Prologue

In the two decades following the collapse of the imperial Western powers, and the destruction of the industrial system, much of the medieval system of monarchy and aristocracy had reasserted itself throughout the world.

The collapse of the unviable and unsustainable world system had watered the earth with blood in a way that very few could have imagined, and only 20 years later, most of those who had lived through the crash now wondered how that system had managed to last for over 200 years.

Across a massively depopulated continent, ancient superstitions and idolatries multiplied as the new monarchs adopted Napoleon’s idea that a monolithic state religion, even if it were a false one, was necessary to the peace and security of the realm. The freedom to practice one’s own religion, or to practice no formal religion at all, was rare, indeed, following the collapse. North America had come to resemble Old Europe in many ways.

Although the most ancient of motivations—greed, avarice, and covetousness—were behind most of the persecutions and genocides of this new era, these were almost exclusively carried out under the pretext of religion. The Bishops and Cardinals, much as they had done in Europe six centuries earlier, had multiplied like locusts across the land and served the more predacious monarchs as willingly as they did their own bellies.

Even though much of what was once the United States had been conquered, the land and people absorbed into the fiefdom of some newly formed kingdom or another, large areas of the country—usually the wildest and most inaccessible parts—were classified as “ungovernable”. Many of these areas were still farmed by ‘plain’ peoples and sects. Akin to Amish or Mennonites of the past, these peoples universally rejected absorption into the realms of those regal idolaters who intended to force the practice of predominantly ceremonial religions, contrary to their own beliefs, upon them.

The Vallenses, one of the largest and most well-known of the ‘plain’ sects in the South, were branded as heretics by the religious authorities in order that the King of Aztlan, as he greatly hoped, could either subjugate them or remove them from his Kingdom. Due to the rather inhospitable climate, the relative inaccessibility of the region, and active militant or “insurgent” activity, the King had heretofore met with little success in bringing the Vallenses under his domination. For these reasons, most of Central Texas and the Hill Country were considered by the King of Aztlan to be in open rebellion against his rule, and persecutions and martyrdoms were not uncommon.

The Vallenses considered themselves humble and obedient servants and an exceedingly peaceful people. They only wished to farm their lands, raise and nurture their families, and serve one another in humility and meekness. Their ‘crime’ was that they desired to do these things outside of the predatory control of people with whom they had nothing in common.

The Bishops of New Rome had, over the intervening decades, sent missionaries and emissaries to the Vallenses in order to receive their voluntary submission to both the King of Aztlan, and the accepted religion of the realm. Though they met with no success, the missionaries were always treated well by the plain people, and they had been assured that the Vallenses desired no Kingdom in this world, and that they sought only to be helpful and productive citizens in the realm. However, they had no intention of abjuring their religion or the free practice of it.

Though some of the Vallenses’ co-religionists from former urban areas and regions more easily controlled by New Rome had capitulated and had brought themselves and their parishioners under the umbrella of the capital, the Vallensian people of Central Texas and the Texas Hill Country had resisted any amalgamation into the Kingdom and religion of Aztlan.

Of late, the duty and obligation of the subjugation of the Vallenses had fallen to the Duke of El Paso, an ambitious man who had been a drug kingpin prior to the collapse. The Duke intended, by whatever means necessary, to foully and finally bring an end to any resistance in Central Texas.

The Vallenses, led for some 30 years by Elders, elected from among themselves, foresaw the evil that was coming—both the collapse and the global disasters that followed. They believed that the Providence of God had guided them to their lands and to a way of life that left them mostly unharmed and untainted by the collapse of what they called ‘The World System.’ They were thus largely unaffected by the fall of the system of commerce, industry, and society that ruled and reigned, they believed, via mammon prior to the collapse.

The Vallenses believed that the lamp of the apostolic faith continued to burn among them, and they did desire to be a light to the world in the darkest of the last days of the epoch.

And, the Vallenses were not the only ones who rejected the rule of Aztlan. Opposition to the King of Aztlan, who now reigned from his capital city of New Rome in the Sangre de Christo Mountains of what was once northern New Mexico, had united many militant bands of ‘freemen’ who, like the plain people, would not bow to either nearby prelates or distant kings.

Among the Vallensian low-rolling hills, valleys, and plains, there were free men of independent mind and action. Some of the militia groups in Texas actively traded with the Vallenses, and supported their freedom of lifestyle, worldview, and belief. New Rome considered the militias to be terrorists and branded them “insurgents.”

The relationships between the pacifistic Vallenses and the militia were complex. The official position of the eldership of the Vallenses was that they did not condone or support militia activity—even in their own defense. Some of the Vallenses, though, openly traded with, and often materially supported, the freemen against the laws of New Rome and the desires of their own leaders. Thus, relationships were often tense and strained. The plain people desired peace and tranquility and rejected violence in pursuit of those aims. Most of the plain people believed that the violent actions of the militias, even if they were defensive and measured, brought more attention and persecution upon all of the people of the region. Their own history provides ample evidence in support of this view.

Only a decade earlier, in the midst of the coldest days of a very cold post-collapse winter, a great tragedy befell the Vallensian people. Months prior to the tragic massacre, a handful of Vallensian traders were returning to their homes via the Old Comanche Road, when they were captured by a mounted unit of Atzlani soldiers under the command of Santos, a lieutenant in the service of the Duke of El Paso.

The Duke, answering a call from the King of Aztlan and the religious leaders of New Rome to purge the land of heretics and rebels, had sent out raiding parties in hopes of capturing Vallensian traders. New Rome hoped to gain from the captured men intelligence about the militias, after which the Vallenses would be executed as an example and warning to the rebels. The traders were dragged from their wagons, tied up, and hauled over 80 miles to San Angelo, now a frontier town amidst the vast and virtually ungovernable western expanse, where they were burned at the stake in the city square.

In response, a unit of militia riders stole into Santos’ camp at night, taking the Aztlani commander hostage, and killing all of his entourage. Santos was carried back into San Angelo by night and left impaled on a pike not far from where the Vallensian traders had been burned.

The Duke of El Paso, offended and enraged (Santos had been his brother-in-law), and seeking to appease both the King and his own wife, had ordered a large army to march on a Vallensian colony to the East of San Angelo. This was an unprecedented attack, both in type and in scale. Prior to this event, the Aztlani leadership had been cautious and measured in their attacks, especially when those attacks called for them to move a large body of men across vast distances, traversing areas under nominal control of the freemen militias, without supply lines or pre-positioned material.

On their journey, the army was harried by freemen scouts and raiders who killed several of their troops. Nonetheless, the army arrived mostly intact and had stormed suddenly into the innocent Vallensian colony, hoping to kill every man, woman and child. Those Vallenses not killed in the initial attack fled eastward into the freezing night, carrying their young and their old with them.

The fleeing Vallenses—most without winter clothing—made it to the rolling hills and valleys of Central Texas, where many of them froze to death over the first few nights due to lack of food or shelter. Along the path of their flight, over 100 people—mostly children, the elderly, and the family members who would not abandon them—were found lying on the ground, dead from hypothermia, babies in the frozen clutches of their mothers, and aged couples dead in icy embraces. This massacre had a polarizing effect on many of the free people of the region. Most Vallenses believed that the royal reprisal, though monstrous and murderous, was the result of the rash actions of the militant freemen. Others, including free traders, believed that the colonists had suffered because of their unwillingness to defend themselves. They had made targets of themselves, and they had suffered for it. In the years that followed the Winter Massacre, the Vallenses had attempted to persuade the militiamen with whom they had contact to be more cautious and circumspect in their responses to Aztlani tyranny. “We do not want to pay for the vengeful notions of freemen honor,” they would say.

The free militias, on the other hand, increased their numbers, their training, and their intelligence gathering. Keeping the memory of the Winter Massacre alive in the minds of innocent people became one of their greatest recruiting tools.

There were other incidents and, as time passed, tensions grew.

The King of Aztlan, from the moment he had assumed power, desired absolutely to rid himself and his realm of all heretics and insurgents. He had on many occasions requested, even demanded, his underlings and bannermen to sweep the Vallenses and all of the free militias from Texas soil.

The king’s decrees did not have the desired effect for a number of reasons. First, the Vallenses lived in areas over which it was very difficult to impose rules or laws from outside. Furthermore, following the collapse, the roads had degraded (some naturally, others by the willful acts of both rebels and saints), making travel difficult and unpredictable; and because most remote villages were hostile to Aztlan, it would have been nearly impossible to maintain a full-time fort or base so far away from Aztlani-controlled areas.

Second, the freemen militias patrolled most of the areas of Central and West Texas that were not directly and effectively under the active control of Aztlan.

Third, local leaders were not keen to incur a loss to themselves and their own people. The Vallenses were the most fruitful producers of food and goods in all of Texas, thus a ruler was more likely to be immediately concerned with meeting the needs of his people than obeying a distant King. Oftentimes the belly trumps the heart.

In many ways, the world had returned to what most people had once believed were the idyllic and romantic days of kings and knights. However, once it became real, the romance was harder to appreciate. Still, many saw it as an act of God, who had hewn down the weeds and brambles (the deceitfulness of riches and the cares of the world) that choked out the Word and the way God would have men live.

Some of the same people who had once programmed computers, sold cars, or built shopping malls now plowed fields, picked cotton, and hand-dug their own root cellars.

So much of the old world had been an edifice built on shifting sand. Like an onion, technology had been layered upon technology until only a handful of people actually knew how anything really worked. People made their lives increasingly dependent on a structure that was less and less reliable and destined to crash. The amount of raw materials needed to maintain the most critical technologies on which the entirety of the advanced world balanced so dangerously was mind-boggling.

Prior to the collapse, the whole world could be shaken by what were, by historical standards, relatively minor natural (or unnatural) disasters. In their ignorance, people shut their eyes to the perilous condition of the entire system, ignoring the signs of the impending systemic collapse.

Like Rome and Ancient Greece before it, the Western lifestyle, coveted by the entire world, had created a very productive system (one that was both enviable and unviable). The system was unsustainable, as it was reliant on an increasing number of consumers, while a very small and ever shrinking number of people, using ever more advanced (and therefore tenuous) technology and machines, provided for most of the means of life, living, and survival.

New wonderments, gadgets and entertainment devices appeared daily, as if by magic, to keep the people stupefied and working mindlessly at highly specialized tasks in order to be able to afford a “dream” concocted for them in the boardrooms of large corporations and in the advertising offices of Madison Avenue. The world had become a cult of dependency, and the deception was so complete and so overwhelming that to question it was considered de-facto proof of insanity.

In the end of the old world, nobody was responsible, yet everyone was complicit. The collapse was as inevitable as the arrival of a new morning. Almost everybody died.

Part One

Chapter 1 - Jonathan

Jonathan handed the sealed letter to the post rider, knowing that it could take anywhere from a few weeks to several months to travel from Central Texas to the King of the South States—that is, if it ever got there at all. It was a typical Texas summer morning, and it had never really cooled down overnight so that the heat was on them early as they stood under a sky as blue and as immense as any artist could have ever conjured.

Communications had degraded significantly in the 20 years following the collapse, and although many people, even Jonathan, clearly remembered the days of instant messaging and cellular text service, those short-lived aberrations in the pattern and method of communicating had long since come to an inauspicious end. Post riders were, considering all of the dangers and obstacles they faced, remarkably effective and efficient at delivering important communications over long distances, especially when traveling east—away from the dangers of Aztlan. This was no Pony Express; nonetheless, he was hopeful that, at some point in the future, the King of the South States might be reading his letter.

One beneficial result of the collapse was that it had balanced out the slow nature of long-distance communications… everything else moved slower too. Armies took weeks to travel distances they used to cover in just hours or days, or sometimes even in minutes. Without automated transport, helicopters, airplanes, and tanks, the world had once again become a much bigger place.

He and several Vallensian friends had hiked out to meet the post rider down south of the Bethany Pass just off the Old Comanche road, about a quarter-mile south of Bethany. The summer hadn’t been a particularly wet one, but the buffalo grass—where it grew—was still green, waving softly in the warm morning breezes.

Rumors of war were rampant—even more so than normal—so he had decided to meet the rider out on the road in order to keep all speculation, concern, and gossip in Bethany to a minimum. Even as he handed the letter over to the rider, he hoped he was doing the right thing for his people. For a pacifist, a plea for help and defense from a foreign King may not be over the line, but it certainly was tiptoeing near to it.

“May the Lord keep you well and safe on your journey,” he said, holding the reins for the post rider as he mounted his horse.

There was no time for a reply because, just as the last words slipped from his mouth, an arrow sliced the air between them, burying itself in the gnarled bark of an ancient oak tree behind them. Jonathan reflexively, almost instinctively, reached up and pulled the rider by the collar from his horse and down to the ground. They both began to crawl towards a small, brush-covered hillock just off the road, in the hope that it might afford them some protection.

The men of Jonathan’s party swarmed around noisily, shouting to one another as each tried to identify the direction from which the arrow had come. Several of the men came and surrounded Jonathan and the post rider, creating a protective wall around them.

After a few moments, they began to make their way slowly over the hill back towards the pass and in the direction of Bethany. Almost immediately, and before they were able to react or even run, eight mounted men who seemed to appear out of nowhere surrounded them. All were dressed in the garb of freemen militia, heavily armed with what once would have been called ‘primitive’ weapons.

These were warriors, and young, and only two could have even been born before the collapse. With the exception of the two oldlings, these men had experienced none of the comforting and corrupting influences of the pre-crash world. Stern of face and confident, they were evidently born to battle. Several of the freemen had longbows in addition to the swords and knives they all carried.

Jonathan stood upright and examined the faces of the men, looking for some clue as to their intentions, when the familiarity of one of them struck him. Phillip. As sure as anything in the world could be, he recognized his old friend, who now looked back at him and smiled stiffly. “I suppose that arrow was a gift from you, old friend?” Jonathan asked.

“It was not ours,” Phillip responded stiffly. “If it had been, you’d be dead. I reckon it was fired by an assassin… here to kill you. He most likely snuck between our lines overnight.” Phillip looked Jonathan in the eye, and the faintest hint of sorrow entered into his voice. “I apologize for our failure, Jonathan.”

The two men looked around in uncomfortable silence for a few seconds, before Jonathan looked back at Phillip and replied. “I accept that it wasn’t your arrow, Phillip. However, I do not believe that I was its intended target either. From its trajectory and direction, I would say that it was aimed at the post rider.”

Phillip’s eyes widened and he grinned almost imperceptibly. Turning to the man on his right he whispered a command and the man nodded obediently and rode off to the south. “Ten of my men are out there, already searching for the shooter. I issued my orders as soon as I knew that you were unharmed. We will make sure that they keep him alive when he is captured. We’ll need to talk to him. If he has been sent to kill a post rider, there might be more that we need to know.”

Phillip rode over to the oak tree and pulled the arrow from it. He examined it for a moment, and then rode back to the company. “This is an Aztlani arrow. The wood used to make it is unlike any found around here, and the fletching is helical, rather than straight. I’ve pulled plenty of these from the bodies of friends. I have no doubt about its origin.”

Jonathan gestured to the post rider, and with a slight nod, the rider galloped eastward carrying the letter to the King of the South States.

“It seems as if no time at all has passed since I saw you last, Phillip,” he said, after a brief pause, “but we both know that it has.”

Phillip looked up from examining the arrow. “Yes, It has.”

“It’s good to see you alive and well after all these years. Of course, we had heard word that you were out there… fighting. But,” Jonathan rubbed his beard, “it is hard to know anything for sure these days.” He looked his old friend in the eye. “Whether you believe it or not, I am happy to finally see you. It’s been way too long. Let’s go into Bethany and get something to drink. It’s hot and...” he smiled at Phillip affectionately, “...I feel as if I have seen a ghost.”

He knew that the “ghost” line was a throw-off one, since The Ghost was what people already called Phillip, but Jonathan, indeed, felt as if he were in the presence of a ghost. Or a myth. Or maybe a legend. Still, there was no mistaking his old friend. Phillip was only a few years younger than him, but the militia leader was a hard, leathery man, muscled and firm—a man of war and of action. His eyes were piercing, blue, and deep.

Phillip beckoned to his men, and they responded instantly, moving in an immediate, well-coordinated response. “We have some business to attend to here first. We’ve had a mission failure, and there will need to be… an inquiry. Please go on back to Bethany. I know where to find you, and I’ll be along in good time.” Without another word, Phillip turned and rode back over the hill, followed by his entourage. In seconds, they were gone.

Jonathan and his men made it back to the village in good time. Although somewhat shaken by the turn of events, he really was glad to see Phillip. Phillip had once been his closest friend, and for many years since then, Jonathan had heard the stories, the legends of The Ghost and of Phillip’s War against Aztlan. For some time now—maybe since the collapse—Phillip and his Ghost militia had been patrolling a buffer zone around the community of Vallenses, and, more particularly, around Jonathan. While the two men had not spoken in decades, it was widely speculated that the militia had some vested interest in protecting the Vallenses and their leader. This new situation—the two leaders actually meeting together—if it became widely known in Aztlan, could cause troubles for Jonathan and his people.

The village that the Vallenses called Bethany was still a small one, but it had grown significantly in the last 10 years. Very few people lived in the town proper, but several stores and small shops lined the main street and many of those who worked in the shops lived in small homes of adobe or stone construction in the town. For anyone with knowledge of history, Bethany looked as a small village in England or France might have looked only a few hundred years ago... with some Old American West exceptions. There was the blacksmith shop that flew the banner of Grayson the Smithy, and a General Store not unlike many that dotted the West during the first European expansion into those lands. The town of Bethany now had a Cooper, a Wheelwright, a Thatcher, a Cobbler, a Brewer, and a small grist mill powered by mules and human muscle and sweat.

Bethany was neat and ordered, like the homes and lands of all of the Vallenses, and it may have been most notable for what it lacked. Owing to what had happened to the world over the last few decades, there were no ‘poor’, no beggars, no thieves, and no highwaymen in the town. Some attributed this fact to the presence in Central Texas of the militias, but it could not be denied that everything seemed to have a meaning and purpose, and the town gave off an essence of safety and security, of peace and of contentment.

Jonathan and his men entered the public house, which offered all that its name implied, and a little bit more. It was a pub, but it also was the primary meeting place and conference center in Bethany. Jonathan glanced at the oaken walls, decorated with postings and notices—advertisements or requests for anything from barter labor, to ratting dogs, to cattle. The pub was constructed of thick old post oaks, drawn up by oxen from along the Colorado River and hauled north where they were hewn and placed by hand. The structure was one of the few buildings in Bethany made entirely of wood.

The Elders and the men of the town who were present in the pub gathered around and Jonathan related what had happened south of the pass. He had started the day wanting to keep the business with the letter and the post-rider as a closely held secret, but he knew that after the attack—with Phillip coming into Bethany—there was no way secrecy was possible. The men listened with fascination and not without some trepidation. “The Ghost is coming here?” they whispered to one another, in childlike awe. Jonathan was amused.

“Phillip is a friend and not a phantom. He will have information we need, and we can hardly be inhospitable to him and his men. However, meeting with him could be… problematic… if word of it gets to the Duke or the King,” he explained. “We’ll have to accept the risks, and probably much more than that. We are neither at war with Aztlan, nor in alliance with the militia. We speak freely to both sides, and the King will just have to accept that.”

“The King will accept no such thing.” It was David, his 25-year-old son, who interjected. “Aztlan is not in the business of understanding our situation,” he said, with respect, but not without a hint of sarcasm. “You give them too much credit, Father. Aztlan wants us destroyed and out of their way. They will use any pretext for war against us, as you well know, and meeting with the leader of the resistance will be interpreted by them as an act of war. Not that I oppose it, because I don’t, but you know it is true.”

“Agreed,” Jonathan replied, looking his son in the eye. “But our actions are not dictated by New Rome or El Paso. We do not answer to commanders of freeman base camps hidden on the Colorado, or in the desert, or up on Guadalupe Peak. Our actions are dictated by what is right and good—what is honorable.”

David smiled, “I’m glad to hear you say that, Father. Then let us join forces with Phillip, have war with Aztlan, and be done with it!” Restrained laughter filled the room, as Elders and laymen alike watched the son jovially jab his father.

Although pacifism was the official position of the Vallenses, and had been from the beginning, not everyone was in agreement with it—at least not in the present situation. David, the pastor’s own son, was among those who, though non-violent by nature and up-bringing, believed that the time had come, and was now long past, for armed resistance, or, at the very least, active material support of the freemen militias.

The light-hearted dispute among the men in the pub devolved into a more general discussion of current events, Aztlan’s belligerence and genocidal intentions, and the state of the world as they knew it. Eventually, the conversation drifted back to Phillip and his Ghost militia, and to the speculation as to his reasons for actively defending Bethany and protecting Jonathan.

After an hour or so, Phillip and several of his men rode up to the public house. Jonathan watched through the large, open, glassless windows as Phillip’s men silently took up defensive positions throughout the village. Everyone assumed that a larger force of militia were out there, posted outside of the town, primarily to the west and south.

When Phillip entered the pub, a palpable silence settled on the room. Jonathan heard only the occasional whisper as Vallensian men examined Phillip the Ghost and looked around at one another in awe—resulting from both fear and simple curiosity.

There was not a man present who hadn’t heard of Phillip and his exploits at the helm of his tiny army. Some of the Elders looked suspiciously at the militia leader. They vividly recalled the events and aftermath of the Winter Massacre, the names and frozen faces of the dead imprinted in their memory forever. A few admired Phillip, and secretly (or in some cases, not so secretly) hoped that the Vallenses would decide to help the freemen in their war against Aztlani tyranny and aggression. It was a room divided by passions, policy, and principles.

Phillip nodded to the assembled Vallenses and greeted them individually as he made his way through the gathered throng to where Jonathan had risen from his seat. Phillip and the Vallensian pastor embraced as old friends ought, and Jonathan clasped Phillip’s arm and back as he guided his guest into a seat of honor at the head of a long trestle table carved exquisitely by Vallensian hand out of the reddest Mesquite wood.

“Welcome Phillip, and may God’s grace, mercy and protection be upon you and your people,” Jonathan intoned, almost sadly.

“And upon you all,” Phillip replied. “It was not our plan to disturb you today, or to interfere with your business in any way. However, it seems that the attack on the post rider—if that is indeed what it was—has altered our plans.”

“It was God’s will.” Jonathan stated plainly, and all of the Vallenses nodded their agreement.

“Then it seems that God has also willed that you face your attacker, because my men caught up with the Aztlani assassin. He had not fled very far. He was captured as he stopped to rest by Mud Creek and was taken into custody.” Phillip dropped his head and fiddled with his hat, which he had removed upon entering the pub. “If this had been merely an assassination attempt upon your person, Jonathan, we would have already dealt with him according to our own justice. He’d be dead, and we’d be gone. But it seems that an attack on a simple post rider, when the leader of the Vallensian people is only steps away, requires that we spend some time questioning the man.” Phillip glanced around the room before adding, almost as an afterthought, “He surrendered peacefully enough.”

“Where is he?” Jonathan asked.

“My men are holding him just outside of the village. We wanted your permission to bring him in, since he is bound and in our custody.”

“If he is not armed, will you untie him and bring him here?”

“No, brother,” Phillip replied seriously, “we will allow you to assist us in questioning him, but only if he remains bound. If you don’t agree, we will take our leave and deal with him in our own way.”

Jonathan looked up into the dark oaken rafters before closing his eyes in thought. After a pause, he nodded to Phillip. “Given that you leave me no choice, I request that you bring him,” Jonathan sighed, shaking his head, “with the understanding that the man may not be killed or harmed while he is on our soil.” The Vallensian men whispered among themselves, some indicating disagreement, while others nodded solemnly.

Phillip nodded to one of his men who was standing outside the open window watching the proceedings. The man signaled to an unseen compatriot and, moments later, the assassin appeared at the door of the pub, in the very effective control of three of Phillip’s armed soldiers.

A rush of activity ensued. Tables were moved, chairs were stacked along the walls to provide the observers a better view, and an area for questioning was cleared near the center of the pub. David Wall provided a chair for the Aztlani prisoner, and, for the longest time, there was silence, as the men in the room quietly debated how to conduct the proceedings. After much shuffling and whispering, Jonathan rose and approached the bound man.

“I am Jonathan Wall, Pastor to the Vallenses. We welcome you, in these unhappy circumstances, to our village. We pray that no harm comes to you here.” Jonathan paused to collect his thoughts. “We would like to know of your mission, and of your intentions. We would like to know why you have attacked us, as we are a peaceful people, and why your government seeks to do us evil when we strive only towards good.” Jonathan paused again before continuing, “But let me tell you a bit about the situation you face, so you do not try to deceive us.” Jonathan approached the prisoner and crouched down before him, “We have not bound you. These soldiers are not with us. They are not part of us. They don’t care for your life or your soul. It is most probable that, barring some divine intervention, you will die today. If you lie to me, we will all know it, and your fate will be sealed by your own hand. Know also that it will be an act of suicide, which we do not believe God forgives. If, however, you are killed today by these men, against our will and your own, after you have dealt honestly with us and have provided us with the answers we seek,” Jonathan paused a moment for effect, looking over to Phillip then back to the assassin, “your death will be a murder, and will be on the head of another. I desire to help you, not hurt you, regardless of your aims or intentions.”

With that, Jonathan stood up and began to pace back and forth before the prisoner. “Here is where I am confused, so perhaps you can help me… First, you are a single assassin, and clearly very capable. You infiltrated many miles behind the military lines of very able and wary militiamen. You are obviously skilled and trusted by those who sent you. Yet, your shot missed the target as if by intent. It was evidently not blocked or deflected in any way. My fourteen-year-old daughter could have made that shot, and successfully too. I cannot fathom how an assassin could have missed that shot.” Jonathan stopped for a minute, and then scratched his head. “Second. Given that you were able to sneak through the lines of the freemen militia, it is incomprehensible that you would not use the same precautions on your return journey. Instead, you took your sweet time, and were captured out in the open, resting by a creek. That makes it seem, at least to me, that you wanted to get caught. Why?”

The men in the pub began to whisper to each other excitedly. Obviously, these were the factors that most of them—even the men who had been there during the attack—had not considered. Jonathan continued…

“Third. Your arrow was obviously that of Aztlani military. It was readily identifiable. If your intention was to kill either the post rider, or me, by using an Aztlani arrow, you would have openly announced the belligerent intentions of New Rome to deal murderously with us. Such a foolish action could prompt many neutral people, and even some among ourselves, to join the likes of Phillip in their fight against the Aztlani army.” Jonathan looked around the room, silently indicating that he recognized that many of them privately hoped to join the battle against Aztlan. “Your actions betray you, my friend, and they make me wonder what your true intentions are. Come now! Intentionally missed shot? Using an Aztlani arrow? Then you just saunter on down to the creek and wait there to be captured? Tell us! What’s your game?”

“He is a spy, sent here to infiltrate us!” David exclaimed, pulling on the sleeve of his father.

“Let’s ask him. If he is as smart as he appears to be, he will not lie to us, given the implications I outlined for him,” Jonathan retorted calmly. “Are you a spy, sir? Are you here to infiltrate our peaceful people? What did you hope to learn?”

The assassin was clearly nervous, but not to the extent that would be expected under the circumstances. It seemed to Jonathan that all of his actions had led their captive to this moment. He knew what he was doing. He was a short man, but athletic and strong. His black curly hair was in stark and ironic contrast to the very short, almost military hairstyle of the pacifistic Vallensian men. All of the men, both militia and Vallensian, wore beards. The time when men spent hours grooming and shaving their faces and bodies had long passed. He was young, probably a middling like David, who was born five years before the collapse; and the Assassin had obviously been trained in military tactics, probably in some Aztlani school. His voice was steady as he addressed Jonathan. “I am not a spy, but I have been trained as an assassin. I did miss on purpose, and I did use the Aztlani arrow intentionally to signal that purpose to you, sir. My target, at least by orders given to me by my superiors in El Paso, was the post rider and not yourself. The Duke, and the King for that matter, would never assassinate you, Mr. Wall, at least not based on the current situation. You are as safe against Aztlani violence as any man could be. The Duke ordered that the post rider be killed, and preferably in your presence. Your letter was never to reach the King of the South States.”

The fact that the Duke, over 500 miles away in El Paso, knew of his letter disturbed him not a little, but it was not time to go on a mole hunt.

“You were to kill the post rider, but it is evident that you missed on purpose.” Jonathan asked.

“I did”

“Why is that?”

“To warn you, sir,” the assassin replied, his eyes staring intently at the Vallensian leader.

“To warn me of what?”

“Of war, sir.”

As the word slipped out of his mouth, a blood-curdling scream froze everyone in the room. The tension had been so thick that it had the men—Vallensian and non-Vallensian alike—hanging on every word. The scream came from the throat of one of the Vallensian men, a farmer, and seemed to paralyze all who were present, including Phillip’s guards, which seemed to be its intent. As the man moved forward, he brought forth a dagger that had been hidden in his belt, covered by his Vallensian vest. In a split second, he struck the bound assassin.

Almost instantaneously, the sword of Phillip the Ghost flew from its sheath, the finely honed blade slicing soundlessly through the neck of the farmer Ronald Getz. Getz fell to the floor, bleeding profusely from the gaping wound in his throat. He bled out in seconds.

Jonathan, who had barely had time to flinch, stared at the still twitching Vallensian farmer whose blood soaked into the plank floor. His glance then followed slowly upward until it settled on the Aztlani assassin. The farmer’s dagger had missed its mark and the hilt of the knife stuck out of the man’s shoulder. He was clearly in pain, and appeared shocked, gasping for air, as Vallensian men and Phillip’s soldiers alike rushed to him.

The eyes of Jonathan the Pastor and Phillip the warrior met as blood dripped from the tip of the sword of the Ghost.

Chapter 2 - Gareth

Gareth stirred in his large Vallensian bed. It was an unattractive but comfortable one, consisting of a hand-stuffed mattress of rough woven cotton, amply filled with goose down, and possibly cotton, wool, or whatever else was soft and near at hand. The bed frame was made of tall, gnarled, hand-hewn mesquite posts, serviceably fitted together with oaken pegs. The bed stood quite high off the ground to take advantage of any cool breeze that might flow in through the windows. Handmade mosquito netting hung over the posts at the head of the bed, ready to be draped over all four posts at night, when the windows were all opened to let in the June night air. The mattress rested on ropes drawn very tightly through holes drilled through the frame. Overall, it was a nice bed, Gareth thought.

The heat was constant, but bearable. Jonathan Wall had designed his house to remain as cool as possible throughout the summer. This part of the house was built mostly below ground level, with only 3 or 4 feet extending above the ground where windows brought in breezes and carried out the heat. In portions of the house—according to Wally the cook—underground “pipes” hundreds of feet long brought in cool air, just like air-conditioning, only without any electrical power. Even in blistering heat, the Wall house remained quite comfortable. Still, for the 25-year-old Gareth, raised at nearly 7,000 feet in the mountains of Aztlan, terms like ‘hot’ and ‘cool’ were certainly relative.

Outside the window, the ground fell sharply and he could see that the fields on the other side of the drive were ripe for harvest. He watched as the wind made waves in the golden wheat that flowed on for several thousand yards before crashing uneventfully into a pecan orchard. The sky was as blue as any he had ever seen, even in the clear air of the mountains, and unspotted by any clouds whatsoever.

A sharp pain shot through his body as he tried to twist his torso so he could get a better look out of the window. The wound to his shoulder was healing slowly, but he knew that it would take time before the pain subsided. The injury had been severe, but non-lethal. The infection that set in after only a day in custody was what had nearly killed him.

Jonathan and his family attacked Gareth’s infection very aggressively, using dozens of anti-bacterial and anti-viral herbal remedies, including large doses of fresh, spicy garlic, ginger, goldenseal, echinacea, sage, peppermint, thyme, cayenne, and aloe.

The most effective cure, though, to his delight, was copious amounts of beer brewed according to the most ancient traditions. Wally informed him that beer, when brewed naturally—according to the recipes used by the ancient Nubians, Hebrews, and Egyptians—created tetracycline in the human body—a powerful broad-spectrum antibiotic. This fact was discovered in the last decade of the 20th century when archeologists and scientists detected tetracycline in the bones of mummies dating back 3,000 years, and concluded after much investigation that the tetracycline was a byproduct of natural beer production. Subsequently, many historians and scientists concluded that naturally fermented beer was likely responsible for halting many of the plagues that devastated Europe during and after the Middle Ages.

It seems that when Europeans stopped drinking the infected water from filthy rivers, which were infested with deadly bacteria, and started drinking naturally fermented beer, the plagues were stayed and the populations of Europe stopped decreasing. Even babies and children were given beer instead of water and their mortality rates plummeted. In this way, beer had likely saved the world. As for Gareth—he was mainly just glad that beer had saved him. Jonathan had promised him that after he had recuperated sufficiently, if it were possible, he would show him how beer was brewed at the Wall’s ranch.

Gareth had been brought to the Wall homestead after the farmer—actually an Aztlani spy named Ronald Getz—had attacked him in the pub. Getz’s bloody death during an attempt to stop him from reporting the pending attack on the Vallenses, had shocked the community, and it was still the main topic of conversation among the Vallensian people.

He was still not sure exactly where he stood among these plain people, but he was glad to be alive, and to be able to move forward with his personal mission.

“Good afternoon, Assassin,” Phillip greeted him jokingly.

When exactly Phillip had entered the room, Gareth could not say. I hate it when he does that!

“Peace be unto you, Ghost,” Gareth responded, showing exaggerated irritation with Phillip’s manner of entry by spitting out the word ‘ghost’ with emphatic, but almost playful derision. He knew that Phillip hated the name ‘ghost’ as much as he himself hated being called ‘assassin’.

“One day, perhaps when you deign to get out of your invalid’s bed, you and I can work out our nicknames in the yard, with swords, like peaceful gentlemen,” Phillip retorted, smiling.

“I would never fight you, Phillip. I’m told that you never lose a fight, you can walk between the raindrops, you never leave footprints, and you cannot be killed. Only a fool would engage in swordplay with a spectre.”

“I’m afraid,” Phillip said, rolling his eyes, “that both my prowess and my constitution are highly exaggerated.”

“They say the infection got into my blood, which is why my recovery has been a bit delayed,” Gareth changed the subject, “but I can tell you that there are worse places and worse ways to spend a summer. The Vallensian peasant food is fabulous, and the beer mugs are bottomless. Who would have known? I’ve gained twenty pounds while almost dying of an infection from a knife wound.”

“A scratch, really—nothing to cause a grown man to spend a week in bed,” Phillip replied.

The militia leader was obviously enjoying himself, so he continued. “I’ve had at least two dozen such nicks and I cannot recall a single one that even made me sleepy. You are a strong young man; you should have bounced back in no time at all.”

“Well, Ghost, I am clearly not the man you are, but then, neither are you. Still, they do tell me that I’m healing and getting stronger.”

Gareth prodded the knife wound gingerly, testing the area with his fingertips. He noticed that, almost imperceptibly, Phillip showed some satisfaction that he was improving. He sensed from his many conversations with the militia leader over the past week that Phillip was somehow ashamed or angry with himself that he had not moved fast enough to prevent his prisoner from being harmed while in his custody. Maybe that was why he visited so often.

“If Vallensian hospitality and food have anything to do with it, I’ll be fit enough for hanging in no time.”

“Sadly, they’d not have you hang. They’d have you as a pet dog, curled up on the hearth, nibbling at their dainties from a bowl. They are pacifists, remember.” Phillip stroked his long, graying beard, looking out of the window as if in deep thought. “As for me, Assassin, I cannot decide whether I would rather see you hanged, run through with a sword, impaled on a pike, or made into a eunuch so you can fetch me beer and apples.”

“I can tell that you are growing fond of me, Ghost.”

“Maybe I am. Now, enough fun. We need to talk.”

Gareth had become accustomed to daily sparring with Phillip. Sometimes Phillip would spend most of the day with him. Still, he knew that the battle of tongues was just a prelude and that the militia leader inevitably wanted more intelligence from him about Aztlan, El Paso, and the Duke.All light jesting aside, he knew that his future would be decided as soon as he was well enough to walk. There were those who still did not believe him. They didn’t believe that he wasn’t a spy, and that he had actually come to warn them and encourage them to defend themselves. Some folk saw his manner and means of arrival as suspicious, and he really couldn’t blame them for those suspicions. They rightfully wondered why he had not just walked up and announced that he was a traitor to Aztlan, and that he had critical information for the militia and Jonathan.

It is true, Gareth thought, that any number of things in his seemingly complicated plan could have ruined his opportunity to warn Jonathan and the Vallenses. He could have been captured or killed by the Ghost’s militia as he made his way toward Bethany. Confident in his abilities and training, Gareth did not see this as likely as some apparently did.

Some Vallensian folks said that his stunt with the arrow could easily have been missed altogether or mistaken by Jonathan. If Jonathan had not decoded the message in his mind fast enough; if the pastor had not indicated to Phillip that the post rider was the real target; if Phillip had not noticed that the arrow was from an Aztlani quiver, then the militiamen men might have immediately killed him when they caught up with him as he waited for them by the creek. True, Gareth thought. Any of those things might have happened. But what alternative was there? His goal was not just to warn the enemies of Aztlan. His goal was not even to be believed by Jonathan. His goal was to be trusted, because that was the only way that he was ever going to accomplish his own private objectives.

To ride up to the Ghost’s militiamen and claim to be a traitor to Aztlan would just as likely have gotten him killed. In Aztlan, it was said that Phillip’s ghostmen generally shot first and asked questions later. The militias were suspicious and paranoid, and—according to some—that is what keeps them alive. The militia might trust information that they extracted from a captured enemy, but they were very unlikely to trust information freely given by an Aztlani traitor.

So… what if he had snuck through the militia lines, and had gotten to Jonathan without being intercepted? That certainly seemed like the most obvious option; in fact, it was the one he had pondered the most, as he rode over the many hundreds of miles eastward from El Paso. Maybe Jonathan and the Vallensian people would have believed him. They might even have heeded his warning, but they would never trust him, and he would never have gotten to meet Phillip at all. Aztlani refugees didn’t get an audience with the Ghost merely by calling for it.

Certainly, he never would have gotten Jonathan and Phillip in the same room, which had been the real coup, considering his goal. Phillip would have reckoned it as a trap. Many Aztlani refugees had found a home among the Vallenses, but building trust with the plain people of Central Texas took time. His assailant, the spy Ronald Getz, had apparently been living and farming among them for years. The real message that Gareth needed to deliver was urgent. He didn’t have years to build up trust.

Yes, his plan was risky, and probably full of holes. At best, there was a 40% probability that it would come off right. Still, it was worth the risk, given that he needed an opportunity to get Phillip and Jonathan together. He saw no other way to accomplish it. It was believed in El Paso and in New Rome that Phillip and Jonathan had not spoken in years—in fact, the Aztlanis wanted the two rebels to stay estranged more than they wanted just about anything else. Above all, then, Gareth wanted to rekindle the relationship between Phillip and Jonathan.

Even if he had failed, Phillip would have eventually learned of the Duke’s plan, but weeks and maybe months of preparation time would have been lost.

Yes. It had been worth the risk. Jonathan was a good man with a spectacularly sharp and curious mind and he had pierced through the cloud of confusion and correctly interpreted Gareth’s intentions. Phillip, though he was still cautious, had, at the very least, determined that—regardless of his intentions—an assassin was valuable for gathering new intelligence. Exposing Getz as the spy had been a painful bonus that had earned Gareth a reprieve in Phillip’s eyes—at least for now.

“Quit staring out of the window you assassin dog,” Phillip snarled, “I need answers from you!”

“What could you possibly still want to know?”

“For a good part of the last week, you’ve been rather delirious from your feigned infection. I’ve humored you because you are weak and obviously addle-brained. But now I want to go back over some things again.”

He sighed deeply, rolling his eyes in exasperation. The game continued. Phillip mixed up his questions, changing directions randomly, asking about various facts of which he already had perfect knowledge, trying to trip him up, or catch him in a lie. The interview was peppered with well-planned diversionary questions, often followed by long stares and a nodding head designed to keep Gareth talking.

“We’ve had a rolling guerilla war with the Duke for many years. Why has he decided to engage in a full-scale attack now?” Phillip asked.

“He is being pressured by the King who has some intentions on moving his borders eastward but cannot do so as long as a huge chunk of Central and Eastern Texas remain either ungovernable because of militia activity, or in the hands of the Vallenses. The Vallensian people reject his authority along with that of the Church. There are even rumors that the Vallensian colonies in the Piney Woods have signed a treaty with the Duke of Jackson in the former Mississippi.”

Phillip pulled up a wooden chair and sat next to Gareth’s bed. “I guess I just don’t see much here that is new or surprising. Why the change? What is the plan?”

“You have to understand that the King has both a dream and a nightmare. If you understand those two things, the rest of this is easy,” Gareth said.

“Then talk to me; explain those royal dreams and nightmares.”

He rose up in the bed, propping himself up against the headboard. The sounds of cicadas, katydids, and birds drifted in on a warm breeze. He reached down and took a long drink from his ever-present mug of beer.

“The dream is simple,” he said, wiping foam from his mustache, “the Duke of Louisiana is a very religious man, and he has fully embraced the faith of New Rome. He is secretly allied with Aztlan, even though he is nominally under the authority of the King of the South States. He is also very ambitious.

“Aztlan and Louisiana have you in what could become a very effective vice, and they intend to squeeze at any moment. The King dreams of uniting the entire South of what was once the United States into a single Southern Kingdom.”

Phillip shook his head. “Considering that there are tens of thousands of us who will never submit to New Rome, it is a problematic dream at best. In addition, we could rely on the support of the King of the South States, who is friendly to, or at least tolerant of, our religion and overtly hostile to the beast that is Aztlan,” Phillip said.

“Now, we get to the nightmare,” Gareth continued, pointing towards his own head to emphasize the point. “The King’s bed is drenched with night sweats when he envisions two very scary possibilities. The first is that the King of the South States, with all of his ample resources, might come to the aid of the Vallenses. The other… actually the more frightening of the two possibilities, is that Jonathan Wall will cast off his reckless and defeatist pacifism and join you in a rebellion against Aztlan.”

With that, he drew closer to Phillip. There was excitement in his voice and a sparkle in his eyes as he spoke.

“Jonathan is the key. With one word, he could unite the whole world against Aztlan. He is admired or feared everywhere, even in New Rome. It is most probable that the King of the South States will not move, even on the Vallenses’ behalf, unless Jonathan Wall agrees to fight.”

He sank back against the headboard, clearly exhausted by the interrogation. “I cannot say that all is lost if you cannot convince Jonathan to join you, but…,” he let the thought linger, as if to suggest that the danger is unspeakable.

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