Domithicus tires of forcing himself to keep out whatever intruder is trying to breach his mind. He relents and lets his mind drift back.
“You’re the only one who can link with me over that distance. You ken?” asks Merlin.
Domithicus nods somberly. “Ai. And you will come for me?”
“Ai,” says Merlin. “I might very well be the only one left, but I do promise that. And if you still live, I’ll rescue you. Are you prepared for what they will do to you?”
Domithicus shrugs. “I am committed to this. No man can really ever be prepared for that amount of torture. Set watch and warrant, I’ll endure anything for this campaign. For you. For my Brotherhood. For my country.”
“You know what’s at stake?”
“Ai.”
“This is the only chance we have, Dom.”
“And you’re going to shoot me?”
Merlin laughs. “It’s the last of your worries, Brother. That flesh wound will be nothing compared to what they will do to you.”
Domithicus nods. He grabs Merlin by the forearm for a Brotherly hug. “I’m ready Brother, come hell or high water.”
Merlin smiles.
Domithicus awakes from his daze by the smell of a faint, but acrid smell of sulfur. He smiles to himself. The time has come.
(2)
Merlin takes out his dog whistle and blows the last remaining chords in D minor, three successive blasts, spaced exactly three seconds apart. In seconds, hundreds of arrows sail through the air with the speed of cannonballs towards their intended targets.
Over half a kilometer away, Troubadour’s sharp ears pick up the notes. He sprints out to the last of the remaining ballistas, ensuring his large bulk steps firmly on the triggers. In seconds, hundreds of arrows sail through the air with speed of cannonballs towards their intended targets.
(3)
Sergeant Markus Zander stares at the sky and whittles, as he is prone to do when the stress becomes nearly unbearable. When he set upon this campaign, he never believed it would come to this. The latest news reached his ears as well. At least ninety percent of their force was obliterated or unaccounted for. There was talk of desertion. Whispers. Rumors. He’s sure some already made their escape. Some were found and hung as soon as deed was discovered. Most of his men he could vouch for. They would choose a more noble death or so he hoped.
At the moment, everything is quiet, too quiet; as if some impending doom were about to be unleashed. Perhaps it is just his nerves getting the best of him.
(4)
Lieutenant Dannamus walks into the prisoner tent and sees Domithicus chained to the pole in the middle of the room. He smiles at him in derision, but his smile quickly turns to one of bemusement. Why the smirking gloat on the prisoner’s face? He should have been stripped of all morale and insolence. What noxious odor permeates the air or is it just his imagination?
“You are to go to the King,” says Dannamus.
“Good. I should expect he will be planning to execute me.”
Dannamus laughs at Domithicus’ deadpan expression. “Ai, soldier. Expect that he will.”
The officers look up and scowl when they hear the confusing, whistling sound. Domithicus smiles. The time has come. As soon as he detected the smell of sulfur, he used his pins to unlock his restraints, a task he practiced thousands of times. Only a close inspection of him would reveal that the cuffs are not locked.
Feigning submission, he drops the handcuffs quietly behind him.
Dannamus kicks Domithicus in the stomach hard. Domithicus groans and kicks out. Dannamus motions to another officer. “Let’s get him up!” Domithicus goes limp and becomes dead weight, while the officers hoist him up. As he bends down, he quickly and inconspicuously unlocks his leg restraints.
The other guard takes his rifle and butts Domithicus hard in the back, sending up torrents of agony through his body. Domithicus swoons and is hoisted up forcefully. He comes to but feigns incapacitation. They slap him around to wake him up.
Domithicus opens one eye and observes a sharp dagger on the guard’s utility belt. He shoots out his elbow lightning quick and connects with the guard’s jaw. A loud ‘popping sound’ emits. The guard cries out in surprise and pain.
It is all the time Domithicus needs to reach for the dagger. He grabs it, slices it across the guard’s throat, and releases a copious gush of dark crimson. Domithicus switches hands and transfers the dagger to his other hand, slicing the other guard’s throat. Blood spurts out, staining everything in his path.
Another officer directly across from him reaches for his gun, but he is too slow. Domithicus throws the knife with perfect accuracy and hits him squarely in the Adam’s apple. He clutches his neck and gags on his own prodigious blood flow.
The other guard instinctively fires but his shot only grazes the soldier directly in front of him, the man whose throat has just been slit. Domithicus reaches for the holster and brings up the gun. He fires two successive rounds in the man’s chest. A spray of crimson emits in the air. The man wails as he drops down. Domithicus finishes him off with a shot to the head.
Several more haphazard shots are fired at Domithicus, but they miss him as he crouches down. Still fighting with the man in front of him for his gun, he takes and fires several shots around his bulk. He hears the cries of another man who drops down.
Domithicus tries to get his bearings. He knows the layout of his cell but cannot pinpoint where the other two men are firing from. The man in front of him somehow manages to fight him for the gun. Two more shots pierce the man in front of him. Domithicus cringes. The bullets just barely miss him.
He must take a chance. He takes the man’s wrist and twists it violently, breaking it in several places. The man cries out in agony. He turns around the gun and places it right up under his chin and fires two rounds. The sound is deafening in such close quarters and muffled by the man’s brains, which exit out of his skull. It creates an uncomfortable ‘ping’ in his ears.
Domithicus rolls over, holding both revolvers. Both men emerge from their hiding places and fire rounds. Two shots come perilously close to him, splintering the pole that once held him hostage. Domithicus fires and thumbs the hammer, nearly simultaneously while pulling the trigger. The first bullet finds a target in the man’s head, expelling the brains out of the back of his head. Two other shots enter the other man’s sternum and heart, knocking him to the ground. Blood gushes relentlessly, staining man and floor.
Domithicus hears movement outside his tent and turns around, while cocking the hammer. He points it menacingly. He hears two soldiers drop but not from gunfire. He smiles.
Merlin walks into the tent.
Domithicus sighs in relief. “I thought you would never get here, old friend.”
“I never thought you would get out of your restraints,” says Merlin playfully.
Domithicus laughs. “It is good to see you. We are well met.”
“Ai. Glad to see you are still intact. You look awful.”
“I feel much worse.” He looks at Merlin curiously. He doesn’t know Merlin’s full plans. “What now?”
“I am off. Our Brothers will soon reconvene with us.”
“Where are you going?”
“To relinquish a crown from a King. I expect that he will be needing some cozening.”
“Ai. I expect that he will.”
Merlin throws Domithicus a gun belt. Domithicus looks at it and smiles. “How did you get it?”
“I do have my ways.”
“Ai, that you do, Merlin.” Domithicus wraps the gun belt around his waist and takes out his speed shooters, twirling them around his hands so fast they seem to levitate hypnotically. He looks at Merlin and nods. “They do feel good in my hands.”
“I have another friend to see you as well.” A large, grey wolf appears and barks and runs up to his master.
“Good to see you, boy.” Troubadour licks him with his massive tongue and nearly pulls his hair out of its roots. Domith
icus laughs. He looks at Merlin. “What now?”
“Give me ten minutes and then unleash hell. You ken?”
Domithicus nods. “Ai, Brother. Long have I waited for such.” Domithicus turns his head for a split second and Merlin is gone. “Godspeed.” He whispers.
He takes out a kerchief from one of the dead soldiers and wraps it around his face and eyes. With the kerchief, his eyes begin to tear up from the noxious fumes slowly making their way towards into his tent. His eyes began to tear up as well.
He takes a sheath off the dead man as well and pulls out his sword and inspects it. It is a shoddy and dull to the point of being nearly ineffectual, but it must do. Besides, once ten minutes are up, he won’t need it anymore.
(5)
The eerie silence continues for several minutes until it is replaced by a strange whistling sound. Sergeant Markus looks up in the sky. At first, he is confused by what he sees. Are they birds? His confusion is replaced by mounting terror when his mind finally grasps the truth. They aren’t birds at all. They are arrows and judging by their trajectory, they are headed right for the encampment. The arrows continue their arc, beginning their descent, and heading for the ground.
Markus shoots up like a leopard. Several are enraptured with what they are seeing in the sky, but few realize the mortal danger. “Men. Take cover. Now! Take cover!” Markus luckily grabs a nearby shield.
Several other soldiers are not so lucky. Massive arrows penetrate vital organs and severe arteries, causing almost instantaneous hemorrhaging. Men cry out in agonizing pain as arrows pierce them, impaling some to their horses, to the ground and to each other. Horses whine in agony as they are struck with at least one and sometimes more arrows. They gallop around in a frenetic state, desperate to escape the hailstorm. Death comes quickly for the lucky ones.
A large arrow at least six feet in length crashes down on Markus. He shields the arrow not a moment too soon. It smashes partially through his shield, grazing his leg and opening up a painful laceration. He cries out painfully. It is monstrously painful to the touch, but it does not affect his mobility. Any movement causes excruciating pain.
To make matters worse, Markus’ eyes begin to water and acrid smoke causes him to choke. He gets up from under his shield and winces painfully with each small step. He has no choice. He must escape the acrid smoke.
He takes another step and swears he sees movement. As he reaches for his speed-shooter, an inexplicably painful cut breaks out on his neck, causing him to gasp out for breath. He finds he is incapable of drawing breath. Suddenly he is struggling to maintain balance and grows woozy by the second. Trying to feel the injury on his neck, he can’t muster the strength and drops to the ground. Blackness engulfs him.
Merlin is not invulnerable to the effects of the noxious fumes. He chokes and sputters involuntarily as does Shadow. Luckily, the fuses are very short. While the acrid smoke burns for about 10 minutes, it’s just enough time to confront the King.
His tent has an antechamber with several armed guards securing his position continually. The back of the structure has a mortar edifice, making it difficult to break in from the back. Merlin has no intention of going in that way.
The men in the antechamber cough as their lungs inhale the noxious fumes. From outside their chamber, they can hear the screams of their fellow soldiers dying in torment. And yet, they cannot lift a finger to help. They have their orders. Protect the King at all costs. A loud knock issues from outside the door and not one of the men attempts to answer it. One of the guards nervously pulls his speed-shooter from its holster and fires. “What the fuck, Brogameer?”
“I cry pardon. It’s the nerves, so it is.”
“Get the fuck a hold of yourself.” The sound continues. Louder and more persistent. Bang. Bang. Clack. Clack. Much louder this time. The men look uneasily at one another, knowing that one of them should go out and check, but not sure which poor bastard they should send to his death.
Lieutenant Bane is the first to speak. “We should send out Brogameer. He’s as worthless as a cock on a cuckold, so he is.”
“Ai!” exclaims Brody and Filmorius in assent.
The men are more than happy to elect someone for the deadly task and quickly as possible. If they had time, they would have broken straws for the election. But they had none. Brogameer’s capricious outburst distinguishes himself in the minds of the guards and it is the only excuse they need.
“All those in favor, say Ai!”
“Ai!” exclaim all in unison. Brogameer looks at his cohorts as if he had been slapped and exiled. In a way, perhaps he had. “Ai, you fucking cunts. Then it looks as if I have no choice in the matter.”
In order to temper the blow, Bane comforts him. “You know that you are the most able with the speed-shooter, Brogameer. If any man has a chance of surviving, it is definitely you.”
“Ai!” responds several of the men. The others nod in assent.
Brogameer reluctantly walks out, but not before he looks back at his cohorts with a wounded expression on his face. Perhaps it is best this way. Better to die facing his enemy then huddling inside like a bunch of frightened lambs awaiting the slaughter.
He walks out the door still wheezing, though the vapors seemed to have lost their intensity. Perhaps the noxious fumes are dissipating. This is the last thought that registers in Brogameer’s mind. He is barely aware of an excruciating pain that disconnects his head from his body; and there is no pain at all.
Before the man hits the ground, Merlin removes his petticoat and hat and strips it from him quickly much like a magician removes a soil cloth from a table with numerous dishes on it.
Merlin walks into the antechamber wearing Brogameer’s clothing. As he walks in, he puts his head down to avoid detection. “That was fast, Brogameer. You couldn’t have found anything so quick. Make haste and do your duty,” orders Bane.
“I am doing my duty and I’m doing you too!” Merlin smiles sheepishly. A moment of stunned silence ensues in the antechamber and for a split second, the men are incapable of action. A fraction of a second of indecision is all the time Merlin needs to react. He pulled his sword from his sheath lightning quick and swings it in an arc. The men barely have time to reach for their holsters. Brody, the second fastest, next to Brogameer manages only to touch his speed shooter before his hand and gun are severed in one deadly swoosh. He cries out in horrific surprise as blood gushes from the severed wound.
He is the only one who survives Merlin’s initial swing. His swing slashes their throats, severing jugular veins in an unstoppable, prodigious spurt of crimson. Bane twitches and coughs frantically, holding his hand to his mortal wound, which continues to drain the life from him. He mercifully collapses and is still. Brody is stunned in silence. He never witnessed anything so remarkable in his years in battle. How could anyone be so fast? He falls forward as darkness overtakes him.
Merlin sheathes his sword just as quickly as he drew it. From an observer’s perspective, it would have appeared his sword disappeared from his hand and was teleported to his sheath. Perhaps it had.
Merlin walks into the King’s chamber, wearing the disguise of Brogameer. Seamlessly blending in with the other men, his shoulders are hunched and his head is downcast to avoid detection. None of the other soldiers notice one of the men left his post, a serious infraction of protocol, if not derelict of duty. Everyone is too much on edge to notice; though it does not escape the notice of Captain Lucius. “Are you tripe? Who dares to leave his post?” All the murmured and hushed conversation stops. The men look to the man who is called out.
“You soldier, what is your name?”
His Lieutenant whispers to him. “Sir, I do believe that is Private Brogameer.”
“Answer Private.” Captain Lucius approaches Brogameer, accompanied by several of his men. They are well prepared to back their Captain for the serious infraction.
Aware that a standoff might be imminent, the other soldiers join the Captain’s cohorts
and surround the derelict. Merlin keeps his head down and doesn’t answer, waiting patiently for the men to approach within striking distance. They cluster around him, blocking off any chance of escape.
“Speak Private!”
The King looks up from his throne, enraptured with the events. He doesn’t intervene but observes how things play out. If the derelict doesn’t have a valid excuse for leaving his post, Jason will make an example of him. That is a given.
Merlin heard Brogameer’s voice and is expert in the art of mimickery. With head and eyes downcast, Merlin answers in the voice of Brogameer. “I have word from Merlin to be given to the King.” A look of consternation erupts on all their countenances. The King stands up from his throne abruptly, frightened of the implications and yet curious. Perhaps a truce could be worked out.
Captain Lucius is dubious. “You have word from Merlin? Merlin would deign to send the likes of you word? Speak it. Do tell us all Private Brogameer.”
“Merlin requests a truce. He will permit us to leave with our lives, provided that we offer the head of our King and the girl to go free. Anything less and he will kill us all.”
Captain Lucius laughs heartily at the ridiculousness of the request. He looks at the King, who does not join him in laughter but looks uneasy. Captain Lucius is incredulous. “Well Private. If we are to believe your message, may I ask how Merlin allowed such a lowly wart monkey like you to escape with your life?”
Merlin raises his head to allow the men to see his glasses as he speaks. “Because you see, I am Merlin!”
The last thing that Captain Lucius sees are the small oval-shaped glasses Merlin wears. By the time he reaches for his speed-shooter, Captain Lucius is already choking on blood and clutching his throat to stop the prodigious blood flow.
Merlin swings his sword so fast and powerfully it produces a low-level humming which causes an unpleasant sensation to those not immediately killed by his first assault. His sword swings through soldier’s neck like butter. Blood flows from numerous severed necks in copious crimson spurts. Hands are severed, and guns split in two from the deadly and razor-sharp blade.
The Brotherhood of Merlin Page 29