The Brotherhood of Merlin

by Rory D Nelson

  Only two days before, the unlucky courier delivered the devastating news:

  At least two thirds of Jason’s army were destroyed or unaccounted for. A few stragglers are what remains of the force. The few that are left are either grievously wounded or have deserted. Upon hearing it, Jason executes the man at point blank range, staining the tent walls crimson and drawing the cringe of already uneasy soldiers.

  Senecas, the Captain of the Guards, looks at Jason in a pathetic, beseeching manner, reluctant to initiate the contentious conversation between them. “You need to decide, my liege. It’s been three days.”

  Jason sighs. Before he can speak, a private comes running into the tent, out of breath and baring a desperate look. He bows to Jason. “Your liege, we have word.”

  Jason nods and gives Senecas an indignant, ‘I told you’ smirk. “I knew we would hear from Commaden. Did I not tell you?”

  Senecas shrugs. “Bring him in here. Let the alespritz abound.”

  The private looks at Jason like a condemned man looks at a judge who has the power to grant him a reprieve. He shakes his head. “It’s not from us, your liege. General Battius is here.”

  Jason is dumbfounded. “General Battius? What is he doing here?”

  “I know not, my Lord. But he must speak to you in the main tent. At tempest halt. He does not look happy.”

  Jason looks at Senecas, bewildered and anxious. Senecas only shrugs. “You know of this?”

  “My Lord, I am as bewildered as you.”

  They go to their main tent where General Battius await along with his personal entourage. Battius seems livid, ready to strike out at any moment.

  Jason looks at Battius. “General, to what do we owe this honor?”

  “There is none where you are concerned, maggot,” says Battius contemptuously.

  “By all due respect, General. You do not speak to me in such ways or-”

  “Or what?” cuts off the General. “I’ll speak to you in any way I see fit. I hold the cards in this little dance. You ken?”

  “I have no idea what you are speaking of?”

  Battius laughs. “Oh, do you now?”

  He motions to one of his subordinates. The Ork hands him a piece of parchment paper. It appears to have come from a telegraph machine. A cursory glance reveals a special seal. It looks familiar. Jason cringes and his heart begins to trip-hammer in his chest.

  “It seems you have been labeled despot. Your General Piedmont warned us of an attack orchestrated by a blood drunk tyrant. You know the seal, do you not?”

  “I assure you, General, I know nothing of this.” For reasons unbeknownst to Jason, his hands begin to tremble uncontrollably. He looks at the parchment paper as if it is the personal harbinger of destruction. He is tempted to read it as a bystander of a horrendous battlefield carnage who cannot look away from the hideous scene.

  “You may read it. It is authentic. Straight from Outpost Seven, General Piedmont himself. Let me paraphrase for you. General Piedmont warned us several days ago you were bloodthirsty and ambitious enough to invade our lands. We thought it a preposterous assertion. But, his assertions rang true several days ago when we witnessed your army invading our lands, and after we had successful negotiations. In order to preclude a full-scale war, General Piedmont warned us.”

  Jason shakes his head dubiously and looks at the parchment paper as if it is some cruel joke. He shakes his head in horrific befuddlement. “This is a mistake, General. We received word our enemy was in your sector. We were merely acting on some intelligence. Gilleon was the intruder.”

  “Gilleon!” scoffs Battius. “A ridiculous notion. An even more ridiculous lie.”

  “We were intercepting them.”

  “There is no army anywhere in the sector!” barks Battius. “I assure you. We are expert in tracking humans.” He sighs impatiently and gets up from Jason’s throne. “Shall we take a walk outside, despot?”

  Jason reluctantly follows, still unbelieving. He is barely aware of his feet moving. He assumes he will awake from this nightmare at any time, but he fails to.

  Battius hands him a set of hyper-oculars. Jason reluctantly takes them. “Take a looksee, Sai. There is our army. You will see that we have several of your superior officers. They’ll be returned if you cooperate.” Jason looks and sees a number of his officers on their knees, in a supplicating position with their hands bound. They are either ready to be returned or executed. He knows their forlorn countenances well. He personally seen that look from his enemies. He shakes his head in astonishment, horror.

  “As for the rest of your army, well, we didn’t have much choice. Those forty officers are all that is left. You left us little choice. Piedmont is a smart man. A true patriot.”

  Jason is incapable of speech. He hears a high-pitched mewling sound that reminds him of a dying hyena. He is horrified to discover he is the one making it.

  “If you are indecisive, perhaps you can discuss it with nephew.” Battius points to a guard who drags a hobbled, decrepit prisoner along like a ragdoll. One side of his face is swollen and a large laceration mars his face on one side. Crusted blood surrounds the cavernous eye socket that once held his eye. His cheekbone on one side has nearly been shattered, lowering his face in a hideous visage fit for nightmares.

  His nephew is completely unrecognizable. The guard tosses Commaden over to him like a small sack of potatoes and laughs. Jason grasps onto him desperately. “Commaden, what happened?”

  Tears well up in his good eye and threaten a torrential downpour. “Merlin happened, Uncle. He played you like a fiddle, so he did.”

  Jason shakes his head. “How did it come to this?”

  “He’s played you from the very beginning, Uncle. Always had. He’s always been in control. Your overconfidence did you in. He is the Merlin.”

  “If you do not agree to our terms, Sai, we will execute the rest of your officers.” He looks at Commaden. “Beginning with your nephew of course.” He pauses to let it sink in. “And we will march on your encampment and destroy the rest of you.”

  Like a man caught in a nightmare, Jason looks up in submission. “What do you want?” He asks.

  “Everything. All your plunder. And, we will return your men to you. I will send off the bulk of our force away immediately. A small contingency will remain and our business will be concluded. You ken?”

  Jason nods. “Ai.” He stands there for several minutes, while Senecas oversees the transfer of plunder to the coffers of the Orachain. No one dares to speak or try to assuage Jason. He is beyond reach. He is like a man caught in a nightmare, unable to wake himself from it.

  The Orachain work quickly and diligently. In less than half an hour, the Orachain are done. General Battius smirks at Jason condescendingly, as if he is some spoiled child. Jason is unaware.

  “We are done here, Captain. The King is unreachable for the moment. We must take our leave. You may send out a detail of men to supervise the prisoner transfer.”

  Senecas nods. “Ai, it will be done, General. Let’s finish this.” Senecas looks at the King, uncertain of whether to try and wake him from his stupor. He decides to air on the side of caution and leave him.

  Senecas oversees the transfer of prisoners successfully. Not wanting to risk a full-scale war and happy with the rich plunders of the campaign, Battius is true to his word. He and his army disengage.

  Nearly an hour passes with the King caught in a stupor. He finally appears to break from it as tears well up in his eyes. They dart back and forth rapidly and his body shakes violently. Seething, inconsolable rage slowly registers on his face. “Senecas!” He screams at the top of his lungs. “Senecas!”

  Senecas is ushered in. “Ai, my Liege.”

  “Bring me Domithicus. Now!”

  He bows. “Ai.”

  “And bring me Renault as well. Send as many men as you can to subdue him, but disarm those of men of their shooters. He’s a shifty one and I don’t want to risk someone accidentally k
illing him.”

  Senecas seems stupefied. “Renault, my Liege? To what purpose?”

  As soon as the words issue from his mouth, Jason belts him across the face with his fist, knocking a tooth loose from his mouth and sending a small spray of blood out.

  “To what purpose, you fucking brainless hedgeweed? For the purpose of torturing and killing him. Renault is with Merlin. Always was. Pay attention.”

  “I cry pardon your liege. I will get them at Tempest Halt.”

  Senecas briskly walks away from Jason and immediately begins to assemble the necessary men for the tasks at hand. He will see to Renault himself.

  Chapter 37: Unleash the Hound of Hell

  Senecas arrives at Renault’s holding cell, located several meters from the nearest tent. As instructed by Jason, the men have arrived without their guns. To Senecas reckoning, it’s a good measure. Since the soldiers’ nerves are wrought with tension, they may get a little trigger happy should Renault try and resist. And, it will be his head on the chopping block should they fail to bring Renault back alive.

  Renault senses the nervousness of the men who approach his cell. When they are about ten yards away, he whips his braided hair back along his neck and seizes it in his teeth, extracting the lock pick he hides in it. He simply takes the lock pick, picks his handcuffs, bends down, and unlocks the shackles from his ankles.

  To obscure the unlocked his shackles, he takes two terry cloths and places them over his hands and feet.

  The soldiers enter. Renault cannot stop himself from smiling. He gleans their minds. No guns. Good. Senecas enters and motions his men around, so they surround him. Prudent of him. Some men reflexively reach for the butts of their guns, but they’re no longer there. They have swords in their scabbards and perhaps a couple of throwing knives to boot.

  “Seems you gave us bad intelligence, Renault. Jason wants to have a word with you.”

  Senecas approaches closer, along with three other guards that seem to stand sentry.

  Renault shrugs. “I imagine he does. Unfortunately, I don’t have the honor of that kill. He’s Merlin’s now. Afraid it wouldn’t be very brotherly of me to deny him that one.”

  Senecas continues to inch closer, along with his soldiers.

  He is now so close Renault can feel the heat of his face and smell his pungently bad breath. “Pretty fucking imprudent of you trying to put one over on us!”

  Imperceptibly fast and unbeknownst to the men around him, Renault slips two daggers into each of his hands underneath the terry cloth. “Pretty fucking imprudent of you Lieutenant.”

  “What’s that?” asks Senecas.

  “Forgetting your firearms to subdue a man who has conveniently broken free of his restraints,” says Renault.

  Senecas looks down. As he does, Renault, swings both his knives up into Seneca’s face and the soldier next to him. The first knife penetrates through Seneca’s eye socket, creating a popping sound. His eye explodes in a gore of crimson, ocular fluid and brain matter. He spasms briefly and collapses.

  The other knife is driven up several inches into the man’s Adams apple, drenching Renault and man in crimson. He cries out briefly but not before Renault pulls back the knife and slices across his jugular, drenching the man further in blood.

  Before the man drops, Renault pivots to one side and sends a back kick towards the man directly behind him. The kick connects with his groin and hurls him backward, seething in mind-numbing pain. The man across from him tries to reach for his sword in the scabbard, but it is too late.

  Renault pulls another knife from his flap jacket and hurls it at the man, penetrating thru his chest and into his heart. The man clutches his chest in vain to stifle the unabated blood flow, chokes and falls forward.

  The men across from him begin to make their move for Renault, but he is much too fast. Two at a time, he pulls his throwing knives from his jacket and hurls them with astonishing breakneck speed and deadly accuracy.

  In seconds, another four men drop to the ground, clutching their necks, chests and guts.

  From the corner of his eye, Renault catches movement. He ducks a fraction of a second before one of the soldiers would have buried the hilt of his knife in his throat. As he ducks, he rears up on his haunches and pivots. He blocks another blow with forearm, receiving a painful laceration in the process but no real damage.

  The man lunges forward desperately, and it is his last mistake. As he does, Renault pushes his head down. And, with a vicious back swing, he buries the knife in the man’s neck. And emits spurting blood. He buries the knife further until the man begins to spasm violently. Renault shoves the man to die in a pool of his own blood, shit, and piss.

  Renault removes several of his knives from the chest and neck of several of the downed men. They bear his famous moniker, The Hound of Hell.

  One of the soldiers tries to make a run for it outside his tent. As he does, Renault takes out two extra-long knives and throws them at the man in rapid succession. The first one impales him to the post he was previously chained to. The next one pierces himself to the post through his leg. He screams out in excruciating pain.

  His senses alert him to two more foes. One man tries to sneak up on him surreptitiously, but Renault is much too fast. As he attempts to surprise him with a wild, clumsy stab, Renault blocks it by throwing his right arm forward. As he does that, he reaches in and slices the man across the stomach, eviscerating him. His steaming intestines begin to fall out of him. He cries out in revulsion and horror and tries to hold his innards inside him.

  The other man is unusually fast. He pivots, darts and throws himself at Renault, who barely manages to dodge the man’s reckless assaults. Relentlessly he stabs and attempts to slice through Renault. One reckless stab catches him on the funny bone, lacerating the skin and jarring his nerves. The man continues his reckless assaults and Renault senses a weakness. He leaves his left side vulnerable as he thrusts forward to the right. As he thrusts viciously forward with a vicious swing, Renault blocks the swing and pivots in the other direction. The second, he blocks, he switches the knife to the other hand and thrusts strategically for his left side.

  He stabs the man through his left side. The man drops his weapon and looks at Renault desperately. Renault pushes on the knife until the hilt is buried in his stomach. The man cries out in agony as Renault retracts the blade, causing a drenching of blood to flow from the wound. The man drops to the ground with a look of consternation on his face.

  “Nice try,” says Renault.

  The soldier, Palius who was eviscerated by Renault, catches a glimpse of some hard iron. Though none of the men brought their shooters, Renault’s gun belt is there and hanging on a nail only a couple of feet from the ground. Unable to stand and keep in his innards sufficiently, he crawls along his belly, hoping to reach the gun.

  His progress is unexpectedly stymied and a searing gut-wrenching pain erupts through his body. He cries out as Renault steps on his guts with his boots. “Where do you think you’re going, soldier?”

  “Ah!” he cries, then pleads, “Please let me go. I don’t want to die!”

  Renault only smiles. He turns over Palius and jabs him in the face, emitting a splattering of blood. Renault shakes his head in disgust. He appears to be assessing the man’s wardrobe as he runs his fingers down the lapel and feels the denim. “Look at you soldier! You’re falling apart. Get yourself together.”

  “You’re falling apart!” He begins to laugh. He laughs harder, almost hysterically. As he does, he begins to pummel the man mercilessly in the face. Each smack erupts a small splashing of blood. After several punches, Renault is covered with blood over his face, but still he laughs.

  Finally, he relents and looks at the man. His nose has been broken to the point where the cartilage has become unhinged and caved in. Both eyes are swollen, and both cheekbones are shattered, caving in his face more. He no longer looks recognizable as a human.

  He bends down and kisses the man on th
e forehead, the only place on his face not devastated by the onslaught of punches. “Merlin sends warm regards.” And with that, he mercifully twists the man’s neck, killing him.

  Renault gets up and begins to wipe up his face with the sleeve of his jacket. He approaches the man impaled to the post. The man looks at him with a desperate, beseeching gesture. “Help me,” says the man.

  Renault pats him on the head affectionately. “I promise you I shall remedy this right away, Sai. Renault grabs the handle of the swords impaling the man. “Heads up,” he warns.

  In one deft, lightning quick move, he pulls out the large knives and swings them in a slicing arc, penetrating through the man’s neck cleanly. The man’s head immediately topples from his neck and dark crimson squirts from the severed arteries.

  He picks up the head with his knife and looks at it curiously. “Not one for dry humor, are you Sai?” he asks. He begins to bust up in another laughing fit, nearly to the point of hysterics.

  Renault goes to his gun belt and in one seamless move, he puts it on and twirls both guns in his hands, hypnotically fast and just as quickly, re-holsters them.

  “Gentlemen, it’s been a sincere pleasure- killing you all. I bid you farewell.”

  Before he walks out the tent for good, he removes the pendant insignia of the Brotherhood from around his neck and kisses it reverently. “Godspeed, Brothers. Godspeed Merlin.”

  Chapter 38: Recompense in Full Measure

  Domithicus is beyond tired. Pain receptors throughout his body light up like a New Year’s night with the slightest of moves. Sleep is beyond him. When he does manage to doze off, he is quickly roused awake by his own excruciating body. At other times, one of the guards rouses him awake after only a few minutes of slumber to torment him.

  He feels the presence of insidious force trying to make its way into his mind. He doesn’t know if it’s Renault or Merlin, alerting him to his presence. Today is the moment of truth. Either he will be rescued, or he will die trying to escape. He prays that Merlin keeps his promise. He has kept his.