From the mesa to the south, Phillip and Gareth watched as the militia army—now on the rim of the canyon, and in a superior fighting position—began to pour fire into the caliche pit. The noise and the results were awesome.
As the confusion and death mounted in the pit, a rumble began to grow from the bowels of the earth, growing and rolling forth over all of the soldiers from both sides who were engaged in the fight. The battle seemed to halt when what felt like an earthquake began to shake the ground so severely that even Phillip and Gareth, mounted and on the mesa, could feel the shaking. The implosion as the ground above the Harmony facility collapsed on the Aztlani invaders was so impressive, that a tower of dust and dirt was caught up into the sky and created a pillar that could be seen from miles in any direction.
As they steadied themselves, and as the realization of what had happened slowly occurred to him, he turned to Phillip with his eyes opened as wide as he could manage.
“You blew it up!”
“I did.”
“You had it planned all along!”
“I did.”
“The Vallensian refugees were never coming here!”
“They were not.”
Just then, gunfire, as hellacious as any he had ever heard, erupted from the direction of the canyon as militia forces firing through the dust and debris began to finish the work that was before them. The forces of the Duke of Louisiana, and those of the Duke of El Paso—all those that were not killed when Harmony was collapsed with them in it—were wiped out in short order by militia gunfire. No surrender was accepted.
Phillip lowered his binoculars and looked at Gareth. “Brother… We sent the Vallenses north, with a defensive unit to protect them. I don’t know rightly where they will go, or what will become of them. But they could not be here. I believe that they do go with God. I truly believe that. But they could not be here. In order to save them, I had to send them north.”
A remarkable silence fell upon the multitude of militia soldiers and officers when the fighting was over. It almost sounded like rain as debris from the implosion of Harmony began to fall down over the whole area.
Heads were bowed throughout the militia ranks as Vallensian and Ghost militia veterans stopped for a moment to consider that they had survived. The pause did not last long.
Through the prayerful silence, the sound of hoofbeats could be heard approaching from the northwest. Before long, a lone militia outrider rode up to Phillip and nodded by way of salute.
“Sir,” he said to Phillip. “Your Honor,” he said, nodding to Gareth.
“What is it?” Phillip asked.
“It’s Aztlan. All of Aztlan. At least 25,000 men!”
“Where are they?” Phillip queried as he rushed to his horse.
“They’re almost here, sir!”
Chapter 28 - Rollo
Escaping from the militia posse had been easy enough. Piggy must have been a fool to think that he could hold me with such whimpy knots! But… then again, Piggy is no fool. What then? He wondered if maybe Piggy had played him. By breaking out and escaping he had proven his guilt. He had shed the posse of their need to watch him. Maybe he should have delayed them a few more days… protested his innocence to make them question Piggy. He probably should have sown confusion among them. Maybe then the whole lot would have been captured by the army coming from New Rome while they delayed and pondered his innocence or guilt.
So, did Piggy let me escape? If he did, maybe he is a fool, Rollo thought to himself. He knew he could do more harm to the cause of the Vallenses and the militia as a free man. And was he to conclude that Piggy had sacrificed that Marbus Claim boy? How would Piggy have known that he wouldn’t kill the boy? Or maybe Piggy did know. It was all so frustrating. While he should be celebrating his freedom and his future barony, instead he was still trying to figure out what Piggy knew and when he knew it. How did he know?
He was still pondering the mysteries of Piggy, when he rode headlong into the advancing Aztlani army. Twenty-five thousand men strong, the army was being led by Sir Jarius Whiteside, the King’s own Chancellor. Whiteside was the Chief Minister of State to the Kingdom of Aztlan. Sir Chancellor Whiteside was known by everyone—except to his face—as The Falcon. His nickname was influenced by both his predatory character, and his hawkish face and long hooked nose. The Falcon was no mercenary, like Rollo. In fact he was different than almost every other high official or confidant to the king. The Falcon was a true-believer, both in the deity and perfections of his Monarch, the King of Aztlan, but also in the religion of New Rome. He was the favorite of the Bishops and Archbishops and Cardinals, because he would spare no effort, show no mercy, and shed whatever blood was necessary to spread the monolithic and monarchial religion of New Rome. It was said that he even had himself in mind for Pope someday. Just the thought of it made his eyes glaze over and made his face flush full red.
Rollo was well acquainted with the Knight Chancellor, and, like most people, he feared the man. He came upon the army on his second day riding as they rested just south of Big Spring, Texas. The army was spread out in camp just southwest of Scenic Mountain (which was actually just a high mesa) on the remnants of the highway that used to be called Highway 87. He immediately rode to the command camp and asked the adjutant for the pleasure of meeting with, and reporting to, the Knight Chancellor himself.
The Falcon kept him waiting for several hours, which was to be expected, but eventually, towards the end of the day as the sun began its descent beyond Scenic Mountain, he was escorted into the lavish command tent of Sir Jarius Whiteside.
“Our friend and fellow warrior, Rollo Billings—the man called The Mountain—greetings and welcome to the army of your King. What word have you on your mission?”
“Your Honor,” Rollo said with a bow, “it is my utmost pleasure to report to the King’s Chancellor the success of my mission on behalf of the King.”
“So the leaders of the rebellion are dead?”
“Your Honor,” Rollo replied assertively, “while there is no way for me to know definitively the final dispensation of all of the leadership, I can report that the rebels have been struck hard. I personally shot David Wall, the son of Jonathan Wall. David had joined the militia and was acting in a leadership role. That was my first shot, and I can assure the King’s Chancellor that David Wall cannot have survived his wound. I also personally shot Phillip of the Ghost militia. I cannot say whether Phillip died of his wound, but I can say that it is most likely that he did. I also personally poisoned Crown Prince Gareth of Aztlan. I watched him drink hemlock, Your Honor. I feel confident that the King’s bastard is dead.”
“And what of Jonathan of the Vallenses? Does he live?”
“He does sir,” Rollo replied, with his head bowed a bit. He looked back up and continued, “Jonathan was saved from my blow at the last moment by one of his bodyguards. But he is separated from his people, and on the run somewhere between here and San Angelo. He will be dead soon enough, Your Honor.”
“It is hardly true,” Sir Jarius replied, “that you have been wholly successful in your mission, would you agree?”
“No, Your Honor, with all due respect, I do not agree. I know that with Your Honor’s deep understanding of warfare, and his personal experience in such things, that he understands the difficulty in operating alone, as a spy, behind enemy lines and without backup or support. I believe that striking all of the militia leadership right before a decisive battle can only be deemed a success by Your Honor. I am certain that the rebellion is crippled and leaderless. I am certain that the threat to the throne posed by the Crown Prince has been removed. I am also certain that no man—save Your Honor, of course—could have done better in the situation… as it presented itself.”
“I am confident, Rollo, that you have done all that you could, and that the King will be pleased with your service. I thank you as well.”
Rollo bowed down respectfully. “If I may, Your Honor,” he continued, “may I ask the
King’s Chancellor when I might receive the Barony promised to me by the King for my service? I know that the King has given all such powers into the hand of his royal Chancellor. Will I be honored to receive my Barony immediately, as promised?”
The Chancellor smiled beneath his long crooked nose, and his eyes squinted in amusement. “My honorable friend. You can be assured that you will receive all that has been promised to you by the King. I will personally bestow the Barony upon you when the time is right, and when the results of the coming engagement are known.”
“Surely you don’t expect defeat, Your Honor? You now face a decapitated force, likely of only a few hundred men. The Vallenses will not fight, and the leader of the Vallenses is absent and on the run. Phillip the Ghost is dead or disabled. Frankly, I don’t even see the need for this great army, lead as it is by such an able and revered General, to be here at all.”
The Chancellor’s eyes, only moments ago shining forth in mirth, turned dark and cloudy. “Rollo, let me speak bluntly. The armies of Aztlan are weak and cowardly. We prevail and rule by means of numbers and not ability, bravery, or superior training. We all honor the King and respect him as is his due. To me, he is a god. But… his advisors are buffoons, and his generals fight for money and not loyalty. If this army were half its size, I would not dare fight even a hundred loyal militia troops. That, sir, is the sad but honest truth. We need brave and loyal men, and we breed cowards and cutthroats. What this Kingdom needs is more religion and more severity. That is what I expect from you, and what I expect you to impose when you become Baron of Texas.”
“We are of the same mind, Your Honor.”
“Good, then I will have you ride with me.” The Chancellor pulled off his white gloves and stepped from around his desk. “Tomorrow we will ride hard, and we will reach this ‘Harmony’ fortress you have told us so much about. Our riders have said that some militia forces are preparing defenses around the place. Perhaps we will have our battle tomorrow evening.”
“Please excuse my forwardness, Your Honor… but… Phillip would never do battle with an army of this size in the open field! He knows he is outmanned, outgunned, and over-matched! If there are defensive battlements being placed, it must be a ruse!”
“Well, sir, according to you, Phillip is dead or incapacitated. Others are now in charge. And even if Phillip is leading his forces, I am certain that he has no intention of fighting our 25,000 men in the open field. In fact, it is our opinion that whoever is in charge of the militia has no idea that we are even coming.” The Falcon squared himself and faced Rollo, looking into his eyes. “Their preparations are being made to meet the 6,000 men approaching their positions from the direction of El Paso. Also, the Duke of Louisiana, at our request, has sent a sizable army of several thousand men that is approaching from the east. Those forces will converge on this ‘Harmony’ fortress. It is our plan to wait until that battle is over and then attack.”
“But, sir…,” Rollo sputtered, “if two large armies are surrounding the militia as we speak, what need have you of attacking at all? Don’t you believe that the militia will be destroyed? A handful of militia men will be standing against between eight and ten thousand trained soldiers.”
“I don’t personally believe that at all. We have never successfully defeated any Texas militia of any real size. Aztlan’s history in Texas is one of defeat after defeat. Only a fool would believe that the forces now arrayed against the militia are sufficient to do the job. But they don’t know we’re here, and I intend to surprise the Ghost militia after the battle is over, when, if they still exist, they are weakest and when they will believe that they have won.” The Chancellor walked over to the door of the tent and peered outside. “You of all people, Rollo, should know that we should never underestimate an enemy that fights for honor and for freedom. However wicked they are in their religion, and foolish they are in their worldview, they are not mercenaries like that rabble we have here in our army.”
“Is the King aware of your feelings, Your Honor?”
“No, he is not, and neither will he be made aware of them, Rollo. What this Kingdom needs is a strong and effective Pope. The King should rule at the behest and pleasure of God’s representative on earth. Only then will Aztlan meet and surpass its potential. I am certain that an honorable and religious man such as yourself can see the benefits of such an arrangement?”
“I do, Your Honor.”
“Our task, Rollo… our mutual obligation… is to defeat and destroy these rebels, and to erase the execrable race of Vallenses from our soil. When we do so, I believe that God will reward us, and the King will see that you ought to be allowed to manage Texas, and I ought to be given the authority over the visible Church of God at New Rome. Do you agree?”
“I do, Your Honor.”
“Good. We will have Mass this evening, then we will ride in the morning and put an end to this rebellion.”
“Yes, Your Honor.”
By late afternoon on the following day, the army of New Rome pulled up about fifteen miles northwest of San Angelo in order to await intelligence on what was happening at Harmony. The late summer sun was blistering hot, and shade was a rare blessing in the scrub and low juniper. Rollo was sitting impatiently among the sycophants in the Chancellor’s general staff when the Knight Chancellor himself rode up and reined his horse.
“Rollo Billings!” he shouted brusquely. “Here, good sir!” The Chancellor turned his horse to the southeast and rode about twenty yards away from the rest of his staff.
“Coming, Sir!” Rollo responded obediently, as he spurred his horse and rode to meet the Chancellor. “Your Honor!” he said as he approached the Knight.
“Rollo… good… ok. We are not far from the battle. I require you and your expertise for a mission if, of course, you are pleased to do it.”
“Very pleased to help in any way that I am able, Your Honor.”
“I want you to take 25 men and ride scout ahead. I want to make sure that we have not arrived too early and that we are not riding into any sort of militia ambush.”
“Is there any specific information that Your Honor requires, sir?”
“We are virtually blind here. I need any information that you can provide.”
“Yes, sir!” Rollo shouted as he again spurred his horse and rode back to the staff. He was appointed 25 men by Lieutenant General Weld of the cavalry, and after quickly outfitting themselves with arms and gear the scout squad rode off to the southeast at a gallop.
He was excited to be of use to the Knight Chancellor, but he was curious as to why he had been chosen to complete this mission. The cavalry was always tasked with gathering information and riding scout, so he was a bit suspicious as to why the Chancellor might have selected him to lead the party. Perhaps he wants me killed so he can deny me the Barony? No. That made no sense. The Chancellor had all power while serving as Commanding General of the Army. He could easily have had Rollo killed for failing to completely fulfill his mission to kill Jonathan Wall in the first place. If the Knight Chancellor wanted him dead, he’d be dead. Why then? Perhaps Sir Jarius didn’t trust his own commanders? This was most likely the case. He had said as much the night before. Regardless, Rollo intended to do his duty and do it well enough that The Falcon would know without doubt that he could be trusted.
They rode hard for ten miles without incident, and they were not five miles out of San Angelo when they came upon what looked to be a militia scout unit moving slowly and furtively towards the recently destroyed city.
Rollo spurred his horse and shouted, “Ride hard, boys! Capture them all!” His spirits rose as he rode, and he knew that if he could capture a militia scout party, he would be able to extract information from them one way or another. Things were looking bright for him, and he could see himself being named the Baron Rollo Billings in no time at all. Maybe there would even be a knighthood in it for him. That wouldn’t be bad, he told himself.
In no time the Aztlani unit had surrounded
the party of eight, and as Rollo rode up he could see through the dust that the militia men had circled up—facing outward—with their weapons drawn… and that he knew all of them. The first one he recognized was Piggy, who had a knife near his ear and a smile on his face. Young Ruth Wall was next to him and she had her bow drawn and bent. The others—Timothy, The Hood, the turncoat Troy, young Marbus Claim, and Rob Fosse were all likewise ready for battle, and they had surrounded Jonathan Wall who had a look of concern on his face.
“Hold your fire!” Rollo shouted to no one in particular. “Put down your weapons Piggy… and you there Rob, drop them… all of you!”
“That will never happen, Rollo,” Piggy snorted.
“This is hardly a fair fight, Piggy,” Rollo replied.
“Yes! You are correct. You better go get more guys!” Piggy parried.
“If you don’t drop your weapons, you will all die right now, Piggy, including the girl… of course, after we are done with her. Jonathan will die too. You are sworn to protect him, Piggy. Drop your weapons and give yourselves up and the Walls' will not be harmed.”
“You were in Texon to kill him, Rollo, you traitorous buffoon. No way he lives if we surrender, so let’s stop the chit-chat and get on with this.”
“As you wish!” Rollo shouted and his horse reared up as he spurred him forward. The battle commenced with such ferocity and with such speed that it soon became hard for him to determine just what happened, and in what order. Piggy’s first knife struck him in the upper chest and knocked him clean off his horse. He felt no pain, and as he extracted the knife, out of the corner of his eye he saw Aztlani soldiers falling to the ground, pierced by arrows. He identified the boy Marbus Claim standing amidst the fury of battle and from his knees he threw the knife at him, watching it strike home. Thanks for the lessons… and the knife, Piggy! At some point, he struggled to his feet and, regaining his wits, he charged into the melee as arrows whizzed by his head and the deafening sounds of swords colliding assaulted his ears.
The Last Pilgrims Page 31
