“Brothers, we have much to do. I promise that was the most perilous switchback. The next one will not be nearly as bad, but one I fear will be more important, since we will be inducing higher numbers into the trap. We reconvene with Merlin and Cotteroy.”
Gil heard the charges going off from the distance. With a group of forty scouts and twelve marksman woberines, he ventures towards the sound of the explosions. Every few seconds the sound reverberates throughout the canyon in a cacophonous wail. And from a distance of two kilometers, he sees the devastation firsthand.
Since the scene is obscured by a thick blanket of dust, horses and men cannot be observed. Confirmation of the aftermath must be seen. From this distance, Gil hears the piercing wails and cries from the men who suffer from debilitating and life-ending injuries. There is little they can do for them.
A sense of dreary foreboding pervades his unscathed men. They are equally aghast at the level of devastation initiated by an enemy who, up to that point, been illusive and unable to be thwarted. The men had been in battles before. During this campaign, they strategically went into battle against hundreds of soldiers and constables. Some lost their lives.
And, they had the superior numbers and the expertise of an able-bodied King who is proficient in the art of warfare. But they never experienced guerilla tactic like this before. They are methodically and slowly being eliminated by an unseen force. All were on edge, unsure if the next step they take would unleash another series of charges that would bury them in an avalanche of debris. Or would they unsuspectingly succumb to a bullet to the head?
Germanicus knows that to induce another heavy charge of soldiers to give them chase is to tempt fate. Like teasing a two-headed snake, one is almost guaranteed to get bit eventually. The odds are hard to forget- ten men against thousands. But there is no turning back. There will be no option of negotiating if they are caught, no second chances.
Succeed or fail. Fail and see countless innocents slaughtered. Germanicus remembers Merlin’s plea for the girl, whose fate would be worse than death if they did not succeed and his heart goes out to her.
“Domithicus and Savelle, you men run point just on the opposite side of that ridgeline. There are approximately forty men near there. Instigate a fight and make sure that you are followed. Do you ken?”
“Ai. That we do, Brother.”
“Syrus, Savelle, you will accompany me to the opposite side of the canyon and we will run counter-point.”
“Ai. That we will.” They exclaim.
“Ai. Then let’s make quick work of them, Brothers.” Germanicus trusts his Brethren implicitly. Then why this feeling of angst and foreboding? Why does he feel like he is missing some vital clue? Had Merlin been withholding some vital information from him? Probably. The man is as taciturn as the night is black. Does the King have some insidious plan he will unleash on them? He doesn’t know, but he knows they have no choice but to continue. Live or die, he will persevere to the very end come hell or high water.
Domithicus and Savelle hide behind the ridgeline, as per Germanicus’ instructions. Along the canyon ridge, some thirty soldiers are nervously scampering about, trying to ascertain the next highest in charge, so they could implement some plan. Their communication network has been temporarily devastated. The men are as nervous as a newborn gilly in a lion’s den. Domithicus and Savelle exchange knowing looks with one another and nod.
With lightning quick accuracy, they emerge from their hiding place and begin to open fire on the soldiers. They find their mark quickly. Accurate bullets carve out cavernous holes in chest, legs, and heads, propelling men from their horses. Most are dead the moment they touch ground. The ones are alive barely have time to cry out in anguish before another barrage of gunfire silences them for good.
With one hand working the hammer and the other firing the pin, the duo spends their twenty-four shots in a dizzying speed. The soldiers retaliate and fire back. Several shots come perilously close to hitting both men, who duck for cover as their first rounds are spent. They jump into the thicket and reload their guns. Savelle readies his tommy rifle. The wolves, Boraco and Celek, stand obediently nearby, awaiting their commands.
Domithicus pulls the dog whistle from around his neck and blows it in E chord. The wolves know exactly what it means. Kill anything that ventures in.
They hear two soldiers approaching. They glance at each other again, nod, sprint to the other side of the thicket. As they emerge, their guns shoot in another display of mesmerizing speed and marksmanship. The soldiers attempt to locate their position but are briefly caught off guard and gunned down mercilessly in a hail of bullets. Several other soldiers retaliate and return fire. The Brethren sprint back and forth in a crisscross manner, making a hard target of themselves and confusing their aggressors. Bullets come perilously close, nipping at their heels like a rabid, unrelenting dog.
Celek and Boraco wait patiently in the thicket. When the gunfire resumes, the two soldiers turn around and attempt to make their way out of it. The wolves have been tracking their movements the moment they walked in. Their response to the battle is the time the wolves needed to close the distance. As the men turn their heads, the wolves are already in motion for their jump.
One soldier is butted to the ground by Celek’s thick skull. With the wind temporarily knocked out of him, he is unable to expel air and incapable of crying out. Celek pounces on him and seizes him by the neck, sinking his teeth deep into the skin and puncturing it, emitting a gush of crimson. He shakes his head violently, severing arteries as easily as a hot knife penetrates butter. The man’s neck breaks and his jugular vein severs, emitting a spray of crimson that stains dog and man both.
The other soldier’s death is not so merciful. When he turns to exit out of the thicket, he is stopped by the massive wolf that greeted him, Boraco. He seizes him by the hand, which reflexively tries to grab for his speed shooter.
Boraco begins to shake his head from side to side, while growling a death snarl. The hand severs. The soldier cries out and tried to reach for his other gun but is prevented. Blood continues to pour out of the man’s severed hand, while Boraco seizes his other hand and chomps down on it with considerable force, breaking every bone in it. The sickening sound reminds the man of crackling kindling, but it is nauseating to hear his own bones breaking in such a way. He vomits, while copious blood flow stains man, beast and foliage.
Unable to defend himself with his useless hands, the soldier resorts to his other bodily weapons. With Boraco locked to his shattered hand with a vise-grip, he rises on his haunches and attempts to kick out at the beast. It is a feeble attempt at a much more powerful foe. Besides, Boraco is well prepared.
As soon as he rises up on his haunches, Boraco releases the man’s hand and dives around imperceptibly fast to his side, biting down on his obliques until the tender muscles begin to rip apart. Blood seeps uncontrollably from the wound in spurts, indicating the severing of an artery.
The soldier wails in agonizing torment as his muscles are being literally strewn apart. Using his claws to stabilize himself, the power of his jaws and a violent shake of his head, Boraco succeeds in ripping out a massive chunk of flesh from the man, who cries out more piercingly in torment. Boraco ends the man’s cries for good as he closes in for the kill, ripping out his throat.
Savelle and Domithicus continue to unload rounds on the hapless soldiers with a dizzying quickness. As soon as their shell casings are spent, they reload just as quickly and resume firing, running crisscross to make a difficult target of themselves. For a moment, the chaotic scene dies down and silence ensues.
They look at each other and visibly breathe a sigh of relief. But before they can get too comfortable, the situation turns desperate as numerous reinforcements arrive to continue the fight.
The duo succeeded in killing at least forty soldiers in the gunfight, but there is too many of them to subdue. At least two hundred soldiers will arrive on the scene. The superstitious daze that cl
ouded their minds set them on unease and was replaced by a vicious sense of payback.
Savelle grabs up his tommy rifle and fires off several consecutive rounds, expelling numerous riders form their horses. It is not enough to abate the tide of soldiers who quickly replace them.
With their preternatural speed and endless supply of shells, the duo cannot possibly hold back the tide. They must fall back. And now. Shots ring out perilously close to them as they scurry away.
An eagle’s caw rings out in the valley, startling them. They look in the direction of the sound but see no one. The aggravating noise continues and they look again. This time, they notice Merlin along an ablated ridge about five hundred yards away. He signals them by giving thumbs up, turning the thumb sideways, and slaps his hand against his clenched hand. The signal is clear. Pull back. “Domithicus in the thicket, now!” Yells Savelle. Savelle jumps in the thicket and continues to the other side and assumes Domithicus is right behind him.
Before Domithicus escapes to the safety of the thicket, a piercing shot rings out and hits him under the base of the shoulder blade and exits out the rear deltoid. The force of the shot propels him backward and he cries out in excruciating pain.
Several enemy soldiers venture closer to Domithicus and are immediately gunned down by Cotteroy and Merlin.
Savelle looks behind him, expecting Domithicus to be on his bootheels, but he is nowhere to be found. “Domithicus!” He cries out. He receives no response and does not expect one. Domithicus has been killed or injured behind enemy lines. If he wasn’t dead already, he will most likely be when the soldiers reach him. If they are prudent, he will be arrested and tortured mercilessly for pertinent information about the aggressors. He will give them nothing, as all are expected to do.
Merlin and Cotteroy observe the devastating turn of events from their perch above the canyon base with a look of consternation. “Is he dead?” asks Cotteroy.
“No. I sense movement.” Cotteroy didn’t doubt Merlin’s veracity, but he squints and peers intently just the same. Unable to see anything, he picks up his hyper-oculars and looks. He too observes movement.
Domithicus’ movements are very slow, indicating a serious injury or perhaps he is being cautious and not wanting to induce the men into an aggressive response. A force of perhaps one hundred soldiers converge on him with guns cocked and ready to fire. With the slightest hint of aggression, they will kill him.
First Lieutenant Gil Nautilus’ brigade is the first to arrive on the scene after Domithicus is captured. Gil knows that to kill the man prematurely will only invoke the rage of the King. Being prudent and sensing his men’s agitated state and their capricious hair-triggers, he commands them accordingly. “Stand down men! This one must be alive to be delivered to the King himself. Stand him up!” His men comply, picking Domithicus up forcefully. He winces painfully as his shoulder is roughly seized.
“Let’s get a look at him and that wound of his.” He purposely grabs him again by the shoulder. Domithicus grimaces but does not cry out, refusing to give them the satisfaction. “What’s your name, soldier? Who are you with? Speak.” Domithicus looks at the Lieutenant with disdain and smiles sardonically. It infuriates him. He smashes his fist into his face, emitting a spray of blood. “Speak. Who are you?”
Domithicus smiles. “We are the Brotherhood and mine is the last face of my brood you shall ever see before your miserable, wretched life is taken, you murdering scrub!” Gil had been determined to hold his composure, but the man had gotten to him. He lashes out uncontrollably again, punching him in the face, emitting more blood from his nose, which is now broken.
Domithicus ponders Merlin would be able to fix it in no time. He laughs at why he should think such a thing when his life is hanging precariously in the balance. He would be tortured incessantly and murdered in the most heinous way. Resetting his broken nose should be the least of his concerns.
“Sergeant, get the apothecary and stitch this brigand up accordingly, so he doesn’t die before the King has a chance to torture him. We need him alive, so we do. For now.”
“Ai, Lieutenant. Set your watch and warrant it done.”
Gil ventures closer to the man and observes an obstinate disposition in his countenance he had never observed in an enemy before. Every enemy they had ever detained had a certain amount of defiance to him. Underneath the thinly veiled defiant exterior was a look of terror and Gil took great pleasure from that countenance. Especially for one who considers himself a master of torture, psychological warfare and intimidation.
Every enemy he encounters is vulnerable to breakdown and revealing intelligence, regardless of how much of a fight he puts up or boasts. This man is different. He had a piecing gaze that does not waiver. Not one flinch. Nor the hint of one. Perhaps he is mad. Did he know something that Gil does not? Impossible. He is delusional. That is all. He will be broken.
Forgetting himself, Gil ventures closer to the man, until he was only inches from his face, in a vain attempt to intimidate him. “We will break you, you Fuck! You can be sure of it, as sure of your whorin’ mother was a God-forsaken cunt you will.” Gil smiles sardonically.
“And we will break you all. But not before I break your face!” Domithicus violently head-butts Gil, emitting a splash of blood and temporarily blinding him as stinging tears burn his eyes. Gil yells out lividly and as soon as he can see, he pummels Domithicus with several blows to the face. He takes out his shooter and sticks it in Domithicus’ face, who only laughs. The Sergeant attempts to intervene before the unthinkable happens.
He presses his hand on Gil’s trigger hand and encourages him into relenting. “Lieutenant, you cannot kill him. Your life would be forfeit. You know this as well as the day is nigh, do you not?” At the mention of the repercussions for such actions, Gil’s cloud of seething rage dissipates and he looks at the Sergeant.
“Ai, Sergeant. We are well met. Tis true word you speak. See to the prisoner as I have ordered you.”
“Ai.”
(2)
Germanicus, Syrus and Savelle induce at least ninety men into giving them chase by murdering their highest-ranking officer, a Lieutenant named Cleotus Dannaver. The force chases the trio through a serious of narrow and perilous switchbacks at breakneck speeds. Unbeknownst to them, ten charges are placed strategically throughout the hairpin turns. When the first rider sets off the initial charge, a cascading rockslide drops hundreds of small boulders onto the pathway, completely engulfing at least ten riders.
The soldiers and their horses are crushed from the onslaught of debris, which buries them in a rocky avalanche. The ones that survive the initial onslaught are pelted with stones violently until they lose consciousness and fall to the ground, while more stones hail down upon them. No one in the immediate vicinity is spared from death.
Those who do manage to escape are gunned down by Merlin and Cotteroy, who parallel Germanicus’ team from the canyon peak. Dexterous fingers seamlessly and almost simultaneously thumb the hammer and cock the trigger so quick as to appear fluid and automatic. Rounds are fired with a dizzying speed and find their mark in the heads, necks and torsos of soldiers.
It is a nauseating scene of soldiers with body cavities violently breached by piercing bullets. Soldiers attempt to retrieve limbs severed from the onslaught of bullets as blood gushes from severed arteries.
At least twenty men who are riding on a separate switchback and hoping to outflank their aggressors are in for a rude awakening as well. They inadvertently set off the last four charges, expelling several boulders, which fall with a sickening thud on top of them. They are the lucky ones. In all, the ninety men who unwittingly followed Germanicus’ crew lose their lives.
The Brethren arrive at Briar Hill as planned, minus one-Domithicus. It does not escape the notice of Germanicus, who looks befuddled and worried. As the leader of his mini-brigade, he is responsible for the lives of his men.
“Justinian, where is Domithicus?” asks Germanicus.
/> “He fell in the battle. It was too late for me to turn back to retrieve him. I had no choice but to leave him.”
“Is he dead, Brother?”
“I don’t know.”
Merlin interrupts. “He lives. For now.”
“We must rescue him. Syrus, Savelle, join me and make haste. We will retrieve him.”
Merlin intervenes. “No, Germanicus. We continue with the plan. No man is worth the price of the mission. Domithicus knew the risks when we ventured here. He made oath, as we all have.” He looks around at his Brethren, as if daring someone to speak out of turn. They do not. They nod solemnly with downcast eyes, visibly affected by the uncertain fate of one of their own but helpless to intervene in his fate. Merlin knows in that moment that not one of the Brethren will move to aid Germanicus.
“We leave him to die? To be tortured mercilessly?”
Merlin moves towards Germanicus. “Ai, if need be.”
“And what of your code, Merlin? Leave no one behind. No collateral damage. Protect the innocent at all costs? “
“Individual Brethren are dispensable, Germanicus. The innocent is not.” Merlin puts a hand on Germanicus shoulder, who shrugs it away annoyingly. Germanicus turns to leave, a tenacity burning deep in his eyes.
“You will find no allies in your recklessness, Brother. Go and set watch and warrant, you’ll find death. And your death will serve no purpose, for us or Domithicus. An innocent girl’s life and dignity hangs in the balance. Stand with me as one.” At the mention of the girl, Germanicus softens. He turns around and faces Merlin and the Brethren. Obstinate and passionate eyes bore into him with the force of a stampede of oxenule. He sighs in frustration and acquiesces.
“Domithicus is not dead. When we destroy the enemy’s encampment, there will be ample opportunity to attempt rescue. There is a chance he can survive. Do not rule out the brash Corcorean. Like us all, he is a master escape artist. Our enemy has underestimated our abilities. They have no intelligence of our ability to escape from shackles. Come what Armageddon or nigh may, we proceed with the plan.”
The Brotherhood of Merlin Page 18