by Lars Teeney
At the far end of the battle array was Friar Pius, looking noble atop his horse. In the middle was the Monsignor looking anxious, and anticipating action. He had reared his horse back, which seemed to match his anxiety. The men were checking their arms. She took the opportunity to double check the condition of her Mosin-Nagant, bolt action rifle. She shouldered her rifle. Valentine had estimated that she had roughly one hundred men on her flank. They were spread out a bit, and looked ragtag. They held their position for nearly half an hour, and she began to wonder what the hold up was about. Around the center of the battle line near Monsignor Carafa, a wagon approached from the road leading out of town. Driving the wagon was Friar Benedict, and he was not dressed in his Order garb. He pulled back on the reins to stop his pack team. Monsignor Carafa rode up to him and they had exchanged words, then he embraced the Friar. Friar Benedict then willed the wagon ahead and he drove it to the rear of the lines. A few minutes passed then it happened: massive explosions in town—at least five. Balls of fire and smoke rose to the heavens. The men in the battle line flinched and then cheered with excitement.
“Friars! Dé la orden de antemano! (Friars! Give the order for the advance!)” Monsignor shouted. Then he ordered his own men forward. The men stood up and were swallowed by the cane field. They left swaying plants in their wakes as they moved through at a steady march. Friar Valentine gave the order for the men to advance, and she willed her gelding forward through the field. She brought her rifle down to bear and scanned the cane field for any sign of opposition. She detected a wrestling in the grass: a man emerged with an ashen face, holding an assault rifle, but he looked disorientated, like the explosion had jarred his senses. Frir Valentine hesitated to fire, but then he noticed her presence and she made the judgment to take the shot. She placed the round square between the pectoral muscles of the man, and he dropped backward. First blood didn’t seem as glorious as it should have to her.
A few seconds later bullets were screaming through the cane plants and impacting in the dirt around her. Friar Valentine ordered her men to charge forward and return fire. The men surged ahead and emerged from the cane plants, and in response were raked by gunfire from behind rubble-strewn piles and shanties. She fired from her rifle at exposed heads, which barely missed the mark but forced a few men to duck for cover. She galloped her horse, flush up against a wall to get herself out of the kill zone. Several men joined her position at the wall, keeping their heads down. Friar Valentine dismounted her horse, then, commanded one of the men to grab its reins and lead it back to the rear of the line. She reloaded her rifle and affixed the bayonet. Valentine looked at the men, then she gazed at the positions on either side of them. They were flanked by entrenched positions and the men who did not make it to the wall were either pinned down or were picked off by enemy fire.
“Los amigos me siguen! Tomamos esta posición! (Friends follow me! We take this position!)” Valentine urged the men on. She climbed up a slight embankment, that lead to a collapsed portion of the wall: a breach that they could exploit. As she jumped through the wall she was startled by a dirty-faced old man. He had his rifle aimed out toward her oncoming soldiers. He had not expected her to suddenly pop up at his breach. She stabbed downward into the base of the man’s neck with her bayonet before he could react. He was not alone in the shanty. Four other men and boys were in the building, shooting from windows and doorways. She signaled her men through the breach and they poured in. She fired a round into an opponent’s back and several of her soldiers dispatched the remaining three with knife and point-blank shooting. They had cleared the building and gained a foothold into the southwest part of town.
Friar Valentine sent a runner to move up and down the line to urge her men through the breach they had created. She looked out the entrance of the shanty into the town. She spied a demolished building and shacks that were intensely burning. She could see bodies in the street down the block. As she crept further out into the street, an overwhelming fire was directed toward her. It forced her to lunge back into the shanty. Several of her men took up positions from inside the shanty and returned fire. The majority of the men under her command were now packed inside the shanty. The scene looked comical to her. They could not stay here, all bottled up. Valentine figured a mass charge was needed to break out. Was it worth the lives? It was their only option at the moment.
“Todos los de ustedes los hombres fieles! No podemos quedarnos aquí en el miedo. Seamos valientes y atacar al enemigo directamente! (All of you faithful men! We cannot stay here and cower. Let us be brave and rush out to take the enemy head on!)” The men were whooped up into a cheer and they yelled her name, then she rushed out the door, and the men followed suit. On an adjacent corner was the shell of a burnt out, brick ruin. Opposition fired at Friar Valentine from that position, and something hit her like a sledgehammer, knocking her to the ground. Her soldiers rushed onward past her to overwhelm the position. Several of her host were struck down trying to reach the ruin, but soon they were too many and killed the defenders. She lay on the ground, disorientated for a moment. She regained her bearings and checked herself for wounds. The round that struck her seemed to have been caught up in the fabric of her cloak, which slowed it and had grazed her shoulder.
“Dios realmente se preocupa por mí. (God really is watching over me,)” she thought to herself. She was pulled to her feet by a short, stout, old man. Then he charged forward. She rejoined the charge. Her group was filing down an ally that terminated in a street that surrounded the town square. Friar Valentine ordered her men to halt at the edge of the alley. As she looked out at the town square she could see that it was the center of the town. It was a large plaza with trees, a pavilion, and the ruins of a cathedral, which must have been one of the buildings blown up initially. She could see that there were numerous enemies at points in the plaza and in the ruins of the cathedral. She was trying to decide whether or not she should order an assault when, several streets down she saw fighting.
The Monsignor charged into the square on horseback, with his plasma spear held point forward, which skewered a man as he passed by. The spear burned through the man’s body so the impact did not slow Carafa’s charge. His men, from the central point of the line, charged into the square after him, killing indiscriminately. On the far side of the square, she could make out Friar Pius and his wing, pouring into the square from another direction, attacking the cathedral ruins. Valentine took this as the signal to order an all-out assault. She charged and her men spread out across the plaza, engaging the bruised and battered defenders.
The charge of her men was the deciding factor that broke the will to resist. The remaining defenders threw down the weapons and put their hands in the air. Defenders from the cathedral ruins filed out, hands above their heads. Carafa trotted up and down the lines of captives that were ordered to kneel. Friar Valentine walked over to the captives to inspect their faces. She was shocked to see that many of them were children and teenagers. They looked to her in a sorry state, like the explosions had done the trick long before the assault. Some soldiers had found women and children hiding in barns toward the back of town. They had been corralled to the center of town where they joined the survivors. Valentine had hardly considered the scene glamorous or the battle to be glorious. Tragedy was all she could think on.
The Cartel had used peasant villagers, old men and children as soldiers to fight against the Order. She had partaken in the slaughter. Friar Pius had ordered a search of houses throughout town and they had returned with huge quantities of ‘Database’ components. They piled it in the ruins of the cathedral and set the contraband alight. Millions of New Megiddo dollars worth of material went up in smoke. She consoled herself with this victory against the Cartel. At least it would take a chunk out of their profits and would keep a huge portion of ‘Database’ from hitting the streets.
That afternoon, Monsignor Carafa would decree to the survivors of the battle that the town of Santo Tomás was now under the law
of the Societatum Pentagram. He told the captives that the El Paradiso Cartel was abolished from the town and that ‘Database’ was banned. He decreed that all townsfolk would be subject to judgment by the Order and he commanded that they give up the Cartel leadership in the town. He threatened to crucify townsfolk one by one until they followed his commands. The townsfolk had already heard the stories of crucifixion from merchants and people from towns that had fallen to the Order. They knew that it was not a bluff. So, they complied without protest.
That night seventeen crosses were erected by the Order soldiers. The leadership of the Cartel was bound to the crosses by nails through the wrists and ankles. Friar Valentine took in the brutal spectacle. She had never quite experienced anything like this in her life. It felt unreal to her, like a play depicting some act of an uncivilized past. But, she was on the side of the victors and the perpetrators of the act, so she was complicit. She blocked that realization out of her mind. As long as it led to revenge for her brother it was justified. The screams of so many condemned would make it difficult to sleep this night.
She learned later that evening that Friar Benedict had entered the town several days ago. He had posed as a traveling merchant. He had distributed his wares to various key buildings in town: the goods being high-grade explosives. The timing of the detonations had coincided with the Order assault, resulting in a resounding victory over the cartel.
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“I had no idea that you participated in a war against the cartels. I would have never thought.” Blaze-Scorch was fascinated with Angel-Seraphim’s epic story. She was trying to picture herself in that situation, hopping from a war straight into an insurgency.
“It was not pleasant. Did not give up,” Angel confessed. They were performing a sweep of the crew quarters on the oil tanker. Blaze swung open the hatch door to an empty cabin.
“Girl, I’m tired. Let’s take a break,” Blaze suggested. The cabin contained two bunks stacked one above the other on one wall, and on the other wall was a workstation and a rolling chair. Blaze dropped her pack on the desk, she pulled out a decanter and two steins.
“You gotta come prepared you know?” Blaze smiled presenting the bottle.
“Ah, si. I will take some,” Angel returned the smile, approvingly.
“Angel, your story really makes me want to drink. Not an easy listen,” Blazed told her, taking a sip of mead. She passed a stein to Angel and then they toasted to “escaping a war zone”.
“I’m sorry to hear about your brother. I hope he was able to learn to live with his loss,” Blaze offered consolation.
“He did learn in his own way. He strong,” Angel confirmed.
“Do you think you’ll ever see that Order again?” Blaze asked blankly.
“Hard to say. But I still have not told whole story,” Angel informed her, following up by a chug of mead.
“Oh! I certainly wasn’t trying to cut you off. Please, I would like to hear it all,” Blaze invited her to continue. She enjoyed a good story.
⍟ ⍟ ⍟
Nueva Granada was spared a full on Order assault, mainly because Friar Valentine had promised upon her life that she would deliver the town over to the Order without a fight. She had kept her promise, but just barely. Her father could not believe that she had aligned herself with a group like the Order. It was not what he had intended for her. He had thrown around language like “betrayal” and “disappointment”. But, she took the words in stride, because she knew that she was saving her family’s lives. The townsfolk of Nueva Grenada had given up the cartel members that had taken up residence in town and their young were forbidden from associating with any of the cartels thereafter.
Her arrangement with Nueva Granada did not apply to any other town in the region, however. The town of Nandaime had not submitted and the cartel members had fought to the last. Many families had lost a father, brother, or son. This was not a town that would be won over: rule here would need to be maintained through fear and ruthlessness. The assault on Nandaime was the turning point for Friar Valentine. She questioned her involvement and considered leaving the Order. The question was: would they let her leave?
Nandaime was the farthest south that the Order had marched before they abruptly turned north again. Monsignor Carafa had heard about a town to the north-east of Nueva Granada where a senior leader of the El Paradiso Cartel had come to. He had fortified the town and turned it into a Cartel stronghold, in an effort to halt the advance of the Order. The town was Masaya. Friar Valentine was in debt of the townspeople of Masaya because they had saved her brother’s life the year before. What could she do? She could not talk Carafa out of assaulting the town. Whatever came of this she felt it would not be good.
The column marched north on Route One-Eighteen. On the way north the Order engaged in minor skirmishes at the village of San Caralampio, but they quickly overcame the opposition. Once in San Caralampio, the Order engaged in wholesale slaughter and sacked the small village. The closer the Order got to Masaya the more Friar Valentine questioned her need for revenge. Her brother and family were safe and she had already killed more cartel members than she could count. She wanted to hang up her gun and work the fields once more. She wanted to go back to being Consuela. A part of her knew it was too late: too much blood had been spilled.
The column was halted when they reached the outskirts of Masaya. Friar Valentine watched Monsignor Carafa as he scanned the town with a riflescope. He had noticed that the barricades and walls had been constructing at all the approaches to the town. He could see that it was well-manned, so a straightforward assault would be costly. Monsignor Carafa dismounted his horse. He stood looking at the town. Carafa seemed to be having an inner monolog, trying to come up with a strategy. The dynamic of the situation changed when the cartel force inside Masaya, deployed mortars behind the barricades. The shells came screaming across the sky in a wide arc. At first no one realized what was happening because the Order did not expect the Cartel to have such armaments, but when the first shells impacted into dense formations of men the truth was apparent. Remnants of Order soldiers were spread over their comrades. Monsignor Carafa ordered the men to spread out and take cover. Carafa’s horse was hit by shrapnel from an exploding shell and keeled over, nearly crushing the Monsignor.
Friar Valentine saw her opportunity. She wheeled her horse around and forced the gelding into a gallop. Her men were busy taking cover from the mortar fire so they did not notice her riding off the field of battle. Friar Francis, who was in charge of the Second wave on the left flank and was close to the rear of the lines. She gazed upon Friar Valentine who galloped to the west with haste.
Friar Valentine rode her gelding toward the docks of the Laguna de Masaya: a sizable lake that ran along the west side of the town from north to south. Approaching the dilapidated docks, she spotted an outboard motor craft. It was a rickety fishing boat, with chipped paint and water damage all around the hull. She ran to it and jumped in. It took several tries on the rip cord to get it running. Valentine grabbed the rudder and guided the boat away from the dock and into the Lagoon. The boat struggled to cut through the water. There was a mist that had settled on the lagoon, which slightly masked the town. But, she could see that the town along the bank had no wall or fortifications. Friar Valentine thought that she may not be able to stop the assault on the town, but she could go to the Iglesia de San Jerónimo, and attempt to help the clergy who saved her brother.
Once she traveled as far north as possible, to get close to the cathedral, she found a dock and guided the boat in, tethering the craft to a post. She jumped out of the boat onto the rickety planks of the dock. The sounds of battle raging and mortar rounds exploding echoed across the rooftops from further south. She unstrapped her Mosin-Nagant rifle and affixed the bayonet. She moved in cover and stayed low. Friar Valentine felt more and more like Consuela Grajales as the minutes ticked by. As she moved up the street at a steady pace, she spied a man brandishing a machete. She
moved closer to the man who had not noticed her.
“Amigo. Por Favor. Estoy tratando de llegar a la iglesia. Por favor, déjame pasar. (Amigo. Please. I’m trying to get to church. Please let me pass,)” Valentine pleaded, She was hoping she could reason with the man. She had the bayonet pointed toward him.
The man looked at her, confused. He panicked and postured to attack with his machete. Valentine had to do it. She ran him through with the bayonet. Feeling regretful for having taken the man’s life she pushed on toward the cathedral. She reached the cathedral plaza and spied the front entrance of the Iglesia de San Jerónimo. She remembered back a year ago when she first came here with her father. Everything was so much simpler then, and she could never go back to the way things were. Valentine rushed to the small door cut into the larger wood and brass doors, and stepped through. The interior of the cathedral was dark and cavernous. She slowly moved up the center isle, with the sound of her footsteps amplified by the architecture of the cathedral. She came upon the portrait of San Jerónimo: there was something both foreboding and blatantly obvious about the portrait, but she did not have time for art criticism.
“Padres, Hermanas. Por favor, ven. Yo puedo salvarte. (Fathers, Sisters. Please come. I can save you!)” Valentine cried out. The echo of her yell made it sound like there was five of her. Activity was heard in the infirmary. The curtain opened and the Sister that had helped them a year ago came out toward Valentine, and the Father came out after her. They gazed upon Valentine’s appearance: clad in white, hooded, blazoned with a black pentagram, and armed.