The rustling at the door jars me out of my trance as I’m hunched over Upachu’s wounded body. His breathing has slowed severely and blood continues to trickle down his robe and chest. I am not a religious nor spiritual man by any means, yet I find myself pleading with Entilqan, the spirit of my sister, to help him any way she can.
A man’s voice, tinged with a gentle rasp, cuts through the silence, “Where is the wounded?”
I hear two sets of footsteps enter the room, but my eyes remain fixed on Upachu. I’ve kept him seated up against the wall, my hand clasping his, and I look at him as though I’m wishing away his pain, waiting for the healing waters of Atima to work their magic.
A hand is placed on my shoulder. “Give the healer space to do his work,” I hear Inuxeq say, yet I refuse to leave Upachu’s side. She gently attempts to guide me away, and while initially I resist, I eventually concede and allow her to escort me out into the streets.
Much of the hay used to disguise the clay pot has fallen about the dirt road during my rushed effort to retrieve it. As a result, the llama has accepted my carelessness as a generous, gifted meal, scooping up the straw and chewing, the happiest I’ve ever seen the animal. The moon barely illuminates the streets as Hilaqta is coated in silvery blue. I walk to the wall just outside Upachu’s home and sit against it, my back sliding down as my shoulders slump. Inuxeq follows me and sits beside me, keeping her eyes trained on the ground before us.
“Why did I think that would work?” I ask her, stunned at my illogicality.
“It was a tense moment involving someone as close as family,” she says, her voice hard as she attempts to console me. Although he isn’t family by blood, her ability to discern his significance in my life suggests that I’ve inadvertently revealed more of my emotions than I care to acknowledge.
“If this were a battlefield, such irrationality could swiftly lead to one’s demise,” I say.
“But it’s not a physical battlefield,” Inuxeq reminds me. “Sometimes, the battlefield is within us. It’s hard to confront these challenges when it involves a loved one, like a family member or friend. Especially when you feel helpless, or desperate for a different outcome.”
“You speak the truth,” I acknowledge, “but I thought I was better than this, that I was rational and would be able to handle such situations with resolve. I’m not a spiritual person, and I haven’t prayed to the gods since my father passed away. However, I found myself losing all ability to think clearly, to be logical. I should have joined you in searching for the healer, but my actions, or lack thereof, may have led to Upachu’s death.”
“I understand that feeling,” Inuxeq says. “I recently lost a friend of mine. Sachia was his name. Growing up, I had no brothers or sisters—I didn’t even know my mother or father. But Sachia and I were close since we were little children. He was the only one who defended me when I was being picked on, and believed in me as I went through warrior training. He rescued me after I was ambushed by the gray creatures, despite the warrior party being slaughtered by the Eye in the Flame’s beasts. Even while I sat next to him as he lay dying, I cracked wise. I never told him how much he meant to me, not ever; I only ever teased and joked with him. As his spirit was crossing over into the eternal plane, all I focused on was how I could seek revenge for his death. I haven’t been able to process what happened that day, and what affect his loss has had over me. But we all face death, simply by living.”
I’m touched by her openness, that she would reveal her emotions to a relative acquaintance about the passing of her friend. It makes me consider my own lack of openness, how I, much like her, have not processed the deaths of my father and sister. It’s been several harvests since the passing of my father, and not nearly a harvest since Entilqan and the Eleven fought the Timuaq. How much time is one allowed to grieve, to mourn?
“I’ve lost immediate family in my past, so I thought I would be able to handle the moment anything happened to Upachu,” I say. “Being the close family friend he has been, I hadn’t considered that, perhaps, Upachu is the only family who remains, and how much that may have affected me.”
“I’m… not exactly great at sharing my emotions when it’s not a matter of war,” she confesses. “There’s a clarity in fighting for something greater, a certainty in the heat of battle. It’s the silent struggles, the personal ones, that cloak my understanding in mist. The only thing I know how to do is fight—fight for what I believe in, fight for those who died valiantly in combat, fight for Tuatiu. With Sachia’s bow,” she retrieves the ornate bow from the harness at her back and holds it with a gentle sentimentality, “I declared that I would fight for him and ensure that he did not die in vain.”
“You and I are very much alike,” I recognize. “The only way I know how to cope with any struggle is to fight through it. Put my head down and swing the blade, not giving thought to anything else. However, it’s just now that I realize I only confront foes, not my feelings. It’s something that was effectively trained out of us at Maqanuiache. We’re taught that emotion can be used as a weakness. That if you give any indication as to something or someone you love, it can be used against you. So I haven’t done so, not even when my sister died.”
“My people used to believe the souls of the fallen would join our gods in watching over our people, guiding them in combat, aiding them with life’s challenges,” she says. “Now, the gods have been replaced with the Eleven, and now our fallen join them. This abrupt shift in ideology, how easily it was altered to fit our current situation, made me question my own faith, to be honest. But I still feel Sachia’s presence wherever I go. I know he’s guiding my arrows and protecting me from harm. So perhaps, instead of being assigned by the gods, it was the Eleven who selected him to be my guardian.”
Inuxeq looks solemnly to the ground, deep in thought, then looks at me and asks, “How do the Qantua honor the memory of their fallen?”
It takes me a moment to consider the question. While Qantua are mostly known for being the keepers of ancient knowledge, stories and lore about the Eleven have integrated into what is kept at the Great Library. I’m not surprised to hear that worship of the Eleven has expanded to other factions, and though I’d never disparage anyone of their beliefs, it’s difficult for me to reconcile the worship of my deceased sister, Entilqan, as a deity. She was a living, breathing human who walked among us all, laughed and cried with us, fought alongside us, and cared and loved all of us—so much so that she sacrificed herself so we could gain our independence and carry on with our existence. The supernatural abilities she was said to have certainly don’t support my cynicism of her being idolized along with the others in her group, yet I still find it hard to fathom how someone I grew up with would become a goddess.
With matters involving religion, I, too, have had my faith tested, particularly during the death of my father. It’s what led me to completely abandon practicing spirituality and focus my attention on my training at the academy. But Qantua has always kept the memories of the fallen in those maintaining the upkeep of the Great Library, who tell the stories of those who came before us.
Finally responding to Inuxeq’s inquiry, I say, “I always remembered the names of the men I lost on the battlefield, repeating their names like a mantra. It’s how the Qantua remember the fallen, acknowledging those who existed by recounting their names. Our keepers at the Great Library collectively know everyone who has ever existed in Qantua.”
“How is that even possible?” Inuxeq says, astonished. “There must be thousands of names!”
“The quipus,” I answer. “While I’m far from an expert, my understanding is that they use certain knots and loops to help recall the names. Typically, such things are for keeping numerical records, but I was told by Upachu that simply seeing the shapes made by the knots are enough to remember what they’re supposed to represent.”
“That’s most impressive,” she says, shaking her head in disbelief. “I couldn’t imagine how much time and dedication it would take to recall all that information!”
“It’s why I chose to be a warrior instead,” I say with a chuckle. “It’s much easier for me to remember war tactics than names and village of origin.”
“Well, may their memories be empowering, just like those of the Eleven,” she says. She’s unaware, having spoken her sentiments with earnest, but the frequent discussion and praise of the Eleven unnerves me. Perhaps it’s from being forced to confront the feelings I have about my sister, and the discomfort I experience whenever I think about her and all that’s been left unsaid.
Maybe she is aware, as she frowns and asks, “Did I say something concerning?”
Deciding to return the honesty and openness, I respond, “Since the end of the war, I’ve always struggled with the worship of the Eleven. While they possessed special capabilities and set out to liberate our peoples, certainly, they were also simply normal people at one point. They ate the same foods we eat. They slept like we do. They had dreams, fears, likes, dislikes. Really, they were rather… ordinary.”
Inuxeq considers this, frowning and furrowing her brow, then eventually replies, “I hadn’t given it thought before, but I suppose heroes and legends are born of ordinary individuals who faced extraordinary circumstances. Sure, it helps that the Eleven happened to possess abilities no other human could ever possess—not even the Ulxa monks and their apparent sorcery. But the Eleven didn’t begin life that way; they were ordinary people, and they traveled a path that led them to be great.”
She looks longingly out into the cityscape, then continues, “It reminds me of someone from my village. The Tuatiu take immense pride in our prowess as warriors; it’s woven into the very fabric of our identity. It is surpassed only by our deep affection for and steadfast commitment to protecting our families. This man, Chiqani... well, to put it nicely, he is most certainly not a warrior. For many harvests, it appeared that he was not going to amount to anything. He couldn’t fight. He hardly protected himself. He was unskilled as a hunter or fisherman. Many jokes were told how he was likely an Achope who got lost and wandered into our village. Yet, when I returned to Iantana, he had constructed numerous devices and mechanisms that were not only helping our people rebuild the village, but made it even better, stronger, more durable. His abilities weren’t in fighting, but in his ingenuity. All that to say, everyone carries the potential for greatness.”
We’re both startled, brought back to the reality of our situation in Hilaqta, by a commotion at the door. The healer wipes his hands with an old rag, trying—and failing—to remove the bit of red sheen that coats them. Most of his robe has been stained in large swaths of crimson, and the expression on his blood-splattered face is somber. My heart wrenches at the sight, and I immediately prepare for receiving the horrible news.
“Well, it wasn’t easy,” he begins with a sigh, “but after stopping the bleeding and cleaning the wound, I was able to use my sewing needle and plant fibers to stitch up and close the wound. It has been bandaged as best I could manage, especially requiring such a long and laborious ritual; I had feared his wounds may have been too great for our gods to heal. But I can say with absolute certainty that he is a fighter, a tough man who refused to be sent off to meet the gods.”
I fight back the tears of relief welling up in my eyes and let out a tremendous sigh. “That sounds like the stubborn, old man I know,” I say with a slight laugh and a lump in my throat. These recent moments have made me realize how much I actually care for him, something I never would have imagined before. I had always associated him as my father’s friend, and nothing more. Now, I recognize Upachu is, in fact, family.
“Can I see him?” I ask with a slight shake in my voice, eager to check on my companion.
“I’m afraid he’s asleep at the moment,” he tells me. “He will need lots of rest to recover from such a devastating wound. I’ve left some yarrow to aid in stopping the bleeding, and willow bark if he awakens to any pain, which he inevitably will.”
Inuxeq stands up, looking down at me while I’m seated, and says with an abrupt nod, “I will stay with him, Teqosa. This way, someone can vigilantly protect him while you assemble the warriors for our mission.”
At first, I hesitate, uncertain about leaving Upachu out of my sight and care. With the realization of him being part of my extended family, I wrestle with the idea of not being close by to protect him myself. However, Inuxeq is more than a capable warrior. If she was able to survive multiple attacks by the Eye in the Flame and these gray beasts they create, she is more than able to fight the assassin who attempted to take Upachu’s life. And having proved herself dedicated to eliminating the cultists’ threat, I can be assured she will guard him diligently.
I nod in agreement and thank her for watching over Upachu. We dismiss the exhausted healer, who nods and trudges off past the inattentive llama, which is preoccupied with consuming the scattered straw.
“Inuxeq,” I say, “I can’t thank you enough for–“
“Go!” she says in a teasingly dismissive tone. “I’ll be right here when you return, and ready to march into Aimue once the warriors have been assembled. But you have to assemble them first! So go!” I raise both palms in the air, conceding to her valid point, and allow myself a brief hint of a smile before walking off toward the edge of Hilaqta.
Just beyond the city limits and before one reaches the nearby lake, Hanan Qucha, lies the expansive fortress that houses a significant number of Qantua’s warriors. Here, our warriors train rigorously, and our generals plot and plan, all in preparation for the wars to come. Even with the war long over, our men and women have not rested, ensuring they remain battle ready should there ever come the need. Some get sent to other villages throughout Qantua, such as the port city to the south, Iaqutaq, while others use this time as a stepping stone for honing their skills before training to become an officer at Maqanuiache. My people are predominately known for being keepers of knowledge, certainly, yet we also have some of the most intelligent and capable warriors on Pachil who should not be underestimated.
The guards protecting this fortress are surprised by my arrival, hurriedly placing their right fist over their heart and bowing deeply in salute as I approach. As the warriors step aside to allow me through, I walk past them with a fist over my heart and a nod. The gold in their uniforms stand out prominently among the dark surroundings as night settles in, as though the entire scene has been painted in Qantua colors. Those posted here have begun turning in for the night, establishing who is on night watches and carrying out their orders, and the grounds grow calm and peaceful, much different than the last time I stepped foot here during the war, defending Hilaqta from the Timuaq.
The confused looks and stunned silence continue during my entire walk through the building, but I pay them no mind. I march directly to the officers’ quarters, prepared to be rebuffed until the morning due to my late arrival. However, the matter cannot wait much longer; we need to have the men ready to travel to Aimue as soon as dawn breaks, at the earliest.
Surprise shifts to my side as one of the officials I'm to meet emerges from an adjacent room, greeting me with a warm, pleasant tone, “Teqosa! To what do we owe the pleasure of your late evening visit?” The man is a few harvests older than me, with his long, black hair still tied up in the back after a likely long day of running the warriors through drills. Despite the warm greeting, his dark brown eyes are still hard, much like his weathered, boxy face that is dominated by a large, bulbous nose. Much as one would wear on the battlefield, he wears a black and white checkered cloth over his gold and black Qantua tunic, proudly displaying his high rank in the Qantua military. Though he never participated in the Maqanuiache as I did, I’m well aware of his vast tactical and strategic military knowledge.
“Sachanqu,” I return the greeting, “I didn’t realize you would be awake at this time of day.”
His stout frame bounces as he heartily laughs, and says, “I’m not that old, Teqosa! I don’t need to be put to bed along with the sun. Come, I have plenty of chicha for us both—and it’s probably for the best that I don’t drink it all by myself.” He winks and presents the room he was just exiting moments earlier with a splayed hand, inviting me to join him there.
The room is sparsely furnished, with just a table and a couple chairs. Painted meticulously on its surface is the territory of Qantua, with all of our villages and ports marked at their various places. On the other side of the Maiu Qasapaq, in Tuatiu territory, is a large carafe with the unmistakable sour scent of the fermented beverage. In one fluid motion, Sachanqu swipes the container and meets it with his lips, taking a large swig before offering it to me. Though I rarely touch the stuff, I know better than to turn down such an offer, especially when I’m about to discuss important matters with him that will require his cooperation. Thus, I grab the clay vessel and sip, trying my best to conceal my grimace as the sour substance burns its way down my throat.
Sachanqu seats himself in one of the chairs and kicks back, placing his feet where the Atima territory would be to the north, and says, “I know you’re not one for small talk, so how about I try to ask you again: what brings you to the mighty fortress outside of Hilaqta, my friend?” Even with our limited interactions, his observation is astute. So, I place myself in the seat opposite of him and make sure to look him directly in his dark eyes when I speak.
“You’re keenly aware of council discussions, are you not?” I begin with a question, to which he answers with a simple nod and a smirk. “Then you must be aware of what’s been deliberated, discussed, and debated in the past few days.”
He nods again, this time more slowly, his eyes narrowing slightly as if trying to listen to the silence between words. “And does your inquiry,” he begins, his tone laced with a hint of caution, “pertain to a… direct approach towards Taqsame?”
His implication unsettles me. My request is honorable, not underhanded. “Are you suggesting that I seek to engage in clandestine activities?” I counter, my tone sharp. His hands come up in a placating gesture, signaling his intention wasn't to offend.
“Forgive me,” he says quickly, “I merely meant to ascertain the nature of your request. Council matters can be… complex.”
With a frown, I let his insinuation go, for now, focusing on the real purpose of my visit. “No, my concern lies elsewhere,” I say, redirecting the conversation. “I need your assistance, not for political maneuvering, but for a matter that concerns us all. You may have heard the discussions about the organization that threatens not just Qantua, but all of Pachil. Our intel has informed us they have been identified as traveling to the Aimue territory. They may be building up forces there in preparation for attacking the Tapeu and taking over the throne. We will need 1,200 to 1,500 warriors to aid us in stopping this evil threat to our lands.”
As I finish stating my intent, Sachanqu lets out another guffaw. “1,200 to 1,500? Why not take all the people in Hilaqta, Teqosa? That request is outrageous! Not to mention all the issues I have with such a matter.”
Reluctantly, I ask, “What issues would those be?”
Sachanqu leans forward, takes another large gulp of chicha, and enlightens me. “Where do I even begin? Firstly, Teqosa, the resources required for such a campaign are not trivial. The logistics alone—to mobilize and sustain 1,200 to 1,500 warriors on a venture into Aimue territory—is a tremendous undertaking. Are you not aware of Tapeu’s recent intimations? Their threat to withhold vital supplies should give us pause. It’s imprudent to stretch our resources thin on an impractical mission.
“And speaking of imprudence,” he continues without a pause for breath,
“to send such a force would be to leave Qantua’s defenses threadbare. We risk the safety of our own lands! To commit such a number to your request would be to court disaster, leaving us open to threats closer to home. Furthermore, the very threat you’re so keen to quash in foreign lands strikes me as no more than myth—tales spun to frighten children. I concede, the commotion at the Great Library was unsettling, but to ascribe it to cultists? To dark fables? Surely, we are warriors, not gossips at a market sharing campfire stories.”
That last part strikes a nerve within me, with all that I know and have experienced first hand. But I clinch my jaw shut and allow him to finish, exercising what little patience I have for such willing ignorance.
Sachanqu carries on, “And even if we are to assume such a threat were real, why must Qantua bear this burden? Aimue and Tapeu have their own armies, their own defenses. It’s their place to quell the disturbances within their borders, not ours. We must prioritize the protection of Qantua and its people. The number you propose, Teqosa, is not only absurd but irresponsible. You’ve always been one to challenge the odds, but this? This is folly! Have your past engagements so clouded your judgment that you would gamble with the fate of our faction? No, no, we must be stewards of our strength, not squander it on fanciful ventures.”
“Are you quite finished?” I ask disdainfully. He nods with a hint of suspicion in his expression, as though he feels the need to be wary and cautious about what I’m to say in response.
"Your concern for our resources is valid, Sachanqu, yet we are not without skill in managing arduous campaigns. The warriors I request are a calculated number, chosen for their ability to strike swiftly and with precision. The aim is to prevent a larger conflict that would require far more from us—resources and lives. It is a preemptive strike to safeguard our future."
Sachanqu opens his mouth to protest, but I wave a hand and silence him. “You’ve had your moment to speak. This is now my moment.” He pouts and takes another long drink of chicha while I resume.
“You say our line will become depleted, yet it’s a line nonetheless. I don’t seek to empty Qantua of its defenses but to use our might where it can deliver a decisive blow—a blow that will ensure our security, not diminish it. To ignore this threat is to invite danger to our doorstep. A proactive stance here will fortify us against greater threats.
“Furthermore, you should know how, based on our people’s propensity for oral traditions, myths often find their roots in truth. And while the tales might be spun into fables, the danger they speak of can be all too real. I have directly confronted this threat, sir, and faced an enemy the likes we haven’t seen since the Timuaq. I will not allow my personal account of what has occurred to be dismissed. We must confront the reality."
“I’m not finished,” I scold, silencing his desire to defend his statement. “Aimue and Tapeu may indeed have their own armies, but they face a foe that does not respect borders. If left unchecked, what festers in Aimue will spread to Qantua. Our fates are intertwined with our neighbors’, and their instability is a direct path to our own peril.
“With that, I will declare that my request for this endeavor is not a gamble, but a measured step. I am fully aware of the weight of this mission. My judgment is clear, honed by the very engagements that have defined our resilience. We are not gambling with fate but shaping it, ensuring that Qantua does not stand on the wrong side of history, passive in a time that calls for action."
Sachanqu grunts and shakes his head, mulling over all that I’ve said. I let my words hang in the void, floating about amidst the uneasiness he most certainly feels. After a few more scoffs of disbelief, and a few more swigs of chicha, he eventually says one single number.
“400.”
“I beg your pardon?” I ask more as a statement made in astonishment. “You are surely joking.”
“It’s all I’m willing to give up for this foolish endeavor,” he says, sounding as though he’s throwing a tantrum. “I must consider Qantua’s safety, should your little venture fail.”
“We have a chance to stop a threat at its source before it reaches our doorstep,” I say with determination. “Fewer warriors in defense now could prevent the need for many more later, should the cultists’ gaze turn towards our lands. Additionally, an investment in regional stability is an investment in Qantua’s future. We can’t thrive if our neighbors fall to this evil. Their instability could spill over, affecting trade routes, resource availability, and our own security. Likewise, this isn’t just about providing aid. It’s about forging an alliance. When Aimue and Tapeu see Qantua standing with them against a common enemy, it strengthens our political ties for future endeavors.”
Sachanqu rolls his eyes and looks skyward, taking another long pull from the carafe. As he does so, I lean in closer and look him in his eyes, unflinchingly.
“Besides, you know the conviction with which I’ve always served Qantua, Sachanqu,” I say. “I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t believe it to be crucial. I give you my solemn vow: the warriors will be safeguarded by strategies I’ve personally devised, and their valor will be directed with precision. Their success—and our future—is my responsibility.”
He lets out a long sigh, then says, “800. But that’s all I can afford to assign to this cause, Teqosa. Indeed, you have done much for Qantua, and it’s only because I respect you that I’m even entertaining this request.”
Though the number is still much lower than desired, I know I have to accept this offer. Under Inuxeq and Sianchu’s organization, this should be adequate to achieve our desired results, and our warriors are disciplined and well trained to be sufficient for this cause.
“Thank you, Sachanqu,” I say earnestly. “This means a great deal to me, and I know our warriors will eliminate this threat.”
“You better not be sending our capable warriors to their needless deaths,” he says, a stern warning, but one I can understand. I don’t take it personally, as he is like a father protecting his children, the men and women he’s directly developed. Because of this, I value and respect his hesitation to assign these warriors to my cause, wanting only what’s best for them. It’s why I do not take this offer for granted, and, likewise, I give him my assurance.
With the day drawing to a close, we part ways shortly after the agreement has been reached, sharing one last drink of chicha before departing the room. I’m met with more salutes from the warriors as I leave the fortress, while the night guards vigilantly sweep the horizon for any impending threats.
The day has been full and eventful, for better or worse, and during my trek back to Upachu’s home in the silence of the night, I’m left alone with my thoughts. It’s the first time in a long time that I am my only company. With that, I reflect on everything that has occurred, and everything that has yet to come.
I take a moment to stand in the middle of the blackened landscape, entirely encased in the night’s darkness, as the torches that illuminate Hilaqta twinkle like stars resting amongst the buildings and hillsides. The village and its people were all I knew for much of my life. Now, having been on tour for countless harvests during the war and encountering the different factions of Pachil, I’m uncertain how connected I feel to the people of my homeland. I will forever be passionate about protecting them—that much will always be true—yet it’s begun to feel as though I no longer belong among them. That while I view them as my people, they don’t return that view in kind. However, it’s from my conversation with Inuxeq that I see that, perhaps, ‘my’ people aren’t to be designated by the physical location, but rather the things in this world that connect us, that make us who we are. Through our shared experience of loss, it’s the choice to keep moving forward that unites all warriors, making us stronger and more compassionate than before.
Reflecting on this, I realize that I’m about to embark on perhaps the most pivotal journey of my life, one that transcends borders and allegiances. My path isn’t paved by the stones of Qantua alone, but by the collective will and courage of those who stand against darkness. As I prepare to venture into the unknown, I understand that my true kinship lies not just in the land I defend, but in the shared purpose with those who fight beside me, wherever that fight may take us. It’s in this unity, this unspoken bond of the warrior’s spirit, that I find a new sense of belonging—a fellowship forged in the crucible of conflict, and the hope of a peaceful future for all of Pachil.
The rustling at the door jars me out of my trance as I’m hunched over Upachu’s wounded body. His breathing has slowed severely and blood continues to trickle down his robe and chest. I am not a religious nor spiritual man by any means, yet I find myself pleading with Entilqan, the spirit of my sister, to help him any way she can.
A man’s voice, tinged with a gentle rasp, cuts through the silence, “Where is the wounded?”
I hear two sets of footsteps enter the room, but my eyes remain fixed on Upachu. I’ve kept him seated up against the wall, my hand clasping his, and I look at him as though I’m wishing away his pain, waiting for the healing waters of Atima to work their magic.
A hand is placed on my shoulder. “Give the healer space to do his work,” I hear Inuxeq say, yet I refuse to leave Upachu’s side. She gently attempts to guide me away, and while initially I resist, I eventually concede and allow her to escort me out into the streets.
Much of the hay used to disguise the clay pot has fallen about the dirt road during my rushed effort to retrieve it. As a result, the llama has accepted my carelessness as a generous, gifted meal, scooping up the straw and chewing, the happiest I’ve ever seen the animal. The moon barely illuminates the streets as Hilaqta is coated in silvery blue. I walk to the wall just outside Upachu’s home and sit against it, my back sliding down as my shoulders slump. Inuxeq follows me and sits beside me, keeping her eyes trained on the ground before us.
“Why did I think that would work?” I ask her, stunned at my illogicality.
“It was a tense moment involving someone as close as family,” she says, her voice hard as she attempts to console me. Although he isn’t family by blood, her ability to discern his significance in my life suggests that I’ve inadvertently revealed more of my emotions than I care to acknowledge.
“If this were a battlefield, such irrationality could swiftly lead to one’s demise,” I say.
“But it’s not a physical battlefield,” Inuxeq reminds me. “Sometimes, the battlefield is within us. It’s hard to confront these challenges when it involves a loved one, like a family member or friend. Especially when you feel helpless, or desperate for a different outcome.”
“You speak the truth,” I acknowledge, “but I thought I was better than this, that I was rational and would be able to handle such situations with resolve. I’m not a spiritual person, and I haven’t prayed to the gods since my father passed away. However, I found myself losing all ability to think clearly, to be logical. I should have joined you in searching for the healer, but my actions, or lack thereof, may have led to Upachu’s death.”
“I understand that feeling,” Inuxeq says. “I recently lost a friend of mine. Sachia was his name. Growing up, I had no brothers or sisters—I didn’t even know my mother or father. But Sachia and I were close since we were little children. He was the only one who defended me when I was being picked on, and believed in me as I went through warrior training. He rescued me after I was ambushed by the gray creatures, despite the warrior party being slaughtered by the Eye in the Flame’s beasts. Even while I sat next to him as he lay dying, I cracked wise. I never told him how much he meant to me, not ever; I only ever teased and joked with him. As his spirit was crossing over into the eternal plane, all I focused on was how I could seek revenge for his death. I haven’t been able to process what happened that day, and what affect his loss has had over me. But we all face death, simply by living.”
I’m touched by her openness, that she would reveal her emotions to a relative acquaintance about the passing of her friend. It makes me consider my own lack of openness, how I, much like her, have not processed the deaths of my father and sister. It’s been several harvests since the passing of my father, and not nearly a harvest since Entilqan and the Eleven fought the Timuaq. How much time is one allowed to grieve, to mourn?
“I’ve lost immediate family in my past, so I thought I would be able to handle the moment anything happened to Upachu,” I say. “Being the close family friend he has been, I hadn’t considered that, perhaps, Upachu is the only family who remains, and how much that may have affected me.”
“I’m… not exactly great at sharing my emotions when it’s not a matter of war,” she confesses. “There’s a clarity in fighting for something greater, a certainty in the heat of battle. It’s the silent struggles, the personal ones, that cloak my understanding in mist. The only thing I know how to do is fight—fight for what I believe in, fight for those who died valiantly in combat, fight for Tuatiu. With Sachia’s bow,” she retrieves the ornate bow from the harness at her back and holds it with a gentle sentimentality, “I declared that I would fight for him and ensure that he did not die in vain.”
“You and I are very much alike,” I recognize. “The only way I know how to cope with any struggle is to fight through it. Put my head down and swing the blade, not giving thought to anything else. However, it’s just now that I realize I only confront foes, not my feelings. It’s something that was effectively trained out of us at Maqanuiache. We’re taught that emotion can be used as a weakness. That if you give any indication as to something or someone you love, it can be used against you. So I haven’t done so, not even when my sister died.”
“My people used to believe the souls of the fallen would join our gods in watching over our people, guiding them in combat, aiding them with life’s challenges,” she says. “Now, the gods have been replaced with the Eleven, and now our fallen join them. This abrupt shift in ideology, how easily it was altered to fit our current situation, made me question my own faith, to be honest. But I still feel Sachia’s presence wherever I go. I know he’s guiding my arrows and protecting me from harm. So perhaps, instead of being assigned by the gods, it was the Eleven who selected him to be my guardian.”
Inuxeq looks solemnly to the ground, deep in thought, then looks at me and asks, “How do the Qantua honor the memory of their fallen?”
It takes me a moment to consider the question. While Qantua are mostly known for being the keepers of ancient knowledge, stories and lore about the Eleven have integrated into what is kept at the Great Library. I’m not surprised to hear that worship of the Eleven has expanded to other factions, and though I’d never disparage anyone of their beliefs, it’s difficult for me to reconcile the worship of my deceased sister, Entilqan, as a deity. She was a living, breathing human who walked among us all, laughed and cried with us, fought alongside us, and cared and loved all of us—so much so that she sacrificed herself so we could gain our independence and carry on with our existence. The supernatural abilities she was said to have certainly don’t support my cynicism of her being idolized along with the others in her group, yet I still find it hard to fathom how someone I grew up with would become a goddess.
With matters involving religion, I, too, have had my faith tested, particularly during the death of my father. It’s what led me to completely abandon practicing spirituality and focus my attention on my training at the academy. But Qantua has always kept the memories of the fallen in those maintaining the upkeep of the Great Library, who tell the stories of those who came before us.
Finally responding to Inuxeq’s inquiry, I say, “I always remembered the names of the men I lost on the battlefield, repeating their names like a mantra. It’s how the Qantua remember the fallen, acknowledging those who existed by recounting their names. Our keepers at the Great Library collectively know everyone who has ever existed in Qantua.”
“How is that even possible?” Inuxeq says, astonished. “There must be thousands of names!”
“The quipus,” I answer. “While I’m far from an expert, my understanding is that they use certain knots and loops to help recall the names. Typically, such things are for keeping numerical records, but I was told by Upachu that simply seeing the shapes made by the knots are enough to remember what they’re supposed to represent.”
“That’s most impressive,” she says, shaking her head in disbelief. “I couldn’t imagine how much time and dedication it would take to recall all that information!”
“It’s why I chose to be a warrior instead,” I say with a chuckle. “It’s much easier for me to remember war tactics than names and village of origin.”
“Well, may their memories be empowering, just like those of the Eleven,” she says. She’s unaware, having spoken her sentiments with earnest, but the frequent discussion and praise of the Eleven unnerves me. Perhaps it’s from being forced to confront the feelings I have about my sister, and the discomfort I experience whenever I think about her and all that’s been left unsaid.
Maybe she is aware, as she frowns and asks, “Did I say something concerning?”
Deciding to return the honesty and openness, I respond, “Since the end of the war, I’ve always struggled with the worship of the Eleven. While they possessed special capabilities and set out to liberate our peoples, certainly, they were also simply normal people at one point. They ate the same foods we eat. They slept like we do. They had dreams, fears, likes, dislikes. Really, they were rather… ordinary.”
Inuxeq considers this, frowning and furrowing her brow, then eventually replies, “I hadn’t given it thought before, but I suppose heroes and legends are born of ordinary individuals who faced extraordinary circumstances. Sure, it helps that the Eleven happened to possess abilities no other human could ever possess—not even the Ulxa monks and their apparent sorcery. But the Eleven didn’t begin life that way; they were ordinary people, and they traveled a path that led them to be great.”
She looks longingly out into the cityscape, then continues, “It reminds me of someone from my village. The Tuatiu take immense pride in our prowess as warriors; it’s woven into the very fabric of our identity. It is surpassed only by our deep affection for and steadfast commitment to protecting our families. This man, Chiqani... well, to put it nicely, he is most certainly not a warrior. For many harvests, it appeared that he was not going to amount to anything. He couldn’t fight. He hardly protected himself. He was unskilled as a hunter or fisherman. Many jokes were told how he was likely an Achope who got lost and wandered into our village. Yet, when I returned to Iantana, he had constructed numerous devices and mechanisms that were not only helping our people rebuild the village, but made it even better, stronger, more durable. His abilities weren’t in fighting, but in his ingenuity. All that to say, everyone carries the potential for greatness.”
We’re both startled, brought back to the reality of our situation in Hilaqta, by a commotion at the door. The healer wipes his hands with an old rag, trying—and failing—to remove the bit of red sheen that coats them. Most of his robe has been stained in large swaths of crimson, and the expression on his blood-splattered face is somber. My heart wrenches at the sight, and I immediately prepare for receiving the horrible news.
“Well, it wasn’t easy,” he begins with a sigh, “but after stopping the bleeding and cleaning the wound, I was able to use my sewing needle and plant fibers to stitch up and close the wound. It has been bandaged as best I could manage, especially requiring such a long and laborious ritual; I had feared his wounds may have been too great for our gods to heal. But I can say with absolute certainty that he is a fighter, a tough man who refused to be sent off to meet the gods.”
I fight back the tears of relief welling up in my eyes and let out a tremendous sigh. “That sounds like the stubborn, old man I know,” I say with a slight laugh and a lump in my throat. These recent moments have made me realize how much I actually care for him, something I never would have imagined before. I had always associated him as my father’s friend, and nothing more. Now, I recognize Upachu is, in fact, family.
“Can I see him?” I ask with a slight shake in my voice, eager to check on my companion.
“I’m afraid he’s asleep at the moment,” he tells me. “He will need lots of rest to recover from such a devastating wound. I’ve left some yarrow to aid in stopping the bleeding, and willow bark if he awakens to any pain, which he inevitably will.”
Inuxeq stands up, looking down at me while I’m seated, and says with an abrupt nod, “I will stay with him, Teqosa. This way, someone can vigilantly protect him while you assemble the warriors for our mission.”
At first, I hesitate, uncertain about leaving Upachu out of my sight and care. With the realization of him being part of my extended family, I wrestle with the idea of not being close by to protect him myself. However, Inuxeq is more than a capable warrior. If she was able to survive multiple attacks by the Eye in the Flame and these gray beasts they create, she is more than able to fight the assassin who attempted to take Upachu’s life. And having proved herself dedicated to eliminating the cultists’ threat, I can be assured she will guard him diligently.
I nod in agreement and thank her for watching over Upachu. We dismiss the exhausted healer, who nods and trudges off past the inattentive llama, which is preoccupied with consuming the scattered straw.
“Inuxeq,” I say, “I can’t thank you enough for–“
“Go!” she says in a teasingly dismissive tone. “I’ll be right here when you return, and ready to march into Aimue once the warriors have been assembled. But you have to assemble them first! So go!” I raise both palms in the air, conceding to her valid point, and allow myself a brief hint of a smile before walking off toward the edge of Hilaqta.
Just beyond the city limits and before one reaches the nearby lake, Hanan Qucha, lies the expansive fortress that houses a significant number of Qantua’s warriors. Here, our warriors train rigorously, and our generals plot and plan, all in preparation for the wars to come. Even with the war long over, our men and women have not rested, ensuring they remain battle ready should there ever come the need. Some get sent to other villages throughout Qantua, such as the port city to the south, Iaqutaq, while others use this time as a stepping stone for honing their skills before training to become an officer at Maqanuiache. My people are predominately known for being keepers of knowledge, certainly, yet we also have some of the most intelligent and capable warriors on Pachil who should not be underestimated.
The guards protecting this fortress are surprised by my arrival, hurriedly placing their right fist over their heart and bowing deeply in salute as I approach. As the warriors step aside to allow me through, I walk past them with a fist over my heart and a nod. The gold in their uniforms stand out prominently among the dark surroundings as night settles in, as though the entire scene has been painted in Qantua colors. Those posted here have begun turning in for the night, establishing who is on night watches and carrying out their orders, and the grounds grow calm and peaceful, much different than the last time I stepped foot here during the war, defending Hilaqta from the Timuaq.
The confused looks and stunned silence continue during my entire walk through the building, but I pay them no mind. I march directly to the officers’ quarters, prepared to be rebuffed until the morning due to my late arrival. However, the matter cannot wait much longer; we need to have the men ready to travel to Aimue as soon as dawn breaks, at the earliest.
Surprise shifts to my side as one of the officials I'm to meet emerges from an adjacent room, greeting me with a warm, pleasant tone, “Teqosa! To what do we owe the pleasure of your late evening visit?” The man is a few harvests older than me, with his long, black hair still tied up in the back after a likely long day of running the warriors through drills. Despite the warm greeting, his dark brown eyes are still hard, much like his weathered, boxy face that is dominated by a large, bulbous nose. Much as one would wear on the battlefield, he wears a black and white checkered cloth over his gold and black Qantua tunic, proudly displaying his high rank in the Qantua military. Though he never participated in the Maqanuiache as I did, I’m well aware of his vast tactical and strategic military knowledge.
“Sachanqu,” I return the greeting, “I didn’t realize you would be awake at this time of day.”
His stout frame bounces as he heartily laughs, and says, “I’m not that old, Teqosa! I don’t need to be put to bed along with the sun. Come, I have plenty of chicha for us both—and it’s probably for the best that I don’t drink it all by myself.” He winks and presents the room he was just exiting moments earlier with a splayed hand, inviting me to join him there.
The room is sparsely furnished, with just a table and a couple chairs. Painted meticulously on its surface is the territory of Qantua, with all of our villages and ports marked at their various places. On the other side of the Maiu Qasapaq, in Tuatiu territory, is a large carafe with the unmistakable sour scent of the fermented beverage. In one fluid motion, Sachanqu swipes the container and meets it with his lips, taking a large swig before offering it to me. Though I rarely touch the stuff, I know better than to turn down such an offer, especially when I’m about to discuss important matters with him that will require his cooperation. Thus, I grab the clay vessel and sip, trying my best to conceal my grimace as the sour substance burns its way down my throat.
Sachanqu seats himself in one of the chairs and kicks back, placing his feet where the Atima territory would be to the north, and says, “I know you’re not one for small talk, so how about I try to ask you again: what brings you to the mighty fortress outside of Hilaqta, my friend?” Even with our limited interactions, his observation is astute. So, I place myself in the seat opposite of him and make sure to look him directly in his dark eyes when I speak.
“You’re keenly aware of council discussions, are you not?” I begin with a question, to which he answers with a simple nod and a smirk. “Then you must be aware of what’s been deliberated, discussed, and debated in the past few days.”
He nods again, this time more slowly, his eyes narrowing slightly as if trying to listen to the silence between words. “And does your inquiry,” he begins, his tone laced with a hint of caution, “pertain to a… direct approach towards Taqsame?”
His implication unsettles me. My request is honorable, not underhanded. “Are you suggesting that I seek to engage in clandestine activities?” I counter, my tone sharp. His hands come up in a placating gesture, signaling his intention wasn't to offend.
“Forgive me,” he says quickly, “I merely meant to ascertain the nature of your request. Council matters can be… complex.”
With a frown, I let his insinuation go, for now, focusing on the real purpose of my visit. “No, my concern lies elsewhere,” I say, redirecting the conversation. “I need your assistance, not for political maneuvering, but for a matter that concerns us all. You may have heard the discussions about the organization that threatens not just Qantua, but all of Pachil. Our intel has informed us they have been identified as traveling to the Aimue territory. They may be building up forces there in preparation for attacking the Tapeu and taking over the throne. We will need 1,200 to 1,500 warriors to aid us in stopping this evil threat to our lands.”
As I finish stating my intent, Sachanqu lets out another guffaw. “1,200 to 1,500? Why not take all the people in Hilaqta, Teqosa? That request is outrageous! Not to mention all the issues I have with such a matter.”
Reluctantly, I ask, “What issues would those be?”
Sachanqu leans forward, takes another large gulp of chicha, and enlightens me. “Where do I even begin? Firstly, Teqosa, the resources required for such a campaign are not trivial. The logistics alone—to mobilize and sustain 1,200 to 1,500 warriors on a venture into Aimue territory—is a tremendous undertaking. Are you not aware of Tapeu’s recent intimations? Their threat to withhold vital supplies should give us pause. It’s imprudent to stretch our resources thin on an impractical mission.
“And speaking of imprudence,” he continues without a pause for breath,
“to send such a force would be to leave Qantua’s defenses threadbare. We risk the safety of our own lands! To commit such a number to your request would be to court disaster, leaving us open to threats closer to home. Furthermore, the very threat you’re so keen to quash in foreign lands strikes me as no more than myth—tales spun to frighten children. I concede, the commotion at the Great Library was unsettling, but to ascribe it to cultists? To dark fables? Surely, we are warriors, not gossips at a market sharing campfire stories.”
That last part strikes a nerve within me, with all that I know and have experienced first hand. But I clinch my jaw shut and allow him to finish, exercising what little patience I have for such willing ignorance.
Sachanqu carries on, “And even if we are to assume such a threat were real, why must Qantua bear this burden? Aimue and Tapeu have their own armies, their own defenses. It’s their place to quell the disturbances within their borders, not ours. We must prioritize the protection of Qantua and its people. The number you propose, Teqosa, is not only absurd but irresponsible. You’ve always been one to challenge the odds, but this? This is folly! Have your past engagements so clouded your judgment that you would gamble with the fate of our faction? No, no, we must be stewards of our strength, not squander it on fanciful ventures.”
“Are you quite finished?” I ask disdainfully. He nods with a hint of suspicion in his expression, as though he feels the need to be wary and cautious about what I’m to say in response.
"Your concern for our resources is valid, Sachanqu, yet we are not without skill in managing arduous campaigns. The warriors I request are a calculated number, chosen for their ability to strike swiftly and with precision. The aim is to prevent a larger conflict that would require far more from us—resources and lives. It is a preemptive strike to safeguard our future."
Sachanqu opens his mouth to protest, but I wave a hand and silence him. “You’ve had your moment to speak. This is now my moment.” He pouts and takes another long drink of chicha while I resume.
“You say our line will become depleted, yet it’s a line nonetheless. I don’t seek to empty Qantua of its defenses but to use our might where it can deliver a decisive blow—a blow that will ensure our security, not diminish it. To ignore this threat is to invite danger to our doorstep. A proactive stance here will fortify us against greater threats.
“Furthermore, you should know how, based on our people’s propensity for oral traditions, myths often find their roots in truth. And while the tales might be spun into fables, the danger they speak of can be all too real. I have directly confronted this threat, sir, and faced an enemy the likes we haven’t seen since the Timuaq. I will not allow my personal account of what has occurred to be dismissed. We must confront the reality."
“I’m not finished,” I scold, silencing his desire to defend his statement. “Aimue and Tapeu may indeed have their own armies, but they face a foe that does not respect borders. If left unchecked, what festers in Aimue will spread to Qantua. Our fates are intertwined with our neighbors’, and their instability is a direct path to our own peril.
“With that, I will declare that my request for this endeavor is not a gamble, but a measured step. I am fully aware of the weight of this mission. My judgment is clear, honed by the very engagements that have defined our resilience. We are not gambling with fate but shaping it, ensuring that Qantua does not stand on the wrong side of history, passive in a time that calls for action."
Sachanqu grunts and shakes his head, mulling over all that I’ve said. I let my words hang in the void, floating about amidst the uneasiness he most certainly feels. After a few more scoffs of disbelief, and a few more swigs of chicha, he eventually says one single number.
“400.”
“I beg your pardon?” I ask more as a statement made in astonishment. “You are surely joking.”
“It’s all I’m willing to give up for this foolish endeavor,” he says, sounding as though he’s throwing a tantrum. “I must consider Qantua’s safety, should your little venture fail.”
“We have a chance to stop a threat at its source before it reaches our doorstep,” I say with determination. “Fewer warriors in defense now could prevent the need for many more later, should the cultists’ gaze turn towards our lands. Additionally, an investment in regional stability is an investment in Qantua’s future. We can’t thrive if our neighbors fall to this evil. Their instability could spill over, affecting trade routes, resource availability, and our own security. Likewise, this isn’t just about providing aid. It’s about forging an alliance. When Aimue and Tapeu see Qantua standing with them against a common enemy, it strengthens our political ties for future endeavors.”
Sachanqu rolls his eyes and looks skyward, taking another long pull from the carafe. As he does so, I lean in closer and look him in his eyes, unflinchingly.
“Besides, you know the conviction with which I’ve always served Qantua, Sachanqu,” I say. “I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t believe it to be crucial. I give you my solemn vow: the warriors will be safeguarded by strategies I’ve personally devised, and their valor will be directed with precision. Their success—and our future—is my responsibility.”
He lets out a long sigh, then says, “800. But that’s all I can afford to assign to this cause, Teqosa. Indeed, you have done much for Qantua, and it’s only because I respect you that I’m even entertaining this request.”
Though the number is still much lower than desired, I know I have to accept this offer. Under Inuxeq and Sianchu’s organization, this should be adequate to achieve our desired results, and our warriors are disciplined and well trained to be sufficient for this cause.
“Thank you, Sachanqu,” I say earnestly. “This means a great deal to me, and I know our warriors will eliminate this threat.”
“You better not be sending our capable warriors to their needless deaths,” he says, a stern warning, but one I can understand. I don’t take it personally, as he is like a father protecting his children, the men and women he’s directly developed. Because of this, I value and respect his hesitation to assign these warriors to my cause, wanting only what’s best for them. It’s why I do not take this offer for granted, and, likewise, I give him my assurance.
With the day drawing to a close, we part ways shortly after the agreement has been reached, sharing one last drink of chicha before departing the room. I’m met with more salutes from the warriors as I leave the fortress, while the night guards vigilantly sweep the horizon for any impending threats.
The day has been full and eventful, for better or worse, and during my trek back to Upachu’s home in the silence of the night, I’m left alone with my thoughts. It’s the first time in a long time that I am my only company. With that, I reflect on everything that has occurred, and everything that has yet to come.
I take a moment to stand in the middle of the blackened landscape, entirely encased in the night’s darkness, as the torches that illuminate Hilaqta twinkle like stars resting amongst the buildings and hillsides. The village and its people were all I knew for much of my life. Now, having been on tour for countless harvests during the war and encountering the different factions of Pachil, I’m uncertain how connected I feel to the people of my homeland. I will forever be passionate about protecting them—that much will always be true—yet it’s begun to feel as though I no longer belong among them. That while I view them as my people, they don’t return that view in kind. However, it’s from my conversation with Inuxeq that I see that, perhaps, ‘my’ people aren’t to be designated by the physical location, but rather the things in this world that connect us, that make us who we are. Through our shared experience of loss, it’s the choice to keep moving forward that unites all warriors, making us stronger and more compassionate than before.
Reflecting on this, I realize that I’m about to embark on perhaps the most pivotal journey of my life, one that transcends borders and allegiances. My path isn’t paved by the stones of Qantua alone, but by the collective will and courage of those who stand against darkness. As I prepare to venture into the unknown, I understand that my true kinship lies not just in the land I defend, but in the shared purpose with those who fight beside me, wherever that fight may take us. It’s in this unity, this unspoken bond of the warrior’s spirit, that I find a new sense of belonging—a fellowship forged in the crucible of conflict, and the hope of a peaceful future for all of Pachil.
