“Who are you?” Upachu shrieks, stirred awake by the commotion.
Before the man in the slate gray robe can respond, I leap to my feet and swing my sword, slashing at the unmasked, assumed leader. I’m really wishing I possessed my glaive, my weapon of choice, to keep some distance from my target, but there’s no time for that just yet. I’ll have to be alert for those with torches and avoid–
Before I can formulate a plan, the robed men chant something in a language I’ve never heard, something menacing with hissing and hard consonants. I’m left to gawk when they finish their incantation, watching those with swords hold their blades, then swipe their hands away from the hilt, a trail of fire following behind and setting their weapons alight. Flaming swords? What kind of witchcraft is this?
Two of the men bring their swords down in a wide swoop. I hop back to avoid the flames, feeling the heat lick my cheeks as it brushes by me. While they’re off-balanced, I charge in, spearing one in his stomach, then swing at the other as I remove my sword, its metallic blade now slick with blood. He manages to narrowly avoid getting sliced, contorting his shoulder just enough to be out of reach. Taking two hurried steps toward him, I thrust my sword at his torso before he has a chance to parry, piercing his ribs.
Another two men rush toward Upachu, his panicked cries alerting my attention to his direction. I take off, leaving a few of the red-clothed men standing bewilderedly behind me. With my shoulder, I charge into the nearest man knock him hard enough that we both crash into his accomplice. The three of us tumble onto the ground, shouting incomprehensibly at one another.
Thwack! Thwack!
Looking behind me, Upachu has grabbed a long branch, at one point used to aid in stoking the flames of our campfire, and beats his assailant, swinging the tree limb as violently as an elderly man can. The man on the ground covers his head with both arms, desperately trying to protect himself from the assault.
Crouched on the ground, I swing my sword at the other, distracted member of the group, gashing his leg. He clutches his wounded limb and howls in agony, giving me a brief moment to pull myself off the dirt and stand above him. Spinning the sword around in my hand, I bring the blade down into his chest, a stream of crimson shoots from his mouth in a choking cough. The fire on his sword extinguishes as he collapses to the ground.
Upachu continues beating back his attacker, wildly swinging the branch back and forth. The assailant reaches for his flaming sword and slashes up toward Upachu, narrowly missing with his blade, but catching the branch on fire. Reacting as though bitten by a snake, Upachu drops the thin bough, then looks wide-eyed and panicked at the face cloaked in red cloth.
I dart over, my arm arching wide with sword in hand. The attacker attempts to parry my blade, shielding his body with the sword engulfed in flames. How are his hands not burning at the intensity of the heat? Metal strikes metal with a loud clatter. I bring the sword around and slash diagonally downward, barely catching my foe on his hands as he tries to block. He shouts in pain, loosening his grip on his weapon and staggers back. I strike again and again, hacking at him as he holds his sword horizontally in a desperate effort to protect himself. It’s no use: I overwhelm him enough that his guard drops, giving me an opening to chop down, partly splitting his head open and causing him to drop to the ground.
Upachu stares dumbstruck, back to the cart and switching his attention between me and the now-deceased assailant. He pants out a “thank you”, lips barely able to form the words. I take the opportunity to switch weapons, walking over to the cart and clutching the glaive in my hands. There’s a heft to the weapon, and taking some practice swings to adjust to its balance has an indescribable level of comfort. If these men are going to set fire to their weapons, I want as much distance as possible between me and their attacks.
“No! No! No!”
I hear the shrieks from Qaschiqe as he shields his face with his hands, grimacing in anticipation as two attackers stride toward him, torches in hand. The bald leader, stoic and expressionless, casually walks over, hands clasped in front of him. What are they planning to do to him?
No time to consider that. I dash over, now a little clumsily as I readjust to the awkward weight of the glaive. In a long, swooping horizontal swing, I bring the blade around, slashing at the nearest enemy and nearly severing his forearm. He drops the torch and reflexively grabs at his wound. I bring the glaive back around and down, striking the man from above and slicing his clothed face.
With the blade lowered to the ground after my maneuver, I thrust it up and forward, jabbing at the maskless leader. Seeing his slain minion, he leaps to his side, out of the way of my attack. I step back, building up my strength to strike again. The other man wielding the torch is struck with panic, no weapon nearby with which to defend himself. I stomp with my leading leg and force the blade forward, using any momentum to try and reach my opponent. However, he’s just far away enough to avoid the strike, my attack catching nothing but air. While I quickly step back into a defensive stance, he takes off running, searching his dead co-conspirators for any available weapon.
A shout of alarm and the bleat of the llama comes from the direction of the cart. Upachu takes a robe once used as his blanket and waves it up and down, trying to put out the flames caused by a torch thrown at our belongings. I curse, hurrying over to help protect our items, and I notice one of the red-clothed individuals scurrying toward us, eyes cast to the ground as if seeking the chest. How can he see with his vision disrupted? Somehow, he spots it and races over. Not giving him the chance, I run at him—as best I can with my long weapon in tow—and skid to a stop. Using the momentum, I plant my left foot down and lunge forward, spearing the glaive at the thief. The blade is just long enough to catch the assailant in his torso, piercing through his robe and coating it with his blood as he falls over.
“Impressive,” the deep voice says. The unmasked man slowly walks toward us, his collective of minions now down to a few men. He snatches a sword off the ground from one of his fallen comrades and casually approaches. Though I’ve taken out a number of his men, he looks unbothered, his face as blank as a stone.
“I commend your efforts,” he says. It’s taking him some effort to speak in Merchant’s Tongue, talking somewhat slowly and punctuated. “However, your attempts to hinder us from obtaining the chest are futile. I will take what is ours—you are only delaying the inevitable.”
“What makes you believe this chest is yours?” I ask, stalling for time to assess the situation. He stands a few steps behind the rest of his men, who have abandoned their torches for swords. Two of them appear nervous, holding their weapons shakily and stepping forward hesitantly. They can’t be but 15, 16 harvests old, too young to be experienced enough in hand-to-hand combat. What made them join this cause?
“It is ours by divine right,” he says as a matter of fact. “The contents of the chest do not concern you. Impeding our mission will only get you killed.”
“Who do you belong to that designates this chest as yours?”
“We are the Eye in the Flame, the sacred protectors of the truths of Eztletiqa,” he says. “We have been chosen to cleanse the lands of those whom the flame’s light has deemed unworthy. By season’s end, those who have not sought penance will perish.”
“The Ulxa god?” Upachu questions. “So you are religious fanatics from Ulxa?”
The unmasked man looks at Upachu condescendingly, making it apparent that he’s tired of the conversation. With a simple wave of his hand, he gestures to his men, who repeat the chant from before, setting their weapons aflame.
While they chant, I slash at one of the men, not giving him a chance to complete the incantation. I impale his stomach with my blade, a look of surprise peeks through the red cloth as I see his jaw drop open, stunned at the realization of his ensuing death.
I quickly retreat, removing my glaive from the slain victim’s torso and leap back to avoid the attempted strikes by the nearby members of this cult. They swoop their swords down aggressively, stumbling a bit off-balance as they finish the motion.
One charges at me, getting too close for me to strike with the blade of my glaive, and I can’t adjust my grip on the staff to properly block. He comes down hard onto my shoulder, his sword catching me unprotected. The pain is searing, both literally and figuratively, setting my tunic aflame and burning the skin around my arm and collarbone, blood racing down my chest.
I grimace and stagger backward, resetting my stance to get my feet beneath me once again. He presses his advantage, sensing weakness and slashing at me hurriedly, desperate to land something while my positioning is relatively unstable. The attacker keeps me on the back foot, engaging me and driving me into the cart. I duck as he flails with a horizontal slash, then roll beneath the cart, hearing his next blow slam into the wooden side. A bolt of pain shoots through my shoulder and upper body as I land on my left side, and I involuntarily yell in pain. Upachu and the llama shriek, noticing a new fire starting on the cart. Our llama grows restless, eager to escape the flames and dragging the cart with it, compounding its panic while Upachu tries to wrangle the animal and chase it down.
Drawing the man away from the calamity pertaining to our cart, I bounce up and… Where’s my glaive? I spot my weapon on the ground where I maneuvered under the cart, a few steps from my approaching attacker. From the balls of my feet, I lure him closer to me, baiting him to strike at me. When he obliges, I dodge out of the way, rolling to my right and landing almost directly behind him. I raise my leg and kick out, my foot planting on his spine and shoving him forward. The jolt from my blow jars the weapon out of his hand, extinguishing it almost immediately. So the flames only last if the wielder maintains possession of it, eh?
I snatch the sword before he can retrieve it, swinging it upward and attempting to catch him with his forward momentum. However, I barely miss, my strike is just too far off to his side and grazes him. After regaining his footing, he sprints at me. What is he hoping to achieve? I take one large step to my left, then thrust the blade into his charging body. I let both him and the sword fall together, and the weapon gets pushed deeper through his chest, protruding out his back.
One of the boys yelps at the sight, then takes off into the nearby forest. His leader shouts, ordering him to return, but the young man keeps running, ignoring the command. The unmasked man steps twice in the deserter’s direction, but reconsiders as he resumes his attention to the matter at hand: retrieving the chest.
A group of robed men appear, cudgels in hand—this time, those clad in the white cloth of the temple. They attack the red-clothed conspirators, teaming up on their foes and overwhelming them with numbers. The remaining cultists look far outmatched, the aggressiveness of the temple workers forcing their opponents on the defensive.
I take on one of the more aggressive cultists, who single-handedly beats back the onslaught from the men in white robes. From his periphery, he spots my advancement and twists quickly to block my incoming attack. I bring the glaive down to strike, then thrust it forward, but he’s more skilled than the others I’ve fought, possessing the awareness to step away from my lunging effort and avoid being pierced.
The man whirls his arm around to attack me diagonally, swooping his sword down. I’m able to adjust my grip, flipping my left hand so the thumb points back down the staff, and guard his strike with the leather-reinforced pole. The hide gets scorched, a streak of black chars the wrap, but is surprisingly resilient against the fiery blade. He takes a short hop, and I notice one of the temple workers had tried to sweep his legs with their sword, yet the cultist narrowly evades the attempt. Just as he lands, I kick him in his stomach with my left leg, causing him to stagger back a few steps and wince in pain.
I reposition myself, now the thumb of my right hand also points away from my target, then raise my glaive up level with my head and jab at him from above. He waves his sword to deflect my effort to his right, but it’s the exact move I’m prepared for: with his sword forced to swing high, his entire body is exposed, allowing me to switch the grip in my right hand and swoop my weapon around, bringing it down upon him before he can reposition his sword to block. His head manages to get out of the way, but I still slash his torso from the upper right of his chest down to his left hip. I fight through the pain that burns through every fiber of my left shoulder to twist around and backhand the glaive horizontally, slicing the cultist as he writhes in agony, then crumples to a heap.
The unmasked leader hacks at one of the temple workers, light from the flames trail his sword as he chops the man with blow after blow. With a scowl across his face, the first bit of emotion I’ve seen from him, he turns toward me, sliding his left leg in front and bringing his sword coiled back and up close to his head. He appears unaffected by the fire of the sword that illuminates the right side of his face in a bright, ominous, orange glow. The other white-robed men and last remaining cultist remain entangled in sparring one another, leaving me to face down this deviant myself. Just as I had hoped.
We stare each other down, measuring one another while waiting for the other to make a move. He paces to his right, walking toward the direction my back is facing, exuding an air of confidence, as though this challenge is something for which he’s well practiced. I keep my feet shuffling gradually, making sure they’re planted on the ground as quickly as possible so he can’t strike me midstep.
A temple worker attempts to catch him off-guard, recklessly charging in and raising his arm up and back to strike the unmasked cultist. His effort is in vain, however: Without glancing behind him, the leader anticipates the attack and parries with relative ease, stepping away from the strike, then plunging his sword into the unfortunate man. His stunned look of impending death is one I’ve seen far too often, something that will always be difficult to overcome, but drives me to defeat this enemy and ensure his death was not for naught.
I seize the opportunity and surge at the unmasked man, stomping my foot down and thrusting the glaive forward. He dodges my strike, then swoops with his flaming sword in one fluid motion, glancing my already wounded shoulder with yet another blow, causing the searing pain to be nearly insurmountable. Barely allowing him time to unleash a backhanded swing of his sword, I swiftly angle my weapon downward before executing a sudden upward fling. It just catches his forearm and throws his attempted strike breezing above my head, the blazing heat from the blade is intense as it flies past.
He shifts his stance to lead with his right, keeping his wounded arm in front, but no longer in complete control of the weapon. I’d be impressed with his ability to switch hands if it weren’t for him being a demented cultist trying to kill me. With ferocity, he brings the sword down as if trying to knock the glaive out of my hands, but I spin out of the way, lowing the weapon back to avoid being struck. Unfortunately, this doesn’t allow me a good counterattack, with the blade practically on the dirt close to my left foot and making it difficult for me to swing up and over his exposed left arm.
I shuffle my feet back to reposition myself, the unmasked man remaining many strides out of reach. He’s becoming more aggressive, attacking with more vigor, so I decide to use that against him. I remain still, bracing myself for his next move, and daring him to charge forward.
“If you’re the best this Eye in the Flame has, then this cult is going to fall apart in no time,” I taunt, encouraging him to lose his wits and attack. Instead, he smirks, regaining his composure and resetting his feet, not showing any signs of urgency nor irritation. That’s discouraging, since I had hoped to strike a nerve, but he reevaluates me, shifting back to his original, right-handed stance. More discouraging, since this gives him a better chance to strike my injured shoulder.
The unmasked man begins another chant, more hissing and snarling, then raises his sword up to the sky. His left hand tracks, in the air, down the blade to the hilt, finishing with a flourish as he waves and gesticulates. He casts his sword, lifting it up and then swinging it down until the tip points at me. A ball of searing flames hurtles toward me with relentless velocity, unleashed by the sword's lethal might. I’m just able to leap to the side and out of the way as it speeds toward the ruins of the temple and collides with an unfortunate bystander, setting him alight at the blink of an eye. He screams in torment, running around in panic as a couple of temple workers desperately try to extinguish the flames.
I can’t allow myself to get distracted, telling myself to focus on the matter at hand. The cultist leader resumes his fighting posture and lunges at me. I’m just far enough away that I can strike with my glaive before he reaches me with his flaming sword. I feign jabbing my blade in one direction, taking a small step with my left, leading him to react and maneuver in anticipation of the attack by slowing his run to a near halt. This gives me a brief moment while he’s stopped to bring the pole back, then put everything I have into the thrust forward, roaring as I extend as far as my shoulders allow.
My glaive penetrates his side, blood decorating my blade. He drops his sword, putting out its fire and leaving it to do nothing more than smoke as it lies at his feet. He clutches his ribs, gnashing his teeth as he snarls, and glares at me with fury burning in his eyes.
“This isn’t over,” he hisses. “We are many, and we will come for you.”
“Then I await their arrival,” I say, keeping my glaive pointed at him.
He drops down to retrieve his sword, but before he can place a hand upon its hilt, I lunge at him, piercing the right side of his chest as he howls in pain. I bring the glaive back, then strike again, this time puncturing his left side until my blade goes entirely through his body. He moans and lets out a dying breath, uttering one last phrase in his native tongue before he expires. For good measure, I twirl the pole around, then fiercely bring the weapon down upon him, then unsheathe the blade from his lifeless corpse.
I finally have a moment to survey the scene, checking for any more threats while making sure everyone else is safe from harm. With nothing but a smattering of burn marks as evidence, Upachu has snuffed out the fiery assault on the cart. Qaschiqe hobbles over to tend to one of the injured temple workers, clutching a bundle of cloth to help clot their wound. A few of the white-robed men lay deceased on the ground, their compatriots carrying the bodies for what I assume is their preparations for burial. Though I’m sad that they gave their lives to fight these imposters, their efforts were nonetheless valiant and commendable.
Near the ruins, a few temple workers have captured a member of the cult, the only one who remains. His red cloth has been removed to reveal a fresh-faced young man, his boyish features and wide, circular eyes match his round face. His injuries are severe and life-threatening, as he bleeds profusely from a gash just above his stomach. They’ve opened his robe to tend to the wounds, exposing his chest to reveal a gauche symbol hacked into the skin: a flame with a crudely carved eye at its base. Though he receives medical treatment from the workers, I question how honest their efforts are in keeping the boy alive after what his kind has brought upon the temple.
I walk over, on alert with glaive in hand in case the young man tries anything foolish. He looks at me, coughing up blood that can only mean a punctured lung, confirming how dire his situation is. I can only hope he gives me something, anything, to aid me in piecing together the purpose of this assault.
“The time is nigh for nonbelievers to atone,” he coughs, clutching his chest. “The fire’s light shines upon us. You cannot stop what will come by the next season.”
“Tell me,” I say sternly while ignoring his gibberish, “what did your kind hope to achieve by possessing that chest?”
He stares at me through narrowed eyes, his bloodied mouth only open to take breaths in large, swallowing gulps. I fear he won’t reveal anything, content to die and leave us in the dark over the purpose of their failed mission. I sigh and begin to walk away, shaking my head in disgust over the needless violence.
“The glyphs,” he says before succumbing to a fit of wet coughing. I stop in my tracks, then gradually turn around, still not expecting a clear answer, yet receptive to his response anyway.
“The champions were shown the way through the glyphs,” he mutters in a raspy voice.
“The Eleven, you mean,” I say, for clarity. He nods, then begins shuddering. He’s not long for this world, so my next question will have to be precise, in case he is unable to answer, or comprehend, any more.
“Where did you receive the knowledge of these glyphs?” I ask.
“Atima,” he utters, his words barely discernible.
“Wichanaqta? The ruins?” I ask, perplexed. “How did you know to go there?”
“Eztletiqa illuminated the Sunfire’s way,” he says, almost as a whisper. Either he must be growing delusional in his delirium, or this proves how delusional this cult is, if they believe some mythical deity spoke to them—this “Sunfire”—about painted symbols on cloth-like sheets.
"What do the glyphs on the papyrus symbolize?"
I attempt one last question, but by now, the young man stares blankly into the sky, his breathing ceased. Out of frustration, I kick the soil into a cloudy puff and pace to try and calm myself down, to get some clarity on what the next step should be.
“Who knew of Iquna’s traitorous ways?” I shout my inquiry accusatorially to those gathered. Many look at one another, shaking their heads and appearing confused.
“He arrived not long after Qaschiqe had,” one eventually speaks up. “I saw him wandering the grounds and had asked him to state his business, but he only mentioned passing through on his way to Qapauma and departed shortly after. With the number of travelers we’ve been getting, I never thought much of it, not until the events from earlier.”
“So he must’ve spoken to Qaschiqe, never mentioning that he was not, in fact, a worker of the temple, and got him to reveal the presence of the chest,” Upachu ponders aloud.
“Not difficult, considering how blatant he was in announcing it to nearly everyone he encountered,” I say, sneering at Qaschiqe for his recklessness.
Upachu and I return to the cart, assessing the damage and checking on the llama, who appears much calmer now that the combat has ceased. Upachu had done well to extinguish the flames in a timely manner; there is slight fire damage, but seemingly more cosmetic than structural, and nothing that can’t be fixed at a future time with better materials at our disposal.
“So, now what?” he asks, gently stroking the llama’s nappy fur. “Apparently, we have until next season before… something happens.”
“I’m not sure,” I respond, genuinely confused about what our next steps should be. “The cult is clearly from Ulxa, but I take it that what they found in Atima territory led them here. It’s certainly going in the exact opposite direction from Ulxa territory and will add nearly a moon cycle to go from Atima to Ulxa, but we can at least look and see if answers lie there.”
“Then we shall travel to the ruins of Wichanaqta,” he says, “and see what the fates have in store for us there.”
“Who are you?” Upachu shrieks, stirred awake by the commotion.
Before the man in the slate gray robe can respond, I leap to my feet and swing my sword, slashing at the unmasked, assumed leader. I’m really wishing I possessed my glaive, my weapon of choice, to keep some distance from my target, but there’s no time for that just yet. I’ll have to be alert for those with torches and avoid–
Before I can formulate a plan, the robed men chant something in a language I’ve never heard, something menacing with hissing and hard consonants. I’m left to gawk when they finish their incantation, watching those with swords hold their blades, then swipe their hands away from the hilt, a trail of fire following behind and setting their weapons alight. Flaming swords? What kind of witchcraft is this?
Two of the men bring their swords down in a wide swoop. I hop back to avoid the flames, feeling the heat lick my cheeks as it brushes by me. While they’re off-balanced, I charge in, spearing one in his stomach, then swing at the other as I remove my sword, its metallic blade now slick with blood. He manages to narrowly avoid getting sliced, contorting his shoulder just enough to be out of reach. Taking two hurried steps toward him, I thrust my sword at his torso before he has a chance to parry, piercing his ribs.
Another two men rush toward Upachu, his panicked cries alerting my attention to his direction. I take off, leaving a few of the red-clothed men standing bewilderedly behind me. With my shoulder, I charge into the nearest man knock him hard enough that we both crash into his accomplice. The three of us tumble onto the ground, shouting incomprehensibly at one another.
Thwack! Thwack!
Looking behind me, Upachu has grabbed a long branch, at one point used to aid in stoking the flames of our campfire, and beats his assailant, swinging the tree limb as violently as an elderly man can. The man on the ground covers his head with both arms, desperately trying to protect himself from the assault.
Crouched on the ground, I swing my sword at the other, distracted member of the group, gashing his leg. He clutches his wounded limb and howls in agony, giving me a brief moment to pull myself off the dirt and stand above him. Spinning the sword around in my hand, I bring the blade down into his chest, a stream of crimson shoots from his mouth in a choking cough. The fire on his sword extinguishes as he collapses to the ground.
Upachu continues beating back his attacker, wildly swinging the branch back and forth. The assailant reaches for his flaming sword and slashes up toward Upachu, narrowly missing with his blade, but catching the branch on fire. Reacting as though bitten by a snake, Upachu drops the thin bough, then looks wide-eyed and panicked at the face cloaked in red cloth.
I dart over, my arm arching wide with sword in hand. The attacker attempts to parry my blade, shielding his body with the sword engulfed in flames. How are his hands not burning at the intensity of the heat? Metal strikes metal with a loud clatter. I bring the sword around and slash diagonally downward, barely catching my foe on his hands as he tries to block. He shouts in pain, loosening his grip on his weapon and staggers back. I strike again and again, hacking at him as he holds his sword horizontally in a desperate effort to protect himself. It’s no use: I overwhelm him enough that his guard drops, giving me an opening to chop down, partly splitting his head open and causing him to drop to the ground.
Upachu stares dumbstruck, back to the cart and switching his attention between me and the now-deceased assailant. He pants out a “thank you”, lips barely able to form the words. I take the opportunity to switch weapons, walking over to the cart and clutching the glaive in my hands. There’s a heft to the weapon, and taking some practice swings to adjust to its balance has an indescribable level of comfort. If these men are going to set fire to their weapons, I want as much distance as possible between me and their attacks.
“No! No! No!”
I hear the shrieks from Qaschiqe as he shields his face with his hands, grimacing in anticipation as two attackers stride toward him, torches in hand. The bald leader, stoic and expressionless, casually walks over, hands clasped in front of him. What are they planning to do to him?
No time to consider that. I dash over, now a little clumsily as I readjust to the awkward weight of the glaive. In a long, swooping horizontal swing, I bring the blade around, slashing at the nearest enemy and nearly severing his forearm. He drops the torch and reflexively grabs at his wound. I bring the glaive back around and down, striking the man from above and slicing his clothed face.
With the blade lowered to the ground after my maneuver, I thrust it up and forward, jabbing at the maskless leader. Seeing his slain minion, he leaps to his side, out of the way of my attack. I step back, building up my strength to strike again. The other man wielding the torch is struck with panic, no weapon nearby with which to defend himself. I stomp with my leading leg and force the blade forward, using any momentum to try and reach my opponent. However, he’s just far away enough to avoid the strike, my attack catching nothing but air. While I quickly step back into a defensive stance, he takes off running, searching his dead co-conspirators for any available weapon.
A shout of alarm and the bleat of the llama comes from the direction of the cart. Upachu takes a robe once used as his blanket and waves it up and down, trying to put out the flames caused by a torch thrown at our belongings. I curse, hurrying over to help protect our items, and I notice one of the red-clothed individuals scurrying toward us, eyes cast to the ground as if seeking the chest. How can he see with his vision disrupted? Somehow, he spots it and races over. Not giving him the chance, I run at him—as best I can with my long weapon in tow—and skid to a stop. Using the momentum, I plant my left foot down and lunge forward, spearing the glaive at the thief. The blade is just long enough to catch the assailant in his torso, piercing through his robe and coating it with his blood as he falls over.
“Impressive,” the deep voice says. The unmasked man slowly walks toward us, his collective of minions now down to a few men. He snatches a sword off the ground from one of his fallen comrades and casually approaches. Though I’ve taken out a number of his men, he looks unbothered, his face as blank as a stone.
“I commend your efforts,” he says. It’s taking him some effort to speak in Merchant’s Tongue, talking somewhat slowly and punctuated. “However, your attempts to hinder us from obtaining the chest are futile. I will take what is ours—you are only delaying the inevitable.”
“What makes you believe this chest is yours?” I ask, stalling for time to assess the situation. He stands a few steps behind the rest of his men, who have abandoned their torches for swords. Two of them appear nervous, holding their weapons shakily and stepping forward hesitantly. They can’t be but 15, 16 harvests old, too young to be experienced enough in hand-to-hand combat. What made them join this cause?
“It is ours by divine right,” he says as a matter of fact. “The contents of the chest do not concern you. Impeding our mission will only get you killed.”
“Who do you belong to that designates this chest as yours?”
“We are the Eye in the Flame, the sacred protectors of the truths of Eztletiqa,” he says. “We have been chosen to cleanse the lands of those whom the flame’s light has deemed unworthy. By season’s end, those who have not sought penance will perish.”
“The Ulxa god?” Upachu questions. “So you are religious fanatics from Ulxa?”
The unmasked man looks at Upachu condescendingly, making it apparent that he’s tired of the conversation. With a simple wave of his hand, he gestures to his men, who repeat the chant from before, setting their weapons aflame.
While they chant, I slash at one of the men, not giving him a chance to complete the incantation. I impale his stomach with my blade, a look of surprise peeks through the red cloth as I see his jaw drop open, stunned at the realization of his ensuing death.
I quickly retreat, removing my glaive from the slain victim’s torso and leap back to avoid the attempted strikes by the nearby members of this cult. They swoop their swords down aggressively, stumbling a bit off-balance as they finish the motion.
One charges at me, getting too close for me to strike with the blade of my glaive, and I can’t adjust my grip on the staff to properly block. He comes down hard onto my shoulder, his sword catching me unprotected. The pain is searing, both literally and figuratively, setting my tunic aflame and burning the skin around my arm and collarbone, blood racing down my chest.
I grimace and stagger backward, resetting my stance to get my feet beneath me once again. He presses his advantage, sensing weakness and slashing at me hurriedly, desperate to land something while my positioning is relatively unstable. The attacker keeps me on the back foot, engaging me and driving me into the cart. I duck as he flails with a horizontal slash, then roll beneath the cart, hearing his next blow slam into the wooden side. A bolt of pain shoots through my shoulder and upper body as I land on my left side, and I involuntarily yell in pain. Upachu and the llama shriek, noticing a new fire starting on the cart. Our llama grows restless, eager to escape the flames and dragging the cart with it, compounding its panic while Upachu tries to wrangle the animal and chase it down.
Drawing the man away from the calamity pertaining to our cart, I bounce up and… Where’s my glaive? I spot my weapon on the ground where I maneuvered under the cart, a few steps from my approaching attacker. From the balls of my feet, I lure him closer to me, baiting him to strike at me. When he obliges, I dodge out of the way, rolling to my right and landing almost directly behind him. I raise my leg and kick out, my foot planting on his spine and shoving him forward. The jolt from my blow jars the weapon out of his hand, extinguishing it almost immediately. So the flames only last if the wielder maintains possession of it, eh?
I snatch the sword before he can retrieve it, swinging it upward and attempting to catch him with his forward momentum. However, I barely miss, my strike is just too far off to his side and grazes him. After regaining his footing, he sprints at me. What is he hoping to achieve? I take one large step to my left, then thrust the blade into his charging body. I let both him and the sword fall together, and the weapon gets pushed deeper through his chest, protruding out his back.
One of the boys yelps at the sight, then takes off into the nearby forest. His leader shouts, ordering him to return, but the young man keeps running, ignoring the command. The unmasked man steps twice in the deserter’s direction, but reconsiders as he resumes his attention to the matter at hand: retrieving the chest.
A group of robed men appear, cudgels in hand—this time, those clad in the white cloth of the temple. They attack the red-clothed conspirators, teaming up on their foes and overwhelming them with numbers. The remaining cultists look far outmatched, the aggressiveness of the temple workers forcing their opponents on the defensive.
I take on one of the more aggressive cultists, who single-handedly beats back the onslaught from the men in white robes. From his periphery, he spots my advancement and twists quickly to block my incoming attack. I bring the glaive down to strike, then thrust it forward, but he’s more skilled than the others I’ve fought, possessing the awareness to step away from my lunging effort and avoid being pierced.
The man whirls his arm around to attack me diagonally, swooping his sword down. I’m able to adjust my grip, flipping my left hand so the thumb points back down the staff, and guard his strike with the leather-reinforced pole. The hide gets scorched, a streak of black chars the wrap, but is surprisingly resilient against the fiery blade. He takes a short hop, and I notice one of the temple workers had tried to sweep his legs with their sword, yet the cultist narrowly evades the attempt. Just as he lands, I kick him in his stomach with my left leg, causing him to stagger back a few steps and wince in pain.
I reposition myself, now the thumb of my right hand also points away from my target, then raise my glaive up level with my head and jab at him from above. He waves his sword to deflect my effort to his right, but it’s the exact move I’m prepared for: with his sword forced to swing high, his entire body is exposed, allowing me to switch the grip in my right hand and swoop my weapon around, bringing it down upon him before he can reposition his sword to block. His head manages to get out of the way, but I still slash his torso from the upper right of his chest down to his left hip. I fight through the pain that burns through every fiber of my left shoulder to twist around and backhand the glaive horizontally, slicing the cultist as he writhes in agony, then crumples to a heap.
The unmasked leader hacks at one of the temple workers, light from the flames trail his sword as he chops the man with blow after blow. With a scowl across his face, the first bit of emotion I’ve seen from him, he turns toward me, sliding his left leg in front and bringing his sword coiled back and up close to his head. He appears unaffected by the fire of the sword that illuminates the right side of his face in a bright, ominous, orange glow. The other white-robed men and last remaining cultist remain entangled in sparring one another, leaving me to face down this deviant myself. Just as I had hoped.
We stare each other down, measuring one another while waiting for the other to make a move. He paces to his right, walking toward the direction my back is facing, exuding an air of confidence, as though this challenge is something for which he’s well practiced. I keep my feet shuffling gradually, making sure they’re planted on the ground as quickly as possible so he can’t strike me midstep.
A temple worker attempts to catch him off-guard, recklessly charging in and raising his arm up and back to strike the unmasked cultist. His effort is in vain, however: Without glancing behind him, the leader anticipates the attack and parries with relative ease, stepping away from the strike, then plunging his sword into the unfortunate man. His stunned look of impending death is one I’ve seen far too often, something that will always be difficult to overcome, but drives me to defeat this enemy and ensure his death was not for naught.
I seize the opportunity and surge at the unmasked man, stomping my foot down and thrusting the glaive forward. He dodges my strike, then swoops with his flaming sword in one fluid motion, glancing my already wounded shoulder with yet another blow, causing the searing pain to be nearly insurmountable. Barely allowing him time to unleash a backhanded swing of his sword, I swiftly angle my weapon downward before executing a sudden upward fling. It just catches his forearm and throws his attempted strike breezing above my head, the blazing heat from the blade is intense as it flies past.
He shifts his stance to lead with his right, keeping his wounded arm in front, but no longer in complete control of the weapon. I’d be impressed with his ability to switch hands if it weren’t for him being a demented cultist trying to kill me. With ferocity, he brings the sword down as if trying to knock the glaive out of my hands, but I spin out of the way, lowing the weapon back to avoid being struck. Unfortunately, this doesn’t allow me a good counterattack, with the blade practically on the dirt close to my left foot and making it difficult for me to swing up and over his exposed left arm.
I shuffle my feet back to reposition myself, the unmasked man remaining many strides out of reach. He’s becoming more aggressive, attacking with more vigor, so I decide to use that against him. I remain still, bracing myself for his next move, and daring him to charge forward.
“If you’re the best this Eye in the Flame has, then this cult is going to fall apart in no time,” I taunt, encouraging him to lose his wits and attack. Instead, he smirks, regaining his composure and resetting his feet, not showing any signs of urgency nor irritation. That’s discouraging, since I had hoped to strike a nerve, but he reevaluates me, shifting back to his original, right-handed stance. More discouraging, since this gives him a better chance to strike my injured shoulder.
The unmasked man begins another chant, more hissing and snarling, then raises his sword up to the sky. His left hand tracks, in the air, down the blade to the hilt, finishing with a flourish as he waves and gesticulates. He casts his sword, lifting it up and then swinging it down until the tip points at me. A ball of searing flames hurtles toward me with relentless velocity, unleashed by the sword's lethal might. I’m just able to leap to the side and out of the way as it speeds toward the ruins of the temple and collides with an unfortunate bystander, setting him alight at the blink of an eye. He screams in torment, running around in panic as a couple of temple workers desperately try to extinguish the flames.
I can’t allow myself to get distracted, telling myself to focus on the matter at hand. The cultist leader resumes his fighting posture and lunges at me. I’m just far enough away that I can strike with my glaive before he reaches me with his flaming sword. I feign jabbing my blade in one direction, taking a small step with my left, leading him to react and maneuver in anticipation of the attack by slowing his run to a near halt. This gives me a brief moment while he’s stopped to bring the pole back, then put everything I have into the thrust forward, roaring as I extend as far as my shoulders allow.
My glaive penetrates his side, blood decorating my blade. He drops his sword, putting out its fire and leaving it to do nothing more than smoke as it lies at his feet. He clutches his ribs, gnashing his teeth as he snarls, and glares at me with fury burning in his eyes.
“This isn’t over,” he hisses. “We are many, and we will come for you.”
“Then I await their arrival,” I say, keeping my glaive pointed at him.
He drops down to retrieve his sword, but before he can place a hand upon its hilt, I lunge at him, piercing the right side of his chest as he howls in pain. I bring the glaive back, then strike again, this time puncturing his left side until my blade goes entirely through his body. He moans and lets out a dying breath, uttering one last phrase in his native tongue before he expires. For good measure, I twirl the pole around, then fiercely bring the weapon down upon him, then unsheathe the blade from his lifeless corpse.
I finally have a moment to survey the scene, checking for any more threats while making sure everyone else is safe from harm. With nothing but a smattering of burn marks as evidence, Upachu has snuffed out the fiery assault on the cart. Qaschiqe hobbles over to tend to one of the injured temple workers, clutching a bundle of cloth to help clot their wound. A few of the white-robed men lay deceased on the ground, their compatriots carrying the bodies for what I assume is their preparations for burial. Though I’m sad that they gave their lives to fight these imposters, their efforts were nonetheless valiant and commendable.
Near the ruins, a few temple workers have captured a member of the cult, the only one who remains. His red cloth has been removed to reveal a fresh-faced young man, his boyish features and wide, circular eyes match his round face. His injuries are severe and life-threatening, as he bleeds profusely from a gash just above his stomach. They’ve opened his robe to tend to the wounds, exposing his chest to reveal a gauche symbol hacked into the skin: a flame with a crudely carved eye at its base. Though he receives medical treatment from the workers, I question how honest their efforts are in keeping the boy alive after what his kind has brought upon the temple.
I walk over, on alert with glaive in hand in case the young man tries anything foolish. He looks at me, coughing up blood that can only mean a punctured lung, confirming how dire his situation is. I can only hope he gives me something, anything, to aid me in piecing together the purpose of this assault.
“The time is nigh for nonbelievers to atone,” he coughs, clutching his chest. “The fire’s light shines upon us. You cannot stop what will come by the next season.”
“Tell me,” I say sternly while ignoring his gibberish, “what did your kind hope to achieve by possessing that chest?”
He stares at me through narrowed eyes, his bloodied mouth only open to take breaths in large, swallowing gulps. I fear he won’t reveal anything, content to die and leave us in the dark over the purpose of their failed mission. I sigh and begin to walk away, shaking my head in disgust over the needless violence.
“The glyphs,” he says before succumbing to a fit of wet coughing. I stop in my tracks, then gradually turn around, still not expecting a clear answer, yet receptive to his response anyway.
“The champions were shown the way through the glyphs,” he mutters in a raspy voice.
“The Eleven, you mean,” I say, for clarity. He nods, then begins shuddering. He’s not long for this world, so my next question will have to be precise, in case he is unable to answer, or comprehend, any more.
“Where did you receive the knowledge of these glyphs?” I ask.
“Atima,” he utters, his words barely discernible.
“Wichanaqta? The ruins?” I ask, perplexed. “How did you know to go there?”
“Eztletiqa illuminated the Sunfire’s way,” he says, almost as a whisper. Either he must be growing delusional in his delirium, or this proves how delusional this cult is, if they believe some mythical deity spoke to them—this “Sunfire”—about painted symbols on cloth-like sheets.
"What do the glyphs on the papyrus symbolize?"
I attempt one last question, but by now, the young man stares blankly into the sky, his breathing ceased. Out of frustration, I kick the soil into a cloudy puff and pace to try and calm myself down, to get some clarity on what the next step should be.
“Who knew of Iquna’s traitorous ways?” I shout my inquiry accusatorially to those gathered. Many look at one another, shaking their heads and appearing confused.
“He arrived not long after Qaschiqe had,” one eventually speaks up. “I saw him wandering the grounds and had asked him to state his business, but he only mentioned passing through on his way to Qapauma and departed shortly after. With the number of travelers we’ve been getting, I never thought much of it, not until the events from earlier.”
“So he must’ve spoken to Qaschiqe, never mentioning that he was not, in fact, a worker of the temple, and got him to reveal the presence of the chest,” Upachu ponders aloud.
“Not difficult, considering how blatant he was in announcing it to nearly everyone he encountered,” I say, sneering at Qaschiqe for his recklessness.
Upachu and I return to the cart, assessing the damage and checking on the llama, who appears much calmer now that the combat has ceased. Upachu had done well to extinguish the flames in a timely manner; there is slight fire damage, but seemingly more cosmetic than structural, and nothing that can’t be fixed at a future time with better materials at our disposal.
“So, now what?” he asks, gently stroking the llama’s nappy fur. “Apparently, we have until next season before… something happens.”
“I’m not sure,” I respond, genuinely confused about what our next steps should be. “The cult is clearly from Ulxa, but I take it that what they found in Atima territory led them here. It’s certainly going in the exact opposite direction from Ulxa territory and will add nearly a moon cycle to go from Atima to Ulxa, but we can at least look and see if answers lie there.”
“Then we shall travel to the ruins of Wichanaqta,” he says, “and see what the fates have in store for us there.”
