As we descend the rocky hills that mark the boundary of Qantua territory, a vivid reminder of the arduous journey awaiting us unfolds before our eyes, conjuring a visceral sense of the challenges that lie ahead. It’s clear we’re no longer in our home lands, with the air getting drier and the ground becoming flatter and golden in hue from the dried grasses. With no dedicated path to traverse, the wheels of the cart struggle to negotiate the arid, cracked ground, frustrating the stubborn and restless llama that has to be forcefully dragged along. The respite is a large patch of trees off in the distance, where the ruins of Wichanaqta should be found just beyond.
The three of us struggle to navigate the rugged terrain, exhausted from our limited sleep before taking off to the north. Shortly after our conversation that followed being ambushed by zealots of this so-called Eye in the Flame cult, Upachu and I quickly concluded that we needed to depart the Temple of the Titans with the chest. Traveling without Qaschiqe was an easy decision—having someone eager to bring the papyrus to Anqatil while practically announcing its existence to everyone would leave us exposed to treachery. I’ll let Upachu deal with apologizing to his longtime friend if and when our paths cross.
I’m astounded when I consider that, at one time, these lands contained nothing but farms from here to the Atima capital. Now, it’s nothing but barren devastation, gradually dotted with husks of houses amidst the untreated ground. The people who used to inhabit this region are typically known as innovators, concocting clever contraptions and methods for agriculture, among other inventions, used prominently by all factions throughout Pachil. Though their people may have gone nearly extinct, their legacy lives on through all of their creations bestowed upon the world.
“The last time I was here,” Upachu says, chewing on one of the remaining coca leaves from his pouch (much to my chagrin), “there was nothing but corn as far as the eye could see. Not as excellent as the corn grown in Qantua, of course, but still not bad. I will acknowledge, however, that they provided our people with the capabilities of developing our terraced farming system. Pretty genius, pretty genius.”
It’s difficult for me to follow Upachu’s conversation, his scattered line of thinking certainly influenced by the coca leaves, but one item I reflect upon is the lack of corn prominently overwhelming the landscape. While I’ve always been aware of the Timuaq’s destruction of Wichanaqta, it’s disheartening to see that they destroyed the surrounding lands, as well.
To my relief, the stone ruins of Wichanaqta subtly peer out from the trees as we approach the line of trees, nearing the end of our journey to the north. Even from this distance, far from the city center, what was once a large, sprawling city has been almost entirely leveled. The sounds of a buzzing, busy scene have been replaced with an utterly haunting quiet. Having been told about it was heartbreaking enough, but to see it for myself is too overwhelming for me to put into words.
A nearby farmhouse just on the outskirts of the city catches my eye, and I begin drifting toward it. While all the surrounding ruins are still and dormant, this one building is smoldering, a column of smoke streaming up into the sky. Most of its walls along the perimeter have crumbled, stones spilling onto the ground, yet the area appears freshly tilled. Has it been rebuilt, only to suffer recent destruction? Is someone still living in that home?
“Do you see that?” I ask Upachu, pointing to the smoke and making sure I’m not imagining things due to my exhaustion. He slows the llama and the cart, then walks over, contemplatively munching on the leaf as he inspects the area. He furrows his brow and strokes his chin with his free hand, bobbing his head about as if altering his perspective will allow him to draw a better conclusion.
“There isn’t supposed to be anyone left,” he says, mystified as he comes to the same realization I did. “This whole region was annihilated by the Timuaq, with very few able to flee to neighboring lands. If anyone survived, why would they stay here?”
I retrieve my glaive before we cautiously advance to the home, my eyes darting around the scene to check for any potential threats. Other than the llama, not a creature stirs, the wind moaning as it kicks up small puffs of dirt from the arid ground. Just outside the house’s entrance are a few clay pots surrounded by spilt water that satiates the parched land. While I don’t recall passing a source of water, it’s evident that someone is living here, despite the owner being nowhere to be found.
“Check the nearby fields to see if we happened to miss the resident of this home,” I command Upachu. “If there’s a person tending to this farm, they can’t be far.”
Upachu nods and guides the llama around the building, circling the perimeter and keeping his head on a swivel. I turn back to the entrance of the home and kick myself when I realize my glaive will be useless if I’m attacked within such tight quarters. I call out to anyone possibly hiding inside the house, hoping someone responds peacefully, but as fate would have it, I’m answered with nothing but quiet.
I’m immediately hit with the smell of charcoal and burnt wood as I enter the home, consisting of a large, single, open room. There’s hardly any furniture, but a pile of hay or grass is piled into a corner with a blanket resting next to it. A few reddish-brown clay pots sit on the opposite wall, each filled with water, but other than that, nothing else remains inside the house besides mounds of ash where perhaps tables and chairs once stood. Through one of the windows, I see Upachu aimlessly wandering the grounds with a reluctant llama by his side. I start to wonder if the owner of this home is off fetching more water or scavenging for supplies in the city.
I leave the home and begin to circle around the other direction opposite of Upachu when I hear a loud thud to my left. I quickly raise my glaive just in time to block an incoming strike to my head, deflecting what appears to be a waqtana, or a long bat-like tool that breaks up clods. Before me is a weathered, emaciated man whose soiled tunic barely fits, flapping wildly as he swings his makeshift weapon. His eyes are wide with panic, and judging by his stance, he’s not one accustomed to fighting, awkwardly gripping the farming device.
“Whoa, whoa!” I shout, attempting to defuse the situation without coming to blows. “I mean you no harm—my companion and I come in peace. I’m just as surprised as you are, so let’s put our weapons down, shall we?”
The man looks suspicious and unconvinced, giving me a side eye as I try to calm him down. I see him visibly steeling himself, shaking his head and forcing an expression of determination, though I sense he’s still nervous about the potential outcomes of this scenario.
“You’re not going to come back and finish the job,” he says with a wariness that betrays his outward appearance. “I already told you, I just want to live in peace and know nothing about the protected building in the city.”
“You have me mistaken, friend,” I say as steadily and serenely as I can, hoping to not startle him to do something he might regret. “I have not traveled into the city. But we haven’t had the opportunity to meet! I’m Teqo–“
“I know who you are, Ulxa scum!” he yells. “You won’t find anything but your doom if you don’t leave me be!” The manner in which he utters these words creates a sense that they are intended not to threaten, but to bolster his own resolve.
“I apologize for sounding insensitive, but do I appear Ulxa to you?” I ask. “I’m certain that the people who trespassed on your property were wearing black robes and red cloth. We possess no such items—we are from Qantua.”
“You could have stashed the garments away,” he reasons, “hidden them out of sight to try to get me to talk, but I don’t want to talk! I’ve told you everything I know! I just want to live on my family’s land in peace!”
“Okay, okay, okay,” I say, lowering myself and the glaive to the ground. “How about I set my weapon down, and we can speak cordially. I can explain why we’re here, and we can leave you in peace.”
He watches me attentively as I place my weapon on the ground, still pointing his waqtana at me. Based on my assessment of his fighting abilities, I’m not too worried about handling him if he attempts to attack me, so I drop the glaive and raise my hands, exposing my empty palms.
“See? Nothing to–“
“What’s going on here?” Upachu shouts, and I let out an exasperated sigh as the farmer hurriedly turns around to face him, ready to lash out at the disturbance. I have to yell to get Upachu to raise his hands and show he is no threat. Fortunately, Upachu catches on quickly and kneels on the ground as a means of concession, helping to deescalate the situation. The man shouts a few more incoherent words, but I holler at him to try to bring his attention back to me.
“The robes!” the man yells, pointing with the tool at Upachu.
“That is just Upachu, the companion I told you about,” I say. “His robes are white, from the Great Library in Hilaqta, in Qantua. I’ve mentioned us being from Qantua, remember? I’m being honest with you, and we mean you no harm.”
A long stare down ensues, with no one giving up their position or making any sudden moves, but after some time, the farmer relents, lowering his makeshift weapon, yet keeping his alertness to any possible provocations by us. The break in the tension finally allows me to inspect this man. His face is worn, yes, but there’s a glimmer in his light brown eyes as though he has hidden hope and youthful vigor, the weathered face disguising his age while showing that he’s been through much. The black hair atop his head is coated in the rich, reddish-brown soil that surrounds his house, and his cheeks and neck are bespeckled in stubble. His tattered clothing of a simple loin cloth and a sort of shawl is all he wears; he lacks sandals or anything to protect his feet.
“Tell us about your home,” Upachu inquires. “What has brought you to Wichanaqta?”
“This was my family’s home,” he says, wearily. “It has been in my family for generations upon generations. When I learned that the Timuaq had been defeated, I returned to reclaim our land and rebuild. I had nearly repaired the house when those… others… arrived. All my hard work…”
The man slumps down, defeated, his waqtana held loosely in his grip as his shoulders sag. Upachu slowly walks over to the man, gently places a hand on his shoulder, and bows his head. I hadn’t considered any Atima returning to their homeland, but perhaps I shouldn’t be surprised. I supposed everyone had acclimated to the lands in which they sought refuge, but it would be understandable for them to come back to their homeland and rebuild. Will Wichanaqta resume its place as a cultural center of Pachil when it’s reconstructed? How amazing that will be.
“What did those people want?” I ask. Perhaps I spoke a bit jarringly and inquired too soon, as Upachu shoots me a confused look. The farmer perks up, his back straightens and his head raises.
“As I said, they wanted something in the city, saying something about a protected building. I know of no such place, yet when I told them this, they didn’t believe me and…” He pauses, his head resumes looking down to the ground. Upachu consoles him once again, patting his shoulder and softly uttering something that I can’t make out.
“Have you been to the city?” I ask. “Do you have any inclination as to what they may have been seeking?”
“I am but a farmer,” he says, perplexed at my question. “With how destroyed Wichanaqta is, I doubt any supplies will have survived the Timuaq slaughter. I traveled here with my own clay pots, and I brought the seeds myself, though I may return south to purchase more.”
I have hundreds more questions, but I sense I’m only distressing the man and wish to harm him no further. I head over to the cart and retrieve a small pouch, jingling it to confirm the contents still remain inside. I pull out a few copper pieces and return to the man, handing him the currency.
“I would like to offer this to you as thanks for sharing your story with us,” I say, handing him the coins. “These are only of value in Qantua, but you should be able to purchase what you need there.”
“If you travel to Hilaqta,” Upachu says with excessive energy and enthusiasm, “mention my name, Upachu, to the merchants. I have a good reputation there, and they may be able to supply you with what you need.”
The man looks confused initially, then nods and thanks us, staring at the coins in his hand for the duration of the exchange. I’m uncertain whether my gesture of good faith has done more harm than good, but rather than stay and figure this out, I look to Upachu and signal that we should return to our quest. I retrieve my glaive, and we leave the man at his home. With my last glance over my shoulder, I see that he stands as still as a statue, his eyes still fixed on his palm.
As Upachu and I set foot amidst the ruins of Wichanaqta, a profound sense of awe and sorrow engulfs my heart. The once prominent capital of the Atima, now a mere shadow of its former glory, lay before me in a state of utter devastation. Crumbling structures, reminiscent of grand temples and places of higher learning, whispered tales of a bygone era, their intricate carvings marred by the passage of time. The echoes of a once bustling city have now been reduced to nearly complete silence, the air thick with a sense of loss and forgotten memories.
In the midst of this desolation, I feel an overwhelming urge to uncover the secrets concealed within these sacred grounds—perhaps there is knowledge here that could unlock the enigmatic glyphs from the papyrus. The cultists told the farmer of a protective ward, but it will be difficult to find where this is, since the man himself was unaware of it existing, as did Qaschiqe when I had interrogated him about what he knew of this place.
“Where do we start?” I ask Upachu, hoping he may have some educated guess. He chews on another coca leaf, and I swat at his hand, nervous that he may come to overly rely on them to function. Being irritated with me at first, he eventually changes his scowl to a look of contemplation, staring at the vast landscape of withering buildings.
“There must be a palace for the nobility, or perhaps a temple to their gods,” he ponders. “Considering the glyphs may have something to do with Sualset, I believe we should start at the palace and then work our way to any temple grounds.”
“She may have been elusive enough to store the papyrus at a random home, to throw off anyone attempting to track them down,” I say.
“Aren’t you a river overflowing with positivity,” he says. “If that’s so, then we’ll have our work cut out for us, for sure. But we have to begin somewhere, so why not start with the obvious answer before we excavate the entire city. Sualset was a clever girl, I’ll grant her that, but I don’t believe she would have thought that deeply about it.”
Approaching the palace fills me with wonderment and reverence, even in its current state. The walls, though crumbling, still tower high above us like the large hills throughout Qantua. Behind the building is a steep incline, reminiscent of the Great Library in Hilaqta, with many now-ruined homes built one on top of another, scaling the face of the slope and overlooking the palace grounds. The light gray stones were constructed similarly to what we have in my village, cut into trapezoidal shapes that, at the base of the walls, fit snugly with one another. It’s likely the Atima mastered this technique first and spread their knowledge to the other factions, seen throughout Pachil.
Just outside the walls, my eyes are drawn to a few bodies scattered about the ground. I reach inside the cart for my glaive and have it drawn as I steadily approach. Yet, as I get closer, I notice that these mounds are charred, burnt into black ash that flake off as my blade scrapes the remains. The corpses don’t have the thick layers of dust and dirt that so much in this city is coated with, causing me to deduce that these bodies were slain after the war. There aren’t any identifying marks that have survived whatever set these people aflame, as vague features resembling arms and legs are few and far between.
“Something,” I say, “or someone has been here recently. This might be the work of the Eye in the Flame. We’ll need to proceed with caution.” Upachu nods and we slowly enter the palace.
I’m instantly overwhelmed by the eerie peace that has overcome the vacant grounds, so much of what is not stone being burned down to ash that is kicked up by circulating winds, creating a thick haze. The area encompassing what was the main building in the center is expansive, larger than many villages I’ve passed through in my travels during the War of Liberation. The beams of the sun are cast through what would have been the ceiling to the central structure, illuminating what I assume to have been the throne room, with only the seat remaining while the stone that once constructed it scatter around into countless small pieces of rock. Along the perimeter, the remaining walls appear to have various shapes and lines etched into them. Without warning, the room grows dark, cloaked in shadow as the sun becomes covered by the few gray clouds hanging in the sky.
Far back, behind the destroyed chair, a subtly shimmering green barely radiates from an open entryway. Had it not been for the sunlight drawing my attention to the room, followed by the shade caused from the cloud cover, I may have missed this faint green glow. Peculiar, since so much surrounding us are colored in neutral, earthy tones, with minimal decorations—even the shredded pieces of tapestries that had hung on the walls are coated in so much dirt and ash that the colors of the threads used to weave them is indistinguishable from the soil. It’s as if the area has its own source of light, cast out like a beacon summoning us to it. Upachu looks at me with uncertainty before spotting what I’m walking toward.
A grove of thriving plant life, unaffected by any devastation, rests peacefully among the ruins. All trepidation I felt entering this room is washed away at the sight, and I return my glaive to the cart so I can better inspect the area. I can’t ascertain whether anyone is tending to the garden here, as there is no trace of anyone’s presence anywhere throughout the grounds that I’ve seen. The area remains untouched, filled with exotic trees and flowers I’ve only ever witnessed in the jungles of Tuatiu and Achope, putting the garden at the Great Library to shame. All through the sweeping green are vibrant hues of pinks, reds, yellows, and purples, flora I don’t believe I’ve seen anywhere in my life. What is keeping all of these plants alive is beyond my comprehension, and turning to Upachu, he looks as stupefied as I feel, mouth agape and eyes wide with bewilderment and awe.
As I step to enter the area, I’m struck by a jolt of electricity and fall backward, my face and chest in searing pain. It’s as though I walked straight into a wall, something preventing me from accessing what lies beyond. Looking into the space, I don’t see anything that would hinder my ability to enter the garden—it’s an open entryway that leads into the green space, that’s it.
“I believe you found the protective ward,” Upachu says, slightly chuckling at my misfortune.
“Regrettably, this means we’ve reached the point at which the Ulxa cultists arrived,” I say, reflexively rubbing my sore forehead and cheeks. “How do we find the way through this forcefield?”
We don’t have a moment to think of a solution: the llama suddenly becomes agitated, gargling a cry in alarm while jumping about and attempting to free itself of its restraints. Upachu looks to calm it, then shrieks and points at the way we had just come. He stammers something intelligible, his voice squeaking with panic, and I turn to see what it is.
Two large pumas slowly stalk us, one strolling to our left while its companion goes to our right, positioning themselves to flank us. As I get a better look, I notice they’re not exactly pumas: though they’re black in color, their face and body are covered in ash. Just when I consider perhaps it’s a result of living among the surrounding destruction, each of their steps reveal a hollow emptiness where their innards should be, and there’s a glowing red light that peers out from their joints and spaces between their blackened bones, as though within them are pieces of hot coals, or that their bodies are a shell of scorched rock that contains embers of a fire inside them. They snarl and growl, displaying sharp teeth made of black lava rock, and their eyes are as black as the night sky.
I’m filled with regret for returning my glaive to the cart, but there’s nothing I can do to reverse time now. Not making any sudden movements, I cautiously proceed toward the cart, which gets jostled around by the hysterical llama, our belongings clattering about the interior, which makes it difficult to locate any of my weapons. Upachu tries hopelessly in calming the animal, but I don’t blame the creature for ignoring his efforts, with these intimidating predators lurking.
Before either beast can react, I dash over to the cart, spotting my sword shimmering among the scattered clothing and remaining food items. It takes me a moment to untangle the weapon, giving one of the pumas a chance to leap at me, pouncing with a swipe of its smoking paw. I have to fall to the ground to avoid getting struck, but the sword remains inside the cart, which gets a chunk of it removed as the fire puma claws the side of the wagon. The ripped off piece ignites into flame, hurtling toward Upachu, distracting him just enough to allow the other fire puma to dart toward him. He yelps before crawling beneath the cart for protection. Our eyes meet, and all he can muster is a faint, “wha-what are those?!”
“I’m guessing they’re what caused those corpses outside the grounds,” I say, which doesn’t sooth Upachu one bit as he whimpers in loud bursts from the cart’s underside.
With the fire pumas prowling, I quickly bounce up to my feet and find my glaive, grabbing it along with a blanket twisting around the blade and pole. I swipe with the weapon, loosening some of the cloth from it. One of the pumas swipes again, this time catching a claw on the material and setting it on fire, but not before dangling on its paw and fluttering about.
Freed from the constraining fabric, I spin the glaive around and ready myself into position, blade out and in front of me, pointing in between both pumas. They stand and await my move, elbows bent and ready to spring into action. I slash at the one to my left, allowing me to stand more centered in the room to give me space to dodge and escape. As my blade comes down, the creature hops back to avoid the strike. I step forward and lunge at the beast, bringing the blade from the ground up and toward it. I catch part of its leg, flaking off bits of ash and rock that wither to the ground.
The other puma leaps behind me and clambers down with its front paws. I jump and roll to my left, narrowly avoiding the claws that dig into the ground. I hop up off my knees and turn to face the oncoming attacker, bringing my glaive around with a horizontal swoosh. I rip through the puma’s cheek, splitting it open to reveal glowing red like a burning log. It growls a puff of smoke in frustration, its lips curling back to show pointy, blackened teeth.
From my periphery, its companion casually strides from my left to right, watching and waiting for me to slip up and make a mistake. I keep both fire pumas within my range of sight, standing firm and prepared to react to whichever attacks first. The nearest one paws as if playing with me, seeing if I’ll budge, but I keep my glaive pointed forward.
When it tries to paw at me again, I slash with lightning quickness, bringing my glaive down onto its leg and tearing it open. Although the body’s outer shell is stone, their paws appear surprisingly delicate, something I keep in mind as they both jump at me. I roll backward, causing them to collide with one another, but not before my leg is gashed open. The pain is immense, burning not just from soreness of being slashed, but the fire of its claws ripping through me. Skin at the edges of the wound being to boil and blister as if I fell onto hot coals, and I grimace in agony.
Can’t tend to my wound. The two pumas collect themselves. Each one swings their paws in a flurry of blows. As hard as I try to block the incoming strikes with my glaive, one catches my hand, blood pouring down my arm. Have to fight through the pain. Can’t allow them to take me down and get to Upachu.
One puma’s swipe misses me. Now’s my chance. I thrust the glaive forward into its body. The blade pings, clattering through the black, rock-like bone. Did I miss? No, the blade pierces through the ribs. It sticks into something, releasing a stream of warmth. The heat against my wounds brings searing, unbearable pain. The puma collapses, head tilts back, roars. Its shoulder crashes into the ground with a thwump. The body crumbles into a heap of black stones, its light extinguished.
One down.
Gritting my teeth, I thrust the glaive at the remaining beast. It twists out of the way, then swoops a paw at my face. I duck, my scalp stings from the intense heat. There’s an opening. I bring my blade upward toward its chest. It’s too close. The pole rams into the stomach, then deflects off and bounces downward. Have to retreat. Have to get out of the way of its next strike.
I stagger backward. The fire puma lurches forward. I swing the glaive, everything I have poured into the strike. I slash its side, more embers revealed when I rip it open. It’s angry, roaring. The blow wasn’t enough. It writhes in pain, then thrashes at me.
Its paw thrusts into the crumpled throne, flinging more rocks my way. I’m struck with a stone, my head throbs. Vision blurring. No time. Must strike. I yell, something primal. Its chest unprotected. Hurl my glaive at exposed body. Blade penetrates through the rocky torso. Punctures a glowing hole. Creature twists, falls to the ground. Its body crumbles, a mound of rock. Light from within it goes out.
Room goes black.
“Teqosa? Are you awake?”
My cheeks sting from Upachu slapping my face. I squint and see a blue sky replacing the ceiling of the chamber, crumbled walls in my periphery. Upachu’s face stares down at me, now looking relieved. There’s an unbearable amount of pain coming from my leg, which I now see has been wrapped in the remains of the scorched blanket as a bandage. My hand is worse for wear, no longer bleeding, but still sore from the claw that ripped through it. But I’m able to breathe comfortably now, my chest no longer straining from the gasps of air I took to muster up enough energy for fighting off those beasts. Small victories.
“While you were recovering,” Upachu says, chewing on yet another coca leaf—where does he keep finding them? “I looked at these stones—well, the ones that remain, of course.”
“I’m feeling fine, thanks for asking,” I say to him, knowing he’s going to charge right into his latest discovery, a more pressing matter to him than my wounds.
“These markings,” he continues, ignoring my interjection, as predicted, “they’re extremely similar to the glyphs on the papyrus! How has no one noticed this before?”
“Because they didn’t ingest an excessive amount of coca leaves?” I answer.
“I think the Atima had this code, but they infused it with the art within the throne room, making it appear as though it’s just decoration, when in fact, it’s a code hiding in plain sight!”
“I would imagine a written language such as this would exist in far more places than palace decorations,” I say.
“Perhaps,” he says, “but my guess is that it was something they were working on before the Timuaq destroyed Wichanaqta, before they could share it with the other factions. It’s likely this was the reason the Timuaq attacked them, nearly wiping them out of existence. It makes it more impressive they were able to teach us all Merchant’s Tongue!”
I feel I should have questions to ask him, to formulate a better explanation to what he’s uncovered and learned, but despite my physical condition improving, my head aches as if some creature was violently pounding inside my skull, trying to break free. It’s difficult to focus on anything other than abating the pain, every part of me aches from head to toe.
As we inspect the markings on the nearby stones, a growl rumbles from behind us, accompanied by more cries from a terrified llama. Upachu and I look at one another, then slowly twist around to investigate the noises, and can only look on in horror. From the mounds of ashes and stone rises the pumas, black rocks soaring about to reconstruct their bodies as though an invisible craftsman has picked up the materials and reformed them. Once the beasts have reassembled, the fiery glow from within their bodies steadily intensifies, and the growls turn into loud, angry roars that reverberate throughout the collapsed chamber and our battle-weary bones.
Sun and sky.
As we descend the rocky hills that mark the boundary of Qantua territory, a vivid reminder of the arduous journey awaiting us unfolds before our eyes, conjuring a visceral sense of the challenges that lie ahead. It’s clear we’re no longer in our home lands, with the air getting drier and the ground becoming flatter and golden in hue from the dried grasses. With no dedicated path to traverse, the wheels of the cart struggle to negotiate the arid, cracked ground, frustrating the stubborn and restless llama that has to be forcefully dragged along. The respite is a large patch of trees off in the distance, where the ruins of Wichanaqta should be found just beyond.
The three of us struggle to navigate the rugged terrain, exhausted from our limited sleep before taking off to the north. Shortly after our conversation that followed being ambushed by zealots of this so-called Eye in the Flame cult, Upachu and I quickly concluded that we needed to depart the Temple of the Titans with the chest. Traveling without Qaschiqe was an easy decision—having someone eager to bring the papyrus to Anqatil while practically announcing its existence to everyone would leave us exposed to treachery. I’ll let Upachu deal with apologizing to his longtime friend if and when our paths cross.
I’m astounded when I consider that, at one time, these lands contained nothing but farms from here to the Atima capital. Now, it’s nothing but barren devastation, gradually dotted with husks of houses amidst the untreated ground. The people who used to inhabit this region are typically known as innovators, concocting clever contraptions and methods for agriculture, among other inventions, used prominently by all factions throughout Pachil. Though their people may have gone nearly extinct, their legacy lives on through all of their creations bestowed upon the world.
“The last time I was here,” Upachu says, chewing on one of the remaining coca leaves from his pouch (much to my chagrin), “there was nothing but corn as far as the eye could see. Not as excellent as the corn grown in Qantua, of course, but still not bad. I will acknowledge, however, that they provided our people with the capabilities of developing our terraced farming system. Pretty genius, pretty genius.”
It’s difficult for me to follow Upachu’s conversation, his scattered line of thinking certainly influenced by the coca leaves, but one item I reflect upon is the lack of corn prominently overwhelming the landscape. While I’ve always been aware of the Timuaq’s destruction of Wichanaqta, it’s disheartening to see that they destroyed the surrounding lands, as well.
To my relief, the stone ruins of Wichanaqta subtly peer out from the trees as we approach the line of trees, nearing the end of our journey to the north. Even from this distance, far from the city center, what was once a large, sprawling city has been almost entirely leveled. The sounds of a buzzing, busy scene have been replaced with an utterly haunting quiet. Having been told about it was heartbreaking enough, but to see it for myself is too overwhelming for me to put into words.
A nearby farmhouse just on the outskirts of the city catches my eye, and I begin drifting toward it. While all the surrounding ruins are still and dormant, this one building is smoldering, a column of smoke streaming up into the sky. Most of its walls along the perimeter have crumbled, stones spilling onto the ground, yet the area appears freshly tilled. Has it been rebuilt, only to suffer recent destruction? Is someone still living in that home?
“Do you see that?” I ask Upachu, pointing to the smoke and making sure I’m not imagining things due to my exhaustion. He slows the llama and the cart, then walks over, contemplatively munching on the leaf as he inspects the area. He furrows his brow and strokes his chin with his free hand, bobbing his head about as if altering his perspective will allow him to draw a better conclusion.
“There isn’t supposed to be anyone left,” he says, mystified as he comes to the same realization I did. “This whole region was annihilated by the Timuaq, with very few able to flee to neighboring lands. If anyone survived, why would they stay here?”
I retrieve my glaive before we cautiously advance to the home, my eyes darting around the scene to check for any potential threats. Other than the llama, not a creature stirs, the wind moaning as it kicks up small puffs of dirt from the arid ground. Just outside the house’s entrance are a few clay pots surrounded by spilt water that satiates the parched land. While I don’t recall passing a source of water, it’s evident that someone is living here, despite the owner being nowhere to be found.
“Check the nearby fields to see if we happened to miss the resident of this home,” I command Upachu. “If there’s a person tending to this farm, they can’t be far.”
Upachu nods and guides the llama around the building, circling the perimeter and keeping his head on a swivel. I turn back to the entrance of the home and kick myself when I realize my glaive will be useless if I’m attacked within such tight quarters. I call out to anyone possibly hiding inside the house, hoping someone responds peacefully, but as fate would have it, I’m answered with nothing but quiet.
I’m immediately hit with the smell of charcoal and burnt wood as I enter the home, consisting of a large, single, open room. There’s hardly any furniture, but a pile of hay or grass is piled into a corner with a blanket resting next to it. A few reddish-brown clay pots sit on the opposite wall, each filled with water, but other than that, nothing else remains inside the house besides mounds of ash where perhaps tables and chairs once stood. Through one of the windows, I see Upachu aimlessly wandering the grounds with a reluctant llama by his side. I start to wonder if the owner of this home is off fetching more water or scavenging for supplies in the city.
I leave the home and begin to circle around the other direction opposite of Upachu when I hear a loud thud to my left. I quickly raise my glaive just in time to block an incoming strike to my head, deflecting what appears to be a waqtana, or a long bat-like tool that breaks up clods. Before me is a weathered, emaciated man whose soiled tunic barely fits, flapping wildly as he swings his makeshift weapon. His eyes are wide with panic, and judging by his stance, he’s not one accustomed to fighting, awkwardly gripping the farming device.
“Whoa, whoa!” I shout, attempting to defuse the situation without coming to blows. “I mean you no harm—my companion and I come in peace. I’m just as surprised as you are, so let’s put our weapons down, shall we?”
The man looks suspicious and unconvinced, giving me a side eye as I try to calm him down. I see him visibly steeling himself, shaking his head and forcing an expression of determination, though I sense he’s still nervous about the potential outcomes of this scenario.
“You’re not going to come back and finish the job,” he says with a wariness that betrays his outward appearance. “I already told you, I just want to live in peace and know nothing about the protected building in the city.”
“You have me mistaken, friend,” I say as steadily and serenely as I can, hoping to not startle him to do something he might regret. “I have not traveled into the city. But we haven’t had the opportunity to meet! I’m Teqo–“
“I know who you are, Ulxa scum!” he yells. “You won’t find anything but your doom if you don’t leave me be!” The manner in which he utters these words creates a sense that they are intended not to threaten, but to bolster his own resolve.
“I apologize for sounding insensitive, but do I appear Ulxa to you?” I ask. “I’m certain that the people who trespassed on your property were wearing black robes and red cloth. We possess no such items—we are from Qantua.”
“You could have stashed the garments away,” he reasons, “hidden them out of sight to try to get me to talk, but I don’t want to talk! I’ve told you everything I know! I just want to live on my family’s land in peace!”
“Okay, okay, okay,” I say, lowering myself and the glaive to the ground. “How about I set my weapon down, and we can speak cordially. I can explain why we’re here, and we can leave you in peace.”
He watches me attentively as I place my weapon on the ground, still pointing his waqtana at me. Based on my assessment of his fighting abilities, I’m not too worried about handling him if he attempts to attack me, so I drop the glaive and raise my hands, exposing my empty palms.
“See? Nothing to–“
“What’s going on here?” Upachu shouts, and I let out an exasperated sigh as the farmer hurriedly turns around to face him, ready to lash out at the disturbance. I have to yell to get Upachu to raise his hands and show he is no threat. Fortunately, Upachu catches on quickly and kneels on the ground as a means of concession, helping to deescalate the situation. The man shouts a few more incoherent words, but I holler at him to try to bring his attention back to me.
“The robes!” the man yells, pointing with the tool at Upachu.
“That is just Upachu, the companion I told you about,” I say. “His robes are white, from the Great Library in Hilaqta, in Qantua. I’ve mentioned us being from Qantua, remember? I’m being honest with you, and we mean you no harm.”
A long stare down ensues, with no one giving up their position or making any sudden moves, but after some time, the farmer relents, lowering his makeshift weapon, yet keeping his alertness to any possible provocations by us. The break in the tension finally allows me to inspect this man. His face is worn, yes, but there’s a glimmer in his light brown eyes as though he has hidden hope and youthful vigor, the weathered face disguising his age while showing that he’s been through much. The black hair atop his head is coated in the rich, reddish-brown soil that surrounds his house, and his cheeks and neck are bespeckled in stubble. His tattered clothing of a simple loin cloth and a sort of shawl is all he wears; he lacks sandals or anything to protect his feet.
“Tell us about your home,” Upachu inquires. “What has brought you to Wichanaqta?”
“This was my family’s home,” he says, wearily. “It has been in my family for generations upon generations. When I learned that the Timuaq had been defeated, I returned to reclaim our land and rebuild. I had nearly repaired the house when those… others… arrived. All my hard work…”
The man slumps down, defeated, his waqtana held loosely in his grip as his shoulders sag. Upachu slowly walks over to the man, gently places a hand on his shoulder, and bows his head. I hadn’t considered any Atima returning to their homeland, but perhaps I shouldn’t be surprised. I supposed everyone had acclimated to the lands in which they sought refuge, but it would be understandable for them to come back to their homeland and rebuild. Will Wichanaqta resume its place as a cultural center of Pachil when it’s reconstructed? How amazing that will be.
“What did those people want?” I ask. Perhaps I spoke a bit jarringly and inquired too soon, as Upachu shoots me a confused look. The farmer perks up, his back straightens and his head raises.
“As I said, they wanted something in the city, saying something about a protected building. I know of no such place, yet when I told them this, they didn’t believe me and…” He pauses, his head resumes looking down to the ground. Upachu consoles him once again, patting his shoulder and softly uttering something that I can’t make out.
“Have you been to the city?” I ask. “Do you have any inclination as to what they may have been seeking?”
“I am but a farmer,” he says, perplexed at my question. “With how destroyed Wichanaqta is, I doubt any supplies will have survived the Timuaq slaughter. I traveled here with my own clay pots, and I brought the seeds myself, though I may return south to purchase more.”
I have hundreds more questions, but I sense I’m only distressing the man and wish to harm him no further. I head over to the cart and retrieve a small pouch, jingling it to confirm the contents still remain inside. I pull out a few copper pieces and return to the man, handing him the currency.
“I would like to offer this to you as thanks for sharing your story with us,” I say, handing him the coins. “These are only of value in Qantua, but you should be able to purchase what you need there.”
“If you travel to Hilaqta,” Upachu says with excessive energy and enthusiasm, “mention my name, Upachu, to the merchants. I have a good reputation there, and they may be able to supply you with what you need.”
The man looks confused initially, then nods and thanks us, staring at the coins in his hand for the duration of the exchange. I’m uncertain whether my gesture of good faith has done more harm than good, but rather than stay and figure this out, I look to Upachu and signal that we should return to our quest. I retrieve my glaive, and we leave the man at his home. With my last glance over my shoulder, I see that he stands as still as a statue, his eyes still fixed on his palm.
As Upachu and I set foot amidst the ruins of Wichanaqta, a profound sense of awe and sorrow engulfs my heart. The once prominent capital of the Atima, now a mere shadow of its former glory, lay before me in a state of utter devastation. Crumbling structures, reminiscent of grand temples and places of higher learning, whispered tales of a bygone era, their intricate carvings marred by the passage of time. The echoes of a once bustling city have now been reduced to nearly complete silence, the air thick with a sense of loss and forgotten memories.
In the midst of this desolation, I feel an overwhelming urge to uncover the secrets concealed within these sacred grounds—perhaps there is knowledge here that could unlock the enigmatic glyphs from the papyrus. The cultists told the farmer of a protective ward, but it will be difficult to find where this is, since the man himself was unaware of it existing, as did Qaschiqe when I had interrogated him about what he knew of this place.
“Where do we start?” I ask Upachu, hoping he may have some educated guess. He chews on another coca leaf, and I swat at his hand, nervous that he may come to overly rely on them to function. Being irritated with me at first, he eventually changes his scowl to a look of contemplation, staring at the vast landscape of withering buildings.
“There must be a palace for the nobility, or perhaps a temple to their gods,” he ponders. “Considering the glyphs may have something to do with Sualset, I believe we should start at the palace and then work our way to any temple grounds.”
“She may have been elusive enough to store the papyrus at a random home, to throw off anyone attempting to track them down,” I say.
“Aren’t you a river overflowing with positivity,” he says. “If that’s so, then we’ll have our work cut out for us, for sure. But we have to begin somewhere, so why not start with the obvious answer before we excavate the entire city. Sualset was a clever girl, I’ll grant her that, but I don’t believe she would have thought that deeply about it.”
Approaching the palace fills me with wonderment and reverence, even in its current state. The walls, though crumbling, still tower high above us like the large hills throughout Qantua. Behind the building is a steep incline, reminiscent of the Great Library in Hilaqta, with many now-ruined homes built one on top of another, scaling the face of the slope and overlooking the palace grounds. The light gray stones were constructed similarly to what we have in my village, cut into trapezoidal shapes that, at the base of the walls, fit snugly with one another. It’s likely the Atima mastered this technique first and spread their knowledge to the other factions, seen throughout Pachil.
Just outside the walls, my eyes are drawn to a few bodies scattered about the ground. I reach inside the cart for my glaive and have it drawn as I steadily approach. Yet, as I get closer, I notice that these mounds are charred, burnt into black ash that flake off as my blade scrapes the remains. The corpses don’t have the thick layers of dust and dirt that so much in this city is coated with, causing me to deduce that these bodies were slain after the war. There aren’t any identifying marks that have survived whatever set these people aflame, as vague features resembling arms and legs are few and far between.
“Something,” I say, “or someone has been here recently. This might be the work of the Eye in the Flame. We’ll need to proceed with caution.” Upachu nods and we slowly enter the palace.
I’m instantly overwhelmed by the eerie peace that has overcome the vacant grounds, so much of what is not stone being burned down to ash that is kicked up by circulating winds, creating a thick haze. The area encompassing what was the main building in the center is expansive, larger than many villages I’ve passed through in my travels during the War of Liberation. The beams of the sun are cast through what would have been the ceiling to the central structure, illuminating what I assume to have been the throne room, with only the seat remaining while the stone that once constructed it scatter around into countless small pieces of rock. Along the perimeter, the remaining walls appear to have various shapes and lines etched into them. Without warning, the room grows dark, cloaked in shadow as the sun becomes covered by the few gray clouds hanging in the sky.
Far back, behind the destroyed chair, a subtly shimmering green barely radiates from an open entryway. Had it not been for the sunlight drawing my attention to the room, followed by the shade caused from the cloud cover, I may have missed this faint green glow. Peculiar, since so much surrounding us are colored in neutral, earthy tones, with minimal decorations—even the shredded pieces of tapestries that had hung on the walls are coated in so much dirt and ash that the colors of the threads used to weave them is indistinguishable from the soil. It’s as if the area has its own source of light, cast out like a beacon summoning us to it. Upachu looks at me with uncertainty before spotting what I’m walking toward.
A grove of thriving plant life, unaffected by any devastation, rests peacefully among the ruins. All trepidation I felt entering this room is washed away at the sight, and I return my glaive to the cart so I can better inspect the area. I can’t ascertain whether anyone is tending to the garden here, as there is no trace of anyone’s presence anywhere throughout the grounds that I’ve seen. The area remains untouched, filled with exotic trees and flowers I’ve only ever witnessed in the jungles of Tuatiu and Achope, putting the garden at the Great Library to shame. All through the sweeping green are vibrant hues of pinks, reds, yellows, and purples, flora I don’t believe I’ve seen anywhere in my life. What is keeping all of these plants alive is beyond my comprehension, and turning to Upachu, he looks as stupefied as I feel, mouth agape and eyes wide with bewilderment and awe.
As I step to enter the area, I’m struck by a jolt of electricity and fall backward, my face and chest in searing pain. It’s as though I walked straight into a wall, something preventing me from accessing what lies beyond. Looking into the space, I don’t see anything that would hinder my ability to enter the garden—it’s an open entryway that leads into the green space, that’s it.
“I believe you found the protective ward,” Upachu says, slightly chuckling at my misfortune.
“Regrettably, this means we’ve reached the point at which the Ulxa cultists arrived,” I say, reflexively rubbing my sore forehead and cheeks. “How do we find the way through this forcefield?”
We don’t have a moment to think of a solution: the llama suddenly becomes agitated, gargling a cry in alarm while jumping about and attempting to free itself of its restraints. Upachu looks to calm it, then shrieks and points at the way we had just come. He stammers something intelligible, his voice squeaking with panic, and I turn to see what it is.
Two large pumas slowly stalk us, one strolling to our left while its companion goes to our right, positioning themselves to flank us. As I get a better look, I notice they’re not exactly pumas: though they’re black in color, their face and body are covered in ash. Just when I consider perhaps it’s a result of living among the surrounding destruction, each of their steps reveal a hollow emptiness where their innards should be, and there’s a glowing red light that peers out from their joints and spaces between their blackened bones, as though within them are pieces of hot coals, or that their bodies are a shell of scorched rock that contains embers of a fire inside them. They snarl and growl, displaying sharp teeth made of black lava rock, and their eyes are as black as the night sky.
I’m filled with regret for returning my glaive to the cart, but there’s nothing I can do to reverse time now. Not making any sudden movements, I cautiously proceed toward the cart, which gets jostled around by the hysterical llama, our belongings clattering about the interior, which makes it difficult to locate any of my weapons. Upachu tries hopelessly in calming the animal, but I don’t blame the creature for ignoring his efforts, with these intimidating predators lurking.
Before either beast can react, I dash over to the cart, spotting my sword shimmering among the scattered clothing and remaining food items. It takes me a moment to untangle the weapon, giving one of the pumas a chance to leap at me, pouncing with a swipe of its smoking paw. I have to fall to the ground to avoid getting struck, but the sword remains inside the cart, which gets a chunk of it removed as the fire puma claws the side of the wagon. The ripped off piece ignites into flame, hurtling toward Upachu, distracting him just enough to allow the other fire puma to dart toward him. He yelps before crawling beneath the cart for protection. Our eyes meet, and all he can muster is a faint, “wha-what are those?!”
“I’m guessing they’re what caused those corpses outside the grounds,” I say, which doesn’t sooth Upachu one bit as he whimpers in loud bursts from the cart’s underside.
With the fire pumas prowling, I quickly bounce up to my feet and find my glaive, grabbing it along with a blanket twisting around the blade and pole. I swipe with the weapon, loosening some of the cloth from it. One of the pumas swipes again, this time catching a claw on the material and setting it on fire, but not before dangling on its paw and fluttering about.
Freed from the constraining fabric, I spin the glaive around and ready myself into position, blade out and in front of me, pointing in between both pumas. They stand and await my move, elbows bent and ready to spring into action. I slash at the one to my left, allowing me to stand more centered in the room to give me space to dodge and escape. As my blade comes down, the creature hops back to avoid the strike. I step forward and lunge at the beast, bringing the blade from the ground up and toward it. I catch part of its leg, flaking off bits of ash and rock that wither to the ground.
The other puma leaps behind me and clambers down with its front paws. I jump and roll to my left, narrowly avoiding the claws that dig into the ground. I hop up off my knees and turn to face the oncoming attacker, bringing my glaive around with a horizontal swoosh. I rip through the puma’s cheek, splitting it open to reveal glowing red like a burning log. It growls a puff of smoke in frustration, its lips curling back to show pointy, blackened teeth.
From my periphery, its companion casually strides from my left to right, watching and waiting for me to slip up and make a mistake. I keep both fire pumas within my range of sight, standing firm and prepared to react to whichever attacks first. The nearest one paws as if playing with me, seeing if I’ll budge, but I keep my glaive pointed forward.
When it tries to paw at me again, I slash with lightning quickness, bringing my glaive down onto its leg and tearing it open. Although the body’s outer shell is stone, their paws appear surprisingly delicate, something I keep in mind as they both jump at me. I roll backward, causing them to collide with one another, but not before my leg is gashed open. The pain is immense, burning not just from soreness of being slashed, but the fire of its claws ripping through me. Skin at the edges of the wound being to boil and blister as if I fell onto hot coals, and I grimace in agony.
Can’t tend to my wound. The two pumas collect themselves. Each one swings their paws in a flurry of blows. As hard as I try to block the incoming strikes with my glaive, one catches my hand, blood pouring down my arm. Have to fight through the pain. Can’t allow them to take me down and get to Upachu.
One puma’s swipe misses me. Now’s my chance. I thrust the glaive forward into its body. The blade pings, clattering through the black, rock-like bone. Did I miss? No, the blade pierces through the ribs. It sticks into something, releasing a stream of warmth. The heat against my wounds brings searing, unbearable pain. The puma collapses, head tilts back, roars. Its shoulder crashes into the ground with a thwump. The body crumbles into a heap of black stones, its light extinguished.
One down.
Gritting my teeth, I thrust the glaive at the remaining beast. It twists out of the way, then swoops a paw at my face. I duck, my scalp stings from the intense heat. There’s an opening. I bring my blade upward toward its chest. It’s too close. The pole rams into the stomach, then deflects off and bounces downward. Have to retreat. Have to get out of the way of its next strike.
I stagger backward. The fire puma lurches forward. I swing the glaive, everything I have poured into the strike. I slash its side, more embers revealed when I rip it open. It’s angry, roaring. The blow wasn’t enough. It writhes in pain, then thrashes at me.
Its paw thrusts into the crumpled throne, flinging more rocks my way. I’m struck with a stone, my head throbs. Vision blurring. No time. Must strike. I yell, something primal. Its chest unprotected. Hurl my glaive at exposed body. Blade penetrates through the rocky torso. Punctures a glowing hole. Creature twists, falls to the ground. Its body crumbles, a mound of rock. Light from within it goes out.
Room goes black.
“Teqosa? Are you awake?”
My cheeks sting from Upachu slapping my face. I squint and see a blue sky replacing the ceiling of the chamber, crumbled walls in my periphery. Upachu’s face stares down at me, now looking relieved. There’s an unbearable amount of pain coming from my leg, which I now see has been wrapped in the remains of the scorched blanket as a bandage. My hand is worse for wear, no longer bleeding, but still sore from the claw that ripped through it. But I’m able to breathe comfortably now, my chest no longer straining from the gasps of air I took to muster up enough energy for fighting off those beasts. Small victories.
“While you were recovering,” Upachu says, chewing on yet another coca leaf—where does he keep finding them? “I looked at these stones—well, the ones that remain, of course.”
“I’m feeling fine, thanks for asking,” I say to him, knowing he’s going to charge right into his latest discovery, a more pressing matter to him than my wounds.
“These markings,” he continues, ignoring my interjection, as predicted, “they’re extremely similar to the glyphs on the papyrus! How has no one noticed this before?”
“Because they didn’t ingest an excessive amount of coca leaves?” I answer.
“I think the Atima had this code, but they infused it with the art within the throne room, making it appear as though it’s just decoration, when in fact, it’s a code hiding in plain sight!”
“I would imagine a written language such as this would exist in far more places than palace decorations,” I say.
“Perhaps,” he says, “but my guess is that it was something they were working on before the Timuaq destroyed Wichanaqta, before they could share it with the other factions. It’s likely this was the reason the Timuaq attacked them, nearly wiping them out of existence. It makes it more impressive they were able to teach us all Merchant’s Tongue!”
I feel I should have questions to ask him, to formulate a better explanation to what he’s uncovered and learned, but despite my physical condition improving, my head aches as if some creature was violently pounding inside my skull, trying to break free. It’s difficult to focus on anything other than abating the pain, every part of me aches from head to toe.
As we inspect the markings on the nearby stones, a growl rumbles from behind us, accompanied by more cries from a terrified llama. Upachu and I look at one another, then slowly twist around to investigate the noises, and can only look on in horror. From the mounds of ashes and stone rises the pumas, black rocks soaring about to reconstruct their bodies as though an invisible craftsman has picked up the materials and reformed them. Once the beasts have reassembled, the fiery glow from within their bodies steadily intensifies, and the growls turn into loud, angry roars that reverberate throughout the collapsed chamber and our battle-weary bones.
Sun and sky.
