Despite the shroud of night, Pomaqli deliberately marches into the palace without any concern for repercussions, announcing our arrival with his loud clomping. I hurriedly keep up while Walumaq trails behind meekly, practically tiptoeing as though she’s trying not to offend anyone with her presence. The clattering of Pomaqli’s boots echo throughout the halls, yet nobody pays us any mind, and after abrasively asking two unsuspecting guards for Amalu’s quarters, we charge over to a far corner of the palace where he’s presumed to be. Although I’m certainly motivated to return the favor of making Amalu uncomfortable, Pomaqli appears confrontational, prepared to challenge Amalu’s alleged authority.
The information gathered from speaking to two officers who were put in charge of receiving and protecting Limaqumtlia has unearthed a possible conspiracy that places Amalu as a culprit. While it was said that Amalu stated he received the order from Qumuna, of which I’ve made a note, I’m not convinced the respected and honored general is culpable. I’m not ruling anything out, considering he earned a prominent title curiously quickly, but it seems unlikely, namely with his devout loyalty to Qiapu, which I’m not ready to declare is a façade. Someone somewhere once told me that the simplest explanation is usually the correct one, so I’m trying my best to stick to that way of thinking.
This section of the palace is well protected, with guards in white-and-red tunics standing sentry every ten or so paces and increasing in frequency the closer we get to his quarters. Eventually, we reach Amalu’s chambers and are immediately turned away at the door, informing us that he is asleep. Unfortunately for them, Pomaqli is having none of it.
“We demand to speak to the Tempered’s advisor!” Pomaqli repeatedly shouts in response to the guards. If I didn’t know better, I’d say he’s trying to wake up Amalu at whatever the cost, attempting to get his attention at minimum.
His persistence is rewarded when, from somewhere deep within the chamber, we hear a sigh and a faint, exasperated, “sun and sky, let them in.” Without hesitation, Pomaqli plows through the two men standing at attention by the door, shrugging them off as he storms into the room. Walumaq and I exchange a glance, our eyes wide in relief and disbelief, and follow behind.
Amalu has put on a scarlet robe and walks about the room, lighting torches along the perimeter that gradually reveal the items contained within. He possesses many chests filled with unknown-to-us mysteries and what can best be described as a wardrobe filled with a colorful variety of robes and tunics. His bed is excessive, taking up much of the space and large enough to fit entire families, with long linen blankets resting on top. Between the torches are painted tapestries mounted on the wall, depicting an array of colorful patterns and shapes, and nearby are several tables with various jewelry draped about, sparkling in the torchlight.
“Most people would be asleep at this time of night,” Amalu says, condescension dripping from each word. “There better be a just reason for disturbing my slumber.”
“We recently met with palace guards,” Walumaq starts, “who shared details with us regarding the day Paxilche’s brother was murdered.”
“Such a sad, unfortunate turn of events,” Amalu says, followed by a tsk tsk tsk and a shake of his head.
“I’m sure you feel mournful about the situation,” I say, not believing his feigned sadness and disappointment. The man went from relative obscurity to being adjacent to the Tempered during all matter of affairs; I’m sure he feels not a drop of sympathy nor remorse. Despite this, he still pretends to be offended by my accusation, and I expect nothing less from him.
“Prior to becoming the Tempered’s advisor, what was your role within the palace?” I ask.
Amalu looks at me with suspicion and replies, “I was an assistant to the emissary, as I have been for dozens of harvests. I’ve spent innumerable harvests in Qapauma, and I’m relieved and fortunate to be back in–”
“So, nothing pertaining to the military nor palace guards, correct?” I interrupt, showing no patience for his long-windedness.
“I've served diligently in many capacities,” he says, showing signs of irritation. “Sometimes, beneath the calm façade of a diplomat or emissary, there are embers waiting for the right moment, the right spark, to ignite into a full blaze.”
“Embers and sparks, Advisor Amalu? Such poetic language for a discussion about palace hierarchy,” Walumaq says. “One might wonder if there's a deeper meaning behind your words.”
“It's merely an analogy, child,” Amalu says dismissively, as if addressing a subordinate. “One's potential, like fire, can remain hidden, waiting. And when it's given the chance, it can light up the darkness, revealing truths. Some of us believe in letting our inner fire lead the way, such as a position one is destined to fulfill.”
“I find it interesting,” I say, now beginning to pace around the room, “that someone whose work involves the Qiapu emissary, stationed primarily in Qapauma, would have any influence over the ranks of Pichaqta’s palace guards. Even if you were here, your duties do not coincide with the guards. And if the ranks of the palace guards were under your jurisdiction, you would be serving from here, not predominantly in Qapauma.”
“Why is my affiliation with the palace gu–“
“You implanted a person within the guards’ ranks who ultimately murdered my brother,” I say accusatorially. Amalu waves away my statement and laughs.
“You’re accusing me of being involved in your brother’s murder? I should have you executed for making such baseless allegations.”
“It’s not suspicious that you happened to insert someone into the palace guards who ended up murdering Limaqumtlia?” I ask.
“I can’t say with confidence,” Amalu says calmly, “that anyone inside the palace was aware of what that child’s intentions were and what he was capable of.”
“Liar!” Pomaqli shouts, stepping toward Amalu, but ultimately gets held back by Walumaq before it can come to blows.
“You had a hand in placing the person. That much is fact,” I say to a smug Amalu.
“That was Qumuna’s order. I simply passed on his command. You can check with him yourself.”
“Why wouldn’t he have issued the order himself?” Walumaq asks, still pressing a hand onto Pomaqli to sooth him.
“He was busy with Limaqumtlia’s arrival, obviously,” Amalu says. “Being a lowly assistant, my duties were not rigorous, and I was more than happy to aid him.
“So you’re going to deflect all blame and place it on the shoulders of someone who isn’t present to defend themselves?” Pomaqli says, fury steeped into his voice.
“He can defend himself, certainly,” Amalu says. “You’ll just have to travel to Qapauma to get his response. Frankly, I find it offensive that you dare charge at me at this late time to make such fleeting and false accusations.”
"Your evasion tactics are as impressive as ever," I remark.
“I have nothing to avoid,” he says, sounding as though he’s finished with playing this game and wants to seize control of the conversation. “That I’m being verbally attacked by a group of people who have—just recently, mind you—been caught by the person they’re accusing for trespassing and attempting to steal possessions of the Tempered in his palace. That is what I find suspicious.”
“You can try to turn the pointed fingers at us all you want,” I say, still pacing about, “but it doesn’t change the facts, that you placed the Tempered’s assassin within the–“
“He is no longer Tempered,” Amalu interrupts and speaking as if to reprimand, “and you know as well as anyone that you’re no longer allowed to address him in a manner as though he is still the Temp–“
“He would still be the Tempered if the organization you work for did not insert an assassin into the guards’ ranks!” I yell over him. I regret my aggressive tone immediately, knowing this will only put Amalu on the defensive and cause him to sheath his tongue. I’m aware that I’m allowing my emotions to get the better of me because this involves the death of my brother, but I need to steel my resolve and not erupt so recklessly.
“This conversation was initially entertaining,” he says, “but I’m now bored and tired. I look forward to informing the Tempered of our engagement after what little rest I’ll be able to achieve. You three need to get out of my sight, now!”
Amalu calls to summon the guards, causing a half dozen to appear inside the chambers. With weapons drawn, they appear more ready for a fight than being our escorts.
“Remove them from the palace grounds at once,” Amalu commands, and we’re immediately apprehended by the armored men. Once again, Pomaqli is combative and attempts to free himself while Walumaq and I succumb to our fate, and I consider it a blessing from whichever deity exists that we aren’t thrown into a prison cell to rot away for causing two egregious disruptions.
We don’t make it five steps before a tremendous whoomp shakes the palace’s foundation. Is that an avalanche or rock slide? Shouts and screams are coming from the courtyard outside. Stomping footsteps accommodate the growing number of yells before another resounding rumble reverberates.
“What on Pachil is that?” a few muttering voices ask. Has Xutuina erupted?
Pomaqli, Walumaq, and I race toward the unfolding events, the voices and noises from the calamity growing louder. Opposite of us is a tremendous opening in the palace walls, stone scattered about as guards rush over toward the damage. It’s as though something as large a a hundred boulders crashed through the wall to create an entrance into the palace. Suddenly, the night sky blazes brilliantly, and as we lift our gaze, a cascade of flaming arrows descends upon the grounds.
“Back inside!” Pomaqli barks a command, and we take cover at the mouth of the palace opening. Piercing cries of anguish punctuate the air intermittently as arrows descend, impaling the guards from above with deadly precision. An army of red-clothed warriors burst through the gaping hole, their faces shrouded in a blood red cloth as they charge onto the royal estate. They lift their torches high and swing them at their opponents, but upon further inspection, I realize they don’t actually wield torches.
“Th-they’re swords!” I exclaim and point, not able to get out anything more coherent than that amidst my panic.
“Who in Aqxilapu’s sacred name are these people?” Pomaqli wonders aloud, mouth agape at the sight of the carnage.
“They resemble the people I’ve seen in Chalaqta,” Walumaq says, “except I don’t recall the swords. Could I have mistaken them for torches?”
“Are they Ulxa? Or…” Pomaqli doesn’t have a chance to finish asking his question as more fire arrows rain down upon the premises, striking nearby wooden structures and setting them alight, which casts an ominous glow about the courtyard.
Metal strikes metal, punctuated by fervent grunts and echoing shouts of command, as hordes engage in intense combat along the ground's edge. A swell of determined warriors surges forward, their swords sparking menacingly. The beleaguered Qiapu forces fight fiercely, trying desperately to stave off the relentless onslaught of the invaders. Yet with each passing moment, the odds seem increasingly insurmountable as they’re forced back by an unrelenting surge from their foes.
“We can’t remain in place for much longer,” Pomaqli says, watching the chaos taking place before us. “Something must be done to stop these intruders.”
“Give me a moment,” Walumaq says, and as I look over to her, I see her blue eyes focusing on the stone channel a bit of a distance away.
“You’re not going to–“
Before I can finish my thought, Walumaq sprints away, racing toward the source of water. If she’s doing what I believe her to be doing, I worry for her safety and question if she will make it there before she’s struck down by arrows or one of these attackers.
Pomaqli and I appear to share the same spirit. Meeting my eyes with a resigned look, he suggests, "I suppose we should go and ensure her protection.”
After a deep sigh, I retrieve Ridgebreaker and join Pomaqli as we chase after Walumaq, fending off any attacker that has slipped through the mass of guards. He slashes one assailant after another, ripping through their loose-fitting crimson robes with his mighty sword. From our other flank, a warrior cries out as he brings down his flaming sword, but I catch the blow with my war club, halting its near-fatal strike. I swing the club around to bash in the man’s side, then clobber his lowered head while he’s hunched over in pain.
A half-dozen men begin chasing us down, shouting something in a hissed, venomous language. After speaking their sinister chant, a bright light out of the corner of my eye catches my attention. With a quick reaction, I dive for Walumaq, tackling her to the ground, as Pomaqli drops to the dirt next to us. We narrowly avoid being struck by what appears to be a ball of fire, hurtling toward us and now colliding into a section of the palace wall in the distance.
With not a moment to spare, Pomaqli and I leap to our feet, quickly engaged by the blood-clothed men. They bring their flaming swords down, slashing furiously at us. Pomaqli is able to block multiple incoming strikes at once, twisting and turning to parry the attempted blows. One of the men swipes at my feet and I barely hop over their blade, the flame licking my heels as the sensation of burning roars through my legs. Using both hands, I swing Ridgebreaker and smash the attacker’s head, dropping him to the ground as the fire on his sword extinguishes.
I look up to see Pomaqli stepping between two other attackers and Walumaq, his sword frantically flying about to block each blow. I rush over and strike one of the men in their ribs, and they crumple to the ground in a heap. The other man tries to retaliate for his fallen comrade, but I lift my club up to parry. Pomaqli follows up with a swooping slash, gashing the assailant across his torso as blood streams out, blending in with the attacker’s garments. For good measure, Pomaqli then plunges his sword into the fallen attacker, leaving his lifeless body behind.
With our assailants dispatched for the moment, we resume our race toward the reservoir. Walumaq stretches her arms out, eyes closed in concentration, and pulls from the water's depths. A massive wave rises, swirling and dancing around her, controlled by her gentle touch, and she crafts it into a formidable barrier, shielding us from the invaders’ fiery assault. Those nearby can't help but be captivated by the sight, much as I was upon my first encounter with the Sanqo princess, and I have to shout to snap them out of their trance. Moving her hand toward the palace, the water flows in the air as she guides it to extinguish the structures caught on fire from the beginning of the assault. Her face strains as she struggles to maintain the water shield, flames licking at her protection. The protective barrier pulsates, steam hissing and evaporating as fire meets water, but it gives the guards enough time to regroup.
“Is she… a goddess?” Pomaqli ponders aloud, bewildered by Walumaq’s capabilities. Though I also continue to be fascinated by her powers, I’m aware that her abilities are fleeting.
“She claims not to be, but I’m not so certain,” I respond, monitoring her condition.
“But how else is she able to…”
Recognizing how little time we have, I interrupt his remark and warn, “She won’t last too long, so we’ll need to move swiftly to assist her once her power fades.”
As I say this, I look over to see the barrier of water begin to drop lower and lower, and I can tell Walumaq’s powers are waining. I rush over to retrieve a wilting Walumaq, who has just enough strength within her to follow me back toward safety with little assistance. As we hurry to Pomaqli, I spot through spaces in the elemental shield that the blood-clothed warriors are conceding ground, and see they are left vulnerable to one side of their amassed army. If the palace guards can attack that point, it could split the forces and allow an easier chance to defeat them.
“Men!” I shout, hoping to get their attention. “Qiapu! There!” I use Ridgebreaker to point at the exposed area of the gathered enemy, that they are pressed with their backs against the unbroken wall. The guards heed my calls and begin driving forward, seizing the opportunity and separating the warriors into two manageable forces. More rallying cries ring out as the Qiapu fight aggressively against this foe.
The Qiapu palace guards, responding to the command, surge toward the vulnerable flank with renewed vigor. The air crackles with the intensity of battle as they weave through the chaos, exploiting the weakness in the enemy’s defenses. The clash of weaponry and the cries of the determined defenders blend into a fierce cacophony of war.
I watch, heart hammering in my chest, as the guards form a human spearhead, slicing into the enemy's disorganized ranks. Arrows whistle overhead, archers taking advantage of the chaos below, their sharp tips finding homes in the gaps of our adversaries' defenses. As they falter, retreat, or fall, my brothers-in-arms fill the night with cheers of triumph that mirrors the fire in their spirits. The palace grounds, fiercely contested, begin to feel like ours once again.
Emerging from the space in the wall is a lone unmasked man, draped in a crimson robe with a pendant dangling over his chest—is it obsidian? Onyx? Jet? His aged, oval face looks unconcerned with how the situation has devolved, strolling into the courtyard with his hands clasped in front of him.
“It has been a commendable effort,” he shouts, his voice booms over the sounds of the fighting. “However, the Qiapu blaspheme by worshiping a false god. Only Eztletiqa is the one true god, the light that shines upon Pachil. Yield now, or suffer the consequences.”
A palace guard attempts to catch this menacing figure unaware, swinging his sword around to chop at the foe. With the subtlest of movements, the robed man steps out of the way and places a hand on the unfortunate guard, immediately setting him on fire. The screams are deafening as he desperately tries to extinguish the flames. Another tries his hand at taking out this enemy, but he meets the same fate: a single touch by the man’s hand casts the guard into a ball of fire.
"Well, that's not what we needed to see,” I remark, feeling hope drain from my heart.
Just as I begin to feel overcome with despair, Pomaqli charges at the man, much to the chagrin and fear of Walumaq and myself. We yell for him to comeback, but he doesn’t heed our warnings, running full speed toward this sorcerer as the calamity of combat surrounds them. Despite lacking a weapon, the robed man’s smug expression seems to anticipate and welcome the challenge as he remains in place.
The dangling pendant begins to glow a burning red, and the figure raises his hand, fingers splayed, revealing a fiery energy emanating from his palm. With a swift motion, he hurls a blazing ball of fire towards Pomaqli. Quick on his feet, the Qiapu warrior dodges to the side, narrowly avoiding being consumed by the inferno.
Seizing his moment, Pomaqli presses forward, the veins in his neck protrude as he exerts himself in determination. The robed man, seeing the warrior's approach, attempts to tap into his menacing touch, preparing to set Pomaqli aflame upon contact as he had done to the prior unfortunate souls. But the Qiapu warrior is cunning, feinting to the left and drawing the zealot’s attention, then swinging his blade from the right, aiming for the cultist's outstretched arm.
Metal meets flesh with a hiss, but the battle is far from over. Pomaqli's sword cuts through the air and forces the enemy to retreat step by step. Every time the ominous figure tries to conjure a fireball or reach out with his deadly touch, Pomaqli counters, keeping him on his heels.
Amidst the tumultuous scenes encircling them, the two are engaged in a perilous dance. Pomaqli is relentless, attacking from all angles, but the figure is persistent, swaying from side to side and avoiding the incoming strikes with ease. Balls of fire emerge from the man’s outstretched hands, arcing toward Pomaqli, but he swiftly dodges each projectile as they hurtle off, threatening unsuspecting warriors engrossed in their own battles.
“What do we do?” Walumaq asks as her voice trembles with fear.
Scanning the scene, I locate a pen for animals and a trough long abandoned by the resident alpacas once the action erupted. Pointing to it, I tell Walumaq, “If you have it in you, try using the water from that trough and distract Pomaqli’s attacker.”
She nods, then closes her eyes once more and extends her hand. Water from the trough slowly rises and swirls about, hovering above the pen. Though it begins to drop and sink back into the trough, Walumaq grits her teeth and lets out a grunt, willing the water out and sending it to rush wildly toward the sorcerer. In short, quick bursts, Walumaq launches orb after orb, occasionally hitting the man and dousing him with once-stagnant water.
A momentary lapse in the figure’s concentration is all it takes. Pomaqli sees his opening and drives his sword deep into the crimson-robed adversary. The enemy’s blood blends into his garments like rain into the river as the life flows out of him. Wearing a stunned expression, the grounds echo with his final scream, as the fiery energy in his hands fades to nothing.
Panting heavily, Pomaqli withdraws his blade and looks up, nodding his thanks for Walumaq’s aid. Walumaq and I breathe a sigh of relief as we watch the foe fall to the ground, lifeless. We run over, and I search the man, moving aside his crimson robe that bears the mark of the Eye in the Flame on its lapel to specifically grab his pendant and remove it from his person. As I gaze upon it, I can see that, encased in gold is an onyx stone, its black deeper than a moonless night, marbled with swirls of milky white. There are markings unfamiliar to me etched in the back, and its gold chain is of simple construction. I’ve never seen its equal, and even holding it in my hand makes me feel as though I possess something with otherworldly power. Is this from the same creator as the pendant we discovered?
A loud cry shakes me out of my oblivion, and when we turn to identify the source of the yell, we’re treated to an awe-inspiring sight of more Qiapu warriors storming into the courtyard. At the front is Saxina, sword held high in the air, and wearing an ornate armor of bronze that shimmers brightly amidst the surrounding flames. His men split off into two directions, flanking the attackers so that they surround the enemy and give them little chance to retreat. The enemy is overwhelmed by the fierce Qiapu warriors—almost the entire force stationed at Pichaqta—and offers little resistance to the counteroffensive.
Pomaqli rushes to join in the attack, swinging his sword valiantly as he singlehandedly takes on countless combatants. I’m inclined not to leave Walumaq, so I stand with her off to the side, looking for any more opportunities to defeat this threat. Yet Saxina and his men are too much for these invaders, dropping each foe one by one. As each enemy falls, the flame of their swords is put out, causing the courtyard to gradually dim with each extinguished life.
The battle continues for a little longer, and though most of the enemies are dispatched, there are a few who manage to escape, fleeing into the dark, mountainous landscape. Crimson stains blotch the palace grounds, where lifeless bodies lay scattered amidst its manicured landscape. Those who remain start the grim task of gathering the fallen, separating the heroes from the enemies.
I walk over to investigate the invaders, scanning their crimson-clothed faces and garments for any identifying signs. Though the shadowy figure dispatched by Pomaqli already hinted at their affiliations, the recurrent, unsettling sight of the Eye in the Flame symbol only solidifies my darkest suspicions. Saxina may steadfastly believe that the people of Ulxa are behind my brother's death. However, I am now utterly convinced that these zealots, which even managed to terrify a formidable figure like Walumaq, is the true culprit.
As the night settles into a serene calm, the palace guards remain vigilant, determined not to be caught off guard once more. Pomaqli rejoins Walumaq and me, his chest heaving with deep breaths as he starts to steady himself, the rush of adrenaline subsiding after a battle valiantly waged. While assessing the scene, I lock eyes with Saxina, and without having to say a word, there’s an understanding in our exchanged glance. His face is fixed in shock and alarm, grappling with what just occurred.
“I suspect Saxina knows some details about this attack he wouldn’t have been willing to admit previously,” I say in a hushed voice to the others, in case there are wandering ears loyal to the Tempered.
Pomaqli asks, “How can you be certain?”
I say, “That’s what I think we’ll need to discuss with him, to be certain”
Despite the shroud of night, Pomaqli deliberately marches into the palace without any concern for repercussions, announcing our arrival with his loud clomping. I hurriedly keep up while Walumaq trails behind meekly, practically tiptoeing as though she’s trying not to offend anyone with her presence. The clattering of Pomaqli’s boots echo throughout the halls, yet nobody pays us any mind, and after abrasively asking two unsuspecting guards for Amalu’s quarters, we charge over to a far corner of the palace where he’s presumed to be. Although I’m certainly motivated to return the favor of making Amalu uncomfortable, Pomaqli appears confrontational, prepared to challenge Amalu’s alleged authority.
The information gathered from speaking to two officers who were put in charge of receiving and protecting Limaqumtlia has unearthed a possible conspiracy that places Amalu as a culprit. While it was said that Amalu stated he received the order from Qumuna, of which I’ve made a note, I’m not convinced the respected and honored general is culpable. I’m not ruling anything out, considering he earned a prominent title curiously quickly, but it seems unlikely, namely with his devout loyalty to Qiapu, which I’m not ready to declare is a façade. Someone somewhere once told me that the simplest explanation is usually the correct one, so I’m trying my best to stick to that way of thinking.
This section of the palace is well protected, with guards in white-and-red tunics standing sentry every ten or so paces and increasing in frequency the closer we get to his quarters. Eventually, we reach Amalu’s chambers and are immediately turned away at the door, informing us that he is asleep. Unfortunately for them, Pomaqli is having none of it.
“We demand to speak to the Tempered’s advisor!” Pomaqli repeatedly shouts in response to the guards. If I didn’t know better, I’d say he’s trying to wake up Amalu at whatever the cost, attempting to get his attention at minimum.
His persistence is rewarded when, from somewhere deep within the chamber, we hear a sigh and a faint, exasperated, “sun and sky, let them in.” Without hesitation, Pomaqli plows through the two men standing at attention by the door, shrugging them off as he storms into the room. Walumaq and I exchange a glance, our eyes wide in relief and disbelief, and follow behind.
Amalu has put on a scarlet robe and walks about the room, lighting torches along the perimeter that gradually reveal the items contained within. He possesses many chests filled with unknown-to-us mysteries and what can best be described as a wardrobe filled with a colorful variety of robes and tunics. His bed is excessive, taking up much of the space and large enough to fit entire families, with long linen blankets resting on top. Between the torches are painted tapestries mounted on the wall, depicting an array of colorful patterns and shapes, and nearby are several tables with various jewelry draped about, sparkling in the torchlight.
“Most people would be asleep at this time of night,” Amalu says, condescension dripping from each word. “There better be a just reason for disturbing my slumber.”
“We recently met with palace guards,” Walumaq starts, “who shared details with us regarding the day Paxilche’s brother was murdered.”
“Such a sad, unfortunate turn of events,” Amalu says, followed by a tsk tsk tsk and a shake of his head.
“I’m sure you feel mournful about the situation,” I say, not believing his feigned sadness and disappointment. The man went from relative obscurity to being adjacent to the Tempered during all matter of affairs; I’m sure he feels not a drop of sympathy nor remorse. Despite this, he still pretends to be offended by my accusation, and I expect nothing less from him.
“Prior to becoming the Tempered’s advisor, what was your role within the palace?” I ask.
Amalu looks at me with suspicion and replies, “I was an assistant to the emissary, as I have been for dozens of harvests. I’ve spent innumerable harvests in Qapauma, and I’m relieved and fortunate to be back in–”
“So, nothing pertaining to the military nor palace guards, correct?” I interrupt, showing no patience for his long-windedness.
“I've served diligently in many capacities,” he says, showing signs of irritation. “Sometimes, beneath the calm façade of a diplomat or emissary, there are embers waiting for the right moment, the right spark, to ignite into a full blaze.”
“Embers and sparks, Advisor Amalu? Such poetic language for a discussion about palace hierarchy,” Walumaq says. “One might wonder if there's a deeper meaning behind your words.”
“It's merely an analogy, child,” Amalu says dismissively, as if addressing a subordinate. “One's potential, like fire, can remain hidden, waiting. And when it's given the chance, it can light up the darkness, revealing truths. Some of us believe in letting our inner fire lead the way, such as a position one is destined to fulfill.”
“I find it interesting,” I say, now beginning to pace around the room, “that someone whose work involves the Qiapu emissary, stationed primarily in Qapauma, would have any influence over the ranks of Pichaqta’s palace guards. Even if you were here, your duties do not coincide with the guards. And if the ranks of the palace guards were under your jurisdiction, you would be serving from here, not predominantly in Qapauma.”
“Why is my affiliation with the palace gu–“
“You implanted a person within the guards’ ranks who ultimately murdered my brother,” I say accusatorially. Amalu waves away my statement and laughs.
“You’re accusing me of being involved in your brother’s murder? I should have you executed for making such baseless allegations.”
“It’s not suspicious that you happened to insert someone into the palace guards who ended up murdering Limaqumtlia?” I ask.
“I can’t say with confidence,” Amalu says calmly, “that anyone inside the palace was aware of what that child’s intentions were and what he was capable of.”
“Liar!” Pomaqli shouts, stepping toward Amalu, but ultimately gets held back by Walumaq before it can come to blows.
“You had a hand in placing the person. That much is fact,” I say to a smug Amalu.
“That was Qumuna’s order. I simply passed on his command. You can check with him yourself.”
“Why wouldn’t he have issued the order himself?” Walumaq asks, still pressing a hand onto Pomaqli to sooth him.
“He was busy with Limaqumtlia’s arrival, obviously,” Amalu says. “Being a lowly assistant, my duties were not rigorous, and I was more than happy to aid him.
“So you’re going to deflect all blame and place it on the shoulders of someone who isn’t present to defend themselves?” Pomaqli says, fury steeped into his voice.
“He can defend himself, certainly,” Amalu says. “You’ll just have to travel to Qapauma to get his response. Frankly, I find it offensive that you dare charge at me at this late time to make such fleeting and false accusations.”
"Your evasion tactics are as impressive as ever," I remark.
“I have nothing to avoid,” he says, sounding as though he’s finished with playing this game and wants to seize control of the conversation. “That I’m being verbally attacked by a group of people who have—just recently, mind you—been caught by the person they’re accusing for trespassing and attempting to steal possessions of the Tempered in his palace. That is what I find suspicious.”
“You can try to turn the pointed fingers at us all you want,” I say, still pacing about, “but it doesn’t change the facts, that you placed the Tempered’s assassin within the–“
“He is no longer Tempered,” Amalu interrupts and speaking as if to reprimand, “and you know as well as anyone that you’re no longer allowed to address him in a manner as though he is still the Temp–“
“He would still be the Tempered if the organization you work for did not insert an assassin into the guards’ ranks!” I yell over him. I regret my aggressive tone immediately, knowing this will only put Amalu on the defensive and cause him to sheath his tongue. I’m aware that I’m allowing my emotions to get the better of me because this involves the death of my brother, but I need to steel my resolve and not erupt so recklessly.
“This conversation was initially entertaining,” he says, “but I’m now bored and tired. I look forward to informing the Tempered of our engagement after what little rest I’ll be able to achieve. You three need to get out of my sight, now!”
Amalu calls to summon the guards, causing a half dozen to appear inside the chambers. With weapons drawn, they appear more ready for a fight than being our escorts.
“Remove them from the palace grounds at once,” Amalu commands, and we’re immediately apprehended by the armored men. Once again, Pomaqli is combative and attempts to free himself while Walumaq and I succumb to our fate, and I consider it a blessing from whichever deity exists that we aren’t thrown into a prison cell to rot away for causing two egregious disruptions.
We don’t make it five steps before a tremendous whoomp shakes the palace’s foundation. Is that an avalanche or rock slide? Shouts and screams are coming from the courtyard outside. Stomping footsteps accommodate the growing number of yells before another resounding rumble reverberates.
“What on Pachil is that?” a few muttering voices ask. Has Xutuina erupted?
Pomaqli, Walumaq, and I race toward the unfolding events, the voices and noises from the calamity growing louder. Opposite of us is a tremendous opening in the palace walls, stone scattered about as guards rush over toward the damage. It’s as though something as large a a hundred boulders crashed through the wall to create an entrance into the palace. Suddenly, the night sky blazes brilliantly, and as we lift our gaze, a cascade of flaming arrows descends upon the grounds.
“Back inside!” Pomaqli barks a command, and we take cover at the mouth of the palace opening. Piercing cries of anguish punctuate the air intermittently as arrows descend, impaling the guards from above with deadly precision. An army of red-clothed warriors burst through the gaping hole, their faces shrouded in a blood red cloth as they charge onto the royal estate. They lift their torches high and swing them at their opponents, but upon further inspection, I realize they don’t actually wield torches.
“Th-they’re swords!” I exclaim and point, not able to get out anything more coherent than that amidst my panic.
“Who in Aqxilapu’s sacred name are these people?” Pomaqli wonders aloud, mouth agape at the sight of the carnage.
“They resemble the people I’ve seen in Chalaqta,” Walumaq says, “except I don’t recall the swords. Could I have mistaken them for torches?”
“Are they Ulxa? Or…” Pomaqli doesn’t have a chance to finish asking his question as more fire arrows rain down upon the premises, striking nearby wooden structures and setting them alight, which casts an ominous glow about the courtyard.
Metal strikes metal, punctuated by fervent grunts and echoing shouts of command, as hordes engage in intense combat along the ground's edge. A swell of determined warriors surges forward, their swords sparking menacingly. The beleaguered Qiapu forces fight fiercely, trying desperately to stave off the relentless onslaught of the invaders. Yet with each passing moment, the odds seem increasingly insurmountable as they’re forced back by an unrelenting surge from their foes.
“We can’t remain in place for much longer,” Pomaqli says, watching the chaos taking place before us. “Something must be done to stop these intruders.”
“Give me a moment,” Walumaq says, and as I look over to her, I see her blue eyes focusing on the stone channel a bit of a distance away.
“You’re not going to–“
Before I can finish my thought, Walumaq sprints away, racing toward the source of water. If she’s doing what I believe her to be doing, I worry for her safety and question if she will make it there before she’s struck down by arrows or one of these attackers.
Pomaqli and I appear to share the same spirit. Meeting my eyes with a resigned look, he suggests, "I suppose we should go and ensure her protection.”
After a deep sigh, I retrieve Ridgebreaker and join Pomaqli as we chase after Walumaq, fending off any attacker that has slipped through the mass of guards. He slashes one assailant after another, ripping through their loose-fitting crimson robes with his mighty sword. From our other flank, a warrior cries out as he brings down his flaming sword, but I catch the blow with my war club, halting its near-fatal strike. I swing the club around to bash in the man’s side, then clobber his lowered head while he’s hunched over in pain.
A half-dozen men begin chasing us down, shouting something in a hissed, venomous language. After speaking their sinister chant, a bright light out of the corner of my eye catches my attention. With a quick reaction, I dive for Walumaq, tackling her to the ground, as Pomaqli drops to the dirt next to us. We narrowly avoid being struck by what appears to be a ball of fire, hurtling toward us and now colliding into a section of the palace wall in the distance.
With not a moment to spare, Pomaqli and I leap to our feet, quickly engaged by the blood-clothed men. They bring their flaming swords down, slashing furiously at us. Pomaqli is able to block multiple incoming strikes at once, twisting and turning to parry the attempted blows. One of the men swipes at my feet and I barely hop over their blade, the flame licking my heels as the sensation of burning roars through my legs. Using both hands, I swing Ridgebreaker and smash the attacker’s head, dropping him to the ground as the fire on his sword extinguishes.
I look up to see Pomaqli stepping between two other attackers and Walumaq, his sword frantically flying about to block each blow. I rush over and strike one of the men in their ribs, and they crumple to the ground in a heap. The other man tries to retaliate for his fallen comrade, but I lift my club up to parry. Pomaqli follows up with a swooping slash, gashing the assailant across his torso as blood streams out, blending in with the attacker’s garments. For good measure, Pomaqli then plunges his sword into the fallen attacker, leaving his lifeless body behind.
With our assailants dispatched for the moment, we resume our race toward the reservoir. Walumaq stretches her arms out, eyes closed in concentration, and pulls from the water's depths. A massive wave rises, swirling and dancing around her, controlled by her gentle touch, and she crafts it into a formidable barrier, shielding us from the invaders’ fiery assault. Those nearby can't help but be captivated by the sight, much as I was upon my first encounter with the Sanqo princess, and I have to shout to snap them out of their trance. Moving her hand toward the palace, the water flows in the air as she guides it to extinguish the structures caught on fire from the beginning of the assault. Her face strains as she struggles to maintain the water shield, flames licking at her protection. The protective barrier pulsates, steam hissing and evaporating as fire meets water, but it gives the guards enough time to regroup.
“Is she… a goddess?” Pomaqli ponders aloud, bewildered by Walumaq’s capabilities. Though I also continue to be fascinated by her powers, I’m aware that her abilities are fleeting.
“She claims not to be, but I’m not so certain,” I respond, monitoring her condition.
“But how else is she able to…”
Recognizing how little time we have, I interrupt his remark and warn, “She won’t last too long, so we’ll need to move swiftly to assist her once her power fades.”
As I say this, I look over to see the barrier of water begin to drop lower and lower, and I can tell Walumaq’s powers are waining. I rush over to retrieve a wilting Walumaq, who has just enough strength within her to follow me back toward safety with little assistance. As we hurry to Pomaqli, I spot through spaces in the elemental shield that the blood-clothed warriors are conceding ground, and see they are left vulnerable to one side of their amassed army. If the palace guards can attack that point, it could split the forces and allow an easier chance to defeat them.
“Men!” I shout, hoping to get their attention. “Qiapu! There!” I use Ridgebreaker to point at the exposed area of the gathered enemy, that they are pressed with their backs against the unbroken wall. The guards heed my calls and begin driving forward, seizing the opportunity and separating the warriors into two manageable forces. More rallying cries ring out as the Qiapu fight aggressively against this foe.
The Qiapu palace guards, responding to the command, surge toward the vulnerable flank with renewed vigor. The air crackles with the intensity of battle as they weave through the chaos, exploiting the weakness in the enemy’s defenses. The clash of weaponry and the cries of the determined defenders blend into a fierce cacophony of war.
I watch, heart hammering in my chest, as the guards form a human spearhead, slicing into the enemy's disorganized ranks. Arrows whistle overhead, archers taking advantage of the chaos below, their sharp tips finding homes in the gaps of our adversaries' defenses. As they falter, retreat, or fall, my brothers-in-arms fill the night with cheers of triumph that mirrors the fire in their spirits. The palace grounds, fiercely contested, begin to feel like ours once again.
Emerging from the space in the wall is a lone unmasked man, draped in a crimson robe with a pendant dangling over his chest—is it obsidian? Onyx? Jet? His aged, oval face looks unconcerned with how the situation has devolved, strolling into the courtyard with his hands clasped in front of him.
“It has been a commendable effort,” he shouts, his voice booms over the sounds of the fighting. “However, the Qiapu blaspheme by worshiping a false god. Only Eztletiqa is the one true god, the light that shines upon Pachil. Yield now, or suffer the consequences.”
A palace guard attempts to catch this menacing figure unaware, swinging his sword around to chop at the foe. With the subtlest of movements, the robed man steps out of the way and places a hand on the unfortunate guard, immediately setting him on fire. The screams are deafening as he desperately tries to extinguish the flames. Another tries his hand at taking out this enemy, but he meets the same fate: a single touch by the man’s hand casts the guard into a ball of fire.
"Well, that's not what we needed to see,” I remark, feeling hope drain from my heart.
Just as I begin to feel overcome with despair, Pomaqli charges at the man, much to the chagrin and fear of Walumaq and myself. We yell for him to comeback, but he doesn’t heed our warnings, running full speed toward this sorcerer as the calamity of combat surrounds them. Despite lacking a weapon, the robed man’s smug expression seems to anticipate and welcome the challenge as he remains in place.
The dangling pendant begins to glow a burning red, and the figure raises his hand, fingers splayed, revealing a fiery energy emanating from his palm. With a swift motion, he hurls a blazing ball of fire towards Pomaqli. Quick on his feet, the Qiapu warrior dodges to the side, narrowly avoiding being consumed by the inferno.
Seizing his moment, Pomaqli presses forward, the veins in his neck protrude as he exerts himself in determination. The robed man, seeing the warrior's approach, attempts to tap into his menacing touch, preparing to set Pomaqli aflame upon contact as he had done to the prior unfortunate souls. But the Qiapu warrior is cunning, feinting to the left and drawing the zealot’s attention, then swinging his blade from the right, aiming for the cultist's outstretched arm.
Metal meets flesh with a hiss, but the battle is far from over. Pomaqli's sword cuts through the air and forces the enemy to retreat step by step. Every time the ominous figure tries to conjure a fireball or reach out with his deadly touch, Pomaqli counters, keeping him on his heels.
Amidst the tumultuous scenes encircling them, the two are engaged in a perilous dance. Pomaqli is relentless, attacking from all angles, but the figure is persistent, swaying from side to side and avoiding the incoming strikes with ease. Balls of fire emerge from the man’s outstretched hands, arcing toward Pomaqli, but he swiftly dodges each projectile as they hurtle off, threatening unsuspecting warriors engrossed in their own battles.
“What do we do?” Walumaq asks as her voice trembles with fear.
Scanning the scene, I locate a pen for animals and a trough long abandoned by the resident alpacas once the action erupted. Pointing to it, I tell Walumaq, “If you have it in you, try using the water from that trough and distract Pomaqli’s attacker.”
She nods, then closes her eyes once more and extends her hand. Water from the trough slowly rises and swirls about, hovering above the pen. Though it begins to drop and sink back into the trough, Walumaq grits her teeth and lets out a grunt, willing the water out and sending it to rush wildly toward the sorcerer. In short, quick bursts, Walumaq launches orb after orb, occasionally hitting the man and dousing him with once-stagnant water.
A momentary lapse in the figure’s concentration is all it takes. Pomaqli sees his opening and drives his sword deep into the crimson-robed adversary. The enemy’s blood blends into his garments like rain into the river as the life flows out of him. Wearing a stunned expression, the grounds echo with his final scream, as the fiery energy in his hands fades to nothing.
Panting heavily, Pomaqli withdraws his blade and looks up, nodding his thanks for Walumaq’s aid. Walumaq and I breathe a sigh of relief as we watch the foe fall to the ground, lifeless. We run over, and I search the man, moving aside his crimson robe that bears the mark of the Eye in the Flame on its lapel to specifically grab his pendant and remove it from his person. As I gaze upon it, I can see that, encased in gold is an onyx stone, its black deeper than a moonless night, marbled with swirls of milky white. There are markings unfamiliar to me etched in the back, and its gold chain is of simple construction. I’ve never seen its equal, and even holding it in my hand makes me feel as though I possess something with otherworldly power. Is this from the same creator as the pendant we discovered?
A loud cry shakes me out of my oblivion, and when we turn to identify the source of the yell, we’re treated to an awe-inspiring sight of more Qiapu warriors storming into the courtyard. At the front is Saxina, sword held high in the air, and wearing an ornate armor of bronze that shimmers brightly amidst the surrounding flames. His men split off into two directions, flanking the attackers so that they surround the enemy and give them little chance to retreat. The enemy is overwhelmed by the fierce Qiapu warriors—almost the entire force stationed at Pichaqta—and offers little resistance to the counteroffensive.
Pomaqli rushes to join in the attack, swinging his sword valiantly as he singlehandedly takes on countless combatants. I’m inclined not to leave Walumaq, so I stand with her off to the side, looking for any more opportunities to defeat this threat. Yet Saxina and his men are too much for these invaders, dropping each foe one by one. As each enemy falls, the flame of their swords is put out, causing the courtyard to gradually dim with each extinguished life.
The battle continues for a little longer, and though most of the enemies are dispatched, there are a few who manage to escape, fleeing into the dark, mountainous landscape. Crimson stains blotch the palace grounds, where lifeless bodies lay scattered amidst its manicured landscape. Those who remain start the grim task of gathering the fallen, separating the heroes from the enemies.
I walk over to investigate the invaders, scanning their crimson-clothed faces and garments for any identifying signs. Though the shadowy figure dispatched by Pomaqli already hinted at their affiliations, the recurrent, unsettling sight of the Eye in the Flame symbol only solidifies my darkest suspicions. Saxina may steadfastly believe that the people of Ulxa are behind my brother's death. However, I am now utterly convinced that these zealots, which even managed to terrify a formidable figure like Walumaq, is the true culprit.
As the night settles into a serene calm, the palace guards remain vigilant, determined not to be caught off guard once more. Pomaqli rejoins Walumaq and me, his chest heaving with deep breaths as he starts to steady himself, the rush of adrenaline subsiding after a battle valiantly waged. While assessing the scene, I lock eyes with Saxina, and without having to say a word, there’s an understanding in our exchanged glance. His face is fixed in shock and alarm, grappling with what just occurred.
“I suspect Saxina knows some details about this attack he wouldn’t have been willing to admit previously,” I say in a hushed voice to the others, in case there are wandering ears loyal to the Tempered.
Pomaqli asks, “How can you be certain?”
I say, “That’s what I think we’ll need to discuss with him, to be certain”
