by Rory Nelson
The girl quivers in fear from him and no doubt the whip he brings. “You are a sight, ain’t you, beauty!” He grabs her hand and brings her to him. Tears stream down her face. Tillip knows it’s an act, and he has paid a ransom for it. Too bad that disgusting lecher Whalen had a stab at her first. He would have liked to have been the first to penetrate her hymen and savor her screams. “Turn around,” he demands. As the girl turns, Tillip lashes out with his hand. He connects with her butt, causing an immediate red welt to appear. Tillip intends to take her with ease. Besides, he paid for two hours. “Why don’t you show me that asshole of yours, beauty?” She grimaces as tears stream down her face. “Now!” he demands.
Just as his hand rises to lash out, a loud piercing scream disrupts his revelry. He stops and listens. Several seconds later, several gun blasts reverberate throughout the halls, drowning out the screams.
Dinsmore reaches for his revolver and eases his way to the door. Less than a minute later, someone knocks on the door.
“Who’s there? And what the fuck is going on out there?” asks Dinsmore in a heated tone.
“Nothing Sai. Just some unruly patrons. We have everything under control. Can you please come to the door? We are having some issues with your credit.”
Dinsmore looks at the door, stupefied. “That’s impossible. I paid for two hours in advance. What the fuck is this about?”
“Please come to the door,” demands an authoritative voice.
“Fuck!” he yells.
In a heated rush, he puts his clothes back on and dashes to the door. “You wait there, dais. This won’t take but a second,” Dinsmore assures the girl.
“What’s this about?” he questions with immense irritation.
As Dinsmore peers through the keyhole to determine, an agonizing pain erupts. His head fills with scalding liquid. Dinsmore squirms and convulses as the sword impales him to the door. Seconds later, when Renault retracts the sword, Dinsmore goes slack and drops in a heap. Eva screams in a high-pitched voice.
She hears several men yelling followed by a barrage of gunfire and shuts her eyes in terror. And then, a crash as a fist materializes through the door. A refined looking gentleman enters. He sees Eva and shushes her with an index finger to his lips. Something about this man is comforting. “Come with me quickly if you wish to be free. Hurry!”
Eva doesn’t need a second invitation. She throws on her clothes and carries her shoes in her hands. As Eva draws near him, he extends his hand to hers. “We need to be quick about this. I’m afraid I caused more of a ruckus than I intended. Please,” he implores. She takes his hand and smiles. To be treated like a young lady and given a choice is a welcome change.
(3)
As Eva enters the luxurious Hotel Del Fuego of Portswayne, her heart lightens. She cannot wait to rinse off the fowl stench of men’s putrid body odor. The extra-large bathroom comes stocked with fine towels, fresh linen and a hand-held mirror. Soon, she prepares her bath in a roomy wash basin. Although the horrible medicinal cream saturates the room, Renault assures her the cream heals the lacerations caused by Whalen.
Eva lathers the soft cotton wash rag and rubs it over her body. She enjoys the warm water on her delicate skin. The liquid bubble bath permeates the surrounding air around her. How good it feels to be clean again and to have time to herself. Eva sighs in rapt indulgence.
As she puts her leg back in to the steaming water, Renault knocks on the door. “Come in,” Eva says.
Renault enters, carrying a light blue cotton dress, complete with camisole, bodice and undergarments. He smiles at her with sympathy, careful to look away from her naked body. His sense of propriety confuses her. Most men demand her, and she must comply or suffer the consequences.
“I cry pardon for what occurred earlier. I meant for things to run a bit more smoothly,” says Renault. Does he do this sort of thing often?
“It’s ok, Sai,” she says with nervousness. “I thankee for you what you did.”
“It’s nothing less than what any true gentleman would have done in the same situation.”
Eva looks at him with a bemused smirk. “I’m not so sure about that, Sai. I’ve never seen anyone with your skill before. Have you done this sort of thing often?”
“From time to time. Sort of comes with the job description,” says Renault in a matter-of-fact tone.
“What sort of business are you in, Sai?” she asks.
“The revenge and murder business. And business is booming,” he says with a devious grin.
She laughs with a little discomfort. “That’s good to hear, Sai.”
Renault looks at her with curiosity. “You know, I don’t think we’ve had a proper introduction. I’m Renault,” he says as he extends his hand to hers.
Eva looks at it for a second. She half-expects Renault to pull her out of the bathtub and have his way with her. When she realizes his intent, she shakes his hand with graciousness.
“Eva,” she says. “I’m pleased to meet you.”
“The feeling is mutual, Lady Mais,” he pauses and considers something. “Tell me, Eva. Do you have somewhere to go? A family back home?”
Tears well up in her eyes. She tries to hold them at bay but can’t. They spill down her cheeks. “I did. But they were killed. My papa and mum were butchered along with my little brother.”
Renault shakes his head and sighs. “I cry pardon. It’s a common enough story. Where are you from?”
“Buxel.”
“I knew that town well. It was only a three days journey from my home?”
“Where?” Eva asks.
“Tyrene.”
“I never really knew Tyrene. My parents spoke of the great city very well though.”
“It was something before it was obliterated by the Terra-Gauls, I assure you.”
“I’m sure it was,” Eva says.
“So,” pauses Renault. “In light of you not having a home to go back to, I will, with your permission, make some arrangements for you then. You ken?”
She nods her head with vigor. “I would like that very much, Sai.”
“Finish getting ready and I’ll be right back.”
He closes the door and walks out of the hotel room. Eva hears him insert the key into the lock.
(4)
Busy passengers depart and embark the train at Rendley which services the East and West Gaulian line. Hand-in-hand, Renault and Eva walk along the cobblestone walkway. On the cusp of womanhood, Eva poses as the young attractive girl. Meanwhile, Renault plays the handsome gentleman in a dark brown suit and charcoal grey corduroy sweater vest. And, to other passengers, they appear as a father escorting his daughter on her first trip.
Renault withdraws his pocket watch and looks at the time. From his vest he pulls out the train ticket and hands it to her.
She looks at it and hesitates but only for a moment. “Where am I going again?”
“Oriza, one of the last free-standing towns the Terra-Gauls haven’t taken. I think you’ll find it to your liking. There are many ladies just like yourself. In any case, you’ll live as a free woman. As you should. Take this.” He hands her a sack filled with gold pence. She eyes it in disbelief. Eva had never seen so much money.
He smiles. “I actually stole most of it from your former employer. They won’t be needing it.”
Tears stream down her face. She hugs him with sincerity. “I don’t know what to say. You’ve saved me in every way a girl can be saved. How can I ever repay you?”
“The repayment is in the deed itself. Live free. Untethered and unsullied. Forevermore.”
“Why would you do this?” she asks.
“Because I can. And I must. I know what it’s like to live trampled under the boot heels of another — at the whim of a cruel and sadistic master. And I would not have it so. Never again will you be someone’s property.”
She hugs him again. “Thankee, Sai!” As if calling her away, the train whistles in a piercing tone, startling her.
“Time to go. Don’t ever look back,” he says. Eva turns away and does just that.
Chapter 6: Aftermath
Shariff Hegemut walks into Pleasure Point with a look of consternation. The whores are in the reception area’s thick, comfortable sofas commiserating. Two corpses in the foyer bear the same look of disbelief. Huge gaping wounds in their guts and necks attest to their grisly deaths. The shariff grunts in frustration. “Fuck!” he yells.
Whalen comes in and stares at the shariff, in a seething rage. He lashes out with a punch, knocking a hole in the oak panel. “Careful,” admonishes the shariff. “You’re paying for that.” He gestures with his hand. “And all of this.”
In the same thought and in unison, they say, “Office.” They hurry to the office where their worst suspicions reveal. The door is intact. As they scan the room, they see a chair broken. In the far corner, a heap of two bloody corpses lay. Four other bodies strewn across the room show fatal stab wounds in their eyes, guts, throats and faces.
“Fuck me!” the shariff yells. He quivers and his voice teeters on the verge of breaking. “Not you!” he pleads. Whalen confirms the worst. He looks at the corpse of Kent, the shariff’s brother. He was hoping it was just a robbery, but this bloodbath can only be the work of one man. Renault.
As they continue to assess the damage, Trixie, the voluptuous madame, comes to the door, sounding out of breath. “Shariff, there’s another body. Room 57.” They hurry to the room. The first thing they notice is the spatter of blood around the keyhole. Though the door is about five inches of thick oak, a fist-sized hole aids in their gaining access.
Laying on the bed with his shirt exposed is the corpse of Lieutenant Tillip Ginsmore. The gaping hole through his eye socket and out the back of his head shows the cause of death. As they pull up the body, they discover a congealed gore of blood and ocular fluid. The sticky mess trails behind him.
The most disturbing observation is the message sprawled across Ginsmore’s chest in his own blood. WHALEN, I SAW MORE THAN I LET ON. R. As if sending the end has an explanation point, Renault buried the dagger's hilt in the man’s chest. It bears Renault’s infamous moniker, The Hound of Hell.
“Yes, you did, you fucking cunt!” whispers Whalen.
The shariff grasps onto Whalen in desperation. “One man did all this?” he questions in disbelief.
“I’ve seen him do worse,” says Whalen in a matter-of-fact tone.
“You need to find this fuck, Sai!” pleads Shariff Hegemut.
Whalen looks at the shariff’s hand in disgust. “You’d be wise not to lay your fucking hands on me again, Shariff.”
“You don’t threaten me, you ruffian!”
Whalen punches him in the face, knocking him to the floor. “You’d be wise to remember your fucking place, Shariff. I got you elected in this shit town and I can have you removed at my whim. I cry pardon for your loss, but I lost as well. Set watch and warrant it, Renault will have his comeuppance shortly. The man’s walking into an ambush even he won’t be able to escape from.”
As the shariff rises, he reels and feels dizzy from the punch. For a second, he considers retaliating but thinks better of it. No matter how pissed he is, he knows Whalen speaks the truth. Besides, he’d never be able to take Whalen in a fight. The man looks like a geriatric oxenule but moves like a hindserpent.
Chapter 7: The Plan
In the middle of the tiny shack, the Dark Brethren congregate around the large oak round table. They meet at the behest of Renault, their unofficial leader. The shack is so dilapidated a windstorm could topple it over, but it’s perfect for their purposes. Sitting about 100 yards from an imperceptible trail, a thick thorn bramble covers the walkway in part. This plant mimics the poisonous dandetiger flower, infamous for killing unwitting recipients who breathe its toxic vapors. Few but the Dark Brethren know this strategic disguise of nature.
Most of the spies are present—Kilroy, Gellen, Penryn, Coit, Calthor, Egor, Daliance, Ghange-Rhu, Sebastian, Wyker, Seven, Taintus, Lex, Godfrey, and Renault’s right-hand man, Drake, the Kill-Smith. Whalen and his associates — Terranimo, Fallon, Cutswayne, and Rober, The Usurper — are absent.
They peruse the schematic laid out before them until Drake breaks the silence. “Where’s Whalen and his men?”
Renault pulls out his pocket watch and looks at the time and feigns concern. “I did tell him 7:00 sharp.”
The men sigh and shake their heads in frustration. “The meeting was at 6:30, Renault,” admonishes Penryn.
Renault shows a mischievous grin then snickers. “Was it?”
Drake grabs his arm in a pleading gesture. “This is important, brother. We need all our men on this.”
“They’re on a need to know basis,” says Renault in defense. “They’ll have all the information they need. I would never risk the success of this operation because of a grudge. You know that. It’s precisely why I had them come later. Satisfied?” With stern eyes, he looks at the men as if daring them to speak out of turn.
“Suppose it will have to,” says Drake deflated.
Renault points to a spot on the map. “Drake, Egbert, Daliance, you’re familiar with the Filmore Express?”
They nod. “Very familiar with it,” responds Drake. “The Sene-Gauls were wise to commandeer that rail line. It’s the fastest in the West Indies and probably the world.”
“But it’s not without its weaknesses we can exploit,” assures Renault. “After Sene-Gaul City and before Bixby, I will board the Southern Line. Then sneak onto the Northern Line at Frankfurt where the two trains ride side-by-side on Branden Pass.”
“With the two trains traveling at 85 knots?” asks Daliance.
“Precisely,” answers Renault. He walks to a tattered closet door, opens it, and removes a soldier’s uniform from the Sene-Gauls. The pressed uniform is impeccable and replete with the burgundy insignia of a falcon and a torch.
The men admire the outfit. “It looks almost too perfect,” points out Daliance. “Who the hell has a suit that well pressed?”
“I do,” responds Renault with deadpan seriousness. “And, any man who is equally as fastidious.”
“What’s our job?” asks Kilroy.
“I’ve extensively surveyed the line. There’s no way more than one of us can board the train without being noticed. There will be no less than ten sentries posted here and here,” he says as he points to a place on the map. “Whalen has informed me there will be 35 to 40 men, so expect 50. Three Gatling guns – one in the middle and two on each end of the 26-car line. General Crixus will certainly be in the holding cell at the front of the line, located here.” He points to the spot on the map.
“I’m afraid to ask,” responds Daliance. “But how are we to get onto the train?”
“You’re familiar with Malcolm Pass?” questions Renault.
“The plateau abutting the rail line that has a sheer 900-foot drop? Unfortunately, yes,” responds Daliance with a look of desperation marring his handsome face.
“It is the best vantage point to access the train without being seen because the train turns a blind corner. All of you will rappel from the plateau and drop onto the first car. And surreptitiously taking out the Gatling gun and its man. By the time you enter the train, I will have already unlocked the holding cage with these.” He pulls out several small, inconspicuous items. They fit in a small bag- a turpentine torch, extra-large diamond cutters, pliers and a jar of gunthite.
Drake and Daliance feign a confident smirk. “You make it sound so easy and straightforward,” answers Daliance. “But I know more than anyone that things are not always so simple.” He looks to the others for agreement and they exchange a knowing look. “What could go wrong?”
“What could go wrong?” questions Renault facetiously. “Absolutely everything. What else?”
The men shake their heads in discouragement. “What’s likely to?” asks Daliance.
“You’re all smart, discerning, intuitive beyond measure
. I don’t need to tell you it could be disastrous if we’re tipped off. I’ve done everything I could to ensure this mission is not compromised. But no matter how carefully I plan, there are still variables beyond my control. You ken?”
The men nod in agreement as the same name echoes in their minds: Whalen. “Be on guard. Be vigilant. Watch each other’s backs and above all else know that if things don’t go smoothly, we must improvise.”
“You are the master improviser,” declares Drake, as he pats him on the back.
Daliance looks at Renault in a pleading gesture. Renault doesn’t need to read his mind to know he wants to speak. “You have something on your mind?” asks Renault. “Unburden yourself.”
“What is this mission about? Why are we doing it? To what political purpose?”
Renault shakes his head. “I don’t know. I don’t believe Merlin does either at this juncture. But I’ve learned to trust his premonitions. My life has been spared and I’ve lived to fight another day while embracing them. They’ve served us well in the past. I see no reason to doubt him now. You ken?”
Daliance shrugs. “Then we must take his word for it, I suppose. Or rather yours,” he says, while trying to temper the acidity in his response. Renault sees right through it.
“You can trust me brother. I speak for the Merlin and he speaks for those who cannot speak for themselves.” Drake and Penryn nod with enthusiasm, while the rest of the group looks to the last holdout, Daliance. Kilroy clasps him on the back in a comforting gesture and he warms to it.
“I cry pardon, brother. Forgive a frightened pube. It’s just the nerves talking.”
“Nothing to forgive, brother. Have faith in us. We have all been extensively trained and selected for this mission and it is within our powers to see it to fruition. You ken?”
The men nod. “Ai!” They exclaim, Daliance included. They shake hands with each other and are saying their goodbyes when a knock at the door interrupts them.
Renault makes a shushing gesture. The knocks continue in a choreographed pattern. “Come in!” yells Daliance.