The Wielder: Sworn Vengeance

By David Gosnell

After sending the dzemond soul reaper Maldgorath running for his life, you’d think Arthur MacInerny’s life would have become a little simpler. But no... Maldgorath not only takes a shot at revenge, but plunges the world into turmoil. He attacks cities with thousands of his summonlings, which sets his grand plan into motion. That plan is use radical Islam as a lever to create chaos among the world’s religions. The world turns on itself and Arthur has to go into hiding.

But Arthur isn’t one to stay on the sidelines. He is sworn to vengeance against Maldgorath not only for the death of his son, but for the family of the warrior he killed while duped into thinking the church was responsible.

The second book in the series, follows Arthur, his band of summonlings and other friends he’s picked up along the way as he pursues his Sworn Vengeance.

• Language: English
• Publisher: David Gosnell
• Release date: Jun 19, 2014
• ISBN: 9781311343529

David Gosnell

David Gosnell is a former ad-man, now full-time insurance adjuster who writes a bit to keep his sanity while working away from home. David is a terrible, but loud musician, a fair tennis player, and an avid fan and participant of fantasy MMORPGs. The Wielder: Betrayal is David's first novel. He is currently working on the second part of the third installment of the series - "Death Curse."

Book preview

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

Bonus – Sneak Preview of The Wielder: Death Curse

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 it cannot wait. He walks deliberately to the doors of the mosque and enters as he has done so many times before. He lays himself in the middle of the large room, wailing.

Mullahs! Ayatollahs! True believers! The day comes! The day comes! he bellows.

The mullah races to him asking why he is prostrating himself so, and finds himself greeted by the wild eyes of this unkempt man. The mullah immediately senses that this is a man pushed to his limits.

What is this, friend? Come with me for some water, he says in a gentle tone. Calm yourself.

The unkempt pilgrim stands with the 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 stares at the mullah with wild eyes.

The mullah guides him to a seat and asks him to wait while he fetches some water and food. 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 and bows his head and begins to mutter prayers while rocking on the bench.

It is not the first time the mullah has seen someone overtaken by circumstances or the elements and thereby succumb to madness. It saddens his heart. He fetches the water along with some dried fruits and walnuts.

Drink and refresh yourself, he instructs the pilgrim, who gulps the water and begins greedily eating handfuls of the food.

The pilgrim looks up at the mullah, his eyes a little less frenzied and his breathing more in control. He beckons the mullah forward, places his hand on his shoulder, and looks him in the eyes. It is told to me that 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 wisely 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. I do not know. I just know it is so.

What is your name, prophet? the mullah inquires.

The pilgrim frowns and says shakily, I do not remember.

Come with me, friend, and let us find you some rest, the mullah offers. After you rest, I will petition for you to speak with the ayatollahs. Come. The mullah walks toward a chamber to show the pilgrim where he may lie 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 past the gate, he stops and smiles. With a ripple in the air, a small silver dragon appears. Tehran is much too far to walk, don’t you agree, Korlixi? says the pilgrim.

The small dragon hisses in agreement, and in a silvery 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 is why they were successful.

Now my group of summonlings, those beings grafted to my spirit that I can call on and direct—they are that badass. And so are the Protectorate associates I’ve been privileged to serve alongside. All the same, I too 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 reopening of The Hidden Eye, a store I own that 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 up, and we have a standing spot for mediums and 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 nineteen-year-old’s body, you would think I would be all over both of them. However, I have the mind of a ninety-seven-year-old, 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 hoping for me to wake up in need and ask her to do what she does. Sometimes I wonder if they meet in the hall and do rock-paper-scissors to see who gets to 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 the preeminent Voodoo priestesses of New Orleans. 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 coming. Judging by the telltale knock, it’s 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-a-half-foot tall person, with the exception of his green hair (which he he’s taken to dyeing white). He’s the scout and spy of our group and a great source of commonsense 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 sparkling 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 askin’ me why she wasn’t good enough for ye, then ignorin’ me answers.

Great. It is way too early for female drama. I thank Pffif for the heads-up and consider my options. Shey and I did have a moment during our little vacation in 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, as I’m just not ready emotionally to deal with the complications and implications of a physical tryst.

Not to mention the other issue—Silithes. I promised her back in ’58 that were I ever to engage in the act of intimacy with any other than Dorothy, it would be with her. 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. Halfway there, I hear a crash. This gets my attention, but doesn’t stop me. I find Shey in the kitchen, munching out of a box of Wheat-Os. Several broken plates lie at her feet.

Good morning, Sheyliene, I offer.

She reaches into the box, and a few more Wheat-Os fall victim to her appetite. She looks at me, obviously not pleased, chewing loudly. I’m glad YOU are having a good morning, she spits back. Then she tiptoes up to 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? 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 handful of Os, not taking her eyes off 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. 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 meets a cruel fate on the floor. Then another. Then she turns back around to me and readdresses the Wheat-Os, still glaring, still 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.

Aaaarthuuur! Another plate finds the floor. She starts back in on me 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. Shey. . . I just feel like I’m being pressured to do more than cuddle, and then I 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, 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 but no longer able to smash it because of my command, she sets it on the counter, then begins waving the box of Wheat-Os around, showering the kitchen in circular wheaty goodness.

Anger turns to tears, and tears turn to hysteria. Arthur, what did I do! What do I do! This doesn’t make sense! I don’t understand! She whips around and grabs the tin holding the coffee and the grounds go flying.

Now I am pissed. I am about to tell her so when I am cut off again by her 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 with the moniker 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 is in the Corso Buenos Aires shopping area all the same—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 envisions as being from the US Midwest, on their vacation of a lifetime, with her dragging him from place to place met only by his compliant 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...a 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, rapidly at first, then slow to a crawl with numerous razor-like projectiles coming from the barrel, followed by plumes of smoke.

He realizes someone has just fired a flechette cannon at him, a weapon designed for maximum short-range damage and minimal survivability. Now in touch with his gift, he engages it more deeply, buying time to get out of the way of the killing spray. He strides forward, every step as though 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 toward the passers-by, 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 moves laboriously 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. He engages his power to its fullest and throws the star at the rear tire of the Mercedes Benz. It is slow motion, as Greg has to concentrate and put full effort into it. After the star 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.

The doors on 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 his attackers. Their surprise attack has long lost its surprise, and the advantage is now Greg’s. Before the driver can level his gun on him, Greg has again engaged his power and begins his approach.

Greg first steps to the side and then very deliberately stalks toward the driver, who appears frozen to Greg. He puts himself in front of the man, then throws a hammer fist punch to the side of his head. The punch feels like it takes forever to connect, moving slowly through what feels like thick gelatin. When it does make contact, he feels the man’s skull break, cave in, and deform around his fist. To the rest of the world this is nothing more than a blur. Knowing the damage is done, Greg pulls his fist back and takes six labored steps away from the vehicle.

Releasing his power, he sees the driver’s head explode from the impact. The rear passenger door opens. Cannon man has come out to play. Greg gives him almost enough time to train the weapon on him before engaging his power. With great effort again, he stalks around the vehicle, reaching the man and taking hold of the cannon. Releasing his power a bit more, Greg rips the cannon violently from the man’s hands and takes four steps back before releasing his power completely. The man is screaming in pain, his hands wrenched. Then he looks up to see the flechette cannon trained on him. Screw you, Dzemond killer! are the last words he speaks before Greg pulls the trigger and reduces him to a dark brown fleshy mass.

Damn tainted, Greg mutters. He drops the cannon and looks around him at all the eyes staring at him. Then, to them, just like that, he is gone.

But the truth is he has stopped only a block away, breathing heavily from the exertion of having to walk there.

Chapter 4

The kitchen is trashed. Piles of broken plates are all over the floor along with coffee grounds and scatterings of Wheat-Os. Shey told me the plates were like her heart. The rest of it tells me she’s a mess. That’s our girl.

I hear a sound in the living room and see Hjuul sticking out his head from behind the couch. He must have been there hiding out the whole time. Hjuul is in his wolf form now. In reality he is a 400-pound hellhound and my best buddy. I look over to him and say, Really, you just let me endure that?

His puts his ears back and makes a rrrrrr sound and returns to his hiding place.

Traitor. Well, not really—who would have wanted to deal with that?

I hear the elevator gate open and know who it is—Vets. I stare at the epic mess the kitchen has become. I hear the entrance door open and wait to hear the visitor’s reaction. A moment passes, and it is of course a controlled and deliberate response, because, that’s Vets.

The fairy, says Vets.

Yeps.

I turn to look at her, my bodyguard, shock troop and general warrior all wrapped into one huge, very muscled package in human form. In her true Vetisghar form, she is a similarly muscled feline humanoid with ebon-black skin and a tail. Sorry you missed it, I tell her.

I am not. After a moment, she says, I would prefer not to have to clean up her mess.

That’s my warrior - short and to the point. She’s come a long way since I first acquired her. A great deal of that progress has come from her finally being considered a being of worth; that is, she has her name. A demon, who I think has become a friend of mine, helped us with that out, of the blue. I’m glad he did. While Vets is still stiff, at best, she is now beginning to see life as something other than just what she is willing to sacrifice for me.

I would prefer not to, either, is my response.

That one is not right. She walks away, leaving me to contemplate the mess.

Not right reverberates with me; I am partially to blame for this. Shey thinks I’ve taken a dislike to her. Truth is, I just don’t want the pressure of having to be lovey-dovey, and I don’t want to make good on my promise to Sil either. I could care less about the things Silithes says she can do for me, which really seems more like to me.

Wanting what Sil offers would be more like the me I was before I woke up. Before I was gifted with my summonlings and sobered up. Before I realized that my Dorothy was all I needed. It’s funny—the very things given to me to corrupt me and intended to turn me into a tool of destruction, instead straightened my ass up.

I figure at this point I should tell Shey what’s really going on. I guess the plate thing was just a bit much for me. I don’t want her heart breaking on my account.

So, I go to her room and knock on the door. No answer. I check the knob and it’s open, so I let myself in. And there she is. Sitting on the floor, glaring at me.

Hey, I say. Thought I might explain myself a little. It’s not you. I promise.

I hold my arms out for a hug, hoping she will come to me. She stands and stares at me. That’s a start, at least. So I close the gap, hugging her.

She basically accepts my hug and says, This better be good.

So I tell her the truth. I lay it all out about my promise to Sil in 1958. I remind her of how Sil called nexties in the Cayman Islands; and I explain that she meant it.

I was going to tell her how scared I am of falling victim to her powers of persuasion and becoming the man I used to be, but this is Shey. I never have a chance to say anything.

That skanky bitch! I can’t believe she’s ruining this for us! Her eyes take on some sympathy, and she touches my cheek. I don’t blame you for not wanting to feed yourself to her. You have no idea what she is capable of, Arthur. She can change you, make you hers. I’m going to give that bitch a piece of my mind!

Shey bolts out into the hallway to destination known: Sil’s room.

Crap a brick.

This situation is most likely going to end up with one or both of them dead. There’s nothing to do but intervene or run away. I could compel Shey to stop, but I hate interfering with my summonling’s free will; it leaves me feeling like a slavemaster bastard. Since I opened my mouth, I guess I should deal with it.

So I head back to my room, close the door, and pick up a book I’d been reading. Time to wait to see if they end up back in the white, that holding place they go when I dismiss them or get they killed. After about ten minutes, I realize that nobody is going to die, so I breathe a sigh of relief. That is, until my door bursts open and Silithes enters.

Really? I’m the only reason you aren’t laying down with Ms. Pixie Princess?

At least with Sil, I know I’ll get a word in. But then I know they’ll be used against me just as well. I take a deep breath, set my book on the table, and sit up to address my succubus. She’s in her voluptuous human form, but I don’t let that distract me; I never do. In her normal form, she is quite the demoness. She is still just as shapely, only with alabaster white skin, leathery wings, small horns, sharp teeth, black pointed-nailed hands that are almost more like claws, green alligator eyes, and a whiplike tail. Of all my summonlings, she is probably one of the most lethal, mostly because of her ability to beguile her prey and get very close. That, and she’s just rawbone strong. I don’t have to worry about her killing me. She’s my summonling. But I do have to worry about other things, like mind control and addiction to the pleasures she is so willing to share.

Sil, I am in no way ready to make good on my promise to be with you, I protest. So yeah, you’re a reason I’m not lying down with Shey. The whole neuromancy thing just unnerves me.

Sil’s kind, the Cubati, both succubus and incubus, employ a form of magic that manipulates their victim’s neural processes. That magic requires physical contact to allow connection with the victim’s neural workings. They can make you horny, happy, angry, sad, and more—all that while feasting on your life energy, their third, favorite food group. It’s scary, scary stuff. At least to me, even though I’ve been told kings and such have given away untold riches for one safe night with one of them.

Amazing what people will pay for.

I should have never told you about that, Arthur, she says, referring to her neuromantic skills. But still, I thought we were open to each other and past you looking at me as some monster out to eat your soul. I could have had you, remember? You kissed me back; you wanted me.

Damn if Shey didn’t just lay that same one on me. But with Silithes, it’s different—she can make you want her. I’ve seen her make people beg to have their soul eaten just for the pleasure she makes them associate with it. Those are some messed-up memories, but then, so many from World War II are.

I’m not good with having my head messed with, Sil.

That gets her dander up even more. Really, Arthur? Well, I don’t like to be used as an excuse for your lack of intimacy issues, Sil says, squaring up to me. So, good news! I’m going to solve two of your problems. First is you worrying about me tempting you. I’ll make my outside look as disgusting as you think my inside is.

With that, she shapeshifts into a haglike form, complete with liver spots, warts, cataracts on her eyes, and sagging everything. She steps in closer and gets in my face and says in a creaking voice, Now I’ll solve your second issue.

I almost barf from her halitosis. Damn if she’s isn’t a stickler for the details. She’s got so much more than just the look down.

I release you, Arthur MacInerny, from your promise to me long ago that I would be the next you’d have sexual intercourse with, should you stray from Dorothy. She stares at me with her clouded eyes. So either you tell the damn fairy or I will. I am no excuse for your choice to avoid intimacy. And by the way, your body is screaming for it too. It has been for quite some time, and it’s distracting. So turn off that hundred-year-old brain and listen to the teenage body for a change. It knows what you need.

Dumbfounded, I stand there looking at Hag-Sil, not even remotely having expected any of this.

She tells me to screw myself, in so many words, and leaves.

I hear an Ach! from Pffif in the hall; he apparently has met the new Sil. He sticks his head in the door. Ye okay, master Arthur?

Yeah, Pffif.

Temptress isna lookin’ too temptin’, is she?

Well, Pffif, there’s someone for everyone, isn’t there?

Not for that, master Arthur. Toads and snakes, she be lookin’ like one spiteful hag!

Pffif and I have a silent moment, then share knowing nods. He wishes me well and moves on to his room, which leaves me alone to contemplate the truth.

I am released from my promise.

I have no excuses anymore, except that I miss my Dory. I wish she were here. If she were here, none of this nonsense would be happening. But then, she and Shey were as thick as thieves. I can hear Dory saying something like, Why not give her a thrill? Heck, she even gave us permission. Not that I took advantage of that.

So, now I know what I have to do. I head back to Shey’s room.

I don’t bother knocking. I just let myself in and call for her. After a bit, she comes out and asks me what I need.

I tell her, I have a surprise for you, then take her by the hand down the hall to the kitchen.

She tells me that’s not much of a surprise.

I let her know that this is not the surprise and say, You have to clean this up first. I go to the living room and sit down in front of the television.

Apparently there’s been a terrorist attack in Milan. It sounds strange and bad.

Time passes and Shey completes her task and puts herself between me and the television with her hands behind her back, balancing on her tiptoes. What’s my surprise, Arthur? she asks me in a singsong voice.

I get off the couch and lead her by the hand out to the hallway.

What? I want to know, Arthur! What’s my surprise?

I stop and look my now ever-so-cute fairy in the eyes. Silithes released me from my promise to her. I thought we might take some time in the bedroom.

Chapter 5

The last wave of creatures turn to puddles of ectoplasmic goo from the force of the wizard’s chain lightning spells careening amongst them. Standing next to the wizard Grey Lightbringer is the beast Ahtsag Znuul, who has also taken down his share of those who had besieged the two.

The coward must be close to bring forth his minions like this, Znuul states. He closes his eyes and reaches out with his senses to locate the source of the attack, who he knows to be Maldgorath the Collector. But before he can accomplish his task, the doors to the hallway crash open. Standing there are not the expected summonling demons and devils, but a pair of commandos with automatic weapons.

Without a moment’s thought, Znuul’s wings flare out, and he quickly stands in front of the wizard Grey, taking the onslaught of automatic weapons fire. It doesn't feel good at all.

But Znuul is made of stronger stuff than that to which regular bullets can do real harm. He takes the fire, then returns the favor with a vicious telekinetic attack to one that flings one commando partially through the wall, and a savage mental assault to the other that leaves him groveling on the ground. Znuul stalks forward, reaching down for the man’s helmeted skull.

No, says the wizard Grey.

Ahtsag stops in his tracks. He nods to the commando. Lucky boy.

Grey grins at Znuul, then instantly becomes serious again. The Collector...where is he?

The large winged creature again reaches out with his senses and finds his prey in the rear courtyard. Then that prey disappears. He flees us, Znuul says, opening his eyes. But his mind is still extended outwardly, and he notes a disturbance that shouldn’t be there. He looks at the wizard. Old man, we have at least two military helicopters incoming, five minutes maximum.

Damn, is the wizard’s response. They make haste to his desk and he opens drawer from which he extracts a small leather pouch. Looking at Znuul, Grey instructs him to open the safe under the bookcase.

Get me the invitation to the Fae Court, he says.

Znuul opens the safe and hands him the sealed invitation with a scowl.

We have no time to wait on diplomats from one side to approach the other to open a gateway. Must I remind you that if we went there, I would be summarily executed and my head put upon a pike? I die? So do you.

Grey takes the invitation from him and smiles affectionately,. I would never subject you to that. You must get what you can of the staff and the children away. I will pitch a storm and keep the copters at bay. The safety of our charges is paramount.

He hands Znuulthe leather pouch from his desk.

Take this pouch and hold onto it dearly. If the worst happens, you will know what to do.

This does not sit well with Znuul, but he takes the leather pouch all the same. You get them out. I can more than deal with these machines.

Grey smiles at his charge, the demon bound to his will, known at one time as the Destroyer of Hope and Devourer of Souls. We don’t need you to show up on the Internet. Trust in me and get our charges out of here.

Znuul nods and begins to leave. His master’s voice stops him: Ahtsag, I believe in you and I trust in you. You know you are as family to me.

Don’t do anything too crazy, old man, is the beast’s reply as he ducks under the door jamb to address his duty.

In the hall, he bellows for all to converge on the front portico. He quickly takes wing to the third floor and directs the children to come downstairs. He collects Marthe, the Chateau’s chef, and anyone else he can find in the house and has them follow him to the garage.

Storm clouds and lightning begin to swell around the Chateau, and Znuul knows Grey is applying his craft strongly. No helicopter pilot in his right mind would attempt to go through the weather Grey is invoking. He is buying time to get the kids and staff to safety.

At the garage, Znuul has them pack into the limousine and the Suburban. He gives the keys to the limo to Marthe and tells her to follow him. He pulls the Suburban out of the garage, turns hard into the field of grapes, and tears down the hillside. He blazes a path for Marthe to follow and, reaching the end of the vineyard, banks hard left toward the barns where the farm equipment is kept.

The Suburban is met with gunfire, and Znuul’s response is to lean forward and unfurl a wing to shield the children and staff in the back seat. The windows shatter, and he instinctively raises an arm to protect his eyes. He slams on the brakes and takes the hurtful gunfire. When it ceases, he flings the door open, telling everyone in the vehicle, Take to the floor!

There are three commandos. They are reloading. With a moderate amount of concentration, Znuul projects a beam of red energy from his eyes that skewers one commando, leaving him with two eye-sized holes in his chest. Taking two steps forward, he plants his feet, and with a flap of his wings projects a force wave that flings the two others to the ground. Stalking forward, he rips the gun from the hand of the second one and uses it to cancel him with two to the chest and one to the head before the man can get his bearings. The third commando meets an unfortunate fate in which Znuul jams his fingers into his chest and rips his life’s essence away.

Znuul casts the dried husk of the commando aside and takes a moment, smiling, to savor the life he just devoured.

Grey’s storm is swelling, and the helicopters are at bay. But Znuul senses something else. Something is coming fast. Something from high above. Putting his thumb to his forehead, he projects a simple thought to his master: Danger from above coming. Get out now.

He receives no response, only a feeling of lightness, of freedom.

A sound roars from above—jet fighters. The Chateau explodes under a siege of carpet bombing.

Ahtsag Znuul reaches out for Grey Lightbringer with all his senses. He finds...nothing.

Marthe leaves the limousine and looks up into the face of the statuesque Ahtsag Znuul staring at the flaming remains of the Chateau they called home.

Thees is good, Ahtsag. You are still steel here. Monsignor Lightbringer escaped. You both still live.

Very slowly, the beast turns his head and looks down upon the chef. No, Marthe, Grey is gone. And I am now unbound.

Chapter 6

I don’t think I did too badly. I beat Shey’s expectation at least five times over. That is, I probably lasted a minute—the first time. That’s