Merlin joins the fight from a rocky perch. His shots find home, piercing skulls and hearts, emitting a grotesque wave of brain matter, ocular fluid and copious amounts of blood, which gush uncontrollably from severed limbs, arteries and veins. The dusty trail soon turns to crimson in minutes.
“Retreat!” barks the Lieutenant. He turns to retreat, but it is short lived. In an imperceptibly quick and deft move, Merlin brings up his speed shooter and fires three successive rounds. All three find their mark as they pierce his skull and heart, ejecting him forcefully from his horse. He is dead as he hits the ground.
In minutes, Merlin appears behind Cotteroy. Cotteroy is momentarily caught off guard and instinctively reaches for his guns but is stopped by Merlin. “Just me, Brother.” He says.
“Hate when you do that, Merlin.”
“Not as much as the enemy,” says Merlin, laughing. “You’ve done well, but there is much more to do.”
“Ai, Brother. We are well met. I’ll see you on the other side.”
“Or the other side of this life, if we do not fare well.” Cotteroy sighs and bows his head in frustration. The moment he looks up, Merlin is gone.
He looks at the other Brethren, who smile at him playfully. “Merlin.” He says, through clenched teeth.
Chapter 32: Time to Improvise
Daliance walks out of the meeting room. The half-wit, Ludepepper, waves at him enthusiastically, like a pube seeing his father for the first time in years. Daliance finds himself waving back and mumbles to himself about his stupidity. He puts his butterfly knife on his sleeve reassuringly and sighs. Poor stupid boy. Wrong place at the wrong time. He will make it quick. As painless as possible.
Ludepepper runs up to him. He salutes him when he is only a few feet away. “Captain!” He says emphatically. Took good care of your ride, so I did. Seems you promised me half-a-pence for my trouble. What say?”
Daliance feels the butterfly knife but hesitates. For several seconds, he says nothing. That pathetic, innocent, ingratiatingly maddening smile stops him like a freight train. Tears begin to well up in his eyes.
Ludepepper frowns. “You don’t have to, Captain.”
Daliance reaches into his billfold and extracts a full gold pence. He smiles. “No, Ludepepper. You have done well, so you have. Take care of my mare and I promise you another one when I return.
His face lights up like a New Year’s night. He salutes. “Ai, Captain. Set watch and warrant it.”
“I’ll see you at tempest halt.”
“You should have killed him,” says that annoying voice.
“Shut up!” He says through clenched teeth. Daliance shakes his head and aligns himself. Why didn’t he kill him? It was a stupid mistake. He made up his mind. If the boy was there when he got out, he would finish the job. No hesitation. God help him if the boy weren’t. God help them all.
Daliance walks into the Offices of Outpost Seven. The building is well-maintained. Its alabaster walls display the flag of Visi-Galia proudly with a falcon sitting atop a rocky perch. Below that, a telling latin proberb: Aut vincere aut mori, Auxilio ab alto. Literally translated: Either conquer or die, by help from on high. A large tapestry of the King dwarfs the flag at the top. Daliance had never seen the King himself, but assumes the depiction is an embellishment. A herd of great beasts seem to gather at his feet, as if he is some great god. Light emanates from his very aura.
In his opinion, there is nothing remotely noble about the King. Eight soldiers hunker around a large oval table, studying a detailed map of Gilleon. One man plots out points on the map, using a protractor and ruler. Four other officers stand around a smaller version of the map and discuss it.
Daliance scans the room looking for his contact, Dalton Tenamus. His heart trip-hammers in his chest and sinks into an abyss all at once. The large, rotund jovial man with a lock of curly red hair and a scruffy beard to match is nowhere to be seen. Daliance further assesses his environment.
On the opposite end of the room, a bespectacled man wearing a fresh pressed, immaculate white linen shirt types out messages on a telegraph machine. He glances up at Daliance briefly and goes back to his typing. A large, locked safe stands next to the desk with the radio telegraph machine. He notices the radio telegraph. Its ability to send messages to differing locations is controlled by a specially made key that fits into the base of the radio. The key is missing, so Daliance quickly surmises it is in the safe. He is impressed with the level of security.
The acrid smell of smoke and a slow, steady hum from the radio telegraph aggravates Daliance’ sensitive eyes and his reoccurring tinnitus, which now ushers in the beginning of a monstrous headache. He tries to shake it off, as well as the sickening feeling in the pit of his stomach that warns of impending doom.
A couple of other lowly enlisted men is there at the beckoning of the officers. Most men take only cursory notice of Daliance. After several seconds, another Lieutenant, who presumably replaced Dalton, is dressed in the Captain’s emblem. Daliance can only assume the worst. Lieutenant Xander Filomene became Dalton’s replacement. As he looks up from the table, he recognizes Daliance immediately.
As he walks over, he gives a sharp salute and smiles. “Daliance. How fareth?”
“Well, Captain is it now?”
He smiles with his mouth. His eyes speak of some internal conflict. “It is. What brings you here to Outpost Seven?” He asks as they shake hands heartily.
“I’m here at the behest of the General himself. I was supposed to meet my contact, Dalton Tenamus.”
Xander’s eyes immediately droop and he frowns, shaking his head in acknowledgement. “You didn’t hear?”
“Hear what?” asks Daliance, though in his heart he knew the minute he walked in and didn’t see Dalton.
“Dalton passed away only days ago. He caught the Rangoon fever, ostensibly from the Trolls in Hildaynine. I wish I could say he died mercifully quick and he didn’t suffer long, but that would be a lie. He held on for God knows how long. Desperate to stay alive and do his duty. I admire that in a man. But in the end, he succumbed as all do who catch that deadly disease. He was desperate to get in contact with you, Daliance. At the time, I could only conjecture why. Perhaps you could shed some light on that for me.”
“He knew I’d be passing through here with important papers to be sent via telegram. He knew how important they were and how much was riding on it.”
“If they bear the General’s stamp, I can send them out right away. You ken?”
“Indeed. This is a matter of some expediency, so I must insist that you do it as quickly as possible. As protocol dictates, it bears the signature of the General himself.” Daliance extracts the parchment paper bearing the signature of the late General Piedmont and he hands it to Xander. “You’ll find the coordinates there as well. Please hurry,” asks Daliance, trying to conceal the quiver in his voice.
Xander peruses it and looks at Daliance dubiously. He scowls. Daliance doesn’t bat an eye. His deadpan expression triggers a laughing fit in Xander. Daliance doesn’t waiver. He remains deadly serious, which only makes Xander laugh harder.
He pats Daliance on the back. Daliance looks at the placed hand with contained revulsion. Xander’s jovial smile is replaced with a dour expression.
“You do have everything in order here, Daliance. Even have the signature of the General himself.”
Daliance nods. “You have his seal. This is a remarkable jest. Very entertaining. Who put you up to it? Lancaster? Sipides?”
“Nobody put me up to it. This is an official order, signed from the General himself. I expect you to carry it out.”
Xander looks indignant. “Think long and hard on this, Daliance. Making such a joke can put you in chains and before a firing squad. You ken?”
“That order is going out. It was signed by the General himself.”
“Set watch and warrant, I do intend to query the General, Daliance. Withdraw this jest and you will walk away from this with a cour
t martial. A dishonorable discharge. Continue and I do promise, you will be hung up by day’s end and executed.” Xander pauses. “Well?”
Daliance shakes his head. “Officers!” barks Xander.
The hub of activity abruptly stops. All eyes look to Xander and Daliance. Several officers approach the podium, nervous hands reflexively touching the butts of their revolvers. The man on the telegraph machine stops and looks up. Positioned under his table is a sawed-off shotgun, the last line of defense should the unthinkable happen.
“Cuff this man and take him to the brig. You ken?” The soldiers nod. One man extracts a lockbox and removes a set of handcuffs. The other officer approaches Daliance cautiously. “Hands behind your back.” Daliance complies.
The other officer brings back the cuffs and nods to the other officer. As the other man begins to take Daliance’ hands, Daliance moves his hands preternaturally fast, sliding it along the officer’s wrist and snaps it violently. In the next move, he reaches for both guns and fires them point blank at both arresting officers. The first one is shot through the heart and is dead the moment he topples over and lands on the ground.
The other man is shot through the neck and clutches it desperately as blood seeps between his fingers. He tries to croak out in desperation.
Xander draws his guns, but he is too slow. Daliance brings up his other gun and fires, opening up a cavernous hole between his eyes. The blood seeps out and Xander stumbles back.
The man at the telegraph machine fires a reckless shot towards Daliance but misses. It grazes another man in the side of his back, eliciting a sharp cry of surprise. He whirls around to fire in retaliation. As he presents a target for himself, Daliance fires two rounds through his chest and neck. He topples back and gurgles in blood-soaked protest, twitches violently for several seconds and becomes still.
Several other soldiers begin to fire on Daliance. He fires several rounds and soon takes cover beneath a pulpit in the middle. He quickly reloads and looks over his shoulder carefully. As he peeks, several shots ring out. One splinters the wood inches over his head.
He hears movement behind him and turns briefly, trying to get a view. Another shot rings out, coming perilously close to his head. He now has the man’s location. He looks for a split second and fires. A man cries out in pain. He fires another deafening round and the man is silent.
More shots ring out in succession. As soon as the shots stop, Daliance emerges quickly from his hiding place and makes a run for it. Several men fire upon him. He runs for the large oval table in the middle and fires several rounds in response. One clips a soldier in the ear, turning it into a gory splash of cartilage. The man fires out in surprise and recklessness, while wailing in agony.
As Daliance jumps behind the table, he turns around and fires three more rounds, hitting the maimed officer in the gut and exposing the tendrils of vulnerable organs. He cries out and goes down, clutching the cavernous wound that emits dark crimson spurts. Struggling to hold in his intestines, he cries out in horror.
Daliance listens intently to the rustling of officers and their heavy, labored breathing. As it always is in battle, his tiresome afflictions seemed to have left him, at least for the moment. Only three men are left. He must leave one alive. He hears more rustling and mentally pinpoints their approximate location. He raises his gun and fires several shots.
One shot comes perilously close to an officer. He rears on his haunches for a second. It is all the time Daliance needs to fire a strategic round in his head. Thick, viscous crimson and ocular fluid explode inside the man’s face, leaving a cavernous hole where an eye used to be. He drops to the floor and screams in torment.
The other officer fires successive, aimless rounds, hoping to get lucky. But it is a strategy based on desperation and vengeance rather than prudency. Daliance waits out the rounds. When there is a break in the gunfire, he emerges and fires several rounds on the soldier, hitting him in the neck and face. He is blown back and knocked to the ground, emitting a spray of crimson. Desperate hands clutch at the prodigious blood flow as he twitches spasmodically for several seconds. Only one man is left.
Daliance needs this one alive. He pivots around slightly to get a bearing on his last adversary and is nearly eviscerated by a massive gun blast. A chair next to him nearly disintegrates with the high caliber shot. Pieces of wood are strewn everywhere and come down slowly like confetti. He sucks in small particles of splintered wood pellets, inducing another coughing fit.
He sees his adversary attempting to reload. He pivots down and rolls and thumbs the hammer, while working the trigger. He aims for his kneecaps. The man falls to the ground as his devastated kneecap is blown out. He screams out in agony and drops his shotgun.
Daliance runs over to him, but not before the downed man pulls a small, well-concealed iron shooter from a cargo pocket in his breeches. He pulls it out and tries to fire, but he is too slow for Daliance. Daliance throws a dagger through his hand, eliciting another anguishing cry.
“Where you are, officer,” orders Daliance.
Daliance stands over him. The man cries out in excruciating pain. “What is the combination to the safe?” He asks.
“Fuck you!” cries the man. Daliance takes his boot and pushes it into the man’s disintegrated kneecap. He cries out in agony.
“Tell me!”
“Fuck you! You’ll just kill me, anyway.”
“True. But if you don’t tell me, I promise that the last moments of life will be more agonizing than you can imagine, Sai.” To illustrate his point, Daliance takes aim at his other knee and fires. He only grazes it, but the point is well taken.
“14, 8, 26, 20,” says the man.
Daliance goes to the safe and spins the dial to the numbers. The safe opens. Daliance takes out the key. He looks over at the man. “I do say thankee, Sai.”
“Go to hell you murderous cunt!”
“You first,” says Daliance. He fires and the man’s head nearly disintegrates in a spray of crimson.
Daliance goes to the telegraph machine, places the key inside the base, and turns it clockwise until he hears a ‘click’. He turns the knob to the numbers to commensurate with the location and smiles. He sits down on the splintered desk and begins to type out the message. He prays it is not too late.
Chapter 33: One Turn deserves Another
Lieutenant Dannaken Malrathian awakes groggy, befuddled and woozy. He oversees securing this strategic weapon and position to surprise the enemy. So, what caused him to lose consciousness so suddenly? The last thing he remembers was feeling a painful bee sting on his neck. He swatted it away and immediately felt light-headed and a little disoriented.
What possible bite from an insect could have caused him to lose consciousness? He heard and seen the effects of venomous insect bites, but this scenario does not seem to fit. Tremors, hallucinations, inability to breathe, painful, swollen tissue normally accompanies venomous bites, but nothing like this.
Dannaken scours the grounds around him for this mysterious insect and he finds something else instead that explains his situation: a dart. But from what and to what purpose?
As he looks around at his subordinates, he observes they too are beginning to awake from some deep sleep themselves. It’s all becoming clear. Someone tranquilized them with darts.
Cuthbert Mortimer, a private short on brains and long on brawn, is the first to speak. He rubs his eyes groggily and stands up shakily and unbalanced like some newborn calf. “What the hell happened, Lieutenant? Did we get into some scuffle with someone?”
“No, you imbecile. We did not get into a scuffle. We have been drugged. Do you not remember?” Cuthbert rubs his eyes and tries to regain cognizance, what little he has. “Don’t remember much of anything, so I don’t. And you?”
“Not much.”
The other two privates, Silus and Fink, begin to emerge from their slumber as well.
“Listen up boys! Someone made it into our encampment and has drugged us, f
or reasons I do not know,” says Dannaken, cautiously.
“How did they get in?” asks Cuthbert.
“I don’t know. The platoon is stationed to secure this sector. Perhaps they let down their guard. As we are here and alive. And our Gatling gun is still here. I believe we can safely say the miscreant has been caught.” Perhaps it is just wishful thinking on his part. Prudency would dictate they should at least investigate further to rule out the possibility of an act of sabotage.
“Alright boys have a looksee! Quick now, at it. Check the area and see if anything is amiss?”
“Like what?” asks Cuthbert.
His imbecilic question is met with a sharp smack on the back of the head by Dannaken. “Anything out of place you good for nothing shitebrain! Check your ammo for one. Check around you and see if the saboteur has left some trap!”
“What sort of trap would he leave?” asks Fink.
His question is met with a stern, contemptuous look from Dannaken. “Do you not know what a trap is dumb fuck? Perhaps when you fall in one and cut your balls off, then you will know what I speak of.” Fink and Cuthbert snicker; but they are immediately silenced with a stern look from Dannaken. He shakes his head and scowls. He knows if they fail in their mission to fire the Gatling Gun and secure it, it will be him who is to answer to their King. The King does not tolerate failure.
Officers are rumored to spend months, perhaps years in the briggs for failing to accomplish their objective. It all depends on the mood of their King. To make matters worse, the King has grown progressively more unstable and cruel, lashing out at officers for the most insignificant of offenses. And, for failing to accomplish a major stronghold on the enemy? Well, that would certainly warrant a more severe punishment. It wouldn’t be a simple demotion. No, he would go to the briggs for sure, if he were lucky. And if he were not so lucky? Dannaken didn’t want to entertain that possibility.
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