The Wielder: Sworn Vengeance
David Gosnell
Copyright December 2013 David Gosnell – All rights reserved.
License Notes
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This book is a work of fiction. All characters in this novel are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Chapter 72
Chapter 73
Chapter 74
Chapter 75
Chapter 76
Chapter 77
Chapter 78
Chapter 79
Chapter 80
Chapter 81
Chapter 82
Chapter 83
Chapter 84
Chapter 85
Chapter 86
Chapter 87
Chapter 88
Chapter 89
Chapter 90
Chapter 91
Chapter 92
Chapter 93
Chapter 94
Chapter 95
Chapter 1
The pilgrim has walked a long while, clothes in tatters, feet bare. He enters the city and finds his way through the streets to the mosque. He has a message to deliver.
His message is simple and cannot wait. He walks deliberately to the doors of the mosque and enters it like all the others before. He walks down and lays himself in the middle of the large room, wailing again like times before.
“Mullahs! Ayatollahs! True believers! The day comes! The day comes!” he bellows over and over.
The mullah of the mosque races to him asking why he is showing such prostration and finds himself greeted by the wild eyes of this unkempt man. The mullah senses immediately that this is a man pushed to his limits.
“What is this friend? Come with me for some water,” he says with a gentle tone. “Calm yourself.”
The unkempt pilgrim stands with help of the mullah. He is shaking. “You must hear me,” he rasps. “The Malichah have spoken to me, the Yawm ad-Din is upon us!” He coughs dryly and looks back to the mullah with wild eyes.
The mullah guides him to a seat and asks him to wait while he fetches some water and food for him. “Please do not leave friend, I wish to hear more but I must first make sure that you have been taken care of.”
The pilgrim nods to him and bows his head down, and begins to mutter prayers while rocking on the bench.
This is not the first time the Mullah has seen someone overtaken by circumstances or the elements and being so overtaken, succumb to madness. It saddens his heart. He fetches the water along with some dried fruits and walnuts, then returns to the pilgrim.
“Drink and refresh yourself,” he instructs the pilgrim, who drinks greedily of the water and begins eating handfuls of the food before him.
The pilgrim looks up to the Mullah, his eyes a little less frenzied and his breathing more in control. He beckons the Mullah forward and places his hand on his shoulder, and looks him in the eyes. “It is told to me, Maalik will open the gates to Jahannam and devils will be set upon the unbelievers. They will be led by a great beast under the yoke of the angels. We must be ready. The unbelievers must come to believe or die.”
The Mullah looks at him with some compassion and knowingly does not refute him as persons in such a state can become violent. Instead he tells him calmly, “This is most fantastic and frightful news, when will this take place?”
The pilgrim looks away, the crazed look returning to him. “I do not know. I just know it is.”
“What is your name, prophet?” The Mullah inquires.
The pilgrim looks at him with a confused face and says shakily, “I do not remember.”
“Come with me friend and let us get you some rest,” the Mullah offers. “After you rest, I will petition for you to speak with the Ayatollahs. Come.”
The Mullah bids him to follow and walks toward a chamber where the pilgrim may lay and hopefully collect his senses. The Mullah turns to check on the progress of his shaky new friend and sees that he is already opening the door to leave. Quite a shame, the Mullah thinks to himself, rest would have done him well.
The pilgrim shuffles back through the streets finding his way out of the city. Once he is out the city he stops and smiles. With a ripple of the air, a small silver-ish dragon appears. “Tehran is much too far to walk to, don’t you agree Korlixi?” The small dragon hisses in agreement and with a flash of light, they are gone.
Chapter 2
It’s been seven months since meeting and defeating Maldgorath the Collector. In that time, I’ve run along on three successful Protectorate missions. Of course it would be arrogant of me to assume that just because I was there assisting, that’s why they were successful.
Now my group of summonlings, those beings grafted to my spirit which I can call on and direct – they are that bad-ass. And so are the Protectorate associates I’ve been privileged to serve with. All the same, I have garnered a reputation. Whether that reputation is deserved or not is a whole other matter – and not one I will concern myself with.
Last week was the re-opening of “The Hidden Eye” a store I own which takes up a fair part of the first floor of the building in which I live in New Orleans. We’ve incorporated a boutique tea bar with a regular bar and offer baked goodies from Croissant d’Or. A full kitchen will follow later. The space ha
s been opened and we have a standing spot offered for mediums/card readers who want to take a break from Jackson square. That, plus a little live entertainment is offered at night.
So far, so good.
Truth is it’s been a great distraction. Especially from the constant pulling on me from two of my summonlings: Sheyliene, my little fairy princess and Silithes, my soul sucking succubus. They both want something from me and it involves being rather intimate. Given the fact I still have a 19 year-old’s body you would think I would be all over both of them. However, I also have the mind of a 97 year old man - and one who misses his wife to boot, even though I know she’s an angel looking over me - literally.
I made a point to lock my door last night, so today I didn’t have to wake up to snuggles from Shey or a hungry Sil sitting on the edge of my bed, waiting for me to wake up in need and hoping for permission to do what she does. Sometimes I wonder if they meet in the hall and rock-paper-scissors to see who can startle the crap out of me in the morning.
Of course that’s not their intention. That’s just what happens. But a locked door works like a charm.
I have no plans for today. My manager Chanukah Jones is looking over the store in the afternoon and then Robert in the evening. I get the day off - which is good. I hope to spend some time meeting with Mama Bellefontaine, member of the “community” and one of New Orleans preeminent Voodoo priestesses. She probably thinks me a rude man for not having introduced myself sooner. I hope to fix that today.
A knock on the door gets my attention, so I sing out a “coming,” and head that way. Judging by the telltale knock I know who it is – Pffiferil. Pffiferil is what might be commonly called a leprechaun - a small humanoid creature of the fae dimension. For the most part he can pass as a very skinny, well proportioned three and half foot tall person with the exception of his green hair that he’s taken to dying white. He’s the scout and spy of our group and a great source of common sense wisdom, that is when he’s not hitting the bottle; one of his favorite pastimes.
I open the door, look down and say, “Morning Pffif.” I’m greeted by a smile, two sparking eyes and an “aye, the mornin’ it be. Just thought to be warnin’ ye that the fairy be in one of her moods. I spent a half hour listenin’ to her ask’n me why she wasn’t good enough for ye, then ignorin’ me answers.”
Great. Way too early for female drama. I thank Pffif for the heads up and consider my options. Shey and I had a “moment” during our little vacation to the Cayman Islands. We would have ended up very intimate had it not been for her hair-trigger temper focused that time on Silithes. That moment we had was nice, despite being dosed with fairy love dust. Truth is I’ve been avoiding the subject, and her, consequently as I’m just not ready emotionally to deal with the complications and implications of a physical tryst.
Not to mention there is another issue – Silithes. I promised her back in ’58 that were I ever to engage in the act of intimacy with any other than Dorothy, she would have her turn next. At the time, I was trying to get her off my back. I guess I just didn’t think of the fact that I would outlive everyone I know.
Everyone human at least…
So I tuck my shirt in, take a deep breath and head to the kitchen to get my morning coffee. Midway there, I hear a crash. This makes me take pause, but doesn’t stop me. I round the corner to find Shey in the kitchen, box of wheat-O’s in her hand that she is munching out of. I note there seems to be several broken plates at her feet.
“Good morning Sheyliene,” I offer.
She reaches into the box and a few more wheat-O’s fall victim to her appetite. She looks at me, obviously not pleased, crunching on her cereal. “I’m glad YOU are having a good morning,” she spits back. Then she tip toes up into the cabinet casually, grabs a plate and unceremoniously smashes it on the floor. Then she goes back to her cereal, crunching at me with a glare.
“Why don’t you love me anymore?” she asks after chewing her O’s. “What did I do? Do I smell? Do you hate pixie fairies? Am I unattractive to you now? You’d rather be doing anything than be with me. What did I do? “She reaches back into the box and grabs another small handful of O’s; not taking her eyes off of me.
That was quite a bit to take in, but that’s my Shey, queen of the rants and just a tad bit on the unbalanced side. “Well Shey it’s not like...”
“It’s not like what!” she shrills, cutting me off. “It’s not like you care for me anymore? I thought you wanted me. Do you remember the island? We kissed! You looked at me that way. Did my mouth taste disgusting?” She turns back to the cabinet and another plate finds a cruel death on the floor. Then another. Then she turns back around to me and readdresses the wheat-Os, her glare finding its way back to me while chewing with impunity.
I’m trying real hard not to get mad at the plate breaking. I realize she’s hurt - but my getting mad at her will only cause her more pain. You see my summonlings are very sensitive to me. If I become angry with them it causes real discomfort, plus a great deal of anxiety. The opposite is true too; when I am happy with them it creates euphoria. I try always to keep any negative emotions in check for their sake. So I take a deep breath and try to set order to this mess. “Sheyliene…”
And that’s as far as I get.
“Arthuuur…” She turns quickly and another plate finds the floor. She starts back up before I can continue. “Look at all these; they’re just like my heart. You don’t even cuddle with me anymore.”
I try to fill the void saying, “Shey, I just feel like I’m being pressured to do more than cuddle” and then realize I should have been more careful with my words as anything I say will be used against me.
“Oh, so that’s what I did,” she says nodding at me. “Would it kill you to share some love with me? Would it be so terrible? I mean how terrible could it be, it would only last ten seconds – maybe.”
That was low.
She reaches up for a bowl, now having gone through the plates. I have to put a stop to it for the sake of having something to put food on; I reach to my will and command her, “Sheyliene the smashing of dinnerware will stop now.”
Bowl in hand and unable to smash it because of my command, she sets it on the counter then begins waving the box of wheat-O’s around, showering the kitchen in circular oatey goodness.
Anger turns to tears, and tears turn to hysteria. “Arthur, what did I do! What do I do! This makes no sense! I don’t understand!” She whips around and grabs the tin holding the coffee and the grinds go flying.
Now I am pissed. I am about to tell her about it, when I am cut off again by Sheyliene wincing from the effects of my anger.
“Good. At least you seem to be able to feel something. Even if you can’t explain anything.” And with that she stomps away down the hall to her apartment.
Damn, like I had a chance to explain… anything.
Chapter 3
Greg Inosanto, the man monikered as the sword of balance, is enjoying his vacation. The hotel has been amazing, the dining remarkable and the nightlife fun. Karen Redditch – “the red witch” a friend, sorceress and Protectorate general had suggested Milan to him, emphasizing the shopping. Greg couldn’t give a flip about shopping, but here he was in the Corso Buenos Aires shopping area all the same – for the people watching.
And the watching is good. He strolls the streets taking in the various tourists, locals and shop owners, musing to himself about their back-stories. One middle aged couple he was watching he envisions as being from the U.S. Midwest, on their vacation of a lifetime, with her dragging him from place to place met only with a sheepish, “yes dear.”
He continues to stroll, taking in the bustle. Then he stops. Something feels very wrong. He looks over his shoulder and sees a beige Mercedes Benz slowly moving up to him with the rear window rolling down. The barrel of a huge gun sticks out.
No, not a gun – a blunderbuss… cannon.
Instinctively Greg engages his special ability. The one that makes him the
sword of balance; the ability to accelerate himself slightly in time. He sees the gun fire, rapid at first, then slowing to a crawl with numerous razor-like projectiles coming from the barrel followed by a plume of smoke.
He realizes someone just fired flechette cannon at him. A weapon designed for maximum short range damage and minimal survivability. Now in touch with his power fully, he engages it more deeply, buying time to get out of the way of the killing spray. He strides forward, every step like he is walking through a pool of paste; using his gift takes effort and concentration. Step by labored step he walks well away from the fray. He turns to see the projectiles spinning slowly towards the passer-bys who appear to be frozen.
Knowing he can do nothing to stop it, he releases his power. People’s bodies are shredded in a wide swath of damage. Storefront glass explodes. The car guns it and the shooter takes aim at Greg again. Greg once more touches his power and labors his way into the street to the other side of the car. He lightens his touch on his power and the world speeds up around him. The car is moving forward, slowly. The cannon fires again.
“What the hell!” he thinks. The cannon is obviously cartridge fed, semi-automatic and very custom. But as the world speeds up, the pressure on him lessens also. He reaches into his jacket with some effort and pulls out a throwing star. Star in hand he engages his power to its fullest and throws the star at the rear tire of the Mercedes Benz. It is like a slow motion throw, as Greg has to concentrate and put full effort into it. After the star having leaves his hand and begins its way to the vehicle he releases his power.
The star, now moving much faster than any bullet rips into the tire and tears the wheel from the axle, causing the car to skid into traffic. Greg does his best to look away from the carnage caused by the second cannon firing. His blood is boiling in rage.
The doors to the Mercedes fly open. The driver is out first and Greg can see the fear in his eyes. And he should be afraid too. The sword of balance is aware of them. Their surprise attack has long lost its surprise and the advantage is now Greg’s. Before the driver can level his gun on Greg, he has again engaged his power and begins his approach.
The Wielder: Sworn Vengeance (The Wielder Series) Page 1
