The dawn broke with a silver light that splashed across the eastern peaks, throwing the colossal shadows of Elpantepetl's temples halfway across the valley. From this distance, the city was a titan's crown resting atop its mountain throne, a silhouette of power and history against the brightening sky. It was a sight that inspired awe, a vista from which epics were born. Etalcaxi felt its grandeur settle upon his shoulders like a magnificent cloak, a fitting send-off for a warrior of his caliber embarking on a perilous journey into the unknown. He walked at the head of his... contingent. His stride was long and purposeful, his back ramrod straight, his chin held at an angle that suggested a deep communion with destiny. This was how a leader walked. This was how a legend began.
Behind him, two porters, a brother-and-sister duo named Ixa and Zolin, shuffled along under the weight of large wooden frames, from which were slung a dozen or so large ceramic pots. The pots, destined to hold a glorious cargo of Uetatan honey, were currently empty, wrapped carefully in layers of dried grass and cotton cloth to prevent chipping. The precaution seemed to do little to lighten the load, if Zolin's wheezing was any indication. Ixa, a wiry woman with a perpetually sour expression, shot her brother a venomous glare.
"Empty pots should not be this heavy," she grumbled, her voice a loud whisper that carried easily in the still morning air. "Your breathing is already annoying me. It sounds like a dying frog."
Zolin, a young man, whose limbs seemed to operate awkwardly, shifted his weight, causing his entire frame to wobble precariously. "The air is heavy this morning," he gasped, his eyes wide with a familiar, ambient anxiety. "I think it is a bad omen."
Walking beside them, his hand resting on the hilt of the macana club tucked into his belt, was Citli. The boy's face was a mask of grim determination. He scanned the rocky hillsides, the sparse cholla cactus, the distant lines of agave, his gaze sweeping for the first sign of an ambush. He saw threats in every shifting shadow, an enemy in every gust of wind. His devotion was admirable, Etalcaxi thought, if a bit... excessive. The most dangerous thing they were likely to encounter this close to the capital was an irritable badger.
At the very rear of this grand procession, a figure of pure, undiluted cynicism trudged along, pulling the lead of a single, spectacularly stubborn llama. The beast, an expensive import from the southern lands, was piled high with sacks of grain, water skins, and tightly bound bedrolls. Its owner and driver was Tlico, the merchant who had orchestrated this entire venture. At fifty-seven cycles of the calendar wheel, his skin was the color and texture of a well-used leather pouch, and his eyes, narrowed against the morning glare, seemed to have already seen the end of this journey and judged it a failure. He heard the porters' exchange and let out a sigh that seemed to carry the weight of all the tedious miles he had ever walked.
"The only bad omen," Tlico muttered to the llama's twitching ear, "is starting a two-month journey with fools." The llama flicked its ear back, as if in agreement, and planted its feet, refusing to move another step until Tlico gave the rope a sharp, vicious tug.
Etalcaxi, hearing the disjointed sounds of his command—the whining, the wheezing, the grumbling, the sheer lack of heroic momentum—felt a prickle of irritation. They did not understand the seriousness of the undertaking. They saw only the dust and the effort, not the glory. A leader's duty was to lift the spirits of his men, to forge them into a cohesive unit with his own indomitable will.
He stopped. He planted his spear, its obsidian tip glinting, into the dusty earth and turned. He placed one hand on his hip, striking a pose that was both commanding and casually confident. He surveyed the sad little caravan as a commander might survey his regiments before a great battle. Ixa and Zolin stared back with blank incomprehension. Citli immediately straightened up, his chest puffing out in emulation. Tlico continued his private war with the llama, seemingly oblivious.
"A fine morning for a glorious undertaking!" Etalcaxi's voice boomed, rich with forced enthusiasm. He swept an arm towards the rising sun, meaning it to be a gesture of significance. "See how the sun itself blesses our path! It chooses to illuminate the way forward for this vital mission, a sign from the gods that our cause is just!"
Tlico finally coaxed the llama into motion and trudged up to the front, his sandals scuffing a rhythm of weary resignation. He stopped beside the posturing warrior, his gaze fixed on the road ahead. "The sun blesses everyone, Etalcaxi," he said, his voice flat and dry as a bone. "The sun is not particular. It shines on heroes and it shines on jackrabbits. In a few hours, the sun will also be responsible for the boils on Zolin's neck. Coquihani is indifferent, he does not choose sides." He gave another tug on the llama's lead. "Let us keep moving. Every moment we stand here admiring the sky is a moment we are not closer to being done."
Without waiting for a reply, the old merchant walked past, the llama following with a resentful snort. The heroic tableau was shattered. The grand speech hung in the air, utterly deflated. Etalcaxi felt a hot flush of anger creep up his neck. The old man's pragmatism threatened to infect the soul of their quest. He watched Tlico's retreating back, a muscle in his jaw twitching. For a moment, his heroic smile faltered, replaced by a tight-lipped scowl. Then, catching Citli's adoring gaze, he quickly reassembled his features. He plastered the magnificent smile back onto his face, pulled his spear from the earth, and resumed his purposeful stride, his silence somehow more commanding than his earlier speech. Or so he told himself.
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By mid-morning, the majestic shadows of Elpantepetl had shrunk to a smudge on the horizon, and the valley began to give way to a rougher, wilder country. The road, less a road and more a wide, well-trodden track of packed earth and stone, led them down toward the Manayac River. It was not the river in its mighty, valley-carving form, but a wider, shallower crossing point where the water spread out over a bed of smooth, sun-bleached stones. The water was clear as glass, gurgling pleasantly as it flowed around rocks slick with a vibrant green moss. Dappled sunlight filtered through the broad leaves of the trees lining the bank, painting dancing patterns on the water's surface. It was picturesque, almost tranquil.
For Etalcaxi, it was the first true test. A river crossing, however shallow, was a classic element of any heroic journey. It required caution, skill, and above all, leadership.
He strode to the water's edge, every inch the seasoned commander. He tested the riverbed with the butt of his spear, gauging the depth and the current. It was barely knee-deep, the current sluggish. A child could cross it. Still, one could not be too careful. Appearances were often deceiving.
"Halt!" he commanded, turning to face his followers. They had already stopped, looking at the water with varying degrees of apathy. He pointed his spear across the river with an air of immense authority, as if indicating the route through a treacherous mountain pass. "The path ahead is treacherous! The stones are coated in a slippery moss, a trap for the unwary. Mind your footing! Follow my lead precisely, and step only where I step. Under my guidance, you shall not falter!"
He took a confident step into the cool water, then another, his movements sure and graceful. He was a jaguar stalking through the shallows, a perfect example of martial poise. He made it to the middle of the river and turned, gesturing for them to follow.
Citli entered the water with the grim focus of a man defusing a trap. Ixa followed, her movements nimble and irritated, as if the river itself had personally offended her. And then came Zolin.
Zolin waded into the river with the tentative, wide-legged gait of someone expecting the ground to vanish at any moment. His eyes were fixed on his own feet, his brow furrowed in concentration. He took one step. Then another. He was halfway across when his focus wavered. He looked up at Etalcaxi for reassurance. That was his mistake. His foot, descending blindly, landed squarely on a dome-shaped rock coated in a particularly lush patch of green moss.
It was as if he had stepped on oiled glass.
His foot shot out from under him with a wet schloop. A yelp of pure panic escaped his lips. His arms, which had been held out for balance, began to pinwheel in frantic, ever-widening circles. The heavy wooden frame on his back, laden with its precious, empty cargo, swayed violently to one side, then the other. For a breathtaking moment, it seemed he might regain his balance. He almost did. The frame gave one final, dramatic lurch.
A single, large honey pot at the top of the rack, a beautiful piece of pottery with a flared rim and a dark, glossy glaze, slipped its bindings. It hung in the air for what felt like an eternity, turning slowly, before plummeting downward.
It did not land in the water with a gentle splash. It hit the edge of another rock, a sharp, granite fang protruding from the riverbed.
CRACK.
The sound was shockingly loud in the tranquil air. It was not the sound of shattering, but almost as bad. A clean, definitive fracture.
Silence descended. The gurgling of the river seemed to fade away. Zolin knelt in the river on one knee, his balance somewhat restored. Ixa had her face in her hands. Citli looked on with wide-eyed horror. Even the llama on the far bank seemed to be staring at the source of the noise.
Tlico, who had been waiting patiently on the bank, closed his eyes and let out a long, slow breath. He then opened them, and without a word, waded into the river. His movements were not graceful like Etalcaxi's; they were the heavy, deliberate steps of a man marching toward a foregone conclusion. He reached Zolin, ignored the terrified porter completely, and bent down to retrieve the damaged pot.
He held it up to the light, turning it over in his hands. A hairline fracture ran from the rim down its belly, a spiderweb of doom for any future honey-related endeavors. Tlico's face was a mask of weariness that seemed to have been carved into his features by the river itself. He looked up, his gaze finding Etalcaxi, who still stood in a heroic pose in the middle of the river.
"'You shall not falter,'" Tlico said, his voice quiet, yet carrying over the water with perfect, damning clarity. "I believe those were the words. I must have misheard." He ran a thumb over the crack. "This pot is now useless for holding honey. It may, perhaps, hold a small, very dry plant. Or Zolin's brains, if we could find a way to get them out without cracking his skull as well."
Etalcaxi felt his face flush. The blame was being laid squarely at his feet, and his heroic image was developing a crack of its own. "That rock was unstable!" he declared, his voice loud and defensive. "It was coated in a treacherous moss! Zolin should have spotted the weakness in the terrain! A warrior is always aware of his surroundings!"
Zolin, who was now trembling slightly, found his voice. "I am a porter, not a warrior!" he whined, pointing a shaky finger at Etalcaxi. "He said to follow him! But he was just standing there, looking handsome! He didn't guide us over the bad rocks!"
Just as the argument was about to escalate, Citli, ever the loyal interpreter of greatness, had an epiphany. His eyes, which had been filled with horror, now shone with a brilliant twinkle. "Perhaps it was a necessary sacrifice!" he exclaimed, his voice ringing with the conviction of a priest. "An offering to the river spirit! To appease the water god and ensure safe passage for the rest of the caravan's precious cargo on its long journey!"
The absurdity of the suggestion hung in the air. Ixa made a sound that was half-choke, half-laugh. Etalcaxi looked momentarily grateful for the heroic reframing. Tlico, however, slowly turned his head to stare at Citli. He said nothing. He simply looked at the boy, his flat, unimpressed gaze holding a universe of silent judgment. It was a look that could make maize wilt. Citli's inspired expression withered under the weight of it, and he shrank back, suddenly fascinated by the patterns on his macana hilt.
Tlico turned his devastatingly quiet gaze back to Etalcaxi. "One cracked pot," he stated, holding it up. "Your glorious leadership has cost me three nuggets of silver before the first midday meal." He shook his head, a slow, mournful motion. "A new record."
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The sun, which Etalcaxi had so poetically declared their divine guide at dawn, had become a malevolent tyrant by midday. It sat directly overhead, Coquihani being merciless in a bleached-white sky, beating down on the scrublands with a his divine force. The air was a thick, shimmering blanket of heat that made every breath feel like an effort. The land had lost its color, bleached to shades of dusty brown and pale, sun-scorched green. The only sounds were the incessant, high-pitched drone of insects, the scuff and crunch of sandals on the parched earth, and Zolin's rhythmic, miserable panting.
This was the part of the epic journey the singers of tales tended to skip. The endless, mind-numbing, soul-crushing monotony of walking.
Etalcaxi was fantastically, excruciatingly bored. His grand visions of leading a heroic charge had dissolved into the grim reality of putting one foot in front of the other. The weight of his own spear felt tedious. The heroic posture he had adopted at dawn had long since wilted into a practical, energy-conserving slump. There was nothing to fight, nothing to conquer, nothing to even look at. His ego, starved of an audience, was beginning to atrophy. He needed a purpose beyond this walking purgatory.
As always, Citli was his oasis. The young warrior, somehow immune to the oppressive heat and general misery, walked beside him, his expression still one of earnest focus. He seemed to draw energy directly from the sun that was draining everyone else.
"The singers of tales will sing of this day, Great Etalcaxi," Citli said, his voice filled with a reverence that grated on Etalcaxi's raw nerves. "The day the caravan weathered the Trial of the Slippery River. They will speak of your wisdom, in sacrificing a single pot to appease the river spirits and save the rest."
Etalcaxi let out a long-suffering sigh, a sound that was half air, half existential despair. "The singers of tales will need better material, Citli, or their songs will put entire villages to sleep. The only trial we have faced is a trial of patience." He kicked a loose stone from his path. "This... this is the work of porters, not warriors. A test of endurance, not strength."
He fell silent for a moment, his gaze turning south, toward the hazy, distant horizon. His mind, fleeing the bleak reality of the present, flew ahead to the promised land. The destination. His features softened, the irritation replaced by a familiar, predatory gleam.
"But the destination... the Uetatan..." he murmured, his voice dropping into a more intimate, conspiratorial tone. "That will be a tale worth telling. The gods test us with this tedium now to make the rewards at the end all the sweeter." He glanced at Citli, a smirk playing on his lips. "Think of it, Citli. A land of green shadows and forgotten gods. And the women..." He practically purred the word. "Women carved from moonlight and honey, as you said. Exotic creatures, trapped in their provincial world, wasting away. Imagine their boredom. Imagine their surprise when a real man, a Itzotec champion, finally arrives to show them what true passion is."
His eyes glazed over as he spun the fantasy in his mind. He pictured himself, a bronze god striding out of the jungle, his body lean and powerful from the long journey. He imagined dark-eyed women with flowers in their hair, their simple village men paling in comparison to his worldly swagger and martial prowess. He imagined teaching them... things. Secret things, whispered in the humid darkness of a thatched hut, their gasps of pleasure sounding out his skill in arts other than war.
A dry, rasping voice from directly behind him shattered the lovely image.
"The women of the Uetatan are indeed exotic."
Etalcaxi started, realizing Tlico had been walking just behind them, his soft footsteps masked by the crunch of their own. The old merchant's face was slick with sweat, his expression as barren as the landscape.
"Many have exotic rashes from the blackfly bites," Tlico continued in his relentlessly flat tone. "They swell up into little purple lumps that itch for a week. The serpents you mentioned are also quite real. I once saw a man who disturbed a Four-Step Viper. It is called that because you have about four steps before the venom takes you." He paused, as if recalling the details for a report. "It is a strong vemon. It will make a man's limbs bloat and turn black. The skin splits. Then the heart muscle liquefies and the man's heart explodes inside his chest." He looked from Etalcaxi's horrified face to Citli's pale one. "Very romantic."
He held out a gnarled hand. "Now, pass the water skin. My throat is as dry as your boasts."
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Night fell, cool and dark, smothering the oppressive heat of the day. The vast, star-dusted sky of the Tlacaxinachyotlan highlands offered little comfort. A small, sputtering fire was the caravan's only sanctuary in the immense, insect-humming darkness. It threw flickering, distorted shadows against a sparse grove of mesquite trees, illuminating the tired faces of the travelers. Exhaustion had claimed its first victims. Ixa and Zolin were already deeply asleep, curled up near the supply packs, their snores a discordant duet. Zolin's was a wet, gurgling affair, while Ixa's was a series of sharp, indignant snorts, as if she were still annoyed even in her dreams.
Citli, ever dutiful, sat close to the flames, the rhythmic scrape of a sharpening stone against obsidian the only methodical sound in the camp. He was honing the edge of Etalcaxi's spear, his movements precise and reverent, as if he were polishing a sacred artifact.
Etalcaxi himself stood away from the small circle of light, his back to the fire. He stared south, into the impenetrable blackness, his arms crossed over his chest. He was consciously crafting an image: the lone, vigilant commander, his thoughts on the dangers ahead while his men rested. He was trying to reconnect with the feeling of importance that had been so thoroughly eroded by the day's events. He was a hero, he told himself. This silent, lonely vigil was a hero's burden.
The soft scuff of sandals on dirt announced an approach. Tlico emerged from the firelight, his weathered face softened by the flickering shadows. He held two simple clay cups. He extended one to Etalcaxi. It was filled with water.
"A piece of advice, warrior," Tlico said, his voice low and devoid of its usual sarcastic edge. He gestured with his chin toward the sleeping porters, the diligent Citli, the vast and indifferent darkness. "This journey is not about looking heroic. This journey is not about glorious battles or seducing serpent-dancers. This journey is about counting the pots at dawn, and counting the pots again at dusk. If you have the same number both times, the day was a success. That is all."
Etalcaxi took the cup, his grip tight on the cool clay. The simplicity of the statement was more insulting than any of Tlico's earlier barbs. It reduced his grand undertaking to a mere exercise in inventory management. "This is not your first journey, then," he stated, a hint of a sneer in his voice.
"This is my twelfth journey down this road," Tlico said, taking a sip from his own cup. "I have walked this road with proud warriors like you, their chests puffed out with songs of their own greatness. One of them ran off into the woods chasing what he called a 'forest demon' and was found three days later, delirious with fever from drinking bad water. I have walked it with humble farmers who cried when his porter fell and broke his leg. I have walked it with a terrified priest from Mitzal who thought the trees were whispering his name at night and tried to burn down the jungle with a torch."
Tlico paused, his eyes lost in the memory for a moment. "The trees do not care. The road does not care. The pots do not care who carries them. They only care about arriving in one piece."
A smirk pulled at the corner of Etalcaxi's mouth. He saw an opening to reassert his narrative. "Then those other journeys were unfortunate," he said, his voice dripping with condescension. "Those journeys did not have Etalcaxi. They had fools and madmen." He took a dramatic sip of water and looked the old merchant right in the eye. "This time will be different. This time will be legendary."
Tlico looked at Etalcaxi over the rim of his cup. He studied the young warrior's handsome, arrogant face, the unshakeable self-confidence glittering in his eyes. The old merchant's shoulders slumped slightly, a tiny gesture of defeat. There was no arguing with a belief system so complete, so impervious to reality. He did not argue. He did not offer another piece of advice. He just gave a slow, weary shake of his head, a gesture that encompassed eleven previous journeys and the certain folly of this twelfth one. He turned and walked back to the warmth of the fire, leaving Etalcaxi.
Etalcaxi stood alone in the darkness, the victor of their little debate. He held his heroic pose, the cup held aloft like a chalice, his gaze once again fixed on the southern horizon. He was right. He would prove the old man wrong. This journey would be legendary. He was Etalcaxi.
Behind him, Citli, lost in his own reverie of future battles, fumbled the armful of firewood he had been gathering. The logs tumbled to the ground with a sudden, loud clatter that echoed in the quiet night.
Etalcaxi jumped, a jolt of pure, startled adrenaline shooting through him. He let out a small, undignified squawk and spun around, his hand flying to his spear. Seeing only Citli and the scattered firewood, he quickly recovered. He cleared his throat, straightened his back, and smoothed down his loincloth. He fixed his expression back into one of stoic, unshakeable vigilance, as if he had been expecting the noise all along. But in the flickering firelight, a faint blush of embarrassment colored his cheeks.