Wendyl nods. They go to the back of the establishment, enter through a set of curtains and a door and proceed to the empty parlor room. Lespie looks at Perronius curiously. Perronius hears the unmistakable creaking of a door and goes to the wall where he heard the sound and pulls open a chair that sits next to the wall. A large, secret door pops open. They walk through, though Lespie proceeds cautiously. The door shuts abruptly behind them and they are in total darkness for several seconds. A series of lamps flash several times and light the elusive corridors.
As they continue, they hear the unmistakable clanging, clacking and beeps associated with the telegraph machine. There is a telegraph machine in each of the rooms, a cost so exorbitant Perronius is surprised. One man on the telegraph machine yells out a series of numbers to other men, who quickly write down the digits.
When they arrive past one of the doors, a man shouts out to them. “In here, gents!” They walk into the room, where two other men nearly as large as Jasper guard the doorway and the telegraph machine where a man types feverishly on it.
Sitting at a table, wearing a white velvet blazer and a top hat is Malkie. He seems to be perusing some numbers. He looks up when they walk in. “Perronius,” he says.
Perronius and Lespie walk towards him. Lespie nods at him. Perronius shakes his hand. Malkie looks around. “All right boys. Everyone out!” They hesitate for a moment.
"Now!” He yells vehemently. They quickly take their belongings and leave, shutting the door on their way out. “Good to see you, Perronius,” says Malkie. “Tis a good sign that you are alive and well. I would not have expected it.”
"Thankee,” says Perronius.
"Shall we get down to business?” asks Malkie.
"Ai,” says Perronius.
Malkie goes to a small trunk and opens it up. “Replicated to the last detail. It was not a small pittance, I can tell you that.” Perronius hands him a medium-sized knapsack filled with gold pence.
Malkie takes it out and looks at it. “It does look like the amount we agreed upon.”
“Count it,” says Perronius.
“Ai,” says Malkie. “Will do.”
Malkie takes out the first chain mail and studies it. It is emblazoned in gold and has many elaborate etchings of hieroglyphs. It is the signature piece of the Senegal Army. Malkie admires it and hands it to Lespie, who looks at it in awe.
“Amazing,” says Lespie. “I can’t tell the difference between this one and the real one.”
“Sort of the point,” says Malkie. “Set watch and warrant, that’s real gold as well as the etchings and hieroglyphs. There is only one goldsmith accomplished enough to recreate that piece.”
“Vandemus,” says Perronius.
Malkie looks at Perronius curiously. “You know the man?”
“Ai,” says Perronius. “We’re acquainted.”
“As long as you keep my name out of this. I’m supposed to be a neutral party in this. This town serves OstraGaul and SeneGaul alike. Were it ever discovered I aided you-”
Perronius cuts him off. “Trust me. I am no stranger to harboring secrets. This will be a pittance compared to what I must keep. Your name need never be mentioned.”
“I know. That’s why I do business with you. I charge Baltor for the use of my machines. He thinks I know of nothing that he’s doing, but I know it all well. You’re planning a siege. Are you not?”
“It would appear that way,” says Perronius. “Though you didn’t hear it from me.”
“Heard what?” says Malkie with a devilish grin. “I just don’t want to be caught in the fallout should this thing go sour Sam. You ken?”
“There are risks we must all face,” says Perronius. “If this thing does go sour, this town may be obliterated. Songre Khan will stop at nothing to find culprits, even if he must fabricate his own. You ken? You should make plans for any contingency.”
“Already have,” says Malkie.
“Then you are a prudent man,” says Perronius.
“We’ll see how prudent I am when the deed is done, who is standing, and who is laying in a pool of their own blood and shit.”
Chapter 6: Setting the Stage
Perronius and his crew travel across the town of Kentene and onto a well-traveled dirt road. Ordinary townspeople are soon replaced by a military presence. Soldiers with charcoal-grey blazers and hefty gun belts stare at the group of roving warriors curiously. They observe their clothing, surmising what business they have with the OstraGauls on the eve of their full-scale attack. Something about the warriors screams importance and menace. Soldiers prudently keep a respectful distance but stare them down so as not to appear intimidated.
There are rumors of knights who are orchestrating this attack, but nothing is confirmed. The chieftains do not disclose such vital information any more than they would talk of their lovemaking with their wives. They continue down towards the River Khane, where vegetation grows increasingly thicker and greener.
Scurrying rodents in the underbrush are soon replaced by monstrously large amphibians, reptiles and raptors as large as wolves. Several of the wolves emit a low timbre growling deep in their throat, vocalizing their misgivings.
Perronius pats Shadow affectionately on the head. He calms to the touch and the other wolves follow suit.
When they approach the base of the river, where the jungle is at its thickest, they see a long dock that extends to a massive ship. It is by far the largest ship in Tratamus’ fleet and is easily six times larger than any other.
A group of soldiers wait at the entrance to the long dock. Perronius turns to Lespie. “I must shackle you. It’s the only way Tratamus will allow you to come aboard his ship. You ken?”
Lespie nods. “Ai. I’m no stranger to restraints, set watch and warrant it.”
Perronius turns to the rest of the group. “Tratamus is not the trusting type, so let me speak. Do not address him unless prompted. You ken?” The brethren nod.
Justinian takes out one of his saddlebags, removes a pair of handcuffs and leg restraints, and puts them on Lespie. “I’ve put them on comfortably. Any looser and they would suspect something amiss.”
Lespie nods. “Don’t expect to be in them for too long.”
“Your escape from them will be entirely up to you.”
“Been training for it all my life,” says Lespie.
They walk to the dock and are met by the guards. The largest of them, a captain by his appearance, stops them with a gesture. “Hold it there, brutes. Where you be heading off to?”
“To see the Chieftain, Tratamus,” says Perronius.
He eyes them suspiciously. “Oh, really. Who are you?”
“My name is Perronius, lead knight in Gilleon and these are my other knights, Germanicus, Syrus, Domithicus, Savelle, Justinian, Cotteroy, Ithicus, Atticus and Jamison.
“And the shackled one?” asks Sevinius.
“You don’t recognize one of the Proteriat?”
“Don’t see them too often,” says Sevinius. “I’ve heard stories of them, so if he is one of yours, I ken you must be a true knight. Course, all that won’t matter a bucket of piss if’n your story don’t check out.”
Perronius nods. “Ai.”
“I’ll be right back,” says Sevinius.
Sevinius returns several minutes later. He motions to his guards and yells. “Bring em’ in!”
The group boards the ship, eliciting suspicious, hard, menacing stares from the crew. They are led down a massive spiral staircase that goes down several flights of stairs to the hull of the ship. The constant sway of the ship and the ascent into the lower levels disorients the group slightly. Germanicus, unaccustomed to the rocking of the ship, vomits. The other men give him a cursory glance and move on.
Lighted lanterns illuminate the way but cast unnerving shadows that appear to sneak up on the men unexpectedly. Justinian and Jamison reflexively touch the butt of their guns, nearly firing at shadows. They look at each other simultaneously, sigh, and smil
e at their boyish foolishness.
On one level of the ship is a plethora of chests, full of gold, silver, nickeladium, and copper. There are hundreds of chests. The men stare at in wonder. It appears to be the world’s supply of money.
Other levels hold an arsenal of guns, ammo, ladders, lude blocks, artillery, vats of gunpowder, ramming rods, holsters, dynamite, and friction rods. There is no doubt they are preparing an assault.
They approach the last level of the ship, one that is several hundred feet below the surface of the water. A steel door stands sentry, one equipped with several locks. Sevinius pulls out a massive set of keys and begins to unlock the door. It is surprising that he knows where each is, considering he is working in relative darkness and must sort through dozens of keys.
A large rectangular Daggenwood table nearly three meters long is situated in the main room. Soldiers dressed like Sevinius peruse several sheets of schematics. The Chieftain, Tratamus, and his Lieutenant, Gilkrant are situated in the middle. They look up when they see the group arrive. Tratamus is the largest of the brutes. His unusual eyes, an unsettling black/charcoal grey, bores into one’s soul menacing way, the same way a woodpecker bores into a tree.
“Perronius!” booms Tratamus. He walks over to the group and shakes hands with Perronius. He eyes the rest of the brotherhood a little apprehensively, as he does with any strangers. Trust is earned with him and so far, Perronius has earned his. He knows nothing of his brethren.
“Never expected that you would live through your last campaign, but here you are,” says Tratamus.
“As promised,” says Perronius. “I set deed to warrant.” Perronius turns to his men. These are my brethren. Germanicus, my Lieutenant, Ithicus, Atticus, Justinian, Domithicus, Syrus, Savelle, Cotteroy, and Jamison. Tratamus merely gives a cursory nod, which is quickly returned by the brethren. “The shackled prisoner is Lespie, one of the Proteriat elite,” adds Perronius.
“I know who he is,” says Tratamus. “If he is with us, you may unshackle him. You have been permitted in here because of Perronius. If you vouch for him, he’s in.” Perronius nods to Germanicus, who unshackles him and drops the heavy chains to the floor.
“This is my Lieutenant, Gilkrant. No need to introduce you to anyone else.” Perronius nods at Gilkrant.
“Have heard stories of you,” says Gilkrant. “By the telling of them, I’d expect you to be at least ten feet tall, but you are no bigger than myself.”
“The tales get taller by each man who tells it,” offers Perronius.
“Ai.” They shake hands.
“Have received word, Perronius, that you have transferred my brother out of Cathrall, but am not privy to where.”
“He is safe, set watch and warrant it. His location will be revealed when this campaign is concluded.”
Tratamus takes several steps towards Perronius and towers over him menacingly, standing only inches from his face. The reek of gamey stew pigeon hits Perronius in the face. With some effort, he restrains himself from gagging and his countenance remains implacable.
"It was not part of our original agreement,” utters Tratamus in an intimidating tone.
Perronius does not waiver nor step back. He holds his ground. “Actually, it was Chief. He is safe and will be delivered upon completion of this campaign.”
“He’s right,” says Gilkrant. “My predecessor Kline undersigned the document. I can produce it for you if need be.”
Tratamus whips his head as fast as a snake towards Gilkrant and glares hard at him for several seconds, as if daring him to speak out of turn again. Gilkrant does not waiver either. He holds his menacing glare. Tratamus relents and sighs. He dismisses it with a flap of his hand. “No need, Lieutenant. I trust you. My mistake.” He comes closer to him and whispers in his ear, so no one can hear. “If you are wrong though, set watch and warrant, I’ll have your balls displayed proper around your throat.”
Gilkrant finds it impossible to swallow down his constricted throat. “Ai.” He says in a hoarse croak.
“I would feel more comfortable knowing of his whereabouts, but it will do for now.” He looks at Perronius. “So, we begin at dawn?”
Perronius nods. “Ai.” Perronius seems curious. “We only noticed this ship. Where are the others?”
“You’ve no doubt heard of lude blocks. Have you not?” asks Tratamus.
“Ai,” says Perronius.
“Before we came into the harbor, we brought all the ships ashore and disassembled them. There are twenty-six ships in my fleet. Five hundred men to each ship. We will take half that many to assemble a ship in only six hours. We disassembled them and carried them through the forests of Peltier. That way, nothing appears amiss. You ken?”
“I’m impressed,” says Perronius.
“What else do you need of me?” asks Tratamus.
Perronius smiles. “Eight thousand pounds of gold pence. Eight chest fulls.”
“Ha!” scoffs Tratamus. “Perhaps I may let you men sully my brides as well.”
“It will be returned to you when we are through. It’s only needed for a spell.”
“And if it’s not?” asks Tratamus.
“If it’s not, I have a guarantor who will repay the loan. At eight points.”
Tratamus raises his eyebrows. “Quite generous. You must show me.” He looks at Perronius curiously. “You said ten chests full of gold pence? Did you not?”
Perronius nods. “Ai.”
“You are aware the gold will fit in four?”
“I’m well aware,” says Perronius.
“So, what do you need the extra for?”
Perronius smiles deviously but says nothing.
Tratamus shakes his head in exasperation. “Your tight lips are maddening to me.” The other brethren chuckle silently to themselves. He has no idea.
Perronius pulls out the documents from his saddlebag and hands them over to Tratamus. Tratamus takes them and peruses the document. “Good God!” He blithers. He looks at Perronius with indignant suspicion. “You are guaranteeing this loan through an Ork? What the fuck? You mad?”
“On the contrary,” points out Perronius. “Cleotus risks much by guaranteeing it. Were King Sylvio ever to discover one of his own guaranteed a loan with a human faction, that Ork would be dragged through the streets and his kin would be executed as well.”
“As they should be,” offers Tratamus. “Consorting with a human, after all.” He snickers.
“Cleotus would do anything to ensure such facts did not come to illumination. You ken? There is nothing he wouldn’t do hide it,” offers Perronius.
“Including paying off the loan,” says Tratamus.
Perronius smiles wolfishly. “Even if he had to rob his own mines to do it.”
Tratamus shakes his head and looks at Perronius. He bursts into an uncontrollable fit of laughter as he looks to the rest of his men. They begin to laugh as well. Perronius’ men reluctantly smile and relax their obdurate postures.
“Ballsy fucking player, this one!” cries Tratamus as he tries to regain his composure from his laughing fit. “No wonder you can’t sire a son. Your balls are made of steel!” His men laugh harder. Even Perronius’ men chuckle briefly at the absurd comment.
“Don’t know how you managed this, Perronius, but you did. I’d love to hear how you hoodwinked an Ork, and your old slave master no doubt!”
“And I would tell you, Chief, but not now. Expedience demands otherwise. Let us finish this campaign and I promise to tell you all of it. In secret of course.”
“Of course,” says Tratamus. “Away from impertinent ears and slippery tongues.” He laughs again and looks at Perronius, clearly awestruck.
He turns to one of his subordinates. “You, get me the bottle of Pentuck, whiskey sour.” He holds up two glasses. “Two of my finest glasses.” He turns back to Perronius. “You know me well. I am not easily impressed, but you have more than impressed. You have sphinctered me, so you have.” He roars in laughter, as if it is
the funniest joke he has ever heard.
The soldier brings the rare bottle and opens it with a modified corkscrew. He pours two glasses and hands one to Tratamus and one to Perronius. Tratamus takes his glass and holds it up to Perronius. Perronius does the same. They chime their glasses together. “We are well met, Perronius. Let us drink to our campaign. May we be successful tomorrow. Tonight, we feast. At dawn, we attack. And God willing, I will have a new trophy on my mantle at Sorrell Castle: the head of Songre Khan.”
Perronius grasps Tratamus’ forearm with his own. “Let it be so,” he says.
Chapter 7: The Mission Begins
The festival of Devon Khan is in full swing. At dawn and during this time, the City of Neblein never sleeps. The sun begins to peak over the horizon. The street lights are on and cast shadows, partly obscuring and partly revealing streets festooned with brightly lit murals hung along every building that dots the town.
Children, unsupervised by their parents, run at breakneck speeds through the streets, dancing and singing. Some still carry sparkling firecrackers that sizzle and spew brightly lit hues of orange, green and gold. Many of their parents have passed out from inebriation and lay on the ground in a drunken stupor
The guards who guard the perimeter of the moat, however, are on full alert. They must be. The penalty for derelict of duty is death by firing squad.
Jamison and Cotteroy lead a small band of soldiers into the moat, armed with spear guns. Electric eels, sea serpents and amphibious frog stompers glide through the waters so swiftly they appear to materialize and dematerialize before their eyes.
Two of the soldiers are maimed mortally from a single bite. The frog stompers bite into their flesh like a hot dagger through butter, ripping into their vulnerable flesh, emitting a billowing cloud of blood, which looks black in the dark grey waters.
The only communication are specially constructed whistles, which emit a high pitch. Jamison blows on the whistle, alerting Cotteroy. A sea serpent begins to open its mouth with saliva dripping with anticipation. Cotteroy brings up his spear gun with only a second to waste and fires it, hitting it directly in the eye. The serpent thrashes frenetically and takes off with the arrow still lodged inside it. Its thrashing is short-lived as the spear is armed with a deadly arsenic poison. The slippery serpent is silenced and floats up towards the surface of the water.
Dawn of the Merlin- The Final Quest Page 5