The Brotherhood of Merlin

by Rory D Nelson

  Justinian and Ithicus emerge from the dense underbrush, having dispatched the last of the remaining sniper scouts. They cannot risk sniper fire from the proficient soldiers manning the vantage points if they hope to divide the large forces. The commanding officer will send out the squadrons in droves, hoping to eliminate the aggressors with the force of their vast numbers.

  The pair make their way down to where the forces awaits. They descend to a point where they are nearly three hundred yards away from the massive force and approach a thick, overgrown muelberry bush with dense cacti tulip leaves, which easily obscures them. A craterous ablation creates a natural ridgeline, so they can leave their horses on the other side, unseen.

  Justinian and Ithicus peer intently as the force makes its painstaking way through the canyon’s ascent. They are moving at a good trot, but to the Brethren they are moving at a snail’s pace. The distance and high nerves skews their perceptions. Justinian will ultimately decide when to initiate the first assault.

  He is the most decisive one. Ithicus is more of a follower, but when he commits himself to a course of action, nothing can deter him from it. Come hell or high water, he will accomplish his mission or die trying. And the man has a map grid of a memory. He can commit to memory the most elaborate of plans. In fact, his memory is outmatched by only one other Brother-Merlin.

  “It’s time, Ithicus. Prepare yourself. “Ithicus’ heart begins to trip-hammer in his chest. He focuses on breathing and clears his mind of everything except for the battle.

  “Ready the sniper scope,” says Justinian. Ithicus complies. He peers through it and finds their target, a Lieutenant by the look of it. He adjusts the pin-wheel for the appropriate calculations of wind-velocity, altitude and barometer. He takes aim, holds his breath, cocks the lever and holds his finger over the trigger, awaiting Justinian’s orders.

  “Now! Fire!” Ithicus fires and the expert marksman finds his mark. The effects are instantaneous and gruesome. The powerful fifty caliber shot rings out cacophonously. The Lieutenant’s head disintegrates when the bullet pierces it. Those hapless soldiers who are closest to him are splattered with brain gore and blood. The lifeless and headless body gushes prodigious blood flow from the neck, slumps down on the horse and falls off.

  The moment is so surreal, the soldiers nearest him are caught off guard and at first believe it to be some macabre joke. They did not witness the disintegration of their Lieutenant’s head. Did they? Several seconds of incredulity ensue, but then reality sets in.

  Justinian and Ithicus jump on their steeds and take off at a full gallop. Their hasty retreat does not go unnoticed by the soldiers, who follow. Captain Gerard Martimus observes the chaotic mess and the fleeing men. He calls to his Lieutenant. “Lieutenant Danniver, I want those men dispatched. Ready a hundred men now at my disposal. Make haste. Now!”

  “Ai. Sir.”

  The soldiers fan out and attempt to converge on the point of Justinian and Ithicus. A group of forty ride hard out to meet them. As they depart, the Brethren pull out their speed shooters seamlessly and begin to fire successive rounds in a dizzying speed every few seconds, while turning back around to steer their horses. Several soldiers fall but not enough to make a difference.

  They push their horses, Isabella and Cumulin to their limits. The horses whine in protest but comply with the orders.

  After they spend their first rounds, they reload just as quickly and fire again. Their marks are true, but the volley of soldiers converging on them cannot be stopped. Justinian’s horse Isabella rally ahead slightly of Cumulin. Several shots come perilously close to hitting the Brethren.

  They look at each desperately, unsure if they can make the narrow dogleg trail that lies a few hundred yards away. They continue to fire successive rounds at the approaching army but know there is nothing they can do to stop the onslaught. They will need the grace of God to survive this juncture.

  A strategic shot rings out and Cumulin abruptly stops while her hooves slide across the dusty hardpan. She rears up frenetically as a wound opens up on her back. She ejects Justinian through the air in a violent expulsion, knocking him to the ground, expelling the air from him. He breathes in hard, desperate air to compensate while he tries to get his bearings. He reaches for his guns and rears up on his haunches, firing both guns in rapid succession.

  Ithicus looks back but does not hesitate in the slightest. If it had been the other way around, Justinian may have hesitated for a second, deciding whether or not to go back for his fellow Brother. Ithicus however, does not waiver. It will prove to be his saving grace. Cumulin is much too big of a target. She takes a plethora of gunshots. Bullets rip into her flesh, opening up cavernous wound, expelling crimson on her gold coat. One bullet rips through her calf, shattering her and knocking her to the ground. Another bullet ends her life for good. Her massive neck flops over and she is still.

  Justinian is on a steep dogleg trail with men converging on him fast. He briefly considers making a run down the trail, but there will only be more men to fight. A bullet to his leg ends his decision for good. He reloads his gun and fires, sending a volley of men from their horses and to the ground. It is not enough to stop the tide of soldiers.

  Several more devastating shots ring out, blowing out his kneecap and hitting him in the gut. He is blown back on the ground. He tries to get up but another shot to the head ends his assault for good. He dies with a faint smile on his face.

  Celek feels the moment when her companion guardian expires. She howls in an unusual feverish pitch that sounds like part seal and part oxenule. The loss will affect her for some time.

  Ithicus barely makes it to the dogleg trail before a large group of soldiers converge on him. If it weren’t for the unusual speed of his mare, Isabella, he would have succumbed to the same fate as Justinian.

  The soldiers are unable to fan out but must go in single file through the cumbersome and narrow trail. This slows them down. Ithicus uses the fact that he is a single rider to his advantage and takes off at a full gallop after he slows for the hairpin turn. Some soldiers who did not slow down enough dive headfirst into one another as they are ejected from their horses. Most soldiers prudently slow down enough for the hairpin turn and are forced to navigate the trail in groups of two.

  Ithicus gallops as hard as Isabella can handle through the trail until it eventually widens through the canyon walls. Tears begin to well up in his eyes at the thought of his loss, but he pushes such thoughts away. There will be time for mourning later. He begins a steep incline for nearly a kilometer until he approaches the crest of the rocky ridge. From there, the trail declines sharply.

  On the other side of that trail, paralleling the Eucalyptus trees are Celek, Bailey, and Boraco.

  Ithicus looks towards them, pulls out his whistle and whistles sharply in E cord. In response, Celek, Bailey, and Boraco emit a guttural and high-pitched war howl. The feelings of comradery console Ithicus’ grieving heart. Ithicus enters the first hairpin canyon corridor, slowing down Isabella considerably. She whines in protest and is at the limit of her physical constraints.

  Ithicus takes approximately 45 minutes to traverse through the canyon corridors before he comes to a rudimentary ladder Merlin set up earlier. The canyon’s steep walls are nearly impossible to scale, so Merlin has positioned several wooden posts along a trail he has chosen.

  To allow Isabella to ascend the treacherous climb, he has also fashions two track system that run parallel to each other opposite the wooden posts. Ithicus marvels at Merlin’s ingenuity. Isabella seems uneasy. He pats her reassuringly. He tightens down the saddle to Isabella to the point where she is uncomfortable. She steps back in protest and neighs restlessly. She may be chaffed by the time she reaches the top, but she will not topple over.

  Ithicus takes a cable attached to a carabiner and places it in a peg that sits in the track. He does the same thing with another cable on the other side. Every 12 feet there is a locking mechanism that must be manually disl
odged. It will be a monotonous job of unlocking the hinge every 12 feet but absolutely necessary.

  Ithicus reassures Isabella again. She is reluctant but goes up the steep ascent. Ithicus walks alongside her and encourages her onward. The first hundred feet are monotonous and tiresome, but they toil on. At the halfway point, the climb becomes nearly a ninety-degree angle and Isabella seizes up from sheer terror. Every effort to assuage her is rebuffed.

  Ithicus is at a stalemate. As his eyes scan the area, he notices a parchment paper sticking out of a rock. He grabs it and notices Merlin’s unorthodox writing style, one dictated by a Braille pad rather than from a normal writing tablet. He opens it and reads it.

  Ithicus, I ken you are having trouble with Isabella. Leave her and ascend without her and I promise you will find something to help you. I pray that Justinian made it, but my premonition has revealed otherwise. If we do not see each other again in this life, then I’ll see you in the next, Brother.

  Ithicus smiles to himself. The tears were welling up and threatening to come down give way. He wipes them away. Only a few feet away from the note is a cable hook and carabiner.

  He drives Isabella up to it, though she bucks and whines. When they reach the cable, he clips Isabella to it and ascends to the top.

  When he ascends the plateau, he observes a turnstyle with a similar tract system like the one he just attached Isabella to.

  “Merlin, old friend. You have thought of everything, Brother.” He laughs heartily.

  He begins to turn the crank. It is surprisingly easy thanks to the counter weights that sit opposite the contraption. He hears Isabella whine, but her protests are not nearly as frenzied as before. She is moving up the impossible hill.

  As Ithicus begins to tire, he spies the head of Isabella. He turns the crank further and she mounts the top.

  He goes to her and immediately pats her affectionately to calm her. She settles down once her restraints are unleashed.

  Ithicus extracts his hyper-oculars and looks out over the Canyon Ridge. He prays that the wolves will do their part.

  Captain Gerard Martimus rides on hard, confident he can eliminate or capture the other culprit. The other soldier’s corpse had been searched thoroughly for any clue to their plans, but none were found. The Captain is not surprised. He didn’t expect to find any. He is momentarily disconcerted when the trail suddenly collapses and gives way to a narrow dogleg trail. Now they are forced to make painstaking progress.

  After a series of switchbacks, the trail begins to fan out once more; and when it does, Captain Gerard coaxes his men into a harder gallop, hoping to catch their last culprit. The bastard will pay for the ambush on his men. And if God wills and he still lives, he will be tortured mercilessly. Perhaps one will be left to make a real example of- a crucifixion. That would be deter any would-be-aggravators from toying with the likes of the Visi-Gauls.

  The trail begins to fan out more. He orders his men to spread out accordingly. When he turns around another switchback, he observes a number of massive Eucalyptus trees and inwardly remarks how it would have been a good spot for an ambush. If only they had the appropriate numbers for one. Still, a part of him remains apprehensive that few had caused such havoc on his men. If there were more men, were they lying in wait? Why did they not show themselves?

  Something about the trees sets the Captain’s mind at unease, something insidious lurking there perhaps. But if there is a force waiting, they would definitely have made their move by now. Still, Gerard’s mind screams caution. He just doesn’t know why.

  Celek, Bailey, and Boraco, wait patiently on the other side of the Eucalyptus trees on their rumps, patient but edgy. Their low-level whining is the only indicator of their unrest. Like their guardian Brethren, they long for the action of battle and grow bored during the intermittent lull.

  Ithicus stands on the top of the canyon ridge, peering through his hyper-oculars at the approaching army and smiles to himself. He wishes he could share this moment with his best friend. When the army makes their way to the halfway point along the descent before the turn, he blows on the whistle.

  When they hear the whistle, the wolves sprint into action.

  They parallel the horses who gallop at half speed. At their full speed, they quickly overtake them. They continue their sprint until they are well past them. They breast a sharp incline standing over the path of the approaching army. A large eucalyptus tree obscures them completely. They wait for their prey to arrive at the exact moment. Working in conjunction with one another, Celek peers through the tree line to determine the best time to jump out on to them. Bailey and Boraco sit at the other end of the drop off to give themselves a running chance.

  With his acute vision, Celek catches sight of the three riders who are leading the charge. He emits a barely audible yelp. Bailey and Boraco ready themselves. They relax their powerful muscles and lean back slightly. This creates a natural springboard to propel themselves and shoot forward with ferocious quickness. In less than twenty yards, they reach seventy percent of their full speed. When they reach the edge of the precipice, they jump as high as they can to clear the tree line and propel themselves onto the hapless riders.

  Before they finish their jump, Celek makes his way to their same starting position and begins his full sprint. As Bailey and Boraco hurl themselves into the air, he is sprinting nearly full speed to the ledge himself.

  The three riders in the lead are blindsided. Their gazes had been transfixed in the middle of the tree line on both sides, half- expecting a relentless volley of arrows or bullets to bombard them. They never expected an assault to come over the trees themselves.

  One rider hears movement. But by the time he turns his head to look up, it is too late. Celek lands on him with the weight of an oxenule from that height. He extends his claws and as he lands on the hapless soldier, his claws scrape against his neck, opening up a deep laceration. He falls to the ground and lands hard on his face, breaking his nose and jaw. With the high-pitched whine of the horse, a sickening crunching sound is heard. He tries to open his mouth, but cannot as he can barely move his jaw. Celek sinks his teeth deep into his tender neck, opening up his jugular vein and ripping through arteries. Crimson spurts, staining man and beast alike.

  When Bailey lands on the lead rider, he sinks his teeth deep into his shoulder, eliciting cries of surprise and agonizing wails.

  He forcefully ejects the rider, sending him to the ground. His back gives out with a loud sickening snap. He tries to raise his head and push him off but to no avail. Bailey bites down with his monstrously powerful jaws, ripping out his throat. Blood pours and pools on the hardpan. Shots ring out close to him, but none find their mark as the soldiers do not want to wound one of their own.

  Bailey dives into another man, knocking him from his horse and landing on him with his considerable weight. A loose hand reaches for his speed shooter. Unfortunately, it is seized in a vise-grip death. Bailey begins to shake his muzzle. The soldier is forced to watch in horror and excruciating pain as his arm is ripped from its socket. He cries out in a blood-curdling high-pitched effeminate scream that could have woken the dead. Bailey ends his screams for good when he sinks his teeth deep into his skull and rips his head off. Blood pours from his neck like a broken dam.

  Bailey sprints off down the trail, while a volley of bullets rings out, echoing through the canyon with ear-deafening rapidity.

  Unable to get a clear shot on the wolves and being too far away, most soldiers hesitate from firing a shot. The unexpected method of attack leaves them discouraged and bewildered. The men look to their Captain. A look of desperate horror is pasted on his face. For several seconds he is too stunned to command.

  “Captain!” yells Lieutenant Din Frost.

  When he fails to snap out of it, he brushes up and bumps the side of his horse. Gerard looks up with a pained expression like a boy who has been woken from a nightmare. “What are your orders?” asks Din Frost.

  Gerard breaks fr
om his stupor. He looks towards the trail. “Follow them. At Tempest Halt!”

  “You heard him men,” barks Frost. “Pursue them!”

  The soldiers comply, kicking their horses into a full gallop. But lacking the agility, breaking power and litheness of their canine aggressors, they are forced to slow down to a crawl to navigate the sharp turn into the canyon corridor or risk hitting the canyon wall head on.

  An obstinate disposition and bloodlust soon replaces indecision. He kicks his horse on faster once he clears the next hairpin turn. He is confident his men can subdue the wolves and the other aggressor, who is likely hiding out somewhere in the canyon corridors, readying himself to ambush them. He will not play into his hands. He will spread his men out and outflank the bastard. He knows the landscape. These corridors wind around in a veritable maze and several corridors are dead ends themselves, leaving the culprit little choice for escape.

  He is stupid for believing that he can escape through them, whoever he is. This is clearly an attack born out of desperation. Why does an ice-cold chill run down his spine, as if they are walking into a trap? Were they? No, that was preposterous. There is probably fewer than three hundred men. What could they possibly do? What trap could they lay for them?

  “Fan out further men! When you round a corner, have your archers fire a volley of arrows. They are most likely waiting in ambush. Use prudence and most of you shall live to see another day. One hundred gold pence to the man that can bring me the wolves, dead or alive. Five hundred to the one that brings me the man, dead or alive.” A fervent war cry rings out from several men. The archers begin to ready their bows.

  Captain Gerard intones that perhaps he lacks the authority to offer such generous recompense, but what is done is done. When they are successful, he will win the favor of the King himself. The man is capricious but he will be happy with victory and will reward those who help to achieve it, regardless of the cost.