Crossing the River, Part Two

Avet frowned as he watched the enemy charge forward without fear, then gave another order.

At once, the Longbow Guard swiftly fell back up the hill. They ceased firing and began restoring the strength in their arms.

Four warrior battalions poured down from the hill, shields raised and war clubs in hand, crashing into the charging foreign mercenaries. In an instant, weapons and shields tangled together, battle cries and roars ringing as one.

These wild warriors, their hair loose and their weapons mismatched, were extraordinarily fierce. They scarcely defended themselves at all, merely swinging stone axes and war clubs as they attacked with no regard for their lives.

Xolotl watched a lean Chichimec Dog-kin leap forward like a coyote and latch tightly onto a warrior's shield. A war club immediately smashed open his back, bending his body double, yet he remained twisted around the shield. The warrior could only throw away the shield in his left hand. Seeing the chance, another short Dog-kin swung his stone axe with both hands and lunged, smashing it into the warrior's waist.

The warrior doubled over in pain, drew a short blade with his left hand, and stabbed it into the Dog-kin's upper thigh. Blood immediately gushed out like a spring. Yet the short Dog-kin burst into crazed laughter, ignoring his wound as he gathered every last ounce of strength and swung his stone axe again. The axe struck the warrior's head, splitting a deep hollow into it. The warrior died instantly. Laughing all the while, the Dog-kin crumpled helplessly to the ground, dying intertwined with the warrior, as if he and the Mexica People shared a hatred that could not exist beneath the same sky.

"They are truly swift and fierce, light of death and quick to rage," the youth could not help but sigh. The battlefield below was no more than a hundred and fifty paces away. Watching the twisted, entwined corpses nearby, a chill crept into his heart.

"If the Otomi People and Toltec rebels were fighting this desperately, it would be understandable," Xolotl said after some thought. "But there's no reason for the Chichimec Dog-kin to be this mad."

"The Chichimec Dog-kin have always been fearless of death. They are accustomed to it. Death is part of their lives." As if seeing through the youth's thoughts, Avet explained seriously.

"These Chichimec Dog-kin are scattered across the deserts, Gobi wastelands, and grasslands of the northwest. They rarely farm, merely pursuing prey. They hunt and kill deer, bison, wolves, leopards, lions, turkeys, birds, fish, even people—anything at all that can fill their bellies."

"The Dog-kin divide into tribe after tribe, constantly migrating, constantly hunting, constantly raiding southward. They multiply swiftly during seasons of plenty, and slaughter one another in times of scarcity. Elderly tribesmen are driven out without hesitation, becoming prey for wolves and other tribes. Year after year of wind, sand, hunger, and cold makes them age quickly. Other than shamans and chieftains, few live past forty."

"The lives of the Dog-kin are like those of wild beasts. Death is nothing unusual to them. They fight for food and water, fight to seize women, fight to become leaders. A cold snap, a drought, a shortage of food—any of these marks the beginning of a great melee. Tribes hunt one another, using the old and weak of their enemies to survive the hungry season."

Hearing this, then looking at the savage battle below, the youth's scalp prickled.

"They pose little threat to our city-states and legions, though they often destroy border villages. Only cowardly Otomi People would offer them food in exchange for peace." Avet looked at the frenzied Dog-kin with disdain.

"That is because they still have no horses, no cattle, no sheep." Xolotl understood. American Bison could not be domesticated, and the Spaniards had not yet brought over horse herds. The Chichimec Dog-kin remained at the most primitive stage of nomadic peoples. They could not yet threaten the city-states of farming peoples, but they had already displayed the utmost belligerence and madness.

Once they had horses, allowing tribes to move swiftly and unite; once they raised cattle and sheep, increasing the population of nomadic tribes; once they learned archery, strengthening their long-range attacks—they would become the most enduring frontier threat to Mesoamerica's farming empires, just like the nomadic peoples constantly rising in the north of the Celestial Empire.

Xolotl knew that the Spaniards of later generations would fight the Chichimec People in a Chichimec War lasting fifty years. During that war, the Chichimec People would learn to ride horses, shoot arrows, use Matchlock Muskets, and even survive epidemics. In the end, they would force Spain to seek peace through the guerrilla warfare of nomads.

The Spaniards could only turn to conciliatory measures, freely providing food, tools, livestock, and land, using missionaries and settlements to assimilate the Dog-kin. Only after a hundred years did they gradually eliminate the northern frontier threat.

The youth continued watching the slaughter below. Overall, the four thousand Mexica Warriors still held the advantage. Shields and Leather Armor effectively improved survival, while practiced martial skill allowed them to kill opponents more quickly. Yet the warriors' casualty rate had far exceeded that of their battle against the spearmen. Nearly every five Chichimec People could trade for one warrior.

During the brief time the two had been talking, nearly a hundred warriors had already died. Judging by how the Dog-kin fought to the death without retreating after crossing the river, would they really have to lose a thousand warriors? Xolotl shook his head. Looking again at the tangled battle lines, the Longbow Warriors clearly could not fire either.

"The losses are too heavy. Why not send out the Jaguar Warriors?" the youth suggested.

Avet looked into the distance and saw that the Tarasco fleet had just returned to the opposite bank, where it was loading the third batch of legionaries. They appeared to be warriors carrying wooden shields and Copper Spears, clad in Leather Armor and helmets. He still had a thousand Jaguar Warriors, three thousand warriors, and four thousand militia under his command.

The commander first nodded, then shook his head. Then several battle banners waved, and a stretch of war drums thundered.

A thousand Jaguar Warriors, like ferocious beasts released from their shackles, savagely plunged into the shattered Spear Phalanx from the flank, completely scattering the spearmen. Their Beast Helmets flashed, and they imitated the roars of lions and tigers. Their war clubs struck with all the force of lightning. The remaining Spear Militia struggled for only a few breaths before their morale finally shattered beneath the repeated blows. Then they threw down their weapons in droves and leaped desperately into the Great River behind them.

At the same time, three thousand militia emerged from the camp and, driven on by two hundred commander guards, rushed toward the battling Dog-kin. Waving simple Stone Spears and Stone Hammers, the militia passed the warrior formations and swiftly reached the front line fighting the Dog-kin. Their Stone Spears could pierce the unarmored bodies of the Dog-kin, while the Dog-kin's stone axes could easily strike down the militia. Both sides quickly became tangled together and fell.

The four warrior battalions tacitly withdrew at the same time, restoring their strength while reforming their ranks. Once they had regained some order, the commanders of each battalion automatically spread out to either side, attempting to outflank the Dog-kin's sides and rear. The commander guards continued overseeing the militia from behind, maintaining their morale.

Now Avet had only three thousand warriors, a thousand Stone Thrower militia, and a hundred Longbow Guard. The third Tarasco fleet was carrying five thousand warriors across toward the north bank.

The commander gave another order. The Mexica river fleet began doing everything it could to harass the enemy fleet and impede the crossing. From time to time, large Mexica boats charged out, ramming Tarasco small boats from both sides. Then came a resounding crash as tremendous momentum hurled both the warriors and boatmen aboard into the river.

The rowers of the large boats then exerted themselves again, while the militia rapidly retreated even as they fought. Before the warriors aboard the other small boats could gather, the large boats had already broken away. After resting briefly and waiting for the rowers to recover their strength, they rammed again. The purpose of these attacks was not to inflict great casualties, but to exploit the advantages of the larger boats while preserving themselves as much as possible, delaying the enemy fleet's movements.

Only a quarter of an hour had passed since the collapse of the spearmen. The encirclement and attack upon them had already reached the final stage of slaughter. The Tarasco People had either cast down their spears, surrendered, or jumped into the water. The Long River behind them made pursuing the fleeing enemy extremely swift and simple. Warrior casualties had occurred only during that brief deadlock, when nearly two hundred warriors fell in that quarter hour. Once the Jaguar Warriors pounced, what followed was a one-sided killing.

The short blast of conch horns sounded again. As battle banners waved, the thousand Jaguar Warriors began restoring order. Their discipline was the strongest. They gradually withdrew to the hill and began gathering once more. The four thousand warriors pursuing the enemy had completely scattered, fiercely chasing the spearmen struggling along the riverbank and in the water. It would be a long while before they could form ranks again.

The remaining four thousand foreign mercenaries were now completely surrounded by warriors and militia. The militia traded lives brutally with the Dog-kin on the front line. The warriors fought with greater numbers from the flanks and rear, making full use of their shields and formations as they steadily harvested the frenzied enemy.

At this moment, Tarasco's five thousand warriors finally began landing. The elite troops, shields raised and spears in hand, began to gather. Soon, two warrior battalions had formed upon the beachhead.

Avet gave another order. From a distance of ninety paces, the Longbow Warriors began rapid fire upon the Tarasco warriors. They fired several arrows each minute and could keep it up for at most ten minutes before their arm strength was completely spent. The fierce long arrows struck with tremendous force, embedding themselves in warrior shields with threatening dull thuds. Occasionally came sharp clangs—the rare Bronze Shields.

Through the gaps between shields, long arrows would sometimes tear through armor and plunge into flesh with a wet thrust, followed by muffled screams and bodies thudding to the ground. From time to time, veteran warriors slowed their rate of fire, carefully aimed for a moment, then sent an arrow flying into an enemy's face, piercing the skull for a single fatal strike.

Against elite warriors carrying shields and wearing armor in dispersed formations, the Longbow's killing power dropped greatly. Even heavy arrows fired at close range were often stopped by shields. During that half-quarter hour of rapid fire, more than a hundred Tarasco warriors fell, their fate unknown. More importantly, the enemy formation had been badly disrupted. The commander dispatched his final three warrior battalions to guard the Longbow Guard, awaiting the enemy warriors' charge.

The thousand Jaguar Warriors who had withdrawn to the hill had just finished forming up. Each carried all three of his throwing spears, drew one and fitted it into his spear-thrower, then jogged toward the Tarasco warriors' flank. Only when they were within twenty paces did they let out a fierce tiger's roar and hurl the spears in their hands. The heavy throwing spears traced visible arcs, yet carried irresistible momentum. With a crack, they pierced wooden shields and drove into the enemies' chests and bellies.

The powerful force instantly knocked the struck warriors to the ground, while the thick spearheads tore grievous wounds. Those struck were either severely wounded or killed outright; only Bronze Shields could barely defend against them. That first volley alone dropped more than a hundred warriors. The powerful blow instantly loosened the enemy formation and shook their fighting spirit.

The Jaguar Warriors rested briefly where they stood and readied their second throwing spears. Suddenly, a piercing conch call came from the south bank—the order to retreat. The Tarasco river fleet waiting by the shore immediately began loading the warriors who had just disembarked. The warriors waved their Copper Spears unwillingly, then, at the shouted command of some commander aboard a large boat, turned back aboard with unwilling faces.

Bertad aimed at the Tarasco command ship for a moment, then reluctantly lowered his bow.

He casually shot dead a warrior who was roaring loudly and waving his spear in provocation, leaving himself wide open. That large boat was a full hundred and twenty paces away, and the enemy commander was cautiously hidden among his guards. The boat was still drifting and rocking without pause. There was not the slightest certainty of hitting him.

The Jaguar Warriors' second volley of throwing spears caught only the tail end of the retreat, while their third achieved even less. The archers then shot at the boats for another five minutes until they were exhausted. By then, the Tarasco flotilla had already set out southward, leaving fewer than a thousand warrior corpses upon the shore. They had cut their losses in time.

The southbound boats paid no heed to the Spear Militia struggling through the water toward them. They simply left those unarmed expendables to the still-harassing Mexica fleet. The Mexica river fleet did not continue tangling with the boats carrying warriors, instead gathering on the river near the north bank and easily harvesting the remnants in the water.

The waves gently submerged the fallen warriors, then curled and carried some away to float. Others slowly emerged again, as though they were bloodied ornaments adorning the afterglow of the battlefield.

The surviving two thousand foreign mercenaries finally awoke from their frenzy. Watching the departing fleet, the remaining Otomi People and Toltec rebels lost all will to fight. Dazed, they turned and fell to their knees, surrendering weakly—only to receive merciless blows upon their heads.

Over these brutal two quarters of an hour, the Mexica lost a full three hundred warriors and nearly twelve hundred militia. At one point, the militia fled in rout. The commander guards behind them slaughtered nearly a hundred without mercy before driving the militia forward once more.

The last thousand or so Dog-kin gave voice to coyote howls, the sound most familiar to them in their homeland. The wolf howl served as their battle charge, accompanying every Chichimec Person throughout life. They were born beneath wolf howls, matured beneath them, mated beneath them, and slaughtered beneath them. Those fortunate enough to grow old would meet their end by falling into wolves' bellies.

Far from home, with nowhere left to flee, the Dog-kin made one final mad charge at the commander's banner atop the hill. The commander guards were forced to join the battle as well.

Xolotl watched the final Dog-kin die fifty paces away from him. One of the man's arms had been broken by a war club, and Bertad's arrow was lodged in his back. His teeth were clamped tightly around a militiaman's neck. The two died locked in an embrace, strange, twisted smiles still at the corners of their mouths.

The youth shook his head. This final struggle by the Dog-kin had taken another five hundred militia and more than fifty warriors. The Mexica Warriors had gradually found a method to deal with the Dog-kin: nearby warriors worked together in close formations, using multiple shields for protection and greater numbers against fewer foes. Then they struck at the Dog-kin's heads or necks, seeking to kill in one blow and denying them any chance for a death-throes struggle.

"Avet, have the warriors hold back a little. Leave me a few Spear Militia captains," Xolotl said, gripping the commander's arm.

"You want to form spearmen?" Avet emerged from his stern focus on command, a smile appearing at the corner of his lips.

"Yes. The Mexica city-states have many working gold and silver mines. I intend to recruit a group of miners from them and train them." The youth smiled confidently and pointed at the scattered spears on the ground. "We happen to have a batch of Bronze spearheads now."

"Fine. Have it your way." Avet laughed. "This time, we owe much to the Longbow Warriors you formed. Their killing power and explosive force are astonishing! Bows can also break enemy formations and seize the initiative in tactics. I like this unit very much. We should expand their numbers first."

"Good! Once this campaign is over, we'll continue making Longbows." Xolotl nodded, then looked toward the battlefield carpeted with corpses. The warriors stood in pools of blood, shouting and cheering as they taunted the retreating Tarasco fleet. "Is the battle over?"

"The battle is over." Avet looked toward the great Tarasco camp on the south bank of the Great River.

The Tarasco king's great banner still flew. Beneath it stretched endless tents, tens of thousands of warriors waving Copper Spears, militia covering the hills and plains, and small boats carrying provisions across the distant lake.

"But the war has only just begun!"

Writing battle scenes takes a great deal of time. A big chapter—please recommend it!