Takes you back, does it not?” asks Cleotus.
Perronius nods. “That it does, Cleotus.”
“As much as I would like to palaver about times past, you came here for reason. And we don’t have much time.” He gestures with his massive clawed hand. “Would you sit?”
Perronius nods. “Ai.” Perronius ponders the last memory of this room. The smell of sharp, metallic Ork blood mixed with spiced Ork rum tinges his nostrils as he goes back.
He sits down. “Do I not have one of your recruits here?” asks Cleotus.
Perronius nods. “Ai, that you do. Actually two.”
“Paxus, who’s the other one? “
“Montius Bellen,” says Perronius.
“The dimwit?” asks Cleotus.
“It’s an act. Set watch and warrant it, he’s no dimwit.”
Cleotus laughs a deep bellowing laugh. “Well played. Never would have guessed it.”
“Sort of the point,” says Perronius.
“So, what brings you here? I ken well you know this place well, but you didn’t come here to reminisce. Tis no tripe matter getting in here.”
“I need you as a guarantor on a loan, should my plan fail.”
Cleotus pauses and sneers, revealing a mouth full of razor-sharp fangs. “This is well beyond the parameters of our alliance. Why would I agree to such? How much is this loan anyhow?” asks Cleotus, curiously.
“Eight thousand pounds of gold pence. Four chest fulls.”
“Blah!” snorts Cleotus. “You been guzzling madmen’s piss to think I’d agree to something like that. What’s in it for me?”
Perronius smiles with brazen aplomb. “I was hoping you would ask that.” He pulls out the signed and sealed document from Menelaeus and hands it over to Cleotus to peruse.
Cleotus eyes it suspiciously but begins to read it. His eyes grow in dilation at the signature. “This real?” he asks. “No sort of Tom fuckery to it?”
“You know Menelaeus’ signature well? Do you not? You know me well. I would not try and deceive you. It’s his signature. As you can imagine, he was reluctant to give it.”
“Ha!” snorts Cleotus. “I ken well he was. What sort of sorcery did you put on the likes of King? Perhaps you held his balls in a vice whilst gun was put to temple?”
Perronius shakes his head and looks indignant. “You forget who you speak to. I did no such thing. My King trusts me, implicitly, completely, without reservation. It was not easy, but I told him the truth.”
Cleotus nods somberly. “Tis true, Perronius. You are a master manipulator, but I ken well where your allegiance lies. I don’t know what sorcery you have employed, but you have done the impossible. It is hard to fathom. What are the terms of the loan?”
“Four points but your end is eight, so you would keep four as profit.”
“A generous deal, if’n he can uphold his end. That is a hefty monthly sum. Seems I would be behooved to see you fail in this venture. I could have my entire kin out of exile within a year.”
Perronius grins mischievously. “I would not expect such a fact to escape your notice, Cleotus. You are astute. But if you believe that this deal would escape the notice of King Sylvio perpetually, then you are mistaken. Where would you keep that much coin? Out of the prying eyes of your subordinates?”
Cleotus shakes his head and sighs heavily, his massive chest seeming to implode on itself. “And so, we come to the heart of the matter. That I must trust you- implicitly. That there is great risk to me.”
“There has always been great risk with our alliance. You know this well.”
“Too well,” says Cleotus bitterly.
“Besides,” instructs Perronius. “The SeneGauls threaten the Borak tribes to the north. I know they’re a potential ally should you ever wish to overthrow King Sylvio.
“Should never have let that slip to you.”
“You didn’t. I read minds. Remember?”
“And I keep mine from being breached.”
“Not well enough,” says Perronius unabashedly.
“Careful you don’t overstep, knight. You still stand on my territory.”
“And I’ll be gone before anyone knows I was here.” Perronius pushes the document closer to Cleotus. He emits a long, heaving, overly- dramatic sigh, takes his seal and stamps it, and signs it as well in a hard pressed, unique signature, one harder to replicate than Menelaeus’.
“There is another matter,” says Perronius.
Cleotus smiles acidly, purposely displaying his teeth again. “Always is with you, Perronius. Speak it.”
“It concerns your latest arrival, Benedict Corian.”
“What of him?”
“I need you to set up a transfer for him somewhere else?”
Cleotus eyes him suspiciously and scoffs. “I’ll be seriously hard-pressed to alter the books on that little bit of Tom fuckery. Auditor’s already has his nose buried so far up my ass he can taste my shit when he breathes. You ken?”
“Perronius tosses him a small bag filled with gold pence. Cleotus feels it and empties the coins in his hands and nods. “Ai. Think this will suffice. How soon?”
“Three weeks,” replies Perronius.
“Bah!” snorts Cleotus. “Tis never like you to ask for something small, is it?”
Perronius smiles coyly. “Ai.”
“Consider it done, cast mate.”
“We’ll cast the first stones together,” offers Perronius.
“And likely be damned for it as well. As the saying goes, ‘the maiden that makes her bed in the throes of quicksand will find it hard to emerge.’ You ken?”
“Such is the way of our alliance. And our predicament,” says Perronius.
“One last matter,” says Perronius.
“I think you are in grave danger of overstepping. What say?” warns Cleotus.
“It will be a small one, I assure.”
“Name it.”
“I need you to start feeding some information to Barabus about the VisiGauls and a possible invasion on the northern borders. I know Barabus is in cloves with the Borak tribes to the north.”
Cleotus smiles devilishly. “He’d never admit such- unless maybe he were on a crucifix.” He pauses. “But yes, I am privy.” Cleotus rubs his chin pensively. “He would buy it, hook, line and sinker. He’s already a bit suspicious because of that minor skirmish you induced last year in Coiten.”
Perronius tosses him another sack of gold pence. Cleotus looks at it curiously. “This favor is trite, Perronius. Let’s call it even.”
“Let’s call it a credit.”
“Cleotus laughs a loud bellowing laugh. He nods. “Ai.” He looks at him in a vain attempt to read him, but Perronius is inscrutable. “What are you planning anyway?”
“I’m not,” says Perronius. “Let’s just say I’m preparing for a contingency.”
“It’s never a contingency with you, knight. I ken it’s more of a certainty.”
He turns to go, but before he leaves, Cleotus addresses him. “You overextend yourself, Perronius. Always have. You overextend yourself too far and you won’t bend back. Remember that.”
“Will do,” says Perronius.
Chapter 3: Another Shaky Meeting
Lancet’s Tavern is situated well outside the outskirts of town. Although ramshackled on the outside, the inside is well maintained. A bright, ambrosia, brick fireplace blazes inside, heating the place to a cozy temperature. Surrealist paintings by such famous artists as Maldone and Heireitz adorn the walls. They could be originals or reprints. A large group of Cyprus trees surround the building, lending itself to the illusion of insubstantial obscurity. Much of the building is cast in shadow, which is what the operators prefer.
The place is owned and operated by Sharif Philip Dungler and only members are permitted inside or those who receive a special invite. Once at the door, Merlin displays his code to the doorman, an overbearing, large barrel-chested ruffian named Homian Corell. He eyes them suspiciously and l
ooks intently at the code, sighs and waves them inside.
Their clothing is nondescript, but their large caliber guns dangle menacingly from their holsters, alerting nervous eyes to the possibility of trouble. Hard-looking men as gruff looking as a grizzly who has been prematurely woken from his slumber eye them suspiciously. Some reluctantly nod. Perronius and his men nod back.
An old, dumpy looking, blond waitress motions to them, pointing to a large open booth. Her hair is a dull, listless auburn that once may have been lustrous. Red sallow cheeks envelope large cracked lips that once may have been sensual. Her best feature are her eyes, radiating an unusually luminescent green. Her nose is small and delicate but crisscrossed with small, tiny, burst blood vessels, indicating the likelihood of consumption.
Life in this hell whole has taken its toll on her. She may have once been pretty, but now a roadmap of pain is etched in her eyes as clear as the skin of a porcelain doll.
As she gets to the table and is about to greet them, Perronius gives her a small pouch filled with twenty weight gold pence. She eyes it suspiciously. Without turning to her, he speaks. “We’ll take two pots of your Aborinthe tea. After you bring it, take the day off.”
She continues to eye the pouch dubiously. It is more than she earns in a year of working here. “This is too much,” she says.
“Should be enough to buy your shares in Holster’s Inn. You ken?” asks Perronius.
She is unable to swallow down an impossibly constricted throat. “How did you-”
Domithicus pats her reassuringly on the arm. She leaves quickly lest she wakes up from this dream or they change their mind, still disbelieving of her incredible luck. Germanicus lets out a long sigh that had been pent up and brewing inside him during the last part of the journey.
"You would have words, brother?” asks Perronius. “I would hear them.”
Germanicus looks around the table, hoping for an ally who would yield a sympathetic ear, but none meet his gaze directly, except for Jamison, who merely looks at him and shrugs. Speak it if you must. Germanicus shakes his head. “I believe in the first two instances, we were lucky. Dam lucky. And here we are pushing our luck once again.”
"Not lucky,” says Perronius, adamantly. “Calculating. Trust me when I say that I have calculated the risks of this quest repeatedly.” Perronius smiles playfully. “Remember it was I who excelled at mathematics, not you.”
“Even if he does show up and doesn’t manage to inform on us, which I think is very unlikely, what we must accomplish is impossible. Nothing like it has ever been done.” Germanicus pauses. “Perronius, the shadow fighters refused an order to assassinate Songre Khan. They never refuse any job.”
“If you believe the story of Mater Vor. You know as well as I do the penchant men have for unsubstantiated rumors. They’re as bad as pubes. Tales get taller with each new ear and mouth to speak it of it. You ken?”
“Still, the facts speak for themselves. That place is a fortress. No one and I mean no one has ever escaped from there. What you’re planning is insane.”
Perronius smiles. “It would appear that way, brother. But here we are.”
Germanicus shakes his head. He grabs Perronius by the forearm and shakes his hand. “Ai, Brother. I promised I would follow you to the end of my days. I hold true to my word. Just voicing my misgivings.”
Perronius smiles coyly. “Your misgivings have been duly noted.” He pauses. “Five hundred times.” The other brethren laugh. Domithicus smacks Germanicus on the shoulder playfully. Germanicus reluctantly smiles.
“Of course, there’s no guarantee he will show,” says Germanicus hopefully.
“Actually, he’s already here,” observes Perronius.
The other brethren look around. Lespie seems to glide in inconspicuously. He wears simple peasant’s garb, a dark cloak, sandals and tattered, wool breaches. He blends in with the number of itinerant farm hands that live in the valley. The cloak and britches, however, are merely a clothing façade. The side of the cloak is stitched together loosely to allow for quick movements akin to the Proterian elite.
Inside his cloak, he has a special holster which houses a deadly pop gun, made of a wooden alloy. Its cylinder, made of the alloy as well, has six chambers. All chambers have the deadly strychnine poison, lethal to anything in which it embeds itself.
Even with an antidote, there have been no known survivors. When hit, you will perish. Lespie also wears a leather flap jacket. Like many of the brethren, he carries six-inch-long, surgically sharp daggers and sharpens them after each skirmish. Lespie continues his path to their table, nods politely before he sits down and removes his cloak. He has an olive skinned, flawless complexion and a small, almost effeminate nose with full lips. His eyes have the smallest of slants and his eyes are unusually radiant and piercing amber with golden specks in the middle, what some would call twilight eyes. They are rare. It is rumored that people with such eyes have preternatural and unnatural abilities. In Lespie’s case, it appears to be true.
He appears nonchalant, but respectful and resolute. The sigh he lets out implies he may have been reluctant when this campaign began, but he is determined to see it through now. He looks around the table and nods at each of the brethren. His eyes move rapidly back and forth, studying them as they do him- ten elite warriors committed to joint purpose.
Lespie glances at the other men and rests his eyes on Perronius. “You are the one my father mentioned, General,” says Lespie.
“It’s just Perronius to you, friend. Though if you would prefer formality, Sir Perronius. I’m only a general when I have my army to command. You ken?”
Lespie nods graciously. He is respectful, soft spoken and civil but underneath is a restrained killing machine kept in check by loyalty to his father. “Ai, Perronius. Am pleased to make acquaintance. We are well met.” He turns to the other brethren and nods. “Well met, knights.”
They nod. “Ai, well met.” They say.
“How many of your men are here?” asks Germanicus.
“Six,” says Lespie. “Including Caulter, the one who is commissioned with killing me should I step out of line. I believe that time has come. You ken?”
Germanicus lets out a sigh and shakes his head. “Only counted four.” He looks at Perronius. “Did you know there were six?”
Perronius smiles coyly. “Of course. I’ll handle those six. The rest of you must handle the rest.”
“The rest?” asks a bewildered Germanicus.
“The rest of the men here are hired guns. Did you really believe it would be that easy?”
Germanicus shakes his head. “Nothing ever is with you, Brother.”
“Ai,” says Syrus.
“Didn’t bring my best twelve shooters here for show,” says Domithicus with righteous aplomb.
Perronius and Syrus laugh while Germanicus shakes his head in frustration.
Perronius holds up his hands in a ‘let’s settle down and get back to business’ gesture. “All right Brother. Now that we have established what we’re up against let’s get down to hard business.”
“Your taciturn ways are maddening, Brother. As a pube, I could have beaten you in frustration. Even then, you would reveal nothing.”
“If you could land a blow,” chides Perronius. The other brethren snicker.
“Not to interrupt your brotherly moment, but if we may,” pleads Lespie as he gestures with his hands.
“Ai,” says Perronius.
“Before we get down to hard business, I’ll need some proof,” states Lespie.
Perronius takes off his jacket and unbuttons his chambray shirt on the left side. His hairless forearm is thick with muscle and vascular. He turns his palm upwards, revealing an intricate series of Gaelic pictograms, calligraphy and hieroglyphs. The brethren stare at in awe.
Lespie pulls back his cloak, revealing his right forearm. His forearm is just as vascular but smaller. His build is much like Germanicus, with sinewy, defined musculature but on a smaller sc
ale than Perronius. Like the brethren, his physique has been honed by years of endurance, martial arts, battle and extreme resistance training.
He holds his forearm up to Perronius as the brethren observe. It is a perfect match. Perronius’ tattoo is symmetrical to Lespie’s. Each tattoo appears as the mirrored reflection of the other. There’s no doubt it can just be a coincidence.
Lespie appears deadpan, except for the faint smile that runs away so fast from his face, it’s hard to tell if it was there at all. “Well it appears that you are the one.” He looks around suspiciously at the other men in the tavern. If any had taken notice, there is no indication; but Lespie knows better. His fellow brothers are overly observant. Were he to withdraw from this mission now, there would be no turning back. Songre would hear of it and his suspicions would very well result in the death of him and his father.
“For this to appear authentic, I must put up a fight. How do you expect to subdue me?” asks Lespie.
“Tranquilizer dart,” says Perronius.
“I must warn you I don’t go down easy. Am undefeated in mortal combat.” He scrutinizes them closely, eyeing them for any indication of lack of resolve. They don’t bat an eye, not an inkling of a twinkle. “But take me down you must. And no man here will permit you to leave alive, if they are. You ken?”
Germanicus and Syrus give each other the slightest of nods. Syrus reaches for his tranquilizer gun and brings it up in one fluid motion, while Germanicus extracts a billy club and swings it at Lespie.
It is much too slow for the seasoned killer. He brings up his palm and deflects the blow and scuttles swiftly in his chair, sliding across the table, while pulling his blade from its scabbard.
Perronius pulls out his own tranquilizer dart and aims it at him, while he deftly deflects the blow by bringing up his sword.
Perronius must abandon Lespie. He has no choice. Lespie’s soldiers move quickly for their own guns, pulling them out with fluid precision. In only a fraction of a second, bullets rip a crazy course through the tavern, blowing chairs and tables to splintered bits. Four unwitting recipients are caught in the crossfires. They fall dead to the floor, gushing viscous blood from severed arteries.
Dawn of the Merlin- The Final Quest Page 2