by T. A. Pratt
“I find that most problems can be worked out if people of good will simply discuss their needs and agree to act in good faith,” Pelham said. “I’m sure Mr.... Dave... will listen to reason.”
“Marvelous!” Elsie said. “I’m sure one of those approaches will work. Dave lives in the mountains of North Carolina. Beautiful country, or so many people claim. You’ll love it, assuming you like that sort of thing. Once you’ve got the sword, give me a call. My number’s in your phones now, along with Dave’s GPS coordinates. I trust you can make your own way there?”
Rondeau sighed. “I guess I’d better pack. I just got unpacked.” He rose and went to one of the suite’s bedrooms, with Pelham and Bradley following, arguing over whether to travel by airplane or by more magical means.
“Where are we going?” Marla said, once she and Elsie were alone.
“To visit a few gods,” Elsie said. “You and your husband were always cranky and standoffish, but me, I’m the sociable type, and I’ve made ever so many friends among the deities since my ascension. We should be able to borrow a few things we can use to show the New Death the error of his ways.” Elsie nodded toward the bedroom. “Have you told them what will happen if you manage to win? What you’ll have to do if you want to really secure your position as the ruler of Hell?”
Marla shook her head. “Shh. I’m waiting for the right time.”
“Ooh,” Elsie said. “Secrets.”
Night’s Plutonian Sword
“We could rent a private plane,” Bradley said. “Rondeau’s rich.”
Rondeau glared at him, then zipped his overnight bag closed. “It’s true that a casino is almost literally a license to print money, but when you spend a bunch of the money you printed, printing up more still takes time.”
Bradley snorted. “Well, I’d say let’s try the mirror again, but it wasn’t the most pleasant travel experience I’ve ever had.”
“I would prefer not to take such a risk,” Pelham said. “I am more than content to fly commercially, however. A private plane is a needless extravagance.”
“We’re probably going to die in a couple of days, and then suffer for all eternity under the lash of a guy with a skull for a head,” Rondeau said. “I guess we should enjoy some extravagances while we still can. Fine. I’ll call my plane guy.”
Two hours later they were taking off, relaxing comfortably in a lavish business jet with leather seats the color of brown butter. “I wonder what Marla and Elsie are doing right now?” Bradley swiveled in his chair, watching Las Vegas shrink out the windows.
“Probably god stuff.” Rondeau popped a grape into his mouth. “Above my pay grade, which is saying something, because my pay grade is hella high.”
Bradley nodded. “Right. Better them than us. So, we’ve got to see a guy about a sword. What’s the plan?”
Rondeau gestured at Pelham. “Pelly is the tactics guy. He should decide.”
Pelham sighed. “While I possess some skill at planning such operations, I lack the necessary information to make any such provisions now. All we know is a set of GPS coordinates and our target’s first name, which, it seems, is likely not even his real first name.”
“I called Cole to ask about the sword,” Bradley said. “Magical blades used to be a sorcerous growth market, but they’ve fallen out of fashion in recent centuries. There are still a few badass mystical objects rattling around from the old days, though. Unfortunately, Cole’s never heard of the Blade of Banishment or Night’s Plutonian Sword. He says the latter is probably a pun on that Edgar Allan Poe line from ‘The Raven,’ about ‘Night’s Plutonian shore,’ which is Poe’s fancy way of describing the afterlife.”
Rondeau grunted. “So it’s a sword that... sends you to the afterlife? I mean, not to be an asshole or anything, but can’t non-magical swords do that, too? Or kitchen knives? Or pistols? Or rocks?”
“Elsie says it’s not as simple as killing us with the sword, though.”
Rondeau nodded. “Good thing she’s totally trustworthy.”
Bradley sighed. “There is that.”
Pelham squinted at the screen of the tablet in his hands. He often called such devices “abominable abominations,” “affronts to decency,” and “the death of the noble art of conversation,” but Rondeau noticed he always made a point of buying the new models when they came out, and getting unlimited data plans. Pelly liked to know things, and having a world of information (including secret sorcerous bits of the darknet) at his disposal was his little addiction.
“I do find several thousand references to the phrase ‘Blade of Banishment’ online,” Pelham said. “Most seem to reference music of a rather belligerent tone played by bands with an excess of umlauts in their names. There are also references to swords by that name in various RPGs, which in this context I take to mean roleplaying games, and not rocket-propelled grenades. There is one citation, however, referring to an out-of-print book of short stories by a pulp fantasist named Roderick Barrow. I cannot find a copy for sale electronically, and only a few used copies in print, but there are a handful of relevant pages scanned and posted to a voracious reader’s personal web page. According to what I can access of Barrow’s story, the Blade of Banishment is used to dispatch one’s enemies and remove them permanently from the field without spilling blood or leaving a body behind—it is also called a ‘sword of terrible mercies’ and ‘the sword of unrecoverable losses.’ Instead of striking down the enemy, it simply sends them away, to some unspecified location from which no one has ever returned.”
Bradley grunted. “You think some sorcerer—or, well, god, if Elsie’s telling the truth—read that story and decided to make a version of the sword in real life?”
Pelham shook his head. “Again, I feel I have insufficient information to draw any conclusions.”
Rondeau took a swig of ginger ale and belched. “So when we get to Nowheresville NC, we’ll find this guy Dave, and we’ll ask him. I’ve got a briefcase full of cash, Bradley’s got a head full of brain knives, and Pelham has his gentlemanly arts, or whatever. Dave doesn’t stand a chance. The sword is in the bag. Or the scabbard. Whatever it is you put swords in.”
•
The nearest airfield with car rental facilities was a ninety minute drive from the coordinates Elsie had provided, and it was already early evening when they landed. The trio deplaned directly onto the small runway, and everywhere they looked were hills and greenery, and, though it was too dark to see them, Rondeau knew there were smoky mountain peaks in the near distance; basically the opposite of Vegas. “God, what’s wrong with the air?” Rondeau said, gagging.
“It’s fresh?” Bradley said. “There’s, uh, humidity?”
“I bet you can’t even find a craps game out here,” Rondeau said. “How about we go to a decent hotel, for local values of ‘decent,’ and get a good dinner, for local values of ‘good,’ and then grab some sleep? We can go looking for Dave in the morning.”
Bradley shook his head. “Or, alternately, we could get this over with, since the fates of billions of dead souls are depending on us.”
Rondeau scowled. “You know, I’ve gradually come around to the idea that it’s worthwhile to worry about the fate of the living, but this whole worrying about the fate of the dead thing, that takes some getting used to.”
“The dead do outnumber us,” Pelham said. “The phrase ‘silent majority’ originally referred not to some mythical population of very quiet conservatives, but, instead, to the legions of the dead.”
“That was today’s history minute with Pelham,” Rondeau said. “Can I at least rent a really ridiculous SUV?”
“Something with four-wheel-drive is a good idea anyway,” Bradley said, gazing at the trees. “I was looking at the map, and the marked roads stop a good mile or so from the coordinates we were given.”
Rondeau’s black credit card worked its usual dark magic, and they acquired a dark blue vehicle that could comfortably seat six and uncomfortably seat eight, w
ith satellite radio and GPS and heated seats and other sparkling amenities. “I wish we had time to lay some charms on the thing,” Rondeau said. “It’s been a while since I drove a vehicle that actually had the capacity to roll over and explode.”
“In that case, I’d better drive.” Pelham reached for the keys. “I believe I am the most qualified.”
“I’ve been driving a lot longer than he has,” Rondeau said, “but... yeah, he’s right. He’s taken classes in evasive driving, defensive driving, offensive driving, stunt driving, and who knows what else, and he’s a quick study with stuff like that.” He dropped the keys in Pelham’s hand.
“One endeavors to give satisfaction,” Pelham murmured.
“I call not-shotgun.” Rondeau clambered into the back, and let Bradley ride up front. They found the Interstate, then a smaller state highway headed northwest, and the lights of the city receded into the distance. Soon they were the only vehicle in sight, a little capsule of light and life hurtling through darkness, rising into the higher elevations fast enough that Rondeau’s ears popped. He looked out the window, into the dark, where the dim shapes of trees blurred past, occasionally opening into moon-and-starlit vistas that seemed to prominently feature sheer drop-offs and a notable absence of guardrails.
“Does anyone else feel like we’re driving into one of those hill-folk cannibal horror movies?” he asked.
“There’s definitely that sort of vibe,” Bradley agreed. “We’re in some kind of dead zone, for sure. The conventional phone service is non-existent here—if we weren’t magically augmented, we’d be totally cut off from outside communication. I think there’s a road up here on the right, Pelly—looks like that’s going to get us as close to the coordinates as anything else.”
Pelham slowed down, the headlights illuminating pine trees and mossy boulders, and proceeded at a crawl. Even then they nearly missed the turn-off: an unmarked asphalt road so crowded by overgrown rhododendrons that it was effectively a one-lane passage. They turned and drove slowly along the bumpy road, past the sagging remains of an old, half-demolished barn; past the burned-out hulk of an ancient station wagon; past a rusted swingset with no swings.
“I think I’ve played this video game,” Rondeau said. “It’s either zombies or demon-possessed townsfolk next.”
“You need a town for townsfolk.” Bradley swiped at his phone. “This is unincorporated land. I mean, maybe people farm out here, though how you farm this vertical-ass land is beyond me.”
“I understand that operating small methamphetamine laboratories is a popular occupation in the area,” Pelham said. “Also a certain amount of farming, though I gather cash crops such as marijuana are more lucrative than corn. There is also some history of militias and apocalyptic cults operating in this area, drawn by the combination of natural beauty and privacy.”
“So your basic heartland kind of place is what you’re saying,” Rondeau said.
“Our coordinates are about a mile and half west of here,” Bradley said. “Are we going to be hiking through the dark? Maybe Rondeau’s whole wait-for-morning thing wasn’t such a bad idea. We passed some kind of rustic cabin motel a few miles back, maybe we could turn around....”
“There’s a side road.” Rondeau pointed. Then he winced. “Wait, I mean, yes, Bradley’s right, let’s definitely do the motel room thing. That’s not a side road. The side road is an illusion.”
Bradley hmmed. “That road’s not marked on the map, but it goes the right direction.”
Pelham turned onto the dirt track, uneven and cratered, and they bumped slowly along. The moon had passed behind a cloud, and the darkness outside was absolute. The only sound was the low thrum of the engine and whatever noises the three of them made. After about a mile the headlights illuminated a rusty gate blocking the road, and Pelham stopped. They silently read the handmade signs hanging on the gate: “Trespassers will be shot, stuffed, and mounted”; “Down with the Secret World Government”; “This is sovereign land”; “Taxes = Slavery = Death”; “America for AMERICANS.”
“Oh, Dave,” Bradley said. “You’re one of those. How does an anti-government loony get his hands on a weird magical sword?”
“Perhaps he found it hidden in some cache of ancient treasures in a local cave?” Pelham said.
“Or in the back of an antique store,” Rondeau said. “Remember Marla’s magical cloak? She found that in a thrift shop. It sounds like this sword is some kind of artifact, and artifacts sometimes like to be found.”
Pelham moved the car to the side of the road and parked, and they all climbed out. The night had turned cool, and Rondeau shivered. With the headlights out, this whole place was darker than dark, the only illumination the glow from Bradley’s phone. “The coordinates are about two hundred yards that way. Pretty sure we’re walking into some kind of survivalist compound, so, uh, proceed with caution?”
Pelham had a backpack with him, and now he rooted through it, removing a set of night-vision goggles that he strapped to his face. Combined with his three-piece suit, it gave him the look of a very dapper insect. “I don’t have your exceptional psychic vision,” he said. “I must rely on other means.”
“Oh, right.” Rondeau blinked and squinted. He’d spent a long time learning how to tone down his exceptional senses, because seeing through every illusion and into every shadow, sensing every line of mystical energy, and perceiving every magical disturbance or quirk in the world around him, was frankly exhausting and stressful; as a result, he’d learned a kind of complacent blindness. Now he allowed his psychic senses to come online, and the view before him brightened, all the trees limned with a silvery light that indicated they were alive and thriving. He could see faint yellow-green traces in the air of past human occupation: one man, at least, had walked down this track to the gate and then back again, probably just hours ago. “Whoa,” he whispered. “This psychic vision is a lot prettier in the country.”
“Kind of lights up the place like the Vegas strip, huh?” Bradley whispered back. “But classier.”
“Mr. Dave seems likely to possess an arsenal,” Pelham said. “I believe you came provisioned against that eventuality, Mr. Bowman?”
Bradley fished a handful of chains with dangling shell casings in place of pendants from his pocket. “These necklaces are pretty much just magical Kevlar, all right? If somebody shoots you, that kinetic energy still has to go somewhere. You’ll feel the impact, and it’ll maybe even knock you down, but the bullet won’t penetrate your body. The charm makes you stab-proof, too, so being hit with a sword won’t hurt any more than getting hit with a baseball bat.”
“That is nevertheless extremely painful,” Pelham said.
“Yeah, but better blunt-force trauma than having your limbs lopped off.” He handed a charm to Pelham, then Rondeau, and then put one on himself. “Come on. I’ll lead.”
He clambered over the gate, and Rondeau and Pelham followed, the latter leaping over it as adroitly as a gymnast. Pelly looked like a fussy clerk, but he was probably the most physically fearsome of all three of them. He’d been a master of bartitsu when he joined Marla’s service, and since then, in his world travels, he’d picked up a few other martial skills, too. Rondeau had seen him toss a three-hundred-pound, six-foot-eight biker through a window once, without the aid of magical strength augmentation; it was all just the practical application of physics and biodynamics, Pelly said. With his physical expertise and Bradley’s well-trained brain-powers, Rondeau was pretty comfortable taking the rear.
The dirt road narrowed until it became just a track through the woods, barely wide enough for one person to walk at a time. “Wait,” Bradley said. “Is that a tripwire?”
Pelham wasn’t looking at the ground, but up into a tree. “Indeed. There is a large log, studded with spikes, balanced above us.”
“Old-school.” Bradley stepped over the wire carefully. “Better than land mines, I guess.”
“Thanks for that cheerful thought,” Rondeau mutt
ered.
They avoided two more booby traps on the way, and then Bradley noticed more of the luminous trails that indicated recent human passage, some distance off in the woods. They picked their way through the trees and found another, much less obvious trail, running roughly parallel to the first, about twenty yards away; that one seemed comparatively free of murderous surprises, and was probably how Dave and any of his patriotic compatriots went to-and-fro without risk of death by stumbling.
A short time later, the trail ended at a walled compound... though “compound” was probably overstating it a bit. The walls were roughly eight feet high, made of sheet metal nailed to wooden posts, and there was a “watchtower” on the wall that was actually just a deer stand with delusions of grandeur. The air stank faintly of diesel, and a generator grumbled somewhere behind the walls.
Pelham pointed to some protrusions studded along the wall. “Motion-sensitive lights.”
“Do you have any super-spy stuff that can short out electronics?” Rondeau whispered.
“Regretfully, I do not.”
“Bradley? Magic us invisible?”
Bradley shook his head. “My invisibility magics are less about actual real deal invisibility and more about clouding the minds of observers, so, not much good when it comes to lights.”
“Well, fuck it, then.” Rondeau walked out of the trees, over the protests of his friends. There was a stretch of bare dirt maybe thirty yards wide between the woods and the wall, doubtless so the survivalists could see the inevitable ATF agents begin their future raid. Once Rondeau had taken a few steps from cover, the lights came on, blindingly bright, and he shaded his eyes. “Hey, Dave!” he shouted. “My name’s Rondeau, I have a briefcase full of money, and I want to buy some weapons!”
•
Bradley groaned and sank back into the trees. “He’s going to get himself... well, maybe not killed, but certainly hurt.”
“He hopes to draw out our target,” Pelham said. “We should be prepared to take action. When this Dave appears, you will be ready to render him unconscious? Then we may explore his headquarters and search for the sword at our leisure.”