Dawn of the Merlin- The Final Quest

by Rory D Nelson

  Since most of the soldiers have been called up front to the drawbridge, they are met with surprising little resistance. One soldier observes them breaking down one of the doors and pulls his speed shooter in a vain attempt to stop them.

  He is much too slow. Atticus pulls his scatter rifle and fires, blasting his kneecaps to shattered bone. He screams in excruciating pain as the blood pours from severed arteries. Atticus puts one more bullet in his head, which nearly disintegrates it from his temples up. Brain matter, blood and pulverized bone explode in a gory mess and splatter on them.

  Atticus blasts through the next to the last oak door, knocking its hinges off and splintering the wood from its metal base. They enter. Germanicus hobbles in and pulls his six shooter. As a solider turns a corner and attempts to fire on them, he slammed back against the rock wall, knocking the breath from him. A slug punctures his midsection causing an unstopping blood flow. The soldier screams and drops his gun.

  Germanicus finishes the job with two more shots to the head and neck. The blood splatters out of the back of his head and he slumps to the ground with a horrific, dazed expression on his face.

  They blast through another three doors, using the scatter gun, since it is the most efficient. The downside is they may run out of bullets. Time is of the essence.

  Germanicus and Atticus approach the first of the steel doors, securing the deadliest of prisoners. They look at each other and breathe a sigh of relief. “Let’s hope Perronius and Domithicus have made it.”

  “The door can only be opened from the inside; it’s the best security measure imaginable. Nothing gets in and nothing gets out,” says Germanicus.

  Chapter 13: The Rescue of Gaeden Kai

  Soldiers swarm into through the castle, sprinting, dodging and firing repeatedly at the overwhelmed soldiers, unprepared for the barrage. Tratamus motions to five of his underlings and points towards Songre Khan’s receiving hall.

  “Bring me fifteen men and the largest battering ram you can find.” He barks to Tulk, his Captain of the fourth regimen.

  He nods and begins to bark out orders.

  (2)

  Songre Khan walks around restlessly, overseeing his latest orders. His few remaining soldiers who had stayed loyal to him throw down numerous paintings from the wall, stripping them of their wooden backs. They place them onto the door as blocks. Little good will it do them thinks Tulk but does not say.

  Seconds after they finish their barricade, the bullets begin to penetrate through the doors. Four of his men are hit in the maelstrom. They drop to the ground, clutching their abdomens, necks and torsos in a vain attempt to stifle the unrelenting blood flow.

  Some of his men return fire, inadvertently, destroying the barricade in the process. Songre gives them an indignant and admonishing glance. He would have killed the first man that initiated the gunfire, but unfortunately, he can’t spare any bullets.

  The gunfire abruptly stops, and they wait and look at each other with the same look. What the fuck happens next? They don’t have time to wait long. The massive door lets out a crack that splinters the wood and nearly knocks the door from its hinges. The loud crack and bang persist but becomes more fervent. The next series of cracks knocks the door clear of its hinges.

  The next crack knocks the door free. Several soldiers enter through. The first couple are hit immediately with a barrage of gunfire, but they can do nothing to stop the furious tide of men and relentless gunfire that echoes through the halls and threatens to burst eardrums. It is the sound of approaching death.

  For each man shot in the doorway, another five make it in and fire repeatedly. Men are gunned down in a blaze of bullets that ricochet off the cobblestone and penetrate the walls, inevitably hitting more men in the process. Songre takes cover behind a large marble pulpit. He extracts his rifle and hides himself away, while rising intermittently to launch a haphazard shot from it.

  He looks around him and cocks his rifle for another shot. He inches around the corner carefully. He screams, more in horror than in pain. The pain will inevitably come. He drops his rifle and touches his eye to confirm. Blood seeps from the socket and out from the outer eye socket. Luckily, it avoided hitting his brain or he would be dead.

  “I winged you!” booms a deep, intimidating voice. He knows that voice well. It’s Tratamus. “I know I got you. Come out and take your comeuppance like the snake you are, Songre Khan.”

  “I’ll make it quick. You have me word,” assures Tratamus. “Which is more than you ever extended to my brothers in arms. No, they had to go slow, didn’t they? Tortured to death. A quick death is more than you deserve you swine fuck. Come out!” he yells.

  Songre Khan emerges from behind the pulpit but not before taking his small pea shooter and tucking it to his side. His death is a foregone conclusion, but there is a chance he can get one shot into Tratamus. He has nothing to lose.

  He comes out slowly with his hands upraised and faces Tratamus. Tratamus laughs sardonically at him. “It seems tyranny has made you fat and lazy,” he mocks.

  “But not slow,” he says. He pulls the gun from his side but now of firing it, several fingers on his hand explode in a bloody stump and his gun goes flying. He reflexively graps onto his hand to stifle the blood flow. The pain begins to reverberate deeply in his temple and explodes through his hand.

  Tratamus laughs boisterously. His fellow soldiers reluctantly join in. Songre Khan looks at him and heaves a sigh, partly in resignation and relief. “Kill me.” He puts his hand up in defeat. “You have me. Do your bidding.”

  “In time,” says Tratamus. He fires again, hitting Songre in his left kneecap, which gives out. Songre Khan cries out and falls to the ground. “Too easy for you! You who have butchered, tortured many of my brothers, sisters and family.” He walks up to Songre Khan, who tries to push himself back up onto one leg.

  He pulls Songre Khan up and smashes him in the face with his fist, emitting a spray of blood that seeps from his broken nose. He punches again and again until he hears Songre Khan begin to choke. He looks at him and smiles. “Can’t have that. Too bad really. I know you’re going to bleed out in about three minutes, but I promise it will be the most painful time of your life. It will however for me, be the most pleasurable time in my life.”

  He hoists up the hefty emperor by his throat, who can barely stand on his own. He is nearly at the point of unconsciousness, but he still clings to awareness. “Hold him!” commands Tratamus.

  Tratamus extracts a large butcher knife, puts it in the fire and puts some thick, industrial gloves on. After a couple of minutes, he takes the knife and places it flat against his skin. The effects are instantaneous. Songre Khan cries out in an unnaturally high-pitched voice as his skin sizzles with the first penetration of the knife. The blood seeps and congeals almost immediately as Songre Khan cries out in excruciating pain, pushing his vocal cords nearly to their breaking point. Tratamus purposely takes long, exaggerated strokes with his knife, smiling sardonically.

  He keeps his promise to Tratamus. It is the most painful time of Songre Khan’s life. After the indignity of having his ears cut off with a scorching blade, he must suffer the final indignity after death.

  After he confirms that Songre Khan is dead from bleeding out, he takes his sword and chops his head off and places it on top of his own staff, mocking him in death.

  “Left that serve as an apt example. You ken?” He asks no one in particular. He laughs in rapt derision.

  (3)

  Lespie travels to the back entrance of the catacombs. Explosions continue every few minutes, knocking rocks as large as boulders around into the aquifer. The entrance through the cliff face is now impassable. The only way through is underwater.

  He doesn’t hesitate. He wraps up his saddlebag into a plastic sheet, ties it to his belt, and jumps into the icy cold water. It shocks his body, eliciting a feeling of needled barbs penetrating his skin. His body cries out in protest, but he ignores it and pushes himself towards the
cliff face.

  Unfortunately, he has no spear gun and only his wooden sabre gun, powered by a helium elastic gauge that ignites a glass shard filled with pure strychnine poison when it is triggered. The shear force will penetrate anything within a ten-foot radius if hit, but beyond that it is wildly inaccurate. Firing underwater makes it much less efficacious.

  As he dives deeper, he feels the pounding pressure of the water. It starts as a pressure in his temples, which continues to mount with each passing second. When he is a hundred feet down, the pain in his temples becomes excruciating. As he swims, he holds his nose, while blowing out, and it seems to de-pressurize himself.

  His lungs feel as if they are being scorched and about to implode, but he continues. He has been under over two minutes and his lungs scream for air. He pushes the panic and mounting pain from himself. He catches a glimpse of some insidious creature, dart in and out of his view. It is preternaturally fast and looks to be as black as night, but he can’t be sure. Colors underneath here are hard to decipher.

  The massive tale comes into view again and his heart trip hammers in his chest faster. It’s a water dragon. It must be. He turns a corner through a rock maze and begins his ascent to the top and waits. He holds his sabre gun in hand and waits for the inevitable attack. The illumination from the lighted goggles gives way to a purplish noxious cloud of poison vapor. He is unable to divert from its path in time.

  His heart feels as if it seizes in his chest as he struggles to keep himself from sucking in water. Hot liquid seems to melt away and run down his face. At first, he believes it to be his own skin; but after feeling his goggles, he realizes they are melting away from the noxious cloud. He takes them off just as the glass gives away.

  The vise-grip of death chomps down on his torso, puncturing through his armor just as easily as a hot knife through butter. He fires his only weapon directly in the creature’s face, blowing a cavernous hole through its head. It thrashes about in horrific agony but drops him immediately.

  It thrashes about wildly in its final death throes. He pushes himself to the top and feels the puncture wounds. He hopes they are not mortal.

  (4)

  Captain Phillip Montrose waits along with his nine other men, guarding Gaeden Kai. Although he is chained to the wall, they are not taking any chances. The men have their guns drawn and stare at him indignantly, as if he were the instigator. The explosions continue. Montrose knows without a doubt, the attack on the castle was orchestrated by Perronius; their mission-to rescue Gaeden Kai from this fortress.

  Montrose would have thought such a thing was preposterous, and yet the blasts continue with nearly the same frequency. The whole fortress is coming down.

  Gaeden Kai smiles at the men, sardonically, enjoying their fear. He slips his makeshift pick from his shirt sleeve and waits.

  “What are you smiling at Sai?” asks Montrose, trying to control his voice from breaking.

  “When death smiles upon you, you can only smile back.” He pauses. “But I’m smiling on your behalf, Captain.” He says with creepy serenity.

  “Just shoot him!” cries Velter, a sergeant.

  “And have the wrath of Songre Khan to contend with you stupid fuck weed? I think not. Gaeden Kai is his most prized possession. Any of you let a bullet fly, I’ll be happy to watch as you are burned at the stake,” admonishes Montrose.

  “For all we know,” says Viler. “Songre Khan is already dead.”

  “Even if it’s true and the castle is taken, killing him won’t give us much of a bargaining chip to get the fuck out of here. You ken?”

  The other men nod in agreement. “He speaks true,” says Kip.

  Velter and Viler reluctantly nod their heads in agreement. “Ai,” they say. “You are right,” says Viler.

  Velter looks around. A shadowy presence seems to dance across the top of the ceiling. He reaches for his gun and fires it reflexively, earning the contentious glares of the other men.

  "What the fuck?” yells Montrose.

  “I cry pardon,” says Velter. “Thought I saw something.”

  “There’s nothing in here, except us and Gaeden. Get the fuck a hold of yourself,” decries Montrose.

  Viler seems to be hallucinating as well. He nearly pulls his own gun and fires. He too is jumping at ghosts.

  A clang is barely heard above the din of the explosions that rock through the castle every few minutes. The men all look towards the metal grate. As they near it, they see a grappling hook that has been shot and is now latched onto the metal bar of the grate.

  Montrose gestures to his men with a finger to his lips. They nod their heads in assent. The next few seconds seem to take an eternity. The grappling hook begins to ascend to the top, bringing the person who shot it into view. Montrose nods and they open fire.

  While they’re preoccupied, Gaeden Kai uses his lock pick to seamlessly open his cuffs and removes himself from his shackles and turns off several of the lanterns, casting his cell into numerous dark shadows. He moves into one of the shadows, obscuring himself.

  “Open up the grate and bring him up,” orders Montrose. “I want to see if it’s one of Perronius’ men.” The men comply. With a hacksaw, they cut through the metal bars, forgetting Lespie.

  Viler’s back erupts in an agonizing bed of mind-numbing pain. It seems to originate from the center. He feels around for its source and discovers a dagger lodged inside. He tries to cry out, but his throat constricts, and he is unable to gasp for breath. He chokes quietly as the blood pours from the slit in his throat. He falls to the ground.

  Velter observes him falling and rushes to him. He reaches for his gun but is stopped short. His hand should have held his gun swings back violently and nearly snaps at the elbow. Barbs of jagged metal eat viciously into his skin, emitting a seeping of blood. That’s not the worst part.

  It seems to cut off his circulation and his gun seems to have disappeared. He tries to cry out but is cut short. All he can do is soundlessly croak out and gurgle. Blood seeps from his mouth and he falls to the ground with the dagger still lodged into the back of his neck. Before he hits the ground, his gun is removed soundlessly from its holster.

  Montrose and his men pull up the body they had just open fired on, expecting it to be one of the aggressors, but unfortunately, he recognizes the man as one of his own. His eyes go wide in dilation and he moves for his pistol. Gun fire blasts its deafening roar and the top of two of his men’s skulls nearly disintegrate. They drop down. He turns to fire, but he is nearly eviscerated with three bullets to the abdomen.

  Blood gushes from the cavernous hole in his gut, his entrails threatening to burst out. He cries out for only a second as another bullet enters and exits his neck, spurting blood from his severed jugular. He falls to the ground in a pool of his own blood, too weak to gasp out.

  Lespie and Gaeden Kai empty their confiscated guns onto the unwitting men. Two of the men drop down into the hole and land with a thud. As they empty their bullets, Gaeden Kai collapses into his father’s arms. His body is drenched in blood.

  “Lespie!” cries Gaeden Kai.

  “I’ve lost a lot of blood,” says Gaeden in a weak voice.

  Several gun blasts from Atticus’ scatter rifle nearly knocks off the metal door from its hinges. Atticus and Germanicus emerge.

  “My son!” cries Gaeden, desperately. Atticus and Germanicus run to Gaeden and Lespie.

  They feel his soiled shirt and give each other a brief, consoling look. “He’s lost a lot of blood,” says Atticus. “We need to stop the bleeding.”

  “Apply pressure,” he says to Germanicus. Germanicus complies. Gaeden looks deep into his son’s eyes, noting the dazed expression and lassitude evident on his countenance. He takes his hands and feels the cold, unresponsive flesh. He forces his mind to empty and his body goes slack. He holds onto his son’s hands almost too tightly. It is constricting and nearly cuts off his circulation. Lespie cries out. Good. There is still a fight left in him.

&n
bsp; Atticus begins to sew up Lespie with his needle and thread. Once done, he retrieves his gunpowder and places them on the outside of his wounds and lights up the fire. It sparks and singes his skin as it sizzles. He cries out.

  “Sleep, my son,” says Gaeden Kai as he rubs his forehead affectionately.

  Domithicus and Perronius emerge from the hole in the floor, both looking tiresome beyond measure. Though Perronius can walk on his own, he walks with a severe limp, partly from the icy cold water, but mostly from his strained muscles. His body feels the antidote made from poison having coursed through his veins.

  Gaeden Kai looks at him and nods. He brings up his forearm and matches it against Perronius’. “I knew you would come, Perronius.” They embrace with forearms outstretched in a partial hug, the handshake of the brethren.

  “We are brothers,” says Perronius sincerely.

  “We have achieved the impossible,” says Gaeden looking curiously at Perronius. “I can help you with that. You ken? Hell of a long way to hobble.”

  “Would be forever grateful,” says Perronius.

  Gaeden Kai sits down with his legs crossed. He rubs his hands together quickly and gradually speeds up the motion until they seem to be lost in a whir of illusory blurry motion. Smoke begins to emanate from inside his hands and they appear to catch fire. The fire doesn’t engulf his hands but rather surrounds it and casts it in an unnatural glow.

  Gaeden Kai grasps onto Perronius with a vise-like grip. Perronius winces in pain. His hands seem to scorch into him with ferocity, but his skin is unharmed. The burn begins to penetrate his muscles, coaxing them into action. He involuntarily falls to the ground and spasms.

  Domithicus and Germanicus grow nervous and move towards him defensively, but Atticus holds them at bay with a gesture.

  Perronius upper body is as serene as a placid lake, but his lower extremities writhe and squirms as if he is in an uncontrollable seizure. Just as quickly as the convulsions had begun, Gaeden removes his hands and Perronius is still. Gaeden stands up and backs away from him.