As one would imagine, the welcome we received this time is much different than when we first arrived. We’re met with loud, overwhelming cheers amidst a celebratory atmosphere. People offer a bevy of foods and drink, hoisting large dishes heavy with tamales wrapped in banana leaves, and swinging huge clay jugs of pulque in our faces as we pass by, which Naqispi is too eager to try, in my opinion. Tables are laden with bowls of spicy chocolate drink, plates piled high with roasted maize, grilled fish seasoned with achiote, and baskets overflowing with fresh fruit like papayas and guavas. The air is rich with the aromas of cocoa, chili peppers, and the tangy sweetness of sapodilla. Despite our battle-worn appearance, villagers pat us on our shoulders and backs, ignoring the dark green goop caked onto our clothing, the remnants of Quetzelotl.
With their chests puffed out, the warriors proudly march alongside us as we’re led past the peculiar stone monolith and on toward the throne room. There’s an incoming storm on the horizon, but it hasn’t shrouded the bright and festive setting, making the vibrant colors of the hallowed chamber stand out more than before. Perhaps it’s because we’re not being held in captivity that I feel the space is more warm and inviting than my initial impression of the cold, dark hall.
Standing tall and proud, Xolotzi greets us with a brusque nod. Through his headdress — this one reveals more of his face, replacing the bones with a regal fan of blue and yellow feathers that arches behind him like the rays of a celestial body — his face, painted with patterns in a lush green, remains expressionless.
“I don’t think he knows how to smile,” Paxilche jokes. This time, the offhand remark isn’t met with the warriors’ hostility as they ignore the comment.
A loud, boisterous Xolotzi proclaims something in Auilqa, which causes Saqatli, the boy who speaks to animals, to bow deeply. The elder who previously translated for us stands beside the ruler, yet says nothing. It’s as if he expects us to deduce what’s being said through context clues.
“What is he saying?” I think, hoping the boy will be able to understand and hear me. When there’s no response, I’m overcome with disappointment. I mirror Saqatli’s movements, bowing graciously as I’ve been taught to do when in the presence of Sanqo nobility. It’s more of a curtsey, bending at the knees and bobbing while bowing my head. We’re soon joined by Paxilche, who, confused, curtseys as I do, then followed by Pomaqli and the other warriors, who bow as the boy does. Naqispi, always needlessly defiant, remains standing through all of this.
There’s a bit more pomp and circumstance, as we’re regaled with an elaborate display by dancers, and another with warriors’ vigorous movements and stamping of feet as if to intimidate us. Judging by the reactions when it’s over, however, I understand it to be a show of appreciation and honor, as Saqatli, along with others gathered, applaud excitedly.
The ruler makes another declarative statement, and this time, the elder speaks. “You have honored the Auilqa with your generous offering, meeting the challenge bestowed upon you by our revered Tlaloqa. He has deemed you worthy to be in the presence of the Great Xolotzi, He Who Commands the Jaguar’s Path, Tamer of the Monsoon’s Might, Who Shrouds…”
“They think it was an honor to fight that beast?” I hear Naqispi mutter behind me as the elder rattles off their ruler’s numerous titles. “Some kind of gift? These people are lunatics!” He’s abruptly shushed by his comrades while I maintain my attention on the Auilqa ruler.
“The Great Xolotzi recalls your request to aid in a battle against an evil outside presence. Is this correct?” the elder inquires.
“Yes, Honored One,” I state, stepping forward to address the great ruler directly while speaking through the elder. “There is a terrible threat with plans of attacking the Ulxa capital, Analoixan. With the assistance of the mighty Auilqa, we request aid in our pursuit of defeating the Eye in the Flame — a cult that not only endangers the prosperity of the Ulxa, but of all factions of Pachil.”
After the elder relays my message, Xolotzi appears to ponder this, casting his eyes skyward for an answer. Eventually, he makes a statement, after which the elder bows in response. “Though the Ulxa and Auilqa have been enemies for generations, the Great Xolotzi will honor your request. Your impassioned determination to travel far from your homelands to defeat this existential threat shows the importance of this mission. The venerable Xolotzi will send forth 144 warriors to assist you in your mission to defeat the blight to our lands. This number, twelvefold by twelve, is chosen with deep reverence for its auspicious strength in our traditions. It symbolizes the unity and the formidable force of our people when rallied under a common cause. May it bring fortitude and favor to our shared battle.”
I curtsey once again, lowering my eyes when addressing the leader in the Auilqa manner of showing respect. “The Auilqa are renowned for their formidability. One warrior is comparable to twelve of any other faction. You honor us with this thoughtful, generous arrangement.”
Naqispi scoffs at my declaration, but I pay him no mind. With a ruler who possesses an infinite number of titles, it’s obvious to me that he is a man who likes to have his ego inflated. Though the Auilqa warriors are known to be fierce on the battlefield, I know the Sanqo would be just as capable. But, of course, I would never say this aloud to a ruler offering us much-needed aid to defeat the Eye in the Flame. Besides, I’m grateful for any number of warriors he is willing to supply to our cause, and he appears to have taken great care in selecting the specific, symbolic number to lend us in aid.
As we depart the throne room, we’re met with more cheers from the spectating villagers. Auilqa children swarm us, tugging at our garments out of both curiosity and reverence, mystified by the outsiders wearing so much clothing in comparison to their people. Chiqama gets into a near scuffle with a child, who unsheathed one of his daggers to inspect it.
From the corner of my eye, a stern-faced man and a boy muscle their way through the crowd. He’s a stocky fellow, barrel-chested with a squarish face and prominent features. The boy closely resembles a combination of this man and Saqatli, though slightly older and muscles that are more toned. Both have the emerald green eyes of a typical Auilqa, yet with the man’s angry expression, the color is much darker and more ominous.
“Saqatli!” his enraged shout carries over the chatter. The boy turns to look at the all-too-familiar voice, his face immediately downtrodden at the recognition. He speaks in the Auilqa language I have yet to learn. And because Saqatli is visibly under duress, I anticipate not having the conversation translated for me. Yet, from what I can see from where I stand, I gather a reasonable — and unfortunate — understanding of what’s occurring.
The man’s posture is rigid, arms crossed in a clear sign of rejection that greatly contrasts with the communal joy. His piercing gaze speaks of his contempt for Saqatli. The other boy next to him mimics the stance, seemingly embodying the learned disdain. As the older man talks, his facial expressions are hard with an unyielding look as he locks eyes with Saqatli. There is no pride in his gaze, only disappointment and disapproval. The other boy smirks cruelly, appearing to enjoy Saqatli’s discomfort.
The man invades Saqatli’s space, gesturing dismissively at the boy, then to us outsiders, and back. Is this to tell Saqatli that he doesn’t belong with us? His motions are sharp, a clear disavowal of something the boy has done. Could this be Saqatli’s father? All the while, Saqatli’s response is one of resignation. He looks down, his shoulders slumping under the weight of the scorn hurled at him.
As the man continues his tirade, Saqatli visibly shrinks. The man’s cold, hard eyes never leave the boy. His index finger jabs the air, pointing at Saqatli, then off toward somewhere in the village. The villagers nearby shuffle to the side, wanting nothing to do with this interaction. Instead, they choose to engage with Pomacha and Chiqama while turning their backs to the situation. Some snickers sporadically spring up, and I catch a few people pointing at Saqatli with their mouths covered as they speak conspiratorially with one another.
Having observed this, Naqispi steps in with a protective stance. He purposely places himself between Saqatli and the man, crossing his arms. This causes a few jeers from the crowd, though I can’t comprehend what’s being shouted. “I don’t know what on Iaqa’s green lands you’re saying,” he interjects, “but this boy has done more to rescue this forsaken-by-the-heavens village than you. You’d be wise to show him some respect, sir.” Naqispi plants a supportive clap on Saqatli’s shoulder, turning to the boy and offering him an encouraging nod.
The man scowls, anger boiling inside of him. He clenches his jaw and clinches his fists, as if preparing to strike Naqispi. Yet, after glaring at Saqatli for several heartbeats, he thinks better of it, waving a hand contemptuously before deliberately turning away. Like a shadow in broad daylight, the other boy follows obediently. Just like that, the two disappear among the crowd, blending in with the other tanned, bare-skinned villagers.
Saqatli stands still, stunned and disheartened. One or two other villagers subtly express their gratitude to Saqatli, half-heartedly attempting to cheer him up. Naqispi’s reaction is more exuberant, grasping the boy’s shoulder and giving it a few heartfelt shakes as he casts a wide smile down at our emotionally-wounded companion.
I apologize to the villagers regaling me in their language and approach Saqatli. I place a hand on his back and offer a consolatory smile. With eyebrows furrowed, he flinches at my touch, shrugging his shoulder away from me. I want to say something, to show I care, but with the language barrier and his reaction, I find I’m at a loss for words.
“It’s okay, Princess Walumaq,” Naqispi says. “I think he’s got to work this out on his own.”
I want to pursue Saqatli, insist that I am on his side. The interaction looked severely unpleasant, and I can’t imagine how he must feel. Surprised? Resigned? Hurt? I want to show him that he doesn’t have to face this alone. That we’re unified as a group, as a team. However, perhaps Naqispi is right. With the way he’s handling it, the encounter appears to be similar to something that has happened to Saqatli before. It’s likely that the result was not something he was expecting nor prepared to see, especially in a moment of triumph and celebration. Though I’m reluctant to do so, I determine that, when the moment is right, he will speak to us about it.
The journey is long and tiresome, but the only thing that drives me forward is knowing how urgent the matter at Analoixan is to the future of Pachil. The Auilqa warriors identify a point in the mighty Maiu Atiniuq that is the narrowest and begin constructing makeshift rafts to get us across. It’s a laborious task that takes nearly two days. Yet the Auilqa are diligent, ceaseless workers, toiling from dawn until dusk. Working together, we’re able to cross the great river without much disruption or incident, and I am impressed at the efficiency of these men and women.
After a short while, my breath hitches, caught in the grip of sudden emotion at the sight. A sizable village, perhaps as grand as Haqiliqa, has been laid to waste. The ruins aren’t smoldering, suggesting it has been this way for some time. Yet overgrowth hasn’t settled in, and much of what remains are the bones of a desolate town. Splintered support beams are strewn about, many singed. Nearly every home and building is leveled, with the acrid stench of rotting corpses lingering in the air from the innumerable skeletal remains littering the paths.
Although the Auilqa and Sanqo warriors remain stoic, Paxilche glumly surveys the scene. The overwhelming loss of life nearly brings him to tears. He clutches Ridgebreaker tightly, determined to seek revenge on whomever caused this destruction. The burn markings everywhere clearly tell the story of who is responsible. It’s a grim reminder of what we’re likely to face.
We press on, and after traversing the Ulxa jungles for days, the landscape changes abruptly. As we push forward, the oppressive humidity that clung to my skin like a second, sweat-soaked layer begins to fade. There’s a crispness to the air that invigorates my lungs with each breath. The dense canopy of the jungle that seemingly swallowed the sky thins out, allowing shafts of sunlight to pierce through more freely. The music of unseen creatures grows quieter, the chittering more sparse and subdued. The rioting underbrush of ferns and flowering plants gives way to grasslands and scattered trees. It’s as if we’ve stepped through an unseen barrier, leaving the throbbing heart of the jungle behind to enter a realm of open skies and gentle winds. The transition is so sudden, so stark, it’s like waking from a dream into a different world entirely. From what Saqatli has told me through our shared connection via Noch, the Auilqa believe the great Ulxa capital, Analoixan, is near.
To ease my wary mind, I decide to ask Saqatli some questions about his homeland. Recalling the stone structure at the center of the chamber leading to the throne room, I ask him through our shared thoughts what that statue signifies. At first, he looks confused, uncertain what I could be describing. Then, it suddenly strikes him.
“Ah, the calendar!” I hear his excited voice echo within my mind. “My people use it to track the passage of time.”
My curiosity is piqued. “How are you capable of doing so through such a device?”
Saqatli frowns. “I’m not entirely certain. But my father once told me it’s how our rulers and elders knew when it was time for something, like when to harvest, or when the celestial events were occurring.”
“All through that mechanism? It sounds impressive!” I state. “Most factions in Pachil merely determine it’s time to harvest when the weather turns, not through the stars in the sky.”
“Oh, yes, we know dozens of constellations!” I hear him exclaim. “Depending on where they are in the sky, that tells us the month.”
Saqatli uses many words that I don’t quite understand, yet using the stars to tell time makes complete sense to me. The Sanqo use them to navigate, so why couldn’t they indicate the passage of time? I’m fascinated by the ingenuity of these people, a faction everyone else has immediately cast as savage or uncivilized. With their vibrant displays on their perimeter walls, and their ability to harness the nature of the jungle around them, it’s evident to me that there is more to the Auilqa than outsiders are aware.
There’s a nagging feeling tugging at me, wanting to inquire about the encounter at Qasiunqa. I have a pressing need to express my sympathy for the boy, to let him know that he’s one of us. Is the time to do so right? He seems happy, something I don’t want to ruin by broaching a difficult subject. I resolve there is never a good time to engage in such a conversation, so I should talk to him now, while I have the chance. Yet, just as I’m about to speak, a world-quaking tremor rumbles throughout the sparse forest, jostling us off balance.
Far off, beyond the swaying branches and the curtain of mist that clings to the ground, a cacophony rises — the muffled sounds of war. The clang of metal against metal, the thud of spears against shields, and the distant roar of voices locked in battle seep through the air, mingling with the rustle of leaves underfoot. My heart quickens, syncing with the rhythm of the urgent and foreboding drums I can just barely hear. As we step closer, the wind carries the scent of smoke and the metallic tang of blood. The barely discernible cries of the fallen tug at my resolve, and I find myself caught in the suspense of the unseen clash.
“It has already begun,” I say morosely. “We may be too late.”
“We can’t think like that,” Paxilche charges. “The battle still rages. If anything, we may be just in time.”
Paxilche approaches Saqatli and switches his gaze between the young boy and the ocelot beside him. In an uneasy manner, I hear him asking the two, “What’s the Auilqa way of stirring these warriors into action?”
At first, the two look at him, perplexed. But after a moment, Saqatli appears to understand and mutters something that resonates within my mind.
“Yaotl techiuh,” the meek boy’s voice says. Noch stares at him as if he’s said something peculiar, but Saqatli clarifies. “I’ve heard our warriors speak something similar to it before a hunt or conflict. It means ‘lead against the enemy’, but our warriors understand it to mean a battle is starting.”
Paxilche tests out the words, his mouth finding it difficult to speak the foreign tongue. Noch looks unamused, but that’s likely a permanent expression, all things considered. He strides up to the Auilqa warriors, masking his nervousness as he lifts up his chin and looks out among those gathered. All warriors — from Auilqa to Sanqo to Qiapu — await his speech and direction.
“Proud warriors,” he begins, “today, we fight for the honor of our people and the future of our children. Let the echoes of our courage awaken the spirits of the sun and the sky, guiding our path to victory. Yaotl techiuh!”
Initially, the Auilqa warriors exchange bewildered looks with one another. But at the sound of those final two words, a fierce determination washes over each of their faces. Loud, intense shouts erupt as the Auilqa raise their spears to the sky. Seeing this, Pomaqli and the Sanqo grin widely, relishing in the opportunity to fight alongside these ferocious and impassioned warriors.
The men and women stampede through the grasslands like a squadron of peccaries, charging toward the sounds of battle. Sprinting at full speed, they move swiftly like the winds of an impending storm. I’m caught by surprise as they leave me behind in their haste, and I take off chasing after them. They move at a blistering pace, leaving a trail of bent and broken blades of grass in their wake.
As the sounds of war grow closer, fire flares up above the skyline, arching downward until it’s followed by a thunderous boom. Shouts and screams sporadically burst in the distance. A wave of nervous energy sweeps through me, coursing through my veins. When more flames soar through the sky, I know it can mean only one thing: the Eye in the Flame are present.
There stands numerous warriors, clad in long cloaks of red and black that drape over a single shoulder, covering a skin-tight garment that runs from neck to toe. The outfit contains either spots or luminescent scales that shimmer from the flames illuminating the battleground. They swing long, wooden weapons at their enemies — long axes and maces with heads made from bronze, wooden paddles with multiple obsidian blades embedded into the sides, obsidian-tipped spears, and clubs with flint or obsidian studs. From atop a large wall made from jagged wooden supports which surrounds the perimeter of a city, men and women loose arrows down onto the battle, while others sling tiny flint arrowheads. Those below hurtle spears at the approaching cultists using devices or mechanisms that effectively extend the length of their arms, launching spears fields away.
Unguided, the Auilqa begin rushing after the Eye in the Flame, chucking their spears at the cultists, then unsheathing swords as they race at their foe. The warriors slice through scores of the cultists like clearing vines from the jungle, drenching the ashen gray robes with the crimson of their victim’s blood. Not wanting to be left out of the fight, my Sanqo compatriots dash over, swinging their weapons down upon the enemy.
Another crash, this time a tremendous ball of flame collides with the side of the perimeter wall. My stomach is sent plummeting as the grizzly scene appears before me. The wooden structure rapidly catches fire, the flames surging upward and illuminating the area in a blindingly bright light. Men and women hurry away or leap from the wall, toppling to their fate. More yells and shrieks flare up as the warriors desperately search for a way to extinguish the fire.
Beside the city, a great lake nestles among the nearby hills. It’s located a fair distance away, perhaps too far for me to manipulate from here. I search the area for more water, yet none can be found. Panic seeps into my being, and I feel helpless as I watch the wall, the only means separating the city from the cultists’ terrible onslaught, start to wither away as ash floats about the air like snowflakes from early winter.
As the voracious orange flames claw at the city’s ancient walls, I catch sight of Paxilche. Gripped by determination and gnawing frustration, he stands apart, eyes closed and hands raised towards the smoke-choked sky. He murmurs something, words lost to the roar of fire and conflict. When nothing happens right away, his brows knit tighter in concentration. Then, almost reluctantly, the air begins to stir.
A tentative breeze whisks through the battlefield, then a sudden smattering of dark and brooding clouds coalesces above. Yet their promise of rain hangs in uncertain balance. Paxilche’s efforts yield sporadic droplets that land mockingly on the flames without quenching their hunger. He grunts, and the sky responds with a flicker of lightning, more dramatic in its appearance than in any tangible aid it offers. The rain intensifies in patches, extinguishing a few tongues of fire only for others to leap up elsewhere in defiance.
At the sight of him, I’m torn between admiration for his bravery and a pang of helplessness at his plight. As the fire continues to rage, Paxilche’s intermittent downpours feel akin to tears shed in vain against the inferno’s might. His frustration mounts with each failed attempt to summon a deluge.
I hurry over to him, clasping his hands in mine. “One must be grounded with the world,” I warn. “It mustn’t come from a place of anger or hatred, but from a peaceful, wholesome connection.”
“But the Eye in the Flame are vile serpents!” he exclaims. “Look what they’re doing to Analoixan!”
“I understand,” I say calmly. “What they’re doing is sinister. However, one mustn’t let rage dictate one’s connection to Pachil. Nothing good comes from such a place. Be in harmony with the environment, and the result will be more successful.”
I recite the mantra from my morning ritual, hoping to center his focus. I take deep, controlled breaths, and Paxilche mimics my actions. The adrenaline rushing through him slowly begins to subside, and he no longer shivers with fury. When his brows cease to be furrowed, I gently instruct him, “Try now, staying composed.”
With a few more deep breaths, Paxilche casts his hands toward the sky. His eyes are closed, no longer pressed tightly, but instead as if he attempts to drift off into a peaceful sleep. It’s then that the dark clouds, once swirling and ominous, begin to collect over the battlefield. The rain intensifies, falling more steadily as the ground around us gradually becomes soaked and forms puddles of mud. The rainstorm grows more steady, and suddenly, the flames consuming the walls fade into glowing embers, then fall dormant.
As he slowly opens his eyes, a smile creeps onto the corners of his mouth. Thunder rumbles overhead, and a mischievous glint glimmers in Paxilche’s eyes. Though my heart began to fill with warmth initially upon seeing his success, a jolt of fear strikes me where I stand. A shadow lurks deep within him, a desire for justice that twists into forms unjust, revealing a darkness eager to escape its confines.
Before I can confront him about this, Paxilche takes off, running toward the fracas. He skids to a halt a distance away from the combatants, then thrusts his arms to the sky. The rain becomes more torrential, and a swirling wind kicks up debris. I reach out my hand. Before I can shout to him, plead with him to stop, lightning surges from the blackened clouds, crackling down to the field and striking with reckless abandon. Combatants, both Auilqa and Eye in the Flame, tumble to the ground as bolts course through their bodies. Those unfortunate to be standing nearby stumble after being shocked by the charge of energy that fizzles around the site of impact.
A blur aggressively tackles Paxilche to the ground, crumpling him into a heap. When the person pulls themselves up, I notice Pomaqli stands over his compatriot, furious. “By the forge, Paxilche!” he scolds. “What were you thinking!”
“I was putting an end to the threat!” Paxilche responds.
“You are the threat,” Pomaqli charges. “You’re doing just as much harm to our warriors as you are theirs! It’s madness!”
“I’m doing what must be done!” he exclaims. “They’re all savages cut from similar cloth! I’m doing Pachil a service!”
In the blink of an eye, Pomaqli crashes down onto Paxilche with a severe blow to the head, knocking him out cold. His chest heaving, Pomaqli tilts his head to look at me from the corner of his eye.
“The boy is not ready,” he scowls. “Whatever it is you think you’re doing, stop.”
He jogs back into the fray, sword in hand, before I can respond. My heart aches at Paxilche’s misguided efforts. Pomaqli’s observation is correct — Paxilche is not ready. But how does one calm the waters that yearn to become a tempest? You cannot ask the river to flow backward.
The air is thick with the smell of rain-soaked ashes. The recent downpour barely quenches the fires that the Eye in the Flame have reignited and set ablaze around Analoixan’s walls. Just as we begin to believe the rain might give us the upper hand, I spot a circle of people donning red robes in the distance. With their hands raised towards the dark, swirling sky, sorcerers of the Eye in the Flame gather. Their chants rise above the clamor of battle in a sinister cadence that sends shivers down my spine.
I try to alert anyone to their presence, but my pleas are too late. Fire erupts from the ground before them, and from these fiery maws emerge creatures of nightmare: Massive, feral beasts with coats of living flame. Their eyes, like glowing embers, fixate on the Auilqa and Ulxa warriors with a hunger for destruction. A wave of oppressive warmth rolls over us as the wild dogs burst forth.
Despite their bravery, the Auilqa and Ulxa warriors are not prepared for this new horror. The beasts move with terrifying speed and agility. Their fiery claws and teeth ignite everything they touch. Screams fill the air as one of the beasts launches itself at the city’s gates. The wood blackens and begins to smoke at the impact. Ulxa warriors tumble from the top of the wall like stones down a cliffside, splattering onto the ground.
Under the relentless assault of these fiery hounds, the battle turns desperate as our lines begin to falter. I clutch my water skin, but the liquid inside suddenly feels inadequate against such foes. I dash over to Paxilche, slapping the side of his face to stir him awake. He’s still breathing, but he remains unresponsive, eyes closed and mouth slightly ajar. I search the scene for anyone who can help, but with the chaos of battle all around me, I determine I must get us both to safety.
I wrap Paxilche’s arm over my shoulder and drag us through the slick mud. His unconscious weight is a deadened load against my strained muscles. The sounds of battle — the screams, the clash of weapons, the sinister howls of the fire hounds — close in around us. My breaths come in ragged gasps as the heat from nearby flames lick at my skin. Paxilche’s feet drag, leaving a trail in the mud that’s quickly washed away by the rain. I realize despairingly that I can’t do this alone.
In the calamity, a determined Auilqa warrior rushes to my aid without a word. Together, we hoist Paxilche between us as we urgently make for the city’s walls. I dare to hope, to believe in the possibility of safety within Analoixan. But our salvation is short-lived; a growling fire beast, its body consumed in flickering flames, intercepts our path. The warrior beside me meets its attack head-on, allowing me a precious moment to pull Paxilche further towards the walls. The pained cry behind me is cut abruptly short. Alone again, I stumble onwards to seek the sanctuary of Ulxa warriors atop the battlements.
As a sudden, booming crash reverberates through the air, the chilling reality of our worst fears materializes before our eyes. The once-sturdy wooden gate of Analoixan succumbs to the relentless assault, crumbling under the ferocious might of the fiery beasts. With a thunderous roar, the barrier falls, laying bare the heart of the city to its invaders’ eyes. Through the settling chaos, the cultists, with their ghastly hounds wreathed in flames, step over the ruins with a menacing calm. Their sinister silhouettes cross the threshold into Analoixan. Now vulnerable and exposed, the city braces for the doom and terror that threatens to swallow it whole.
As one would imagine, the welcome we received this time is much different than when we first arrived. We’re met with loud, overwhelming cheers amidst a celebratory atmosphere. People offer a bevy of foods and drink, hoisting large dishes heavy with tamales wrapped in banana leaves, and swinging huge clay jugs of pulque in our faces as we pass by, which Naqispi is too eager to try, in my opinion. Tables are laden with bowls of spicy chocolate drink, plates piled high with roasted maize, grilled fish seasoned with achiote, and baskets overflowing with fresh fruit like papayas and guavas. The air is rich with the aromas of cocoa, chili peppers, and the tangy sweetness of sapodilla. Despite our battle-worn appearance, villagers pat us on our shoulders and backs, ignoring the dark green goop caked onto our clothing, the remnants of Quetzelotl.
With their chests puffed out, the warriors proudly march alongside us as we’re led past the peculiar stone monolith and on toward the throne room. There’s an incoming storm on the horizon, but it hasn’t shrouded the bright and festive setting, making the vibrant colors of the hallowed chamber stand out more than before. Perhaps it’s because we’re not being held in captivity that I feel the space is more warm and inviting than my initial impression of the cold, dark hall.
Standing tall and proud, Xolotzi greets us with a brusque nod. Through his headdress — this one reveals more of his face, replacing the bones with a regal fan of blue and yellow feathers that arches behind him like the rays of a celestial body — his face, painted with patterns in a lush green, remains expressionless.
“I don’t think he knows how to smile,” Paxilche jokes. This time, the offhand remark isn’t met with the warriors’ hostility as they ignore the comment.
A loud, boisterous Xolotzi proclaims something in Auilqa, which causes Saqatli, the boy who speaks to animals, to bow deeply. The elder who previously translated for us stands beside the ruler, yet says nothing. It’s as if he expects us to deduce what’s being said through context clues.
“What is he saying?” I think, hoping the boy will be able to understand and hear me. When there’s no response, I’m overcome with disappointment. I mirror Saqatli’s movements, bowing graciously as I’ve been taught to do when in the presence of Sanqo nobility. It’s more of a curtsey, bending at the knees and bobbing while bowing my head. We’re soon joined by Paxilche, who, confused, curtseys as I do, then followed by Pomaqli and the other warriors, who bow as the boy does. Naqispi, always needlessly defiant, remains standing through all of this.
There’s a bit more pomp and circumstance, as we’re regaled with an elaborate display by dancers, and another with warriors’ vigorous movements and stamping of feet as if to intimidate us. Judging by the reactions when it’s over, however, I understand it to be a show of appreciation and honor, as Saqatli, along with others gathered, applaud excitedly.
The ruler makes another declarative statement, and this time, the elder speaks. “You have honored the Auilqa with your generous offering, meeting the challenge bestowed upon you by our revered Tlaloqa. He has deemed you worthy to be in the presence of the Great Xolotzi, He Who Commands the Jaguar’s Path, Tamer of the Monsoon’s Might, Who Shrouds…”
“They think it was an honor to fight that beast?” I hear Naqispi mutter behind me as the elder rattles off their ruler’s numerous titles. “Some kind of gift? These people are lunatics!” He’s abruptly shushed by his comrades while I maintain my attention on the Auilqa ruler.
“The Great Xolotzi recalls your request to aid in a battle against an evil outside presence. Is this correct?” the elder inquires.
“Yes, Honored One,” I state, stepping forward to address the great ruler directly while speaking through the elder. “There is a terrible threat with plans of attacking the Ulxa capital, Analoixan. With the assistance of the mighty Auilqa, we request aid in our pursuit of defeating the Eye in the Flame — a cult that not only endangers the prosperity of the Ulxa, but of all factions of Pachil.”
After the elder relays my message, Xolotzi appears to ponder this, casting his eyes skyward for an answer. Eventually, he makes a statement, after which the elder bows in response. “Though the Ulxa and Auilqa have been enemies for generations, the Great Xolotzi will honor your request. Your impassioned determination to travel far from your homelands to defeat this existential threat shows the importance of this mission. The venerable Xolotzi will send forth 144 warriors to assist you in your mission to defeat the blight to our lands. This number, twelvefold by twelve, is chosen with deep reverence for its auspicious strength in our traditions. It symbolizes the unity and the formidable force of our people when rallied under a common cause. May it bring fortitude and favor to our shared battle.”
I curtsey once again, lowering my eyes when addressing the leader in the Auilqa manner of showing respect. “The Auilqa are renowned for their formidability. One warrior is comparable to twelve of any other faction. You honor us with this thoughtful, generous arrangement.”
Naqispi scoffs at my declaration, but I pay him no mind. With a ruler who possesses an infinite number of titles, it’s obvious to me that he is a man who likes to have his ego inflated. Though the Auilqa warriors are known to be fierce on the battlefield, I know the Sanqo would be just as capable. But, of course, I would never say this aloud to a ruler offering us much-needed aid to defeat the Eye in the Flame. Besides, I’m grateful for any number of warriors he is willing to supply to our cause, and he appears to have taken great care in selecting the specific, symbolic number to lend us in aid.
As we depart the throne room, we’re met with more cheers from the spectating villagers. Auilqa children swarm us, tugging at our garments out of both curiosity and reverence, mystified by the outsiders wearing so much clothing in comparison to their people. Chiqama gets into a near scuffle with a child, who unsheathed one of his daggers to inspect it.
From the corner of my eye, a stern-faced man and a boy muscle their way through the crowd. He’s a stocky fellow, barrel-chested with a squarish face and prominent features. The boy closely resembles a combination of this man and Saqatli, though slightly older and muscles that are more toned. Both have the emerald green eyes of a typical Auilqa, yet with the man’s angry expression, the color is much darker and more ominous.
“Saqatli!” his enraged shout carries over the chatter. The boy turns to look at the all-too-familiar voice, his face immediately downtrodden at the recognition. He speaks in the Auilqa language I have yet to learn. And because Saqatli is visibly under duress, I anticipate not having the conversation translated for me. Yet, from what I can see from where I stand, I gather a reasonable — and unfortunate — understanding of what’s occurring.
The man’s posture is rigid, arms crossed in a clear sign of rejection that greatly contrasts with the communal joy. His piercing gaze speaks of his contempt for Saqatli. The other boy next to him mimics the stance, seemingly embodying the learned disdain. As the older man talks, his facial expressions are hard with an unyielding look as he locks eyes with Saqatli. There is no pride in his gaze, only disappointment and disapproval. The other boy smirks cruelly, appearing to enjoy Saqatli’s discomfort.
The man invades Saqatli’s space, gesturing dismissively at the boy, then to us outsiders, and back. Is this to tell Saqatli that he doesn’t belong with us? His motions are sharp, a clear disavowal of something the boy has done. Could this be Saqatli’s father? All the while, Saqatli’s response is one of resignation. He looks down, his shoulders slumping under the weight of the scorn hurled at him.
As the man continues his tirade, Saqatli visibly shrinks. The man’s cold, hard eyes never leave the boy. His index finger jabs the air, pointing at Saqatli, then off toward somewhere in the village. The villagers nearby shuffle to the side, wanting nothing to do with this interaction. Instead, they choose to engage with Pomacha and Chiqama while turning their backs to the situation. Some snickers sporadically spring up, and I catch a few people pointing at Saqatli with their mouths covered as they speak conspiratorially with one another.
Having observed this, Naqispi steps in with a protective stance. He purposely places himself between Saqatli and the man, crossing his arms. This causes a few jeers from the crowd, though I can’t comprehend what’s being shouted. “I don’t know what on Iaqa’s green lands you’re saying,” he interjects, “but this boy has done more to rescue this forsaken-by-the-heavens village than you. You’d be wise to show him some respect, sir.” Naqispi plants a supportive clap on Saqatli’s shoulder, turning to the boy and offering him an encouraging nod.
The man scowls, anger boiling inside of him. He clenches his jaw and clinches his fists, as if preparing to strike Naqispi. Yet, after glaring at Saqatli for several heartbeats, he thinks better of it, waving a hand contemptuously before deliberately turning away. Like a shadow in broad daylight, the other boy follows obediently. Just like that, the two disappear among the crowd, blending in with the other tanned, bare-skinned villagers.
Saqatli stands still, stunned and disheartened. One or two other villagers subtly express their gratitude to Saqatli, half-heartedly attempting to cheer him up. Naqispi’s reaction is more exuberant, grasping the boy’s shoulder and giving it a few heartfelt shakes as he casts a wide smile down at our emotionally-wounded companion.
I apologize to the villagers regaling me in their language and approach Saqatli. I place a hand on his back and offer a consolatory smile. With eyebrows furrowed, he flinches at my touch, shrugging his shoulder away from me. I want to say something, to show I care, but with the language barrier and his reaction, I find I’m at a loss for words.
“It’s okay, Princess Walumaq,” Naqispi says. “I think he’s got to work this out on his own.”
I want to pursue Saqatli, insist that I am on his side. The interaction looked severely unpleasant, and I can’t imagine how he must feel. Surprised? Resigned? Hurt? I want to show him that he doesn’t have to face this alone. That we’re unified as a group, as a team. However, perhaps Naqispi is right. With the way he’s handling it, the encounter appears to be similar to something that has happened to Saqatli before. It’s likely that the result was not something he was expecting nor prepared to see, especially in a moment of triumph and celebration. Though I’m reluctant to do so, I determine that, when the moment is right, he will speak to us about it.
The journey is long and tiresome, but the only thing that drives me forward is knowing how urgent the matter at Analoixan is to the future of Pachil. The Auilqa warriors identify a point in the mighty Maiu Atiniuq that is the narrowest and begin constructing makeshift rafts to get us across. It’s a laborious task that takes nearly two days. Yet the Auilqa are diligent, ceaseless workers, toiling from dawn until dusk. Working together, we’re able to cross the great river without much disruption or incident, and I am impressed at the efficiency of these men and women.
After a short while, my breath hitches, caught in the grip of sudden emotion at the sight. A sizable village, perhaps as grand as Haqiliqa, has been laid to waste. The ruins aren’t smoldering, suggesting it has been this way for some time. Yet overgrowth hasn’t settled in, and much of what remains are the bones of a desolate town. Splintered support beams are strewn about, many singed. Nearly every home and building is leveled, with the acrid stench of rotting corpses lingering in the air from the innumerable skeletal remains littering the paths.
Although the Auilqa and Sanqo warriors remain stoic, Paxilche glumly surveys the scene. The overwhelming loss of life nearly brings him to tears. He clutches Ridgebreaker tightly, determined to seek revenge on whomever caused this destruction. The burn markings everywhere clearly tell the story of who is responsible. It’s a grim reminder of what we’re likely to face.
We press on, and after traversing the Ulxa jungles for days, the landscape changes abruptly. As we push forward, the oppressive humidity that clung to my skin like a second, sweat-soaked layer begins to fade. There’s a crispness to the air that invigorates my lungs with each breath. The dense canopy of the jungle that seemingly swallowed the sky thins out, allowing shafts of sunlight to pierce through more freely. The music of unseen creatures grows quieter, the chittering more sparse and subdued. The rioting underbrush of ferns and flowering plants gives way to grasslands and scattered trees. It’s as if we’ve stepped through an unseen barrier, leaving the throbbing heart of the jungle behind to enter a realm of open skies and gentle winds. The transition is so sudden, so stark, it’s like waking from a dream into a different world entirely. From what Saqatli has told me through our shared connection via Noch, the Auilqa believe the great Ulxa capital, Analoixan, is near.
To ease my wary mind, I decide to ask Saqatli some questions about his homeland. Recalling the stone structure at the center of the chamber leading to the throne room, I ask him through our shared thoughts what that statue signifies. At first, he looks confused, uncertain what I could be describing. Then, it suddenly strikes him.
“Ah, the calendar!” I hear his excited voice echo within my mind. “My people use it to track the passage of time.”
My curiosity is piqued. “How are you capable of doing so through such a device?”
Saqatli frowns. “I’m not entirely certain. But my father once told me it’s how our rulers and elders knew when it was time for something, like when to harvest, or when the celestial events were occurring.”
“All through that mechanism? It sounds impressive!” I state. “Most factions in Pachil merely determine it’s time to harvest when the weather turns, not through the stars in the sky.”
“Oh, yes, we know dozens of constellations!” I hear him exclaim. “Depending on where they are in the sky, that tells us the month.”
Saqatli uses many words that I don’t quite understand, yet using the stars to tell time makes complete sense to me. The Sanqo use them to navigate, so why couldn’t they indicate the passage of time? I’m fascinated by the ingenuity of these people, a faction everyone else has immediately cast as savage or uncivilized. With their vibrant displays on their perimeter walls, and their ability to harness the nature of the jungle around them, it’s evident to me that there is more to the Auilqa than outsiders are aware.
There’s a nagging feeling tugging at me, wanting to inquire about the encounter at Qasiunqa. I have a pressing need to express my sympathy for the boy, to let him know that he’s one of us. Is the time to do so right? He seems happy, something I don’t want to ruin by broaching a difficult subject. I resolve there is never a good time to engage in such a conversation, so I should talk to him now, while I have the chance. Yet, just as I’m about to speak, a world-quaking tremor rumbles throughout the sparse forest, jostling us off balance.
Far off, beyond the swaying branches and the curtain of mist that clings to the ground, a cacophony rises — the muffled sounds of war. The clang of metal against metal, the thud of spears against shields, and the distant roar of voices locked in battle seep through the air, mingling with the rustle of leaves underfoot. My heart quickens, syncing with the rhythm of the urgent and foreboding drums I can just barely hear. As we step closer, the wind carries the scent of smoke and the metallic tang of blood. The barely discernible cries of the fallen tug at my resolve, and I find myself caught in the suspense of the unseen clash.
“It has already begun,” I say morosely. “We may be too late.”
“We can’t think like that,” Paxilche charges. “The battle still rages. If anything, we may be just in time.”
Paxilche approaches Saqatli and switches his gaze between the young boy and the ocelot beside him. In an uneasy manner, I hear him asking the two, “What’s the Auilqa way of stirring these warriors into action?”
At first, the two look at him, perplexed. But after a moment, Saqatli appears to understand and mutters something that resonates within my mind.
“Yaotl techiuh,” the meek boy’s voice says. Noch stares at him as if he’s said something peculiar, but Saqatli clarifies. “I’ve heard our warriors speak something similar to it before a hunt or conflict. It means ‘lead against the enemy’, but our warriors understand it to mean a battle is starting.”
Paxilche tests out the words, his mouth finding it difficult to speak the foreign tongue. Noch looks unamused, but that’s likely a permanent expression, all things considered. He strides up to the Auilqa warriors, masking his nervousness as he lifts up his chin and looks out among those gathered. All warriors — from Auilqa to Sanqo to Qiapu — await his speech and direction.
“Proud warriors,” he begins, “today, we fight for the honor of our people and the future of our children. Let the echoes of our courage awaken the spirits of the sun and the sky, guiding our path to victory. Yaotl techiuh!”
Initially, the Auilqa warriors exchange bewildered looks with one another. But at the sound of those final two words, a fierce determination washes over each of their faces. Loud, intense shouts erupt as the Auilqa raise their spears to the sky. Seeing this, Pomaqli and the Sanqo grin widely, relishing in the opportunity to fight alongside these ferocious and impassioned warriors.
The men and women stampede through the grasslands like a squadron of peccaries, charging toward the sounds of battle. Sprinting at full speed, they move swiftly like the winds of an impending storm. I’m caught by surprise as they leave me behind in their haste, and I take off chasing after them. They move at a blistering pace, leaving a trail of bent and broken blades of grass in their wake.
As the sounds of war grow closer, fire flares up above the skyline, arching downward until it’s followed by a thunderous boom. Shouts and screams sporadically burst in the distance. A wave of nervous energy sweeps through me, coursing through my veins. When more flames soar through the sky, I know it can mean only one thing: the Eye in the Flame are present.
There stands numerous warriors, clad in long cloaks of red and black that drape over a single shoulder, covering a skin-tight garment that runs from neck to toe. The outfit contains either spots or luminescent scales that shimmer from the flames illuminating the battleground. They swing long, wooden weapons at their enemies — long axes and maces with heads made from bronze, wooden paddles with multiple obsidian blades embedded into the sides, obsidian-tipped spears, and clubs with flint or obsidian studs. From atop a large wall made from jagged wooden supports which surrounds the perimeter of a city, men and women loose arrows down onto the battle, while others sling tiny flint arrowheads. Those below hurtle spears at the approaching cultists using devices or mechanisms that effectively extend the length of their arms, launching spears fields away.
Unguided, the Auilqa begin rushing after the Eye in the Flame, chucking their spears at the cultists, then unsheathing swords as they race at their foe. The warriors slice through scores of the cultists like clearing vines from the jungle, drenching the ashen gray robes with the crimson of their victim’s blood. Not wanting to be left out of the fight, my Sanqo compatriots dash over, swinging their weapons down upon the enemy.
Another crash, this time a tremendous ball of flame collides with the side of the perimeter wall. My stomach is sent plummeting as the grizzly scene appears before me. The wooden structure rapidly catches fire, the flames surging upward and illuminating the area in a blindingly bright light. Men and women hurry away or leap from the wall, toppling to their fate. More yells and shrieks flare up as the warriors desperately search for a way to extinguish the fire.
Beside the city, a great lake nestles among the nearby hills. It’s located a fair distance away, perhaps too far for me to manipulate from here. I search the area for more water, yet none can be found. Panic seeps into my being, and I feel helpless as I watch the wall, the only means separating the city from the cultists’ terrible onslaught, start to wither away as ash floats about the air like snowflakes from early winter.
As the voracious orange flames claw at the city’s ancient walls, I catch sight of Paxilche. Gripped by determination and gnawing frustration, he stands apart, eyes closed and hands raised towards the smoke-choked sky. He murmurs something, words lost to the roar of fire and conflict. When nothing happens right away, his brows knit tighter in concentration. Then, almost reluctantly, the air begins to stir.
A tentative breeze whisks through the battlefield, then a sudden smattering of dark and brooding clouds coalesces above. Yet their promise of rain hangs in uncertain balance. Paxilche’s efforts yield sporadic droplets that land mockingly on the flames without quenching their hunger. He grunts, and the sky responds with a flicker of lightning, more dramatic in its appearance than in any tangible aid it offers. The rain intensifies in patches, extinguishing a few tongues of fire only for others to leap up elsewhere in defiance.
At the sight of him, I’m torn between admiration for his bravery and a pang of helplessness at his plight. As the fire continues to rage, Paxilche’s intermittent downpours feel akin to tears shed in vain against the inferno’s might. His frustration mounts with each failed attempt to summon a deluge.
I hurry over to him, clasping his hands in mine. “One must be grounded with the world,” I warn. “It mustn’t come from a place of anger or hatred, but from a peaceful, wholesome connection.”
“But the Eye in the Flame are vile serpents!” he exclaims. “Look what they’re doing to Analoixan!”
“I understand,” I say calmly. “What they’re doing is sinister. However, one mustn’t let rage dictate one’s connection to Pachil. Nothing good comes from such a place. Be in harmony with the environment, and the result will be more successful.”
I recite the mantra from my morning ritual, hoping to center his focus. I take deep, controlled breaths, and Paxilche mimics my actions. The adrenaline rushing through him slowly begins to subside, and he no longer shivers with fury. When his brows cease to be furrowed, I gently instruct him, “Try now, staying composed.”
With a few more deep breaths, Paxilche casts his hands toward the sky. His eyes are closed, no longer pressed tightly, but instead as if he attempts to drift off into a peaceful sleep. It’s then that the dark clouds, once swirling and ominous, begin to collect over the battlefield. The rain intensifies, falling more steadily as the ground around us gradually becomes soaked and forms puddles of mud. The rainstorm grows more steady, and suddenly, the flames consuming the walls fade into glowing embers, then fall dormant.
As he slowly opens his eyes, a smile creeps onto the corners of his mouth. Thunder rumbles overhead, and a mischievous glint glimmers in Paxilche’s eyes. Though my heart began to fill with warmth initially upon seeing his success, a jolt of fear strikes me where I stand. A shadow lurks deep within him, a desire for justice that twists into forms unjust, revealing a darkness eager to escape its confines.
Before I can confront him about this, Paxilche takes off, running toward the fracas. He skids to a halt a distance away from the combatants, then thrusts his arms to the sky. The rain becomes more torrential, and a swirling wind kicks up debris. I reach out my hand. Before I can shout to him, plead with him to stop, lightning surges from the blackened clouds, crackling down to the field and striking with reckless abandon. Combatants, both Auilqa and Eye in the Flame, tumble to the ground as bolts course through their bodies. Those unfortunate to be standing nearby stumble after being shocked by the charge of energy that fizzles around the site of impact.
A blur aggressively tackles Paxilche to the ground, crumpling him into a heap. When the person pulls themselves up, I notice Pomaqli stands over his compatriot, furious. “By the forge, Paxilche!” he scolds. “What were you thinking!”
“I was putting an end to the threat!” Paxilche responds.
“You are the threat,” Pomaqli charges. “You’re doing just as much harm to our warriors as you are theirs! It’s madness!”
“I’m doing what must be done!” he exclaims. “They’re all savages cut from similar cloth! I’m doing Pachil a service!”
In the blink of an eye, Pomaqli crashes down onto Paxilche with a severe blow to the head, knocking him out cold. His chest heaving, Pomaqli tilts his head to look at me from the corner of his eye.
“The boy is not ready,” he scowls. “Whatever it is you think you’re doing, stop.”
He jogs back into the fray, sword in hand, before I can respond. My heart aches at Paxilche’s misguided efforts. Pomaqli’s observation is correct — Paxilche is not ready. But how does one calm the waters that yearn to become a tempest? You cannot ask the river to flow backward.
The air is thick with the smell of rain-soaked ashes. The recent downpour barely quenches the fires that the Eye in the Flame have reignited and set ablaze around Analoixan’s walls. Just as we begin to believe the rain might give us the upper hand, I spot a circle of people donning red robes in the distance. With their hands raised towards the dark, swirling sky, sorcerers of the Eye in the Flame gather. Their chants rise above the clamor of battle in a sinister cadence that sends shivers down my spine.
I try to alert anyone to their presence, but my pleas are too late. Fire erupts from the ground before them, and from these fiery maws emerge creatures of nightmare: Massive, feral beasts with coats of living flame. Their eyes, like glowing embers, fixate on the Auilqa and Ulxa warriors with a hunger for destruction. A wave of oppressive warmth rolls over us as the wild dogs burst forth.
Despite their bravery, the Auilqa and Ulxa warriors are not prepared for this new horror. The beasts move with terrifying speed and agility. Their fiery claws and teeth ignite everything they touch. Screams fill the air as one of the beasts launches itself at the city’s gates. The wood blackens and begins to smoke at the impact. Ulxa warriors tumble from the top of the wall like stones down a cliffside, splattering onto the ground.
Under the relentless assault of these fiery hounds, the battle turns desperate as our lines begin to falter. I clutch my water skin, but the liquid inside suddenly feels inadequate against such foes. I dash over to Paxilche, slapping the side of his face to stir him awake. He’s still breathing, but he remains unresponsive, eyes closed and mouth slightly ajar. I search the scene for anyone who can help, but with the chaos of battle all around me, I determine I must get us both to safety.
I wrap Paxilche’s arm over my shoulder and drag us through the slick mud. His unconscious weight is a deadened load against my strained muscles. The sounds of battle — the screams, the clash of weapons, the sinister howls of the fire hounds — close in around us. My breaths come in ragged gasps as the heat from nearby flames lick at my skin. Paxilche’s feet drag, leaving a trail in the mud that’s quickly washed away by the rain. I realize despairingly that I can’t do this alone.
In the calamity, a determined Auilqa warrior rushes to my aid without a word. Together, we hoist Paxilche between us as we urgently make for the city’s walls. I dare to hope, to believe in the possibility of safety within Analoixan. But our salvation is short-lived; a growling fire beast, its body consumed in flickering flames, intercepts our path. The warrior beside me meets its attack head-on, allowing me a precious moment to pull Paxilche further towards the walls. The pained cry behind me is cut abruptly short. Alone again, I stumble onwards to seek the sanctuary of Ulxa warriors atop the battlements.
As a sudden, booming crash reverberates through the air, the chilling reality of our worst fears materializes before our eyes. The once-sturdy wooden gate of Analoixan succumbs to the relentless assault, crumbling under the ferocious might of the fiery beasts. With a thunderous roar, the barrier falls, laying bare the heart of the city to its invaders’ eyes. Through the settling chaos, the cultists, with their ghastly hounds wreathed in flames, step over the ruins with a menacing calm. Their sinister silhouettes cross the threshold into Analoixan. Now vulnerable and exposed, the city braces for the doom and terror that threatens to swallow it whole.
