The Spaniards were beginning to get on his nerves. They had taken their zeal for the Reconquista, purging the Moors from Iberia and brought it with them to this strange new world. All the skills the Spaniards had learned both in warfare and religious fanaticism during the Reconquista they brought to this new fight, this Conquista of the natives of this place. While the natives were no more Christian than the Muslim infidels that had conquered Spain, they had committed no great atrocities against the Spanish. They had not subjugated and converted its people to their religion. They had done nothing, except stand in their way. Yet the Spanish warred with them with all the brutality and hatred they had used against the Moors.
Tymon watched the little Aztec village burn. The women and children screamed as the conquistadors rounded them up and shoved them into a pen their men had used for livestock. The men, every one over the age of twelve, littered the ground of the village their blood turning the clayey soil into mud.
“What is that look on your face Brother?” The monk standing next to Tymon asked. “Surely you are no stranger to the realities of war.”
Tymon sighed and turned away from the scene. Sadly the monk was right, he had seen far too much war. He knew all too well what happened to the people caught in them. “It is not my place to judge.”
“No, it is not.” The monk agreed. “It is your job, and mine, to convert these savages to our religion; to save their heathen souls. Let the soldiers do their jobs; then we will do ours.”
“How willing to listen do you think they are going to be after this?” Tymon spat.
“I think they will be very willing. They always are, with their men dead, their homes destroyed and no hope for life outside of the mission.” The monk laughed.
With his back turned to the village Tymon was the only one who could see the young man crouching at the edge of the jungle, well hidden in the dense foliage. He was at least fourteen or fifteen years old, old enough to get the sword instead of the pen. His wet eyes were full of rage and fixated on the Spanish soldiers doing their odious work. Tymon watched the boy’s body pulse as he worked up the courage to do something. Tymon knew what that something was going to be, and the inevitable results of an unarmed boy attacking trained Spanish soldiers.
”Brother Sanchez.” Tymon said. “I must relieve myself.”
Sanchez, still watching the conquistadors, didn’t even turn around. “Fine, do not stray too far into the jungle. There are jaguars.”
Tymon first went to the wagons and after a few seconds of searching found a grain sack of suitable size. Then he lifted the heavy Jesuit robes up off his body. The robes were cumbersome but they had their uses, they concealed Tymon’s sword for one and he hurriedly unbuckled it and placed it within the folds of the robe. He stashed both carefully underneath the wagon. Grabbing the grain sack and made his way into the jungle well away from where the boy was hiding.
The dense foliage was soft and wet; making it all too easy for Tymon’s experienced feet to tread silently through the jungle. He looped out in a wide arc, bringing himself back to the spot that the boy was hiding. As he worked his way along a fallen log he spotted the young man again. He was crouched in the same position. This close Tymon could hear the boy’s sobs as he saw his muscles tense and flex then go slack. Next to the boy lay an obsidian headed javelin and a small deer; so he had been hunting when the Spaniards had arrived.
Tymon crept ever closer, until they were just paces apart. He unfurled the bag and leapt quickly pulling it over the boys head, shoulders and arms before burying him under his weight.
The boy struggled furiously, but to his credit he did not cry out. Tymon tightened the bag around the boy’s shoulders and arms keeping the flailing legs pinned under his. Tymon made soft noises, gentle noises, having no idea how to speak in the boy’s language. Tymon wasn’t sure if it was the noises or the realization that he was completely incapacitated that made the young man stop struggling.
He pulled the bag over the boy’s legs and fastened the drawstrings. He slowly got up, the young man’s form was outlined in the sack but it did not move or struggle. Tymon looked back to the Spanish wagons and Father Sanchez standing there watching the soldiers tally the butcher’s bill and wondered what he was going to do now.
I am doing my homework and researching agents and I stumbled across a disturbing 
