PREVIOUSLY. (Chapter 131)
[Year 12 of the SuaChie Calendar, Sixth Month.
…
A lieutenant from the fort approached the town's commanding officer, who, with a monotonous voice and a pallid face, summarized the situation. He pointed toward the path of the retreat, his gaze clouded by guilt and resentment. In his mind, both he and this Mexica group were to blame: they for initiating the attack, and he for deploying what he now believed was the true knowledge the gods had bestowed upon Young Chuta.
A group of riders departed immediately to capture the Mexica stragglers, while the rest began the grueling task of clearing the town, tending to the wounded prisoners, and mourning the few Suaza soldiers who had fallen to the recklessness of urban combat.]
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One week later.
Year 12 of the SuaChie Calendar, Sixth Month.
One week after the first battle between the Mexica and the Suaza.
Forward Outpost of Teciuhtepetitlán, Northeast Frontiers, Aztec Territory.
The dawn mist clung to the hills surrounding Teciuhtepetitlán (Teziutlán, Mexico) like a damp shroud. The air smelled of cold earth, stale smoke, and the rancid sweat of too many men gathered in a place that, until recently, was meant only as a waypoint. Almost imperceptibly, the Mexica forward outpost had transformed from a mere supply hub into a true heart of war.
Cuitláhuac sat on his haunches by a low fire inside the main command tent. The thick fabric walls filtered the light into shades of ochre, and every breath he exhaled bloomed into a small white halo. In his hands, he held a piece of wood that he mindlessly carved with the tip of a ceremonial knife, yet the figure remained shapeless. His eyes were fixed neither on the blade nor the wood, but on a battle only he could see.
The wars of his youth had been different. Mobile columns, swift charges, porters laden with bundles of maize and arrows, and the tribute of subjugated lordships that fed armies who never worried much about the duration of a campaign. They fought for prisoners, for hearts to burn upon the stone, not for utter destruction. This tent, with its hanging leather maps and ordered stacks of salt, grain, and weapons, was a constant reminder that those times were fading.
The Tlaxcaltecas had been the first warning. That war, which the priests had painted in song as a simple correction, had turned into a quagmire. The memory pricked the back of his neck. They, too, had traded with the Suaza; their warriors wore new bronze on the front lines, their shields reinforced with foreign metal. The old obsidian macuahuitls were no longer enough. The Triple Alliance had been forced to adapt its supply chains, to think in terms of prolonged endurance. It was no longer the game it once was.
And now, the Kingdom of Suaza.
Cuitláhuac gripped the wood tighter until a splinter grazed his palm, but he did not flinch. Since the first incursion into Suaza lands, nothing had gone according to plan. The strategy was simple: strike the supply towns, sever the roots of their fortresses. He had sent his finest men—veterans tempered in the blood of Tlaxcala and novices eager to earn their rank. What returned days later were not heroes, but shadows.
He remembered the first return clearly. Warriors arriving in disorganized bands, some without helms, others with hollow stares, as if they had left their souls hanging from a tree. He had expected news of victory—perhaps exaggerated, but victory nonetheless. Instead, he saw terror.
Xipilli was the clearest symbol of that dread. One of his primary captains, a man who had survived entire campaigns without breaking, entered the tent glancing about as if expecting thunder itself to collapse upon his head. He babbled about the wrath of gods manifested in lightning falling from the heavens, and of beasts that ran faster than fear.
Only after a full day of rest, when the cold sweat no longer ran down his back and the tremors had stilled, could Xipilli recount what had happened. They had changed the hour of the attack—not at dawn, as tradition dictated, but nearly at dusk—seeking an advantage in the shadows. But from the moment they approached the target village, everything went wrong. First came a lone horse, a beast in the gloom. Then an empty village, too orderly to be a genuine abandonment. Then, the sensation that they were being herded like cattle. And finally, the thunder.
"It fell from the sky, Cuitláhuac," Xipilli had said, his voice hoarse. "It split men like ife—" The captain had corrected himself, swallowing hard, as if the names of the gods were too fragile to associate with such a thing. "As if the heavens spat stones of fire."
Cuitláhuac, then and now, did not know what to make of those words. It wasn't that he doubted the existence of the gods; he was a devout follower of the Great Mexica God, the sacred machinery that had led the Triple Alliance to dominate valley and mountain. What he struggled to accept was that the gods of other peoples could manifest with such potency. Peoples with different idols and different songs should not possess such protection; they were inferior by definition.
Have they abandoned us? The thought crossed his mind like a shadow. He rejected it almost immediately, gritting his teeth, but the mark remained.
Shifting the wood to his other hand, he forced his mind toward something more tangible: logistics.
By order of Tenochtitlan, a vast number of warriors had been withdrawn from the western front against the Purépecha and redirected toward the Suaza conflict. At first, the reserves sufficed. But as the confrontation dragged on, they could not afford to devour the resources of the Teciuhtepetitlán lordship as if it were enemy territory. The memory of how Tlaxcala had woven a confederacy of allies was too fresh; to drive Teciuhtepetitlán to famine was to invite another rebellion.
Metztitlán was another possibility. It was not part of the Triple Alliance; a proud lordship, uncomfortable on the edges of Mexica influence. Cuitláhuac had already sent warriors to test the waters in the southern villages of that domain. Pressure campaigns: show presence, remind them that the Triple Alliance had long arms. But those men had not returned. He sent a second group, more experienced, with orders to observe and report. He had been waiting for news since dawn.
As if the gods—whom he refused to call absent—decided to grant him an answer, the entrance flap was lifted. A young aide, his chest still heaving from the run, bowed slightly.
"Lord Cuitláhuac. The scouts have returned."
"Bring them in."
The captain leading the group was a middle-aged Jaguar Warrior. His skin was marked by ancient scars, but the one that drew the most attention now was invisible: the mixture of rage and humiliation in his eyes. He knelt briefly before Cuitláhuac, respecting his rank, but his back remained rigid.
"Speak," Cuitláhuac ordered, his gaze fixed on him. "What did you find in the lands of the rebel lordship?"
"They were defeated, my Lord," the captain replied, his voice strained with suppressed fury.
A murmur of surprise rippled through the tent. Cuitláhuac raised a hand to demand silence.
"Defeated by Metztitlán?" he asked, narrowing his eyes. "Or by something else?"
The captain clenched his fists against his knees.
"We reached the outskirts of the main village. From afar, we saw Mexica garments hanging at the entrance. Tunics, cloaks—displayed like war trophies." He paused, swallowing hard. "We swore to avenge the insult. My men wanted to raze the place."
"And why didn't you?" Cuitláhuac's tone grew sharper. "Why does the village not burn at this very moment?"
"Because it was not only Metztitlán waiting for us," the captain replied, the tremor in his hands betraying him. "There were Suaza warriors in the village. Not many, but enough to be a threat. And two beast-riders."
The word hung in the air. Beasts. Horses.
Cuitláhuac felt a tightening in his chest, but he kept his expression controlled. The men in the tent exchanged uneasy glances. The horses of the Suaza Kingdom had become a nearly mythical presence in the tales of survivors. Enormous animals that turned a man into something more than human.
"Two riders," Cuitláhuac repeated, his voice neutral. "And that was enough to stop your warriors?"
"The village was on guard, my Lord," the captain said, attempting to reclaim some dignity. "The Suaza and the locals moved as if they expected our arrival. It would not have been a simple slaughter of peasants. They would have trapped us among the houses, just as they did in their own towns to the first group you sent."
Cuitláhuac noted the bitterness in that last sentence but chose not to feed it.
"I believe you... for now," he concluded with a wave of his hand. "Return and keep your eyes on that village. I want to know every movement of those Suaza. Do not attack without my command."
The Jaguar Warrior nodded, relieved to escape immediate punishment, and withdrew. When the flap fell shut, the air seemed to grow heavier.
"Summon the advisors," Cuitláhuac ordered the aide. "And the veteran captains. Bring them all."
One hour later.
The command tent was crowded. Veterans adorned with feathers and scars, captains who had seen the sun rise over too many battlefields, and advisors sent from Tenochtitlan huddled around the central brazier, its smoke escaping through a vent at the peak. A low-vibration murmur filled the space.
Cuitláhuac rose, setting aside the knife and the wood. He walked around the brazier, his shadow dancing across the attentive faces.
"The Suaza," he began without preamble, "are not confined to their own lands. Today, we have confirmed that their warriors and their beasts have been seen in the lands of the rebel lordship of Metztitlán." He paused, measuring the impact. "Metztitlán, which is not part of our Triple Alliance."
A louder murmur swept through the tent, this time charged with genuine shock. Some captains exchanged looks of frank concern; others, of rage.
"They protect the rebels..." one muttered.
Cuitláhuac did not silence them immediately. He let the murmur swell like a wave before breaking it with his voice.
"We await the formal response from Tenochtitlan regarding the direct attacks on the Suaza Kingdom and this so-called divine protection they claim to possess." The word "so-called" was uttered with calculated hardness. "Do not forget that the first warriors we sent swore that thunder itself fell upon them in the Suaza towns. Not one, but many voices recounted the same."
One of the captains, a younger man with a skeptical gaze, raised his hand slightly.
"Lord Cuitláhuac," he said respectfully. "What if... they exaggerate? Fear can make enemies grow in the telling. Perhaps the thunder of the gods was nothing more than an unknown weapon, or a trap. I do not doubt their pain, but..."
An advisor, with a grey beard and sunken eyes, leaned forward, resting his weight on his staff.
"Those men could barely hold a macuahuitl for all their trembling when they arrived," he intervened. "And yet, they all told the same story: the sound, the fire, the bodies opened without a visible arrow. And now, the presence of riders in Metztitlán aligns with what they told of those towns. These are not empty stories. There is something there."
Cuitláhuac raised his hand, burying the discussion in silence.
"I do not care if the thunder is hurled by gods or men," he said firmly. "What matters is that today, if we attack the Suaza as we once attacked lesser lordships, we die. They have already proven that to us." He searched the faces of every man, ensuring the idea took root. "But our mission does not halt."
He stopped by the brazier. The heat brushed his skin, providing a small comfort against the cold he felt within.
"If the people of Metztitlán have placed themselves under the wing of the Suaza, then they are no longer just a nuisance on our border." A shadow of cruelty crept into his voice. "They are a door we can strike with force. I do not believe the Suaza gods busy themselves with protecting every single one of their new friends. If we strike where they are not looking, those villages will learn that the Triple Alliance does not dissolve because of thunder."
Some of those present smiled—a mirthless grin. Others let out brief exclamations, almost like shouts of approval. The idea of taking reprisals against the Suaza's peripheral allies, rather than facing them head-on, fit well with old customs of exemplary punishment.
One of the veterans, his face crossed by scars, spoke:
"If we destroy the Metztitlán villages that kneel before the Suaza, we send two messages, my Lord. One to them: that they cannot hide behind foreign friends. And another to the other lordships: that allying with the Suaza Kingdom carries a price."
"Exactly," Cuitláhuac murmured. "And meanwhile, we will wait for Tenochtitlan's word. If the gods of the Suaza are as strong as they say, the City will know how to address such an offense. For now, we shall act as we always have: by seeking the weak points."
He looked once more at the faces of every advisor, every captain. He saw fear in some, rage in others, and unshakable faith in a few. He saw his own conflict reflected in them: wounded pride and a doubt he did not dare name.
"Prepare the men," he concluded. "We will not attack the Suaza Kingdom directly until further orders. But Metztitlán... Metztitlán shall learn that not everyone can take shelter in their shadow without paying in blood."
The smiles widened, this time with a sharp edge. The murmur transformed into brief cries of approval, roars contained by the fabric ceiling. Outside, the wind blew over the hills like an omen, but inside Cuitláhuac's tent, the fire of war remained alive, fueled by pride, fear, and the stubborn refusal to accept that the world was changing at a pace even the Triple Alliance could not control.
One week later.
Year 12 of the SuaChie Calendar, Sixth Month.
Western border of the Metztitlán lordship.
The humidity of the forest seeped through every pore, a sticky veil of dew and sweat that soaked the raw cotton tunics of the twenty Mexica warriors. Every step was a battle against the treacherous ground: soft mud sucking at sandals, rotting leaves crunching like dry bones, low branches lashing bare arms and leaving red furrows in their leathery skin.
The Mexica captain at the front, his jaw set and a fresh scar crossing his cheek like a dry riverbed, led them through narrow, forgotten paths—steep hills where the terrain became vertical, treacherous slopes that forced them to climb with tooth and nail. The air was dense, heavy with broken resin, fertile earth, and the metallic tang of sweat accumulated from hours of silent marching.
There was no room for error.
The Suaza riders emerged from the large towns of Metztitlán to patrol the open plains, mounted on those beasts called horses—a name whispered by Mexica merchants who had seen them from afar. The creatures galloped with a thunder that vibrated the earth beneath one's feet, but they faltered on steep inclines and became entangled in dense forests like this one.
The reports from other deployed groups were clear: Suaza lookouts stationed themselves in clearings near the towns, trusting their animals to cover open ground. This was why their routes zigzagged through hills and slopes, where thick foliage concealed both silhouette and sound, turning their advance into a game of shadows.
Hours stretched into miles, the sun filtering through in mottled rays that warmed their necks and stung their eyes. Finally, the captain raised his fist, signaling a slight clearing. The forest opened just enough to reveal a large village of the Metztitlán lordship.
High palisades of fresh wood gleamed under the filtered light, sentinels standing tall at the gates with taut spears. The western fields lay empty, as in the two previous villages they had scouted; unharvested maize stalks swayed in the breeze, furrows prepared for ambushes, basic pit traps and stakes poking out like sharp teeth in the churned earth. The village hummed with alertness: the last week of Mexica incursions had frayed nerves and multiplied eyes in every shadow.
The captain signaled to halt in the northwest woods. The men melted into the rugged trunks, breaths held, bodies pressed against the rough bark that scraped their skin.
"Rest here," the captain hissed, his voice as low as the wind through the branches. "Lookouts to the north, now. And you, Itzocel—you with the hawk's eyes—watch closely. Note the rhythm of the patrols, the directions they take, the number of men moving. Suaza and Metztitlán, all of them. Carve it into your mind."
Those designated slipped away like smoke among the trees. The captain crouched beside Tequihua, a veteran with whom he had shared many bloody battlefields. The air between them smelled of old campfire smoke mixed with the sour sweat of the march. Tequihua, his arms crisscrossed with scars like maps of past wars, accepted the gourd of murky water the captain passed him.
"What do you think of this skirmish we have planned?" the captain asked, leaning in so his words wouldn't travel far.
Tequihua took a slow sip, the liquid sloshing in his parched throat. He wiped his mouth with the back of a calloused hand; his eyes fixed on the distant village where a Suaza sentry patrolled the palisade.
"We are waging war in a strange way," Tequihua finally replied, his voice deep and measured like a distant drum. "I recognize the Suaza have rare weapons, armor that deflects obsidian, and ways of fighting we don't fully understand. But that does not change a simple truth: they are the intruders here. This land is ours. The war is ours by right."
The captain frowned, sweat stinging beneath his feathered helm, his hand tightening on the hilt of his macuahuitl.
"I don't fully understand. Speak plainly, old friend. We are twenty against a protected village. What advantage do you see?"
Tequihua spat to the side, the saliva landing on the moss with a faint splat. He pointed toward the village with his chin, a slow gesture.
"They are men, just like us. Some of those Suaza are warriors only because of their bronze knives and their tricks, not because of blood on their hands or scars that tell of battles. We have broken thousands of heads, from Tlaxcala to the Purépecha."
His eyes narrowed, fixed on a Suaza lookout who patrolled the palisade with wide strides and sudden turns.
"We could finish them in the old way we know: observe first, strike later. None of these feints to hunt live prisoners. A little patience, and we will sweep them away."
The captain followed Tequihua's gaze.
The Suaza sentry moved clumsily, his steps too long for the uneven ground, his head turning without the precision of a veteran. Reports from other Mexica groups agreed: the Suaza clung to their settlements like barnacles to a rock, retreating as soon as the terrain became unfamiliar.
At first, many—including himself—had attributed this to cunning tactics, feints to mislead as they themselves did. Now, seeing it, it looked like a mere lack of experience: novices overconfident in foreign metal.
"Perhaps you are right," the captain conceded, his jaw tight, a brief flicker of doubt crossing his eyes. "At dawn, then. No prolonged feints. We will launch a real attack, something they do not expect."
Tequihua nodded with a wolfish grin, his yellowed teeth glinting in the gloom.
The following day.
The grey twilight dissipated slowly, the sun brushing the hills with timid fingers. Insects buzzed in a deafening chorus, birds chirped to announce the new day from the treetops, and above it all, the occasional whinnies of the Suaza horses sliced through the air like sharp knives.
Tequihua, following the captain's orders, led ten warriors around the northern side of the village. They took advantage of a shift change among the sentries at dawn, hiding in an unharvested maize field, the tall stalks scraping their exposed skin, the intense smell of fertile earth and green leaves enveloping them like a living mantle.
This time, it was not like the previous skirmishes—no feints to draw out warriors and hunt live prisoners. Now, they would launch simultaneous attacks from multiple directions following an initial distraction. The Metztitlán, already seasoned by their usual tactics, would stay alert to the west, where the captain would simulate the bulk of the assault. Tequihua's group would enter from the northeast, sowing pure chaos.
"The hour approaches," Tequihua hissed, eyes narrowed as he calculated the shadows. His group of ten split into two squads of five. He leaned toward the Jaguar—a warrior whose face was tattooed with black claws—and whispered in his ear: "I will handle the beasts. You and yours, attack the houses without stopping. Kill what moves, but move fast. Do not let them organize."
The Jaguar's hand spasmed on his macuahuitl, the obsidian edge gleaming faintly, his eyes shining with savage anticipation.
"No mercy, brother. Their houses will burn before they can scream for help."
They separated, ghosts in the corn. Tequihua first spotted a local warrior pacing the outskirts, spear held loosely, eyes scanning the gloom with caution. He signaled to one of his men, who moved away a few paces and deliberately snapped a dry branch.
The Metztitlán warrior took the bait, turning toward the noise and advancing with measured steps, unaware of Tequihua's shadow gliding behind him like smoke. In three strides, Tequihua lunged. His bronze knife pierced the neck with a wet, precise snap; his free hand clamped over the man's mouth to stifle the gurgling. The blade sank in easily, the flesh yielding like ripe maize.
I like this bronze, Tequihua thought as the body writhed in his embrace, hot blood soaking his gripping hand, the movements weakening until it went limp. Nothing slices like obsidian on a blade, but bronze kills fast and silent.
Tequihua carried the corpse to avoid a noisy collapse, ordering two Mexica to hide it in a deep furrow. He himself covered the bloodstains with earth and leaves. His fingers were sticky and slick.
As he neared the stable, he heard noises to the west: a cacophony of birds, insects, and animals. That is the captain's feint. They have begun, Tequihua thought.
He approached the Suaza stable. A Suaza guard was resting nearby. Awakened by the shouts from the west, the guard moved quickly to saddle a horse. Tequihua watched from a distance, recording the entire process, learning.
Tequihua seized the moment and closed in on the guard.
A horse's whinny alerted the Suaza just as he was about to mount. Tequihua surged forward, his macuahuitl whistling through the air.
A strike to the neck; the obsidian of his sword opened the flesh instantly. The Suaza gurgled as a wave of intense pain and weakness struck him. His eyes bulged, his airway severed. He fell to his knees without an audible cry.
Tequihua's macuahuitl remained steady, dripping with blood. Just as he was about to savor his silent victory, the horse's whinny rang out again, alerting everyone nearby.
Tequihua weighed his options: if he stayed, he could kill the horse and perhaps a few local warriors before being surrounded. If he escaped, he could inform Cuitláhuac about the riders—how they controlled and mounted the beasts—along with other vital intelligence.
Hearing Suaza shouts nearby, Tequihua decided immediately. He snatched the Suaza guard's spear, the pouch, and a knife hanging from his belt, and retreated. He reunited with his group, who remained alert but hidden amidst the unfolding chaos.
Hearing the shouts around them and noting a flicker of concern in his companions, Tequihua calmed them.
"We leave with the second feint, just as planned. They haven't found us yet," Tequihua remarked coolly, the heat of the Suaza's blood still fresh on his hands. "We will leave the way we came and return victorious."
As the warriors smiled, more settled and satisfied with their progress—each had killed civilians or local 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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[A/N: CHAPTER COMPLETED
Hello everyone.
New chapter! Yay!
As I mentioned in the previous chapter, I was having some trouble deciding which narrative style I liked best.
This chapter in particular, as you may have noticed, is longer, with more dialogue, descriptions, and emotional impact.
It seems good, but in my opinion, if I write many chapters like this, it will end up being boring. I say this based on my experience reading other novels.
Not to mention that it takes me 50% longer just to write, and that doesn't even include the time spent revising in Spanish and English.
However, as a point in favor of this style, I must say that I much prefer the dialogue, and the descriptions seem more immersive.
So here's the question.
Which is better?
I say both, or rather a mix.
I would like to write about feelings and descriptions when there is a new or pressing atmosphere, space, or situation. While the dialogues we've seen, like the one in this chapter, could be used at narratively important moments, not in wars like this one that we might forget in a couple of chapters.
I'll be paying attention to what you think (I've read the comments, but haven't replied... I'll do so soon).
On the other hand, I felt this chapter was necessary (I already had the feint attack written, as well as part of the war meeting) so you could understand the reasons behind Chuta's or the generals' reports and decisions later on.
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Don't read my other novels.
#The Walking Dead: Vision of the Future (Chapter 91)
#The Walking Dead: Emily's Metamorphosis (Chapter 34) (INTERMITTENT)
#The Walking Dead: Patient 0 - Lyra File (Chapter 14) (INTERMITTENT)
You can find them on my profile.]