We scoured the lands skirting the Aimue frontier, a relentless and time-devouring task, only to bear a fruitless harvest. Across the sprawling grasslands that stretch to the north of the Maiu Antumalal—the mighty, twisting river that serves as a boundary between the Aimue and Tapeu territories—the faint traces of Tiahesi and a few dozen Qantua warriors’ passage are elusive, nearly swallowed by the vast expanse. As the sun begins its descent, the only other sound heard over the tall, rustling grasses is Mexqutli’s expletive-laden outbursts.
Discouraged after spending nearly an entire day on the search, we regroup at the campsite, established shortly after our deadly confrontation with the lone sorcerer of the Eye in the Flame. Due to that encounter, as well as the battle among the ruins of Xaqelatun, our numbers have greatly dwindled. We have fallen to just over half the warriors that started this journey, a grim reminder of the deadly mission we’ve undertaken.
Mexqutli chucks his obsidian daggers onto the ground in disgust, startling the men making preparations for the night’s eventual campfire. He plops down onto a tree stump and retrieves a water skin. He dumps the contents into his mouth like a hatchling eager for a meal, yet it’s when the pungent fermented sweetness wafts over to me that I realize it is, in fact, chicha. I hesitate to ask where he found some, concerned that I won’t like the questionable means he must have used to obtain it.
“That hollow cacao pod, Tiahesi, has eluded our best trackers!” he complains. “How does a group that large evade being detected?”
“Surely, they couldn’t have traveled far,” Sianchu reasons. “It hasn’t yet been a day.”
“We must continue searching,” I command. Addressing Sianchu, I say, “Check with the Qantua warriors. They may remain tight-lipped, but perhaps there’s someone who isn’t loyal to Tiahesi and can speak to what they may have overheard or seen.”
“Mexqutli,” I say, turning to him, “take a few of our scouts and join me in expanding the search to a wider area. He’s likely relying on the thick grasses to make finding his tracks more difficult, but there will still be bent grass and other indicators. As Sianchu mentioned, he and the warriors couldn’t have traveled far; it’s simply a matter of finding where they went.”
The pair nod resolutely, ready to take on their respective tasks. With the autumn sun already getting inauspiciously low, we don’t have much time to continue our search. My hope is that we can still make progress by–
“His departure is all your fault, you know,” a gruff voice grumbles as we’re just about to depart from the site. I turn to see who made that remark, yet the coward doesn’t stand up to claim their words.
Speaking to no one in particular, I ask, “I beg your pardon?”
After a few heartbeats, a man who has been sharpening the blade of his sword with a stone pitches the rock aside, then stands up, sheathing his weapon in one fluid motion. “I said, Tiahesi’s departure is all your fault, jungle girl.” He glowers at me with his dark brown eyes. Overtop his black and gold tunic is leather armor nearly resembling a poncho, hanging loose and painted in numerous patterns of black and white. His face’s expression challenges me to react, to confront him.
“And what makes you believe–“
“Because,” he interrupts, “had you not insulted the man, demeaned the man, and belittled the other Qantua officers, they’d still be here right now.”
“What, so because Tiahesi has skin as thin as a maize husk, I have to coddle him? What kind of warrior can’t handle direct criticism?”
From the corner of my eye, Sianchu approaches me. I can sense he wants me to temper my words, but I persist. “I have to tread lightly around him because he’s overly sensitive, and can’t handle losing a contest of skill to a woman? I thought the Qantua were more civilized, more progressive than that.”
The man moves with measured and deliberate steps, and squares up to me. His set jaw speaks of barely restrained violence, nostrils flaring with each breath. After sizing me up, he hurls his words, “It’s not that he had hurt feelings, jungle girl. You showed little respect to Qantua leaders, who have been sent to their deaths because of your doing.”
“Why would I show respect to those who don’t respect me?” I charge back. “Just as you continue to refuse calling me by my name, you aren’t showing me why I should give youany respect!”
“Perhaps,” Sianchu attempts to intervene, “we can find a resolution that doesn’t deepen this divide.” But I’m already past listening, my focus narrowed on the man confronting me.
“Respect is earned on the battlefield, not given freely like charity,” I retort, standing my ground. “And if Tiahesi fled like the coward that he is, it’s because he realized he couldn’t earn it here.”
The man’s scowl deepens, lips twitching as if he’s about to spit venom. “You think very highly of yourself, jungle girl. But remember, the jungle isn’t the only place where survival matters. Politics, alliances, and honor—these are the battlefields you’re ill-equipped for.”
I scoff, crossing my arms and mirroring his stance. “And yet here I am, ready to face the Eye in the Flame, while Tiahesi and the others run away. Who’s really avoiding the battlefield?”
His gaze flickers, a momentary lapse revealing uncertainty. But just as quickly, it’s gone, replaced by the hardened mask of a warrior. Without another word, he turns, signaling for the other Qantua warriors to follow him. They exchange wary glances, but comply, leaving with heavy steps as their weathered leather armor groans softly in the quiet air.
Sianchu steps closer once they’re a safe distance away. His expression is one of concern and disappointment. “Not all battles are won with strength and bravado, Inuxeq. Haven’t we spoke of this before? Words can be sharper than any blade, and leave wounds just as deep.”
I sigh as his words press down on me. Inside of me is a rising tide of frustration at being so profoundly misunderstood. “I know, Sianchu. But sometimes, it feels like if I don’t stand up for myself, no one will.”
He places a hand on my shoulder and looks at me consolingly. “Standing up for yourself is one thing, but the respect you seek from others begins with the respect you offer. Even to those who seem undeserving.”
He turns and walks away, leaving me to ponder the complexities of respect, honor, and leadership amidst Tiahesi’s cravenly departure and the shadow of the upcoming battle. In my heart, a storm brews—part defiance, part doubt. Though well-intentioned, his advice feels like a relic from a bygone era, ill-suited to the cutthroat world in which we live.
Respect, huh? I quietly scoff, rolling the concept around in my mind as if testing the heft of a new weapon. To me, respect is seized through decisive actions and unwavering convictions. Sianchu talks about a harmony between strength and gentleness, something that feels more like an ideal than reality in the harshness of our circumstances.
With a shake of my head, I dismiss his counsel. He just doesn’t see the bigger picture, I tell myself. I’ll carve my path my way. Yet deep down, a small voice echoes his advice, leaving me to wonder if there’s any wisdom in his words.
I channel my discontentment into the search for Tiahesi and the other Qantua warriors. Keeping my eyes focused on the ground, I look for any indication of which way they could have gone. Though footprints may be difficult to find, perhaps a loose thread or feather from an arrow will lead me in the right direction. But my search is abruptly halted when Mexqutli’s fit of fury carries through the plains.
“What seems to be the issue?” I dare to ask Mexqutli. At first, he regales me with a slew of severe-sounding Ulxa words. But, eventually, he regains his composure long enough to inform me of his discovery.
“These tracks,” he says, pointing to a smattering of bent straw and disrupted dirt. “They attempt to confuse by wearing their sandals backward—an old trick to give the appearance of walking the other direction. Then, they used branches to sweep behind them and blur their tracks. This, too, did not confuse me.”
“Okay, so what’s the problem?” I ask, wishing he would hurry up and get to his point—precious daylight is fading rapidly, after all.
Mexqutli looks bewildered, arguably on the verge of incensed. “The tracks disappear! Just… vanish!”
“How could they possibly–“
“The footprints stop right here.” He points to a place in the clearing. It’s simply a large patch of dirt with small juts of grass. “Should my suspicions hold true, it is likely they tied straw to their feet to disguise their steps, so that nothing would be revealed.”
From this, he begins another tirade in Ulxa, kicking the dirt and flailing his arms. A few of the other Qantua warriors aiding us in our investigation look on, startled and discomforted.
“We used leaves,” I respond, frowning. This stops his ranting, and the Iqsuwa looks at me with curiosity. “It’s another trick I recall when I trained as a warrior during my childhood. We used bunches of palm leaves to soften our steps and distribute the weight. I should’ve expected other factions would have their version of this use of deception.”
With hands on his hips, Mexqutli grimaces and looks to the sky, hoping it’ll have answers for him. It’s been a frustrating search, with every possibility that they’re long gone from here, and in such an abbreviated amount of time. They could have taken off the moment we encountered the sorcerer, recognizing the likelihood of a long engagement with the cultist that would give them more time to run away.
“Lady Inuxeq!” A young Qantua warrior shouts to me. He waves us over to his location. There, he bends over and retrieves a gold coin from the ground. “I spotted this as I swept the area. Fortunately, we have enough light! The glimmer caught my eye, or else I would’ve nearly missed it!” Near the coin’s location, thin, black threads flutter in the breeze, caught onto stiff pieces of broken straw. It must be an indication of the Qantua passing through here, as well.
He places the coin into my hand, and I note how the small, metallic piece possesses a surprisingly hefty weight. It’s thick, dense, and rough to the touch, as if haphazardly made. Yet on the surface of one side is the engraving of a sun with a stoic face inside. Could that be Wiqamasqa, the ruler of all gods and creator of the sun? Or perhaps Iptanqa, the Tapeu member of the Eleven who harnessed the sun’s energy to aid in defeating the Timuaq? Around the circle are black rays—thirteen, to be precise—seemingly etched or burned into the coin. As I rub my thumb over the lines, it appears these recessed areas have been charred, as the rough texture reminds me of some type of resin or charcoal infused into the gold.
“What could this mean?” I ask to anyone willing to give me an answer. I look at the young warrior, but he shrugs as though he’s never seen the emblem before.
“It is in Qantua colors,” Mexqutli notes. “The black and gold. Perhaps it is another faction within the Qantua, belonging to a figure of authority there.”
“If only we had Teqosa with us,” I say disheartenedly, “he could confirm. It could also be related to the Tapeu, given our proximity. But you’re likely correct in your assessment, given Tiahesi being Qantua, and the black thread found nearby. A faction within a faction… And Taqsame had criticized the Tapeu for being fractured.”
“It is likely he was projecting,” Mexqutli hypothesizes. “Deflecting from the fractions within Qantua.” It’s a notable consideration. The young Qantua general was noticeably confrontational during our brief stay in Hilaqta. Like Tiahesi, perhaps he was attempting to throw us off his scent.
“Great job,” I say to the young Qantua warrior, forcing a smile. Sianchu’s words still resonate within me, causing me to take extra care in emphasizing my appreciation.
“Well,” Mexqutli says, sounding a bit defeated, “one thing we can say for certain is that they are headed in the direction of Qantua, judging from the relation to our campsite. It is likely they are traveling to report to whomever is responsible for producing this coin.”
“I’m not sure what they have to report,” I remark. “They’re only going to confirm what we and Teqosa said, that the Eye in the Flame is, in fact, a threat. What other message could they possibly relay?”
“That Qapauma will fall to ruins, I suppose,” Mexqutli says. “He questioned our capabilities before. Thus, he may determine we are marching to our deaths. What they strategize from there, I can only speculate.”
It’s a discomforting feeling, realizing there are those who don’t believe in our mission. Or those who seek to take advantage of what they deem to be a doomed endeavor. But I don’t share those opinions. It will be a daunting task, certainly, given the gray creatures and the sorcerers wielding unnatural powers. However, if we can get to Qapauma in enough time, we may be able to help the city defend itself from the Eye in the Flame. There is no other way to think or believe, if we want to be successful in defeating this evil.
We press on the following morning, traversing the mercifully flat plains that makes it easy on our weary feet. Dark storm clouds swirl overhead, but no rain falls upon the lands. It generates an ominous scene, one that seems to imply our impending conflict ahead at Qapauma. Though some of the more superstitious Qantua warriors find it to be an ill omen, I refuse to invest any effort or energy into the matter. There could be torrential floods, wildfires, whatever obstacles the Eleven want to place before me—it wouldn’t matter. I will continue toward Qapauma.
Remnants of the great stone bridge await our arrival as we reach the Maiu Antumalal. I heard stories of the great feat of architecture, yet witnessing the spectacular structure is a sight to behold, even in its ruined condition. Great boulders planted within the river’s rushing waters support a long, stone path that extends from one river bank to the other. It’s raised high above the surface, nearly twice the height of the tallest trees in the Tuatiu jungles. At various points, the stone walkway has crumbled into the waters, destroyed in parts that will make using it to cross the river treacherous—and probably unwise.
“The Atima constructed this,” Sianchu says longingly, as though recalling some great memory. He stands beside me, looking on at the rubble and ruins of what was once the great stone bridge. “Standard Atima ingenuity. Everyone thought it couldn’t be done, to build such a long structure that could span the wide Maiu Antumalal. Yet rafts and fishing boats could still float beneath it, unimpeded. How unbelievable, to create something that nearly stood the test of time. It’s a shame we had to destroy sections of it to prevent the Timuaq advance. Especially since the titans still reached our shores.”
“I imagine it delayed them a bit, though,” I say, finding it amusing that I’m consoling someone over a lost bridge. “That has to be worth something.”
“I suppose you’re right,” Sianchu says, still downbeat.
On the other side of the river lies Taqeipacha, marking the edge of Tapeu territory. Like the bridge, the village is in ruins. Stone structures have been toppled to the ground, what remains of their foundations show little of what the buildings used to be. The walls that surround the perimeter are nearly nonexistent, appearing more like the end result of a rockslide as rocks are haphazardly scattered about.
Along the riverbank, Qantua warriors prepare rafts of bound logs to allow us to cross the river. Our scouts had reached the shores and began gathering supplies, having started the vessels’ construction before our arrival, but additional time is still required to build so many for our large numbers. Sianchu maintains his gaze upon the fallen city on the opposite shore as the men construct the vessels, lost in distant memories.
It takes us most of the day to cross the great Maiu Antumalal, with vessels traveling back and forth, and back and forth, and back again to transport out men and women. By the time everyone has made it across, what remained of the sun through the clouds has disappeared, turning everything into shadowy silhouettes. We decide to rest within the ruins of the lost city, making camp among the fallen stones. Moss has already begun to form, and vines and ivy have made their way through the cracks of what remains.
“The great stand of Taqeipacha,” Sianchu says with a sigh.
“I believe I’ve heard of this battle,” I say. “It was to hold off the approaching Timuaq from advancing to Qapauma and provide reinforcement, correct?”
“You know your history,” he says fondly. “A large Timuaq army was baited by the Eleven to travel north to Xaqelatun, believing they would find the saviors of Pachil there. When they arrived, they were in for a surprise: the city had been long abandoned, the people fled to a nearby village for safety. The titans knew they were tricked and hurried south, realizing the Tapeu and the Eleven went to Qapauma to destroy the Timuaq forces and their stockpiles, crippling our captors significantly.”
Sianchu swells with pride as he continues. “To stall the titans’ advancement, warriors stood firm at Taqeipacha. They began by destroying the stone bridge, to slow the Timuaq. Once the titans created vessels to cross the river, they were met by flaming projectiles that sought to sink them into the swift stream. The Timuaq who survived fought a multi-day battle as the warriors secured the area. They could’ve continued toward Qapauma unimpeded, yet the titans, too consumed by pride, determined they would make an example out of Taqeipacha.”
He sighs once more, eyes cast downward. But then he lifts his chin up, his face resolute. “But it gave the warriors in Qapauma enough time to achieve their mission, to deplete the Timuaq supplies and dwindle their forces. The Eleven and the Tapeu armies had the numbers to overwhelm those Timuaq who remained in the city, thanks to those noble warriors who delayed the advancing titans from supporting their comrades. By the time they arrived in Qapauma, their army had been significantly decimated, and it was only a matter of time until the final battle that won our freedom.”
The tale, along with the gnarled storm clouds above, brings a solemnity to the mood. The valiant warriors who brought the fight to the captors of Pachil is a reminder of the sacrifices made by the few so that many can prosper. It’s why, in the face of the evil that threatens us now, we can’t shy away from the challenge.
As we leave behind the vast, open grasslands of Aimue that stretched endlessly, we approach a landscape that speaks of a different kind of vastness in the Tapeu lands, someplace more arid and barren. Emerging from the sprawling expanse of endless plains, where the ground beneath our feet had shifted from the soft, fertile soil with dry grass expanding towards the horizon, we now find ourselves on the cusp of a new domain. The air here carries a cooler touch as it sweeps across the reddish ground. The occasional gnarled tree appears, like the withered hands of an elder, devoid of leaves or any sign of life. The grim scene makes me question what we’re heading towards, doubting the conceived plan to head toward the revered Qapauma.
Sianchu reassures me that this is part of the remains from the Timuaq’s battle at Taqeipacha. He states that the titans sought to destroy everything surrounding the village to ensure nothing would grow here ever again. While I’m skeptical at first, his remark proves to be true. The further we travel away from Taqeipacha, the more lush vegetation and active fauna appear before us. The environment springs to life, restoring my confidence and reassuring myself that we’re headed in the right direction after all.
Excitement grows within Sianchu, which motivates Mexqutli to tease his rival relentlessly about the childlike wonder in the Tapeu councilor’s demeanor. But the palpable eagerness is understandable: The Tapeu native identifies landmarks and indicates we’re closer to Qapauma than we’ve ever been, needing perhaps one or two more days to reach our destination.
“Just another day or two to arrive at the Gates of Ipa, and then we’re practically there to the capital!” he exclaims, giddy like a Tuatiu child receiving their first bow. “It’s been so long since I’ve been back to Qapauma! Terribly long!”
“You act as though Qapauma is the only civilization you have seen since you departed there,” Mexqutli notes. His demeanor is somewhat relaxed, but there’s a drop or two of antagonism laced within his words. I, too, find the statement to be slightly offensive, seeing as we’ve traveled to Hilaqta, Xaqelatun, and my home village, Iantana. While I long to return to my home, Sianchu’s desire to arrive at Qapauma hints at his disdain for other factions he finds beneath him. I’m reminded of his arrival to Iantana, and how, perhaps, some people don’t change after all, despite the trials they’ve faced.
As predicted, we arrive at the mighty Gates of Ipa in a few days’ time. In the distance, they peek above the horizon. Initially, I believed the great stone bridge crossing the Maiu Antumalal to be a wonder. Yet, now that I’ve arrived here? I marvel at the sheer size of these towers, as though they rival the nearby mountains themselves! How a faction could craft such a thing astonishes me, how it feels as though I could climb to its top and touch a cloud!
Both Mexqutli and Sianchu get a kick out of my reaction, but I’m unperturbed. I appreciate the amazing gates that shielded the city from outside invaders and, later, nearly endured a Timuaq assault. Like many other factions, I will always have my doubts about the Tapeu. However, I can respect the acumen of their craftsmen to be able to create such a phenomenal structure.
Our arrival, however, fills me with dread more than delight. The impressive stone sentinels flank the thick wooden doors of the gate, which remain open. There doesn’t appear to be any sign of forced entry, as if the warriors who should be guarding this point expected the arrival of whomever passed through here. An eerie silence shrouds the scene as the complete lack of activity rattles my nerves. No guards stand vigilantly to protect this road from intruders. Just sheer, utter quiet.
“This place has been abandoned,” Mexqutli notes, his eyes sweeping the area. “No sign of a struggle. No bodies to indicate a battle occurred. Nothing.”
“This is the first line of defense for Qapauma,” Sianchu says nervously. “If there’s no one here to protect the gates, then anyone could–“
A sudden tremble shakes the ground beneath our feet. Sporadic shouts spring up among the gathered warriors, commanding everyone to be on alert. We’re jostled about, and I can barely keep my balance as we’re jostled about. Cracks form along the ground, opening up into narrow slits that dart about the area. There’s nothing to hold onto, nothing to support me as we’re shifting and sliding.
Then, the rumbling… stops? The location returns to total silence. Nobody moves. Confused, we exchange glances with one another, hoping someone has an answer for what just happened. A quake? Is this area prone to tremors? Figuring Sianchu would know best, we turn to him, expecting a logical explanation for this. He only stares back, stupefied. Something is amiss.
I instruct everyone to investigate, but to use caution. I sense something sinister is afoot, something that hopes to lure us into its trap. We remain hypervigilant, searching the place for clues. I say a silent prayer to the Eleven, wishing for nothing to turn up, wishing this is a false alarm, and we can return to traveling onward to Qapauma.
My prayers go unanswered. Instead, we’re met with another tremor—this time, more intense, more jarring. Now, a colossal rift tears open in the ground before us, swallowing those unfortunate to be standing in its path. The terrain groans as the chasm grows wider and wider. The cracks splinter out and spread beyond the Gates of Ipa, cutting off our path to Qapauma. Mexqutli stands isolated on one side of the fissure, fighting hard to keep his balance. As more cracks branch out, others become separated from the group, adding to my feeling of helplessness.
From the depths of the rift, an unearthly howl echoes. I search for the source, my eyes darting about the horizon. It’s then when I notice dark, robed silhouettes looking on from a perch a field away. They monitor our situation, standing still like statues as they overlook the developing scene. When I see the ashen gray and crimson red, I know exactly who’s responsible.
But before I can warn the others, shadows emerge from the chasm, clawing their way up to the surface. They leap and unfurl into ghastly forms, their veiny, membranous wings stretch wide against the twilight. Transfixed, I watch as they ascend—a legion of grotesque silhouettes possessing claws edged with onyx-like shards. Their blood-chilling shrieks pierce the calm, a cacophony more resonant than any war horn. These beings, these teoliatl—spirits of the abyss, as I think to call them—move with an uncanny swiftness. Their bodies coil and contort in the air, displaying the taut, blackened skin that clings like the surface of a drum. Their eyes are hollow like the pits of lost cenotes, void of any light.
Agilely twisting as they soar above us, the teoliatl’s talons glisten with a venomous sheen, dripping with a substance that sizzles upon contact with the ground. As one swoops down with its fangs bared, I see its maw exude a chilling vapor, as though its breath could steal the warmth from our bones. These creatures of nightmares are harbingers of a deeper darkness, one that endangers the land we hope to defend.
We ready our weapons, but I can see in the eyes of my companions that we face an enemy we cannot fathom. As they encircle us, however, what we understand is this: We are witnessing our doom unfold before us as these beasts make their claim upon the living world.
We scoured the lands skirting the Aimue frontier, a relentless and time-devouring task, only to bear a fruitless harvest. Across the sprawling grasslands that stretch to the north of the Maiu Antumalal—the mighty, twisting river that serves as a boundary between the Aimue and Tapeu territories—the faint traces of Tiahesi and a few dozen Qantua warriors’ passage are elusive, nearly swallowed by the vast expanse. As the sun begins its descent, the only other sound heard over the tall, rustling grasses is Mexqutli’s expletive-laden outbursts.
Discouraged after spending nearly an entire day on the search, we regroup at the campsite, established shortly after our deadly confrontation with the lone sorcerer of the Eye in the Flame. Due to that encounter, as well as the battle among the ruins of Xaqelatun, our numbers have greatly dwindled. We have fallen to just over half the warriors that started this journey, a grim reminder of the deadly mission we’ve undertaken.
Mexqutli chucks his obsidian daggers onto the ground in disgust, startling the men making preparations for the night’s eventual campfire. He plops down onto a tree stump and retrieves a water skin. He dumps the contents into his mouth like a hatchling eager for a meal, yet it’s when the pungent fermented sweetness wafts over to me that I realize it is, in fact, chicha. I hesitate to ask where he found some, concerned that I won’t like the questionable means he must have used to obtain it.
“That hollow cacao pod, Tiahesi, has eluded our best trackers!” he complains. “How does a group that large evade being detected?”
“Surely, they couldn’t have traveled far,” Sianchu reasons. “It hasn’t yet been a day.”
“We must continue searching,” I command. Addressing Sianchu, I say, “Check with the Qantua warriors. They may remain tight-lipped, but perhaps there’s someone who isn’t loyal to Tiahesi and can speak to what they may have overheard or seen.”
“Mexqutli,” I say, turning to him, “take a few of our scouts and join me in expanding the search to a wider area. He’s likely relying on the thick grasses to make finding his tracks more difficult, but there will still be bent grass and other indicators. As Sianchu mentioned, he and the warriors couldn’t have traveled far; it’s simply a matter of finding where they went.”
The pair nod resolutely, ready to take on their respective tasks. With the autumn sun already getting inauspiciously low, we don’t have much time to continue our search. My hope is that we can still make progress by–
“His departure is all your fault, you know,” a gruff voice grumbles as we’re just about to depart from the site. I turn to see who made that remark, yet the coward doesn’t stand up to claim their words.
Speaking to no one in particular, I ask, “I beg your pardon?”
After a few heartbeats, a man who has been sharpening the blade of his sword with a stone pitches the rock aside, then stands up, sheathing his weapon in one fluid motion. “I said, Tiahesi’s departure is all your fault, jungle girl.” He glowers at me with his dark brown eyes. Overtop his black and gold tunic is leather armor nearly resembling a poncho, hanging loose and painted in numerous patterns of black and white. His face’s expression challenges me to react, to confront him.
“And what makes you believe–“
“Because,” he interrupts, “had you not insulted the man, demeaned the man, and belittled the other Qantua officers, they’d still be here right now.”
“What, so because Tiahesi has skin as thin as a maize husk, I have to coddle him? What kind of warrior can’t handle direct criticism?”
From the corner of my eye, Sianchu approaches me. I can sense he wants me to temper my words, but I persist. “I have to tread lightly around him because he’s overly sensitive, and can’t handle losing a contest of skill to a woman? I thought the Qantua were more civilized, more progressive than that.”
The man moves with measured and deliberate steps, and squares up to me. His set jaw speaks of barely restrained violence, nostrils flaring with each breath. After sizing me up, he hurls his words, “It’s not that he had hurt feelings, jungle girl. You showed little respect to Qantua leaders, who have been sent to their deaths because of your doing.”
“Why would I show respect to those who don’t respect me?” I charge back. “Just as you continue to refuse calling me by my name, you aren’t showing me why I should give youany respect!”
“Perhaps,” Sianchu attempts to intervene, “we can find a resolution that doesn’t deepen this divide.” But I’m already past listening, my focus narrowed on the man confronting me.
“Respect is earned on the battlefield, not given freely like charity,” I retort, standing my ground. “And if Tiahesi fled like the coward that he is, it’s because he realized he couldn’t earn it here.”
The man’s scowl deepens, lips twitching as if he’s about to spit venom. “You think very highly of yourself, jungle girl. But remember, the jungle isn’t the only place where survival matters. Politics, alliances, and honor—these are the battlefields you’re ill-equipped for.”
I scoff, crossing my arms and mirroring his stance. “And yet here I am, ready to face the Eye in the Flame, while Tiahesi and the others run away. Who’s really avoiding the battlefield?”
His gaze flickers, a momentary lapse revealing uncertainty. But just as quickly, it’s gone, replaced by the hardened mask of a warrior. Without another word, he turns, signaling for the other Qantua warriors to follow him. They exchange wary glances, but comply, leaving with heavy steps as their weathered leather armor groans softly in the quiet air.
Sianchu steps closer once they’re a safe distance away. His expression is one of concern and disappointment. “Not all battles are won with strength and bravado, Inuxeq. Haven’t we spoke of this before? Words can be sharper than any blade, and leave wounds just as deep.”
I sigh as his words press down on me. Inside of me is a rising tide of frustration at being so profoundly misunderstood. “I know, Sianchu. But sometimes, it feels like if I don’t stand up for myself, no one will.”
He places a hand on my shoulder and looks at me consolingly. “Standing up for yourself is one thing, but the respect you seek from others begins with the respect you offer. Even to those who seem undeserving.”
He turns and walks away, leaving me to ponder the complexities of respect, honor, and leadership amidst Tiahesi’s cravenly departure and the shadow of the upcoming battle. In my heart, a storm brews—part defiance, part doubt. Though well-intentioned, his advice feels like a relic from a bygone era, ill-suited to the cutthroat world in which we live.
Respect, huh? I quietly scoff, rolling the concept around in my mind as if testing the heft of a new weapon. To me, respect is seized through decisive actions and unwavering convictions. Sianchu talks about a harmony between strength and gentleness, something that feels more like an ideal than reality in the harshness of our circumstances.
With a shake of my head, I dismiss his counsel. He just doesn’t see the bigger picture, I tell myself. I’ll carve my path my way. Yet deep down, a small voice echoes his advice, leaving me to wonder if there’s any wisdom in his words.
I channel my discontentment into the search for Tiahesi and the other Qantua warriors. Keeping my eyes focused on the ground, I look for any indication of which way they could have gone. Though footprints may be difficult to find, perhaps a loose thread or feather from an arrow will lead me in the right direction. But my search is abruptly halted when Mexqutli’s fit of fury carries through the plains.
“What seems to be the issue?” I dare to ask Mexqutli. At first, he regales me with a slew of severe-sounding Ulxa words. But, eventually, he regains his composure long enough to inform me of his discovery.
“These tracks,” he says, pointing to a smattering of bent straw and disrupted dirt. “They attempt to confuse by wearing their sandals backward—an old trick to give the appearance of walking the other direction. Then, they used branches to sweep behind them and blur their tracks. This, too, did not confuse me.”
“Okay, so what’s the problem?” I ask, wishing he would hurry up and get to his point—precious daylight is fading rapidly, after all.
Mexqutli looks bewildered, arguably on the verge of incensed. “The tracks disappear! Just… vanish!”
“How could they possibly–“
“The footprints stop right here.” He points to a place in the clearing. It’s simply a large patch of dirt with small juts of grass. “Should my suspicions hold true, it is likely they tied straw to their feet to disguise their steps, so that nothing would be revealed.”
From this, he begins another tirade in Ulxa, kicking the dirt and flailing his arms. A few of the other Qantua warriors aiding us in our investigation look on, startled and discomforted.
“We used leaves,” I respond, frowning. This stops his ranting, and the Iqsuwa looks at me with curiosity. “It’s another trick I recall when I trained as a warrior during my childhood. We used bunches of palm leaves to soften our steps and distribute the weight. I should’ve expected other factions would have their version of this use of deception.”
With hands on his hips, Mexqutli grimaces and looks to the sky, hoping it’ll have answers for him. It’s been a frustrating search, with every possibility that they’re long gone from here, and in such an abbreviated amount of time. They could have taken off the moment we encountered the sorcerer, recognizing the likelihood of a long engagement with the cultist that would give them more time to run away.
“Lady Inuxeq!” A young Qantua warrior shouts to me. He waves us over to his location. There, he bends over and retrieves a gold coin from the ground. “I spotted this as I swept the area. Fortunately, we have enough light! The glimmer caught my eye, or else I would’ve nearly missed it!” Near the coin’s location, thin, black threads flutter in the breeze, caught onto stiff pieces of broken straw. It must be an indication of the Qantua passing through here, as well.
He places the coin into my hand, and I note how the small, metallic piece possesses a surprisingly hefty weight. It’s thick, dense, and rough to the touch, as if haphazardly made. Yet on the surface of one side is the engraving of a sun with a stoic face inside. Could that be Wiqamasqa, the ruler of all gods and creator of the sun? Or perhaps Iptanqa, the Tapeu member of the Eleven who harnessed the sun’s energy to aid in defeating the Timuaq? Around the circle are black rays—thirteen, to be precise—seemingly etched or burned into the coin. As I rub my thumb over the lines, it appears these recessed areas have been charred, as the rough texture reminds me of some type of resin or charcoal infused into the gold.
“What could this mean?” I ask to anyone willing to give me an answer. I look at the young warrior, but he shrugs as though he’s never seen the emblem before.
“It is in Qantua colors,” Mexqutli notes. “The black and gold. Perhaps it is another faction within the Qantua, belonging to a figure of authority there.”
“If only we had Teqosa with us,” I say disheartenedly, “he could confirm. It could also be related to the Tapeu, given our proximity. But you’re likely correct in your assessment, given Tiahesi being Qantua, and the black thread found nearby. A faction within a faction… And Taqsame had criticized the Tapeu for being fractured.”
“It is likely he was projecting,” Mexqutli hypothesizes. “Deflecting from the fractions within Qantua.” It’s a notable consideration. The young Qantua general was noticeably confrontational during our brief stay in Hilaqta. Like Tiahesi, perhaps he was attempting to throw us off his scent.
“Great job,” I say to the young Qantua warrior, forcing a smile. Sianchu’s words still resonate within me, causing me to take extra care in emphasizing my appreciation.
“Well,” Mexqutli says, sounding a bit defeated, “one thing we can say for certain is that they are headed in the direction of Qantua, judging from the relation to our campsite. It is likely they are traveling to report to whomever is responsible for producing this coin.”
“I’m not sure what they have to report,” I remark. “They’re only going to confirm what we and Teqosa said, that the Eye in the Flame is, in fact, a threat. What other message could they possibly relay?”
“That Qapauma will fall to ruins, I suppose,” Mexqutli says. “He questioned our capabilities before. Thus, he may determine we are marching to our deaths. What they strategize from there, I can only speculate.”
It’s a discomforting feeling, realizing there are those who don’t believe in our mission. Or those who seek to take advantage of what they deem to be a doomed endeavor. But I don’t share those opinions. It will be a daunting task, certainly, given the gray creatures and the sorcerers wielding unnatural powers. However, if we can get to Qapauma in enough time, we may be able to help the city defend itself from the Eye in the Flame. There is no other way to think or believe, if we want to be successful in defeating this evil.
We press on the following morning, traversing the mercifully flat plains that makes it easy on our weary feet. Dark storm clouds swirl overhead, but no rain falls upon the lands. It generates an ominous scene, one that seems to imply our impending conflict ahead at Qapauma. Though some of the more superstitious Qantua warriors find it to be an ill omen, I refuse to invest any effort or energy into the matter. There could be torrential floods, wildfires, whatever obstacles the Eleven want to place before me—it wouldn’t matter. I will continue toward Qapauma.
Remnants of the great stone bridge await our arrival as we reach the Maiu Antumalal. I heard stories of the great feat of architecture, yet witnessing the spectacular structure is a sight to behold, even in its ruined condition. Great boulders planted within the river’s rushing waters support a long, stone path that extends from one river bank to the other. It’s raised high above the surface, nearly twice the height of the tallest trees in the Tuatiu jungles. At various points, the stone walkway has crumbled into the waters, destroyed in parts that will make using it to cross the river treacherous—and probably unwise.
“The Atima constructed this,” Sianchu says longingly, as though recalling some great memory. He stands beside me, looking on at the rubble and ruins of what was once the great stone bridge. “Standard Atima ingenuity. Everyone thought it couldn’t be done, to build such a long structure that could span the wide Maiu Antumalal. Yet rafts and fishing boats could still float beneath it, unimpeded. How unbelievable, to create something that nearly stood the test of time. It’s a shame we had to destroy sections of it to prevent the Timuaq advance. Especially since the titans still reached our shores.”
“I imagine it delayed them a bit, though,” I say, finding it amusing that I’m consoling someone over a lost bridge. “That has to be worth something.”
“I suppose you’re right,” Sianchu says, still downbeat.
On the other side of the river lies Taqeipacha, marking the edge of Tapeu territory. Like the bridge, the village is in ruins. Stone structures have been toppled to the ground, what remains of their foundations show little of what the buildings used to be. The walls that surround the perimeter are nearly nonexistent, appearing more like the end result of a rockslide as rocks are haphazardly scattered about.
Along the riverbank, Qantua warriors prepare rafts of bound logs to allow us to cross the river. Our scouts had reached the shores and began gathering supplies, having started the vessels’ construction before our arrival, but additional time is still required to build so many for our large numbers. Sianchu maintains his gaze upon the fallen city on the opposite shore as the men construct the vessels, lost in distant memories.
It takes us most of the day to cross the great Maiu Antumalal, with vessels traveling back and forth, and back and forth, and back again to transport out men and women. By the time everyone has made it across, what remained of the sun through the clouds has disappeared, turning everything into shadowy silhouettes. We decide to rest within the ruins of the lost city, making camp among the fallen stones. Moss has already begun to form, and vines and ivy have made their way through the cracks of what remains.
“The great stand of Taqeipacha,” Sianchu says with a sigh.
“I believe I’ve heard of this battle,” I say. “It was to hold off the approaching Timuaq from advancing to Qapauma and provide reinforcement, correct?”
“You know your history,” he says fondly. “A large Timuaq army was baited by the Eleven to travel north to Xaqelatun, believing they would find the saviors of Pachil there. When they arrived, they were in for a surprise: the city had been long abandoned, the people fled to a nearby village for safety. The titans knew they were tricked and hurried south, realizing the Tapeu and the Eleven went to Qapauma to destroy the Timuaq forces and their stockpiles, crippling our captors significantly.”
Sianchu swells with pride as he continues. “To stall the titans’ advancement, warriors stood firm at Taqeipacha. They began by destroying the stone bridge, to slow the Timuaq. Once the titans created vessels to cross the river, they were met by flaming projectiles that sought to sink them into the swift stream. The Timuaq who survived fought a multi-day battle as the warriors secured the area. They could’ve continued toward Qapauma unimpeded, yet the titans, too consumed by pride, determined they would make an example out of Taqeipacha.”
He sighs once more, eyes cast downward. But then he lifts his chin up, his face resolute. “But it gave the warriors in Qapauma enough time to achieve their mission, to deplete the Timuaq supplies and dwindle their forces. The Eleven and the Tapeu armies had the numbers to overwhelm those Timuaq who remained in the city, thanks to those noble warriors who delayed the advancing titans from supporting their comrades. By the time they arrived in Qapauma, their army had been significantly decimated, and it was only a matter of time until the final battle that won our freedom.”
The tale, along with the gnarled storm clouds above, brings a solemnity to the mood. The valiant warriors who brought the fight to the captors of Pachil is a reminder of the sacrifices made by the few so that many can prosper. It’s why, in the face of the evil that threatens us now, we can’t shy away from the challenge.
As we leave behind the vast, open grasslands of Aimue that stretched endlessly, we approach a landscape that speaks of a different kind of vastness in the Tapeu lands, someplace more arid and barren. Emerging from the sprawling expanse of endless plains, where the ground beneath our feet had shifted from the soft, fertile soil with dry grass expanding towards the horizon, we now find ourselves on the cusp of a new domain. The air here carries a cooler touch as it sweeps across the reddish ground. The occasional gnarled tree appears, like the withered hands of an elder, devoid of leaves or any sign of life. The grim scene makes me question what we’re heading towards, doubting the conceived plan to head toward the revered Qapauma.
Sianchu reassures me that this is part of the remains from the Timuaq’s battle at Taqeipacha. He states that the titans sought to destroy everything surrounding the village to ensure nothing would grow here ever again. While I’m skeptical at first, his remark proves to be true. The further we travel away from Taqeipacha, the more lush vegetation and active fauna appear before us. The environment springs to life, restoring my confidence and reassuring myself that we’re headed in the right direction after all.
Excitement grows within Sianchu, which motivates Mexqutli to tease his rival relentlessly about the childlike wonder in the Tapeu councilor’s demeanor. But the palpable eagerness is understandable: The Tapeu native identifies landmarks and indicates we’re closer to Qapauma than we’ve ever been, needing perhaps one or two more days to reach our destination.
“Just another day or two to arrive at the Gates of Ipa, and then we’re practically there to the capital!” he exclaims, giddy like a Tuatiu child receiving their first bow. “It’s been so long since I’ve been back to Qapauma! Terribly long!”
“You act as though Qapauma is the only civilization you have seen since you departed there,” Mexqutli notes. His demeanor is somewhat relaxed, but there’s a drop or two of antagonism laced within his words. I, too, find the statement to be slightly offensive, seeing as we’ve traveled to Hilaqta, Xaqelatun, and my home village, Iantana. While I long to return to my home, Sianchu’s desire to arrive at Qapauma hints at his disdain for other factions he finds beneath him. I’m reminded of his arrival to Iantana, and how, perhaps, some people don’t change after all, despite the trials they’ve faced.
As predicted, we arrive at the mighty Gates of Ipa in a few days’ time. In the distance, they peek above the horizon. Initially, I believed the great stone bridge crossing the Maiu Antumalal to be a wonder. Yet, now that I’ve arrived here? I marvel at the sheer size of these towers, as though they rival the nearby mountains themselves! How a faction could craft such a thing astonishes me, how it feels as though I could climb to its top and touch a cloud!
Both Mexqutli and Sianchu get a kick out of my reaction, but I’m unperturbed. I appreciate the amazing gates that shielded the city from outside invaders and, later, nearly endured a Timuaq assault. Like many other factions, I will always have my doubts about the Tapeu. However, I can respect the acumen of their craftsmen to be able to create such a phenomenal structure.
Our arrival, however, fills me with dread more than delight. The impressive stone sentinels flank the thick wooden doors of the gate, which remain open. There doesn’t appear to be any sign of forced entry, as if the warriors who should be guarding this point expected the arrival of whomever passed through here. An eerie silence shrouds the scene as the complete lack of activity rattles my nerves. No guards stand vigilantly to protect this road from intruders. Just sheer, utter quiet.
“This place has been abandoned,” Mexqutli notes, his eyes sweeping the area. “No sign of a struggle. No bodies to indicate a battle occurred. Nothing.”
“This is the first line of defense for Qapauma,” Sianchu says nervously. “If there’s no one here to protect the gates, then anyone could–“
A sudden tremble shakes the ground beneath our feet. Sporadic shouts spring up among the gathered warriors, commanding everyone to be on alert. We’re jostled about, and I can barely keep my balance as we’re jostled about. Cracks form along the ground, opening up into narrow slits that dart about the area. There’s nothing to hold onto, nothing to support me as we’re shifting and sliding.
Then, the rumbling… stops? The location returns to total silence. Nobody moves. Confused, we exchange glances with one another, hoping someone has an answer for what just happened. A quake? Is this area prone to tremors? Figuring Sianchu would know best, we turn to him, expecting a logical explanation for this. He only stares back, stupefied. Something is amiss.
I instruct everyone to investigate, but to use caution. I sense something sinister is afoot, something that hopes to lure us into its trap. We remain hypervigilant, searching the place for clues. I say a silent prayer to the Eleven, wishing for nothing to turn up, wishing this is a false alarm, and we can return to traveling onward to Qapauma.
My prayers go unanswered. Instead, we’re met with another tremor—this time, more intense, more jarring. Now, a colossal rift tears open in the ground before us, swallowing those unfortunate to be standing in its path. The terrain groans as the chasm grows wider and wider. The cracks splinter out and spread beyond the Gates of Ipa, cutting off our path to Qapauma. Mexqutli stands isolated on one side of the fissure, fighting hard to keep his balance. As more cracks branch out, others become separated from the group, adding to my feeling of helplessness.
From the depths of the rift, an unearthly howl echoes. I search for the source, my eyes darting about the horizon. It’s then when I notice dark, robed silhouettes looking on from a perch a field away. They monitor our situation, standing still like statues as they overlook the developing scene. When I see the ashen gray and crimson red, I know exactly who’s responsible.
But before I can warn the others, shadows emerge from the chasm, clawing their way up to the surface. They leap and unfurl into ghastly forms, their veiny, membranous wings stretch wide against the twilight. Transfixed, I watch as they ascend—a legion of grotesque silhouettes possessing claws edged with onyx-like shards. Their blood-chilling shrieks pierce the calm, a cacophony more resonant than any war horn. These beings, these teoliatl—spirits of the abyss, as I think to call them—move with an uncanny swiftness. Their bodies coil and contort in the air, displaying the taut, blackened skin that clings like the surface of a drum. Their eyes are hollow like the pits of lost cenotes, void of any light.
Agilely twisting as they soar above us, the teoliatl’s talons glisten with a venomous sheen, dripping with a substance that sizzles upon contact with the ground. As one swoops down with its fangs bared, I see its maw exude a chilling vapor, as though its breath could steal the warmth from our bones. These creatures of nightmares are harbingers of a deeper darkness, one that endangers the land we hope to defend.
We ready our weapons, but I can see in the eyes of my companions that we face an enemy we cannot fathom. As they encircle us, however, what we understand is this: We are witnessing our doom unfold before us as these beasts make their claim upon the living world.
