Praetorian Series [3] A Hunter and His Legion

by Edward Crichton

  I thought about his statement, having honestly forgotten. But he was right. I had always been ready and willing to help her when she’d needed it, and not in a creepy kind of way. She’d always been very nice to me, one of the few people here who had been, and I’d always been very willing to lend her a hand because of it. Now that I thought about, she’d almost been something of a… friend.

  Merlin nodded. “It’s one of your more admirable qualities, Jacob. One of your many admirable qualities, in fact. Always willing to help those in need. It’s a shame then that you have so many others that are not quite as venerable.”

  I turned an angry look on him, intending to yell at him for saying such a thing, but then thought better of it.

  “A good decision, Jacob.”

  “Stop that,” I snapped, but then curiosity set in. “How are you doing that anyway?”

  “I’m a wizard, remember? I can do lots of cool things.”

  I was about to yell at him for real this time, but then little Suzie-Lu walked up to me with a basket of freshly baked rolls and a container of cinnamon butter. She set it down and Merlin eagerly dived into them, but I was distracted by her lingering stare.

  I returned her look evenly. “Something wrong?”

  She snapped out of her daze and shook her head. “No, of course not, it’s just that you look super familiar. Do you have a younger brother or something?”

  “No,” I answered. “I do have a younger sister though.”

  “Are you sure?” She asked skeptically.

  “Yeah,” I replied. “Pretty sure.”

  She worked her mouth from side to side in confusion, but then turned away abruptly and rushed back to the hostess station. I turned back to Merlin, feeling suddenly sad for Suzie-Lu. I tried to remember what had driven us apart all those years ago, but like much from that time of my life, I couldn’t remember.

  As my stool swiveled around, I discovered that the older man had a spoon filled with cinnamon butter in one hand and a roll in the other, his mouth chewing vigorously. When he swallowed, he bit into the fresh roll and stuck the spoon of butter into his mouth. It was clean when he removed it.

  I cringed. “You’re supposed to spread the butter on the roll and then eat it.”

  He shook his head vigorously. “Too inefficient. This is much better. So much better.”

  I stared at him, deadpanned. “Seriously, just who the fuck are you?”

  He stopped chewing at the question and breathed a deep sigh, glancing absentmindedly at the coolers filled with beer behind the bar. I followed his eye, the alcohol from my drink settling in, and I knew immediately what I had to order next, but I was distracted by the sound of Merlin struggling to gulp down what was left of his roll. I watched as he spooned another glop of the cinnamon butter into his mouth and pick up another roll, but before he bit into it, he turned to me and spoke with his mouth full of butter.

  “I’d order another drink if I were you,” he suggested. “Because we’re going to be here for a while. Kick back, relax, and block off some time. This chapter’s going to be a long one…”

  ***

  I’d taken his suggestion to heart and ordered a beer. Not just any beer, however, but a beer that I knew could never possibly exist in this restaurant. It was a beer brewed by Augustinian monks in a small brewery/monastery in Austria. I’d studied abroad in Italy during my junior year in college, but my friends and I had taken more than a few trips up into the rest of Europe. One in particular had found us finding this small little brewery in the middle of nowhere outside Salzburg. The monks had invited us in politely, and had offered us their finest of brews.

  And it had been the most amazing beer ever.

  There was no way to truly describe it, except as perfect. It had the ideal blend of hops, fruitiness, and spices, and my friends and I had drank gallons of it. The saddest part of that entire semester had been the moment we’d left with the knowledge that the monks didn’t export their beer.

  Anywhere.

  But when I’d placed my beer order just now, asking for a tall one from the Augustinian Brewery – if that’s even what it was called – Foxtrot Alpha had simply smiled, moved over to the tap, and poured me a beer. She handed it to me, brushing her hand against mine as she handed it off, and I smiled at her, but it wasn’t until the beer touched my lips that I decided that I was never leaving this fantasy world.

  Never ever.

  “Unfortunately, Jacob, that is not possible.”

  I pulled the beer away from my lips, slopping a bit at the abrupt motion, but took another long pull before setting it down carefully. I looked at it longingly, but then snapped my head around to look at Merlin.

  “Answers,” I ordered. “Now.”

  Glumly, Merlin looked down at the basket of rolls before him – his third – and reluctantly pushed it away. He wiped his mouth and neat beard with a napkin before shifting in his seat to face me. He gripped his hands together and dropped them into his lap, causing me to notice how his cargo shorts rode way too high up his thighs when he sat down.

  “What do you want to know?” He asked.

  “Do you know about the orb?”

  “Of course.”

  “Is it a time machine?”

  “If such a moniker makes you more able to understand what it does, then yes.”

  I set my shoulders and pressed on, each of his answers building my confidence and alleviating years of tension.

  “Is it yours?”

  “It was mine once, yes.”

  “Are you a Druid?”

  He smiled. “No… but also yes.”

  “Explain.”

  “Not right now, Jacob. Continue with your questions first.”

  “Did you give it to Remus?”

  “Ah, well, that answer would also be best left for later.”

  I rolled my eyes angrily, but I couldn’t stop now. “The first time I used it, when I connected with Varus’ orb and it brought me to Ancient Rome, was it merely an accident or was there some kind of… greater power at work?”

  Merlin smiled and spread his hands wide. “A happy accident, Jacob. I, at least, am enjoying this immensely.”

  “Was the way we used it the right way?”

  “What defines, ‘right,’ Jacob? You used it and it did something. What more is needed?”

  “But did we fuck it up or something? Did we break it? Did we do something wrong?”

  “No to the first two questions, but your last seems like a matter of perspective to me.”

  I ground my teeth, steeling myself for my final three questions.

  “Is it driving me insane?”

  The answer came immediately. “Yes.”

  I grimaced.

  “How?” I asked, fearing the answer.

  “You’ve figured that one out quite easily on your own, Jacob,” Merlin answered. “Your visions were merely the first step in your addiction as the orb took control. In your lowest moments, when you were at your most tired or vulnerable, it infiltrated your subconscious until it had complete control of your mind. It then worked as the drug you so aptly compared it to, as it offered you alleviations to cravings it had provided in the form of emotions, and you learned to associate those negative emotions and dark choices with pleasure and happiness. This association may have lasted for quite a while, but I assure you that by the time the orb was finished with you, it would have twisted your mind into something beastly and evil. Quite fascinating, is it not?”

  I stared at him, thinking of a new question. “Why give me such a straightforward, if melodramatic, answer to that question, but none of the others?”

  He shrugged. “You asked a straight forward question, so I gave you a straight forward answer.”

  I gritted my teeth again, but pushed on and forced my final, two-part question from my mouth, dreading the answer.

  “Can we use the orb to go home? Our real home?”

  Merlin didn’t answer immediately. He looked at me with a hint o
f sadness in his eyes.

  Finally, he answered. “No.”

  My heart sunk again and I closed my eyes. I dropped my head and felt like falling asleep, perhaps more because of the alcohol than his answer, but I forced myself to look up.

  When I opened my eyes, the scene before me had changed.

  No longer was the restaurant a bustling eatery with patrons and staff eating or working. Instead, it was completely empty. I looked over the bar, but even Foxtrot Alpha had disappeared. I glanced down, looking for the coaster with her number on it, but it too was gone. The number written there eluded me as well, but her name, Tiffany, remained.

  I looked back at Merlin, but his head was turned to the right, looking off toward another section of tables near the middle of the restaurant. I followed his look and noticed a young man moving through the central aisle, a wide push broom in his hands as he swept a sea of peanut shells from the ground.

  I stood and moved over to him, recognizing him immediately.

  It was me at sixteen, zits and extra body fat and all. Although not quite as tall as I was now, his facial features were all the same, only softened by youth, inexperience, and too much fast food. I’d always been a bit of a baby face, even throughout my early college years, and it hadn’t been until I started working out and getting serious about my image that I’d morphed into the man I was today – only minus the last five years of stress and scars, I suppose.

  He didn’t even notice me as I walked up to him, but I could see the anger in his eyes and subtle movement of his lips as he muttered to himself. I couldn’t exactly make out what he was saying, but I was sure it had something to do with being put on to close the restaurant when I wasn’t normally scheduled to do that.

  “You were always such an angry child, Jacob,” Merlin said from behind me. “It wasn’t all your fault, and I think you grew out of it quite nicely as you aged, but ever since, you have carried with you a jaded sense of mistrust, anger, and superiority because of it. Most unfortunate.”

  I reached out to touch my younger self’s shoulder, but even though I made contact with him, he didn’t flinch. I squeezed his arm reassuringly but something told me he had no idea I was there at all.

  “Who are you?” I asked Merlin again as I stared at my younger self. “Tell me.”

  “You already know, Jacob.”

  I whirled away from my younger self, but when I turned, I found the scene had once again changed. Instead of the restaurant, I was in my old home, the one I’d spent my entire teenage life in and the one I’d always come back to during college vacations and shore leaves. My initial reaction was a bout of joy at seeing it exactly the way I remembered it, but then a sense of homesickness set in, followed by anger at Merlin if he did what I thought he was about to do.

  “Don’t you show her!” I yelled at him. “Don’t you dare! I don’t want to see her. If you do, I’ll…”

  “You’ll what, Jacob? Shoot me?”

  On instinct, I reached for my pistol, but it wasn’t there. In fact, I wasn’t clothed in my combat fatigues at all, but in a pair of professional looking khakis and a colored dress shirt with a tie around my neck. It was exactly what I’d worn nearly every day during high school.

  “I know the pain you feel surrounding your mother and her death, Jacob,” Merlin said, snapping my attention back to him. “And I would never do anything to purposefully hurt you, so I assure you, the home is empty and will remain that way if you choose. Now, please, sit down.”

  He gestured to a large and uncomfortable looking chair, one I also recognized.

  My parents had never been wealthy, but they’d always had some money, and my mom had been as thrifty as any good mom could be, but she’d had a taste for the fancy, elegant life as well. She’d always been the cultured one in our family, and always expecting nice things, so she’d outfitted our small den to look like an eighteenth century British study or library. It had always seemed sophisticated and quaint, and while everything looked authentic enough, I knew that she’d only managed it by scouring a thousand garage sales and thrift stores, making do with what she could find.

  Cautiously, I walked over to the large, high-backed sage green chair, a duplicate of the one Merlin now sat in. The fireplace across from us was ablaze, and the room was dark besides the light emanating from the flames. Outside the window I could see the sun was still out, but the shades were drawn, giving the room a cozy and decadent appearance, just the way mom had always liked it.

  I sat down and glanced at the chess board that sat between the two chairs. It was one of the fancier and more expensive items my mom had splurged on, and I had to admit that it had always been a stunning centerpiece. Elaborate and handcrafted, it looked more artistic than functional, but I knew that it was. At least once a week after school, my mom and I would sit down and play a match atop this very table. While the time between matches had lengthened as I’d grown older, my mom and I had always tried to fit in at least one match every time I came home.

  And she had kicked my ass at it nearly every time.

  I studied the pieces, finding myself unsurprised that they were the same ones we had always played with. In lieu of a fancy, traditional chess set with your generic pawns, knights, castles, and the rest, my mother had allowed me to purchase a rather unique set of pieces when I was eleven. It consisted of mythological figures from a number of time periods and cultures, and instead of the pieces being black or white as a traditional chess set might be, these armies were distinguished by the colors red and blue.

  I smiled as I looked at my loyal blue army, its pieces completely different from its opposing color’s equivalent since it was a Monsters versus. Heroes set. I picked up one of my pawns, represented in this set by a ferocious naga – some kind of aggressive sea monster that carried a trident and had long, sharp teeth and appeared much like a serpent. My mother’s equivalent red pawns were a line of Greek warriors, who she always liked to think of as a squad of Myrmidons, the army Achilles had brought with him to Troy.

  I set my pawn down when something else caught my eye. I reached over and picked up my mother’s bishop. It was a wizard who appeared much like Merlin had upon our first meeting, right down to his red colored robes with small half-moons stitched into them.

  I held it up to him and smirked.

  “Friend of yours?” I asked.

  He returned the smile warmly, and gestured at the piece from his seated position with his elbow still on the armrest. “I had hoped such an appearance would have been of some comfort to you.”

  “Well, I guess you succeeded,” I said as I put the wizard back in its appropriate spot.

  I looked back at my army and nodded appreciatively, crossing my arms and tightening them around my stomach comfortingly. “God, I used to love this chess set,” I said. “I always thought it was so cool. Monster versus heroes! It can’t get much better than that, right?”

  Merlin nodded. “To a young, curious mind, I can think of little else that could.”

  I picked up my king, easily the largest piece on the board, represented by an intimidating, fire breathing dragon. I held it in my hand and smiled, remembering my childhood self thinking it had been the most badass thing ever. I glanced at my mother’s king, represented by none other than, and appropriately so, King Arthur himself.

  “I know it’s hard to believe,” I said, rotating the dragon in front of my eyes carefully, “but this dragon got thrown against the wall quite often, and not because I was testing if he could fly or not. Your boy over there was a good king.”

  Merlin nodded slowly and reached out to pick up King Arthur. “He will be.”

  I rocked backward in surprise. “Wait… what?”

  “He will be,” Merlin repeated, still staring at the piece.

  “How can you possibly know that?” I asked, but then another thought set in. “Wait a second, before you answer that, are you actually sitting her confirming to me that Arthur was a real guy?”

  “Not yet,
but he will be.”

  “How can you possibly know that?” I asked again, having forgotten I’d already asked the same thing.

  Merlin sighed and looked at me patiently. He leaned back into his chair, still holding the piece in his lap. He sat there for a few moments, studying me, looking ridiculous in his old man’s tourist outfit, but finally he placed Arthur down on the edge of the table.

  “I can read your mind and conjure memories from it,” he said, “and yet it surprises you that I can see the future?”

  I looked at him, amazement finally settling in over the capabilities this man possessed, as well as their ramifications.

  “If you can see the future, why can’t you help me?”

  He shook his head. “The only future I can see is my own, and sadly, that does not include you past today.”

  I sat there unimpressed. “Seems kind of limiting… aren’t you supposed to be a wizard? What kind of magic is that?”

  Merlin rolled his eyes and leaned in. “I know you’ve seen, read, and played enough fantasy tales to know that magic can, in fact, be very limiting.”

  “So are you confirming that the orb is magic based then?”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “So its technology based then.”

  “I also know that you’ve seen, read, and played enough science fiction stories to know exactly what I’m getting at.”

  “Yeah, yeah,” I said, indeed knowing pretty much exactly what he was getting at. “Arthur C. Clarke’s Third Law: any sufficiently advanced technology is indistinguishable from magic. Blah blah blah. Give me a break…”

  Merlin leaned back and sighed in contention with his eyes closed, waving a hand across his face. “A beautiful quote. Poetry to my ears, in fact. You have no idea how long it’s been since I’ve heard someone speak with such clarity.”

  I was about to counter my own argument by stating that such a sentiment only applied to primitive beings with no knowledge of science or technology, and that it didn’t apply to a smart guy like me from a time period with the very same science fiction author who coined that very quote, but then something in Merlin’s wording caused me to stop and rethink what I was going to say. I waited for Merlin to interrupt me like he always seemed to do, but he simple sat there, gazing at me.