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Son of the Sunby Andrew J Harvey Submitted to the monthly Vignette competition held on the Sea Lion Press Forum Aug 2025 “General Quiso,” his aide said, jumping to her feet as the Incan General entered the small, single-room building that presently served as the headquarters for the army besieging Lima, the Spaniards’ newly declared capital. “I wasn’t expecting you for another hour. Did our orders arrive?” The general gave a curt nod. “Yes Huaco, although we might have done better without them.” His aide paused. “Oh?” “Your brother had a dream,” Quiso said dryly. A breeze brought the stench from the nearby river, and he wrinkled his nose. Despite the best efforts of the officers, it was becoming increasingly difficult to persuade the soldiers to use the latrines that had been dug for them, particularly when there was a river only a short distance away. “And?” Huaco prompted. “And in that dream he met Inti, who personally gave him our orders.” His aide’s face remained perfectly deadpan at the mention of the sun-god’s name, but Quiso could sense her mind racing and nodded, sensing the unspoken question. “I have been ordered to line my soldiers up and march them against the walls. Arquebus, cannon, cavalry, all be damned. Apparently our god, and the Inca’s direct ancestor, has promised him victory.” He watched his aide, the Inca’s sister, he reminded himself, suppress a snort as she began to pace. “And you are not minded to disobey?” she asked. The general shook his head. “I gave my oath to Manco. I will not break it. This revolt your brother leads is now three years old, yet it still balances on the edge of failure. The Inca can not afford another civil war while the Spanish tear out our hearts. Besides, Manco has spoken in the Sun’s name. Who is to say that he has not dreamed true? “The orders you quoted. That is their precise phrasing?” she asked. That was what the Quiso admired about her. She was not merely the Sapa Inca’s sister, set beside him to ensure Quiso’s continued loyalty, but a brilliant tactician and strategist in her own right. Her ability to quickly identify a problem and suggest a solution often surpassed his own. It was thanks to her that his army had been so successful in nullifying the effect of the Spanish cavalry around Lima by digging trenches and lining them with stakes, robbing the horses of their momentum, and then using their bolas to trip and maim then. And then when the Spanish had held their mounts back, that ambush in the mountains when trapped in a pass, the horses had proved easy targets for the Inca. Over 100 killed. Unfortunately, the damned Spanish continued to hold the city. Quiso handed Hiaco the Khipus, the orders encoded into the knots and dies of the cloth’s fibres. He knew all too well what the cost would be if he obeyed. He was not afraid to die, but to die with no possibility of success, and to lose the army as well, that hurt. Huaco’s fingers scanned the Khipus’ coded cords. Coming to the end, her fingers paused as she considered various possibilities. “The letter or the spirit of the order,” she muttered to herself before raising her gaze to meet the General’s. For a moment they simply stared at each other, before she gave a single nod. “It comes down to the phrasing. she said softly. “For some reason Inti did not specify your army, but rather ‘your soldiers’ which implies a special relationship.” “Perhaps those from just my tribe?” Quiso offered uncertainly. “Indeed.” “Then so be it. At least I can spare the army.” “Oh, I think we can do more than just that?” Huaco said, her gray eyes suddenly softening. “I can’t promise a victory, my General. Only the Sun can do that. But perhaps …,” she trailed off. “The orders specify at dawn?” He nodded. “Then, we have much to do before then.” Now General Quiso stood in front of his personal guard facing the walls. He nodded to the warrior who’d been selected to carry the crimson and golden flag the Spanish thought so highly of into battle. They’d captured it a month ago, in that ambush in the mountains, and now it would serve as, what was that term the Spaniards used – as a red flag to a bull. His mouth felt dry and he swallowed uneasily. Taking a deep breath, he turned to face those lined up behind him. Only one deep, with every second person an archer, the line stretched the full length of the walls facing them. “This is not a time for fear,” he said, his voice reaching out to each of those he was to lead to their death. “Rather, it is a time to show the Spaniards that if they come for our lands, for our people, then they must be prepared to pay and to pay again, and again until there is nothing left. Today, we will show them the true cost of their error. Their blood to feed our god, and to water our rivers.” Silence met the speech, but he could sense that he had them. “In the future, the Inca will remember this moment, when we few, gave our lives for their liberty. When, with our sacrifice, the Spanish were driven from our lands, never to return.” Turning to face the walls again, he raised his arm, and the drummers started their slow, methodical beat. “You better be right, Huaco,” he muttered to himself before pointing at the sun rising over Lima and bellowing. “Our god watches us.” And now for the first time a high wailing rose from the line behind him as the drums began to beat a quicker rythmatic tatoo. On the wall, the parapet was rapidly filling with the Spanish reinforcements that he had to prevent from joining the fight around Cusco. Quiso smiled and led the line forward. Ahead of them, the main gates opened and a squadron of mounted soldiers rode out. Quickly forming a line, they charged, obviously intending to sweep Quiso’ soldiers away. But even as Quiso watched, their commander went down in a tangle of falling horse-flesh as they reached the line of small bronze four sided caltrops, that Huaco had been hoarding for the past couple of months, and had ordered placed on the field during the night. ‘Yes,’ Quiso hissed as Huaco’s little surprise was more successful than even she could have expected, and only five horses and their riders staggered back to the wall. A cheer broke out from those following him, and the pace picked up. But now the cannon on the wall fired, and for a moment the line flinched. But the use of a single line meant losses were minor, and now the haze of smoke from the cannon shrouded the top of the wall, providing cover from the arquebuses, which were now firing blindly through the haze. Panting, Quiso finally reached the wall, his remaining warriors only steps behind him. There they stalled, held in position by the fire from overhead. On either side of him, the archers responded, and while the Inca’s soft woolen tunics minimized the effect of the arquebus, and the cannon could not lower their aim, Quiso’s troops continued to take losses. But one of the rope throwers had finally got his rope over one of the merlons that ran along the top of the wall and had begun hauling himself up on the rope. Without thinking, Quiso followed him up. Scrambling over the top of the wall, he looked up to find himself facing a Spaniard arquebuser. ‘Shit,’ he thought as a gout of flame burst from the barrel and he felt something heavy smash into his chest. For a moment he teetered before falling backward over the edge of the wall, and then nothing. “General Quiso,” a soft voice prompted. Then, “Quiso,” more urgently. Quiso opened his eyes to find Huaco’s face staring down at him worriedly. “I take it the plan worked?” he said, trying to ignore the sharp pain in his chest, and shortness of his breath that left him feeling unable to breathe. His heart wasn’t helping, it was beating so fast Huaco nodded, her eyes filling with tears as he coughed, trying to clear his lungs of the blood that threatened to drown him. “We have horses,” she told him.”Ten, both male and female. And Francisco Pizarro is dead, garrotted as all of his family should have been at birth.” But Quiso was no longer listening, he was picturing last night, when under cover of darkness, the rest of the army, under Huaco ,comprising nearly 34,000 warriors, crossed the Rimac River, which abutted the back end of the city’s outer walls. Taking cover they had waited until dawn when, with the Spaniards and their ally’s attention firmly fixed on Quiso’s own attack, Huaco had launched her warriors, taking the wall before anyone was even aware they were there. “Good.” He gripped her hand and tried to squeeze it but his strength was already leaving him. He felt the heat of the sun on his face, and a voice, somehow terrible and yet quiet at the same time whisper his name and opening his eyes he found himself wrapped in the flames of the sun. “Welcome home, my son,” the voice said. “Was it enough?” he asked. “Rest,” the voice told him gently. “Your task is finished for the moment. Now it is time to pass it onto others.” The voice paused for a moment. “I will walk with my daughter in her dreams tonight. Her tasks are just beginning.” “The horses?” Quiso guessed. “Among other things,” the voice confirmed. “But was it enough?” he demanded. “It was,” the voice assured him. “And because of your sacrifice, the Spanards will be barred from this land for all time. Now rest.” And for a moment, surrounded by the flames, he was granted a vision of the future. He was looking up at a tall column in the center of an enormous square. Around him, the square was thronged with people dressed in strange clothes. At the foot of the column, a priest in the vestments of the sun god officiated wielding a knife over the sacrifices as they were presented to her. A goat, a chicken and even a horse. His eyes returned to the column of stone, following it up to the statue of gold on its summit. The gold so bright it took him a moment to recognize himself. And then the statue turned and smiled at him.”
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