My pulse races, each beat thundering in my ears, as I stare at the menacing figure before me. The air around us feels charged, heavy with a sense of impending doom. Each imposing word spoken by this agent of the Eye in the Flame drips with malice, and the menacing, fiery glow in his eyes sends a shiver to every bone in my body. The shaman, Tlalqo steps back, a look of alarm etched on his face. My hand tightens around the amulets, their cool surface contrasts with the warmth flooding through my veins. I can’t let them fall into this cultist’s hands. I mustn’t.
The sorcerer takes a casual step forward, his eyes locked onto the amulets secured in my gripping fist. “Hand them over, child, and perhaps I’ll be merciful,” he taunts, a wicked grin spreads slowly across his face.
Running isn’t an option, and fighting seems suicidal. Yet surrendering the amulets would mean disaster. My mind races, searching for a way out, but the sorcerer’s advancing presence leaves little room for thought.
“Stay behind me, Tlalqo,” I mutter, my voice steady despite the fear clawing at my insides. I must protect these relics, protect the shaman, protect the village. Though I know I must utilize my gift from Iaqa, can it stand against the dark might of this sorcerer?
“Brave deeds from such a feeble, young girl,” he mocks with a sinister laugh to punctuate his barb. “Let’s see if you’re as courageous as you believe yourself to be.”
Gathering every fiber of my resolve, I tighten my fists, my knuckles whitening. I fix my fierce gaze onto the red-robed man, representative of the evil that threatens the very heart of Qespina, Qiapu, and possibly all of Pachil. I stand unwavering, a solitary guardian against the shadow. I cannot—I will not—falter.
Within a couple beats of the heart, the figure’s twisted hands glow as if they’ve become two large torches, burning brightly. Flashbacks to the assault on Pichaqta course through my mind, and, in moments, I leap for Tlalqo, tackling him to the ground as two balls of fire hastily speed over us. Hurrying to my feet, I grab Tlalqo by his shoulders and lift him up, pulling him away from where we lay.
From behind us, I hear a loud whoosh followed by a thudding collision with the ground. Glancing behind me, I gasp at the sight of a large, black, burnt patch of soil that replaced where the shaman and I once stood, smoldering with the stench of charred, smokey grass.
I swivel my head right to left as I seek some type of protection against this madman’s attacks. Yet the site offers very little in the way of cover, being mostly an open field littered with flowers, their bright and cheerful colors contrasting with the violence we’re encountering. There is only one location that offers modest sanctuary in this sacred place: a mound of loose rocks, organized and piled neatly and surrounded by similar, smaller piles, appearing to be some sort of shrine or idol for worship. It will require a long, vulnerable sprint to reach it, but we must be better off there than where we are now.
“We’ll need to run to those rocks,” I tell Tlalqo, pointing to the destination, “and with haste, as we’ll be dangerously exposed. Can you make it?” He nods in short, nervous jerks, casting his gaze upon the rock pile.
I wait for the robed man’s hands to glow again as he casually walks toward us, a predator playing with its meal. Just as he brings his hands up and launches more balls of fire, I take the shaman’s hand and pull him with me, running as hard as I can toward the rock pile. The flames whizz past us and sail into the distance, but we’re already hurrying as fast as our legs will take us toward our refuge.
Tlalqo trips on the soil and stumbles. I quickly catch him, and the shaman rests for a moment on a single knee. In my mind amidst a brief panic, I’m urging him to get up. After a slight struggle, he uses me as leverage to stand up, and glances back at our attacker. From the corner of my eye, a large, orange light flashes brightly, and I anticipate yet another pair of flaming projectiles will soon come our way. I shout something incoherent as I yank Tlalqo and pull us back on course for the rocks. The heat of the flying fireballs singes the air around me, searing my senses as we dodge and weave.
We dive behind the pile of rocks as we eventually, finally, reach our haven. The shaman and I attempt to catch our collective breath, a stunned expression fixed to our panting faces. Tangled within the sound of the breeze, our assailant’s footsteps crunch the rich, volcanic soil as he makes his way toward us.
“You think a few pebbles will save you?” the figure sneers. There’s a long, eerie pause before, suddenly, there’s a tremendous fwoomp and the clacking of stones toppling that floods our ears. The top of my head becomes unbearably hot for a moment as the fireballs collide with the rocky barrier.
“We will not last long here, at this rate,” the shaman warns. “He must be stopped, but I don’t see how that’s possible.”
Peeking around the stone pile, my gaze drifts to the mountain spring nearby, its waters glistening behind the man in the blood-colored robes. It’s a tremendous body of water—much larger than anything I’ve moved before—and I recall how worn out I became after using my abilities on the water channel in Pichaqta. I worry that, having not rested from my earlier efforts, it may be too much for me to manipulate without collapsing completely after a few brief moments.
But I have to try.
My back presses against the rough surface of the stacked rocks, my chest heaving with each rapid breath. Tlalqo crouches beside me, his eyes wide with a mix of fear and awe. The air sizzles with heat from the sorcerer’s balls of flame, their glow illuminating our desperate refuge. I peek over the rocks, only to duck back as another fiery orb soars past, leaving a trail of scorching air.
“Tlalqo,” I say, turning to the shaman, “I need to focus. Cover me.” He nods and starts chanting a low, rhythmic prayer, offering me his spiritual support.
Closing my eyes, I concentrate on the spring, envisioning its cool, serene flow. I reach out with my senses, feeling for the life force within the water, its energy, its power. The sound of the spring, swooshing and swirling, becomes louder in my mind, drowning out the chaos around us.
My palms face the spring, and I draw in a deep breath, channeling everything within myself that I can muster into this moment. Slowly, I sense a connection, a pull, like a thread being gently tugged. I feel the water respond, stirring under my command.
I emerge from behind the rock effigy, and with a forceful exhale, I thrust my hands forward. The water surges, and a colossal wave rises from the spring, roaring with unleashed fury. My heart races as I guide it, steering the massive wall of water towards the Eye in the Flame cultist. His eyes widen in shock as he realizes the imminent threat, raising his arms to shield himself in a futile effort of defense. The wave crashes down with a thunderous roar, aiming to engulf the sorcerer, to extinguish his flames, to turn his assault into a mere memory washed away by the relentless power of nature.
I stand behind the barrier of water, my arms outstretched and controlling the flow, feeling both exhausted and exhilarated. This is the most I’ve ever demanded from my powers, and the strain is immense. But I can’t falter now—not when so much is at stake.
The sorcerer is in a heap of red cloth, lying motionless upon the wet, green grass. My breath stills as I wait patiently for any sign of life, hoping to have snuffed out the threatening flame. The shaman cautiously peeks around the stone pile to inspect the scene, as well, and we both stare out into the vast field.
To our dismay, the man rises, lifting himself up slowly onto all fours, and gasps for breath. His head raises, a scornful expression washes over his face. He’s no longer amused, and his arrogance has been replaced with full on rage.
“You will pay dearly for not rolling over and yielding like a good dog,” he growls. “I have yet to show you the might of Eztletiqa. There will be no mercy to those deemed unworthy.”
Crouched low, the sorcerer strikes the ground with seething fury, beating his fists onto the wet mud like a ritual drum. Initially, I’m bewildered by his actions, but my confusion swiftly dissipates as waves of dirt surge toward us, transforming the terrain into a tumultuous, flame-crested ocean, with fire erupting violently from the volcanic soil.
“Run!” I shout, pulling Tlalqo away from the incoming wave of destruction. We sprint away from the stone pile just as the eruption of fire bursts through them, spewing rock and embers about the area. I’m struck with a few pieces of burning debris, searing through my tunic and scorching sections of my shoulder and neck. I fight through the pain and focus on getting the shaman to safety, which, of all the locations remaining in this field, is a small, minuscule ditch from a dried ravine. We duck into the low cover, and Tlalqo looks white as a sheet.
“You… you controlled the water!” He stammers, stupefied. I don’t have time to explain to him how it’s been a gift I’ve possessed since my birth, focusing on our attacker, who continues to pound the ground and send ripples of fire and shaken terrain through his pounding fists. He rotates slightly, sending the waves in different directions that get closer and closer to where we’re hiding. I must try to stop him once more, for good.
A flash catches my attention, and soon, the sorcerer casts his hands toward us as more orbs of fire hurtle through the air. I lay flat on the ground as the flames flicker past, singeing my hair and sleeves of my long, blue tunic as I reflexively use my hands to protect my head.
An idea comes to me, and I close my eyes once again in concentration, slowly casting my hand upward. Then, as if pulling a drawer open, I bring my hand toward my torso. As I had envisioned with my mind’s eye, a wall of water slowly makes its way to me, acting as a shield. He sends a flurry of fireballs, each one hurled at us with more intensity and velocity than the ones before it, but the water shield manages to hold. I fight the exhaustion, expelling every drop of energy I have into upholding this protective ward. Each swish sploosh splash is a triumphant sound as the wall of water extinguishes his fiery efforts, evaporating them into a mist with each impact.
In frustration, the sorcerer of the Eye in the Flame returns to pounding the ground with his fists, sending more waves of dirt and flame rushing toward our small space of cover. I hear Tlalqo mumbling something—a prayer to Aqxilapu? This sorcerer’s attacks are relentless, and they won’t cease unless I can cease them myself.
I raise my hands again, as if carrying the water with my palms, and more liquid from the mountain spring rises in another wall that towers high above the surface behind our attacker. With an abrupt, outward flick, I send the wave crashing down upon the sorcerer’s back, pounding him into the ground with the spring’s heavy impact. He’s smothered into the muddy terrain as the rush of the spring water washes over him. He forces himself up once again, and he emits another terrifying, maniacal laugh.
“You are impressive, I will confess,” he says, looking down at the ground beneath him as he slowly gets up and collects himself. “Yet the amulets are wasted on you. You don’t even know what they’re capable of. Perhaps it’s time I showed you what you lack.”
My muscles tense at his ominous words. I’ve struggled to match his ferocity, and the fatigue has started to set in. I’m uncertain how much more we’ll be able to withstand, as each unrelenting blow I’ve defended and each incoming attack from which we’ve had to escape drains me further and further into complete exhaustion. What is he planning on doing this time?
I brace for the sorcerer’s next attack, readying myself for whatever he unleashes next. Will we need to run? Will I need to fight? Instead, he kneels and begins to chant, first in a low growl, then in a loud shout. The language is unfamiliar to me, but it sounds as though he’s infusing his words with venom, his intent with this prayer is purely sinister.
“What is he doing?” I ask the shaman, hoping he has insight into what’s occurring.
He shrugs nervously. “I’ve never heard such a ritual performed. The words sound Ulxa, and I can only guess they are threatening.”
I’m perplexed, looking back at the sorcerer with my mouth agape. “What should we do?”
Before Tlalqo can answer, my throat tightens up, as if someone—or something—is slowly closing my windpipe. I look for the culprit, but find no one. Tlalqo reflexively clasps at his neck, struggling for breath. It’s then that I notice: Our shadows are no longer beneath us. Instead, I watch the long, dark silhouettes slowly crawl up, up along our legs and twisting around our torsos, like a boa constrictor sliding upward and coiling around its prey.
I attempt to call out to Tlalqo, but my words are strained to a squeak. It’s becoming more difficult to breathe as I feel my lungs compressing and my waist tightening. It’s as if invisible walls are closing in around me, or that I’ve been tossed into the sea with a stone tied to my feet, and I can’t swim to the surface. My breaths get smaller, air no longer finding its way into my mouth as I gasp for its life-giving essence.
In a horrific sight, Tlalqo’s eyes begin to bulge as though they’re fleeing his sockets, each vein in his neck and face emerge from the skin’s surface as he struggles for breath. He’s on his knees, clutching his throat, his fingers gnarled into tense, deformed claws as his eyes roll to the back of his head. His shoulders slump, and his body sags limp. I feel as though a weight is forcing me down, like a heavy boulder is pressing my chest and driving me into the ground.
I can no longer hear the wind rustling the grass, nor smell the singed dirt. All that remains is my heartbeat, slowing and slowing, thundering in my ears. As my breath dwindles, the tranquil sky mocks me with its serenity. How can it remain so undisturbed, so blissfully ignorant, when the shadow of death looms so close?
I’m alerted to something in what he said. The amulets are wasted on you. What could this mean? Instinctively, I clutch the jade and onyx amulet
With my last, dying breaths, I utter the words from my morning ritual—it’s the only act that comes to mind. The ritual has provided me comfort in my short time on Pachil, so perhaps it can provide me a comfort in my final moments.
Strength of Pachil’s ancient lands, steady and enduring,
Flow of the endless rivers, guiding and sure,
Breath of the sacred winds, ever-present and assuring,
Warmth of the sun’s gentle light, life-giving and pure.
The invisible hands around my throat immediately loosen, opening my airways and allowing air to rush into my lungs. I cough—blessedly, I cough—and I watch the shadows quickly flow down my body, returning to the ground beside me, no longer my enemy, but my ever-present companion. I look over at Tlalqo, lying unconscious. I don’t know what to do, how to heal him. All I can think to do is reach out and clutch his wrist, repeating the ritual, infusing any remaining energy I can muster into each spoken word.
Strength of Pachil’s ancient lands, steady and enduring,
Flow of the endless rivers, guiding and sure,
The shaman’s eyes snap open, wide with shock and disorientation. His head jerks frantically from side to side, trying to grasp his sudden return to the living world as I utter, with a strained voice, the final words of the sacred prayer.
Breath of the sacred winds, ever-present and assuring,
Warmth of the sun’s gentle light, life-giving and pure.
Tlalqo erupts with a loud gasp as he chokes for breath, coughing intensely and clasping his chest. His expression is that of someone stunned, astonished to still be alive. I sigh breaths of relief, loosening my grasp of his wrist as my body collapses onto the ground. I feel as though someone is pressing down upon me with their boot and pinning me to the dirt, my muscles screaming in agony.
“Are we still in Pachil,” the shaman inquires, “or have we traversed into Aqxilapu’s celestial plane?”
“Mercifully, we’re still alive,” I inform him, my voice still a wheeze, “but unfortunately, so is he.” As I subtly tilt my head towards the sorcerer, my neck cranes just enough to catch a glimpse of him. There he stands, a sinister silhouette against the dim light, his gaze fixed upon us, his hands balled into tight fists as he clinches his jaw even tighter. The cultist’s eyes, dark and unyielding, is unamused by our continued resistance.
“You have proven resilient, clinging to life like a stubborn ember,” the sorcerer snarls. “Let’s see how you fare against a creature born from the very heart of this sacred soil.”
An inner voice roars within me, urging me to do something, to act quickly and disrupt whatever he’s scheming. Yet I’m frozen in fear, terrified by his chilling, commanding presence. Within him, a storm is brewing in their depths, a volatile mix of restrained fury and calculated malice. With a menacing calm, he readies himself, as if preparing to reveal his final, devastating play, then lifts his arms to the heavens.
“Rise, ancient guardian, and extinguish these intruders!”
The ground trembles around us with a thunderous boom, tearing up the terrain as a fault splits the ritual site. Dirt and particles are kicked up, clouding my vision, and I struggle to breath through the thick, dense air. It’s beyond the fiery tremors from when the sorcerer pounded the ground before—those appear as tiny ripples in a puddle of rain now. This feels as though the entire continent is shaking, about to be devoured by the volcanic soil beneath us. The cultists’ laughter merges with the rumbling, creating a cacophony of sounds that sends chills down my spine.
Panicked, I look for Tlalqo, who leaps just as the mouth of the quaking ground opens up and tries to consume him. He lands painfully onto his side, narrowly avoiding a falling boulder that tumbles its way into the crevasse. I race as fast as I can as the ground shifts and sinks beneath my feet, and what was once running on flat land has turned into an uphill climb. I desperately reach for anything to grab ahold of, to pull myself from the plummeting ground, but I can only grasp at air. My foot catches a solid section of ground, and I’m just able to launch myself onto a secure space that’s unmoved by the eruption behind me.
As I lay in the dirt, I twist my neck around to peer at the plume of smoke, ash, and sediment bursting from the depths of the terrain, as if it were coming to life. Standing off to the side nearly a field away, I can just make out the sorcerer’s dastardly smile, which complements the thick, black smoke that swirls around his lifted hands. A roar erupts amidst the booming sound of the trembling terrain. My eyes widen in both fear and fascination as a colossal creature emerges from the ground.
My mind reels at the sight of this monster, struggling to fathom the beast before us, a nightmarish amalgamation, seemingly part jaguar, part serpent. Its front half boasts a muscular prowess, its fur a pitch so deep it rivals the abyss itself, speckled with spots that smolder like dying coals in low light. Its eyes, ablaze with a fierce, almost sentient glow, pierce into mine, sending jolts of dread coursing through me. A snarl peels back to reveal a deadly array of razor-sharp fangs, and its growl rumbles through the quivering soil.
The fearsome creature’s back half morphs into the essence of the serpent, elongated and sinuous, its length cloaked in scales that glisten with a malevolent, obsidian gleam that absorbs any light which dares to touch them. It slithers with a hypnotic grace, weaving through the smoke and ash, carving a deep furrow in the ground behind it. Its muscular tail whips through the air, churning the surrounding smoke into a frenzied vortex.
This entity, a fearsome fusion of two of nature’s most formidable predators, seems as if conjured from the darkest depths of ancient lore, surpassing any tale I’ve heard around the campfires of Sanqo. Drawing nearer, its heated breath clashes with the chill of the air, with curls of vapor twisting like spectral tendrils.
“Behold, the power of Eztletiqa!” the sorcerer of the Eye in the Flame bellows with triumph, his voice cutting through the chaos of eruptions and animalistic roars. “Tlaxcoatl, enact my god’s will!”
My pulse races, each beat thundering in my ears, as I stare at the menacing figure before me. The air around us feels charged, heavy with a sense of impending doom. Each imposing word spoken by this agent of the Eye in the Flame drips with malice, and the menacing, fiery glow in his eyes sends a shiver to every bone in my body. The shaman, Tlalqo steps back, a look of alarm etched on his face. My hand tightens around the amulets, their cool surface contrasts with the warmth flooding through my veins. I can’t let them fall into this cultist’s hands. I mustn’t.
The sorcerer takes a casual step forward, his eyes locked onto the amulets secured in my gripping fist. “Hand them over, child, and perhaps I’ll be merciful,” he taunts, a wicked grin spreads slowly across his face.
Running isn’t an option, and fighting seems suicidal. Yet surrendering the amulets would mean disaster. My mind races, searching for a way out, but the sorcerer’s advancing presence leaves little room for thought.
“Stay behind me, Tlalqo,” I mutter, my voice steady despite the fear clawing at my insides. I must protect these relics, protect the shaman, protect the village. Though I know I must utilize my gift from Iaqa, can it stand against the dark might of this sorcerer?
“Brave deeds from such a feeble, young girl,” he mocks with a sinister laugh to punctuate his barb. “Let’s see if you’re as courageous as you believe yourself to be.”
Gathering every fiber of my resolve, I tighten my fists, my knuckles whitening. I fix my fierce gaze onto the red-robed man, representative of the evil that threatens the very heart of Qespina, Qiapu, and possibly all of Pachil. I stand unwavering, a solitary guardian against the shadow. I cannot—I will not—falter.
Within a couple beats of the heart, the figure’s twisted hands glow as if they’ve become two large torches, burning brightly. Flashbacks to the assault on Pichaqta course through my mind, and, in moments, I leap for Tlalqo, tackling him to the ground as two balls of fire hastily speed over us. Hurrying to my feet, I grab Tlalqo by his shoulders and lift him up, pulling him away from where we lay.
From behind us, I hear a loud whoosh followed by a thudding collision with the ground. Glancing behind me, I gasp at the sight of a large, black, burnt patch of soil that replaced where the shaman and I once stood, smoldering with the stench of charred, smokey grass.
I swivel my head right to left as I seek some type of protection against this madman’s attacks. Yet the site offers very little in the way of cover, being mostly an open field littered with flowers, their bright and cheerful colors contrasting with the violence we’re encountering. There is only one location that offers modest sanctuary in this sacred place: a mound of loose rocks, organized and piled neatly and surrounded by similar, smaller piles, appearing to be some sort of shrine or idol for worship. It will require a long, vulnerable sprint to reach it, but we must be better off there than where we are now.
“We’ll need to run to those rocks,” I tell Tlalqo, pointing to the destination, “and with haste, as we’ll be dangerously exposed. Can you make it?” He nods in short, nervous jerks, casting his gaze upon the rock pile.
I wait for the robed man’s hands to glow again as he casually walks toward us, a predator playing with its meal. Just as he brings his hands up and launches more balls of fire, I take the shaman’s hand and pull him with me, running as hard as I can toward the rock pile. The flames whizz past us and sail into the distance, but we’re already hurrying as fast as our legs will take us toward our refuge.
Tlalqo trips on the soil and stumbles. I quickly catch him, and the shaman rests for a moment on a single knee. In my mind amidst a brief panic, I’m urging him to get up. After a slight struggle, he uses me as leverage to stand up, and glances back at our attacker. From the corner of my eye, a large, orange light flashes brightly, and I anticipate yet another pair of flaming projectiles will soon come our way. I shout something incoherent as I yank Tlalqo and pull us back on course for the rocks. The heat of the flying fireballs singes the air around me, searing my senses as we dodge and weave.
We dive behind the pile of rocks as we eventually, finally, reach our haven. The shaman and I attempt to catch our collective breath, a stunned expression fixed to our panting faces. Tangled within the sound of the breeze, our assailant’s footsteps crunch the rich, volcanic soil as he makes his way toward us.
“You think a few pebbles will save you?” the figure sneers. There’s a long, eerie pause before, suddenly, there’s a tremendous fwoomp and the clacking of stones toppling that floods our ears. The top of my head becomes unbearably hot for a moment as the fireballs collide with the rocky barrier.
“We will not last long here, at this rate,” the shaman warns. “He must be stopped, but I don’t see how that’s possible.”
Peeking around the stone pile, my gaze drifts to the mountain spring nearby, its waters glistening behind the man in the blood-colored robes. It’s a tremendous body of water—much larger than anything I’ve moved before—and I recall how worn out I became after using my abilities on the water channel in Pichaqta. I worry that, having not rested from my earlier efforts, it may be too much for me to manipulate without collapsing completely after a few brief moments.
But I have to try.
My back presses against the rough surface of the stacked rocks, my chest heaving with each rapid breath. Tlalqo crouches beside me, his eyes wide with a mix of fear and awe. The air sizzles with heat from the sorcerer’s balls of flame, their glow illuminating our desperate refuge. I peek over the rocks, only to duck back as another fiery orb soars past, leaving a trail of scorching air.
“Tlalqo,” I say, turning to the shaman, “I need to focus. Cover me.” He nods and starts chanting a low, rhythmic prayer, offering me his spiritual support.
Closing my eyes, I concentrate on the spring, envisioning its cool, serene flow. I reach out with my senses, feeling for the life force within the water, its energy, its power. The sound of the spring, swooshing and swirling, becomes louder in my mind, drowning out the chaos around us.
My palms face the spring, and I draw in a deep breath, channeling everything within myself that I can muster into this moment. Slowly, I sense a connection, a pull, like a thread being gently tugged. I feel the water respond, stirring under my command.
I emerge from behind the rock effigy, and with a forceful exhale, I thrust my hands forward. The water surges, and a colossal wave rises from the spring, roaring with unleashed fury. My heart races as I guide it, steering the massive wall of water towards the Eye in the Flame cultist. His eyes widen in shock as he realizes the imminent threat, raising his arms to shield himself in a futile effort of defense. The wave crashes down with a thunderous roar, aiming to engulf the sorcerer, to extinguish his flames, to turn his assault into a mere memory washed away by the relentless power of nature.
I stand behind the barrier of water, my arms outstretched and controlling the flow, feeling both exhausted and exhilarated. This is the most I’ve ever demanded from my powers, and the strain is immense. But I can’t falter now—not when so much is at stake.
The sorcerer is in a heap of red cloth, lying motionless upon the wet, green grass. My breath stills as I wait patiently for any sign of life, hoping to have snuffed out the threatening flame. The shaman cautiously peeks around the stone pile to inspect the scene, as well, and we both stare out into the vast field.
To our dismay, the man rises, lifting himself up slowly onto all fours, and gasps for breath. His head raises, a scornful expression washes over his face. He’s no longer amused, and his arrogance has been replaced with full on rage.
“You will pay dearly for not rolling over and yielding like a good dog,” he growls. “I have yet to show you the might of Eztletiqa. There will be no mercy to those deemed unworthy.”
Crouched low, the sorcerer strikes the ground with seething fury, beating his fists onto the wet mud like a ritual drum. Initially, I’m bewildered by his actions, but my confusion swiftly dissipates as waves of dirt surge toward us, transforming the terrain into a tumultuous, flame-crested ocean, with fire erupting violently from the volcanic soil.
“Run!” I shout, pulling Tlalqo away from the incoming wave of destruction. We sprint away from the stone pile just as the eruption of fire bursts through them, spewing rock and embers about the area. I’m struck with a few pieces of burning debris, searing through my tunic and scorching sections of my shoulder and neck. I fight through the pain and focus on getting the shaman to safety, which, of all the locations remaining in this field, is a small, minuscule ditch from a dried ravine. We duck into the low cover, and Tlalqo looks white as a sheet.
“You… you controlled the water!” He stammers, stupefied. I don’t have time to explain to him how it’s been a gift I’ve possessed since my birth, focusing on our attacker, who continues to pound the ground and send ripples of fire and shaken terrain through his pounding fists. He rotates slightly, sending the waves in different directions that get closer and closer to where we’re hiding. I must try to stop him once more, for good.
A flash catches my attention, and soon, the sorcerer casts his hands toward us as more orbs of fire hurtle through the air. I lay flat on the ground as the flames flicker past, singeing my hair and sleeves of my long, blue tunic as I reflexively use my hands to protect my head.
An idea comes to me, and I close my eyes once again in concentration, slowly casting my hand upward. Then, as if pulling a drawer open, I bring my hand toward my torso. As I had envisioned with my mind’s eye, a wall of water slowly makes its way to me, acting as a shield. He sends a flurry of fireballs, each one hurled at us with more intensity and velocity than the ones before it, but the water shield manages to hold. I fight the exhaustion, expelling every drop of energy I have into upholding this protective ward. Each swish sploosh splash is a triumphant sound as the wall of water extinguishes his fiery efforts, evaporating them into a mist with each impact.
In frustration, the sorcerer of the Eye in the Flame returns to pounding the ground with his fists, sending more waves of dirt and flame rushing toward our small space of cover. I hear Tlalqo mumbling something—a prayer to Aqxilapu? This sorcerer’s attacks are relentless, and they won’t cease unless I can cease them myself.
I raise my hands again, as if carrying the water with my palms, and more liquid from the mountain spring rises in another wall that towers high above the surface behind our attacker. With an abrupt, outward flick, I send the wave crashing down upon the sorcerer’s back, pounding him into the ground with the spring’s heavy impact. He’s smothered into the muddy terrain as the rush of the spring water washes over him. He forces himself up once again, and he emits another terrifying, maniacal laugh.
“You are impressive, I will confess,” he says, looking down at the ground beneath him as he slowly gets up and collects himself. “Yet the amulets are wasted on you. You don’t even know what they’re capable of. Perhaps it’s time I showed you what you lack.”
My muscles tense at his ominous words. I’ve struggled to match his ferocity, and the fatigue has started to set in. I’m uncertain how much more we’ll be able to withstand, as each unrelenting blow I’ve defended and each incoming attack from which we’ve had to escape drains me further and further into complete exhaustion. What is he planning on doing this time?
I brace for the sorcerer’s next attack, readying myself for whatever he unleashes next. Will we need to run? Will I need to fight? Instead, he kneels and begins to chant, first in a low growl, then in a loud shout. The language is unfamiliar to me, but it sounds as though he’s infusing his words with venom, his intent with this prayer is purely sinister.
“What is he doing?” I ask the shaman, hoping he has insight into what’s occurring.
He shrugs nervously. “I’ve never heard such a ritual performed. The words sound Ulxa, and I can only guess they are threatening.”
I’m perplexed, looking back at the sorcerer with my mouth agape. “What should we do?”
Before Tlalqo can answer, my throat tightens up, as if someone—or something—is slowly closing my windpipe. I look for the culprit, but find no one. Tlalqo reflexively clasps at his neck, struggling for breath. It’s then that I notice: Our shadows are no longer beneath us. Instead, I watch the long, dark silhouettes slowly crawl up, up along our legs and twisting around our torsos, like a boa constrictor sliding upward and coiling around its prey.
I attempt to call out to Tlalqo, but my words are strained to a squeak. It’s becoming more difficult to breathe as I feel my lungs compressing and my waist tightening. It’s as if invisible walls are closing in around me, or that I’ve been tossed into the sea with a stone tied to my feet, and I can’t swim to the surface. My breaths get smaller, air no longer finding its way into my mouth as I gasp for its life-giving essence.
In a horrific sight, Tlalqo’s eyes begin to bulge as though they’re fleeing his sockets, each vein in his neck and face emerge from the skin’s surface as he struggles for breath. He’s on his knees, clutching his throat, his fingers gnarled into tense, deformed claws as his eyes roll to the back of his head. His shoulders slump, and his body sags limp. I feel as though a weight is forcing me down, like a heavy boulder is pressing my chest and driving me into the ground.
I can no longer hear the wind rustling the grass, nor smell the singed dirt. All that remains is my heartbeat, slowing and slowing, thundering in my ears. As my breath dwindles, the tranquil sky mocks me with its serenity. How can it remain so undisturbed, so blissfully ignorant, when the shadow of death looms so close?
I’m alerted to something in what he said. The amulets are wasted on you. What could this mean? Instinctively, I clutch the jade and onyx amulet
With my last, dying breaths, I utter the words from my morning ritual—it’s the only act that comes to mind. The ritual has provided me comfort in my short time on Pachil, so perhaps it can provide me a comfort in my final moments.
Strength of Pachil’s ancient lands, steady and enduring,
Flow of the endless rivers, guiding and sure,
Breath of the sacred winds, ever-present and assuring,
Warmth of the sun’s gentle light, life-giving and pure.
The invisible hands around my throat immediately loosen, opening my airways and allowing air to rush into my lungs. I cough—blessedly, I cough—and I watch the shadows quickly flow down my body, returning to the ground beside me, no longer my enemy, but my ever-present companion. I look over at Tlalqo, lying unconscious. I don’t know what to do, how to heal him. All I can think to do is reach out and clutch his wrist, repeating the ritual, infusing any remaining energy I can muster into each spoken word.
Strength of Pachil’s ancient lands, steady and enduring,
Flow of the endless rivers, guiding and sure,
The shaman’s eyes snap open, wide with shock and disorientation. His head jerks frantically from side to side, trying to grasp his sudden return to the living world as I utter, with a strained voice, the final words of the sacred prayer.
Breath of the sacred winds, ever-present and assuring,
Warmth of the sun’s gentle light, life-giving and pure.
Tlalqo erupts with a loud gasp as he chokes for breath, coughing intensely and clasping his chest. His expression is that of someone stunned, astonished to still be alive. I sigh breaths of relief, loosening my grasp of his wrist as my body collapses onto the ground. I feel as though someone is pressing down upon me with their boot and pinning me to the dirt, my muscles screaming in agony.
“Are we still in Pachil,” the shaman inquires, “or have we traversed into Aqxilapu’s celestial plane?”
“Mercifully, we’re still alive,” I inform him, my voice still a wheeze, “but unfortunately, so is he.” As I subtly tilt my head towards the sorcerer, my neck cranes just enough to catch a glimpse of him. There he stands, a sinister silhouette against the dim light, his gaze fixed upon us, his hands balled into tight fists as he clinches his jaw even tighter. The cultist’s eyes, dark and unyielding, is unamused by our continued resistance.
“You have proven resilient, clinging to life like a stubborn ember,” the sorcerer snarls. “Let’s see how you fare against a creature born from the very heart of this sacred soil.”
An inner voice roars within me, urging me to do something, to act quickly and disrupt whatever he’s scheming. Yet I’m frozen in fear, terrified by his chilling, commanding presence. Within him, a storm is brewing in their depths, a volatile mix of restrained fury and calculated malice. With a menacing calm, he readies himself, as if preparing to reveal his final, devastating play, then lifts his arms to the heavens.
“Rise, ancient guardian, and extinguish these intruders!”
The ground trembles around us with a thunderous boom, tearing up the terrain as a fault splits the ritual site. Dirt and particles are kicked up, clouding my vision, and I struggle to breath through the thick, dense air. It’s beyond the fiery tremors from when the sorcerer pounded the ground before—those appear as tiny ripples in a puddle of rain now. This feels as though the entire continent is shaking, about to be devoured by the volcanic soil beneath us. The cultists’ laughter merges with the rumbling, creating a cacophony of sounds that sends chills down my spine.
Panicked, I look for Tlalqo, who leaps just as the mouth of the quaking ground opens up and tries to consume him. He lands painfully onto his side, narrowly avoiding a falling boulder that tumbles its way into the crevasse. I race as fast as I can as the ground shifts and sinks beneath my feet, and what was once running on flat land has turned into an uphill climb. I desperately reach for anything to grab ahold of, to pull myself from the plummeting ground, but I can only grasp at air. My foot catches a solid section of ground, and I’m just able to launch myself onto a secure space that’s unmoved by the eruption behind me.
As I lay in the dirt, I twist my neck around to peer at the plume of smoke, ash, and sediment bursting from the depths of the terrain, as if it were coming to life. Standing off to the side nearly a field away, I can just make out the sorcerer’s dastardly smile, which complements the thick, black smoke that swirls around his lifted hands. A roar erupts amidst the booming sound of the trembling terrain. My eyes widen in both fear and fascination as a colossal creature emerges from the ground.
My mind reels at the sight of this monster, struggling to fathom the beast before us, a nightmarish amalgamation, seemingly part jaguar, part serpent. Its front half boasts a muscular prowess, its fur a pitch so deep it rivals the abyss itself, speckled with spots that smolder like dying coals in low light. Its eyes, ablaze with a fierce, almost sentient glow, pierce into mine, sending jolts of dread coursing through me. A snarl peels back to reveal a deadly array of razor-sharp fangs, and its growl rumbles through the quivering soil.
The fearsome creature’s back half morphs into the essence of the serpent, elongated and sinuous, its length cloaked in scales that glisten with a malevolent, obsidian gleam that absorbs any light which dares to touch them. It slithers with a hypnotic grace, weaving through the smoke and ash, carving a deep furrow in the ground behind it. Its muscular tail whips through the air, churning the surrounding smoke into a frenzied vortex.
This entity, a fearsome fusion of two of nature’s most formidable predators, seems as if conjured from the darkest depths of ancient lore, surpassing any tale I’ve heard around the campfires of Sanqo. Drawing nearer, its heated breath clashes with the chill of the air, with curls of vapor twisting like spectral tendrils.
“Behold, the power of Eztletiqa!” the sorcerer of the Eye in the Flame bellows with triumph, his voice cutting through the chaos of eruptions and animalistic roars. “Tlaxcoatl, enact my god’s will!”
