Sacred Cause

          The shimmering moon gleamed silver on revolvers and gun-belts strewn across camp. Gunslingers sat round a sputtering brush fire high up the mountains, darkness crushing with deep-sea gravity, forcing their minds inward.
          One broke the gloom. “Is the village near?” 
          Leaning against a tree in the wavering light beyond their circle, Val shifted, spat on the pine-needled ground. “Soon,” he said.
          “Then home?” asked another. The rest looked up from unhappy thoughts.
          “Sortan willing,” said Val.
          They wilted, turned back to the fire. One asked what haunted all. “Are we to do as we have done?”
          “We’ll not question Sortan’s judgment,” said Val, “only obey His decrees.” He pulled from his cloak a small faded book, said, “The hymn together.” It was a familiar verse that cheered them after a grisly deed, instilled righteous fervor:   
          “Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the Lord
          He is trampling out the vintage where the grapes of wrath are stored;
          He hath loosed the fateful lightning of His terrible swift sword;
          His truth is marching on.

          Glory! Glory, Hallelujah! 
          Glory! Glory, Hallelujah! 
          Glory! Glory, Hallelujah!
          His truth is marching on!”
          They doused the fire, huddled in cloaks. Already nightmares were surfacing from the depths of their subconscious.
          Val crept from camp and through the brooding forest, sat dredging over his crusade on frosted grass stained blue by stars and moon.
          They walked on a terrace circling the Holy Temple of Sortan’s central turret, green mountains rolling on the horizon. 
       
          “Val,” said the Grandmaster, “will you spread His glory?”
          “Again?”
          “Always.”
          “My men are losing faith.”
          “Win their hearts with noble song; they will follow.” 
          Val sighed.   
          “Heroes serve when no others have courage.” 
          “Must I?” 
          The Grandmaster glowered, snapped his fingers and white-robed sentinels swarmed Val. One pulled a worn cat-o-nine-tails from his belt. The others grinned.         
         
          A breeze lashed through the trees, wrenching Val from his stinging reverie. He crumpled, sobbing, sobbing beneath guilt for everything since. But musing reverently on empyreal Sortan, remorse streamed away alongside his tears, devotion draining his heart.       

                                                  *  *  *

          A weak sun smoldered in a dim sky. Val sat praying his men would wake, endure another day. They stirred, rising sweaty, rubbing tired eyes.
          “Must we?” asked one.
          “Always.”
          “Don’t you think…”
          “No.”
          “I fear…”
          Val whipped out his revolver and a searing flash erupted; death rumbled forth. The man slumped, clutching his side. 
          “We go,” said Val.
          The gunslingers looked horrified at their comrade moaning, Val standing, the sun glaring.

                                                  *  *  *

          Stamping through bracken, village beyond the pines ahead, Val motioned, “There is a path leading to their sanctuary.” Several gunslingers angled for the village’s far side.
          The rest advanced to the trees’ verge and dropped behind brambles, watching the children playing in the field rippling, women washing clothes in the creak, men talking and laughing. Storm-clouds swathed the sun, immersing all in sudden shade; the children and women and men gathered, walked slowly towards the village.
          The gunslingers drew revolvers, checking that their chambers were gorged and cross-belts lined with shells. They thundered forth, a looming wave of righteous angels.     
          A girl chanced to look back. She screamed and the whole throng turned, beheld their doom approaching. The children and women scurried towards the imagined safety of home. Though unarmed, the men stood tall facing kismet. 
The gunslingers unleashed a serrated salvo and fated men fell in sodden heaps. The rest cradled stricken friends, comforted shrieking wives, kissing them, whispering that everything would be alright.
          The charging gunslingers holstered their revolvers, unsheathed sabers.
          A man stood dignified until a saber stabbed through his gut and out his spine. Val yanked it loose, slashed at his falling face.
          Another reached back to strike. Val sidestepped, hacking at the elbow. The man sank screaming to his knees. 
          Another raised his hands, pleading for mercy. Val sliced a line across his throat and he fell gurgling.
          The few surviving fled in frantic exodus. The gunslingers pursued, sheathing their sabers, drawing revolvers. They slowed, leveled their revolvers, fired. Val’s shot blasted a woman’s shoulder, chunks of muscle ripping through the air.
          He aimed, fired.
          Aimed, fired.
          Aimed, fired.
          Aimed, fired.
          Halting at the village threshold, he snatched shells from his cross-belt, reloaded the smoking revolver. A woman darted down an alley, striving for the path that wound away to freedom. He sprinted after, rounding the corner. 
          Rusted wire blockaded any escape. The woman sagged like a scarecrow on the many barbs piercing her limbs and chest. A barb through her neck prevented screaming and life spurted to the ground. Val looked into her eyes, his morose face peering back. He turned, ignoring her gasps, her eyes.
          “Val,” said a gunslinger as he shambled out the alley, “the children are scattering down the mountains.”
          He stared dismayed at all the bodies still and still writhing, the ground mired with blood. “Leave them; we must raze the village.” 
          Gunslingers heaved deadwood from the forest, struck flint until they had a roiling flame. Dipping branches into the bonfire, they hurled torches on every inn, hut and outhouse, forging hell on earth. With passion ebbing, they departed; crimsoned boots slogged over the field, splashed across the creek.

                                                  *  *  *

          At a pass higher up, when the thrill of killing subsided, the weary troop halted and sat grim. 
          “We had to?” asked one.
          Silence.
          “Is there another?”
          “We go.”
          The gunslingers marched on, singing a familiar verse that cheered them after a grisly deed, instilled righteous fervor. Val turned, gazed on the world below. 
          Round the mountains swelled plumes of black smoke. Lightning rent a baleful sky. Children lonely and frightened milled in the valley as an anthill churning. On gusting wind their anguished cries engulfed Val; he stood entranced. The children wept for parents he had taken, burning homes he had taken, joy and love and hope he had taken—aching for slaughtered souls. He heard his men singing:     
          “Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the Lord
          He is trampling out the vintage where the grapes of wrath are stored;
          He hath loosed the fateful lighting of His terrible swift sword;
          His truth is marching on.

          Glory! Glory, Hallelujah! 
          Glory! Glory, Hallelujah! 
          Glory! Glory, Hallelujah!
          His truth is marching on!”