The Hound of Hell

by Rory Nelson

  The made beds are so firm you could bounce a gold pence from it. The sheets are cleaned with soap at least once a week, regardless if anyone sleeps in them or not.

  As Whalen walks in, he throws a large saddlebag on his desk and does not greet Proximus. Some dust kicks up, irritating Proximus’ lungs. He coughs in an overly dramatic way.

  “You’re late, Whalen. And you are privy to my condition. You know full well I have the crooper lung. What the fuck is that? And why do you throw that dust-filled saddlebag on my desk? To what purpose?”

  “Insurance,” replies Whalen.

  “Insurance for what?” asks Proximus. He gives Scandrick, his captain, a nod. Scandrick reaches out for the bag, but as he does, Terranimo intervenes. In a lightning move, he pulls out his buck knife and slams it into Scandrick’s hand. Scandrick cries out, expecting agony, but he feels none.

  A closer look reveals Terranimo missed his hand by a fraction of an inch. Two of the guards reach for the butts of their guns, but Whalen is faster.

  “Keep your hands where I can see them. And you—” He looks at Scandrick. “Keep that fucking bag right where I can see it.”

  He points up to the two windows at the difficult high angled roofline. “See those two windows?” he asks Proximus. Proximus nods. “Well, those two sharp shooters, Cutswayne and Rober, have the drop on you right now. If you so much as touch that bag, they gonna blow us to high hell.”

  Whalen opens up the bag, revealing its contents-several grenados. “We clear?” he asks with sternness.

  Proximus sighs. “Ai, Whalen. We’re clear. You’re in charge here. Let’s talk. That’s all we’re here for. You ken? Won’t you both have a seat?”

  “There’s a good fucking boy,” replies Whalen as he lights up one of his cigars.

  “There’s no smoking in here, so if you don’t mind.”

  “I mind, so go fuck yourself!” Whalen says as he blows out as much smoke as he can.

  “Well, let’s begin, shall we?” Proximus coughs. This time he is not exaggerating. “It appears that we have failed on our ends to achieve our goals.”

  “Ain’t that a fucking understatement,” says Whalen as he blows a plume of smoke into Proximus’ face. “We couldn’t very well rob Monaco of his considerable haul if the train never completed its journey.” He points his finger at Proximus. “That’s on you and your men.”

  Proximus nods. “I’m perfectly willing to take the blame for our part of it.”

  “Little consolation with our fortune at the bottom of Lake Pontrachain,” says Whalen indignantly.

  “I agree,” replies Proximus. “But there’s nothing we can do about that now.” He pauses. “You promised me The Hound of Hell. Specifically, his head.”

  “Well, as a matter of fact. I just received word at Burn’s Bull. Renault fell to his death. Presumably.”

  “Presumably?” asks Proximus. “What does that mean?”

  “It means fucking probably. He fell more than likely to his death. That’s almost a 1,000-foot drop. Ain’t nobody going to survive that shit.”

  “But there is a chance,” says Proximus.

  “Not much of one.”

  “But there’s no confirmation as of yet,” observes Proximus.

  “No confirmation that you ain’t your fucking sister either,” says Whalen with biting sarcasm. “But I’ll take your word for it you’ve got a pecker and a tiny pair of nuts between your legs.”

  Terranimo chuckles while Whalen smiles and reveals his tobacco stained teeth.

  Proximus cracks a facetious smile. “Ain’t you the fucking charm eagle? I’m sure the suited are lining up at your doorstep in droves.”

  “If’n I’d had any proclivity to wed, would’ve done it a long time ago, Sai. But I ain’t the marryin’ type. You ken?”

  “And the ladies will bemoan that for ages to come, no doubt,” quips Proximus.

  All at the table chuckle, except Whalen. He glares and huffs like a sullen child.

  To regain control of the meeting, Proximus raises his hands in a let’s-get-back-to-business gesture. “In the extremely and unlikely event Renault survives, when can you deliver him to me?” asks Proximus.

  As Whalen takes a long drag on his cigar and exhales, he savors the aroma like a virgin’s hymen. “That’s the easy part,” assures Whalen. “We’re all set to rendezvous at Pillar’s Cove in three days. 7:00 P.M. sharp at Barnsby’s. You know it?”

  “I do indeed,” answers Proximus.

  “If Renault is alive, he’ll be there, set watch and warrant it. If I were you, I’d get the most well-constructed prisoner transport wagon you can find. And get enough men to ensure it don’t get broken into or broken out of.”

  “Noted,” states Proximus.

  “I have a few conditions, as you might imagine,” says Whalen.

  “I’m sure you do,” replies Proximus acidly. “Name them.”

  “First, I want safe passage for me and my brothers. Some of them won’t be too receptive to joining my ranks. But we need to give them the benefit of the doubt.”

  “And what of those who would seek to aid Renault?” questions Proximus.

  “You do whatever you need to do to seize Renault. But my men will be granted a safe leave. Any of them foolhardy sumbitches get any idears about helping that fuck, take ‘em out anyway you see fit. We square? he asks while exhaling a plume of smoke that comes out in a perfect square.

  Proximus nods. “Ai. Anything else?”

  “Of course, there’s an active bounty on his head. I believe it’s 4,000 gold pence. I want it.”

  “Ai. When and if he shows, you shall have it.”

  “I’m going to need you to do a little better than that,” says Whalen.

  “You have my word. You deliver him to us, and you shall have your reward,” assures Proximus.

  “As an act of good faith, I’m afraid I’m going to need you to give us a fourth. Also, consider it a down payment on services soon to be rendered. A man on his way to the governorship will no doubt need the services of some good mercenaries. You ken?”

  Proximus looks at him with curiosity. Just what the hell does he know? “I think I’ll just wait and see what you can deliver to me first. You ken?”

  “If’n I might direct your attention to the two windows where my associates are stationed. They’ll be expecting you to hand over some sort of payment to me. If not, well, they gonna light up the place. So, seems you got two choices. Sit there like some dumb, stubborn about to be dead fuck or get your coin bag out and start counting out a hundred large.”

  Proximus sighs and looks at Scandrick, who only shrugs. “Count out one thousand gold pence to Sai Jeffries, Captain Scandrick.”

  Scandrick takes his saddlebag and counts out one thousand gold pence to Whalen. “Consider it an investment. In one of the most elite group of warrior spies anyone has ever seen. Soon, they’ll all be under my control.”

  “And those that won’t?” asks Proximus.

  “Hell, they won’t matter. They’ll be dead.”

  “We’ll see,” says Proximus. “Anything else you’ll be needing? My first born? The 50,000 acres of pixie I just harvested?”

  Whalen laughs. “Nah. Not right now anyway. I have one minor one, though.”

  “What?”

  “I want to be there for his crucifixion. And I’d like to have a few moments alone with him, just before you nail him down. I wanna be the one to wipe off that fucking smirk of his for good.”

  Proximus nods. “Ai. You’ll have it.”

  “You could also point me in the right direction of your finest whorehouse. Preferably one with the freshest of wares.”

  “Harlowe’s is quite popular in the town of Weeble, which is half a day’s ride south. You’d be hard pressed to find many girls past the age of eighteen there.”

  Whalen looks at Terranimo with a lecherous grin. Terranimo smiles back. “Ai, that’s just my speed.”

  Chapter 22: Alive

&n
bsp; Ginsing, the skilled Voltarian doctor, stitches Renault’s last laceration with as much skill as Merlin could have done. “Maybe it’s time you look into another profession, Remy,” he states.

  “Wouldn’t do much good at this point,” says Renault, who answers to many aliases.

  Ginsing applies a powerful homemade disinfectant and coagulant to the wound. As he does, Renault winces as the wound sears in pain.

  “I’m sure you’re no stranger to pain, Remy. Be glad I’m not using gunpowder.”

  Renault smiles. “You’re right. Usually gunpowder is the most convenient, especially when you’re on the run.”

  “I must re-bandage you wounds at least once more. But I think you can go home by tomorrow morning,” says Ginsing.

  “I need to be out of here tonight,” replies Renault.

  “I understand, young warrior.”

  Renault feels safe enough to put his head down. As he closes his eyes, Ginsing produces a piece of paper with a picture of himself on it.

  “Bears a striking resemblance to you, does it not?” he asks.

  Renault reaches for his coin purse, but Ginsing stops him. “Save your money, young warrior. You’ve already paid me in advance.” He pauses as he looks at Renault with curiosity.

  “The Terra-Gauls are no friends of mine. My son extended aid to the Visi-Gauls during the Ten-Year War. The captain of the Terra-Gauls, I believe his name was Proximus, discovered his Christian deed. He hung my son as a traitor for aiding and abetting the enemy. His wife and girls were sold into slavery. I buried my son and my grand boys. Consoled myself, moved out here to the City States of Kent. Then, only to have it occupied by those bastards once more. So, you see, young warrior, they are no friends of mine. Any enemy of theirs is definitely a friend of mine. Just answer me one question.”

  “Name it,” says Renault.

  “Are you the fabled Hound of Hell? The infamous warrior that is the Terra-Gaulians worst enemy in history?”

  Renault nods. “Ai.” He pulls one of his ultra-sharp daggers from his flap jacket and hands it to Ginsing to observe. Ginsing lights up in a smile.

  “I am pleased to make your acquaintance, Hound of Hell.” Ginsing extends his hand and Renault shakes it.

  “Thank you for your kindness, Ginsing. I am eternally grateful.” Ginsing’s thoughts rise to the surface and Renault picks them up easily. The jumbled mess of frenetic images hit Renault with the force of a grenade blast. But one thing is certain. Terra-Gaulian soldiers were here. Renault does not intrude on the man’s mind anymore but allows him to spill it. Renault coaxes him on with the slightest of mental spurs.

  “You know there were Terra-Gaulian soldiers here recently? Just tonight in fact,” observes Ginsing.

  “Were there?” questions Renault, feigning ignorance.

  “Ai,” replies Ginsing. “And when they believed me to be out of the room, not eavesdropping, they had quite a story to tell.”

  “Did they?” asks Renault.

  “Ai. Proximus is gunning for the governorship for the City States of Kent. Apparently, he sent a sealed letter with a courier to King Aleksandr about some incriminating information on the current Governor Duelyn. Why didn’t he just send a telegram, you might ask? Seems the information was so important, it had to be sent with a courier.”

  Renault ponders this disturbing information. For years Duelyn protected him in secret. If something happens to him and Proximus attains the governorship, it will be open season on him. The brethren also. He has to reach that courier. Renault must warn Duelyn and give him a chance to run and defend himself.

  “I need to leave tonight,” replies Renault in desperation.

  “You’re in no shape to leave tonight, Hound.”

  “I must. Many lives depend on it.”

  Renault attempts to rise, but Ginsing pushes him back down. “You rest now.”

  “I need to catch up with that courier. I must warn the Governor,” says Renault with a hint of desperation in his voice.

  Ginsing laughs. Renault looks at him bewildered, as if he had lost his mind. Perhaps he had.

  “You wait right there, young warrior. I’ll explain everything to you.”

  Renault is at first apprehensive and angry at himself that he hadn’t entered the old apothecary’s mind. He stews and winces with every movement, no matter how slight. In a few minutes, Ginsing returns carrying a tin lockbox with TERRA-GAULIA engraved on the front.

  Ginsing smiles at Renault. “This was in the courier’s possession. I offer it to you.”

  Renault stares at it without comprehension at first. The drugs have dulled his intellect somewhat. Dawning soon registers in his face. “Ginsing, that soldier did not depart with that box of his own free will. Where is he now?”

  Ginsing grins. “Buried in my rose bushes. Along with his other two companions. Any man who serves that Proximus cunt is an enemy of mine and I treated them as such.”

  Renault smiles. “Well done, Ginsing.” He pauses and thinks. “Ginsing, I may need you to dig those soldiers up. I may have to impersonate the courier.”

  Ginsing shrugs and looks a little disappointed. “Well, I wish I had known. Two of them are a might bloody. Wasn’t expectin’ to dig their sorry ass bodies up again.”

  “Of course not,” says Renault. “Won’t be the first time I’ve had to wear a dead man’s clothing.”

  “I’m sure it’s not, friend. Imagine it won’t be the last either. Here is the letter that was in his possession.” He hands it to Renault.

  Drake sighs in great relief. But he questions his good luck. Will Ginsing turn scamp, reach for a pistol, and try to plant a bullet in his head?

  Pulling away the authentication of the blood-red wax seal, Renault rips the letter open. There can be no doubt it is from Proximus.

  My dearest and esteemed King Aleksander:

  I, your most humble servant and commander of the northern forces, Palonius Proximus Levander bid you farewell. I serve you well and bid you the warmest of greetings shared between only the closest of friends. You, of course, are more than a friend. You are my King, an ordained and rightfully destined servant of God, supreme ruler of Terra-Gaulia.

  Pleasantries aside, it is with great displeasure I am writing you today, this fifteenth day of October in the year of our Lord 986. A traitor lives in our midst, a traitor who has been conspiring against you for, as of now, an unknown length of time. And I cry pardon I must be the one to tell you but tell you I must.

  The traitor is none other than your appointed Governor of the Terra-Gaulian territories in the City States of Kent: Duelyn Xander Davies III. Not only has a fugitive, known as the Hound of Hell, surfaced and is alive and well; but also, he, Duelyn Xander Davies III, has been active in harboring this fugitive. A fugitive who has raged a campaign of terror across our territories over the past two decades. Once thought killed in a Cathrall prison escape, I have reason to suspect he is in an open rebellion against us.

  Not only has the Governor harbored him but also, he has also entered into a collusion with the township of Oriza with the mines of the Ghettic Mountains. These were mines believed to be under the Visi-Gauls’ jurisdiction. Since the Governor owns the mines along with the township of Oriza, I need not tell you of the obvious implications.

  At the least, he is withholding money from your rightful coffers. At worst, he is in open rebellion and attempting a coup d’état. Please instruct me what to do as soon as possible. Your humble servant awaits your speedy reply.

  Your dedicated servant,

  Proximus

  Renault shuts the letter and sighs with disgust. The small amount of relief he felt when Ginsing had killed the soldiers now dissipated.

  “Bad news?” questions Ginsing.

  “The worst.”

  Renault scrunches up the letter and hands it to Ginsing. “Put it back in its envelope and seal it up.”

  “Would it not be better to burn it?” inquiries Ginsing. “Since its contents may incrimina
te?”

  That was Renault’s first instinct, but he hesitates from doing it. “No. Someone needs to see that letter. Once he does, I’ll destroy it myself.”

  Ginsing nods. “Of course, you are the expert in these matters.” Ginsing pauses and scrutinizes Renault. “You are in need of rest. Would you stay till morning?”

  Renault nods. He lays his head down but cannot sleep. Every movement, no matter how slight, lights up his pain receptors with the force of a detonated ballista. Christ I could really use something for the pain. As if reading his mind, Ginsing arrives minutes later with some hot tea. “Take it,” he says.

  Renault sips it and scrunches up his face.

  “Ai, it’s bitter, but fast acting. You’ll be out in a few minutes once you drink it all. Marmalade Wheyberry. A powerful sedative.”

  “Thankee,” says Renault. As he finishes the tea, he grows drowsy and slips into unconsciousness. His mind drifts to the one place that repeats itself over and over again in his head- the previous day’s events which led him here and the awful aftermath.

  Chapter 23: Collateral Damage

  Renault knew he was in a precarious position, but he was helpless to do anything about it without endangering the lives of the woman and her son. As he swings from the massive train, he hears only the obnoxiously loud grinding sound. By the time the train is falling, Renault is airborne with the train car baring down on him.

  As he positions himself face forward, Renault cuts through the air at an angle. He forces his legs together and his arms squeezed in toward his body. For maximum velocity, he is a human bullet outpacing the train down before it lands on top of him.

  Renault succeeds in moving forward ahead of the train, but now his rate of speed has increased exponentially. The wind rushes past him and view of the water comes into focus. Without thinking, Renault twists his body with toes pointed to the water.