"Don Alvarado del Oro, conquistador del Imperio de la Luz y gobernador de San Plutus!"
A mestizo child called out loudly in clear Spanish. Alvarado cleared his throat and spat a thick glob of mucus onto the useless thing blocking his path. His clear intonation did nothing to ease his mood; the heat in this wretched place had already caused a strong migraine
A woman rushed forward and seized the child, dragging him out of sight as his wails echoed. Alvarado snorted and waddled forward to the edge of town. Once he was out of view of these disgusting creatures, he would allow himself a moment of rest, the thought of settling back into his chair made him wobble forth faster.
The palanquin, he thought, was a marvelous invention of the jade empire—though he'd also heard it was used by native empires far to the south. He chuckled. Truly a revolutionary form of transport, far superior to his miserable wagon. His ass had been sore for many nights from its last use.
He had whipped many for the poor condition of the roads, but the useless things refused to do proper work. Even the thought sent him into a simmering rage.
He slapped one of the slaves he passed, then kicked at the man's broad frame after he fell beneath the force of his meaty paw. The golden relic rings on Alvarado's fingers bit deeply into flesh, tearing open the slave's cheek.
The kicking only stopped when his lieutenant stepped in.
"Don, por favor—no lo mates."
Alvarado growled but shoved past him, teetering slightly from the strain of using his bad legs. The effort only angered him further, though the determined look on his lieutenant's face dulled the edge of his fury.
"¡Apresúrate! ¡No tengo todo el maldito día para esperarte y a tu jodido esclavo!" he screamed, his throat burning as his body trembled with rage.
He snapped his fingers, and a slave hurried forward with a large chunk of hardened sugarcane juice. Alvarado devoured it immediately, saliva dripping from his fingers as he sucked away every last grain.
He sighed with contentment and continued on his way, wiping his hands on his garments after noticing how filthy the slaves were. Pathetic people—incapable of even keeping themselves clean.
Groaning softly, he finally settled into his palanquin, beginning the long journey toward the mines nestled closer to the mountains.
Once out of town, a large platoon followed behind them. Those on horseback rode ahead to scout the route, granting the governor a measure of assurance as he traveled.
Inside the palanquin, Alvarado feasted on a wide assortment of fruits brought by the locals as tribute. He relished their flavors with loud smacking sounds, his thick lips working greedily. Juice and pulp clung to his golden beard, saliva dripping freely as he wiped his face with one hand and flicked the mess aside without care, splattering anyone unfortunate enough to be nearby.
Groans from the carriers were silenced by a heavy stomp of his trunk-like leg. The palanquin shuddered, then steadied as the slaves quickly remembered their place. He hated every disgusting sound they made.
"Lieutenant!" he shrieked, panic creeping into his voice whenever the man slipped out of sight.
"I'm here, Don Alvarado," the lieutenant replied, bowing.
"Keep close," Alvarado snarled. "Those wretched red-crested Guachichiles have grown more aggressive these past decades—ever since we conquered the Huichol. If you hadn't let all those villagers escape through your incompetence, we would've crushed them already. I've received reports from the locals that those same villagers are now aiding the Guachichiles."
"I'll keep watch with the men. Don't worry, Don Alvarado," the lieutenant said, bowing once more before moving slightly ahead, careful to remain within sight—as if he knew that was what Alvarado demanded. The man was too smart for his own good.
Alvarado sneered inwardly and snapped his fingers for another block of sugarcane. A slave woman walking beside the palanquin hurried forward. She was a beautiful specimen—one many of his men desired. Even his usually restrained lieutenant had stolen glances at her.
Alvarado burst into laughter when she grimaced beneath his lecherous stare.
Power and wealth were everything. Plutus—that foolish, blind god—gave them freely to anyone. Alvarado scoffed. If that same blindness hadn't been useful to him, why would he have followed such a stupid deity at all?
After a moment of idle admiration, he shoved the woman's face away, already bored. Only the visible discomfort of his lieutenant amused him now.
Alvarado knew what everyone wanted. Wasn't it simply what he wanted? What he already held in his hand?
They thought his mind too muddled to notice their quiet conspiracies behind his back. Fools.
He was merely waiting.
Waiting for his opportunity—just like the great Cortés.
-
Just as Alvarado had run out of both food and patience, they arrived at the silver mines. Half-naked men moved in and out of a wide horizontal shaft carved into the mountainside, their bodies slick with sweat and dust.
"Call the sergeant, Lieutenant," Alvarado ordered as the palanquin was set down.
He rolled forward and huffed until, with considerable effort, he managed to stand. His breath came in short bursts as he steadied himself.
Raising a thick finger, he drew on a small measure of divinity from one of his golden relic rings, cleansing his body. The journey had left him soaked in sweat from the strain. Truly useless slaves. He longed to kick them, but the deep throb in his legs protested even the act of standing. His thick, swollen toes felt suffocated inside his boots.
At least the rings could banish the stench—even if they did little for the pain that followed each use. Worse still, he felt more exhausted every time he drew upon them. The realization frustrated him deeply. Was divinity not godly power? How could it fail him?
He groaned and muttered until the sergeant finally arrived, reporting the state of the mine: current production, recent deaths, and the number of slaves still fit for work.
How tedious, Alvarado thought. But leaving such matters to treacherous commoners would only invite disaster—disasters that might threaten his carefully maintained luxuries. If hard work was required, then he would see it done himself.
He chortled at the absurd thought of commoners ruling. Snorting gleefully, he listened as the sergeant finished his report. To prove his words, a large carriage filled with ore was brought forward for inspection.
Another clever one, Alvarado mused. Was he fortunate—or cursed—to be surrounded by such methodical men?
He counted the gleaming stones, his mouth watering at the thought of the silver trapped within. His fingers traced the shining veins—the dull yellow he wished were true gold, and the copper that still had its uses. More cannons would make excellent deterrents against the wretched barbarians who plagued the region.
Satisfied by the abundance of gray and silver streaks, he nodded. At once, his men shoved a group of slaves forward to assist with unloading when the caravan returned to town. They would also prove useful if the carriage became stuck again, as it had on previous journeys.
Alvarado waved grandly and praised everyone for a job well done—even offering a smile to a few of the lowliest slaves.
-
The journey back proved even more miserable than the trip to the mine. Alvarado continued to draw on his relic rings to cool his overheated body. The pound of sugar blocks he had brought with him was already gone, devoured down to the last shard. He even suspected the dim-witted slaves of stealing from him—but he dared not lash out.
Not after his lieutenant had dared to chastise him for touching his precious little slave.
Alvarado knew better than to push the man too far, so he chewed on his thoughts instead. The plans he already entertained for the two of them—or at least the versions his imagination indulged. Reality, however, would prove far more troublesome if his lieutenant was not dealt with properly.
The only solution lay with the infuriating barbarians who inhabited the region. Their settlement still eluded imperial scouts, prolonging a war against their shamans. Their gods, though primitive, carried the vast faith of their people.
The empire was fortunate that the relic cannons could injure such beings. A single well-placed shot was more than enough to annihilate one of those crude gods.
Of course, relic cannons and their ammunition could only be shipped from the empire itself, making them unimaginably precious. Still, the supply shipments that arrived every few years were sufficient—for now.
This decade had been particularly strained. Many of the Light Gods had been recalled to the empire, their churches weakened by prolonged absence.
More like starved of divinity, Alvarado sneered.
To fuel their relics, gods were sent into newly conquered lands—willingly or not. Fresh faith from local populations allowed them to transform, their dominion over elements expanding as belief deepened. With enough worship, they crept ever closer to the power of the ancient deities.
The nobles all understood this truth. Gods were merely tools—manifestations of faith, fueled by the masses and guided by the wise.
By men like Alvarado.
They had offered the locals inclusion. Welcomed their naked barbarism with open arms. Bestowed knowledge, guidance, the proper path of the Light. So what if the lowliest among them were used to further the empire? It was for the greater good. For universal prosperity.
And yet they refused.
Just as his lieutenant had refused him, time and again.
So much effort wasted on inconsequential people. Alvarado clenched his fist, frustration tightening his chest. He was trapped here—rotting in heat and humidity—instead of receiving the rank of Saint back in the empire.
His ignorant god had chosen another devotee instead of him.
Instead of the most devout.
None had offered more faith than Alvarado.
No one.
Suddenly, a sharp cry from the horses snapped everyone to attention. An arrow had pierced cleanly through one horse's eye, killing it instantly. The shocking sight froze the convoy for a heartbeat—one the Guachichiles seized without hesitation.
Half-naked men surged down from the mountainside, their heads painted red. Cloaks adorned with crimson feathers flared behind them, making them resemble massive birds of prey diving upon the convoy.
Alvarado screamed orders as his lieutenant charged forward, relics blazing as they deflected incoming arrows.
The slaves shrieked and scattered, scrambling for cover beside the carriage, clinging to one another as they awaited their fate. These were not local peoples—many of them strangers to the land—and the barbarians would show no mercy.
Bodies began to fall, mostly on the natives' side. Their bows and arrows failed to pierce the relic armor protecting most imperial soldiers. Yet the forward Guachichile warriors pressed on relentlessly. Their size, numbers, and ferocity slowly began to overwhelm the empire's troops.
Alvarado continued to scream, spitting curses and insults at his men. It was only after nearly half his platoon had fallen that he finally lurched into action.
His body erupted with light as the relics adorning him awakened. Silver chains wrapped tightly around his bulk, linking golden rings, bracelets, and necklaces. A divine aura enveloped him—and something unnatural began to occur.
The already large, squat man expanded rapidly, growing until he towered over the battlefield at nearly ten feet tall. His clothing tore apart, leaving his soft body exposed until a white robe materialized, covering his waist and part of his massive torso.
A golden blindfold appeared over his eyes. It did not hinder him.
With a roar, Alvarado brought a massive, meaty palm crashing down toward the Guachichiles.
They did not retreat.
Warriors hurled themselves at the towering figure until the last. Arrows embedded themselves in the thick flesh of his stomach. Machetes, bone knives, and even stolen relics tore into him. He howled in agony—but the pain only fed his wrath.
With another surge of power, Alvarado burned through nearly half of his remaining divinity. His body turned resplendent gold, divine energy pooling grotesquely at his swollen belly.
With one final, triumphant cry, he unleashed it.
A wave of golden light surged outward, swallowing everything in its path. Those it touched turned to gold before crumbling into dust as the divinity dissipated.
When the light faded, few remained standing.
Alvarado shrank back to his far less intimidating form. Many of his relic rings cracked and disintegrated, turning to ash—joining the golden remains of both imperial soldiers and Guachichiles alike.
Only a handful of men survived. The slaves lived by virtue of having hidden.
"Lieutenant!" Alvarado shrieked, impatience and barely restrained rage dripping from his voice.
His lieutenant emerged moments later, clutching the beautiful slave who had once guarded Alvarado's sugar blocks. Ignoring the sight, Alvarado barked orders, commanding the remaining men to harness the slaves and prepare them to pull the carriage with the remaining horse, back to town.
He kicked the trembling carriers, mounting the palanquin once more as the long, miserable journey resumed.