Dawn of the Merlin: The Brotherhood of Merlin, #0

By Rory D Nelson

Perronius. He is the greatest knight in Round Table history, a blind hero with preternatural abilities to rival the gods themselves. And now, he faces the greatest threat in his coubntry's history. A tyrant named Songre-Khan has plans of invading his country. HIs secret weapon is a monk named Gaeden-Kai he keeps locked away in his impenetrable fortress. No one has ever escaped from it. 

   And so Perronius embarks on the most difficult mission of his life: rescue Gaeden-Kai from the clutches of Songre-Khan and defeat Gilleon's greatest threat to their survival. If he accomplishes it, he will attain the title of Merlin, a title that ushers in an era of peace and prosperity. If he fails, then everything he holds dear will be extinguished. 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Rory D Nelson
• Release date: Mar 1, 2020
• ISBN: 9781393016762

Book preview

Chapter 1: A Clandestine Meeting

A cloaked figure approaches the castle in loose fitting, nondescript clothing. He conceals an assortment of weaponry. He wears a gun belt with three holsters, two on the left side and one on the right. On his left side is a razor-sharp sword, ready to be ejected from its sheathed scabbard at a moment? notice. His companion wolf walks close behind him. He keeps his head down and avoids eye contact with anyone. Though his wolf is extraordinarily large and unusual, no one seems to take notice of him. He has mesmerized those around him in a hypnotic spell, implanting the suggestion in them that reflects his attire. I am no one.

He seems to glide past everyone. If by chance a stranger should take notice of him, they are quickly dissuaded from thinking on the matter any further. He implants the suggestion of indifference as easily and naturally as a bee implants the pollen in a flower. He is of no concern to anyone.

When the figure emerges from the streets and approaches the gates to the castle, two of the guards approach him. Though they too have received the suggestion, duty commands they question him. Who goes there? asks Alexander, Captain of the guards.

Phillip of the Nordic Province. I'm requesting an audience with the King?

Alexander smirks condescendingly. Are you now, stranger. You’d have better luck requesting a pot of gold. Get out!

Wait, says the stranger. Bring your King this. I will wait for his reply. He extracts an immaculate and silver-plated envelope with a well displayed gold embossed symbol in the middle.

Alexander takes it and looks at it curiously. It belies the stranger’s disheveled appearance. Wait here, he says. He turns to his subordinate. Watch him carefully, commands Alexander.

Ai, Captain, says Brody.

Alexander takes it to Menelaeus.

Alexander approaches King Menelaeus. He bows to him. My Lord, some ruffian named Phillip of the Nordic Province is requesting an audience with you. He asked me to give you this.

He hands him the silver-plated envelope. Menelaeus looks at it curiously. He turns it around to examine the embossed seal and a smile erupts on his face. He opens it up and begins to read it with his fingers. Though Perronius can write fluently in the Gaelic cursive favored by the Crown, he opts instead for Braille. Few can read it, so there is little chance his information will be discovered, should it not make it to King Menelaeus.

Menelaeus peruses it slowly. He must, since he rarely uses the Braille language favored by Perronius.

My Lord, I do cry pardon for the deception, but I could not risk discovery. I am on a secret mission. Please meet me in secrecy with due expedience. The gravity of the situation demands it.

Indebted as your faithful servant,

Sir Perronius

Menelaeus turns to Alexander. Captain prepare me a meeting chamber in the catacomb level at tempest halt. I’ll be meeting with this stranger. He looks hard at Alexander to reinforce this last point. Alone.

Sire, with all due respect, I’d advise caution. Please do not leave yourself vulnerable. We don’t know much-

Menelaeus abruptly cuts him off. Your objection is duly noted, Captain. Now see to it. He says with hard conviction as he bores his eyes into him. Alexander looks away and bows.

Ai, my Lord. I’ll see to it, set watch and warrant it.

Alexander takes the hint from Menelaeus to heart and prepares a room deep in the levels of the catacombs, ensuring he will not be uninterrupted with the stranger. Wren, his timber wolf, follows Menelaeus down into the catacombs and as Shadow’s smell becomes evident, he emits a whine of anticipation. He looks towards his master. Menelaeus gives him a nod and Wren runs off, greeting Shadow.

Perronius pulls the cloak from around his face and greets Menelaeus. He bows and reaches out for Menelaeus’ hand and kisses it. We are brothers as well, says Menelaeus. I would have you greet me as one. They embrace with forearms outstretched.

We are well met, Perronius. Had I known of your arrival, I would have presented you with a feast and proper homecoming. He pauses and raises an eyebrow in curiosity. But there is great reason for your secrecy, is there not? Officially you were never here. Were you?

Perronius smiles. Menelaeus gestures towards Perronius. Would you sit, brother?

Ai and I say thankee. No, I was never here.

What is the reason for your non-visit? asks Menelaeus playfully.

Perronius snickers but his expression turns grave. I am on mission as you know well.

Ai, says Menelaeus. Ken well. Does this mean we will have a Merlin soon?

If we are successful, it will mean many things. The title only carries weight with the accomplishments behind it. It will mean many things to Gilleon, but there are many things that must be set in motion if we are to accomplish it. You ken?

What do you need from me? asks Menelaeus.

Your seal, your signature, and the weight of it. I need you to assume the guarantor of a loan, should it be reneged on.

And why would this loan be reneged on? asks Menelaeus curiously.

If I should fail and fall to my death, you must answer for it- and repay this loan, warns Perronius.

Menelaeus scowls, an expression that is part curiosity and indignation. How much are we talking about?

Eight thousand pounds of gold. Four chests full.

Menelaeus coughs and his eyes grow in dilation. A look of consternation crosses his face. Eight thousand pounds! he hisses in disbelief.

Perronius nods. Ai. Tis not a tripe amount.

An amount that will lead to ruination. What would the terms be?

Ten years. Eight percent interest.

Menelaeus scoffs and puts his hands through his hair and rubs his temples, feeling the unmistakable burn of a migraine beginning to seep its way into his head, the pulsing waves beating faster and faster. I would not be the first to voice my misgivings about your previous campaigns, Perronius. He looks at him, in a scolding manner, the way a parent would look at a rebellious child. But this borders on madness. Do you have any idea how much that would cost per month?

Of course, I’m a mathematician. About eighty thousand gold pence, depending on how accurate the weight is.

Forty, fifty, sixty, seventy. It doesn’t matter. It would lead us to ruin either way.

Only if my plan is not successful. And it will be, I assure you.

Menelaeus sighs in frustration. And who is the note’s recipient?

Perronius slides a piece of parchment paper over to him. Menelaeus eyes grow in dilation and he re-reads the paper just to be sure it is true. He wears a look of utter desperation and defeat. This cannot be. By my hand, I would be committing treason. Do you not understand?

I understand this is the only way. The repercussions of our failure will echo throughout this land for some time. I have never failed you yet, my Lord. You believed in me when I was but a slave and you gave everything and more to procure my rescue. I ask you to have faith in me now.

You ask me to commit treason. I could have you arrested just for suggesting it. You know this well, says Menelaeus sharply. For this unholy alliance with an ork. An enemy of the state. A slave general, no less.

Perronius smiles coyly. Don’t be tripe my Lord. We both know you will do no such thing.

Menelaeus emits a long, pathetic sigh and looks at Perronius that is part sneer, contention and exasperation. My most beloved student, please assure me that you have everything under control. That I will not be signing off on my own death warrant with this. That you will not lead us to ruin.

Perronius edges closer to him and grasps his hand to placate him. My Lord set watch and warrant, the repercussions of not signing this will be far greater. Would you cut off your own ear to spite your face?

You know I wouldn’t.

Then sign for the sake of our country.

Menelaeus emits another hopeless and pathetic sigh. He picks up his pen and signs the document, takes his seal, places it in the ink pad, and presses it over the top of his unusual signature, one that is part Gaelic and Sumerian cursive, a signature that would be nearly impossible for anyone to reproduce. The seal completes its authenticity.

Menelaeus hands it to Perronius. With careful reverence, Perronius takes the signed document and places it in his knapsack as if he were handling a live grenado.

Perronius turns again to Menelaeus. Thankee my Lord. There is one other thing I must ask of you and it’s no tripe matter.

It never is when it concerns you, says Menelaeus.

I need the reprieve of a prisoner and a commutation of his sentence. He is currently in Abernath Prison awaiting crucifixion. I need him transferred to Cathrall.

What’s his name? asks Menelaeus, with a look of mounting concern.

Benedict Corian.

The infamous marauder?

Ai.

Convicted rapist, pillager, extortionist, mass murderer, slave trader, and robber?

Perronius reluctantly nods. Ai, that’s him.

Could you possibly find anyone less deserving of a reprieve than him? The man murdered an entire family- where they slept. Even the children were not spared. How shall I compensate the families of the victims?

Any way you see fit. You are King.

A King with a conscience. He sighs. And principles. There are many who have been anticipating the man’s crucifixion. You would seek to take that from them?

You are the King. You must appease them in the way you see fit. I am not your counselor, my Lord. You know me as a righteous man and a patriot. Sometimes I don’t get to be both, and I must choose. You should thank God I choose to be a patriot for the survival of this country. You ken?

Menelaeus remains speechless. He merely buries his face in his hands and tries in vain to will away the throbbing pain that burgeons in his temples like a mounting wave crest before a coming tidal wave.

I could explain my reasons for doing this, if you would hear them, says Perronius.

Menelaeus stops him with a gesture and a shake of his head. I don’t want to know, Perronius. I know too much as it is. He lets out a long, overly dramatic sigh. I will see it done because I trust you above all else. He shakes his head, bearing an implacable countenance. Alliances with our sworn enemy. Granting clemency to an execrable sociopath- all in the name of your quest. Mark my words, Perronius. If it were anyone else, I would have them strung up and charged with treason. I grant you this simply because it is you and there is no one I trust more than you.

Perronius turns to Menelaeus, bows, and grasps his forearm to embrace him. My Lord, I say thankee for your faith and complicity.

See that it is not wasted. I trust you above all others, but you ask the world of me-continuously so.

Ai. Perronius turns to go.

One more thing, says Menelaeus.

Ai, replies Perronius.

Officially, I must disavow any knowledge of this, not the least of which is your unholy alliance with an ork slave master. Should it come to light, you would be subject to treason. See that the nature of your relationship does not come to public light.

Perronius smiles. There are many things that should never come to light. My men do not know of this and they never will- so long as God wills it.

Maintain that at all costs; because if it does come to light, not even I will be able to protect you.

Perronius nods and in seconds he is gone.

Menelaeus rubs his temples nervously, trying to will away the massive migraine that pulses through his temples with the steady drumming of an electrical current. Wren emits a low-level whimper and buries his head in his master’s lap. Menelaeus rubs his head affectionately. Please God, do not let Perronius fail in this.

Chapter 2: Unholy Meeting

Cleotus makes his way down into the subterranean levels of the mines and ruminates over the lates0t slaves he has procured. One is especially observant, intelligent, rebellious but surprisingly sycophantic towards him. There is something about the way his eyes dart rapidly back and forth, studying every minute detail, examining his surrounding with calculating intensity. Cleotus has read his dozier in detail. He is a murderer and bank robber, who had been apprehended along the Appalachian Bound Trail.

Cleotus knows it well. Only the unschooled, unlucky and pathetically stupid could be caught there. He has no doubt they were trumped up charges and he is one of Perronius’ recruits. He calls himself Paxus, but it is an alias, Cleotus has no doubt. He will turn a blind eye if necessary but not at the risk of implicating himself in his escape.

So far eleven men have been recruited and six have made it out alive. He was forced to kill one above the ridgeline when four of his subordinates stood with him. He had no other choice in the matter. It was either shoot him or risk heavy suspicion, one which would could have had serious repercussions.

Even a Captain and mine steward is subject to protocol. This alliance has served him well and he has procured the freedom of twenty of his kin. In time, many more will be released from exile. It is a maddening, slow and precarious process, one which involves more risk than Cleotus is comfortable, but he must toil on. To do otherwise would be abandonment.

As Cleotus nears the eastern mine shaft, he hears the distinct ‘ping’ of a small pebble being thrown. With his acute sense of hearing, he can hear it, even above the pounding din of the elevator shaft. He reaches for his beacon sword from its scabbard, but the grasp of a strong, human hand stops him.

It’s just me, Perronius assures him.

What have I told you about sneaking up on me like that? Could have kilt you so I could have.

No, you couldn’t, says Perronius playfully.

You’re in luck. Change of guard.

It was no accident. I timed it this way.

Cleotus grunts and snickers in amazement. I’ll never know how a blind man can set his watch to such things.

There is much you do not understand about me and never will.

You are right in that, patriot. Meet me in the card room at tempest halt.

Perronius nods.

Minutes later, Perronius and Cleotus meet in the card room. The smell of ork is pervasive and it brings back the more pleasant memories of Perronius’ life in the slave mines. He enjoyed cards, eating cheese, and cheating orks out of a good deal of their pay. 

The card room is exactly how it was all those years ago. Huge mahogany chairs with sheepskin backs are set up around a massive table. The table has an intricate painting, expertly etched into it. A large falcon sits atop the massive clawed hand of their King Sylvio, who fancies himself the tamer of beasts and the world at large. The etchings are extraordinarily detailed. It was commissioned and painstakingly produced by a human, since no Ork could have produced it.

The pictographs painted on the walls of the room are more crudely drawn, devoid of the extraordinary detail of the carving. They were painted by Ork and the difference is marked but they are heavily textured. Perronius feels the wall and takes it all in, pondering the vivid memories from this room.

Takes you back, does it not?" asks Cleotus.

Perronius nods.  That it does, Cleotus.

As much as I would like to palaver about times past, you came here for reason. And we don’t have much time. He gestures with his massive clawed hand. Would you sit?

Perronius nods. Ai. Perronius ponders the last memory of this room. The smell of sharp, metallic Ork blood mixed with spiced Ork rum tinges his nostrils as he goes back.

He sits down. Do I not have one of your recruits here? asks Cleotus. 

Perronius nods. Ai, that you do. Actually two.

Paxus, who’s the other one?

Montius Bellen, says Perronius.

The dimwit? asks Cleotus.

It’s an act. Set watch and warrant it, he’s no dimwit.

Cleotus laughs a deep bellowing laugh. Well played. Never would have guessed it.

Sort of the point, says Perronius.

So, what brings you here? I ken well you know this place well, but you didn’t come here to reminisce. Tis no tripe matter getting in here.

I need you as a guarantor on a loan, should my plan fail.

Cleotus pauses and sneers, revealing a mouth full of razor-sharp fangs. This is well beyond the parameters of our alliance. Why would I agree to such? How much is this loan anyhow? asks Cleotus, curiously.

Eight thousand pounds of gold pence. Four chest fulls.

Blah! snorts Cleotus. You been guzzling madmen’s piss to think I’d agree to something like that. What’s in it for me?

Perronius smiles with brazen aplomb. I was hoping you would ask that. He pulls out the signed and sealed document from Menelaeus and hands it over to Cleotus to peruse.

Cleotus eyes it suspiciously but begins to read it. His eyes grow in dilation at the signature. This real? he asks. No sort of Tom fuckery to it?

You know Menelaeus’ signature well? Do you not? You know me well. I would not try and deceive you. It’s his signature. As you can imagine, he was reluctant to give it.

Ha! snorts Cleotus. I ken well he was. What sort of sorcery did you put on the likes of King? Perhaps you held his balls in a vice whilst gun was put to temple?

Perronius shakes his head and looks indignant. You forget who you speak to. I did no such thing. My King trusts me, implicitly, completely, without reservation. It was not easy, but I told him the truth.

Cleotus nods somberly. Tis true, Perronius. You are a master manipulator, but I ken well where your allegiance lies. I don’t know what sorcery you have employed, but you have done the impossible. It is hard to fathom. What are the terms of the loan?

Four points but your end is eight, so you would keep four as profit.

A generous deal, if’n he can uphold his end. That is a hefty monthly sum. Seems I would be behooved to see you fail in this venture. I could have my entire kin out of exile within a year.

Perronius grins mischievously. I would not expect such a fact to escape your notice, Cleotus. You are astute. But if you believe that this deal would escape the notice of King Sylvio perpetually, then you are mistaken. Where would you keep that much coin? Out of the prying eyes of your subordinates?

Cleotus shakes his head and sighs heavily, his massive chest seeming to implode on itself. And so, we come to the heart of the matter. That I must trust you- implicitly. That there is great risk to me.

There has always been great risk with our alliance. You know this well.

Too well, says Cleotus bitterly.

Besides, instructs Perronius. "The SeneGauls threaten the Borak tribes to the north. I know they’re a potential ally should you ever wish to overthrow King Sylvio.

Should never have let that slip to you.

You didn’t. I read minds. Remember?

And I keep mine from being breached.

Not well enough, says Perronius unabashedly.

Careful you don’t overstep, knight. You still stand on my territory.

And I’ll be gone before anyone knows I was here. Perronius pushes the document closer to Cleotus. He emits a long, heaving, overly- dramatic sigh, takes his seal and stamps it, and signs it as well in a hard pressed, unique signature, one harder to replicate than Menelaeus’.

There is another matter, says Perronius.

Cleotus smiles acidly, purposely displaying his teeth again. Always is with you, Perronius. Speak it.

It concerns your latest arrival, Benedict Corian.

What of him?

I need you to set up a transfer for him somewhere else?

Cleotus eyes him suspiciously and scoffs. I’ll be seriously hard-pressed to alter the books on that little bit of Tom fuckery. Auditor’s already has his nose buried so far up my ass he can taste my shit when he breathes. You ken?

Perronius tosses him a small bag filled with gold pence. Cleotus feels it and empties the coins in his hands and nods. Ai. Think this will suffice. How soon?"

Three weeks, replies Perronius.

Bah! snorts Cleotus. Tis never like you to ask for something small, is it?

Perronius smiles coyly. Ai.

Consider it done, cast mate.

We’ll cast the first stones together, offers Perronius.

And likely be damned for it as well. As the saying goes, ‘the maiden that makes her bed in the throes of quicksand will find it hard to emerge.’ You ken?

Such is the way of our alliance. And our predicament, says Perronius.

One last matter, says Perronius.

I think you are in grave danger of overstepping. What say? warns Cleotus.

It will be a small one, I assure.

Name it.

I need you to start feeding some information to Barabus about the VisiGauls and a possible invasion on the northern borders. I know Barabus is in cloves with the Borak tribes to the north.

Cleotus smiles devilishly. He’d never admit such- unless maybe he were on a crucifix. He pauses. But yes, I am privy. Cleotus rubs his chin pensively. He would buy it, hook, line and sinker. He’s already a bit suspicious because of that minor skirmish you induced last year in Coiten.

Perronius tosses him another sack of gold pence. Cleotus looks at it curiously. This favor is trite, Perronius. Let’s call it even.

Let’s call it a credit.

Cleotus laughs a loud bellowing laugh. He nods. Ai. He looks at him in a vain attempt to read him, but Perronius is inscrutable. What are you planning anyway?"

I’m not, says Perronius. Let’s just say I’m preparing for a contingency.

It’s never a contingency with you, knight. I ken it’s more of a certainty.

He turns to go, but before he leaves, Cleotus addresses him. You overextend yourself, Perronius. Always have. You overextend yourself too far and you won’t bend back. Remember that.

Will do, says Perronius.

Chapter 3: Another Shaky Meeting

Lancet’s Tavern is situated well outside the outskirts of town. Although ramshackled on the outside, the inside is well maintained. A bright, ambrosia, brick fireplace blazes inside, heating the place to a cozy temperature. Surrealist paintings by such famous artists as Maldone and Heireitz adorn the walls. They could be originals or reprints. A large group of Cyprus trees surround the building, lending itself to the illusion of insubstantial obscurity. Much of the building is cast in shadow, which is what the operators prefer.

The place is owned and operated by Sharif Philip Dungler and only members are permitted inside or those who receive a special invite. Once at the door, Merlin displays his code to the doorman, an overbearing, large barrel-chested ruffian named Homian Corell. He eyes them suspiciously and looks intently at the code, sighs and waves them inside.

Their clothing is nondescript, but their large caliber guns dangle menacingly from their holsters, alerting nervous eyes to the possibility of trouble. Hard-looking men as gruff looking as a grizzly who has been prematurely woken from his slumber eye them suspiciously. Some reluctantly nod. Perronius and his men nod back.

An old, dumpy looking, blond waitress motions to them, pointing to a large open booth. Her hair is a dull, listless auburn that once may have been lustrous. Red sallow cheeks envelope large cracked lips that once may have been sensual. Her best feature are her eyes, radiating an unusually luminescent green. Her nose is small and delicate but crisscrossed with small, tiny, burst blood vessels, indicating the likelihood of consumption.

Life in this hell whole has taken its toll on her. She may have once been pretty, but now a roadmap of pain is etched in her eyes as clear as the skin of a porcelain doll.

As she gets to the table and is about to greet them, Perronius gives her a small pouch filled with twenty weight gold pence. She eyes it suspiciously. Without turning to her, he speaks. We’ll take two pots of your Aborinthe tea. After you bring it, take the day off.

She continues to eye the pouch dubiously. It is more than she earns in a year of working here. This is too much, she says.

Should be enough to buy your shares in Holster’s Inn. You ken? asks Perronius.

She is unable to swallow down an impossibly constricted throat. How did you-

Domithicus pats her reassuringly on the arm. She leaves quickly lest she wakes up from this dream or they change their mind, still disbelieving of her incredible luck. Germanicus lets out a long sigh that had been pent up and brewing inside him during the last part of the journey.

You would have words, brother? asks Perronius. I would hear them.

Germanicus looks around the table, hoping for an ally who would yield a sympathetic ear, but none meet his gaze directly, except for Jamison, who merely looks at him and shrugs. Speak it if you must. Germanicus shakes his head. I believe in the first two instances, we were lucky. Dam lucky. And here we are pushing our luck once again.

Not lucky, says Perronius, adamantly. Calculating. Trust me when I say that I have calculated the risks of this quest repeatedly. Perronius smiles playfully. Remember it was I who excelled at mathematics, not you.

Even if he does show up and doesn’t manage to inform on us, which I think is very unlikely, what we must accomplish is impossible. Nothing like it has ever been done. Germanicus pauses. Perronius, the shadow fighters refused an order to assassinate Songre Khan. They never refuse any job.

If you believe the story of Mater Vor. You know as well as I do the penchant men have for unsubstantiated rumors. They’re as bad as pubes. Tales get taller with each new ear and mouth to speak it of it. You ken?

Still, the facts speak for themselves. That place is a fortress. No one and I mean no one has ever escaped from there. What you’re planning is insane.

Perronius smiles. It would appear that way, brother. But here we are.

Germanicus shakes his head. He grabs Perronius by the forearm and shakes his hand. Ai, Brother. I promised I would follow you to the end of my days. I hold true to my word. Just voicing my misgivings.

Perronius smiles coyly. Your misgivings have been duly noted. He pauses. Five hundred times. The other brethren laugh. Domithicus smacks Germanicus on the shoulder playfully. Germanicus reluctantly smiles.

Of course, there’s no guarantee he will show, says Germanicus hopefully.

Actually, he’s already here, observes Perronius.

The other brethren look around. Lespie seems to glide in inconspicuously. He wears simple peasant’s garb, a dark cloak, sandals and tattered, wool breaches. He blends in with the number of itinerant farm hands that live in the valley. The cloak and britches, however, are merely a clothing façade. The side of the cloak is stitched together loosely to allow for quick movements akin to the Proterian elite.

Inside his cloak, he has a special holster which houses a deadly pop gun, made of a wooden alloy. Its cylinder, made of the alloy as well, has six chambers. All chambers have the deadly strychnine poison, lethal to anything in which it embeds itself.

Even with an antidote, there have been no known survivors. When hit, you will perish. Lespie also wears a leather flap jacket. Like many of the brethren, he carries six-inch-long, surgically sharp daggers and sharpens them after each skirmish. Lespie continues his path to their table, nods politely before he sits down and removes his cloak. He has an olive skinned, flawless complexion and a small, almost effeminate nose with full lips. His eyes have the smallest of slants and his eyes are unusually radiant and piercing amber with golden specks in the middle, what some would call twilight eyes. They are rare. It is rumored that people with such eyes have preternatural and unnatural abilities. In Lespie’s case, it appears to be true.

He appears nonchalant, but respectful and resolute. The sigh he lets out implies he may have been reluctant when this campaign began, but he is determined to see it through now. He looks around the table and nods at each of the brethren. His eyes move rapidly back and forth, studying them as they do him- ten elite warriors committed to joint purpose.

Lespie glances at the other men and rests his eyes on Perronius. You are the one my father mentioned, General, says Lespie.

It’s just Perronius to you, friend. Though if you would prefer formality, Sir Perronius. I’m only a general when I have my army to command. You ken?

Lespie nods graciously. He is respectful, soft spoken and civil but underneath is a restrained killing machine kept in check by loyalty to his father. Ai, Perronius. Am pleased to make acquaintance. We are well met. He turns to the other brethren and nods. Well met, knights.

They nod. Ai, well met. They say.

How many of your men are here? asks Germanicus.

Six, says Lespie. Including Caulter, the one who is commissioned with killing me should I step out of line. I believe that time has come. You ken?

Germanicus lets out a sigh and shakes his head. Only counted four. He looks at Perronius. Did you know there were six?

Perronius smiles coyly. Of course. I’ll handle those six. The rest of you must handle the rest.

The rest? asks a bewildered Germanicus.

The rest of the men here are hired guns. Did you really believe it would be that easy?

Germanicus shakes his head. Nothing ever is with you, Brother.

Ai, says Syrus.

Didn’t bring my best twelve shooters here for show, says Domithicus with righteous aplomb.

Perronius and Syrus laugh while Germanicus shakes his head in frustration.

Perronius holds up his hands in a ‘let’s settle down and get back to business’ gesture. All right Brother. Now that we have established what we’re up against let’s get down to hard business.

Your taciturn ways are maddening, Brother. As a pube, I could have beaten you in frustration. Even then, you would reveal nothing.

If you could land a blow, chides Perronius. The other brethren snicker.

Not to interrupt your brotherly moment, but if we may, pleads Lespie as he gestures with his hands.

Ai, says Perronius.

Before we get down to hard business, I’ll need some proof, states Lespie.

Perronius takes off his jacket and unbuttons his chambray shirt on the left side. His hairless forearm is thick with muscle and vascular. He turns his palm upwards, revealing an intricate series of Gaelic pictograms, calligraphy and hieroglyphs. The brethren stare at in awe.

Lespie pulls back his cloak, revealing his right forearm. His forearm is just as vascular but smaller. His build is much like Germanicus, with sinewy, defined musculature but on a smaller scale than Perronius. Like the brethren, his physique has been honed by years of endurance, martial arts, battle and extreme resistance training.

He holds his forearm up to Perronius as the brethren observe. It is a perfect match. Perronius’ tattoo is symmetrical to Lespie’s. Each tattoo appears as the mirrored reflection of the other. There’s no doubt it can just be a coincidence.

Lespie appears deadpan, except for the faint smile that runs away so fast from his face, it’s hard to tell if it was there at all. Well it appears that you are the one. He looks around suspiciously at the other men in the tavern. If any had taken notice, there is no indication; but Lespie knows better. His fellow brothers are overly observant. Were he to withdraw from this mission now, there would be no turning back. Songre would hear of it and his suspicions would very well result in the death of him and his father.

For this to appear authentic, I must put up a fight. How do you expect to subdue me? asks Lespie.

Tranquilizer dart, says Perronius.

I must warn you I don’t go down easy. Am undefeated in mortal combat. He scrutinizes them closely, eyeing them for any indication of lack of resolve. They don’t bat an eye, not an inkling of a twinkle. But take me down you must. And no man here will permit you to leave alive, if they are. You ken?

Germanicus and Syrus give each other the slightest of nods. Syrus reaches for his tranquilizer gun and brings it up in one fluid motion, while Germanicus extracts a billy club and swings it at Lespie.

It is much too slow for the seasoned killer. He brings up his palm and deflects the blow and scuttles swiftly in his chair, sliding across the table, while pulling his blade from its scabbard.

Perronius pulls out his own tranquilizer dart and aims it at him, while he deftly deflects the blow by bringing up his sword.

Perronius must abandon Lespie. He has no choice. Lespie’s soldiers move quickly for their own guns, pulling them out with fluid precision. In only a fraction of a second, bullets rip a crazy course through the tavern, blowing chairs and tables to splintered bits. Four unwitting recipients are caught in the crossfires. They fall dead to the floor, gushing viscous blood from severed arteries.

The knights scatter but not before Perronius pulls out his scatter rifle and fires numerous deafening rounds inside the tavern.

Four shots find their mark. One of Lespie’s men is shot through the leg, blowing a craterous hole inside his leg, severing his femoral artery and spewing a pouring of unabated blood flow. He lands on his back, choking on his own blood flow, while darkness overtakes him.

One man who tries to reach for his dart gun is blown back ten feet after a bullet hits him in the chest. It rips a hole in his heart and kills him immediately. He still wears the same look of shocked incredulity on his face, another soldier of fortune destined never to collect his.

Lespie tries to flee, but not before Germanicus hits him in the back of the leg with a tranquilizer dart. Still not succumbing to the effects of the drugs, he continues to run, while pulling the dart from his leg and throwing it.

Perronius takes one careful and deliberate shot, grazing Lespie on the side of the leg. It trips him up and he falls to the floor. Blood seeps in a small amount from the wound. Without losing a beat, Perronius drops his scatter rifle and fires from his tranquilizer gun, while taking cover. The dart finds its mark in Lespie’s chest. He tries to get up, swoons and lies back down.

Protect and retrieve Lespie is the message Perronius sends to Domithicus and Germanicus via telepathy. They look at each other and crouch down to avoid the onslaught of gunfire which pings and blasts in their eardrums.

Jamison reloads his gun in a seamless motion and proceeds to empty the gun after rising from his crouched position. Two of Lespie’s brothers go down as the bullets penetrate their torsos and knock them back against the wall, smearing the wall in thick crimson like some macabre painting. One of them lays against the ground at an impossible angle with his head hanging on the tip of another man’s boot while blood pours from the back of his head.

The combatants who did not initially succumb to the initial gun battle have taken cover, while trading potshots with Perronius and his men. The smell of charred gunfire and blood is slightly noxious and stronger than the battle field. The rapid gunfire that splinters tables, shelves and chairs creates a cloud of smoke that obscures the men hiding out behind tipped over tables.

Occasionally, some nervous combatant fires a haphazard round, hoping to get lucky. The brethren take notice and move to eliminate the fool with ruthless efficiency. Domithicus and Germanicus make a run for Lespie while Perronius provides cover for them. Detecting motion behind an upturned table, Perronius pulls the lever on his scatter rifle, sending another cylinder in place. He fires in rapid succession, blowing a large table to bits and hitting two men hiding behind it. One man is caught in the leg, blowing the cartilage and bones to bits. He screams out in excruciating pain and falls to the floor.

The man next to him is mercifully killed immediately as two large bullets rip through his torso, eviscerating him in the process. He falls to the floor as his intestines spill out of him in a gush of dark crimson.

Domithicus and Germanicus reach Lespie. They study him for any sign of injury, besides the one that Perronius had caused. Germanicus feels for a pulse and observes a steady, but slow one. They nod at each other. Germanicus hoists him up while Domithicus provides cover fire. One man attempts to get the drop on them by popping out and firing, but Domithicus is much too fast for that.

As his head appears, Domithicus fires a round through his skull, creating a spattering of crimson and gore. His body slumps to the ground with the top of his head nearly disintegrated. Blood continues to pour from the top, drenching him in a mess of brain matter.

Savelle, Syrus, Jamison, Cotteroy, and Justinian work in tandem to eliminate the other combatants, their maneuvers honed by years of working together with the principles of combat. They nod to each other while one-man darts forward to induce gunfire, while the other men locates the combatant and strike the deadly shot.

Though heavily outnumbered, the men are no match for the deadly knights. Body parts are detached and strewn apart across the tavern. 

Nearly every furnishing is stained with blood and splintered to bits while blood, ligaments, intestines and organs festoon the shattered hallway. 

When looking closely, one can see some figure either dying as a finger twitches here or there while the blood continues to drain from slowly transpiring organs. Perronius gives them the signal with his hand turned up in a ‘stop’ gesture. The other brethren cautiously emerge from their hiding places and survey the massive carnage. 

Syrus looks around and shakes his head. All this for one man? he asks, with a hint of bitter melancholy in his voice. 

Let’s go outside, offers Perronius. The brethren emerge outside.

Domithicus and Germanicus restrain Lespie with homemade zip ties around his ankles and hands. Though he had promised to comply with their mission, they take nothing for granted. He stirs restlessly, trying to fight off the effects of the sedative. 

How’s he doing? asks Perronius. 

He’s going to have a massive headache, but set watch and warrant, he’ll live. We’ll restrain him for the time being, just in case he should renege on his deal," advises Domithicus. 

Perronius shakes his head. He won’t, but if it should comfort misgiving, then have do.

So, what now, Perronius? To Kentene? asks Germanicus.

Perronius shakes his head. First, we need to make a bit of a detour.

Where to? asks Domithicus.

Probene.

What’s in Probene? asks Germanicus.

It’s the who and what, Germanicus, answers Perronius, cryptically.

Germanicus shakes his head in exasperation. Never get a straight answer out of you, Brother.

Well, if you’re uncomfortable with this part of the plan so far, you’re really going to be weary if I divulge the rest of it, says Perronius, playfully.

Perronius, correct me if I’m wrong, but to get to Probene, don’t we have to venture through the Pandorian jungle? asks Justinian.

Perronius nods. You know your geography well, Justinian. It’s going to be an arduous thirty miles. 

Taking the scenic route, are we brother? asks Domithicus, facetiously.

Perronius smiles and shakes his head. Actually, I was hoping we could avoid the catarans?

What are catarans? asks Germanicus, wearily. 

Justinian and Syrus exchange a knowing look. They’re alligators but with long limbs. They can jump and swim much faster. Not only do you watch out for their massive, inescapable jaws, but you must also watch out for their clawed hands, which can rip through steel. One of them gets a hold of your boat, it’s going down and there’s not a dam thing you can do.

So, says Germanicus facetiously. This is a tripe journey and nothing to worry about.

Oh, it’s tripe, says Perronius. Except for the water serpents, alligators, giant baboons, giant spiders, panthers and empire ants. But we’ve gone through worse. I have no doubt we could survive the long route either, but we need to conserve bullets. On this route, there is nothing we can’t kill without a sword or scythe.

Then let us be on our way, says Germanicus.

Chapter 4: Deathtrap for the Unwitting

Three days later, the brethren arrive at Probene. As to be expected, the journey was a precarious one. Alligators as large as houseboats routinely crept up on the brethren in surreptitious silence, hoping for an easy meal. None was given them. One quick shot from Germanicus’ scatter rifle was needed to induce them to stay away. Fresh water is hard to come by and difficult, at times, to resist the urge to drink the swamp water. Doing so would have been a long, painful death. 

For nearly two days, they only had a handful of water in which to drink. By the second day, a small brook trickling down from a cave system provided them with much needed water. The dogs and horses lapped it up greedily. The brethren took small sips, knowing their inability to keep water down that’s been guzzled. 

On the outskirts of Probene, where the swamp ends, and hilly grasslands come together is a series of medium sized hills with a series of intricate caves. They stop at one in particular. He turns his head to the brethren. I will go on from here, brothers. You must stay here. He’s bound to overreact and try to shoot at least one of you. He moves his head towards Lespie. Make sure he doesn’t leave. He has agreed to help us, but we should err on the side of caution. You ken?

The brethren nod. 

Who are you here to see? asks Germanicus. 

Cameo. Merlin pauses. He was once Thoranides most trusted assistant. He worked with him extensively in the lab. They had a falling out shall we say. It was more of a change of heart. Cameo couldn’t abide by the immorality of his master, so he requested a resignation. Thoranides refused and had him imprisoned instead. He escaped.

But no one save Gaeden Kai escaped from that fortress, Perronius, points out Justinian.

A condescending smirk breaks out on his face, as if he is instructing a naïve pupil. That is the official report and it is what Songre Khan would have everyone believe. But it is far from true. Set watch and warrant it. There have been other escapees. If not for them, Cameo would never have escaped.

You’ve been working that fortress for years, brother? asks Germanicus, clearly stupefied.

Perronius nods. Ai. My premonitions are far reaching.

So, why are we here? questions Germanicus.

In that short conversation, Perronius already loaded up the necessary items in his saddlebag and making his way into the cave. He smiles as he turns towards them. Let’s just say I may be in need of someone who can resurrect me.

The brethren look at each other and shrug with the same dumbfounded expression on their faces. Justinian laughs and Germanicus sighs. As infuriatingly cryptic as ever. He says.

Shadow and Perronius make their way into the intricate cave network. The opening is over twelve feet high but grows narrower as they make their way through the labyrinth. As they round the first bend, they come to a fork. Perronius chooses the corridor on the far right. They begin a series of switchbacks and narrow fitting corridors so tight they continually rub Perronius’ wool jacket.

The temperature steadily rises as they venture further downward. The air is thick with humidity and in mere minutes, Perronius’ shirt is moist with sweat. The air is stifling with no breeze and yet they must venture further downward. Shadow begins to pant heavily and emits a high, almost imperceptible whine.

The cave becomes more cramped. Shadow emits a high-pitched yelp when his skin grates against the jagged surface of the cave top, opening small scratches on his coat. Perronius assuages him with a pat on the head, inducing him onwards. Despite his reluctance, Shadow will not disappoint his master.

As they reach a part in the tunnel where Shadow cannot navigate through, Perronius, thinking quickly, carefully uses the butt of his sword to extract several small boulders and throws them aside. They shimmy through on their bellies. When they cannot tolerate any more of the impossible tunnel, it widens considerably and abruptly descends nearly straight down. The rough, jagged topography gives way to a smooth, polished surface.

Perronius removes his saddlebag and extracts a large grappling gun, but first he takes several small rocks. He takes one and throws it down the spiraling tunnel and listens intently. He waits, throws another rock, and again listens intently. He picks up a concussive ‘ping,’ indicating the surface for which he had been waiting.

He extracts a carabiner from his bag and a small hammer with a knobbed metallic piece on one side and a chiseled point on the other end. He uses the hammer to attach the carabiner to a rope. He extracts two harnesses, one for himself and one for Shadow. He puts the harness on, attaches the rope to the carabiner, and hooks his harness. He confirms the hooks are secure and pushes himself off the edge, rappelling downwards at an alarming rate. Shadow emits a worried whine.

What seems like a loss of control though in reality is the work of a master climber. When Perronius is within ten yards of his desired descent, he closes his hand tightly over the belay switch and he comes to a stop, overlooking the jagged ceiling of a cathedral-sized chamber, which sports a series of grottos on the outer edges.

The ceiling is a dark grey, almost as if had absorbed the ash cloud of a volcanic eruption. It hosts an elaborate series of sharp, stalactites. The surface of the chamber has several deathtraps, most unseen to the naked eye.

Several rays of sunlight spiral through small holes in the rock’s surface like a kaleidoscope, illuminating a surface that is as varied as it is complex. Cobblestone walkways abruptly give way to a polished marble like surface which abruptly gives way to a jagged surface resembling the ceiling.

For Perronius, the smell of steel is pervasive. A series of tripwires so small they would be impossible to see if seen from five feet crisscross the chamber, creating a nearly impossible maze to navigate. Perronius extracts a throwing dagger from his belt and throws it at one of the tripwires, snapping it in half.

A fraction of a second later, two arrows are discharged from across the room. They swoosh past each other by a foot at most and penetrate the other side of the wall, embedding a razor-sharp point in the soft bedrock nearly to the hilt of the arrow.

A person standing there would have been decapitated. Perronius smiles to himself. Like Thoranides, Cameo is a resourceful engineer.

Perronius takes another small stone and throws it into one of the kaleidoscopes of sunlight peeking through the walls. As it penetrates, a loud contraption launches through on a tract system. It is filled with razor sharp points, impaling anyone who would have crossed into it. Two skeletons hang precariously through it where tender organs would have once been- a morbid warning for those foolish enough to enter.

Perronius nods. He takes his grappling gun and fires it up into the ceiling. Though they will be climbing upside down, there are numerous handholds and footholds present in order to make the climb possible.

Perronius has no doubt he could navigate through the veritable minefield of trip wires and sunbeams but navigating with Shadow will be next to impossible unless they climb the ceiling, an impossibly arduous task for most, but Perronius is not like most. He picks up a foreign and insidious, dank scent inside the crevices, like a combination of rotting fruit and cum. It seems to be scurrying, sinister and hungry. What is it? Perronius cringes at the task ahead.

He could leave Shadow and come back for him, but what if something happened and he wasn’t able to make it back? Shadow would feel abandoned and Shadow is brother to him.

Perronius climbs back up to Shadow, who nods his tail vigorously. The message is clear. I’m ready. Perronius rubs his muzzle affectionately. This will not be an easy task, old boy, but it must be done. Ready? Shadow beats his tail more rapidly and lets out a sharp bark. Perronius extracts another carabiner, belay and harness for Shadow and puts it on him. He is quite accustomed to climbing but has never done one this treacherous.

Perronius attaches the bandolier polyhock to Shadow and then to himself. If one of them should fall, they will be anchored into each other. He hoists them down to the elevation of the ceiling. Sensing the treacherous climb, Shadow emits a barely audible whine.

Perronius detaches himself from his previous line and attaches to the next anchor. Shadow follows. He confirms the line is secure and begins the painstaking task of climbing across the ceiling. Shadow follows. They work in tandem. Perronius climbs in a horizontal position, while Shadow works his way through the labyrinth of crevices, holes and dimensions of elaborate stalactites.

They make good progress, but that pervasive scurrying sound that had him on edge begins to grow in feverish intensity. Shadow lets out a frantic bark. The massive termites come into view and they are ravenous.

For humans and animals, they are a major nuisance and pose only a small risk, but they are voracious and will eat anything that is soluble, fibrous, thick and plant-based. They will eat through rope.

Hurry! warns Perronius. They have at least two hundred more yards to go. A few of the termites begin to crawl over their skin and they wipe them away reflexively. Shadow begins to nip at his skin when the burning sensation overwhelms him. The smell of fibrous material is pervasive and irresistible to them. They begin to devour Perronius’ clothing as well. Alarmingly, they begin to congregate on the tether to which he is attached.

They begin to climb faster- too fast. Shadow slips and hangs precariously in the air, almost one hundred feet from the deadly bottom. He paws frantically in the air. Perronius feels the massive tug on him and he grasps desperately to his handhold. His left hand slips off and he hangs precariously by his right. The termites continue to devour the rope, gnawing at it relentlessly.

Luckily, his tether to Shadow is nylon bungee polymer and they will have a difficult time eating through it, with their very acidic saliva. The rope, however, is certainly doomed.

There is one chance left. Perronius grabs the coiled boa whip from his belt and whips it onto a carved-out beam. He takes one of his razor-sharp clawed anchors and attaches it to the end of the whip, grabs the other end of the whip and hoists himself up. The clawed end of the anchor embeds itself into the beam and he and Shadow are hurled up.

Shadow extracts his claws and digs in. Perronius attaches another anchor and begins to climb across, sweating profusely. He brushes off more of the venomous termites but knows it is ultimately futile. They are nearly through a quarter of the thick rope and it’s only been ten minutes. In a half hour, they will sever at least one section of the rope completely.

Perronius takes a couple more rocks and hurls them downward towards the middle of the chamber. As expected, he hits one of the tripwires and two arrows are ejected and swoosh past each other, embedding themselves into the opposite walls. Perronius fires another stone and nothing happens. There is a relatively small, safe clearing in the middle of the chamber.

He takes the grappling gun and fires it, anchoring himself in the stone. With callused and bloodied fingers, he climbs horizontally, while Shadow continues to jump, climb and cling to insubstantial handholds. Perronius feels his grip beginning to loosen. The swarm of termites is now overwhelming. He brushes off his clothes, only to have another thousand race onto him again, the allure of his clothing too much for them to resist.

The topography of the ceiling abruptly changes. He must jump at least ten feet to reach the beam of his last anchor. He braces himself, crouches down as much as possible and jumps. He barely clasps onto a portion of the beam with only two fingers. He panics for a moment and can’t find Shadow. He is unusually silent. And he sighs in relief. Shadow manages to hold on with only his mouth.

Perronius attaches himself to the carabiner, while brushing off the relentless termites. He tries to brush them off the rope, but it is futile. He cannot hold them off for long. He begins to rappel downwards. He motions to Shadow, who follows. He rappels down further. As he does, he feels the palpable jolt from the fibers of the rope as they begin to give way. He begins to rappel further down. He gets to the end and tries to pull out another rope, but it is too late. The rope is tattered and beginning to sever in several places.

His heart trip-hammers in his chest and he sighs in exasperation. The rope severs, and he falls to the ground. From a height of twenty feet, he crashes to the ground. Sensing the location of the tripwires, he spreads his legs as far as they will go. Shadow follows him. He grabs him before he touches the ground and holds him there precariously, with his feet spread out almost to the point of doing the splits. He can feel the presence of the trip wire brush ever so slightly against his leg. If he breathes too heavily and sways the slightest, he will set it off.

He notices a small opening but knows it will be next to impossible to accommodate Shadow. He moves very slowly up over the trip wires, crouching down, nearly to the point of a contortionist. He’s done it several times in the gauntlet, but never holding Shadow.

Shadow grows increasingly heavier with each step, but he manages to move through the landmine easily enough. Less than ten yards from the end of the trip wire field, the ending is just barely out of reach. You’re going to jump, old boy! With legs splayed apart, Perronius bends down and remains firm. He motions to Shadow. Hunching down, the wolf attempts to spring off Perronius. He jumps off while Perronius manages to be an immovable spring board. Shadow jumps just under a portico where the minefield ends and just barely misses a tripwire. He barks at Perronius. You’re next.

Perronius mentally maps out the course he will take. He jumps several feet, turns, arches on his feet and springs forward, barely missing a tripwire and launches himself from a crouched position and only a few feet from Shadow, who barks and muzzles him affectionately.

Perronius laughs. He proceeds through the hallway, while drawing his sword out. As they step through, he swings it in a powerful arc and severs two deadly arrows that nearly decapitate him and Shadow.

Several vats of chemicals are stacked throughout the laboratory. The smell of sickly-sweet plants, solutions and noxious chemicals is pervasive. Steam engines churn the vats of multi-colored liquids continuously, which in turn are powered by turbines. Several large channels open, forcing the water through the turbines that produce steam.

Cylinders, flasks, microscopes and an assortment of shiny, metallic instruments are spread out on several tables. A tall, bespectacled, distinguished looking man in a white jacket emerges from behind a microscope. He removes the smudges from his bifocals and raises his eyebrows in mock exasperation, much like a school teacher would with one of their errant pupils. He gives Perronius a perfunctory nod.

Cameo, says Perronius. I enjoyed your little maze.

Perronius. He walks over to him, bearing a look between bemusement and pleasant surprise.  He is calm, self-assured and composed, as if he just awoke from a restful slumber.

You’re not startled? asks Perronius.

Shadow emits a warning growl.

I was at the first intrusion, says Cameo. Lespie materializes from behind a large cylinder and smiles mischievously.

Perronius smiles and laughs. Well I know now who I’m dealing with. How did you fare past the termites?

I took a detour, says Lespie, smugly.

For years, countless numbers have tried to circumnavigate my traps, and all have failed-until now. Today, the three of you are successful. It leaves me feeling a little disconcerted, a trifle insecure. You ken?

Perronius walks towards to Cameo and embraces him with his forearm outstretched. We are well met, old friend.

I’ll always be in your debt, Sir Perronius. You ken well.

As I am yours, Cameo.

Cameo smiles. I’ve been working tirelessly on your impossible task.

And were you successful? Perronius asks hopefully.

Cameo sighs and smiles. Ai, very. He pauses. But notwithstanding the great debt I owe you, as always, pragmatism overrules debt and appreciation. Does it not?

Perronius smiles. Ai. He reaches into his knapsack and tosses Cameo a medium-sized pouch of gold pence. It is full of thick, ten gold pence, the highest denomination.

Cameo eyes them curiously, partly in gratitude and partly in curiosity. You overcompensate.

And you over-deliver.

Come this way. They head around another set of tables, beakers, microscopes, vats and equipment. Cameo extracts a large key ring and ascends a small set of stairs and unlocks a refrigerated compartment of numerous vials. He grabs a tiny vial, no more than 2 ml. of solution inside. It is clear throughout except for an orange tinge on the surface of the volatile liquid.

Cameo holds it up to Perronius. Pure tannic acid. It’s over ninety nine percent pure, next to impossible to formulate. I assure you. Four hundred failed batches. But I finally did it. Will be worth it if you can accomplish your task, Perronius.

Perronius takes it but before he can put it in his satchel, Cameo hands him a small rubberized container which has been constructed with the mold of the vial. Put it in this, says Cameo, with a look of dour seriousness. Take care with it, Sir Perronius. It is very unstable. He opens a drawer and hands Perronius a metallic syringe. "You must not open up the vial and put it in the syringe until two hours before injecting it.