The camp was a small, tense circle huddled around smoldering coals. The familiar symphony of the jungle had been replaced by a strained silence, each normal snap of a twig or cry of a night bird sounding like a footstep or a war cry. The porters were a knot of fear, speaking in low, nervous whispers as they mended their gear. Ixa and Zolin sat back-to-back, a rare show of solidarity. Coyotl had abandoned his carving and was now silently, methodically arranging a perimeter of small, smooth river stones around his bedroll, each one a tiny prayer.
Etalcaxi paced at the edge of the firelight, his obsidian-tipped spear held loosely in his hand. He was every inch the focused, restless commander, his eyes scanning the impenetrable wall of blackness that surrounded them. But it was a performance, a mask of command worn over a mind in turmoil. His senses were on high alert, but not for the Nictex. He was listening for the faint, musical humming, a sound that was now conspicuously absent. His skin still tingled with the memory of Ixtic's touch, the taste of her lips. His focus, which should have been entirely on the threat ahead, was frustratingly divided.
Two figures emerged silently from the darkness, their forms materializing at the edge of the fire's glow. It was Citli and Xochi, returning from their scouting mission. Xochi, her face as impassive as ever, gave a sharp, single nod to Etalcaxi. Citli's face was grim, but his eyes shone with the importance of his news.
"Commander," he said, his voice a low, urgent whisper. "We have found them. Less than a league from this spot. They have made camp for the night in the valley below."
Etalcaxi's posture hardened, the last vestiges of the dazed lover burned away. "Lead the way, Citli. Tlico, with us. Bring your eyes, old man."
Tlico, who had been sitting silently, rose from his log with a weary grunt. He did not question the command.
Citli led them away from the meager comfort of the fire, back into the living, breathing darkness of Coatl-Cuahuitl. They moved silently, Etalcaxi and Tlico following the young warrior's sure-footed path through the tangled undergrowth. The jungle at night was different. The air was cool and thick with the scent of damp earth and unseen blossoms. Shapes that were familiar in the daylight became monstrous silhouettes in the gloom. After a few minutes of tense, silent walking, Citli brought them to a high, rocky outcrop, a natural balcony of stone that provided a clear, commanding view of the valley below.
Far below, a tiny, defiant speck of orange light flickered in the vast, inky blackness. A campfire. Around the light, faint, stick-like shapes of men moved, their forms rendered nondescript by the distance.
Tlico let out a low growl, a sound of pure frustration. "So. The Serpent-Head Clan is close. Too close for comfort."
Etalcaxi stared down at the enemy fire, his mind a whirl of tactical calculations. "They feel safe," he said, his voice a low murmur. "They think they are alone in this wood. They build a large fire. They do not fear being seen." He allowed a cold, predatory smile to touch his lips. "This is a foolishness we can use."
Back at their own small, smokeless fire, the three men formed a council of war. The mood was heavy, thick with the weight of unwelcome choices. The porters watched them from a distance, trying to read their fate in the grim set of their leaders' faces.
Tlico spoke first, his voice a gravelly rasp. "This is bad for our trade," he said, his gaze fixed on the glowing coals. "Lord Cozoc is famously ruthless. He is not a trader; he is a vulture in a nobleman's clothes. He will reach the lowland villages a full day before us. He will trade for every good quetzal feather and every drop of prime honey, leaving us with nothing but scraps and seconds for our trouble." He looked up, his eyes hard. "This mission will be a failure. We will return to Elpantepetl with half a cargo of inferior goods, and the shame will be on my name."
"The trade is only one concern," Etalcaxi countered, his focus on a different, more immediate threat. "The Serpent-Head Clan is known for more than just hard bargaining. Lord Cozoc prefers not to have competition on the road home. A caravan laden with goods is a tempting target. And a rival caravan that can be blamed for the raiding they perform is a convenient excuse." His eyes met Tlico's across the fire. "We must assume they are a threat."
Citli, who had been listening with a warrior's intensity, could contain himself no longer. "We should attack them now, Commander!" he urged, his young face flushed with a dangerous, heroic fervor. "A surprise raid, while they sleep! We have the advantage of the high ground. We can scatter them, drive them from the jungle!"
Etalcaxi looked at the young warrior, seeing a reflection of his own youthful, reckless pride. He shook his head. "No. We are a trade guard, not an army. They outnumber us at least two to one. A raid would be a fool's gamble, Citli. Courage without sense is suicide." He looked from Tlico's worried face to Citli's eager one, his mind settling into the familiar, comfortable calculus of command. "We will proceed with caution. We will post extra guards tonight. At dawn, we take the high path along the cliffs. It is slower, but more defensible. They will not be able to ambush us from above. We will watch them, and we will let them pass, and then we will follow, keeping our distance until we reach the open lands."
His was focused. The soft, sensual world of Ixtic's hideaways had been banished, replaced by the hard, sharp lines of ambush points and defensive formations. His mind was fully engaged with this conflict, this familiar game of strategy and survival.
Hours later, the camp was quiet but not asleep. A tense vigilance hung in the air. The porters took their turns at watch, their eyes wide in the darkness, jumping at every shadow. Etalcaxi stood his own watch at the edge of the ridge, his spear a solid weight in his hand, his mind fixed on the Nictex camp. He was the commander again, the steadfast guardian of his caravan.
But the pull of Ixtic was a constant, nagging ache in his soul. The night air, which should have smelled of danger, instead carried the phantom scent of her skin. The rustle of leaves was not a sign of an approaching enemy, but an echo of her voice. His body now craved her with a hunger that was a physical pain. He was a man split in two, his duty and his desire at war within him.
His resolve crumbled.
Under the pretense of making one final check of the camp's perimeter, a duty he entrusted to no one else, he slipped away from the coals. He moved with a practiced stealth, melting into the darkness of Coatl-Cuahuitl. The jungle, which had been an adversary to his caravan, now felt familiar, its shadows welcoming him, its paths seeming to guide his feet.
He found her waiting for him in a small, secluded grove, a place where a break in the canopy allowed the full, silver light of the moon to pour down. She stood in a pool of moonlight, a vision of beauty, her skin glowing, her green eyes full of a soft, welcoming light. She smiled as he approached, a slow, sensual curve of her lips, and reached for him, expecting their usual, passionate reunion.
She kissed him deeply, a kiss of ownership and welcome. And for the first time, his response was muted. His lips met hers, but they were stiff, preoccupied. His body was present, a willing participant in the embrace, but his mind was clearly elsewhere. It was still back at the camp, tracing maps in the dirt, planning for the Nictex threat. The kiss was short, distracted, and it ended with him pulling away, his eyes already scanning the darkness around them.
Ixtic drew back, her smile gone. Her head tilted, her moss-green eyes searching his face with an unnerving, inhuman perception. She saw the tension in his jaw, the hard, calculating light in his eyes that had replaced the soft, dazed look of a lover.
"The little warrior is not here," she said, her voice a soft, curious murmur. "Your body is with me, but your thoughts are elsewhere." She reached up, her cool fingers touching the bite mark on his lip, a gentle reminder of her claim. "What troubles the champion of my jungle?"
Still distracted, still trapped in the world of his mortal conflict, he made the mistake of being honest.
"Rivals," he said, his voice a low, frustrated growl. "Another caravan. Nictexs. Their camp is nearby, in the valley." He gestured into the darkness. "Their presence threatens my duty, my mission. They are an obstacle."
Ixtic's expression did not become jealous or angry in any way he could understand. It became something far more chilling. It became utterly serene. She turned her head, her gaze drifting into the darkness, in the direction of the valley where the large campfire burned.
"Rivals," she mused softly, as if tasting the word, exploring its shape and meaning. "Obstacles." Her gaze was distant and cold. "Mortals who come into a home and believe they can take what they want."
She turned her calm, cold gaze back to him. Her voice was a gentle whisper, as soft as the rustle of leaves in a midnight breeze, but it carried weight. "Do not worry about these rivals, my warrior. The jungle does not care for their marks on the trees or their fires on the ground."
She placed a cool hand on his chest, right over his beating heart. Her eyes held his, and in their green depths, he saw a power as old and implacable as the stone beneath his feet.
"The jungle protects its own."
He heard only reassurance. He was so focused on the human definition of "rivals," on the game of trade and territory between Itzotec and Nictex, that he completely missed the terrifying, literal promise in her words.
"Thank you, Ixtic," he breathed. He pulled her into another kiss, and this one was more focused, more present.
Over his shoulder, Ixtic's eyes remained open, fixed on the dark jungle that lay between them and the valley. Her expression, hidden from his view, was serene, and as dispassionate as a winter frost. A simple decision had been made. The obstacle would be removed.