PREVIOUSLY
["My Lord," a soldier warned. "The use of tactical gunpowder weapons is restricted by decree to prevent the enemy from learning their nature too quickly."
The Lieutenant looked at the soldier with solemnity, though not with displeasure, for the reminder.
"It is true… But remember what the Young Chuta and the priests have taught us: every life of our fellow citizens is a sacred treasure. I will not lose a single man to save ammunition or maintain secrecy. We shall protect this soil with thunder if necessary."
The atmosphere turned somber. The Suaza soldiers did not seek individual glory nor hearts for a hungry god; they sought to protect the order and the future that their 'Son of Heaven' had promised them.]
Year 12 of the SuaChie Calendar.
Lieutenant Suaza, a man whose cinnamon skin betrayed his roots in the Muisca highlands, kept his spyglass pressed to his right eye, sweeping the horizon toward the west. Around him, the roof of the administrative building was a hive of contained activity.
The soldiers moved with the precision of those who had rehearsed a dance a thousand times, implementing the security measures the Suaza army had designed for the defense of urban settlements. As he observed, the Lieutenant could not help but immerse himself in a profound analysis of the situation.
In recent weeks, the kingdom's military forces had been distributed among the inland towns to act as a secondary security grid. This town—his town by assignment—was one of the humblest in terms of military resources. Unlike the southern settlement, which was a jewel of strategic and logistical importance, this place had been maintained with the bare essentials, even before the shadow of war cast itself over the border.
Its primary function was that of a connection node, an umbilical cord linking the south with the larger towns near the gulf, including the vibrant Friendly Sea City. In times of conflict, this town was nothing more than a waystation, a place of transit with a few emergency warehouses filled with grain, jerky, and medical supplies. Nothing that would justify, in theory, a large-scale assault.
"The forts were not as effective as we hoped," the Lieutenant thought with a pang of frustration. "They were supposed to be the first line, the wall that stopped any advance before it reached the people."
He never imagined that the first great trial by fire of the Suaza Kingdom would occur under his command, in a mere transit town. But, delving deeper into his analysis, a spark of professional respect for the enemy ignited within him. It was obvious the Mexica generals were no fools. Avoiding the northern and southern forts—unknown and visibly threatening places—was a brilliant tactical decision.
"They are quite capable," he murmured. "They know they cannot strike us where we are strong, so they seek our ribs... We should not have underestimated them."
"Sir," a soldier's voice interrupted his reflections. "The operators of the Juracán (cannon) are already in position. The heavies are ready on the east street in case the barrier is breached."
The Lieutenant nodded, returning the spyglass to its leather case. "And the state of the internal defenses?"
"All ready, my Lieutenant... The soldiers with the Gatazas (harquebuses) are in an elevated position to the north, covering the forced exit alley."
The Lieutenant rubbed his chin, watching the sun as it already sank behind the mountains, staining the sky a bloody orange. "Is the rider aware of the deterrence tactic?" he asked one last time. "He must force them to follow the path we have prepared. If they scatter too much, protecting the civilians will become impossible."
"He is aware, sir. He only waits for the signal of the drums to begin the charge."
The Lieutenant observed as the little remaining light allowed him to see, about fifty meters from the town's edge, the Mexica warriors advancing. They moved through the tall grasses and took advantage of the natural slopes, convinced that their stealth made them invisible. It was an almost pitiful sight; they did not know their position had been compromised since they crossed the tree line over an hour ago.
"Give them the signal," the Lieutenant ordered, in a tone that concealed the tension pressing against his chest. "Everyone on guard."
The soldier at his side brought two fingers to his lips and emitted a sharp, rhythmic whistle. Almost immediately, other whistles responded from different points of the town, creating a network of sound that informed every unit that the prey was in the trap.
When the Mexica were a mere fifty meters away, the Lieutenant gave the final order: "Deploy the rider! Now!"
A war drum began to thunder from the center of the town. It was not the frenetic rhythm of the Mexica drums, but a dry, deep strike that seemed to mark the heartbeat of the earth itself.
From the shadowy alley between two houses, the Suaza rider spurred his horse. The animal, trained to fear neither noise nor chaos, shot forth like a black arrow. The rider quickly identified his target: a man with complex body paint, delicate feathers, and bronze details on his armor. The lesser general, Tlacapan.
The rider, who had only been practicing charge maneuvers for a few months, felt the world narrow to the space between his lance and that man's neck. There were no Suaza war cries; only the powerful neighing of the horse—a sound that caused more terror than any human scream—echoed across the battlefield.
The impact was devastating. The Mexica turned with bulging eyes, but before he could raise his buckler, the rider's iron and steel sword came down with the force of inertia.
From above, the Lieutenant saw the metal flash for an instant before sinking into flesh. The rider held the force of the collision with a steady arm, trained in the academies of Upqua, and the Mexica captain's head flew in a macabre arc into the gloom.
Without stopping, the rider brandished his steel twice more, wounding two warriors nearby. Though his orders were to deter, the fear for the civilians pushed him to reduce the enemy numbers.
"A good strike," the Lieutenant whispered, satisfied. They had decapitated one of the assault groups. "Now they should retreat..."
But reality proved otherwise. Having lost their leader, the Mexica warriors did not retreat in order. Panic seized them, and they split into four uncoordinated groups. Some ran terrified toward the grasslands, while others, driven by a mixture of rage and terror, scattered through the town streets.
"Curse it," the Lieutenant hissed. "That must have been their captain, and by killing him, we have broken their chain of command too soon. Now they are like wasps without a nest."
"Sir, they are heading toward Sector B!" the soldier shouted. "There are civilians in the shelters on that street!"
The Lieutenant acted swiftly. Chaos reigned, but he had to be the order. "Have the rider harass the stragglers! Soldier, give the signal to the archers! We must guide them north!"
The soldier whistled again. The Lieutenant took up his own Gataza, feeling the weight of the cold metal and the wooden stock against his shoulder. He moved to the edge of the building, aiming toward the main street.
The drums changed rhythm, becoming faster. From the windows of the secured houses, the Suaza soldiers began to fire bronze-tipped arrows. They did not fire to kill in every case; they fired at the feet, at the flanks, forcing the Mexica groups to turn, to seek refuge in the only direction that seemed "free": the north street.
The chaos was absolute. Cries in Nahuatl from men who did not understand what kind of demons were hunting them, mixed with the dry orders in the Suaza language. The Mexica tried to regroup behind the walls, but they were repelled by invisible projectiles or by the sudden charge of the rider who appeared and disappeared amidst the evening mist.
"We are losing men," the soldier reported, pointing to a Suaza soldier who had been hit by a dart-thrower while leaning out too far. "Two fallen on the central street."
The Lieutenant grits his teeth. Every Suaza casualty was a personal failure. He saw how three of the Mexica groups, after finding the east street blocked by barricades and burning carts, began to run desperately toward the north, seeking an exit from the labyrinth of stone and death.
"They are exactly where we want them," the Lieutenant said, his voice turning icy as he aligned the sights of his Gataza. "Let the north street be their judgment."
He looked at the soldier beside him. "Order fire at will on the north street! Let the thunder fall!"
A final whistle was heard, a long, descending one that cut through the air like an executioner. It was the signal the Gataza marksmen were waiting for. The air in the waystation town was about to ignite with a force that the Mexica survivors would remember as the day the gods of the south snatched away their courage.
From his elevated position on the administrative building, Lieutenant Suaza witnessed the entire deployment in the town's central streets. His soldiers, arranged in a disciplined line on the north street, raised their Gatazas. They had practiced target shooting for weeks every year, following the kingdom's strict military regulations, but this was the first time they aligned their sights on targets that breathed, screamed, and bled.
"Fire!" The command was lost in the roar.
A series of blinding flashes illuminated the north street, followed by clouds of dense white smoke that smelled of sulfur and death. The din was so massive that it paralyzed everyone present for an eternal instant, including the Suaza soldiers themselves. The Lieutenant, eyes fixed on the street, saw the effects with a clarity that, seconds later, he wished he had never possessed.
He saw the glowing lead impact the Mexica warriors. Some received the projectiles in their limbs; the impact was so violent it left arms hanging only by shreds of muscle and nerve, with splintered bones peeking through the mangled flesh. Blood gushed forth, staining the ground a dark, brilliant crimson under the light of the torches that were beginning to be lit.
Others, less "fortunate," took the hit directly in the torso. The perforations in the chest or stomach were deep and lethal. These warriors did not scream as much; they simply lost their strength, their faces turning pale in seconds as they collapsed like puppets whose strings had been cut.
However, the most atrocious case was that of a Mexica warrior hit in the side of the neck. The Lieutenant watched, horrified, as the man thrashed on the ground in a bloody spectacle difficult to forget. His hands tried, with animal desperation, to plug the heat escaping from his severed artery, while the ground became a pool of blood that stained his cotton armor.
Smoke adorned the harquebuses on the Suaza side like a shroud. The soldiers, despite their stupor and nausea, moved their hands with mechanical steadiness, reloading their weapons with the help of a secondary support line. They had been warned about the consequences of using these weapons, but knowing it and seeing it were two experiences separated by an abyss of horror.
The Lieutenant hoped this display would be enough for them to surrender. But the Mexica, in their terror, did not follow military logic. A group of approximately twenty warriors, completely unhinged by the cacophony and the carnage, ran in the opposite direction, toward the east street, and began to climb the barrier of carts and beams.
"Damn it!" the Lieutenant roared. "The civilians are behind that barrier!"
A battle of seconds waged in his mind. He could fire the Juracán located on that street to deter them, or wait for them to scatter to avoid using a weapon that promised far greater destruction. The thought did not linger long. The Lieutenant knew that the death of soldiers was an acceptable risk in the line of duty, but that civilians should die under his command was a stain he would not allow on his honor or his conscience.
"Immediate deployment of the Juracán!" he ordered with regret to the soldier beside him.
The soldier hesitated for a millisecond, sharing the same fear as his superior, but finally whistled. A few seconds later, the town vibrated with a roar that made the harquebuses look like toys.
The thunder of the Juracán was on an entirely different scale. The shockwave was so powerful that nearby houses shook, and the Suaza operators themselves were pushed back by the recoil. A massive flash illuminated the entire town for an unreal second.
The cannon, situated about thirty meters from the barrier on the east street, fired a solid iron ball. Before hitting the wood of the barricade, the ball struck two Mexica who had managed to scale it. The projectile tore through the torso of the first, causing instantaneous death and an image that would be burned into the minds of the gunners forever: the warrior's torso simply exploded. Organs, viscera, and bone fragments flew through the air like macabre shrapnel.
A second warrior, climbing down an obstacle, was hit in the right leg. The ball struck his knee, tearing off the entire limb and launching the man into the air. The sound of the ball shattering the barrier after passing through flesh was a dry, cruel crack. The silence that followed was broken only by the screams of pure terror from the surviving Mexica and the agonizing wail of the man who had just lost his leg.
The Lieutenant, seeing that the Mexica morale was utterly annihilated, shouted in Nahuatl with a voice that the echo made sound like that of a giant: "Run south, Mexica! You should never have entered Suaza territory without permission. If you return, you will face the roar of the gods again!"
The Mexica warriors, finally finding an escape route from this terror, ran toward the south street, which had always been deliberately left unoccupied. They fled toward the western forest, desperately seeking the way back to their camp, leaving behind the town that had become a slaughterhouse of fire.
Only a few minutes later, as the Suaza soldiers processed what had occurred, neighs and rhythmic footsteps were heard from the northwest. It was the reinforcements from the North Fort. They arrived late for the battle, but their presence was a balm for the soldiers who had just witnessed the absolute cruelty of their own arsenal.
A lieutenant from the fort approached the town's Lieutenant, who, with a monotonous voice and a pale face, summarized the situation. He pointed in the direction of the retreat with a measure of guilt and resentment.
In his mind, both he and this Mexica group had been guilty. They for having initiated the attack, and he for deploying what he now believed to be the true knowledge the gods had bestowed upon the Young Chuta.
A group of riders departed immediately to capture the straggling Mexica, while the rest began the painful task of cleaning the town, tending to the wounded prisoners, and mourning the few Suaza soldiers who had fallen to the recklessness of urban combat.
[Two days later, at the North Fort]
The afternoon sun bathed the primitive cement walls when León (Chuta) arrived with the rest of the Scouts. They brought with them the Mexica prisoner captured in Metztitlán, but the atmosphere they found was not one of victory, but of a mournful heaviness.
León had already been informed of the attack during the journey; he lamented not having been present, though he knew his physical presence would not have changed the tactical results. He headed directly to the medical camp area. He wanted to see his men.
To his initial relief, he found no wounded civilians, and the Suaza soldiers with serious injuries were few. However, he saw rows of Mexica warriors with amputated limbs and soaked bandages, being tended to by Suaza healers under the strict protocol of humanity he himself had imposed.
But what hurt him most was not the sight of the wounded. It was seeing the faces of his own soldiers.
He saw the operators of the Juracán and the marksmen of the Gatazas sitting apart, with vacant stares and trembling hands. In their eyes, there was no pride, but the deep trauma of having unleashed a power that no human being of this era was prepared to witness. It was the psychological impact of the "Thunder," a scar on the soul that training could not erase.
León stopped dead.
He was the one responsible. He had brought this knowledge from the "future." He had delivered gunpowder to a world that still fought with obsidian, and now he would have to carry the weight of the grotesque deaths and the mental damage of his own men. The guilt he had managed to temporarily appease by saving the Metztitlán baby returned with devastating force.
As he observed the camp, the silence of the afternoon seemed to break in his mind. León thought he heard the crying of a baby. It was not the child from Metztitlán, but a faint, ancient crying—one he thought he had forgotten from his first years after being reborn in this world. It was the cry of a lost innocence, drowned out by the roar of the cannon he himself had ordered to be cast.
León (Chuta) lowered his head, clenching his fists. The Suaza Kingdom brought protection, yes; but the price of that protection was becoming a burden that began to bend his young, twelve-year-old back. The war against the Triple Alliance was only beginning, and the "Thunder of the Gods" already claimed not only bodies, but the peace of mind of its children.
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[A/N: CHAPTER COMPLETED
Hello everyone.
We're continuing from the previous chapter, and once again we have an urban combat scene.
By the way, it's not that there won't be other battles, but given how Chuta approached this confrontation (building forts), it was the only reasonable approach for a first encounter. This is without even considering what he and the group of Explorers faced.
On the other hand, I read the comments (which I haven't replied to yet, sorry) and I understand the confusion. I may not have been very clear about the number of soldiers on the Suaza side, and I also didn't specify the size of the town or towns, which would have helped you understand the situation.
The truth is that the town attacked in the south (the one from the first attack described), which was attacked by the minor Mexica general, Xipilli, was a town with almost 2,000 people before the military tension, as it was an important trading post. In the chaos of the northern village, the one in this chapter, it was a village with fewer than 1,000 people at its peak.
Now, with the tensions rising, both villages were relegated to checkpoints or supply depots, leaving a much smaller civilian population and, above all, little military protection.
After all, the forts were where the largest number of soldiers were concentrated. And they never anticipated an attack on their rear lines.
The southern village had: 2 horsemen, a cannon, several arquebuses, and about 30 soldiers.
The northern village had: 1 horseman, a cannon, several arquebuses, and almost 20 soldiers.
However, some of the soldiers were assigned to guard the civilian areas in each village. This is why we didn't see any direct confrontations between Mexica warriors and Suaza soldiers.
By the way, I'm making the chapter slightly shorter to avoid padding it out. Although I doubt I actually 'filled' an episode, haha.
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#The Walking Dead: Vision of the Future (Episode 91)
#The Walking Dead: Emily's Metamorphosis (Episode 34) (INTERMITTENT)
#The Walking Dead: Patient 0 - Lyra File (Episode 14) (INTERMITTENT)
You can find them on my profile.]