The Last Pilgrims

by Michael Bunker

  Based on the report that Pano, his long-time assistant, had just given him, it was obvious that Duke Carlos Emmanuel, that quintessential royal buffoon, had used him to plan the assault on Bethany as an elaborate diversion. Maybe the pretender-in-chief wasn’t that buffoonish after all. He thought about that for a moment. Maybe the whole affair had been part of the setup.

  He had always figured, at least in some deep recess of his consciousness, that he would be caught. Especially after he had sent Gareth to meet, and try to unite, the old friends Jonathan Wall and Phillip. Still, he had always somehow managed to file that knowledge away so that he didn’t have to really consider it, not to mention the consequences that would necessarily follow once he was exposed. Oh, if he could just be back on his parents farm, slopping the pigs!

  English sat pensively at his desk in the tower of the Chimenea Castle and went over all the facts. Could it be?

  Ok, he thought, let’s assume that the Duke has known for some time that he was a spy, and that he would be passing information to the Vallenses and the Ghost militia. The Duke then allowed him to plan the assault on Bethany knowing and expecting it to fail. Maybe he didn’t care—he would still benefit from its success. The Duke’s plan must have accommodated the likelihood that English would find some way to warn the Ghost that the attack was imminent. The Duke had, unknown to his own secretary, already sent a larger army to the south, bypassing Bethany and proceeding to the east to cut off any Vallensian escape. Skirting Bethany would also allow the army to eventually attack from the east where the Vallenses were more vulnerable.

  Moreover, if the Duke already knew that his secretary would send the Crown Prince to warn Jonathan Wall and Phillip of the attack, and he allowed that plan to proceed, then that means the King was in on it too. The King must have expected or hoped that Gareth would fall in the battle, and it would have been a great way to get rid of a troublesome and rebellious son.

  Unless Gareth was in on it too.

  No. Now he was just being paranoid. He knew Gareth just as well as he knew Phillip. Gareth was an idealist and a true believer. In fact, if anyone had a just cause and the right motivation to see the King of Aztlan fall, it was Gareth, the King’s own son. Just stick to what you know.

  He had to assume that Gareth was supposed to die. If that was true, then somewhere out there, to the east among the Militia, was someone whose job it would be to kill Crown Prince Gareth of Aztlan; and he wouldn’t be able to warn him.

  The kidnapping of Phillip’s family had not been just a chance happening, stumbled upon by escaping spies.. The militia leader’s wife and daughters were clearly a part of the plan to lure Phillip away from Bethany.

  English rubbed his head with both hands and took a deep breath. It was all too confusing. How had he let himself be outwitted by a half-pint drug dealer? There was no way that the Duke of El Paso had come up with, and actually accomplished, such a subtle and layered plan. Someone else; someone higher up—perhaps the King himself—had devised this plan. Or… there was a mole so close to Phillip that even The Ghost didn’t know who he was.

  So Phillip, far to the north of Bethany, had been forced to decide between his own family and saving the Vallenses—a win/win scenario, as far as the King was concerned. If Phillip had decided to save his family, the Aztlanis holding his wife would already be aware that a rescue attempt was coming, and would execute a carefully planned ambush. Most likely Phillip would have been killed along with all of his men. If Phillip decided, as he did, to rush back to Bethany, there was no guarantee that he would arrive on time. Maybe he would be killed in that engagement, or otherwise assume that the Bethany attack was the main attack and let his guard down. It would be very unlikely for him to realize that the attack at the Bethany Pass was just a diversion. He certainly wouldn’t be expecting the real attack force to be way east of Bethany.

  What a disaster! And now I’ve been exposed as a spy. But given that I haven’t been arrested yet, English thought, the Duke must assume that I have not yet figured that out. My arrest must be imminent.

  His assistant Pano sat patiently in the overstuffed chair, waiting for his boss to speak. English finally looked up at him and smiled.

  “Perhaps you can go through that list again, Pano. Indulge me. I apologize if I am a bit… distracted.”

  “Yes sir, I understand. Finding out that you have been exposed as a spy—and a poor one at that—cannot be easy.”

  “Perhaps you could have done better?”

  “Oh, I don’t know boss. I’m not the one whose head is about to be cut off.”

  “Would you just read the report, please?”

  “Around 2,000 Vallensian pilgrims were captured and killed outside of Comanche by the main force there, and any eastward escape route has been, for the most part, cut off. We don’t know if there is another army heading towards Bethany from the west or the south, but I’d bet there is.

  “The Duke has sent a formal letter to Jonathan of the Vallenses denying Aztlani culpability in both the Battle of Bethany, and in the slaughter at Comanche. He claims that rogue elements in his government—presumably by that he means YOU—working with rebels and agents of the King of Mexico were responsible for these atrocities against the peaceful Vallensian people.”

  “Those are all lies.”

  “I don’t know. I wasn’t with you the entire time. Maybe it’s true,” Pano said, trying to mute the grin on his face.

  “They are lies, Pano.”

  “Yes sir, but very believable lies—at least to the Aztlani people in New Rome, and those in other Kingdoms that pay attention to such things. Certainly the King and the Duke expect to use these lies in their propaganda efforts.”

  “Ok,” he said, rubbing his head again, “go on.”

  “The letter from the Duke to Jonathan Wall encourages Jonathan not to react rashly to the massacre, and also states that any assistance or aid given to the rebel militia would be considered an act of war by the Vallenses against the Sovereign King of Aztlan.”

  “A war that Aztlan has already declared, and is already waging on the Vallenses!” English shouted, slapping his hand on the desk.

  “The Duke has called for a full meeting of his council this afternoon. You are expected to be there, and he specifically requested that you be in full dress uniform.”

  “I am always in full dress uniform. So, I take from this that I am to be arrested in front of the council this afternoon?”

  “That would be my guess,” Pano replied, nodding.

  “And I don’t suppose that I will be allowed to leave the castle, or the city?”

  “Certainly not by any of the… normal routes.”

  English cocked his head and glared at Pano. “You have an abnormal route you can suggest?”

  “I think I can arrange it, boss. In fact, I do have a plan. But you aren’t going to leave me here to handle the Duke’s wrath. I’m going with you.”

  English stood up, walked to the window and looked down into the outer bailey and the main gate. He assumed that the Duke had doubled the guard at all of the gates. An escape was a doubtful proposition.

  “How might you arrange such a thing?” he asked.

  Pano smiled. “I’ve brought a wig and some prostitute’s clothes.”

  “Would you please be serious?”

  Pano shrugged, “I know a way out that no one else is aware of, but I won’t reveal it to you until you promise to take me.”

  “Ok!” he sighed, “I’ll take you, but if we’re going to go, we need to get moving. I seriously doubt that we can even get out of this office, much less leave the castle or the city.”

  “We’ll get out,” Pano reassured him, smiling. “Now take off your tunic. We’ve got to get it mended.”

  “I never take off my tunic!”

  “Take it off, boss, if you want to get out of here.”

  Pano moved quickly as English reluctantly took off his coat. Bending over, the assistant pulled a boot knife and cut
two of his collar buttons. English stared at Pano as if the man had just committed a sacrilege.

  “Ok, boss, you have to pull this off. Acting shouldn’t be hard for you since you’ve been a spy for so long. Here’s the deal… you do not know that they know that you are a spy. Put that out of your mind. Everything is cool. You’ve just popped some buttons on your tunic, and we are taking it to the laundry mistress to have the buttons re-attached.”

  “Why would I go with you? Why wouldn’t I just send you? After all, you are my assistant… although, if I weren’t going to be beheaded, I’d fire you this instant.”

  “Listen, boss, everyone knows how you feel about this coat. You are a freak. Nobody understands your attachment to it, but everyone knows about it. You’d never let it out of your sight. You even launder it yourself. People would be more suspicious if they saw me walk by with it without you following me like a pit bull that just had his bone stolen.”

  “I like my tunic.”

  “No, boss, no,” Pano said, wagging his finger, “something weird is going on between you and this coat. Still, that is what is going to get us out of here. You have to look as if you aren’t expecting to be beheaded today, so there is no reason for us to be stopped. This is a castle, and they figure that you can’t get out, so just act like yourself… you know, a bit angry, narcissistic, sarcastic, and irritable.”

  “Now you are just being mean. What do we do if we get caught?”

  “What are they going to do, execute you?”

  He gave Pano an exasperated look, “Will you please take this seriously?”

  “I will… if you say that you’re sorry for calling me ‘Puddinhead’ in front of the Duke last week.”

  “I’m sorry for calling you ‘Puddinhead’.”

  “Ok. I forgive you.”

  “When we get out of here, I’m going to ditch you.”

  Pano laughed, “I doubt that you’ll want to when you see where we’re going.”

  “What is that supposed to mean?”

  “Are you ready?”

  “I suppose I have to be.”

  “Then let’s go…”

  The trip down to the basement of what was once the old Camino Real hotel was rather uneventful, as most of the staff had no idea that anything out of the ordinary was going on. They were stopped twice by curious guards, but when English acted irritated and obsessed with the missing buttons on his coat, the guards dismissed them with little fuss.

  Medieval castles were built mainly for defense purposes, but that changed around the 14th and 15th centuries, when comfort became a priority.

  The Chimenea Castle was designed along the latter lines, and since the main tower had been constructed out of a hotel, the Chimenea had hundreds of rooms that had been combined and converted into spacious and decadent suites for important visitors and guests.

  The basement of the old hotel was not only home to the laundry facilities, but it had, at one time, been a part of the civil defense and emergency management system for downtown El Paso. A large portion of the basement was still unrenovated, and it had devolved into a large open storage area with unused offices off the main great room.

  Upon reaching the basement, Pano stopped in the laundry area and stole some clothing from lockers that lined the wall; then they ducked into the abandoned civil defense shelter and Pano led English to one of the offices in the far southeast corner of the basement. Closing the door behind them, Pano tossed him some of the stolen clothes.

  “Here, put these on. I’m sorry if they don’t fit. I had to grab what was there.”

  “These aren’t even Aztlani peasant clothes! They’re worse! This shirt looks as if it was chewed by a dog,” he said. This time he wasn’t faking his irritation.

  “If we were escaping into Aztlan, you’d want Aztlani peasant clothes, but we’re not … we’re going to Mexico.”

  “What?” English stopped dressing with one leg partially into the hideous pants that seemed to have been loosely woven from cast-off hemp. “This city is in Aztlan, Pano. El Paso is Aztlan. Aztlan is all around us.”

  “Just keep dressing, boss; you’ll understand when we’re underway.”

  “If this is some attempt to turn me over to the Duke dressed like a mentally disturbed coffee picker from the mountains of South America so that I won’t have the honor of being executed in my uniform, I shall be quite put out with you, Pano.”

  Pano started laughing. “No, but only because I hadn’t thought of that; just please finish so we can go!”

  When he pulled on the magnificently offensive green overshirt, Pano abandoned all attempts to control himself. He pointed and almost doubled over with laughter. English looked down at himself, and then just gave a low bow before squinting in an implied threat.

  Pano started moving several pieces of rotted wood, an old Plexiglas display stand, and some clothing racks, uncovering a large shelving unit base that had once served as a makeshift filing cabinet. He understood from Pano’s grunting that his assistant wanted him to help move the cabinet, so he grabbed the free end and shoved it away from the wall. Under the cabinet was an ancient carpet remnant, covering ten treated 2” x 10” boards, all laid flat as if they had been stored there some time during construction decades ago. As they began to move the boards, the entrance to the tunnel started to appear.

  English looked down into the tunnel, which was as dark as the darkest night of the soul that could possibly be imagined; then he looked back up at Pano. “A tunnel?”

  “Yes, a tunnel.”

  “To where?”

  “I told you, to Mexico.”

  “How long is this tunnel?”

  “Ten miles. Straight south. It’s an old drug tunnel.”

  “Are you telling me that they used to mule drugs into the emergency law-enforcement headquarters of one of the largest cities in America?”

  “Who did you think was selling the drugs?”

  English shook his head. “I thought that you were going to get me out of here. I assumed that we were going to ride leisurely up to New Rome on horseback and have margaritas at some inn up in the mountains. You want me to go farther south? In the summer? I’ll melt.”

  “You can’t go back to New Rome, English. Ever. You are a fugitive and a traitor to your King… and you won’t melt because I threw away your tunic.”

  He looked back down into the tunnel, trying to discern if it did, in fact, have a bottom. There was an old, rickety, wooden ladder that led down and disappeared into the darkness.

  “Will there be margaritas in Mexico?”

  “Well, I know a place in Monterrey that has the best Mezcal you’ve ever had, and the worm at the bottom of the bottle is delicious.”

  “Are you kidding me?”

  “Yes. If you were to get down to the worm—which you wouldn’t—you would find that it is actually tasteless. It tastes just like Mezcal.”

  “I think I’d rather be beheaded.”

  “That is the other option.”

  English sighed again then looked back the way they had come. “They better have margaritas.” he said as he gingerly climbed down into the darkness.

  Chapter 13 - David

  “Again!” Piggy yelled as David watched the last knife bounce harmlessly off the target. “You have to feel and watch the rotation in order to make minute adjustments according to the distance. The knife is a tool—an inanimate object, sure, but one with a will. It wants to fly right, straight and true. That is what it was made to do. A rock dropped from a height wants to fall, right? A thrown knife wants to stick into stuff!” Piggy smiled at David and pointed at him. “Just let the knife do what the knife wants to do. Now, try again!”

  David wiped his brow with his sleeve and dismounted in order to retrieve the knives. Before today, he’d never thrown a knife at all, much less from the back of a horse.

  The day was hot and brutally still and, given that the militia lived and breathed training, there were few breaks. Hydration was always ne
cessary, but a rest break was all but non-existent. The men didn’t see training as some chronological interference into their lives. Training was their life; and to them was as enjoyable as anything else they might have been doing. If you were too tired, you could sit down and catch your breath. If you were hungry, you would eat. The rest of the time, the militiaman trained.

  David’s short time in the militia had been quite educational. The Ghost militia was a strange concoction of professional army, guerilla unit, desert cavalry, and Special Forces recon fighting group.

  Phillip had modeled the group loosely on the fighting concepts of the Moorish and Berber desert cavalries of the late medieval period in Africa and the Iberian Peninsula, combined with the tactics and lifestyle of many of the mounted insurgency groups he had fought in Asia in the early 21st century.

  The group’s motto, if David could discern one from what he was constantly being told, was “First train, then train. When you are done training, you train; and when you rest, you train. When you are not training, you are training your mind. Only when you die, do you cease to train.”

  The militia rarely wore armor, because it was heavy, hot, and cumbersome; and, given the way they fought, it was usually more trouble than it was worth. The men wore long, but loose fitting sleeves, usually weaved of cotton, which protected them from the sun and allowed for perspiration and evaporation, but were also heavy enough to give them light protection from spent arrows or projectiles. When riding or fighting, they usually wore long leather coats that also served as some protection from glancing blows, as well as from cactus and mesquite thorns.

  Although the Ghost militia did have the equipment, ability, and skills to fight with guns, they preferred using arrows, javelins, knives, and swords. Every Ghost militiaman was an expert in all edged weapons. This had been drilled into David since the day he joined. In order to survive, he needed to know how to ride and how to fight. They lived with their horses, and they fought primarily with edged weapons. Hence, drilling and training in these two disciplines never ceased. As David was already considered to be even beyond an expert with a bow and arrow, his training focused on areas wherein he was deficient.