The Brotherhood of Merlin

by Rory D Nelson

  The truth finally dawns on Dannaken. Their enemy was clearly here to sabotage the Gatling gun. What else could it be? “Look alive boys!” Dannaken barks. “Check the Gatling gun.” How any man could have possibly made it past their squadron vexes Dannaken, but he now knows the reason for their visit.

  Cuthbert and Fink quickly ascend the steely beast as if they know in detail the schematics of the device and can easily discern if it were tampered with. Dannaken rolls his eyes in irritation, but nevertheless humors the lads. After ten minutes of growing frustration, Dannaken becomes impatient. “Off swill hounds. I’ll have a looksee myself.” He hops up on the gun, not giving the privates a chance to depart. Cuthbert is inadvertently knocked off.

  Fink and Silus laugh in response. Dannaken would have joined in himself, had a sense of expediency not demanded his rapt attention. He scrutinizes the gun, looking for anything that appears off kilter. He observes the chain attached to the flywheel. It moves through the shell chamber and is ignited by several explosive pistons. The fulcrum switch catches the chain and holds it in place when the operator pulls on the lever.

  He investigates further. And there it is! By God, it is a granado! The granado was fastened to a broken off segment of chain in the flywheel. If he had not caught it in time, the operator would have unwittingly discharged the pin and ignited the deadly blast, killing all within the vicinity. Merlin is a tripe one indeed, but one had to get up pretty early to fool the likes of Dannaken! A wave of euphoric relief washes over him as he realizes how close they came to be consumed in the fiery inferno. Thank Christ for the likes of Dannaken!

  Dannaken removes a small tool pouch located on the underside of the operator’s platform and begins the painstaking task of removing the granado. He takes a bolt cutter and cuts off a piece of chain link. In an extraordinarily slow move, he removes the chain link attached to the granado pin. His heart trip-hammers in his chest and he sweats profusely. He holds his breath, sensing that the slightest of moves will cause his hands to inadvertently slip and pull out the pin, killing them all. He finally frees the granado and breathes a sigh of relief.

  A sense of overwhelming pride fills him. He looks around at his subordinates with a gloating smirk on his face. “Well done, Lieutenant!” cries Fink.

  “Ai!” say Cuthbert and Silus in unison.

  (2)

  Merlin, Cotteroy and Jamison emerge from the acrimonious scene that took the lives of over forty men. They are not out of harm’s way yet. One scouting party observes them as they exit and begins to pursue them.

  “Cotteroy, make haste and take point on that ridge. Kill as many of the officers as possible and give us as much time to make it through the narrow switchback. In exactly one hour, reconvene with us at Mount Edge,” orders Merlin.

  “Ai,” responds Cotteroy. He gallops off on his horse.

  When he is less than ten meters away, Merlin holds up his hand in a ‘wait and see’ gesture. Jamison and Atticus remain deadly silent and look around uneasily. They can’t hear or see anything out of place, but Merlin is never wrong. His preternatural senses can pick up on the subtlest noise, smells or changes in barometric pressure. A gun seemingly appears in his hand. He fires with lightning quick ferocity. Near simultaneously, the Brethren hear the subtle but unmistakable sound of someone crashing off their horse.

  “Go!” he yells.

  He gallops off and his men follow. At a full sprint through the straight-a-way, they slow down considerably when they approach the first hair-pin turn. The trail meanders precariously over a sheer cliff and they are forced to continually slow down lest they go over the edge. Several haphazard shots ring out behind them.

  A tree just behind them splinters from a stray shotgun blast and a large branch falls off. They gallop harder in response. Parallel to them are several other narrow switchbacks. They see through the opening of the large trees which hugs the shoulder line. At least two scouting parties of several men ride through the switchbacks, hoping to funnel them into a larger trail.

  The trail was laid heavily with lather the night before and still retains flammability. The vapors are nearly imperceptible to the nose. A small clearing in the dense thicket painstakingly carved out the night before. They must get there to unleash the ballistas.

  Several soldiers on the other side of their trail observe them and fire through the trees. They ring out precariously close behind them, stirring up dirt and splintering tree branches behind them.

  In response, Merlin fires several times. Many soldiers are forcefully ejected from their horses. The ones who are lucky to survive the shots are later trampled to death by the horses. Some fall off the edge of the ravine and plummet to their deaths. Under these extraordinary circumstances, the man is a crack shot.

  Captain Savius Eradius grows frustrated at the skill and efficiency the Brethren possess. The hairpin turns and dense thicket make lining up a shot an exercise in futility for his men. How the hell were the Brethren able to hit so many of their marks? Surely blind luck would allow for a few hits, but each shot fired hits its mark.

  Soon it won’t matter. They are nearly at the dogleg trail where the Gatling gun is positioned. As to be expected, the Brethren are being pursued into the mouth of the beast. If they are not all destroyed, they cannot escape the hailstorm unscathed.

  Over sixty men are in the exact trail the Brethren ride in and are less than fifty meters away. Certainly not enough to line up a shot, but close enough to ensure they keep moving towards their end. Savius smiles to himself at their imminent deaths that so few could have caused so much devastation is ludicrous.

  If a dozen men had caused this much devastation, how much could several squadrons do under his command? Savius shudders at the thought. A few of his cavalrymen approach to within a kill shot.

  As they began to line up their sights for a clear shot, two of them are knocked in the chest with a shot, a bloody, cavernous hole where their hearts used to reside in their chest. They topple to the ground and are quickly trampled.

  One soldier’s head explodes in a gory mess of brain matter, bile and blood. Blood gushes from a severed artery and spills out where his chin used to sit. Caught off guard by the unexpected assault, two of the riders fail to navigate the hairpin in time and careen off the ravine. Their terrified horses whine in an ear-splitting noise.

  Several riders near Savius look to him for reassurance, terrified of meeting the same fate as their fellow soldiers. “Maintain course lads. Our trap is set.”

  The soldiers nod. “Ai Captain. We shall have the bastards yet.”

  Several edgy soldiers fire haphazard shots through the thicket, trembling hands firing at anything of movement. They hit nothing except tree branches.

  The Brethren approach the large trail. As they do, Savius produces his bullhorn and blows on it forcefully, emitting a sound that reminds him of a dying whale. The soldiers in the immediate vicinity cringe slightly at the painful sound.

  Dannaken motions to his men. From this distance, the sound blocks out all other sounds and produces an unsettling ping deep in their ear drums. As soon as the blast is over, Dannaken orders his men. “Wheel out the gun, lads.” They comply.

  In the unlikely event any of them manage to survive, they will be mortally wounded and easy enough to chase down and kill.

  Savius and his men flank the Brethren and choke off any exits they could escape through.

  Dannaken sees the Brethren rounding the corner. Unbelievably, they are galloping at nearly a full sprint. Instead of realizing they’ve been outwitted and making a hasty escape, they do the opposite and gallop full speed. Several shots ring out clamorously and find their mark in the head of Silus and Fink. Cuthbert takes a shot in the gut. He hits the ground and crawls on his belly, crying out in anguish, a mop of crimson staining the hardpan behind him like some macabre paintbrush.

  Do they not see the guns? Impossible. Dannaken cocks the hammer on the gun and pushes down on the trigger. He reflexively tenses up at
the massive bullet storm to come and yet nothing happens. He pushes the trigger again and nothing happens. Is the gun jammed?

  A dawning realization immediately occurs to him and a terrorized look of consternation emerging on his face. It was he who been outwitted. With the last seconds of his life, he looks into eyes of the imbecilic Cuthbert and murmurs “What the fuck?”

  The cacophonous explosion reverberates throughout the canyon with a fiery and explosive wind carrying deadly shrapnel, penetrating anything unlucky to be in its way. Massive tree branches snap like twigs and small trees topple over from the shrapnel that jettisons through the air. Everything in the immediate vicinity is vaporized.

  The Brethren managed to make it to the clearing in the thicket before the deadly explosion erupts. Though they are clear from the explosion, they feel the virulent wind blowing through the canyon and singe the hair on their bodies.

  Though the lather is nearly imperceptible in sight and smell, the vapors are very much alive. When the explosion rings out, the flammable vapors catch fire and the ground erupts in a fiery blaze, consuming everything in its path. Nothing can outrun it. Captain Savius and his squadron are directly in its path.

  The Captain looks at the approaching inferno with a look of dubious horror. How the hell did they get the upper hand? For a moment, he is transfixed to the spot, unable to move. A sharp smack from his Lieutenant is the only thing that wakes him from his stupor.

  “Captain, order the men to retreat!”

  “Retreat! Men, retreat!” The men comply. Those that don’t have already made a hasty retreat. The fiery inferno knows nothing of mercy, but only wants to consume the potent fuel that lays before it. It does so with a vengeance. Terrified horses whine in protest and gallop at breakneck speeds, with or without their riders to avoid the onslaught of deadly fire.

  Some move much too fast and crash into one another, ejecting their hapless riders through the air to be trampled and eventually burnt to death. Those at the front of the pack are unable to move twenty meters before the fire consumes them. Men cry out in piercing wales as flames consume exposed skin and catch fire to their precious organs. Skin sizzles, pops and explodes. Blood implodes in a congealed frenzy.

  Savius gives no thought to men or orders and sends his horse into a deadly gallop, hoping to outrun the inferno but to no avail. His terrified horse plunges ahead recklessly. Coming around a sharp corner at a full gallop, the horse fails to see a downed tree with numerous exposed branches.

  He fails to adjust in time and his horse trips over the large branch. Savius catapults through the air and landing on the ground headfirst. The raging inferno reaches the horse and begins to devour it mercilessly.

  Savius looks up in time to see his mount, Jericho succumb to the deadly blaze. He needs no further coaxing. In spite of a head wound which leaves him woozy, he shoots up like a lightning bolt and charges full speed ahead. His heart trip-hammers in his chest and his temples throbbing. He has difficulty seeing clearly as his head is trying to shake off the vestige of a fog pervading his vision. Yet he knows to stay there means death. He travels perhaps fifty meters before the inferno catches up with him.

  As it seizes him in a death lock, he cries out as the fire eats through his flesh. His skin sizzles, spits and melts, revealing the ligaments, bones and vascular system beneath. Once the main arteries to his heart are breached, it seizes up too and his agonizing cries abruptly stop. The raging inferno burns through his body until it is little more than embers.

  Chapter 34: Reluctant Recruit

  Commander Marcus Battilus peers through his hyper-oculars near Mounts Edge and observes the devastation that follows the explosion. From this distance of over three kilometers, the blow back of the explosion is palpable. A strong, hot wind blows through the canyon and stings the skin like thousands of bee stings. The hull of the Gatling gun is all that is left.

  The aftermath is what concerns him: A Gatling gun destroyed, at least two thousand men, and most of their horses wiped out. And by who? A group of maybe a dozen Brethren and a handful of soldiers? It doesn’t seem possible. Marcus is certainly privy to the rumored exploits of Gilleon’s knights.

  He heard stories of the fabled Merlin, a man who was perhaps more legend than reality: the man who was born blind, became a slave and rose to the highest rank in the land next to a King. By all accounts, he should have been dismissed from birth, perhaps exposed, given his handicap.

  Like many of his more grounded and logical officers, he believed many such stories to be fanciful legend, fit for bedtime storytelling. Now, Marcus is not so sure. Though he has yet to come face to face with the legendary knight, the aftermath of his genius cannot be argued. More than fifty percent of his force had been wiped out and who knew what else the Brethren had in store for him.

  If his force were wiped out by the Brethren, Marcus knows it is inevitable the King, along with his Proterian Guard may fall as well. As second in command, he knows he is obliged to send reinforcements to help fortify his King’s position. And yet, he hesitates. Sending a few hundred soldiers out to fortify the King’s position will make Marcus that much more vulnerable.

  His reasoning tells him that such an idea is preposterous and yet he can’t shake this feeling of impending doom. He needs every means at his disposal. If his King falls, so be it. Aramon, the King will ascend to the throne in the absence of heirs.

  Marcus briefly considers retreat but knows if it were ever discovered he had abandoned his King, his life would be forfeit and he would be a marked man. If one of his men intervened and killed him as the despot, that man would be justly rewarded. If he were to distance himself from his force, he would be looking over his shoulder for the rest of his life, ostracized from everything he had ever known. No, that would be a sentence worse than death.

  Only two choices are available to him. Send no reinforcements to aid his King, alleviating some fear for his own safety or send the necessary reinforcements to his King. If they survived this ordeal, Marcus knows there will ultimately be hell to pay for his lack of accomplishments. The King will not be happy.

  Perhaps Merlin and his Brethren had been lucky up to this point. If that were the case, their luck was bound to run out. He had one chance left to redeem himself and thwart the aggressors intended goals. This will be the last stand. Marcus turns to his Lieutenant. He reflected his officers and the superior officers were becoming a scarce resource. “Lieutenant Davias. Take a squadron of three men and ascertain if there are any traps set for us at Briar Hill. They’re planning something. Take a small platoon to the northeast corridor. And, take the best sniper scouts you can muster.”

  “You want us to flank them from behind once we have ascertained their position?”

  “Ai. That I do, Lieutenant. There is a narrow channel along Briar Hill. Funnel them into that channel, re-directing them back to our position with the main force. Then we will dispatch them and end this once and for all.”

  “Ai, Commander. It will be hell and high time that we have laid them to waste. Too long have they laid waste to our numbers.”

  “See it done, Lieutenant.”

  “Ai, Commander.”

  (2)

  Shadow whines in a low, almost imperceptible tone, indicating his misgivings with so many enemies in a close proximity.

  Merlin looks at him sympathetically. “Duly noted, old boy. We’re getting down to the wire, the last stand. Christ be with us. God grant us the means to end this battle.” Shadow barks as if in concurrence.

  After a couple of minutes of quietly waiting, Shadows acute ears pick up on some threatening sound. Merlin senses something as well. He holds up a fist to indicate “at ease” “wait and see”. Merlin removes his long rifle and places a home-made silencer on it, composed of snakeskin and tortoise shell. He holds his breath for a moment and squeezes the trigger.

  The only sound the gun makes is a barely palpable ‘whoosh’. From five hundred meters away, the sniper drops from the tree he had bee
n laying in, a bullet hole through his skull.

  (3)

  With the command of leading several scouting parties, Sergeant Gabrialus Martimus was to ascertain if any traps had been laid for them before the main force ventures to the Peak of Briar Hill. By his reckoning, it is a shit detail wrought with the most perilous of traps. He knows Merlin and his men are patrolling these areas and will use any means at their disposal to extinguish their enemies. Already, Gabrialus found two of his most able-bodied sniper scouts dead.

  Gabrialus, like the men in his employ, are marksman and expert in the field of surreptitious warfare and tracking. They are not Visi-Gauls, but mercenaries carefully recruited for their uncanny abilities to track enemies and their formidable fighting skills.

  The Sergeant’s hatred for the Brotherhood is deep-seated, emanating from his own father’s rejection from their ranks. Commodus Martimus was highly revered among his people, but he too was rejected from the Brotherhood after less than three years. Gabrialus initiated his own Brotherhood years after his rejection and appointed himself as its leader.

  He frequently boasts his Knights could best any of the Brotherhood on any given day. But the ruthlessness and efficiency which they dispatch so many countless soldiers speak otherwise. Gabrialus had been in many battles and remains relatively unscathed, but he had never seen anything like the Brotherhood in action.

  A large animal darts in and out of his sights so fast that he is barely able to register its movements. Reflexively, he swings up his rifle, but it is too fast to get a clear shot on it or a haphazard one. Two of his men look back at him perplexingly, as if to ask, ‘what the fuck?’ As he looks back at Gilroy, his skull explodes with brain matter. Skull fragments and blood disperses everywhere in the vicinity.

  From this distance, a small amount of brain matter finds its way onto Gabrialus. He gags reflexively and bites back the expulsion of his recent lunch. Gilroy topples to the ground, blood gushing from the cavernous hole that replaced his once handsome face.