping that we don’t get confused for anyone raiding the Auilqa.
“I wonder how that happened,” I say, pointing the branch at the emptied pouch on the ground near his belongings.
“Fair point,” he says with a chuckle. “It’s been a while since I’ve had to track anything, I suppose.”
It could be due to the amount of drink he’s consumed, but the relaxed manner in which he’s handled much of this interaction slightly disturbs me. I don’t appreciate being made to feel as though I’m not a threat, and it’s discouraging to not see an ounce of fear in his eyes. Given his age, it’s likely he’s experienced much to not fear death anymore, but I determine his courage stems from the oxtli, if only to comfort myself with this notion.
“Considering I’m on Tuatiu lands, it’s fair for me to assume you must be Tuatiu, correct?” he asks, interrupting my self-loathing. I nod and grow slightly skeptical at where he’s about to direct the conversation. He continues, “and like your Tuatiu, it’s fair to say the Auilqa relationship with the Tapeu is tumultuous, at best. Even before the Timuaq’s rule, the Auilqa have always isolated themselves from the other factions, which I am certain the Tuatiu can relate.”
Wanting independence and keeping to themselves is unquestionably a trait both factions share, although that could be said about almost all of the factions. There was always a going to be a shaky alliance among the factions while Pachil is rebuilt, and everyone has their own vision as to how that should be done. However, if what he says is true about the Tapeu attacking the Ulxa—and there’s certainly the possibility this man is attempting to mislead me, of course—then who knows what the Arbiter’s intentions and agenda are. As if I didn’t want to trust Sianchu before, now I am very eager to find him and see what he has to say for himself.
“I’m Mexqutli, by the way,” he says, and extends his hand. I’m unsure what to do with this gesture, and after seeing the confused look on my face, he withdraws it, slightly embarrassed. I comment that his name sounds more southern than the typical Auilqa name. Then, realizing I may have come across a bit rude, I offer my name as a measure of apology, despite a part of me wanting to resist.
“Inuxeq, eh?” he says. “Hmm, that’s a pretty southern-sounding name, too. Are you sure you aren’t Ulxa? You’re just as stubborn and serious as one.” I’m about to take offense, but he laughs heartily and takes another drink from his pouch, and I force myself to lighten up a little.
As night blankets the jungle, shrouding the trees and obscuring our path, a sense of trepidation settles within me. Reluctantly, I come to a realization: It's far too perilous for either of us to continue alone. We make a choice, Mexqutli and I, to establish our camp amidst the mysterious depths. Together, we gather ample firewood, sparks of survival flickering in the darkness. Mexqutli, in his inebriated state, still possesses a semblance of strength to deter predators, or perhaps, I contemplate with a wry smile, he could serve as a cunning diversion, luring them away and becoming their unwitting prey.
“You’re aware,” I say, “that I can’t trust or believe you just yet. There are too many questions that need to be answered.”
“Understandable,” he says with a nod, and he pokes the fire with a branch, the same one I had used at one time to fight him. “But you’re also inclined to not trust the Tapeu who is with your leader. I’m willing to stake my honor as that my claim will be proven right, and you will see that the Tapeu are not telling you everything.”
“That’s not saying much,” I say. “It’s pretty easy to guess Sianchu—the Tapean, that is—is being dishonest. But despite it appearing we have a common enemy, we’ll have to see how much truth you’re speaking. Something that we can begin pursuing at dawn’s first light.”
Mexqutli lays down and almost immediately falls asleep. For the remainder of the night, I watch to make sure he stays that way.
