The King and his Proletariat Guard were too far away to hear the wails of the men who was butchered. But they saw the smoke erupt from the canyon floor and could not immediately ascertain what it meant. They can only wait. After two excruciating hours, a courier arrives.
The man walks into the King’s chamber reluctantly, wearing a grave, forlorn look. “Petty Officer Brannigan, is it?” asks Jason.
“It is your Grace.”
“Well, you have news, do you not? Speak it and release burden, lest my fist finds ample answers from beaten brow.”
The courier never met the King before but knew his capricious nature and penchant for exacting retribution on the unwitting messengers of bad news. And yet further inaction on his part would only infuriate the King more. He had to deliver the message. Perhaps he should deliver the good news first to induce good spirits in the King. But he would set up for an inevitable one hundred eighty-degree mood swing that could very well lead to his own demise. Perhaps he should save the good news for last in hopes of tempering the King’s temper.
“Speak now Courier or see brains embedded in the wall behind you.”
“Your Grace, there is good news. We have killed one of the aggressors and have another one in custody, who is full of his faculties. He is ready for questioning.”
“And what of the others?”
“They are at large, your Grace.”
“No fucking shit cully! We have seen the smoke billowing up from the canyon floor. Do you think us blind, fool?”
“Then pray tell, man, how many of my men have they killed? And do not think to temper the blow and err on the side of understatement. How many? Be honest.”
The courier swallows hard and forces himself to continue. “Perhaps a third, your Grace. We could not be sure how many men have died with the first assault of arrows, but we heard the wails of the dying issue from the canyon floor.”
Jason’s first response might have been inconsolable rage, but terror seizes him in its grip and does not relent. The courier continues to stare for several seconds, uncomfortable at the ensuing silence and unsure of his immediate fate. The King waves him off as if he is refusing a dish. The courier breathes a sigh of relief and almost faints. He scampers off.
Many scenarios issue through the King’s mind like a moving photo reel. None of the scenarios are encouraging. The King could, with a handful of his Proletariat Guard, abscond from this place. His campaign would be forfeit and he would be a marked man for life. A King that had abandoned his men had abandoned his country. They were one and the same.
He would live out the remainder of his days in exile, never to return to his country. No, death would be preferable to that sub-par existence- to survive in the shadows like a pestilential cockroach. To entertain such a thought is ludicrous. His Commander is more than equipped to apprehend or kill the aggressors. Then why hadn’t he? That his campaign should come to this. To think that he was only trying to claim what was rightfully his and he should be thwarted by less than twenty men with a handful of rebel soldiers. It is beyond ludicrous.
Yet, it is irrefutable. It stares him in the face like a hindserpent that has invited itself onto his unwitting lap. What if his Commander fails him? Then they would make their last stand here in this encampment. In his steed were the finest Proletariat Guards in the empire. Over three hundred able-bodied men bore the mark of victor in time-tested battles. They would not abandon him. They were bound to him and he would triumph.
There was more to hope for. They captured one of the enemies. They would ascertain everything they could from the enemy with every means at their disposal. Every man could be broken, given the resources and his resources were in boundless measure.
(3)
As Gil Nautilus dismounts his horse, he looks towards the east and sees a small party approaching. He barks some pedestrian commands to his subordinates and waits until they are closer. As he recognizes them, a big shit eating grin plasters itself on his face. He laughs heartily, the first laugh in a long time. Several of the other soldiers begin to laugh as well, clasping themselves on the back, a welcome repose from the trepidation that had seized all.
Gil seen Duke Commaden Clamatus before, nephew and heir to the throne, in the absence of the childless King, but it is not what gave them such cause for hope. Renault Oppian Cassius was a man for hire and the Visi-Gauls were lucky to acquire his services. For he was the only known telepath in Visi-Galia, a man who could turn the tide with the assault on the unwitting minds of their aggressors. Whatever information their prisoner had would now be in the hands of the Visi-Gauls.
Gil goes out to meet the men, alongside a throng of soldier fans. The men dismount their horses and look condescendingly at the lowly officers that surround them. “At ease, men,” says Commaden.
Gil bows, bends to one knee as he approaches the Duke. Commaden extends his hand and Gil kisses it and rises. “I trust your journey was well-received, Duke.”
“Not as well as I had hoped.”
Gil salutes Renault. “Captain Renault. How fareth?”
“It’s not Captain, Lieutenant. You may address me simply as Renault or Sai Renault if you are given to formality. Am merely a civilian given to the services of the Visi-Gauls. At least for the time being.”
“Ai, Sai. Then Renault it is. Your arrival is fortuitous. We have a captured a …“
“…prisoner,” finishes Renault.
Gil nods his head in amazement and laughs. “I see the rumors are true, Sai. You are a telepath. The King will be pleased beyond measure.”
“I trust my billfold will as well, Lieutenant. Perhaps I may allay your misgivings of the prisoner to boot.”
Gil bows his head in shame and bemusement. It is more than a little disconcerting to have his mind so laid to bare.
“Our aggressors have given us more than a little trouble.” He reluctantly admits.
“That’s a tripe understatement,” snaps Commaden.
“They are led by Merlin, Lieutenant? Are they not?” asks Renault.
He nods. “Ai.”
“Then what did you expect? That he would lie down like a submissive dog? He is the Merlin. He is the master General, the superior leader.”
Commaden gives Renault an icy stare. “I would hope you would exclude the present Commander, Sai, for your sake.”
“Jason is on no par with Merlin, boy. A pup among a den of wolves.”
Commaden cracks his knuckles and clenches his fists so tightly one of his fists begins to seep blood from his nail.
“No offense taken, Duke. Your Uncle’s a competent King. But he’s no Merlin.”
“That is precisely why we need the two of you,” says Gil, ingratiatingly.
“Now more than ever,” says Renault. “Let us take a looksee at that prisoner.”
“Ai,” says Gil, pleased he has diffused the situation.
They walk over to the prisoner and take a look at him. Commaden laughs. “This is the man who gave you such trouble. Tis no bigger than a pube.”
Renault gives Commaden a contemptuous sneer. “Looks are deceiving Commaden. You should know better. That man is a lethal weapon, set watch and warrant it. Put him in a cage with you and I wager you wouldn’t last longer than a nickel whore. You ken?”
“You insult me or my family again, I promise you’ll be spending the rest of your days playing rubies in the salt mines.”
“I would welcome the absence of listening to your incessant and brainless banter, so I would.”
Commaden steps closer to Renault. Renault does not back down. “Gentlemen,” says Gil. “Let us see to our King. We have much work to do.”
Commaden steps away. They nod. “Ai.”
Gil escorts the two men to the King, ostensibly so he can get the credit for both being the bearer of good news and capturing the culprit. The King is duly alerted to the arrival of the prisoner, Renault, and his nephew. He gets up. And, with a spring and fervor to his step and spirit, a smile plastered on
his face that spreads on from ear to ear. It was absent since he began this campaign.
Jason goes to his nephew and hugs him fiercely. “Commaden! We are well met. I bid you a tally welcome and credit you with bringing in Renault. The tide has turned for sure.”
“I ken the credit would go to General Piedmont, Sire. He was the one who ordered us here,” says Renault.
Jason flushes in irritation but sighs. He turns to Renault. Renault bows and descends to knee. Jason extends his hand and he kisses it. “Renault.” He says, nonchalantly. “I say thankee.”
Renault bows. “As I said, the thanks goes to General Piedmont. He commissioned me for this campaign. One thousand gold pence he paid. So if we must be totally honest, I would say thankee to your Minister of Finance.”
Jason sighs in exasperation. “And Sire, I’ll need that much coin out of your end as well. You ken?”
“So says the rapist to the maiden,” says Jason contemptuously.
Renault laughs. “So says a man with many debts, Sire. Now, if you would be so kind.”
“When you have had a chance to extract the information, Renault.”
Renault rubs his chin. “I propose this, Sire. You give me half now. If I fail to deliver the results you promised, then I’ll return it to you. You ken?”
Jason looks at Renault icily, takes a deep breath and nods his head reluctantly. “Ai.” He gestures to one of his soldiers. “Corporal, give this man five hundred gold pence.”
“Ai, Sire.”
“I say thankee Sire. Now, let’s have a looksee at that prisoner.” Jason sits down on his elevated throne and gestures to the man of arms. Domithicus is brought in. When he doesn’t move fast enough, the butt of a rifle is pushed into his back, knocking him forward. Domithicus ’moves forward with his head turned down. He appears as any supplicant prisoner.
Jason observes the leg shackles on the prisoner and he thinks it prudent of the Lieutenant to administer such measures. He heard stories of their formidable abilities. Supposedly, they are the most gifted fighters ever to lay hand to sword or speed shooter. But, upon looking at the pathetically small man, the King thinks those stories exaggerated.
The King himself is a large, muscular man, standing nearly 6 and a half feet. This pathetic soul is nearly a foot shorter and he is of medium build at best. He appears to have that wiry, sinewy muscle developed by large amounts of training. How could such a scrawny man be capable of killing so many of his elite?
However, his assessment is premature. He failed to glimpse the eyes of the prisoner. Perhaps he planned it that way, an attempt to induce his enemy to underestimate him. When Jason looks into Domithicus’ eyes, he is immediately taken back and the laugh that nearly issues from his throat is cut off. His piercing blue eyes seem to bore into Jason with a fiery disposition. Regardless of the position he holds over the prisoner, Jason finds himself being intimidated by this little man, though he would be loath to admit it; despite the penalty of death.
Jason knows he will be a hard man to break. A part of him longs for such a challenge. And the other part of him cautions expediency. They need to break him and break him quickly lest they suffer more devastation. They need to know what their enemies’ plans entail.
“What is your name, soldier?” asks Jason.
“Domithicus, of Gilleon. I stand among the Brethren and owe allegiance to my King Menelaeus of the Midlands, rightful King of Gilleon. You and your steed have invaded our lands, raped our women and slaughtered our men. The time for negotiations are at a close and you shall receive recompense, at tempest halt. You may yet live should you choose to abscond from our lands. But rest assured, we will have our way and make quick work of you. Go out to meet the rest of my brood in battle and die like a man or run and turn scamp and live out your days as a marked man, always to be looking over your shoulder. You will have a price on your head that will be too much temptation, even for those you consider loyal to you.”
Jason pushes himself off his throne and slams his fist into Domithicus repeatedly. “It is you fuckweed who is in my steed, imprisoned as you are! What do you hope to accomplish? Twill lay waste to your men and we will continue on in our campaign. Your prolonged death will serve no purpose.”
“Are you trying to convince me or yourself of this? Why does your voice waiver with such despondency? As you say, I am your prisoner. Why do you allow my words to penetrate you so? Is it not you who holds the upper hand?” Domithicus smiles at the King through crimson stained teeth.
The King releases him. “Where are Brothers now?”
“Where they should be. Readying themselves for battle.”
“What are your plans? Speak it and receive a quick death.”
“And why would I believe such a capricious fool such as you? I wouldn’t trust you anymore than I would a rabid bore who bitten off my foot.”
The King strikes out at Domithicus, lacerates his chin, grabs him by the shirt and speaks to him in a menacing, hushed tone. “You will learn the true lesson of our methods, soldier. I’ll give you one last chance.”
“And I will give you one last chance to turn scamp and abscond before you are cut down.” Jason laughs at the ridiculous threat. He pats Domithicus on the back playfully like some deranged child. “You are a dirty mongrel. Do believe you should have a grooming. What say you?”
Domithicus smiles. “Would welcome it, so I would.”
Jason turns to Renault. “Getting anything, Renault?”
“Fleeting images mostly. Merlin and his men are well obscured, their methods meticulously well-planned.”
“Their numbers?” asks Jason.
“Small force. Less than a hundred.”
“Less than a hundred?” scoffs Commaden. “And they threaten a force of nine thousand?”
“Considerably less now,” says Renault.
“Anything else?” asks Jason.
“A persistent figure, but I know not who? Whether man or woman, cannot ascertain, Sire. He won’t be easy to break and needs more cozening.”
Jason gestures to a soldier. “Guard, get him into those chains.” A series of chain links crisscross a group of wooden posts. Two sets of handcuffs are attached to the end of the chains. The guard unlocks his handcuffs, while another guard holds down his wrists. There is one brief moment when Domithicus’ hands are free from their restraints. As they are, he moves imperceptibly fast, grabs onto the guard’s wrist that holds down his wrist, and twists it unnaturally, breaking it. He cries out and instinctively reaches for his injured hand with his good hand.
It is all the time Domithicus needs to make his move for the other guard. He grabs onto his neck with hand and forearm and twists violently around his neck, snapping it. The guard falls to the ground.
He curls up his feet into chest and pushed them out like a piston, knocking the other guard across the room. Before he can make another move, another guard takes the butt of his rifle and smacks it into his head, knocking him unconscious. He raises it for another blow and attempts to pile drive it into his skull again.
“Stop!” yells Jason. “I need him intact. Should he find himself incapacitated, set watch and warrant, you’ll find yourself at the business end of a firing squad.”
The soldier nods. “Ai, Sire. I cry pardon.”
“Wake him up!” orders Jason.
The soldier complies. He takes some smelling salt and places it under his nose. Domithicus squirms and begins to emerge from his stupor, bewildered and dizzy. He vomits the moment he emerges.
“Now, soldier, extract his fingernails. One by one.”
The soldier complies. “And then cauterize the wounds,” says Jason.
“Ai.”
“Slowly,” says Jason.
He takes the knife and places it right up into Domithicus’ fingernail. He squirms as a volley of nerves shoot through his hand, causing agony. His hand reflexively squirms in protest. A small cringe on his face is the only indicator of the excruciating pain he is in. He will give th
em no more. This is the cost of the Brotherhood.
One by one, the soldier extracts each of his nails. Inside, he is crying, but outwards, he is as docile as a sedated, newborn getting its first coat sheered. Jason smile turns to a look of bemused annoyance. Clearly, he was expecting cries of anguish.
When the soldier is done, he lays the knife on the brick mat of a fire hearth for several minutes. He puts on gloved hands and takes the knife, cauterizing each of his wounds. On the first one, Domithicus cries out in anguish as the sizzling heat touches his skin. The small blood flow congeals, sizzles and clots immediately. The pulsating pain continues long after, inducing Domithicus to cry out. It takes considerable effort to refrain. He will not give them that.
“What about now, Knight? Do you care to speak?”
Domithicus laughs. “You must do better than that, Sai.”
Jason smiles. “I was hoping you would say that.” He glances at Renault. Renault shakes his head.
“He’s been exceptionally well trained, Sire.”
Without a glance in the guard’s direction, Jason orders the guard. “Bring me the ‘pear of anguish’.” Domithicus appears deadpan. There is no hint of recognition in those piercing blue eyes. Though his butt cheeks clench up so much, he could have squashed a halenut between them. He knows full well what the ‘pear of anguish’ is.
His eyes dart rapidly back and forth around the King’s tent chamber and finally come to rest on the girl, huddling in the corner, sobbing to herself. She appears to be about eight. Those haunting green eyes occasionally look up. For a brief moment, the girl catches his eye and he winks to her, hoping she will be comforted by the gesture. If she understood the gesture, she gives no hint of it.
The Brotherhood of Merlin Page 23