A Saintly Bargain

A Saintly Bargain

March 18th 1819-Fields of Del Rey, Gargain

The full moon was at its zenith as dark and grey clouds attempted to cover her face. One by one the stars disappeared until all that remained was an oppressive darkness and the moon desperately trying to illuminate the torn and bloody land of Gargain. It was impossible for the moon’s beams to avoid touching a leftover corpse or a stained patch of ground, a destroyed home, or a silent memorial to a loved one. The once bountiful farms were now abandoned and desolate. The few signs of life came from the slowly reopening churches and only Demons and men of the cloth dared to walk freely at night. As the clouds overtook the moon, thick fog rolled over the land, carrying with it the haunting wails of battle from the Shadow War and the ghastly moans of the recent dying from the ongoing civil war. Sounds of hooves, boots, and the soft clicks of rifles echoed throughout the fog as smells of burnt bacon and coffee floated into the air. Hushed commands from officers pierced the night as the men prepared themselves for a looming attack. In the center of camp was their leader’s tent and from this tent waved the golden flag of Ethan Hertz. The flag was simple and threadbare and bore the many scars of combat. Officers ran in and out of that tent as rumors floated within the fog. Christian would attack tonight. “Good,” whispered the men, “let them come. Let us end it tonight.” They stiffened as they heard the snarl of a werewolf and one man threw a rock in its direction. The officer berated him and waited…nothing. The beast knew better. The soldiers laughed and murmured as officers hissed at them to be quiet. The enemy was near. A fool stroked a banjo. An officer snapped. A sentry narrowed his eyes as a dark figure approached. He raised his rifle and aimed. He paused.
“Sir!”
The officer turned and narrowed his eyes. From deep within the fog rode a lone rider on a great white horse. The rider was draped in a black cloak and the men stiffened as a figure from the Scriptures appeared. And a figure will appear and you will know him. And you will know that he has been sent by Me to prepare you for the coming storm. Around the figure’s thin neck was a heavy, golden cross and in his right hand he held a pole and from that pole unfurled the holy banner of the Father of the Church-a sight no one had seen since the dark times, when the Shadows, Death’s people, took over. The flag was deep red and waved in the gathering fog and etched onto its fabric was a golden eye burnt onto a cross within an upside triangle. The officers told the men to hold their fire and one walked towards the figure, who halted at the edge of camp. The figure’s face was hidden by the cloak and the soldiers tightened as they uneasily watched the exchange. The man said something to the officer who nodded his head and led the figure towards Ethan’s makeshift tent.

Ethan’s grey and hungry eyes iced over as his long, spider leg like fingers delicately brushed the pencil across the map, marking the new positions he had just received from one of his spies. The lone candle on his rickety desk barely provided enough light to see two inches from his pointed nose and shrouded the small and bare tent in darkness. His cot was thrown to the side and had barely been used since they established camp three days ago. Ethan threw the pencil onto the table and stared at the map. He had Christian’s army from the south and Lewis’ army to the east. If the rumors were true, then Christian was a fool. Ethan had the best damn ground and he knew that Christian only had enough supplies for one more fight…If Christian had been smart he would have turned and crushed Lewis, but it was better this way. If Christian attacked tonight, they could end the war before the sun rose. He knew that if he crushed Christian, Lewis would lose heart and surrender. The man only wanted to fight if he knew he could count on Ethan and Christian to wear each other out. However, once Lewis realized that Ethan was free to turn and focus his attention on his small army, the man would panic and surrender. Ethan sighed as he ran a hand through his stark black hair and his grey eyes continued to study the map. Yes, it could all be over by tonight…and then the real battle would begin. His young, steel rod like body turned away from the map and bent over a chest that looked like it had been through the fires of hell. He opened it, drew out a bottle of whiskey and a chipped glass, and placed it on his rickety table. The small and weathered tent groaned, but he ignored it. His spiderlike hands opened the bottle as he thought about what he had to do once the war was over. It would be hard, and his young age would hardly help. He grimaced as he poured himself a drink. He had already proven himself better than most men by the time he was thirteen. He did not see why it even mattered. If he could restore order…of course that was the big question, wasn’t it? Could he restore order?

Ethan frowned as he placed the bottle on the table and took a sip from his whiskey. It had been a long time since Gargain had had any semblance of order….since they had had anything to believe in. But what could he offer? What could he possible say that would give the people a reason to trust him? They needed something to hold onto…Something that was bigger than themselves…Something worth preserving. He absentmindedly ran his tongue over his teeth as he tried to think of something. What could a land, as disillusioned and discontented as Gargain was, possibly believe in? After the Shadows ruled their land and ruined everything worth saving, his people had lost all hope and who could blame them? What was the use of believing? It got them nowhere.
“Sir?”
Ethan looked up as one of his officers entered his tent.
“Yes?”
“A man is here to see you. His name is Timothy Murphy”
Ethan furrowed his eyebrows.
“I do not know him.”
“No, sir, but he would like to speak with you.”
“I don’t have the time to waste,” he barked, returning to his map.
“Sir, he is carrying the banner of the Father of the Church.”
Ethan jerked his head up as his eyes widened.
“That’s not possible.”
The officer nervously shrugged, “Should I send him in?”
“Yes.”
He took a large sip from his whiskey as the officer left. The man had to have been mistaken. The Father of the Church did not exist anymore. The Shadows had seen to that. Still, Father of the Church or not, Ethan knew better than to appear overly interested, so he picked up a piece of paper with information on Christian’s forces and took another sip of whiskey. He barely glanced up when the tent flap opened and in walked a hooded figure, bringing the fog in with him. The man was tall and wore the heavy, but simple robes of a pastor. A large, ornately decorated cross hung from his neck and glowed in the sparse light. The lone candle flickered shadows across the figure, giving the impression that he more of a specter than a man. The figure slowly lowered his hood and revealed a preacher’s open face and a lion’s mane while his blue eyes sparkled with the Lord’s wisdom mingled with the gleam of a ravenous spider. A faint smile crossed his lips as he took in Ethan’s age and, yet, the figure did not seem much older than Ethan.
“Hello, Mr. Hertz, it is a pleasure to finally meet you,” said the figure, his voice was warm and brought forth a light from the stifling darkness.
“What do you want?” barked Ethan without looking up from his piece of paper, “I do not have time for formalities.”
The man frowned, “I am Timothy Murphy.”
“I know your name, now what do you want?” pressed Ethan, still staring at the paper, although he was watching the man out of the corner of his eye.
Timothy’s frown grew and he looked down at the map.
“I heard that you are close to winning this war.”
Ethan’s head snapped up from the piece of paper and stared at him coldly before shrugging, “There is a possibility.”
“What do you plan to do once it is over?”
“My goal, at this point, is to win,” said Ethan, returning to his piece of paper, “Then I will worry about what happens after the war.”
Timothy chuckled, “We both know you are far too politically savvy for that.”
Ethan glared at him, “Why do you care?”
“The Shadows not only destroyed our government, but they destroyed our religion as well,” said Timothy, his bright eyes hardening, “People have long forgotten Amal’s great sacrifice and His last command for all His followers. They have forgotten how to pray and they have forgotten how to hope.”
“And that concerns me how?” asked Ethan, slowly drinking from his glass, paper still in hand.
“Demons run wild in the countryside, terrorizing our people, while you, Christian, and Lewis play with yourselves,” snapped Timothy, throwing his hand in the air, his robes billowing around him, “When you win you will need to give the people something to rally behind as you try to restore order. Why don’t you let the people rally behind God?”
Ethan scoffed, “God abandoned our lands long ago.”
“We abandoned him first!” snapped Timothy, slamming the table and causing it to quiver.
Ethan waved him away and threw the piece of paper onto the table.
“I do not have time for religious crusades, Murphy,” he said, finishing his drink.
“Our country was created on the principle that we are Ari’s descendants. We carry his blood in our veins. We are the Lord’s chosen people.”
“Who He abandoned to the Shadows and Shardith’s own,” scoffed Ethan.
“Who tests our loyalty and faithfulness,” Timothy corrected.
Ethan rolled his eyes as he poured himself another glass, the flickering of the lone candle creating a dark gulf between them.
“Our people have no need for a God who tests them, Murphy. They need a God who will protect them.”
“He will, but first we must dedicate our country to His cause once more.”
Ethan looked at him skeptically as he closed the bottle.
“What are you suggesting we do?”
Timothy smiled; the dim light deepening it in a sinister fashion, “Our people need something to rally behind. They need to believe again.”
“Right.”
“Why not let them believe in the kings of old?”
“What do you mean?” asked Ethan, taking a sip from his whiskey.
“You are aware the Fathers of the Church used to handpick the kings after conversing with God, are you not?”
“Yes.”
“Why not bring that practice back?”
“Because no one from the old line of kings is still alive,” scoffed Ethan, picking up the half empty bottle and returning it to the chest, “The Shadows made sure of that and the last Father of the Church died five years ago without naming a successor.”
“I am his successor,” said Timothy leaning across the table.
Ethan’s eyes widened and he nearly dropped his glass. The candle’s flame flickered in a gentle breeze that drifted in through the tent flaps, dancing across Timothy’s open face. It couldn’t be. It wasn’t possible.
“They were destroyed…he was destroyed,” Ethan said, slowly, coldly, as the candle continued to cast a dark light onto Timothy.
“You cannot destroy God.”
Ethan’s face hardened as he took a sharp swig from his whiskey.
“No one will believe you.”
“They will,” said Timothy, pulling away from the table as Ethan slowly approached it.
“And how does that help me?” asked Ethan, placing his glass on the table and holding onto it for support.
“I am his successor and you are the last remaining heir of King Alexei.”
Ethan’s eyes grew even wider as they pierced Timothy and he tightened his grip on the table.
“That is not true.”
“But that is what the people need to believe,” smiled Timothy, his blue eyes gleaming.
Ethan stared at Timothy before pulled away from the table. He half turned as he ran a hand through his dark hair and laughed.
“What is so funny?” asked Timothy furrowing his eyebrows.
“A man of the cloth willing to lie so he can add the title of father before his name.”
“A man of God willing to lie to lead His lost flock back to Him,” frowned Timothy.
“And if we were to lie and they believe us, what then?” said Ethan, pacing, speaking more to himself than Timothy, “That will not be enough.”
“Then we reinstate the Hunters. We give the people faith that there are still pure and good men in our land. Once they have been reinstated, we go after the Demons.”
Ethan stopped in his tracks as he whitened.
“The Demons?” he whispered, the flame quivered and shrank and turned into nothing more than an ember, casting the room into almost utter darkness.
“Yes,” nodded Timothy, his eyes glowing with a holy fire, “It is time to claim our lands back from their infernal race.”
Ethan’s jaw clamped as his hands formed fists.
“I will not win a war meant to unite our country, only to turn around and tear it apart again just to hunt down those infernal rats!”
“You misunderstand me, Ethan,” said Timothy, walking around the table and placing a hand on his shoulder, “I do not mean to further destroy our country. I mean to unite it against Shardith’s spawn. What better way to unite God’s chosen people than to set them upon God’s enemy?”
Ethan pulled away from Timothy before running a hand through his hair.
“The Hunters still exist.”
“Without a leader or purpose,” Timothy said, “Many of them have simply turned into men for hire, cowardly dogs who do not deserve to use such a holy title.”
“And you think building a government around God will be enough to win the people’s trust?”
“How can anyone refuse the will of God?” said Timothy, a warm smile danced across his lips as his eyes flashed.
Ethan frowned, “Doesn’t it bother you that I am not a religious man?”
“You are not an atheist, Ethan. You may have fallen in your faith, but I know you still believe.”
“And why do you say that?” asked Ethan, raising an eyebrow
“Because God told me to come to you,” Timothy said, walking towards Ethan and wrapping an arm around his shoulder, “He would not send me to an atheist, not if He wanted that man to represent Him on the throne.”
Ethan did not appreciate having Timothy so close, but he found he could not argue or even walk away. There was something in the fatherly look Timothy gave him that dismantled his skepticism. There was a light that radiated off Timothy, a light that was felt more than seen, and yet seemed to fill the tent in a way the candle light never could. As Ethan stood near this light, he could not help but feel ashamed and he could only respond by looking down and admitting, “It is a daily struggle.”
“That is normal. I struggle everyday as well. The important part is not letting our people see us struggle,” said Timothy, gently squeezing Ethan’s shoulder, “They must believe we are absolutely dedicated to the Lord’s cause, otherwise they will not be.”
Ethan, using all of his strength of will, broke from Timothy’s grasp and stared at the map, once more, in an attempt to clear his head. Was Timothy right? Would this work? What did he have to lose?
“We will have to be pure, Murphy,” he said, his back towards the pastor, “And our Hunters will have to be pure. I am no friend to the Demons, but we cannot sink to their level. There must be lines we cannot cross.”
“Of course.”
“Although I suppose the fact that we are following God’s will gives us some legitimacy,” Ethan sighed.
“You must believe me that this is God’s will. I know it is hard to trust others when they claim they have heard the voice of God, but I have heard Him,” said Timothy, grabbing Ethan’s shoulders and whirling him around, “and He wants this to be done. He wants His country’s power restored.”
Ethan frowned as he avoided Timothy’s gaze. God’s will…
“If you are worried you are not worthy enough of the title of God’s king then take comfort in the fact that I will be there to guide you. It is my job, as the Father of the Church, to ensure that you follow God’s will, just as it is your job as God’s king to ensure I do not lose touch with the world.”
The tent flapped opened and a young officer ran in, “Sir, Christian has attacked. We are holding his army back, but your presence is needed.”
Ethan stiffened as he jerkily nodded his head, “I will be right there.”
The officer ran out as Ethan grabbed his revolver from the table and checked to see if it was loaded.
“Ethan, if you win this battle than you have won the war,” said Timothy, drawing away from the future king, his eyes burning.
“I know.”
“So what is your answer?”
Ethan paused as he closed the revolver. Steep was the price of peace. He brushed past the pastor and strode towards his tent flaps. He lifted one flap and looked across the foggy land. Bright flashes of red and yellow erupted before his eyes as gunfire and cannons shattered the quiet night. He heard his officer’s ghost voices echo down the line as horses screamed and men moaned. He had never been a religious man, but if Timothy has been sent here…If God was willing to take this country into his bosom once more and protect it…If He was willing to help Ethan usher in a new age of peace …Ethan stopped short, turned around, and nodded his head, “All right, pastor, we have a deal.”