Lycenea

by Rory D Nelson

  He touches her cheek to soothe her. “It won’t take long, my love. I promise. We have all night and all weekend to celebrate.”

  She beams. “Of course we do. Go and see to business and settle it. I will have you to myself soon enough.”

  Merlin walks away and approaches Levander. He extends his hand, and Levander takes it. “All hail the Merlin. You’ve done well. We owe you everything.”

  “It is my duty, Sai,” says Merlin. Levander extends his hand, and they shake, and then they proceed down the cobblestone walkway several blocks, passing the refined and expensive poshe shops of Main. As he travels down Main Street and onto Burlop, the buildings grow less maintained, grittier and seedier, catering to Lycenea’s underbelly. Merlin turns and heads down a dark alleyway that is bereft of lampposts.

  Candelabra replace the lampposts, casting dark, insidious shadows where the less desirable prostitutes ply their trade, giving hand jobs and blowjobs inside makeshift tents and sometimes openly, partially obscured in the dark shadows. The constables permit such places, so long as they are out of view of decent folks. It is no different than any other town.

  Merlin descends a dark, dank and musty staircase behind a neglected, wooden façade. Several gentlemen who appear out of place in their immaculate attire nod at Merlin and greet him. Many follow it up with a “Hail Merlin.”

  Once he reaches the bottom of the staircase, he walks through two sets of doors and comes to a third one, which is triple locked, one of which is a carbine deadbolt. Levander pulled out a key ring and opens it.

  The room is small and opaque, a far cry from the tattered and neglected interior around them. The thick dogwood doors and walls are encased inside a cement hardibacker, which blocks out nearly all sound. Nothing short of a gunshot could be heard inside that room when the doors are closed.

  Pontius Selenius, the esteemed Senator and his man Tolbert are dressed immaculately in crisp white linen shirts and wool blazers. “Hail Merlin,” says Tolbert.

  “Hail Merlin,” says Pontius. They both move to shake Merlin’s hands, and then Tolbert leaves.

  Pontius extends a hand towards Merlin. “Would you sit, Sai?” He asks.

  Merlin nods. “Ai. Would be honored.”

  “Would you do me the honor of having a drink with me, Sai?”

  “Would be delighted,” says Merlin.

  Pontius pours two glasses from a very expensive crystal sifter. “From the smell, you must know this is a fine brandy Pinter.”

  “But not just any,” notes Merlin.

  Pontius smiles and shakes his head. “Good nose. This batch is distilled from a rare patch of blueberries from the Appalachian Wetlands. They ripen and are harvested only once every five years and only stay ripe for one week. After that, the sweet nectar goes to waste. The vinegar used in the distillery process is grown from the illustrious cider vineyards at Castille in Bangor. They produce only four cases a decade. Nine hundred gold pence for a case. As you can imagine, I save these bottles for the truly special occasions. I am honored to share this bottle with you.”

  “And I say thankee for it.” They both clang their glasses together and sip on the brandy, savoring the burning sensation and bittersweet aftertaste that lingers on the palate as only the most refined brandies can.

  “Congratulations Merlin and thankee on behalf of my fellow countrymen. You have saved us once again.”

  “I could not have done this without you. You uphold the network that puts my men in place. All of this was orchestrated through you. We would have been dead ten times over if not for you.”

  “And there is no one alive who could have implemented such a plan. I am awestruck.”

  Merlin holds up his glass. “Thankee Senator. You flatter humble knight.”

  “And you wear your false humility like a tattered, ill-fitting jacket, Sai. Does little to flatter your imposing figure.”

  Merlin nods. “Thankee.”

  “But while I am awestruck Merlin, there are those who do not share my veneration for you. There are those who would call your actions reckless. Self-appointed executioner. Judge and Jury. A blood-drunk knight out of control.”

  Merlin smiles. “I am privy to such. There are a couple in particular. You ken?”

  “One in particular. And he has the ear of many notable Councilmen.”

  Merlin sighs, anticipating where the conversation is heading. “I know this well.”

  Pontius pours himself another glass and gulps it down in one shot. “You are an exceptional and skilled killer. It would be an easy task for you to deliver a just blow.”

  “The task would prove easy enough, but the repercussions would reverberate for some time. I am not an assassin, Pontius. Not yours and not anybody’s.” Merlin says emphatically.

  Pontius sighs. “He conspires and undermines with every effort in his attempts to subvert the Empire, and he grows stronger every day.”

  “Which is why his Empire must be dismantled. Too many men, too many brothers have lost their lives at his behest. I will not have them die in vain. I will not deny this country the justice it deserves. We will hold him accountable for everything and punish those who have conspired alongside him. Set watch and warrant, I will have him charged, tried and convicted. And we will all be witness to his crucifixion. I will declare his execution a national holiday for the sins he has committed against this country.”

  “I cry pardon, Merlin. Forgive an impetuous and impatient old man.”

  Merlin shakes his head. “There is nothing to forgive, Senator. But do not ask me again.”

  Pontius nods. “Ai, Merlin. Fair enough.”

  Merlin removes a medium sized, leather billfold from his knapsack and takes out several sheets of parchment paper. He hands the first one to Pontius. “This one goes out to the Gilleon register on Tuesday morning.” He pulls out the next one. “This one goes out to the Ostra Edition on Friday.” Pontius takes it.

  “This Friday, the seventeenth?”

  “Ai,” says Merlin.

  “The day of St. Peter’s Coronation?”

  “It is a day of significance in many regards,” says Merlin cryptically.

  Pontius smiles. “I’m sure it is.”

  Pontius removes a piece of paper from his own billfold and hands it to Merlin. The parchment paper is especially thick, allowing for the deep indentations of the braile Merlin reads. “Even though it’s braille, it was still transcribed in code, so it’s safe. Here you go,” says Pontius.

  Dear Brother Merlin,

  I hope this letter finds you well. The last I heard you were on your way to Lycenea, but in a world where the unexpected is commonplace, I take nothing for granted. You ken? As always, I was honored to do your bidding. There are some general rumblings and misgivings among our dark Brethren, and I pray it can be quelled with a few choice words on my part (Ha Ha). Your presence would do wonders in this regard, but I stress to the others that such a meeting would be extremely dangerous and unnecessary.

  I pray these rumblings I hear from fellow Brothers (though unspoken verbally) do not develop beyond that. Our gift can be viewed as either curse or gift, but in our order, I ken that it has kept me alive as long as it has, so I can only count it as a gift.

  Even living in the border town of Helganon, we have access to the Register and the Edition, though they are in limited quantities and the price to be paid is close to a King’s ransom (Ha). I’m assuming that on Friday, the day of St. Peter’s coronation, I alone will be privy to our next rendezvous.

  As always Merlin, I am your faithful servant and Brother, and I await your next command. The deposed serve you well (though some more wholeheartedly than others).

  Renault

  Tears begin to well up in Merlin’s eyes as he gets to the bottom, but with some effort, he prevents them from cascading down his cheeks.

  “I pray that your Brethren find you well and them as well,” says Pontius after an uncomfortable silence.

  “I say thankee for a symp
athetic ear, Senator.”

  “Of course.” Pontius frowns with one eyebrow upraised in his typical pensive gesture. “Levander has informed me that not all of your Brethren have returned with you, most notably Germanicus. Where is he?”

  “Where else?” asks Merlin. “In the thick of it.

  Chapter 2: Skirmish with the Orks

  As difficult as it was for Porsia to live through Jason’s rape and beatings, at least she had some semblance of the man’s limits and what life would be like for her. She was at times, granted a brief reprieve from his advances. Now, even that small comfort had been removed. With any luck, she would be considered too big to work in the mines of Cathrall and sold to an auctioneer where she would likely serve as a sex slave. Or something much worse. There was always worse. Hopefully, her new master would be gentler. If she did have to work in the mines, her life would be unbearable. It would be a prolonged death sentence.

  Most did not last much longer than a few years, and it was rumored that even when one left the mines, the lungs tightened up, eliciting a continual gasping and coughing, giving the recipient a pervasive feeling of suffocation. Many mine workers committed suicide, even some children. Porsia did not intend to work in the mines, either. She will take her life if that is what fate awaited her.

  And yet a part of her spoke of hope, a small, sub-conscious part that was beginning to take root. On the journey out of the encampment, a major skirmish was taking place, and numerous soldiers had met a violent end. Several cacophonous explosions echoed through the canyons in an ear-deafening boom. They continued to go off every few minutes. Porsia could just barely make out the wails of the dying, but such wails could not be refuted. She had heard first-hand such ear-assaults from her people. It appeared that someone had turned the tables. But who?

  Porsia was raised far from the Capital of Gilleon - New Camelot, but still close enough to be privy to the tales of the Knights of the Round Table, supposedly the most dangerous men alive. Was it possible the Knights were mounting a rescue for them at this very moment? A small sense of hopefulness sustained her for the remainder of the day and energized her steps.

  But after the third day, her hope had waned considerably. She plods along relentlessly, stopping only when the Orachai permits it. For countless interminable hours, her throat becomes parched and her tongue swollen and starving for hydration. And then she is finally permitted water, enough only to sustain her but never to fully quench her relentless thirst.

  Those too exhausted or sick to continue are removed from their shackles and thrown from the cliffs like discarded trash, their worth contingent on their ability to continue on their own. At times, Porsia is so exhausted she falls asleep on the trail, only to be woken by a monstrously strong claw that digs into her skin with the force of a visegrip, aggravating the countless abrasions that pepper her arms and legs. With a slight push from the Ork, she is propelled forward, causing the two others attached to her to trip up and fall. The Orks near her laugh at the spectacle.

  She thinks briefly of suicide but jumping would only ensure the death of those she is tied to; and besides, a tiny crescent waiver of hope pushes her on. She doesn’t know why.

  In the late afternoon of the third day, she catches a glimpse of a large, salt and peppered colored Timberwolf, the favored canine of the Brotherhood.

  Timberwolves were common among these lands, but they always hunted in packs. Why would one wolf be tracking such a large party? Especially Orachai? Wolves normally avoided humans entirely, especially the Orachai, who were considerably larger and more menacing than humans. If one of them were in the vicinity, could it be possible that the Brotherhood was as well? She pushes the thought away. False hope could be a dangerous thing and would only speed the despair that was sure to follow.

  (2)

  Germanicus, Savelle, Cotteroy and Ithicus wait atop an inclined ridge, where a large patch of Eucalyptus trees obscures them entirely. Their wolves, Timberland, Shep, Riley and Troubadour wait alongside them obediently.

  Germanicus peers through the hyper-oculars and observes the Orachai making their way to their ambush point. “How many?” asks Savelle.

  Germanicus removes the hyper-oculars and looks at Ithicus, a comforting smile on his countenance. “There are only twenty-five at most, and they are oblivious to our presence.”

  Ithicus smiles impishly. “Ai. Then we kill them all, Dottore? Leave the pieces of the puzzle left for their inconsequential Ork minds to re-assemble?” It was meant as a question, but Ithicus clearly expects a quick agreement from his leader. It is the only way.

  However, Germanicus knows that Ithicus is the most impetuous among the Brethren. He feels that perhaps the man’s bloodlust had not been satiated and it gives him pause. He is the father to Savanna, a little girl about Sylvia’s age and it tore at the man’s heartstrings painfully when he saw the marks on her small wrists where the handcuffs had abraded her skin. Adding to his heartache was the sting of loss from Justinian’s death.

  Fortunately, he is not in charge. More rational minds will have to prevail, reckons Germanicus. He hesitates. Ithicus stares him down hard with a dour look as if he were even contemplating the idea of not killing them all. Germanicus stares back at him with an indignant, I’m in charge look. “Follow my lead, Brother.”

  “Ai,” says Ithicus reluctantly. “Suppose I will have to at that.”

  Germanicus and the Brethren slowly and quietly descend to the path below the Eucalyptus after the Orachai round the adjacent corner, going out of view. Germanicus had intended to subdue the leader, but his plans unexpectedly diverge from intention.

  The Orachai had stopped along the ridgeline to water their Ader Mckennas, a beast of burden similar to reindeer, with all their resiliency, stamina, speed and cloved hooves for traversing through treacherous terrain. They are, however, even larger than reindeer, a necessity given the sheer size of their riders and their enormous payloads.

  A warm, blistering wind whips up irritating sand and drives it menacingly into Porsia’s nose and mouth. She wheezes in response and shuts her eyes instinctively. She can’t smell anything besides the oppressive heat, and her nose is filled with the acrid, irritating burn of black sand.

  The Orachai, however, have a very acute sense of smell and they pick up something. It is definitely humans and canines. Gaius Battius Erraticus’ nose twitches continually from side to side. He moves his clawed hand to his sword belt and places it on the hilt of his sword. Then he puts up a hand and cautiously walks around the corner.

  But not cautiously enough. In the second that he reaches to pull out his sword, his massive head explodes simultaneously with a concussive bang that echoes throughout the canyon corridors. Blood, ocular fluid and brain matter stain everything in the vicinity. The soldiers who were next to him are drenched in blood. With his head nearly disintegrated, his neck spurts copious amounts of red blood, staining the canyon floor. The other Orks hesitate briefly and then move their clawed hands to their own sword hilts.

  “Any Ork who moves to retrieve his sword will have that hand detached from his body!” warns Germanicus. The other Brethren come into view. Germanicus and Ithicus exchange a quick ruefully chagrined look. Though Germanicus is angry with Ithicus, he does not reproach him. They must remain solidified. Savelle and Cotteroy both aim their long rifles at the group of Orachai. A lowly Ork tries to reach for his sword on the sly but pays immediately for the oversight.

  Savelle fires a single bullet from his long rifle, destroying three razor sharp nails on his claw and causing a spattering of blood that makes him wail in an excruciating growling cry that turns the prisoners’ blood to ice. There is no other sound like it. It reminds Germanicus of a dying bear.

  “Perhaps you did not understand our meaning. Do we speak to you in rhymes or are you as stupid as you look? Which of you is the leader? Speak now!” demands Germanicus.

  Bromethius steps forward and puts his claws up. Germanicus looks at him indignantly, restrained
anger keeping him from pushing down on the hair trigger of his twelve shooters. Germanicus, his men and the Orks hesitate, except for one other Ork, who picks up Porsia and holds her directly in front of him like a shield. Bromethius puts up a claw. Hold off. “Who leads us, human?” gaffs Bromethius, facetiously. “The proper question should be who used to. That was Gaius Erraticus Battius, our illustrious General, or rather our former General, who you slaughtered without provocation. Since he is no longer among us, the role of leader falls to me. I am Bromethius, Captain Bromethius. We are squarely on the border of Visalia, so your intrusion into our lands is another violation of what you have perpetrated against us. At this moment, a party moves to reconvene with us and take possession of the merchandise we have lawfully obtained.”

  “If deceitful tongue could morph, yours would be a hindserpent, Bromethius. You should have been a politician. Tongue seems suited for it. You are wrong on all accounts. You have intruded into our lands, murdered the Sandonistas and then used confiscated coin to unlawfully obtain humans you had no right to. We are more than four hectares from the border, putting you squarely in our territory. You will unshackle and hand over the prisoners or receive the same fate as ‘illustrious general’,’’ demands Germanicus.

  Bromethius scowls haughtily, his Ork blood simmering quickly to a boiling point. His claws twitch ever so slightly. Germanicus cocks the trigger. Their eyes continue to bore into each other menacingly. The standoff continues for perhaps another thirty seconds, but it seems like hours. Bromethius relents. He acquiesces and sighs in resignation. “Fabius, unshackle the prisoners and release them.” Fabius complies.

  Porsia shivers uncontrollably and stares off into the distance, unable to fully accept that her nightmare is over. Even when the Ork unshackles her, she stands frozen in place. With the ease of a full, grown man moving a doll, the Ork drags her several feet and then throws her to the humans.

  When she sees that her rescuer is indeed real, she sprints towards him and wraps her arms around him, clutching him with such ferocity that for a split second, all the air is knocked from him and he wheezes briefly. She clutches to him still. The other prisoners cling to the other Brethren once they are released as well. Savelle, Ithicus, and Cotteroy hug them back tightly with one arm, while the other one remains transfixed to their targets.