NOVPUBWitnessing such a brutal scene, the nearby archers quickly adjusted and began to prioritize shooting the militia hurling clay pots. On the city walls, a Tarasco militiaman, fervently shouting the name of his god, raised a clay pot high, ready to smash it down. Then several feathered arrows "swooshed" in, striking him from top to bottom. The militiaman violently jerked backward, no longer able to lift the clay pot filled with lime, which then silently slid off.
Behind him, several fellow villagers, pale with fright, didn’t hesitate to push fiercely from behind. The fervent militiaman, along with the falling clay pot, plummeted from the six-meter-high wall, then "bang," burst upon the ground, spreading a cloud of white dust in all directions. Agonized screams then arose below, coming from several newly-blinded Ottopan Warriors.
The militia on the walls had just breathed a sigh of relief when the whizzing feathered arrows attacked once more, nailing most of the militia to death, leaving only one to escape by fluke. The surviving militiaman, terrified out of his wits, lay motionless in a pool of blood atop the ramparts, unwilling to rise and defend the walls again. The Samurai overseeing the battle saw this breach and waved his copper spear, driving another group of militia to mount the walls. Then, without hesitation, he ordered the last militiaman, along with the bodies of his fellow villagers, to be thrown down from the walls. Soon, a final scream added to those below.
Putting intense pressure were crossbowmen on the earthen ramparts and shield carts, while archers in the sally ports performed targeted clean-up. Quickly, several stretches of chaotic wall appeared on the left side of South City. Hundreds of Ottopan Warriors finally steadied their ladders and began to climb through these chaotic breaches. In less than a dozen breaths, dozens of Samurai had reached the top and cried out excitedly. They swung their shields to fend off the oncoming copper spears, then struck out with their war clubs, engaging in fierce combat with a large troop of Tarasco militia.
Xiulote’s eyes lit up, his face filled with anticipation. He waved his command flag, and the large, strong Temple Guards formed ranks, ready to provide reinforcement at any moment. Then, crossbowmen on the raised platforms gradually received instructions, concentrating their shots on both sides of those sections of the walls, pinning down a swath of militia.
On the ramparts, a Tarasco militiaman was suddenly struck in the head by an arrow and fell facing upwards, dropping his Tlaxcala wooden bow to the side. Two steps away, a young militiaman named Weizti, his eyes bloodshot, reached for the bow. Then a "thump" resounded as he was struck hard on the forehead, abruptly interrupting his action.
"You blockhead! Don’t go grabbing that wooden bow; you’ll be dead if you do!"
The familiar accent of his homeland came from behind Weizti, snapping him out of his combative impulse. Crouching, the young militiaman turned around and saw the familiar old militiaman, Chiwaco. Equally crouching was the old militiaman, with a rock the size of his chest in hand. He wore a sturdy wooden shield on his head, tightly bound under his chin with henequen rope, resembling a turtle with its shell.
"Uncle, where’d you get that shield? Isn’t there a helmet from the lords over there?"
Weizti shook his slightly dizzy head, taking a closer look at Chiwaco’s appearance. The last time, the old militiaman had led them to escape the battlefield, rowing for three days straight and arriving at the fortress even before the Marshal. Since then, the old militiaman had been regarded by everyone as a leader, a convincing Uncle.
The intense sounds of combat echoed wildly, "swoosh swoosh" as arrows flew overhead. Chiwaco shivered, looking around, not seeing any of the lords. He then whispered.
"Don’t wear the helmets of the lords, nor their leather armor; the Mexica are targeting those outfits to shoot at! Go find a shield, or cover your head with a clay pot. Then join me, crouch down and push rocks off!"
Weizti vaguely grasped the idea. He ducked down, placed an empty clay pot on his head, and then joined the old militiaman in pushing rocks off.
Soon, supporting Samurai lords arrived with nervous expressions, carrying long spears up to the ramparts. Rushing past, they headed towards the walls by the river, loudly driving the militia they met along the way. The howling arrows from below were aimed at that part of the walls, occasionally bringing down a group of Defending Army soldiers.
Chiwaco, his hands pressing on a rock, watched cautiously. n𝚘𝚟pub.𝚌o𝚖
He observed the grim combat nearby, where dozens of skinny Samurai continuously rushed to the top of the walls, clashing in a scramble with the supporting lords. People cried out in pain, either falling off the wall or collapsing onto it. It was as if there was a boiling cauldron of soup there, with the lords from both sides thrown in like firewood, continuously bringing the walls to a boil and causing blood to splatter like bubbling soup.
The old militiaman shivered again. He pulled out his blood-stained bag of herbs, inhaling deeply from it twice. The scent of the herbs was fading, while the stench of blood grew stronger. However, for some reason, this act calmed him.
When the old militiaman came to his senses, he saw Weizti had gotten ahead of him, almost ready to push a large rock off the wall. Furious, he grabbed the young militiaman’s trousers and pulled him to the ground.
"Weizti, come back here! Are you dumb?! Are you really going to throw that big rock down? Look around; this is the only big rock nearby. Once you push it off, the lords will force you to shoot arrows and throw javelins... Push it back now!"
The young militiaman hesitated. He looked around; chaos reigned everywhere, with lords hastily passing by, paying no attention to this place. Afterward, he obediently pushed the rock back and, together with the old militiaman, resumed a crouching position ready to push the stone.
