The Brotherhood of Merlin

by Rory D Nelson

  (2)

  Ithicus arrives at Briar Hill without Justinian. It does not escape the notice of the Brethren.

  Savelle waits until Ithicus dismounts his horse before confirming the tragic news that is on their minds. “Justinian has perished, has he not, Brother?”

  “Ai, it is so,” says Ithicus, with downcast eyes.

  The other Brethren sigh sadly, remove their boa hats and genuflect.

  “He gave his life for our cause, for this cause. Let us honor him by seeing it to fruition.”

  “Ai!” exclaim the Brethren.

  Savelle’s tears begin to well up. He looks away from the Brethren in shame. He will not cry in front of them. “You know I was never one with words.” He says.

  “You still aren’t,” says Syrus. The other Brethren laugh, but Savelle is not amused. He gives Syrus a reproachful look.

  Syrus nods and cast his eyes down. “I cry pardon Brother. When I cannot handle my grief, I turn to what I ken well. Humor.”

  “Say thankee Brother.” He sighs. Long on contemplation and short on speeches, but he needs to speak. “I was never one for speeches, but Justinian was. To the man who loved to read poetry over a drinking game. To the man who bested me in many ways. I looked up to him. He carried me during my training many a time. And I do say I wouldn’t be here today if it weren’t for him.”

  The Brethren nod in remembrance. “He gave a speech at my wedding. My wife still speaks of the heartfelt words he uttered. Only Merlin could have articulated it as well.”

  The Brethren continue to nod. “I wouldn’t be the man I am today if not for him at my side. He was a Statesman, a poet, a ponderer, an enchanter. But most of all, he was a Brother. I am not alone when I say that this Brotherhood has been set back with the death of our friend.”

  “Ai!” yell the Brethren in unison. Atticus, Cotteroy, and Syrus turn away uncomfortably and rub at their eyes. Germanicus whispers in hushed tones to Cotteroy and Jamison.

  It does not escape the notice of Merlin. “Germanicus, what concerns you? We have no secrets here. Any misgivings? I would hear them.”

  Germanicus pauses. He looks at Cotteroy and Jamison for support. They nod.

  “Why do you look to them, Germanicus? Speak it.”

  “Perhaps, Merlin, we could palaver among private ears.”

  Merlin shakes his head. He looks exasperated. “No, Germanicus. There is nothing we can discuss in private that is not meant for the ears of the Brethren.”

  Germanicus sighs. “Very well, then. Should I lay out the facts for you?”

  Merlin smiles sheepishly. “Ai. As you see them.”

  “By my reckoning, I estimate that we have dispatched at least 1,500. Maybe 2,000. That sound about right?

  Merlin nods. “Ai.”

  “That means there are at least 7,000 we must contend with.”

  “I’m a mathematician, Germanicus. I can do simple arithmetic.”

  “Cotteroy and I have observed approaching Orachain camp not far away. Did you configure the Orachain into this assault?”

  Merlin smiles with the aplomb of a god.” Trust me Brother. I have considered them in this war.”

  “And if it is ascertained how horribly outgunned we are, then what is stopping the Orachain from joining the Visi-Gauls in their campaign?”

  “I’ve considered every angle, my friend. Orachain and Visi-Gaul alike.”

  “Have you?”

  “Ai.”

  “We’ve never faced these odds before. This is a suicide mission with ten garrisons on our tail. An army of Orachain are on our doorstep. And as of yet, we know nothing of their intents. There are over four hundred of the best trackers commissioned for this campaign.”

  “Anything else?” asks Merlin bitterly.

  “We started out with ten men and we are less. Now, did I miss anything?”

  “Just the part when you said that you trusted me and you had absolute faith in me.”

  “There is another way,” says Germanicus.

  “I would hear it.”

  “We go to Monavey. There is a telegraph machine. We could have five hundred soldiers here in less than a week.”

  “In one week, those prisoners will be in Cathrall, under the boot of the Orachain. Many of them will not last a month,” says Merlin in exasperation. “They don’t have a day. They don’t have a week. I would give my life so not one of them would spend a day in that hell whole.”

  “As I would!” says Savelle.

  “I would as well, Merlin,” says Syrus. The Brothers give Cotteroy and Jamison disparaging glares. The inevitable faction rears its ugly head like a hideous demon birth.

  “Our deaths will serve them no purpose. We cannot help them.”

  Merlin glides to Germanicus and stands to him until he is only inches from him. Germanicus instinctively backs up. “When will you trust me, Brother? Completely?”

  “We’ve never seen these odds.”

  Merlin takes off his glasses, revealing dark blue cataracts, surrounded by an unnatural white cloud. They appear tumescent, passionate and sorrowful, mirroring Merlin’s disposition.

  Germanicus winces and turns away, affected by the pain in those eyes, which lack the ability to see, at least in the way that others see.

  “I carry this pain, this cross. I’ve been to Cathrall and I carry this with me always. I will not have our people suffer the same fate. This is the only way we can preclude that, my friend. We may very well die, but if we deviate from this plan, they have no choice. We leave now and thousands more of our people will die, set watch and warrant it.”

  Germanicus shakes his head. “What do you see in me, Brother when you read my mind? Do you see me revealed for what I truly am? A coward who hides under the cloak of the Brethren?”

  “I’ve never read your mind, Brother.”

  Germanicus raises his eyebrows in surprise. “Never?”

  “No. Why would I? You’ve never given me any reason not to trust you. You’re my best friend. I wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for you. You saved my life. You pushed me. You had an integral role in shaping the man you see before you. It is a debt I can never repay. Don’t you know I trust you more than anyone in my life? Is there reason I shouldn’t?”

  Ashamed, Germanicus looks remorsefully at Jamison and Cotteroy with downcast eyes, like a boy who has been caught with his hand in the cookie jar. “No, Merlin.” He grasps him on the forearm. “I cry pardon, Brother. I was wrong to despair.”

  “Nothing to forgive Brother.” Merlin smiles coyly. “And there is something else I forgot to mention. We do have reinforcements coming.”

  Germanicus laughs. “Merlin, you never cease to amaze. When were you going to tell us?”

  “When the time warranted it. I ken that the time had.” He smiles.

  The rest of the Brethren look at each other and nod, the faintest of smiles lighting up dusted and singed faces. They grasp each other on the forearms.

  “Bring it in Brothers,” says Merlin.

  They come into a circle and grasp each other on the forearms. “What say you? Shall we finish this, Brothers?”

  “Ai!” They cry out.

  Chapter 30: Sodomy and Rape of the Mind

  Whatever the Brethren are planning, schemes to thwart the Visi-Gauls overpowering numbers and brilliant strategy of their gifted King and Commander. The Commander has a few surprises of his own. They aren’t the only ones who can lie in wait and ambush unexpectedly. Commander Marcus’ bout of confidence and unflappability are short-lived however, when he observes some inexplicable swarm in the sky.

  At first, they believe the swarm is a flock of birds, but something in the way they move says otherwise. The Commander uses his hyper-oculars to confirm. They aren’t birds. Without their hyper-oculars, they can clearly see the absence of beating wings. They are arrows and moving with a deadly speed towards intended targets. Marcus shudders.

  His first Lieutenant Bartimer Cassius also looks through the hyper-ocular
s to verify the deadly volley. Hundreds of arrows were released with barely any time in between, producing a steady stream of massive projectiles. “They couldn’t be accurate at such distance, Commander. Could they?” He looks at the Commander pleadingly, hoping for some reassurance.

  “Might get lucky with a few to be sure, but I would not wager on such tactics doing more than little damage.”

  The Lieutenant sighs and slumps his shoulders forward but his nerves are still haywire and a bothersome voice begins to vocalize his deep-seated fears. And what happens when this is merely the first assault. What will ye do then? Who will ye turn to when the squadrons are decimated and ye are trapped like pigs poised for the spitfire?

  “Hush.” The Lieutenant intones.

  The bothersome voice cannot be contained. Your arrogant King has led you here on the promise of obtaining what is your rightful recompense. But you will not share in his plunder. His arrogance and over-confidence will be his downfall and your demise, so it will.

  The Commander looks at the Lieutenant as he stares off into space. A look of bitter defeat remains on his face. “Lieutenant. Take heed and warrant my words. These aggressors will be found, so they will.” Still, he does not respond. “Lieutenant!” the Commander yells.

  The desperation in his voice brings the Lieutenant back. “Ai, Commander. It will be so, I warrant it.”

  The army continues to advance. The quiet is unsettling and foreboding. Few soldiers speak to each other and when they do, it is in hushed tones, as if they are reluctant to vocalize the misgivings on their minds. After several minutes, the first of several large crashes rings out and the unmistakable sound of a consuming fire.

  The cacophonous wails of dying soldiers and horses rings out from the canyon floor. Though the sound is barely discernible, it does not temper the terror that grips the soldiers in the pit of their stomachs. Those that survived the first assault of arrows are now being slaughtered through fire. Dark and acrid smoke billows up from the canyon floors. The soldiers can only watch, shaking their heads at the unbelievable turn of events.

  “Forget your Brothers in arms, men! We continue on to Briar Hill. We have some unexpected plans of our own we will use to roust our enemies, so we will. Set watch and warrant it so.”

  “I said set your watch and warrant it so!” He exclaims more emphatically. “Ai,” say a few reluctant soldiers, sans enthusiasm. Commander Battilus sighs in frustration. The only thing that can restore their hope is results, namely the death and/or incarceration of their aggressors.

  The logical part of the Commander promises the aggressors will be caught, killed or imprisoned. There is simply no other outcome. They are outgunned and overpowered by several hundred to one. And aside from that fact, look at what the skanks have accomplished and done to you and your men. You would never have believed it to be so, but alas it is so. You have followed an arrogant, contemptible and sadistic King without thought to whether it was righteous or not. You have failed to think for yourself and because of it, you have lead thousands to their deaths.

  “Hush!” says the Commander, as if he could quiet his own foreboding self-conscience.

  (2)

  The Visi-Gaul’s apothecary, Cammius, works tirelessly to stitch up Domithicus. The man is a skilled surgeon and can-do wonders in the battlefield, being able to set broken bones, amputate infected limbs and sterilize wounds with a hot iron; so, it is relatively easy to mend the aggressor with his wounds. Though he was shot with a high caliber round, entering his upper deltoid and exiting his posterior deltoid, it does little damage, hitting no major arteries or veins and leaving the muscle relatively in task.

  Surprisingly, his ligaments and tendons remain unscathed from the deadly shell as well. It is almost as if he was strategically shot to subdue him for a short time until he could be properly questioned and tortured. Of course, that is a preposterous notion. No man could have made such a strategic shot.

  It would have taken an extreme marksman and a man who knew the anatomical structure of the human body and the vital arteries. No such man exists in their employ. There are a few marksmen, but most of them cannot read or write and they certainly wouldn’t have known about the discipline of anatomy. They are war mongers with a penchant for brashness and violence not skilled surgeons. Cammius is impressed by the shot but knows that it is nothing more than dumb luck.

  “You are a lucky one indeed. That shot was one in a thousand. Course, I am only stitching you up to ready yourself for a serious torture session yet to come. So, I know not how lucky you really are, cus.” He laughs like a jester who has outdone himself.

  “I say thankee, apothecary. I’ll be needing my faculties, all of them, so I will; but mostly my wits. I may be due for a torture session but warrant I am far from broken. My fate is far from sealed. Yours is for you are in the employ of the hateful King, so you may be signing off for your own death warrant. Perhaps it is apt you are an apothecary. For though I would like to thankee proper, I cannot prevent your death.”

  “Ai! Ain’t you a tripe pussbucket, so you are, if I ever laid eyes on one before. For you would take the full pence, so you will. But mark my words, you brasharian that belligerent smirk will be wiped off your countenance for good when you meet my King. And if you think anyone will save you, you’ll be waiting for the devil himself.”

  “Faith in your King and country is misplaced and will not save you from certain death.”

  “Ai. We shall see, brasharian. But remember it is you who is imprisoned now and you are at the mercy and whims of our ‘hateful King’ as you see.”

  “Then we shall wait and see,” says Domithicus, with a sardonic smirk.

  “Ai.” Cammius tries hard to look in the man’s eyes, but something in his unflappable countenance gives him pause for concern and an ice-cold chill runs down his spine.

  First Lieutenant Gil Nautilus walks in to the tent and looks at the enemy with a contemptuous sneer. Domithicus meets his piercing gaze readily and only smiles.

  “How is the prisoner, apothecary?”

  “Fortunate in his wounds. He’ll be nearly intact to meet the King.”

  “Ai. That is good news, indeed. The King will be anxious to meet him. I have sent word through envoy to alert the King of our imminent arrival. Make sure he’s ready for transport in the hour.”

  “Ai. Set your watch and warrant it done, Lieutenant.”

  Domithicus is hoisted up roughly and brought to the transport wagon. He smiles and nods his head in feigned respect, who glare at him with baleful stares. A private ventures over to him and smacks him hard in the belly with the butt of his rifle. Domithicus reels over, coughing, but continues his smile. When he pulls Domithicus up and attempts to speak to him, Domithicus spits in his face and head butts him. Blood from his broken nose splatters Domithicus on the face. The soldier rifle butts him again in the stomach and rears up for another slug, but the Lieutenant intervenes.

  “At ease, soldier. You lay one more hand on him again and you will be accompanying him to the King yourself. You can explain to the King why a prisoner who was completely in charge of his faculties has now succumbed to brain damage and is unable to answer the King directly. You will find yourself in chains.”

  At the implied threat, the soldier reluctantly backs off. Gil approaches Domithicus. “Mark and warrant my words soldier. He shall have his day before the King. He’ll be tortured and summarily executed. His comrade’s deaths soon to follow.”

  “Ai. So it shall.” He nods in assent.

  Gil was riding a rollercoaster of emotions from the beginning of their aggressors’ assault. He is infuriated by their audacity and grows steadily more frustrated at their seeming inability to subdue the small force. Gil surmises their numbers are so small as to be inconsequential. They are lying in wait, hoping to ambush their large numbers. For a long time, they accomplished just that. Gil is now hopeful. They will glean as much as intelligence as possible.

  Hope now washes away as a volley of
arrows lights up the sky. All are moving at a deadly speed and are headed for the treacherous canyon corridors which boasts many perilous switchbacks and dogleg trails. Every man has the same thought. Who were the intended targets of the arrows and how many would perish if the aim were true? After several minutes, an unmistakable wail begins to emanate from deep in the canyon floor. All the men’s eyes are transfixed to the unusual scene, as if they are expecting more. But more of what? Several minutes of silence ensues.

  The first of the powerful bangs echoed through the canyon corridors. The cacophonous thunder reverberates throughout the canyon. Acrid smoke follows with the wailing cries of dying men and whining horses.

  Sergeant Caius Millian breaks the spell. “Lieutenant, what do we do? What are your orders?” He looks at him pleadingly, hoping for some semblance of protocol that will instill order. “Lieutenant?”

  Lieutenant looks at the Sergeant and glances at the prisoner, who smiles at them playfully, like a petulant child who revels in his misdeeds. They are livid and want nothing more than to charge the prisoner and beat him relentlessly until he is nothing more than a bloody pulp, but they need him now more than anything. He has information and it must be extracted from him at all costs. Those costs are going sky high by the minute with every soldier’s death.

  “We make haste for our encampment to provide support to the King’s Proterian Guard. We shall ascertain what he knows and use that knowledge to thwart any more acts of subterfuge. If there was any time for expediency Sergeant, it would be now. Do you not ken?”

  “Ai, Lieutenant.”

  “The prisoner is restrained in handcuffs, is he not, Sergeant.”

  “Ai. He cannot escape.”

  “Restrain him in leg shackles as well and make sure they are as tight as possible without cutting off his circulation. We do want him to be as uncomfortable as possible without doing irreparable damage. Not yet. The King will want to have his way with this one.”

  Domithicus could have broken free of the cuffs after he attacked the officer. Unbeknownst to the soldier, Domithicus keeps several pliable metal clips in his braided hair. All are sufficient enough to pick the lock on his cuffs. As he went to the ground, he extracted the first clip. As soon as a soldier had put his shackles on, he obscured the clip by placing it in the locks of the leg shackles. He now has three other metal clips in his braided hair. He must make it to the King and confirm the girl they risked everything for still lives.