The Chamber of Merlin

By Brandon Alexander Daunno

Rooted deeply in Arthurian lore, The Chamber of Merlin explores the possibility that magic was drained from earth 1500 years ago by the wizard Merlin just moments before he was imprisoned by the evil enchantress spirit Niven. Now desperate to regain her physical form, Niven has cracked the seal of Merlin’s prison, allowing magic to bleed onto earth again. She plans to possess the body of a psychic and continue her search for the long lost city of Avalon where the source of magic is located. This magnificent blend of science fiction and fantasy brings the greatest wizard of them all into modern day society where he will wage the ultimate war between magic and technology.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Jun 8, 2011
• ISBN: 9781462885398

Brandon Alexander Daunno

Brandon Alexander Daunno grew up in Clark, NJ and began writing creatively as early as the first grade. During the years, he developed a vast body of knowledge in the fields of computer science, music, and engineering. He went on to attend Lehigh University and obtained a Bachelor’s of Science degree in Civil Engineering. He now works full-time as a real estate developer and incorporates the lessons learned in the professional field into his passion for writing. Today, Brandon can be found crafting his stories in the morning before work, where he plots with a cup of coffee and a clear mind.

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Copyright © 2011 by Brandon Alexander Daunno.

ISBN:          Ebook                                      978-1-4628-8539-8

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

This book was created in the United States of America.

Cover art courtesy of Andreea Cernestean.

To order additional copies of this book, contact:

Xlibris Corporation

1-888-795-4274

www.Xlibris.com

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99178

Contents

Part I

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER 1

Beneath the Eyelids

CHAPTER 2

The Black Book

CHAPTER 3

The Squeak

CHAPTER 4

The Tapoquahe Village

CHAPTER 5

The Dark Night

CHAPTER 6

The Kapok Branch

CHAPTER 7

The Squeal

CHAPTER 8

The Second Vision

CHAPTER 9

The Creek

CHAPTER 10

The Ancient Forest

Part II

CHAPTER 11

The Magician

CHAPTER 12

The Chamber

CHAPTER 13

The Force Majeure

CHAPTER 14

Eptyura

CHAPTER 15

The Enlightening

CHAPTER 16

The Scientist

CHAPTER 17

The Chariot

CHAPTER 18

The Demonstration

CHAPTER 19

The Movement

CHAPTER 20

Stonehenge

CHAPTER 21

The Perfect Villain

CHAPTER 22

Incoming

CHAPTER 23

The Glass Room

Part III

CHAPTER 24

Eager Recruits

CHAPTER 25

The Prodigy

CHAPTER 26

The Butterfly Effect

CHAPTER 27

The Zero-Day WMD

CHAPTER 28

The Thirteen Treasures

CHAPTER 29

Avalon City

CHAPTER 30

Camelot Castle

CHAPTER 31

The Funnel Room

CHAPTER 32

The Prisoner

CHAPTER 33

Across the Universe

CHAPTER 34

The Escapee

CHAPTER 35

The Heir

EPILOGUE

Part I

The Leak

PROLOGUE

For he escapes and then will come,

And there arrives the enlightened one.

A SMALL FALCON grazed over the canopy of the Amazon rainforest, basking in the luminous moonlight of the night. Wind whipped across the creature’s face and rustled its blue-gray back and orange-tinted under feathers. The bird tucked its clawed feet up against its belly, establishing the control of a stealth fighter jet in the star-soaked skies. It scoured the jungle for its next meal, preferably a lesser bird or reptile. But despite the radiant glow from the moon, the falcon’s diurnal lenses could not cope with the ubiquitous darkness encompassing it.

Where am I?

A sudden epiphany struck the bird. It was not familiar with the environment and surmised that it did not belong here in the Amazon, especially at night. These were unknown territories. Even the trees became unrecognizable, and the creature could not fathom what predators may lurk among them, let alone those who had already marked it for a meal. How did it get here? The falcon prodded its weak memory for answers but could find only fuzz and clouds.

There was one recollection—a message. The bird recalled having a purpose. Like a carrier pigeon, there was something for it to deliver. But on second thought, the falcon detected satisfaction in that the task was complete. The handoff had already taken place. If there was a message, it was no longer the falcon’s to convey.

The bird looked down upon the sea of tree branches swaying gently in the night breeze. It glanced up at the clouds lightly sprinkled about the moon. Unexpectedly and maybe out of fear, it let out a loud hoot, testing its present environment. The bird waited a moment, but no reply came, not even an echo. Finally, it dropped beneath the shelter of the leaves and vanished.

To an outside observer, the rainforest would have seemed perfectly ordinary that night. The bushes and tree branches rested in darkness, shrouded from moonlight by the canopy overhead. The sounds of nearby waters and the familiar drone of insects pierced the ever-threatening silence. Even the sweltering air blanketed the landscape with its usual humid veracity.

But there was something peculiar about the rainforest—the animals could feel it. From the smallest rodent to the largest jaguar, the hairs of their backs stood on end. The creatures tiptoed around every corner and their eyes darted left to right. It took nothing more than the crackle of a twig breaking to incite a jump of caution. Was there an enemy nearby? Was the danger real? A sense of wariness stretched throughout the Amazon.

And it came as no surprise when they were alerted to the other irregularity of that night—oncoming footsteps. They were rapid and pounding along the jungle’s dirt base. Bump. Bump. Bump. The footsteps hit like a drumbeat and disturbed the tiny droplets of dew forming across the ocean of rainforest flower petals. And yet it seemed ironic that someone would be running blindly through the merciless, predator-infested darkness of the forest.

Crrrunch! The brushwood and the undergrowth of a bush exploded as a man forced his way through it, fighting endlessly to free himself. Thorns dug deep into his arms and tore at his clothes. His skin bled heavily, but he seemed not to notice. With one final push, he escaped from the shrub. His forward momentum sent him crashing to the ground with a thud. Mud splattered up, spraying tiny brown droplets across his face. He panted heavily and sweat oozed from his pores, but he would not allow exhaustion to stop him.

The man was an out-of-shape Caucasian, an oddball in the rainforest. Now in his mid-thirties, he had puffed up to some twenty pounds overweight. Baldness had seized the purity of his scalp, and a combination of fear and malnutrition emanated from his pale skin. From whatever this man was running, the odds were against him.

He took a moment to inspect his wrists. They were tender and rimmed with red bruises. In some places, the cuts had begun scarring, while in others, they were fresh and bleeding. The marks were telltale signs of rug burn. He took the time to cup each wrist gently, hoping to alleviate some of the pain. His wrists stung so badly he could feel heat seeping out from beneath his skin.

After a moment, he lifted a sturdy wooden branch from the ground that he had been gripping firmly, scrambled to his feet, and continued on his journey. The man bumbled down the path like an oil-deprived tin man, trampling over plants and flowers oblivious to their existence. Branches and twigs reached out and jabbed at him like a line of bullies in grade school. His eyes, which were clothed in broken glasses and futile in the night regardless, gave away his primary emotion. The man was running for his life.

And it was not without merit. Less than a quarter-mile in his trail stood another man. This one however held a very different composure. This man held a gun.

The gunner was taller and fit, and his poise screamed of confidence. He wore a blank and emotionless face as if he were numb to feeling. His leg and arm muscles pulsed with power that could be attributed to his life in the jungle. He wore a green button-down shirt and green khaki pants, surely an outfit of camouflage. On top of his head sat a desert-colored boonie hat.

He moved haphazardly, seeming nonchalant about the widening gap between the two. His wood bolt-action rifle hung from a strap around his neck and bounced as he moved. Despite the heat, only a single drop of sweat glistened down his face, which he rubbed off on the sleeve of his shoulder. He glided gracefully through the forest, dodging branches and vines as if the darkness had no effect on him—as if he was being guided.

Finally he jumped upon a fallen log and swung the rifle in front of him. He stood now upon a pedestal that gave him a brazen view of the jungle. It appeared as though he needn’t an ounce of reassurance. With one fluid motion, he pressed the butt against his shoulder and peered into the sight. It should’ve shown nothing but darkness.

Bang! An explosion ripped through the forest as he pulled the trigger. Nearby birds and animals scattered from the area, shaken by the sudden blast. The shooter was exhilarated by the recoil thrown into his shoulder, and he savored its awesome power. A vine dangled and swayed before him. Suddenly, there was complete silence. The shooter embraced the moment, listening to the barren emptiness around him.

Damn, he thought. He knew he had missed. The shooter swung the rifle back around his neck and jumped from the log, landing on a dry patch of clay. His legs fell seamlessly back into step and he continued his pursuit. He was surprised he missed, but he was not discouraged. The miss merely prolonged the inevitable.

The root of a tree had saved the runaway. He was sprinting full speed through an orchard, when he felt his right ankle get tangled. A slight crunch and a lightning bolt of pain jolted through his body. He shrieked as his hip became momentarily dislocated, and his body was jerked to the muddy jungle floor.

But he quieted after realizing his voice had been overshadowed by the rifle’s massive explosion. He was positive he felt a bullet whiz past his shoulder. An unfathomable, gut-wrenching silence fell upon the surrounding woods. It became so quiet he feared his pulse alone would give him away.

You don’t have much time left, he realized.

He struggled to procure an escape, but terror consumed his focus. The only comprehendible option was to keep moving forward. The man jumped up and continued onward, now hampered by a limp in his right leg. His face and hands were covered in mud that weighed down on his arms, further hindering his progress. He hobbled along favoring his left side, but the situation was getting grave.

He looked around for a place to hide, when suddenly—dizziness. Confusion. An impending feeling of doom swelled in the pit of his stomach. His eyes became heavy, and his body ached of hopelessness. His heart skipped one beat. Skipped another. He could almost feel the barrel of the gun pressed against his chest.

I have to tell someone, he decided. Someone must know.

He paused for a moment and took a deep breath. It was his last taste of air, his only hope that someone would hear his final words. He tilted his head back and screamed into the nothingness.

THE CHAMBER! IT LEAKS!

Boom! The shooter pulled the trigger a second time, and the explosion lit up the forest around him. A subsequent bullet took off, ripping through more than a quarter-mile of sponge thick vegetation. It was a beeline shot, zipping past nocturnal life and countless other obstacles. Finally, it sliced through the back of the runaway and went directly into his heart.

It was an impossible shot—a direct hit.

It was perfect.

A slight whimper came from the victim—all he could muster before falling near a log on the jungle floor. The branch he gripped so desperately was lodged into the mud beneath him. His limp body did not twitch, it did not protest. There was no denying what happened to the escapee, and a quickly forming pool of blood said it all. He was dead on contact.

Satisfied, the shooter let the gun rest at his side. He breathed a sigh of relief and tilted his hat back a little further from his forehead. He looked up into the canopy above him, carefully scanning the trees. An incredible spiderweb of ivies, branches, and vines separated him from the heavens. Finally, his eyes came to rest upon a single star that pierced the field of greens. He nodded at the star, acknowledging something greater than he could understand.

Behind the shooter, followers emerged from the forest. They came cautiously around the trees, looking for answers but afraid to ask.

Is he dead, Menja Paff? one asked hesitantly.

He certainly is, said the shooter. And now, we wait.

CHAPTER 1

Beneath the Eyelids

I’LL BE BACK in a month.

That was all Emrys knew. His brother Joel had packed up and left for the Amazon in such a hurry he barely had time to say goodbye. Emrys recalled watching his mother get angry over Joel’s vehement secrecy surrounding the trip. After persistent debate, she reluctantly handed the phone over to Emrys. Joel muttered a few words about an artifact discovery and hung up shortly thereafter. And now he was dead.

Emrys’s diluted green eyes peered at his older brother as he lay in the casket with his own eyes closed. The seventeen-year-old was exactly half of Joel’s thirty-four years. And while they shared the same fraternal parents, their appearances had little in common. Emrys had grown into a tall, sturdy build, while Joel had developed a roly-poly figure. Emrys maintained a thick head of dark hair, which he wore in a mess cut, as opposed to Joel’s hairless bowling ball shine.

Today, Joel’s skin was a dull gray, and his body lay disturbingly still. His hands were folded peacefully upon his stomach, but his chest lacked the rise and fall of functioning lungs. His emotionless face was a shadow of his former spirit. Once upon a time, Joel’s brilliant wit made him the life of the party. He was always good for a story. And while the day revolved around Joel, this was certainly no party. It was the second day of his wake, and he would be buried the following morning.

Joel’s life was devoted to history. He was fascinated by tales of Arthurian legend and Scottish lore. He’d majored in British literature and wrote several books on the great wizard Merlin. At the age of seventeen, when Joel’s mother became pregnant with Emrys and their father abandoned them, Joel requested that the baby be named after Merlin. And thus, several months later, Emrys Arthur MacGrady was born. Emrys was Merlin’s birth name.

And named quite justly, Joel had often remarked. There’s no doubt he is the brave one in the family.

Now he himself at the age of seventeen, Emrys looked upon his fallen brother with the same abandonment Joel must have felt when their father left. His eyes were flooded and his cheeks flushed, but no tears ran down his face. He held them back during the wake. He said nothing as he had done the day before, simply because he knew his voice would falter if he tried to speak. He had to stay strong in front of their mother. Someone had to.

Their father was not present. In fact, Emrys had never met their father. Despite a single picture of him standing with Joel, Emrys had never even seen the man until his own funeral. He had passed away two years earlier, when Emrys was fifteen and Joel was thirty-two. Prior to his death, neither Joel nor their mother would ever speak of the man. They refused Emrys’s questions, and he was infuriated by it.

But the night after his funeral, Emrys would tolerate no more.

He is dead now, the fifteen-year-old said, confronting his mother. And I must know. Why did he despise me so that he refused to ever once meet me? What about me is so awful?

Oh, Emrys, She sighed. There is nothing awful about you. You are getting older now. I guess you are at the age when you can understand.

It is time, he asserted impatiently.

Well, your father never believed that you were his child. I assure you that is not the case, Emrys, but—he was a stubborn man.

But why would he believe something so strongly? That he would never speak to me or even enter the same room as me?

We were having problems. Your father was not happy that Joel was so book happy. He wanted more of an athletic son—like you. If we weren’t fighting, we weren’t speaking.

Okay.

And then one night, he came home, and he had this big smile on his face. He was in such a good mood, and he was so playful. I didn’t know what got into him, but it was like when we were first married. He was the man I loved again. And that was the night you were conceived.

Emrys’s eyes darted away from his mother, avoiding a visual.

But then the next morning, he had no recollection of the night. His edge was lost. He was back to the grumpy man I’d been living with. It was very confusing for me.

He didn’t remember?

He didn’t! Nothing! I don’t know what happened to him. And when I realized I was pregnant a month or so later, he refused to entertain the thought that he was your father. He accused me of adultery and abandoned your brother and me on the spot.

Abandonment, Emrys thought, staring at his brother’s casket and recalling the story. Is so unnecessary.

A family of Northern Irish Brits, Joel’s funeral was held in tradition with most Irish wakes. Light Irish music floated through the background. Joel was laid out in front of an open window with a view of the great Mount Killaraus beyond. They had specifically chosen this funeral parlor due to its view of the soaring mountain. Today, however, overcast weather shrouded its towering peaks from view.

Mount Killaraus was very significant to Joel. He grew up in the heart of Northern Ireland, only a few blocks from the funeral parlor. The mountain’s daring summit was constantly on the horizon. Tales of epic battles, ancient giants, and even Merlin himself were told regularly by the locals. Joel felt an uncanny connection with the mountain and could never stifle his amusement with it. While researching the history of Mount Killaraus, Joel came upon his calling.

The idea bounced around Emrys’s head as he stared out at the mountain.

Joel found his fate, he decided.

What could have been in the Amazon that had gotten him killed? What kind of artifact? Emrys had no idea, but the question lingered in his mind. It must have been worth quite a sum of money. He was so deep in thought he hardly noticed any of the friends and family members paying their respects until a hand clamped down on his shoulder.

Be strong, lad, a man commanded in a deep Irish tone. As Emrys turned from the window, he recognized him immediately. It was the police officer who came to their home and notified them of Joel’s death. Ay, a rough road ahead ye have, but I can see it in thee eyes.

What is it you see, sir? Emrys asked.

Determination, he answered in earnest. The hardships of life often catch us by surprise. I know about your father as well. While that may be none of my business, too often I watch resentful youth succumb to their inner hatreds. Do not be spiteful at the boulders ye carry. For in the end, you will stand upon them.

Emrys nodded.

Thank you, sir. The man began to leave, but Emrys could not resist. But—this funeral, it is not closure. I am without reason, without answers. All I have is madness.

I can promise you the madness will dissipate. In time, the answers will come. You will find your closure.

That I will, Emrys promised himself.

And still no details on the investigation?

Nothing worth your while, lad. It’s the jungle out there. Be thankful they found him as fast as they did or he would have been consumed by wildlife. Rest assured, they are doing all they can.

Emrys bit his bottom lip and stared off from the police officer. He’s lying, Emrys thought. What police do they have in the Amazon? What laws? Who would head up an investigation into the death of someone from across an ocean?

And Emrys was no dummy. He knew the answer. Someone found a body, and that was about it. Case closed.

As the police officer moved on, another familiar face approached Emrys. This one, somewhere in his late forties, was a lifelong friend of Joel’s. Simon Merchant, Emrys knew, often worked side by side with Joel as their professions brought them together. Emrys’s conversation with the sheriff had extracted him from his well of self-pity, and he spoke softly to the man approaching him.

Hello, Simon.

Oh, Emrys. What a very sad day this is, Simon Merchant said. His booming voice contrasted with his frail physique. He was tall and skinny, with a thick gray head of hair and beard. Although his motor skills showed little signs of aging, wrinkles as deep as canyons propagated across his face.

"Only endless thinking could carve such wrinkles. I call them thinkles," Joel had once joked. The two became friends during Joel’s tenure at graduate school. Joel served as a history guru, while Simon sifted through mountains of artifacts he was hired to identify. Simon had been an archeologist and converted to an expert in radiocarbon dating. He had also penned a popular series of children’s books about a dinosaur zoo. He and Joel found each other to be direct complements on just about every project.

Emrys, you’ve met my daughter Sara before, haven’t you? Simon asked, and pulled the girl out from behind him. I brought her along.

Yes, as children we played— Emrys began speaking but was caught off guard by what she’d become. The annoying young girl that Joel often left him with when he should have been babysitting was suddenly seventeen.

Sara stood eye to eye with Emrys. Her brilliant white teeth crept past a shy smile. Crystal blue eyes lit up her face, which was garnered in striking dark hair. She wore it straight, and the light from the window reflected off each individual strand. Emrys struggled to keep his jaw from dropping. He reached out and shook her hand politely, and when their eyes met they fell locked into a gaze.

I’m sorry about Joel, she offered. I have many memories of the two of you together.

Emrys nodded and let her go. Thank you. That is why we are here—to honor his memory.

Yes, Joel was so proud of you, Emrys, Simon stated. He told me what an athlete you’d become, but I warn you—watch out for this one. She lettered varsity softball as a freshman.

Emrys recalled the aggravating memories of her striking him out on numerous occasions. That was of course, he assured himself, before they were teenagers. He was fairly confident that if the two of them stepped on the baseball field today, he would show her a thing or two.

Emrys, did your brother tell you why he was traveling to the Amazon? Simon asked.

The question caught Emrys by the throat, and he felt body-slammed back into the parlor—back to his brother’s funeral.

No, he—he didn’t tell anyone, Emrys stammered. "He called me, but—he was so excited. Whatever he was doing out there, it seemed like he was going to be very proud of it, like he had some big surprise waiting for us. But whatever it was, I guess we’ll never know."

Yes, that was the same feeling I got.

Emrys paused for a moment, while he digested the words. Suddenly, his eyes shot up at Simon. He unconsciously reached out and grabbed