Madness

As the sun rose and moon set, the wind carried a damp scent. Xolotl led the warriors westward for two days before finally returning to the siege camp around Otopan.

By then, dark clouds had silently arrived from the east, blotting out the clear sky. The first fine rain in months drifted down without a sound. This timely spring rain brought precious water for the seeds of spring planting, yet it also cast a damp shadow over the warriors' hearts: the rainy season was coming.

The moment he returned to camp, Xolotl summoned Avet and told him of the ambush on the road. Then the two went together to report the military intelligence to Totek. The cold, hard commander-in-chief looked like iron and stone. Studying the captured copper spears, copper arrows, and long wooden bows, he nodded slowly and gravely.

"Main God bear witness! Those damned Otomi People could only have held out this long with support from the Tarasco and Tlaxcalan. This is crucial intelligence! As for the surviving tribes in the mountains and forests, they are nothing much. Next, while the Alliance's main force is pinned beneath the Mountain City, the Alliance's powerful enemies to the east and west may very well enter the war themselves. I will report this to the king! It is time to consider the possibility of withdrawing!"

After saying this, Totek turned and heavily patted Xolotl on the shoulder, admonishing him.

"May the Main God protect you! Take more warriors with you next time you go out. You are a priest, not a warrior!"

With that, Totek turned and left sternly. That very night, Tizoc's furious rebukes rang out from the king's great tent.

Seven months had passed since the siege began last September. Nearly four thousand of the fifty thousand elite warriors had died. There had not been a single glorious battle involving ten thousand men—only unceasing guerrilla skirmishes, sickness from the climate and soil, food poisoning, disease, injuries, and one failed assault on the city.

Among the sixty thousand militia in the camp and rear areas, six or seven thousand had also been lost. Most of the losses had come during transport through the mountains and forests, and from the Otomi People's relentless guerrilla attacks. Though the militia on the other side had likewise suffered grievous casualties, tribal militia were merely kindling to be burned away. Only by cutting down the Otomi warriors could they utterly crush the enemy's resistance.

Over these seven months of war, because food was scarce, the army had taken few Captives. They had killed only a little over two thousand Otopan Warriors, and a thousand of those had been hooked beneath Guamare City. As for slaughtering large numbers of commoners, it meant nothing at all for the Alliance's glory or the king's majesty.

The enormous casualties had filled the City-State Legions with resentment, while the meager achievements had crushed the morale of the king's own warriors. All of this had greatly diminished the king's support. Tizoc's prestige lay in the valley. He desperately needed victory in this siege—needed Otopan City's fall to prove the king's judgment correct, needed the great undertaking of conquering the Otomi People to rebuild the king's prestige!

Otopan City had only around five months of food left. The dawn of victory was already clearly visible. At such a moment, no matter what warning signs of danger emerged, the king would never easily give up. Besides, the long wooden bows and copper weapons in Otomi hands proved nothing in themselves. The devout king would rather believe it was coincidence—that the Otomi People had purchased them from merchants of the various tribes.

This cruel war was like a gambling table, with too many stakes already laid upon it. In this coronation war that concerned his rule, even the usually rational king had been seized by a thread of madness. Totek, the commander-in-chief, could see the shape of the war clearly, but before the king's insistence, he could do nothing.

The commander-in-chief could only set his terrible face and order the scouts to range farther out, keeping constant watch on the Tarasco across the southern shore. As for the Tlaxcalan, the eastern Mexica city-states still possessed tens of thousands of warriors and militia, enough to handle a small-scale war.

Bloody war never shifted according to one side's will; it was a contest between two sides, or many. The dominant Mexica army wanted a glorious victory, while the disadvantaged Otomi nobles would pay any price to prevent the Mountain City's fall—and their own deaths. In such a struggle, commoner lives were like fallen leaves drifting in the wind. At the slightest gust, they came rustling down, easily plunging into the mud until the mountainsides were carpeted with them.

Back in camp, Xolotl finally slept peacefully for two days. He could store away the battles and sacrifices of the previous days deep within his heart, as if burying nourishment for growth. But that night, the distant Mountain City suddenly erupted into uproar. A chaotic tide of shouts, accompanied by shadowy crowds, scattered downward like whirling fallen leaves and swept toward the Mexica siege camp.

"Primal God protect us! Kill the Mexica People and avenge the tribe!"

"Charge! Break through the Mexica camp and return to our mountain homeland!"

The cries of battle burst forth. Xolotl woke at once and seized the long dagger beneath his straw bed. Clutching it, he rose, threw on a robe, and exchanged a glance with Bertad, who had already taken up his War Club. The two quickly donned their armor, hurried to gather their following warriors, and then headed to reinforce the forward camp.

Standing on the raised platform in the forward camp, by the light of bonfires along the camp's edge, Xolotl could see the crowd rushing in from afar. A flicker of doubt rose in his heart.

A night raid was a tactical operation requiring an extremely high degree of organization, something only the finest warriors could accomplish. The Otomi People charging toward them seemed numerous from afar, yet their torches were scattered in disorder and their movements uneven. Torches repeatedly broke off in other directions; some even turned back up the mountain. The roar of voices filled the sky, and faint cries drifted on the wind, mingled with women's shrieks.

Only when the crowd surged close did Xolotl understand. A blaze of fury immediately rose in his heart. Yet as he watched the battlefield's slaughter for a moment, an inexpressible sorrow also came over him. At this very moment, cold and indifferent death blew across tens of thousands of "fallen leaves," like an ordinary autumn night wind passing over mountains and fields of crimson maples and withered yellow leaves.

Apart from the several dozen Otomi Commoner Warriors leading the way, everyone behind them was scantily clothed elderly people, weak women, and children. Some were old, some young; some hopeful, some despairing; some lost, some mad. They held only wooden clubs and were driven forward by Noble Warriors at the rear, like kindling thrown into a bonfire.

Xolotl saw a bent old woman, head lowered and back curved, her face unseen. Swaying unsteadily, she hobbled forward on a wooden stick. The crowd kept pressing in from behind. Suddenly someone shoved against her, and she fell face-first to the ground, her stick dropping beside her. The crowd's feet trampled over her, and that withered body never rose again.

These frail commoners, armed with nothing but wooden sticks, threw themselves madly and desperately at gaps in the camp, struggling with all their strength to rush into the mountain forests beyond it, where they imagined a path to life awaited. Yet the Mexica Warriors had long been prepared, guarding the siege camp. The elite warriors raised shields and War Clubs, forming a tightly sealed line of slaughter that allowed no life to escape.

Thus Xolotl saw countless "moths" plunge into blazing fire, becoming countless tragic flutters. The several dozen Commoner Warriors at the front let out despairing howls and charged the grim battle line with all their strength. They slammed into shields, then were struck by Obsidian War Clubs that arrived after yet before them. Their leather armor split, bones broke, and their entire bodies twisted as they fell.

Behind them came countless Otomi commoners. Weakly, they struck the shields ahead with wooden clubs—the leather armor, or another commoner blocking their way. Everyone surged like waves against reefs ahead, then the waves broke and scattered while the reefs remained unscathed. All that remained were thin, tattered bodies collapsing helplessly to the earth, like strings of berries crushed underfoot until red juice ran out.

The Alliance's warriors swung their weapons without mercy. War Clubs snapped necks and shattered spines. Sharp obsidian edges were like blades, cutting and tearing apart limbs unprotected by leather armor. Blood sprayed after them, staining the mud before the camp.

Xolotl saw a young militiaman in the tide of people, raising a simple wooden shield as he tried to protect the woman and child behind him. But the human tide swiftly came to its end and crashed against the grim "reef." The "reef" raised its War Club, and a powerful blow descended from above and the side, curving around the simple wooden shield and smashing heavily into his back.

The young militiaman immediately stiffened. He threw his head back sharply, like a snapped branch, glanced back one last time, and fell without a sound. When Xolotl looked behind him again, the child had vanished beneath the crowd's feet. The woman screamed madly, throwing herself onto her husband's corpse—then a War Club came crashing down upon her head.

Xolotl lowered his eyes. His face remained expressionless as he stopped watching the "moths" burn. Totek, standing on the platform beside him, frowned. He had already judged the true nature of this "night raid."

Totek immediately selected two thousand warriors and ordered them to put down their War Clubs and replace them with sharp Obsidian Short Spears. The two thousand warriors then surged forward viciously, stabbing the oncoming Otomi commoners without mercy. Spear points plunged into soft chests and bellies, and the commoners fell in neat rows like reeds. Then another row of people squeezed forward behind them, and the same continued. Against these living things with neither armor nor power to strike back, short spears killed more efficiently and required less effort than War Clubs.

The warriors with War Clubs at the front returned to rest, wiping the leather armor caked with blood and chunks of flesh, and replacing the worn obsidian blades on their War Clubs.

The commoners rushing into the fire came without end, "burning" for a full three or four hours. Fresh lives became severed arms and mutilated limbs strewn across the ground, and the Earth Mother was painted red. Only when the first ray of dawn rose, and the commoners had been nearly exhausted, did the Noble Warriors driving them from the mountaintop down to the mountainside nod to one another and withdraw to the fortress on the mountain.

Cruel war had driven the Otomi nobles mad as well. They cast aside every "burden" for no purpose but to hold out longer.

Soon, the Morning Sun lit up the red sky. Dawn light filled the bloodstained earth. The fortress atop the mountain gleamed with radiance, while killing intent hung thick over the camp below. The warriors of both sides stared at one another across the mountain. It seemed nothing had changed, except for the blinding scarlet between them.

Once daylight came, Mexica warriors poured from the camp and divided into torrents that encircled the entire Mountain City. Scouts soon captured many commoners struggling to flee on the steep northern side of the Mountain City. They too had been driven through the black night to leap from the jagged cliffs, becoming corpses strewn across the ground and wounded survivors. Yet those who truly escaped were always fewer than one in a hundred, pitifully few.

The scouts counted the dead and wounded covering the mountain and roughly estimated their number at ten or twenty thousand. Only a small portion had been Commoner Warriors willing to die, or militia protecting their families. According to intelligence, Otopan Mountain City and the surrounding mountain stockades had originally held over ten thousand warriors, twenty to thirty thousand militia, and an equal number of elderly people, weak women, and children. Now, less than half remained in the city, and the overwhelming majority were warriors and able-bodied men.

In other words, after abandoning the elderly and weak, Otopan Mountain City could hold out for another "mere" two or three months. That was assuming such "night raids," casting off excess mouths to feed, did not happen again.

Inside the great tent, Xolotl lowered his head slightly. He had gained a clearer understanding of the Otopan nobles' ruthless cruelty. In this age, only the lofty God-descendants and priests, only warriors who held weapons, counted as "people." The other tribesfolk were as lowly as ants in the dust; they were not "people."

"Damn it! Damn it! Once we take Otopan Mountain City, I will sacrifice every Otomi Person to the gods!! Guards! Cut off the heads of every captive and stack them beneath the Mountain City into a hill!"

King Tizoc furiously smashed the Obsidian Staff in his hand. Then he roared for the warriors to behead every captive and pile them beneath Otopan City. It was the first time Xolotl had seen the king lose control.

The generals around him wore grave expressions and said nothing. They exchanged looks and subtle expressions with one another, and now and then someone gave a faint nod.

There was no doubt that this "night raid" had dealt a heavy blow to both armies' morale. The besieged Otomi nobles still relied on the warriors in their hands to maintain firm control over Otopan City. But the Mexica king besieging them from outside could no longer effectively control the camps of the city-state armies. Talk of withdrawal began spreading in secret, and everyone had lost faith in taking Otopan City.

Leaving the tent, Xolotl looked at the distant sky. Layers of clouds were drifting in again from the horizon, and a dark curtain slowly approached. Another light rain was clearly coming. Then he looked toward the far edge of the camp. Under the warriors' command, militia were clearing the corpses from the ground, stacking the heads into a Jingguan, and throwing the remaining parts into enormous earthen pits. Where those pits were buried, flowers would surely bloom in incomparable abundance next year.

The unending drizzle could wash away the earth's scarlet. The buried pits could conceal the traces of death. But could they soothe the madness in human hearts?

Thinking of this, Xolotl laughed at himself and shook his head.

"War drives people mad. I must be careful," he said to himself.