The light of the late afternoon slanted through the trees, doing little to warm the chilled atmosphere of the caravan's camp. Tlico sat on a fallen log, his back rigid, his face a mask of grim concentration. Before him, scattered across a flat rock, were the shredded remains of his grandfather's map. With a bone needle and a fine, sinew thread, he was grimly attempting to stitch the larger pieces together. The task was futile. The smaller fragments, the crucial details of streams and ridges, were lost forever, scattered by the malicious paws of the coatimundis.
The porters were steeped in weary misery. Ixa and Zolin sat mending their sandals with a sullen air. Coyotl was not carving symbols anymore; he had progressed to building a tiny, intricate shrine out of twigs and pebbles, an appeal to any god that might be listening. Only Xochi seemed focused, her face impassive as she checked the bindings on the new, wobbly cart wheel, her movements economical and precise. They were a small, unhappy band in the watchful, whispering jungle.
A rustle of leaves announced a return. Etalcaxi strolled back into the camp.
A blissful, faraway smile was painted on his face. His steps were light, his body relaxed and languid. A few wilted blue flowers were still tangled in his dark, damp hair. And on his full lower lip, small but distinct in the fading light, was a fresh, purplish bite mark. He was trying to look authoritative, to project the air of a commander. The attempt failed spectacularly. He looked like a man who had just been thoroughly, comprehensively debauched.
Tlico looked up from his ruined map. The old merchant's eyes, sharp and accustomed to spotting the slightest flaw in a piece of jade or the faintest lie in a trader's face, immediately locked onto the bite mark. His stony expression did not change, but a small muscle in his jaw tightened.
Etalcaxi noticed Tlico staring. The blissful haze around him thinned, pricked by the sharpness of the old man's gaze. He became self-conscious, his smile faltering. He touched his mouth, his fingertips brushing against the tender, swollen spot. He quickly tried to cover the gesture, pretending to wipe away a bit of dirt from the corner of his lips.
"The local guide has been consulted," he announced, his voice a little too airy, a little too loud. "The way forward is… being considered." The lie was weak, pathetic, and he knew it the moment it left his mouth. He was a terrible liar.
An awkward, heavy silence descended upon the camp, broken only by the scrape of Xochi's knife against a leather strap and the frantic, quiet prayers Coyotl was whispering to his twig-shrine.
Suddenly, the treeline at the far edge of the clearing exploded. Citli burst from the foliage, crashing through a large fern, his face flushed, his chest heaving. The young warrior was breathing in great, gulping gasps, his eyes wide with a mixture of urgency and the pure, unadulterated thrill of discovery.
"Etalcaxi! Commander! Tlico!" he panted, stumbling to a halt. "An urgent discovery!"
Etalcaxi straightened up, visibly and profoundly relieved by the interruption. The awkward, dazed lover vanished in an instant, and the stern, decisive commander snapped back into place. It was like a mask being lowered.
"Report, Citli!" he barked, his voice sharp and clear. "Speak clearly. What have you found?"
Citli, catching his breath, pointed back the way he had come. "Tracks, Commander! I was scouting the eastern ridge, as a warrior should, checking our perimeter. I found tracks. A large party. At least a dozen men, perhaps more, moving with purpose. The tracks are fresh."
Etalcaxi was already moving, Tlico rising grimly from his log to follow. Citli led them to the edge of the camp, into the deeper shadows where the trees grew thick. He pointed to a patch of soft, damp earth, where a series of deep, clear prints was visible. The prints were made by heavy, worn sandals, the marks of men carrying significant weight.
Tlico's attention, however, was drawn to a nearby tree trunk. While Citli and Etalcaxi were focused on the ground, the old merchant's experienced eyes scanned the surroundings. There, carved crudely but clearly into the bark of a ceiba tree, was a small, angular glyph.
He knelt, his old knees cracking in protest, his face grim. He reached out and traced the symbol with a gnarled, steady finger. It was a stylized serpent's head, its fanged mouth open.
"Hmm. These tracks," Tlico said, his voice a low, cold rumble. "This glyph... The Serpent-Head. It is the mark of a Nictex trade clan."
The name hung in the air, cold and heavy as a burial shroud. Itzotec. Nictex. The two nations were ancient, bitter rivals, their histories a long, bloody tapestry of border wars, political betrayals, and deep, cultural animosity.
The porters, who had been watching from a distance, had stopped their work. Their faces, already etched with a weary fear of the magical jungle, were now overlaid with a new, much more familiar terror. This was a danger they understood. The magic of the jungle was confusing. But the Nictex... the Nictex were men. Men who carried sharp weapons and sharper hatreds.
"Nictexs," Coyotl whispered, his voice trembling. He abandoned his shrine and began to search for a new rock to carve. "The gods are cruel."
The news settled over Etalcaxi. The romantic, sensual haze that had clouded his eyes and softened his mind evaporated in an instant. The blissful lover, the goofy grin, the memory of Ixtic's touch—it all vanished, burned away by the cold, sharp fire of a familiar rivalry. His eyes, which had been dreamy and distant, became hard, focused, and calculating. The softness in his posture vanished, replaced by the rigid, coiled readiness of a soldier on a battlefield.
He knelt beside Tlico, his attention now focused. The thoughts of private places and magical flowers was gone. He was back in the world of men, of strategy, of conflict. His questions were sharp, tactical, the words snapping from his lips.
"How fresh are the prints, Tlico? Hours? A full day? What is their pace? Are they moving fast?"
Tlico did not look up from the glyph. "Less than half a day ahead of us. The prints are deep. Their porters are heavily laden. They travel toward the same trading posts in the lowlands as we do. They seek the same prizes."
Etalcaxi stood, his hand clenching the shaft of his spear. His voice was low and dangerous. "The Serpent-Head Clan. Their trade master is Lord Cozoc. A pompous, arrogant peacock who wears more feathers than a prize macaw." A predatory, mirthless smile touched his lips. "But a cunning peacock. We cannot let him beat us to the Quetzal nests or the honey traders."
The languid, distracted lover who had stumbled into camp was gone. In his place stood a decisive, focused military commander. The change was so complete it was startling. The caravan, which had been adrift in a sea of fear and confusion, now had direction.
"Things have changed," Etalcaxi announced, his voice ringing with a newfound authority that commanded their immediate attention. "This is now a race."
He began barking orders, his voice sharp and clear, each command a stone dropped into the stagnant pool of their fear, creating ripples of purpose.
"Citli! Take Xochi with you. You have good eyes, and she has a quiet step. Scout our flanks. I want to know if they post sentries. I want to know their numbers exactly. Report back before the moon is high. I want no surprises." He turned to the other porters. "Ixa, Zolin, Coyotl! Secure the camp. Douse the main fire; we will use coals. I want no light to guide them to us. Double the watch tonight. One man on each side of the path. No one sleeps soundly until we know the position and intent of our rivals." Finally, he looked at Tlico. "Tlico. Forget that map. It is a tragedy, but it is in the past. We must make up for the time we have lost. We break camp before first light. We will travel hard and fast."
The porters, who had been cowering moments before, now moved with a renewed sense of purpose. Fear was still present, but it was now channeled into action. Citli, his chest puffed out with pride at his important assignment, nodded curtly and went to find Xochi, who was already checking the balance of her javelins.
Etalcaxi stood at the edge of the camp, a dark silhouette against the fading light, staring into the jungle in the direction the Nictex caravan had gone. His hand rested on the shaft of his spear, his knuckles white. The small, crescent-shaped bite mark was still on his lip, forgotten. For the first time in days, he was not thinking about Ixtic's touch, or her strange, beautiful eyes, or the taste of her kiss. His mind was filled with thoughts of his rivals, of his duty, of the familiar, exhilarating thrill of a real, tangible conflict. He had forgotten, for the moment, who was listening.