The Brotherhood of Merlin

by Rory D Nelson

  One hapless soldier turns in the direction of the gunfire and is blindsided by Celek. She is only about ten yards from him in the bush. As the gunfire erupts, she sprints for him. He turns to look in her direction and she closes the distance.

  His peripheral vision caught movement, but it is too late. The moment he turns around in the other direction, Celek seizes him by the jaw in vise-grip of death. In his moment of surprise, he drops his revolver and tries unsuccessfully to unhinge the beast from his face. Celek chomps down with her considerable strength and his face literally collapses in on itself.

  If he could have screamed, his blood- curdling screams would have woken the dead, but he was incapable. The dog shakes his powerful neck from side to side and his face is literally torn from his shattered facial muscles. He twitches and writhes uncontrollably. The wolf mercifully ends his inward cries for good when she tears out his throat.

  Other soldiers pursuing Justinian and Cotteroy in the bush are killed by the other wolves-Linamus, Shep, and Troubadour, the largest and most powerful of the wolves.

  As the soldiers retaliate with gunfire in the obscurity of the bush, they are unable to pinpoint a target and see; and thus, their shots are haphazard. The wolves however, who are silently encroaching upon them, have no problem seeing.

  The men are helpless to stave them off.

  The cacophony of gunfire abruptly stops. Germanicus emerges from the brush, puts his thumb and index finger in his mouth and whistles. Celek is the first to emerge from the thicket. Crimson stains his beautiful, honey-gold coat. Linamus, Troubadour and Shep follow. In minutes, Germanicus and his team hear the approaching hoofs. They ready their guns just in case. Jamison and Ithicus emerge, unscathed and battle-ready for more bloodshed. Germanicus pumps his fist. “Well done, Brethren!”

  Merlin and Shadow successfully travel to the other side of the Eukrades River without being observed by any of the men. Working in synchronicity, the duo uses the obscurity of the dense bushes to surreptitiously sneak up on their unsuspecting targets and dispatch them with ruthless efficiency. At times, Merlin purposely makes a sound to draw the attention of one of the soldiers.

  When the soldier reacts and looks in his direction, Shadow sprints for him and knocks him to the ground, locking on his neck and breaking it with a shake of his powerful muzzle. At other times, Shadow draws the reaction of one of the soldiers and Merlin throws a dagger at the unsuspecting soldier with a powerful throw to the jugular. In less than an hour, forty men fall prey to the deadly duo.

  As Merlin and Shadow breast the ridgeline, they observe several horses, standing tethered. A great idea occurs to him. He picks up his last kill and ties him up to the horse. He takes out his Braille pad and begins to feverishly write out a message.

  Chapter 24: A Message from Merlin

  He laughs sardonically. “You have aided in this mischief, little one. Tonight, I will break you in, with my cock or other.” She is unable to meet his piercing gaze. “But first, you shall witness the demise of your protector- your failed protector. Set watch and warrant it done.” He grabs her and hoists her up on his horse.

  They ride back to the encampment intent on gratuitous cruelty. Jason barks out orders. “Tie him up! Time to put an end to that insolent tongue of his. Cut it out! “The soldiers comply. When one soldier foolishly attempts to put his finger in Simon’s mouth to extract his tongue for the severing, Simon bites down on it with all his might. The hapless soldier cries out in agonizing torment. Fueled by intense rage, Simon succeeds in severing the digit.

  “Imbecilic Fucks you are!” cries Jason. He picks up a Billy club and smacks it across Simon’s jaw, breaking it in several places. Simon reflexively tries to move his jaw, but the slightest movement causes excruciating pain. It is no matter. He will not be eating or speaking again. And he will be subjected to more intense pain before he dies. “There you have it boys!” Jason opens up Simon’s mouth, which swings open easily.

  Simon does not resist. Jason takes his tongue and begins to sever it with a long, serrated knife. Simon’s eyes dilate to twice their size and he screams silently as torrents of pain flood his body. He purposely uses long, slow strokes to prolong the task, ensuring maximus agony.

  He displays the tongue, as some worthy prize, much to the delight of the soldiers, who cheer raucously. Jason throws the tongue in the fire and the soldiers applaud. He puts on gloves and picks up a knife sitting in the fire to cauterize the wound. He could not have Simon bleeding to death prematurely. Jason opens Simon’s mouth and presses the blade on the bleeding wound.

  The skin sizzles and spits. The bleeding stops. Simon tries to cry out, but he only emits a pathetic squeal, delighting the soldiers more. The pain is monstrous, but his fear of what will come of the girls trumps it. He says a prayer on her behalf.

  “Let that silence your insolent tongue, traitor!” The crowd roars in approval. Jason walks over to Simon and smiles. “The last moments of your life will be the most painful. You will experience more pain than you ever imagined.” Simon looks at Jason defiantly, never wavering from his piercing gaze and nods. Get on with it. Jason begins to pummel Simon viciously, slamming his fist into his face over and over again, letting up only to brace himself for a heftier punch.

  The numerous rings on Jason’s hands exacerbate the effects of the punches several times and by the time Jason finishes, Simon’s face is no longer recognizable as human. His jaw is completely unhinged and is recessed deep in his face, giving him a monstrous visage fit for nightmares.

  One eye is completely swollen shut and the brow surrounding the eye is broken. The other eye is swollen and Simon can barely see out of it. He concentrates on holding onto the center part of himself. They will take everything else. He observes Sylvia in the corner. She cries incessantly, glances in his direction for a moment only to meet his gaze. He shakes his head as he tries hard to meet her gaze. Look away child.

  Temporarily satisfied with the beating he unleashes on Simon, Jason relents. This is not done for Simon’s benefit. Jason knows that if he doesn’t stop, the traitor will eventually lose consciousness and possibly die. That would ruin the festivities. “Chain him up and pull him apart. The first man that succeeds in ripping off one of his appendages is granted a two-week reprieve of duty and three hundred gold pence to boot.”

  The soldiers clamor in approval. They pick him up and chain each one of his appendages. Several large brutes immediately vie for the chance to pull apart the traitor. Soldiers take vicious swings at each other to ensure their place. Jason permits them their fun and smiles sheepishly at the display. Eventually, four large brutes are chosen, the last four men standing from the scuffle.

  “It would appear we have our men!” Jason yells. The chains and the handcuffs are tightened down unnecessarily tight to aid in the severing of appendages. The four soldiers that were chosen put on gloves to aid them in their grips. Simon hoped the men are inhumanly strong and he will lose a limb quickly, but he knows that is wishful thinking. The severing of his tongue would be nothing compared to this. All are ready.

  Jason smiles. “You may begin.” All the soldiers dig in deep with their bootheels, attempting to gain the best leverage fort this macabre tug-of-war. To loosen up the joints, the soldiers are pulling on Simon’s legs pull them back unnaturally far, eliciting gurgled and incoherent screams of agony from Simon. The ligaments and tendons give way and split, causing a torrent of mind-numbingly excruciating pain to flood Simon’s body.

  He prays for immediate unconsciousness but none is afforded him. With the considerable strength of the men, the ligaments and tendons soon gave way in his arms. Soon, Simon is incapable of being able to control his appendages. As excruciating as the pain is in his legs, he feels more intense pain in his arms as his appendages begin to lose their ability to reflex.

  The soldiers dug in harder, eliciting grunts of fatigue from strained muscles that are being pushed to their limits. This is the same concept of being racked. The oxygen i
s expelled from Simon’s body, rendering him incapable of drawing breath and yelling out. He agonizes in relative quiet. His monstrous countenance mirrors the tumult his body feels as it’s being torn apart. Simon feels the socket from his right shoulder completely give way and unhinge.

  He feels his skin begin to tear as the appendage finally begins to separate. With a sickening sound, the appendage breaks free from his shoulder, severing a major artery in his arm and causing a prodigious amount of blood flow to gush uncontrollably. Simon quietly thanks God for the reprieve from agony. The pain abates from him as his body becomes increasingly numb and the life force drains from him. He drifts off from consciousness, with thoughts of his family and their imminent reunion.

  Sylvia tries to avert her eyes from the monstrous spectacle, but she is incapable. She glances in the direction of the torture, that hateful part of her that possesses a morbid curiosity as all humans have, dominating her actions. She is repulsed beyond anything she ever dreamed capable and yet she cannot look away to save her life.

  She cries hysterically, at times dry tears, for she has nearly used up her tear ducts. When Simons’ arm is ripped from its socket, she vomits in revulsion. Some of the soldiers are unable to stifle queasy stomachs. They shrug and laugh it off, careful not to raise the implication they were of a weaker disposition than their comrades.

  Jason laughs. His festivities took him well into the morning hours. Dawn has come and gone, and he is oblivious to the volatile powder keg that is brewing. “Now Cusses, that there is how you finish a beating!” He clasps a subordinate on the back and laughs harder.

  Commander Marcus Battilus approaches the King with a look of consternation. “Your Grace, it is with some misgivings I -“

  Jason cuts him off. “Speak, Commander. You seek to interrupt me for trivial matters? What concerns you? Speak it and you had better not be tripe.”

  The Commander swallows hard, fearful of a potential backlash and perhaps a violent one to boot. “It concerns the security patrol, your Grace.”

  “What of them? I would hope they would not be slacking off this fortnight? There would be serious sanctions if it is found-”

  This time it was the Commander who cuts off the King. “The security patrol is nowhere to be found.”

  Jason looks at his Commander annoyingly. “Then send out a scouting party to ascertain where they are. Have them report back.”

  The Commander struggles to meet his gaze, his eyes downcast, beseeching, visibly cringing and fearful for his own fate. If there is to be a backlash, the Commander would be the hapless recipient. “Already done, your Grace. We sent out a scouting party. They have not returned. That was hours ago and currently, they are unaccounted for.”

  A moment of silence and indecision ensues. Jason’s mind seeks hard to rub off the vestiges of grogginess and tries to wrap his mind around the predicament. Anger is naturally his first reaction to bad news and this was the emotion that surfaces. He yells out, so loud that the revelry of the soldiers abruptly comes to an end. It is eerily quiet after his outburst. “Unaccounted for! What the hell do you mean, unaccounted for?”

  “Your Grace. We thought only to alert you when it was ascertained that-”

  “Fool!” Jason tried hard to ignore the voice that speaks of impending doom. The voice that warned him not to underestimate the Brotherhood. Jason would not heed the voice now. It is impossible. The man is not fit to be a leader. He is a vagabond and lacked true nobility. It is preposterous.

  “Forty men is of no consequence. We overlooked the constables of Visalia. They have retaliated. They will be dispatched, I assure you. We will make quick work of the cusses. Set watch and warrant, there is nothing to fear.” Jason begins to visibly relax as he finds himself giving into the fantasy.

  “Your Grace, there is more. The men on the western encampment are unaccounted for as well. We cannot shrug this off as a retaliation from unforeseen constables of Visalia. We dispatched everyone.”

  “How many?” He asks with carefully measured restraint. When Marcus does not immediately answer, Jason nearly screams at him. “How many?!”

  Marcus is momentarily speechless and indecisive for several seconds. He will be beaten if he does not answer his King and yet the answer to his query will likely result in a beating. As the saying goes, ‘He was a ham in a hassock or a ham in the oven. A tripe to be eaten either way.’ “Your Grace, at least two hundred men have been unaccounted for.”

  “Fool!” Jason roars at him. “Why was I not informed of this?!”

  “Your Grace.” Jason cuts off the Commander with an assault to the face. Blood gushes from his broken nose. “I do cry your pardon, your Grace. We believed in our abilities to properly handle the situation. It was an oversight on my part.” Jason smashes the Commander in the face again.

  “Find them! I want their heads. Bring them to me, or I shall have yours, Commander. Of that I solemnly do promise you.” Marcus shudders. He has no doubt the King will make good on his promise.

  Marcus’ chastisement comes to an abrupt halt when a perturbed and reckless horse whines as it makes its way through the encampment at breakneck speeds. Several soldiers try to stop the beast, but only the master stableman can step out and assuage the beast. But the horse is not what had drawn everyone’s attention.

  It is the dead man whose throat had been slit. Trying to make use of himself and avoiding the violent and capricious backlashes of his King, Marcus ventures over to the horse. Inside is a piece of parchment paper. Marcus’ eyes dilate to twice their size and he finds it impossible to swallow.

  Those who seen the note know who written it. The mere mention of the man brings an ice-cold chill down the spines of his enemies. He is more myth than real, but the officers heard the stories- a blind man with preternatural gifts to rival the angels and demons themselves.

  He is the Merlin, possibly the deadliest man alive, the first man to bare the title of Merlin in over two hundred years. If he were lying in wait for them, who knows how many he had at his command. One thing is for certain. He will not take prisoners.

  With parchment paper in hand, Marcus finds it difficult to breathe. He is momentarily indecisive. Irritated and frustrated with his inept Commander, the King walks up to him and grabs the parchment paper from his hand. He looks at it uncomprehendingly, for he cannot read Braille.

  He turns to Marcus. “Well, what does it say, Commander?”

  “Your Grace. I do not read Braille.” The King rolls his eyes.

  “Then get me someone who can, imbecile!”

  “Your Grace, I do invoke pardon. Barnabus Barratius, the Sage, is fluent in Braille. He can decipher the message.” Marcus motions to a subordinate. The man approaches. He orders him to summon the Sage.

  “Make haste, Corporal, lest you should have a beating of your own. I’ll give you five minutes to produce Barnabus.”

  “Ai. Set watch and warrant it done.”

  The soldier makes Godspeed and returns with the Sage in under four. Marcus is impressed. Perhaps it is dumb luck and the Corporal knows the Sage personally. A sheepish and frail man approaches the Commander wearing the traditional garb of a Sage, a hooded cloak and a peasant’s smock of Uder wool, and sanderlis for the feet.

  Transcribing documents is his job and he is not accustomed to answering to high officers. He is here to record the victories of the Visi-Gauls and to portray the King in the most favorable light so it can be preserved for posterity.

  Marcus comes directly to the point. “Sage, you are well versed in Braille, are you not?”

  “Ai, that I am Commander.”

  He gives the parchment paper to him. “Translate this.”

  The sage looks at the document and he looks to the King, squeamishly. “Your Grace?”

  “What is it, Sage?”

  “The letter is addressed to you, so it is.”

  All eyes look towards the King, whose look of worried aggravation distresses all. “Translate, Sage.”

 
“Now, I am reading what Merlin has written, so please do not take offense at-”

  “Now before I strike you dead Sage!”

  The sage hesitates no further. He reads “You who are fraudulent King of the Visi-Gauls; greetings inept King. I am Merlin. We have no titles among us, but if we did, I suppose I would be in charge, the leader of the Brotherhood, The Confederate Knights of the Round Table.” The sage hesitates briefly and looks at the King, who grows angrier from the insults in the letter.

  The sage already read the letter to himself and knows the King will be seething towards the end. He now fears for his own life. He continues nonetheless, for if he doesn’t, his life will also be in jeopardy. “We will accept your surrender under the following terms and only under the following terms. Failure to meet one of these stipulations and we will kill everyone. First, you must return the plunder you have taken from the lands you have raped and pillaged, begging the people’s forgiveness along the way. Secondly, you must present the nobles over to us for execution, all the officers, no exceptions. We will permit one officer to live to accompany the enlistees over to the constables at Khatul, where they will be imprisoned. They may yet be paroled someday. And last, and this is the most important. You must offer the head of your King to us in recompense for the crimes you have perpetrated against us. Failure to do any of these-”

  Unfortunately, the sage is never allowed to finish the sentence. Jason pulls his speed-shooter from his holster and shoots the sage dead on the spot. The crowd is deadly silent. A faint whimpering is all that is heard in the seconds after.

  “Commander!” Jason roars.

  “Your Grace?”

  “Send the squadrons out, every one of them and scouting parties. I want that insolent bastard’s head on a stake. Now!”

  “Your Grace. A word.”

  “You don’t agree, Commander?”