PREVIOUSLY. (Chapter 144)
[Year 12 of the SuaChie Calendar, Sixth Month. Western border of the Metztitlán domain. … Hearing the screams around him and noting a flash of worry in his companions, Tequihua calmed them.
"We go with the second feint, just as we planned. They haven't found us yet," Tequihua remarked coldly, the warmth of Suaza blood still fresh on his hands. "We will leave the way we came and return victorious."
While the warriors smiled, calmer and satisfied with their progress—each had slain local civilians or warriors while Tequihua approached the stable—Tequihua looked back one last time.
"One day," he thought, "I will ride one of those beasts."]
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Year 13 of the SuaChie Calendar, Fourth Month (June 1495).
Southern border of the Suaza territory (former Huastec domain of Tuxpan).
Almost a full cycle of seasons had passed since that ambush in Metztitlán, but Tequihua could still feel the warmth of Suaza blood on his hands and hear the terrified neigh of that giant beast they called a horse.
That day, he had proven to the arrogant southern invaders that iron and bronze did not make men immortal. He had dealt the first real blow to an entire squadron, proving that the cunning and the shadows of the jungle still belonged to the sons of Huitzilopochtli.
That triumph did not go unnoticed in Tenochtitlán.
Cuitláhuac himself, brother of the great Moctezuma, had elevated him to the rank of wise warrior, a title that granted him the right to sit in the command tents, far from the mud and arrows, to plot strategies over leather maps.
However, Tequihua had rejected the comfort of the council. A jaguar does not hunt from a golden cage. He preferred to take direct command of his own squadron, becoming a constant thorn lodged in the side of the Suaza forces.
Now, the heavy, suffocating air of the jungle in the Totonac domain of Papantla filled his lungs. The smell of rotting leaves, damp earth, and the rancid sweat of his men was the incense of his true temple.
His squadron had been assigned to the southern edge of the Suaza domain, far from the main front, with a clear mission: to harass, to bleed, and to confuse.
Tequihua crouched between the gnarled roots of a gigantic ceiba tree, wiping the edge of his macuahuitl with a handful of moss.
In recent weeks, he had led swift, brutal strikes strictly by land, hitting supply routes deep inland. It was a calculated deception. He wanted the Suaza commanders to concentrate their reinforcements in the jungle, to look toward the underbrush, thereby relaxing the defenses of their precious seaports. Once the coast was exposed, the true assault would fall upon them like a hurricane.
Barely two days ago, his ruse had led them to clash directly with an elite Suaza patrol. Tequihua smiled at the memory, baring his teeth in the gloom. There were no casualties on either side, a fact that to an inexperienced commander would have tasted of a draw, but to Tequihua was a resounding victory.
His men, clad in pressed cotton armor and armed with obsidian and fire-hardened wood, had withstood and evaded warriors covered in bronze and reinforced leather, wielders of lethal iron spears.
That survival spoke of the superiority of Mexica blood against the reliance on foreign metal.
That clash had served its purpose: the Suaza were distracted. Now, his squadron had infiltrated even deeper, invisible as smoke, preparing to slit the throat of a key outpost.
The almost inaudible crack of a dry branch pulled Tequihua from his thoughts. His hand flew to the hilt of his weapon, but he relaxed upon recognizing the hunched silhouette emerging from the undergrowth. It was Xoco, one of the most agile warriors in his unit.
But something was terribly wrong.
"Captain..." murmured Xoco. His voice lacked the usual hardness of a soldier of the Triple Alliance; it sounded fragile, raspy. "It seems the gods are claiming my soul before my time."
Tequihua stood up, frowning, surprised by the resignation in the young man's tone.
"What madness are you speaking, Xoco? The gods only claim the fallen in battle or on the altar."
But as he approached, the dappled light filtering through the canopy revealed the boy's condition.
His skin, usually coppery, looked ashen, almost gray. A thin sheen of cold sweat covered his forehead, and Xoco's right leg was seized by involuntary, spasmodic tremors that forced him to lean heavily against the trunk of the ceiba. The unmistakable, sickly-sweet stench of necrotic flesh hit Tequihua's nose.
The veteran remained silent for a moment, his eyes hardening as he recognized the symptoms. He had seen it before.
"Where were you wounded?" Tequihua asked directly, leaving no room for pity.
Xoco lowered his gaze, ashamed.
"In the clash two days ago, Captain. A Suaza soldier swung his iron spear... it only grazed my thigh. Barely a scratch. I didn't think the bite of their metal was so venomous."
"And why didn't you clean the wound?" Tequihua reproached him, his tone vibrating with suppressed severity. "You know the metal of those bastards carries filth. Didn't you use the healing herbal poultices the healers gave us?"
"I did, Captain. I swear by Huitzilopochtli that I did," Xoco replied, his breathing ragged, pointing to his thigh covered by a dirty rag. "I applied the herbs several times a day. But it didn't stop the rot."
Tequihua knelt and pulled the cloth aside. A low growl escaped his lips.
The flesh around the shallow cut was swollen, stained a blackish-purple that spread like the roots of a cursed tree. Thick, yellowish pus oozed from the edges. The infection had won the battle against traditional medicine.
Tequihua stood up, wiping his hands on his own tunic with a gesture of grim resignation.
"Can you stand, Xoco?" he asked. "Can you fight in the assault on the outpost?"
Xoco clenched his jaw, forcing his leg to stop trembling through sheer willpower. The pain in his eyes was evident, but the fire of Anáhuac still burned within them.
"I will try with all my strength, Captain. I will die killing if I must."
Tequihua nodded in silence, a mute acknowledgment of the young man's bravery. He turned to give the final orders to the rest of the squadron, but noticed that Xoco hadn't moved from his side.
"What is it now?" Tequihua grunted.
The young warrior swallowed hard. The trembling of his body seemed to have transferred to his voice.
"You are a wise warrior, Tequihua... You have years of blood and experience. Tell me the truth. Is this slow death, this rotting... a punishment? Are the gods punishing me because I failed as a warrior by not evading their iron?"
The vulnerability of the question left an uncomfortable silence in the small clearing. Before Tequihua could articulate an answer to appease the young man's spirit, a harsh voice intervened from the shadows.
"It is not your fault, Xoco. It is the curse these foreigners bring with them."
It was Cuauhtli, a burly warrior of deeply traditional thought, his face crossed with war paint. He approached the group, spitting on the ground in contempt.
"All of this is the work of the Suaza invaders," Cuauhtli continued, gripping his spear. "They bring diseases and profane metals. They want to steal our lands and defile our altars."
From the other side of the clearing, an ironic and bitter laugh cut through the sermon. Ixtli, a cynical veteran who was sharpening his knife on a stone, looked up.
"How quickly you forget, Cuauhtli," Ixtli said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "Strangely, this 'profane metal' didn't bother us a couple of years ago, when the Suaza were our trading partners. Their bronze weapons and their grain helped us advance on the Purépecha front... You didn't call them cursed then."
Cuauhtli turned sharply, pointing an index finger at his comrade.
"That was before they tried to discredit our gods! They questioned Huitzilopochtli. They tried to convince us that their weak, peaceful deities were equal to the masters of our blood. The gods are furious at the Suaza heresy!"
Ixtli stood up, sheathing his knife with a sharp motion, facing the traditionalist without fear.
"Are the gods furious at the Suaza? Or is divine fury falling upon us because of the boundless ambition of our own Tlatoani?" Ixtli lowered his voice, but the venom in his words was evident. "Ahuízotl has dragged us into endless wars. We bleed against Tlaxcala, we bleed against the Purépechas, and now we bleed in the southern jungles against a kingdom that did not seek war... Perhaps this rot in Xoco's leg is the punishment for biting a hand that once fed us."
The clearing erupted in tension. Ixtli's words bordered on open treason. Several warriors gripped their weapons, some supporting Cuauhtli, others staring at the ground, consumed by the same doubt Ixtli had just voiced. The squadron was seconds away from tearing itself apart from the inside.
"Enough!"
Tequihua's shout erupted like the roar of a cornered feline. The power of his voice paralyzed every man in the clearing. Hands moved away from weapons and faces turned toward him.
Tequihua strode forward until he stood in the center of the group. His eyes, dark and fierce, went from Ixtli to Cuauhtli, piercing their souls until they were forced to lower their gaze.
"Look at yourselves," Tequihua hissed with an icy fury. "You look like old women arguing over omens in a marketplace."
He paused, letting the weight of his authority crush any reply.
"It is not the place of a simple soldier to understand the messages of the heavens. We are not priests! We are not here to interpret the will of Huitzilopochtli nor to judge the decrees of the Tlatoani."
He struck the breastplate of his own armor with a closed fist.
"We are warriors! We are the protectors of Anáhuac. We are the ones chosen by the jaguar to bring death to those who step on our land uninvited. If the Suaza bleed, our obsidian is the fang of the gods. If we die, our blood is the offering."
The silence in the forest became absolute, broken only by the ragged breathing of the soldiers and the distant song of insects. Tequihua held the intense stare for several seconds, ensuring the fire of discipline had burned away any trace of political or theological doubt.
Satisfied, he turned toward the thicket that opened to the south.
"Prepare yourselves and hold your tongues," he ordered, his voice returning to the sharp whisper of a commander. "Move out. The Suaza outpost is near, and today, the gods will hear only the sound of our victory."
After the echo of his words faded, absorbed by the immensity of the forest, Tequihua set into motion. Taking advantage of the dense gloom of a dawn that barely scratched the sky with violet hues, he guided his warriors through the underbrush. They moved like specters, bare feet navigating roots and dry leaves with the muscle memory of expert hunters.
The air was saturated with the smell of dampness and turned earth. As they approached the clearing, Tequihua raised a fist, stopping the column dead in its tracks. Before them stood the Suaza outpost.
From his hidden position in the thicket, Tequihua analyzed the fortification.
A solid palisade of carved wood, about two meters high, surrounded the perimeter. Climbing stealthily up the trunk of a centuries-old tree, he obtained a panoramic view of the interior.
His eyes scanned the terrain: a handful of well-built adobe houses with thatched roofs, other minor installations, and a rectangular building that, by its size and the arrangement of patrols around it, he immediately identified as the main barracks. But what he was really looking for was at the back... The stables.
Tequihua narrowed his eyes.
Unlike the western front, where the Suaza deployed formations of five to ten riders that crushed their lines, here there were only two of those monstrous beasts.
Two horses, he thought, feeling the blood pounding in his temples.
The danger was drastically reduced; the opportunity was unbeatable.
He descended from the tree and guided his group toward the perimeter, closing in to within a few dozen meters of the south gate. The sound of voices in an incomprehensible language reached them. They were Suaza guards, conversing in a relaxed tone.
Tequihua looked over his shoulder and signaled quickly to Ixtli, the only one among them who had learned to chew on the strange tongue of their enemies.
Ixtli crawled through the damp grass until he was shoulder to shoulder with his captain. He strained his ears, frowning as the alien words floated on the morning breeze.
"They are talking about something called 'Tequendama'," Ixtli whispered, confusion painted on his face. "They say they have approached the port... I don't know what that word means, Captain."
Tequihua nodded slowly, urging him with his gaze to keep listening.
"Now... now they are talking about the 'Europeans'," Ixtli continued, swallowing hard. "Another name I don't know. They say they are very dangerous. They speak of new methods of combat... spectacular, they say, but bringing certain death."
Tequihua frowned, genuinely bewildered.
He expected to intercept information about patrol routes, guard changes, perhaps the retreat of troops or the preparation of an offensive. That was the vital information that could tip the scales for Anáhuac. Instead, he was hearing strange terms and unfounded fears from soldiers.
"What do you think those words mean?" Ixtli asked in a thread of a voice, barely audible above the rustling of the leaves.
The captain took a moment, processing the military intelligence through his own warrior logic.
"Tequendama... If they are approaching the port, it must be the name of some major vessel," Tequihua analyzed, his gaze fixed on the palisade. "As for European... I do not know." He paused, and his tone turned icy, laden with an implicit warning. "But if the Suaza, who fight with the fury of demons and carry weapons we do not understand, hold such respect and fear for them... it means these 'Europeans' are the true danger."
They left the guards to their chatter and, for the next fifteen minutes, circled the camp, moving like shadows until they reached the north gate. This opened onto a packed-dirt road that led deep into the bowels of Suaza territory. To their surprise, the heavy wooden door was not completely closed; a crack offered a glimpse of the interior.
Cuauhtli's eyes lit up with bloodlust. The opportunity was too tempting. Adrenaline clouded his judgment, and tensing his leg muscles, he made a move to dash toward the opening, his macuahuitl ready to strike.
Tequihua's hand shot out like a serpent's jaws, grabbing Cuauhtli by the shoulder with a brutal force that nearly dislocated the bone, yanking him back into the mud.
"Are you the captain here, idiot?" Tequihua hissed, with a silent, threatening fury that chilled the young warrior's blood.
Cuauhtli's eyes widened, frightened by his leader's murderous glare, and he shook his head frantically. He took a step back, submissive. A few meters away, Ixtli let out a silent, sadistic chuckle, enjoying his comrade's humiliation, though jealously careful not to make any noise that might alert the watchmen.
Hierarchy restored, Tequihua organized the assault with quick, precise gestures.
He divided his ten men into two squads. He would lead one; Cuauhtli, to redeem himself, would lead the other.
He raised his hands, tracing the plan in the air: they would enter through the north gate, clear the corners first, converge toward the center, sweeping every house and every structure.
Secure an escape route, he indicated with two fingers pointing toward the forest. If something goes wrong, that is how we get out.
Tequihua's squad slipped through the crack in the gate like smoke. They advanced, hugging the adobe walls until the first house.
They entered simultaneously through the open door and a low window. The interior smelled of corn and deep sleep. There were no soldiers, only a Suaza civilian sleeping on a woven bed.
Tequihua raised a hand, halting his men. He looked at Xoco.
The warrior, who had been suffering for days from a poorly healed wound and bore a cadaverous pallor that foretold his end, understood the order. Tequihua was giving him his final glory.
Xoco limped forward slightly. With the swiftness of a dying predator, he covered the civilian's mouth with his left hand, smothering any scream in the man's throat, while with his right he plunged the obsidian blade into his neck, tearing it open in a single, brutal slash.
Hot blood splattered Xoco's face. A chilling mix danced in his eyes: the savage thrill of taking a life and the profound theological relief of knowing that, despite his weakness, he would die having fulfilled his duty as a true warrior of Anáhuac.
They left the house, leaving the corpse bleeding out in the gloom. They moved toward the next structure. Suddenly, the crunch of rhythmic footsteps alerted them. A pair of Suaza watchmen were completing their rounds, walking directly toward their position.
Tequihua signaled to another of his men. They merged with the shadows of the alley. When the guards passed in front, Tequihua emerged at their backs. A hand covered the mouth, an arm wrapped around the neck; a dull, wet snap, and the first guard fell limp. His companion did the same with the second. In a matter of seconds, they dragged the heavy bodies and hid them in the darkness of the first house.
They wiped the blood from their hands and regrouped. Everything was going perfectly. Too perfectly.
They were heading toward a third dwelling when hell broke loose.
A strident, piercing, and unnatural sound cut through the morning. The Suaza alarm. And a second later, a noise that Tequihua wanted to forget and never hear again. A deafening roar.
It was not the clash of wood, nor the roar of an animal, not even the crack of lightning in a storm. It was the sound of death spitting fire. Something that brought him bad memories.
Several hours later.
The landscape had changed drastically. The air no longer smelled of damp earth, but of saltpeter and desperation. Tequihua stood in a forest very close to the coast, his chest rising and falling erratically as he tried to catch his breath.
Around him, the few remaining men of his unit collapsed onto the sand and rocks. They were exhausted, covered in sweat, mud, and blood. Several bore deep cuts and livid bruises. Of Xoco and Cuauhtli there was no sign; the forest and the enemy weapons had swallowed them.
But despite the exhaustion and the tactical defeat, the surviving warriors were not looking at their wounds. They were looking at their captain in absolute awe.
Tequihua held the leather reins firmly in his blood-stained hands. Beside him, snorting nervously, stood the horse.
The captain let out a genuine smile. After almost a year of observing, of fearing, and of planning, he had finally stolen one of those divine beasts. It was an invaluable trophy. A triumph to bring to Cuitláhuac.
However, Tequihua's smile died on his lips the moment he looked up at the horizon.
The sea stretched out before them, gray and choppy, but it was not empty.
A few miles off the coast, silhouetted against the morning mist, loomed a colossal silhouette. It was a vessel, yes, but infinitely larger and more monstrous than any merchant's tale would have dared to describe.
A thick, cold sweat slid down his spine. The muscles of his neck and arms tensed involuntarily, preparing to fight something he could not strike. His gaze was lost in the immensity of that structure of wood, immense fabrics, and dark mouths.
In Tequihua's mind, forged in obsidian and the firm stone pyramids, that thing defied every natural and divine law. It was impossible. Because what he was seeing, rocking upon the waves with a terrifying majesty, was not a simple ship.
It was a castle. A damned castle capable of floating. And he knew, with a certainty that chilled his soul, that the world he knew had just vanished.
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[A/N: CHAPTER COMPLETED
Hello everyone.
Thank you all for your support. Let's get straight to the chapter comments.
CHAPTER COMMENTS
First, I want to say that I was really looking forward to writing battle chapters, but after writing this one, I feel like I'm finding it a bit difficult. I can't seem to fully imagine what this type of battle would be like.
I even rewatched Apocalypto, and although I didn't pick up much from it, I tried to get into the characters.
By the way, I'm not saying that the way the Mayans fought, which is what the movie is set in, is similar to what you see in these kinds of chapters.
On the other hand, I was thinking that perhaps delving too deeply into these kinds of battles might not be so appropriate, since many of us are used to cavalry, lancers, or sword fights.
I think the closest thing to what is experienced in these battles are the guerrilla wars in movies. Especially when the locals actually know much more about the terrain.
Furthermore,
AUTHOR'S COMMENTS
First, I wanted to say that I have tried to portray the feelings of warriors or anyone when facing something like this (I'm referring to the unknown, ships in this case), and for this, I always remember the first time I saw a cargo ship.
They were gigantic, or at least they were to me, and the worst part is that it didn't even seem to be one of the biggest.
I remember that the waterline (when loaded) was as high as multi-story buildings. And for me, it was astonishing.
I've finished the maps, by the way. I hope you liked them, and I wanted to let you know that I haven't prepared the auxiliary chapter yet. Also, remember that 80% of the macro-region boundaries are defined by rivers or coastlines.
For example, the crossings between the Chibcha Federal Region and the Western Region are separated by a section of the Darién jungle. Or the meeting point between the Western Region, the Lake Region, and the Central Region is at a mountainous crossing.
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Read my other novels.
#The Walking Dead: Vision of the Future (Chapter 91) (ON HOLD)
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You can find them on my profile.]