Trapped

It was Tlico who broke the horrified paralysis. The old merchant, who had faced down bandits and raiders and the endless, grinding hardship of the road for years, was now frightened. He let out a harsh, panicked rasp, the sound of a man whose deepest, most suppressed fears had just been given a name.

"The goods," he croaked, his voice raw with a terror that was shocking to hear. "Forget the goods! The honey, the feathers, leave it all! It is cursed! We run. Now." He lunged toward the llama, his hands fumbling with the knots of the cargo bindings. "We run from this place the way we came, and we do not stop. We do not rest. We do not even breathe until we are out of this cursed jungle!"

There were no arguments. His panic was a contagion, and it spread through the camp like a fire. Citli nodded numbly, his hand gripping the hilt of his macana tightly. The porters scrambled to grab their personal water skins, their movements clumsy with fear. They abandoned the cart and its valuable cargo without a second thought. Wealth was an abstract concept in the face of being harvested.

With Etalcaxi in the lead, his spear held at the ready, the small, terrified group made a panicked run down the path, toward the fork in the paths that marked the entrance into Coatl-Cuahuitl. They crashed through the undergrowth, their only thought to escape, to put as much distance as they could between themselves and the monstrous truth that now lived in their minds. They ran until their lungs burned and their legs ached. They finally arrived at the area where the magical thorn wall had first appeared weeks ago, the place where Etalcaxi had made his fateful, arrogant decision to take the shortcut.

And they were met with a solid, living wall of writhing, thorny vines, identical to the one that had blocked them before. The path home was sealed tight.

As they stared in horror at the living barricade, the faint, musical humming from the depths of the jungle, which had been absent, returned. It was a soft, low sound, that seemed to come from the shadow of the jungle around them.

Coyotl, the nervous porter, let out a thin, hopeless wail and collapsed onto the ground, covering his head with his hands and weeping. "We are trapped!" he cried, his voice muffled by the dirt. "The jungle will not let us leave! We are going to die here!"

Defeated, the group stumbled back to their abandoned campsite. The frantic energy of their flight was gone, replaced by a dull, heavy despair. The last ember of hope had been extinguished. They were prisoners. Tlico slumped onto a log, his face gray and slack. The strong, cynical old merchant put his head in his hands in utter defeat.

"Trapped," he whispered, his voice hollow. "We will end up just like the Nictexs. A silent camp. A ghost story for the next caravan foolish enough to enter this jungle. Gone."

Citli looked at Etalcaxi, his hero-worship now a pleading fear that tore at Etalcaxi's heart. "Commander... what can we do?" he asked, his voice cracking. "The magic of this place... the monster... It is too strong."

Etalcaxi stood apart from them, his own fear a cold, hard knot in his stomach. He looked at the terrified faces of his companions: Tlico, a broken man; Citli, a disillusioned boy; the porters, huddled together like frightened sheep. He thought of the impassable wall of the jungle that blocked the path, a cage made of leaves and shadow and a terrifying, possessive love. And the pieces, which had been a chaotic jumble, finally clicked into place in his mind with a cold, dreadful clarity.

The path sealed itself after I entered, he thought, his mind a sudden, silent storm of logic. The broken wheel, the convenient rainstorm, the mudslide... every calamity separated me from the others. The wall appears only when I try to leave with them. This is not a cage for the caravan.

His eyes widened, the realization a physical blow that stole his breath.

This is a cage for me. Tlico, Citli, the porters... they are all trapped here because of me. They are just flies caught in a web that was spun for another.

This understanding settled over him, a weight that should have crushed him. But instead, it burned away his fear. The terror for his own life, the self-loathing, the horror of his intimacy with the monster—it was all consumed by a fire of duty. A warrior protects his people. It was the first, and last, rule. If he was the target, then he had to face the hunter. Alone.

The fear on his face was replaced by a grim, fatalistic determination. He stood up straight, his back rigid as an ironwood spear shaft. When he spoke, his voice was steady, cold as stone, and held the authority of a man who has already accepted his own death.

"The jungle does not want all of us," he said, his voice cutting through the cloud of despair. "It wants me."

He turned to his small, terrified command. His eyes were clear and focused. The dazed lover, the terrified victim—both were gone. In their place stood a commander of the Itzotec army.

"Tlico, gather the porters," he commanded. "Stay here and keep the fire low. I am going to the monster."

"No, Commander!" Citli cried out, scrambling to his feet. "You cannot! We will fight with you!"

"No," Etalcaxi said, his voice sharp, leaving no room for argument. "You will obey your commander. I will create a diversion. The monster will be focused on its chosen prey." He allowed a cold, humorless smile to touch his lips. "While the creature is busy with me, the path may open. I believe it will." He looked at Tlico, his gaze hard and meaningful. "If the path opens, you move this caravan out of here. You move fast, and you do not look back. You do not wait for me. That is a direct command from your military escort."

Tlico looked up, his face a mask of weary grief. He saw the change in Etalcaxi. He saw the truth in the warrior's eyes. This was not a tactical plan. This was a sacrifice. He saw a proud, foolishly brave young man walking toward his own death to pay for a mistake made in the heat of lust. The old merchant, who had spent weeks despising the warrior's arrogance, now felt a surge of a different emotion: respect. He could only give a slow, heartbroken nod.

The terrified lover was gone. The arrogant peacock was gone. In their place stood a Itzotec warrior, ready to face his doom to protect his people. He gripped his spear, the smooth, familiar wood a comforting in his hands. The warm memories of Ixtic's touch, her taste, the magic of her body, now felt like a phantom poison on his skin, a sweet lure that had led him and his people to this bitter end.

He gave one last look to his people, a silent farewell. Then he turned his back on the camp. He took his first resolute step into Coatl-Cuahuitl, alone, walking purposefully toward the empty Nictex campsite.