The Wielder: Sworn Vengeance (The Wielder Series)
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Authors: David Gosnell
David Gosnell
Copyright December 2013 David Gosnell – All rights reserved.
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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.
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 i
s 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 stand
s 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 hi
m 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 g
et you some rest,” the Mullah offers. “After you rest, I will petition for you to speak with the Ayatollahs. Come.”
The Mullah bid
s 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 shuffl
es 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.
It’s been s
even 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 m
y 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 has 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 – Sil
ithes. 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. Th
is 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 g
et.
“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.
