Dawn of the Merlin- The Final Quest

by Rory D Nelson

  “How do you feel?” asks Gaeden Kai.

  Perronius lifts his head and arches his back the slightest bit and flips up onto his feet, surprising his brethren, who instinctively back away, as if he were inextricably possessed by the devil.

  “Like new,” says Perronius.

  “We have a long way to go before we are home free,” reminds Germanicus. “And we now have an unconscious man to transport as well.”

  “He’s right,” says Perronius.

  “How do we get out of here?” asks Domithicus.

  “Through the back entrance,” says Perronius. “It’s sealed from the outside. Requires a blow torch to get out and it can only be opened from the outside.”

  “And how are we to get through?” asks Germanicus.

  Perronius smiles devilishly. “You’ll see.”

  Chapter 14: The Mole Revealed

  Gil and the rest of his men continue through to the back entrance with expedience. When they approach a series of caverns with impossibly high stalactites, he removes a flare gun and looks for the small, inconspicuous openings which will accommodate the flares. He spots them and quickly takes aim and fires off three successive flares. Two of them make it out, while the last one hits a stalactite and self-detonates inside the coliseum sized cavern.

  The two men manning the exit take notice and nod to each other. They light up a couple of blow torches and begin the painstaking process of removing the oblong, granite disk that covers the entrance. It is so thick, no amount of explosives could detonate it. This is the only way out and was designed that way, should the tunnels secret entrance fall into the wrong hands. Songre was a master at security protocol.

  As the men make their way to the exit, they hear the distinctively, loud, vibrating hiss of the blow torches penetrate the thick granite. Shards of painfully brilliant light break through, nearly blinding them. They look away.

  Two of the men look back, having been alerted to another more worrisome sound. “Someone’s coming,” warns Pel.

  Gil nods. “Ai. Heard it myself. I’m sure it’s nothing, but let’s take a gander just to be sure. You first Pel,” orders Gil.

  The men do as they are ordered. Gil stays behind them. Sure enough, someone approaches from around the corner. They all reach for their shooters, as does Gil.

  “They’re coming,” warns Gil. “Prepare yourself. As soon as you see anyone, fire.”

  Gil nervously fires his own gun over the heads of his men. They look back at him. He shrugs uncomfortably. Perronius and his men approach cautiously from the other side. They hear the premature single gunfire and nod at each other. Perronius puts his finger down, signaling to begin.

  With his men directly in front of him, Gil gives Perronius the signal he is looking for- the gunfire from his own gun. He pulls both speed shooters and begins to open fire on his own men. Pel and Balik are immediately hit in the back with slugs that enter and exit their sternum, erupting copious blood flow from devastated organs. They drop to the ground face first as their blood pools.

  One man named Selek is so bewildered by the direction of bullets, he turns around to Gil in order to ascertain the direction of the attack but it is to no avail. Perronius eviscerates him with two forty caliber slug1s to the gut. Hot, steamy entrails pour out of him as he screams in excruciating pain and horror. His cries are stopped for good with another round to the head. He falls to the ground in a pool of his own blood and entrails, his head impossibly askew from his neck, giving him the visage of some macabre puppet.

  The other men are hit with another wave of Germanicus’ scatter rifle, falling to the ground dead. It is mercifully over in mere seconds. They were so surprised that not one man from Gil’s squad managed to get a shot fired.

  Perronius leads the men out. They look around at the carnage. Germanicus sees Gil and instinctively reaches for his shooter, but Perronius stops him with a gesture. “He’s with us.”

  Germanicus looks at Perronius with a bewildered expression. Perronius approaches Gil and holds out his forearm to him. They embrace as Brothers. “We are well met, Brother,” says Perronius.

  Gil shakes his head and smiles, clearly awestruck. “Once again, Perronius, you have done the impossible.”

  “Couldn’t have done it without you.”

  “I told you were crazy for attempting it. I still stand by my claim. You ken?”

  Perronius smiles. “Noted, Brother.”

  Germanicus, still stupefied, shakes his head in exasperation. “You turned one of Songre’s own men. How did you accomplish it?”

  Perronius looks at him, a wolfish glean that seems to pulse through his glasses. “Who said I turned anyone?”

  “He’s been working for us? How long?” asks Germanicus.

  Perronius smiles and clasps him on the shoulder. “Why is it you always ask questions that can’t be answered?”

  Domithicus and Justinian pat Germanicus on the shoulder.

  “Let’s get going,” says Gil. The men look in the direction of the granite slab. The blinding, pulsating light abruptly stops, and the granite slab falls with a loud, dull thud outside the exit. Gil leads the men.

  Four other guards make their way into the tunnel and nod when they see Gil. Gil looks at them. “We saw the smoke,” exclaims Hector. “Four other guards deserted. Shot two in the back myself. There’s only three of us. What happened?”

  “The castle’s been taken,” says Gil with a strained grimace.

  “That so?” says Hector. “Songre Khan make it out?” he asks somberly.

  Gil shakes his head. “Afraid not,” he says.

  “Neither did you.” A look of consternation flashes across his face. It registers for only a fraction of a second because in the next second, blood, ocular fluid and bile erupt from his head, coinciding with the unexpected bang that echoes throughout the tunnels.

  Gil thumbs the hammer and fires successive rounds, blindsiding the three remaining men. They drop to the ground, clutching their necks, chests and torsos as copious blood drains from them, robbing them of life. Gil empties his gun until they no longer move.

  “Was that really necessary?” asks Germanicus.

  “Only if we want to get away,” says Gil. He moves to Germanicus until he is only inches from him. “That man Hector. You’ve no idea the depths of his depravity. I saw him open fire on an entire family. Two children under the age of five who happened to be daughter of one of the deposed. Songre Khan did not want to take any chances with any discord among his rivals, so he eliminated them and their family. That man did most of his deeds and these men as well.”

  “So it was a long time in coming?” asks Domithicus. “I ken well.”

  “They never would have complied once they knew who we were. Those men were doomed either way, so just move on from it,” instructs Perronius.

  Germanicus and Domithicus look at each and shrug in assent.

  When they exit out of the tunnel, Perronius turns to Gaeden Kai and Lespie. “On the ship, there’s an infirmary. He’ll receive the finest medical treatment. I oversaw the equipment myself.”

  Gaeden Kai grasps Perronius around the elbow. “I say thankee, Perronius. We’ll be in touch before you leave.”

  “Of course,” says Perronius.

  Perronius’ brothers gather around him. “What now?” asks Atticus.

  “Your part in this little mission is done, brethren. Go back to Gilleon. Tratamus has arranged his own personal escort for you.”

  “I hope it was worth it,” says Atticus. “All this bloodshed, an entire castle destroyed, and an army annihilated.” He says with a forlorn look.

  “It will be worth it for Gilleon.”

  “And for you,” says Germanicus bitterly.

  “This was not about ego,” says Perronius defensively. “Set watch and warrant it so, it was about my country.”

  “And Lespie and Gaeden Kai’s part in all of this?” asks Domithicus.

  “That is none of your concern,” says Perroni
us.

  “Hail Merlin!” yells Gil. “You have achieved your three conquests. Soon you will be officially crowned.”

  “Hail Merlin!” says Domithicus as he grasps Perronius on the forearm.

  “Hail Merlin!” says Justinian. He too grasps his forearm. The rest of the brethren give him his due with forearm hugs and acknowledgment of his achievement.

  Chapter 15: Uncomfortable Betrayal

  Forty miles outside the outskirts of Palen, a small city state in the now currently re-appropriated area of SeneGaul lies a barren town with only two saloons, four farms and a large dilapidated hall room, which sits caddy corner from a field. A large outcropping from a weathered plateau buttresses the ramshackle place. A group of large cypress trees stands sentry along the building’s entrance, casting devious shadows along the overgrown pathway leading up to the building like some harbinger of doom.

  Nothing short of an open attack on himself could sour Tratamus’ mood for today is the day that he embraces his brother, the fugitive Corian Benedict. Gilkrant rides at his side.

  The men dismount their horses. They turn to Perronius and observe that he is already off and ready for the exchange. “A long fucking way to bring us for an exchange,” says Tratamus, less irritated than he sounds.

  “I cry pardon, but under the circumstances, given the gravity of what we’re doing-”

  Tratamus cuts him off. “Bah! Forget it knight. You are a man of your word and tis only a tripe inconvenience at most. Just these old bones griping.”

  Perronius turns his head down at the mention of being a man of his word. Tratamus pats him affectionately on the shoulder. “Tonight, there will be a feast to honor you and the return of my brother.”

  “I say thankee,” says Perronius.

  “I don’t know how you achieved this, but mark my words, from this day on you will be ally to the TerraGauls for evermore.” He pauses and looks at Perronius. “Or until you decide to fuck my ass while I have my head turned astray.” He laughs boisterously and looks at his men curiously. Gilkrant gives them an admonishing nod and they reluctantly join in.

  Perronius remains subdued but manages a weak smile.

  “Shall we go?” asks Tratamus.

  “Be right there,” says Perronius. The men proceed without him. Gilkrant gives him a contentious glare which is aptly felt by Perronius.

  Perronius takes out a pipe and loads it up with some pixie, a rare indulgence for him. The affection heaped on him just minutes ago pricks at his heart painfully. He sucks in the delectable herb and sighs uncomfortably. Concessions must be made. Compromises. For Country. Such is the way of the Merlin- the ultimate patriot.

  The men walk along the meandering path and into the building that stinks of mildew, vermin droppings and decay. The reek is almost overpowering at first and stings the nostrils. Four lanterns illuminate the far corner of the building. Tratamus sees a figure from the shadows emerging. A disheveled, unshaven man runs to him. It is his brother, Corian.

  He runs to him and they embrace. “Brother,” says Tratamus. “Perronius delivered as promised and here you are.”

  “Here I am,” says Corian. “It is good to see you. We are well met.”

  “Well met indeed,” says Tratamus. “You would have been in the galleys.”

  “Or the cross,” says Corian. “Menelaeus was pushing heavily for it.” He looks around and begins to walk around with an exaggerated triumphant gait. “I expect you will improve my accommodations. This place isn’t fit for a whore’s swine.”

  Tratamus laughs and grasps him around the neck affectionately, placing a kiss on his forehead. “My brother, I still can’t believe you are here. A feast is in order. But first a drink.”

  Tratamus turns to Gilkrant. “Comandante, a drink is in order. Get me the bottle of sherry.”

  “The one from Songre Khan’s store?”

  “Ai,” says Tratamus. Gilkrant nods to the archer who hides in the loft. The man quickly and methodically puts an arrow in the channel and releases the bow. The arrow sails through the room with the faintest of whispers and penetrates viciously through Corian’s neck. He gasps for breath and clutches the arrow in a vain attempt to pull it out. He begins to gurgle blood as his pierced artery spews blood from inside his mouth. He drops to his knees in horrific terror.

  Tratamus turns around and a look of consternation crosses his face. He runs to his brother. “No!” He bellows in anguish. “No!” He grasps onto his brother and the tears begin to cascade down his cheeks. His brother clenches his hand desperately, as if Tratamus can somehow preclude death itself. He gasps for breath and his hand unclenches from Tratamus. His head goes slack.

  “No!” bellows Tratamus. He turns around to Gilkrant and looks at him with vicious indignation. “I will have you burned at the stake.” He hisses.

  Gilkrant cocks his head sardonically. “Will you?”

  “Arrest him!” cries Tratamus. Not one man moves under his order. “You heard me!” He roars in frustration. His eyes dart back and forth in hopes of spurring someone to action. Defeated, he pulls his gun and begins to fire but every cock of the hammer and press of the trigger results in nothing. His gun is empty.

  Gilkrant pulls out a handful of bullets and displays them for Tratamus. “Looking for these?” he asks.

  “You cunt swine!” he mutters through clenched teeth.

  Gilkrant nods to his men and they open fire. Not one bullet goes astray. They rip through his midsection with the force of a typhoon on an exposed village. A plethora of bullets rip into his chest, opening a cavernous hole that spews crimson, drenching him in blood, bile and pulverized bone. He cries out in excruciating pain.

  The bullets continue to pulverize bone and devastate organs and sever arteries indiscriminately. Blood pours from numerous mortal wounds. Two bullets penetrate his kneecaps, shattering them and dropping him to his knees. He puts up a hand reflexively in defense, but the bullets smash through it, almost disintegrating the bones to hundreds of pieces, like shards that eat into his skin with every painful inhalation and movement.

  Tendons and ligaments snap like rubber bands and still he clings to life. He chokes up blood, spewing it from his mouth, and moves himself around with the only appendage that works- his right hand. He tries in a futile attempt to drag himself away.

  Gilkrant holds up a hand to stop the gunfire. A smile erupts on his face and he begins to laugh. A couple other men laugh with him, but most are simply too disgusted to do anything except try and stifle an expulsion of their last meal.

  Gilkrant walks up to Tratamus. Tratamus opens his mouth to speak but manages a weak croak. “Why?” he asks in a barely audible quivering voice.

  Gilkrant shakes his head. “Always men like you must ask why, as if it were a singular event. You have built up an empire on blood, treachery, subterfuge, errant deception and blind luck, without a thought as to who you stepped on to get there. Well, we’re here to take back what you took.”

  “Fuck you” cries Tratamus in the loudest voice he can muster.

  Gilkrant fire his shooter, blasting out his eye and penetrating his brain, sending up a spray of crimson, ocular fluid, and stringy brain matter.

  Gilkrant looks back at his men. “And that is that,” he says. His men nod.

  “Hail Gilkrant!” says his new Captain, Artemis.

  Gilkrant and his new entourage walk out of the barn. They see Perronius with a pixie in his mouth in a casual, a pensive posture. Gilkrant shakes his head in disbelief. It is unusual to see the man partake of the pixie. Could it be the betrayal has soured his mood?

  Gilkrant and his men approach Perronius. “Too much for you to stomach, Sai? A slight inflection of indignation is evident in his voice.

  “It’s not the bloodshed,” says Perronius. “I have experienced more than my share.”

  Chapter 16: Imminent Departure

  Guests as far away as Privelene pour into Menelaeus’ great hall, nearly filling the cathedral-sized auditorium to its ca
pacity. The men are decked out in the finest linen suits, custom-tailored to exacting specifications. Everything on them is immaculate down to the most minuscule detail, from their pressed linen kerchiefs, silk-braided ties and silver-plated ascots.

  The women are sumptuous, alluring and compliment the men who escort them inside. Ultra-fine foundation gives them the captivating and alluring look of youth-stark white with the absence of blemishes and fine lines. Their eye-shadow gives them depth and their eyes are accentuated by black hues, which is in stark contrast to their milky white skin.

  They stuff themselves into corsets, flattering themselves for the men that accompany them. The walls, tables, and sconces are adorned with cerulean hues, topaz and vibrant burgundy, giving the room an opulent glow, which is further pronounced against the silk wrappings the lights are encapsulated in.

  The tables are replete with every imaginable and delectable entrée imaginable- pheasant stew, pigeon brueberry in a milky, blood pudding broth. The smell of ginger, save, cinnamon, halenut oil and sweet deserts mix pleasantly with sweet, burning oils spread throughout the great hall. It is tantalizing and visually arresting.

  The guest list is a who’s who of the upper echelon of Gilleon. Senators, Jr. councilman and their pages, men of industry like Pontius Selenius, newspaper magnate, senator and steel tycoon, Herod Antipaz- land baron and owner of numerous mines throughout the Menedes Valley- a ruthless and egotistical tyrant with an extensive agenda of his own.

  King Menelaeus, the rightful King of Gilleon, chosen unanimously from his own brotherhood and confirmed by the Senate at large, once Dotore to Perronius and his formidable knights. Surrounded by those who seek to overthrow his administration, he is a benevolent leader, an able-bodied King who assumed the right to rule by his accomplishments. Like all other recruits, he was selected through the brutal training program of the knighthood, the most selective knighthood in the world. Only one percent are chosen for knighthood; and he was one of them.