Mid-Arc

by David Gosnell

  “Maybe not; there is the issue of the stolen armor you must atone for.”

  “Not stolen, Gunter – given. Freely and without duress. And, by the way, someone needs to better poor Bill’s living conditions. Chamber pots, really?”

  Gunter looks at me curiously.

  “You mean the gargoyle with the name no one can pronounce?”

  “Yes, sir – Bill.”

  “I can raise the issue. It’s not really the Order’s business.”

  To my side, I see two of the other Paladins pick up our swords. They walk over and present them to us, properly, over the arm with hilt to us. I take Yayne, and Gunter takes Patricius.

  “All questions addressed?” I ask my sword.

  “Yes, honestly,” is the voice in my mind.

  “Thank you.”

  I turn to Gunter, who doesn’t have to speak aloud to his sword. I can tell some serious debriefing is taking place. Gunter sheathes Patricius.

  “Well? What’s the word?”

  “Much to consider, Arthur,” is his non-answer to me. “What the incubus asks for we are inherently opposed to.”

  “Fair enough. So, got room for one more?”

  “Yes. But you need to stay with the demon. If he is returning to the creature of old, someone needs to be close to put him down. Keep Yayne close and the order updated.”

  I walk over to Yayne’s box and pull out the scabbard. I sheathe him and loosely sling him over my shoulder. If not anything, I justify this action with the fact it’s got to be better in the cabin than the cargo hold. Znuul and Frederick are returning.

  Frederick looks over his men, nodding in approval.

  “Did we get what we need from the sword?”

  “We did,” Gunter replies.

  Frederick says nothing, but his eyes do. I’m not the only one feeling uncomfortable, though Frederick is putting a good face on it. He turns to Znuul.

  “Board your plane. I trust, should you have anything for us to act on, you will find a way to share it.”

  “Of course,” he replies, after a dramatic pause. Znuul’s eyes turn to me. “Parley includes you, too,” noting the sword slung casually over my shoulder.

  “Just thought it nice to share the cabin with him instead of being in the cargo hold, since he’s out anyway.”

  “It would do you little good in such close quarters. Now, come.”

  He turns and makes toward the plane.

  Frederick calls out, “He will be a moment, I would have words with him.”

  Znuul doesn’t bother with a response.

  Frederick doesn’t have to say anything. I can tell by the look in his eyes.

  “Yeah, I know. He’s not acting himself.”

  “Or he is starting to act himself again. That is the concern.”

  “Arthur and I have discussed the matter,” Gunter says.

  “I’ll try to get the damned armor off him. I think that’s part of the problem.”

  Frederick nods to me and finally smiles. He moves forward and hugs me.

  “God be with you,” he says lightly.

  “And you, too, sir.”

  I start to make my way to the plane and stop at the ladder. How am I going to get that armor off him? What if that doesn’t make a hill of beans of difference? Confrontation is probably the last way to approach things. Somehow, I have to make it his idea to take off the damned armor.

  “Dory, any thoughts on the matter?” I say aloud, more to comfort myself than anything. Of course, there’s no response – or response that I can discern anyway. Enthusiasm. Yes, I must be positive and enthusiastic.

  I put a huge smile on my face and bound up the ladder, thinking what would put a smile on big Z’s face. I have to push the positive.

  Once in the cabin, I say “hey” and put Yayne in a seat about three rows away – just to be on the nonthreatening side. Or really, so I don’t come across as feeling threatened.

  As I turn around, I see the pilot shutting the door.

  “We’ll get underway immediately, sir.”

  “I’m imagining Znuul told the pilot to get it going rather directly. Hopefully, he didn’t call him “Human Pilot.”

  I sit down in front of Znuul, beaming a smile. Znuul pays me no heed, reading a newspaper. I fasten my seatbelt because that’s what you’re supposed to do. I feel the airplane starting to move.

  “So where are we going?” I ask as chipperly as I can.

  “Dubai,” he says not looking up.

  “They probably have our flight plan.”

  That gets him to put to newspaper down. “I have considered that. We will be evasive.”

  The look he gives me tells me I must be dimwitted. I smile.

  “We might want to mix it up.”

  “I know what I’m doing.”

  “Of course you do. But hear me out. This is the perfect time to take a detour. It’ll be fun.”

  “Speak plainly.”

  “Amsterdam. We take a detour, pick up some red-light girls. Three for you, one for me – remember?”

  His eyes are boring holes in me. It is downright uncomfortable, but I don’t let up.

  “We could even call Pffif over – he loves pipeweed. Whadda ya say, big guy?”

  “I have no need for human prostitutes. I have two willing Baalig females awaiting my return.

  I nod knowingly back to him. Karred would kick his big purple ass if he did lay his hands on Ahzna.

  “I’m just curious, though, you were so eager about it before?”

  He’s getting ready to reply. I lower the timbre of my voice and cut him off.

  “What changed?”

  I lean in, but takeoff somewhat reduces that dramatic effect.

  “Well?”

  First, he looks pissed, well more pissed. Then he looks confused as maybe he’s thinking about it. I can only hope.

  He unbuckles his seatbelt and stands up as best he can in the ascending plane.

  “I changed.”

  The quiet, “slicka” sound of the armor comes from him, and after a moment it is in its ready-to-travel box form. He reaches down and puts it in the aisle. Then he looks at me again this time without the attitude. The plane buffets a bit, and he catches his balance.

  “Well, didn’t see that happening.” He sits down. “How’s the leg?”

  “Good, I heal fast.”

  “That is good.” He runs his hands through his long black hair. “I was just curious. I didn’t think I’d go reprogram myself. I just wanted to feel it.”

  He sounds distant.

  “Two willing Baalig females?”

  That gets a little smile. “That’s true. Now, one of them would probably chain-cast a world of hurt on me if I touched the other.”

  “Let me guess… the red one?”

  “Not getting anything past you, am I?” The smile was weak but sincere. “I think I’m going to have to sleep this off. I’m not meaning to be rude, I’m…”

  I’ve only seen Z this shaken up once before, after he kicked my ass in Grey’s office. He looks at me with tired, questioning eyes.

  “Nothing used to matter to me. I mean, I didn’t really feel anything. No fear, joy, no belonging – just malice and hunger.” His eyes leave mine and dart about the floor searching for something that’s not there.

  “Maybe you shouldn’t put that back on.”

  “I wiped the mental engrams.”

  “So no more bad memories, then?”

  “They weren’t memories per se; they were more like patterns of thinking. I let the AI keep its memories. I’m used to its brand of snark.”

  “You have snarky armor? Go figure.”

  “Good AI likes to remind you the I is for intelligence. I do need to sleep this off. Sorry. If you need conversation, the pilots are there and so is your sword.”

  He scoots over, lays his head against the wall, and closes his eyes.

  Out like a light. That’s a nice skill.

  Chapter 38

&n
bsp; Znuul was up when we landed and in a much better frame of mind. He hit the phone immediately to Karred, followed by putting that damn armor on. Customs went quickly. Once out, Znuul had lined up transportation to some very swank, pyramid-shaped hotel. I didn’t care for the effeminate affection he used checking us in or the “Oh, no, one room is enough, isn’t that right, Pooky-bear?”

  Yes, the old, or new, Ahtsag Znuul has returned, and he’s going to get us killed or worse. The lifestyle he is mimicking is very frowned upon in these parts. Very. It could get us killed.

  He expresses understanding our room would not be ready for another three hours and has our bags checked into holding.

  “Come on, Pooky-bear, we’re going shopping.”

  Great, Pooky-bear is going shopping, carrying a big-ass sword in a box. I don’t say anything; I just follow. Nothing I say can help. We get outside, and we wait. Znuul advises the valet, “No, young man, we are expecting a special ride.” Several cabs come and go, Znuul finally spies something away from the hotel.

  “Toodles, young man. We are off. Come, come, Pooky.”

  As soon as we’re out of earshot of anyone, I mutter, “Pooky-bear… my skinny white ass.”

  He laughs and says, “Hey, there’s our ride.”

  It’s a nondescript panel van with Arabic writing I can’t decipher on the side. Znuul knocks on the window and starts speaking in Arabic, the only word I understand being, “Smith.”

  After nods in the positive from Znuul, he walks back around. “Let’s get in the back, Pooky.”

  “I want a divorce. You are the worst wife ever,” I say.

  We get in the back of the van, and it’s obvious: Znuul knows our luggage is bugged. He’s hired a courier to get us where we need to go – the Dubai bunker. But, why Dubai?

  There’s no seatbelt – there are no seats. But what we have is what we need, a fairly invisible means to an end. I sit on one of the long crates in the back and Znuul on the floor.

  “You know, Arthur, you’re really homophobic?”

  “Yeah, and you couldn’t resist pushing it, could you?”

  There’s no answer except that over-the-top, can’t-be-real smile he does. Yes, the armor is on, and today it’s the Znuul I know.

  “Well, it’s still better than how you were acting.”

  The smile is wiped away immediately. Not exactly what I intended, but you get what you get some time.

  “I’m not one to apologize, Arthur. But, I was not…”

  His eyes fix on me. He takes a deep breath.

  “No worries. We all make mistakes,” I say to let him off the hook. Apparently, apologies are an epically bad thing for my large friend.

  “Thank you. And as for the homophobic thing, you know your girlfriend is a succubus, right?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You know what’s better for her than having sex with you?” his eyes go wide, and he is grinning in a way I wish he wouldn’t.

  The words, “fleshy human cock,” run through my mind. Damnit.

  “Z, pushing all the wrong buttons right now.”

  His face becomes one more of understanding. He nods.

  “I didn’t mean any deficiencies on your part, Arthur. Just, she’s succubi, and they are a squirrelly breed. Let me tell you the punch line.”

  I really don’t want to hear it. But, maybe I do. He knows more about their kind than I ever will.

  “Go ahead… lay it on me.”

  “The only thing better than having sex with you is having sex with you… and him at the same time. Whoever he may be.”

  I have to laugh. First, it’s funny. Second, it’s probably true.

  “Thanks for the reminder.”

  “What’s a good wife for, right?”

  Chapter 39

  We got to the bunker, and Znuul took possession of one of the crates. The driver gave me the crazy eyes when he saw Znuul just heft it out of the back. He was tipped liberally, and Z had some private Arabic words with him; I would guess it went something like, “don’t say anything, ever.”

  He grabs up the wooden crate, and we walk to the big red door, Z opens the door and looks around. He steps back outside and looks around.

  “Yes?”

  “I was expecting a delivery.”

  He hoists the crate back up with one hand, and we head into the bunker. Same as all the other bunkers. He flips on the lights, puts a hand against the wall, and the runes for guarding against magical intrusion flare blue.

  I can’t escape these places. One day, I’ll just have to buy one and retire there.

  “Why Dubai, Z – sorry, why Dubai, most powerful Ahtsag Znuul?”

  He turns on me, raising an eyebrow.

  “It’s about time you gave me the respect I deserve. The answer is Syria. The Ambassadors were courting The People’s Islamic State. I need to pay them a visit. This is the best place to deposit you.”

  “You think the army of P.I.S. will tell you shit?”

  He points at me with a huge grin, making his way to the kitchen, no doubt for a freezer-chilled bottle of Stoli. “Worst abbreviation, ever – right? But yeah, hopefully, they’ll tell me something. If not, then… I’ll leave in peace.”

  “Unless they try something.”

  I know how he thinks.

  “Indeed,” he says, rounding the corner, a good quarter of the bottle of Stoli gone already. “I leave in peace or leave them in pieces.”

  He flops down on one of the huge plus-size sofas he keeps in the living room area and takes another large pull of the Stoli.

  “I’m so glad I didn’t kill you.”

  Crap.

  “Hey, I was thinking all kinds of dark stuff. But, I didn’t do any of it. Grey wins. Memory engrams lose.” He holds the bottle in a toast. “Grab yourself one; you’re fun when you’re drinking.”

  “Gonna pass.”

  I wait a moment, prop Yayne in the corner, and sit down in the big chair that he usually sits in.

  “So how close was I to biting it?”

  “Not as close as those Paladins. I can’t believe Gunter used my own words. Seems funny now; I see it was meant as a joke. Not a bad one either… that Gunter.”

  I’m kind of speechless at his rambling. But better this than a “Kneel before Ahtsag Znuul!”

  “What did they want you for, Arthur?”

  “Needed to talk to Yayne, something about Paul pushing for Sil’s amnesty from The Protectorate.”

  He nods at me, all-knowing-like. “Nice.”

  Both of us are startled by the knocking on the door. Loud knocking. Urgent knocking.

  Znuul is not amused, but not angry either. Thank you, Mr. Stoli.

  “You didn’t turn on the security, did you?”

  He holds up the bottle. “This seemed more important. I have armor on – I’ll answer the door.”

  So he gets up and walks to the door. He doesn’t bother looking through the peephole; he just flings the door open.

  “May I help you?” he asks, Znuul’s voice booming.

  I can’t see around Znuul to know who or how many there are. What I hear is the response.

  “If you are Zebediah Newell, then yes. I have a delivery for you.”

  “Oh, yes. I am. Please come in.”

  Znuul’s voice is not booming anymore.

  I see a man, obviously of Middle Eastern descent, enter carrying a crate on wheels behind him. He does not appear put off at all, either by Znuul’s initial demonstration of volume or his size.

  “Did the sender request such a personal delivery?” asks Znuul.

  “No. But considering I am the sender and the maker of these weapons. I wished to set eyes upon one who might use these implements of death.”

  “So you are Sharjeel Megwhar?”

  “I am,” he says, bowing.

  “The weapons are made to my specifications?”

  “Of course, that is why I am here. You obviously have experience in the forging of weapons. That and the strange
script you wished engraved upon them. It is in the demon language – or what The Protectorate would call the Dzemond arcane lettering.”

  The fact this guy is aware of The Protectorate red-flags me immediately. I stand from my chair. With a better view, I see the large crate with wheels and latches. He notes me and nods.

  “Some cool stuff I found on the internet. Did you etch it correctly?” Znuul asks.

  “If it is for decoration, then what does it matter? If I may ask, where did you find this… stuff.”

  “With what I paid you, does it matter? Show me the weapons.”

  Znuul takes a double gulp from the bottle.

  Sharjeel unlatches the box and flips the lid open. There are two swords there, large… huge. One is curved at the end with double prongs off the curve. The other is a straight blade.

  “One to capture the prey, the other to finish,” Sharjeel says. “Both with keen edges, killing weapons individually. Each to your specification of thickness, taper, and balance. And, of course, the lettering etched into the very blades. If I may ask, what is the script for?”

  “It looks cool,” Znuul says, raising the bottle to the man.

  “These weapons weigh more than a normal man might wield. Might I see you test them?”

  Znuul looks at this sword maker quite seriously by my judgment.

  Znuul sets the bottle down on the concrete floor. He takes each sword out, holding them out apparently testing their balance.

  “Perfect. I expected no less,” Znuul says. Then he turns, and the huge swords begin whipping in dervish-like fashion – around, in, out, finally ending in a defensive over-under posture. Znuul loosens up, the huge blades twirling in his wrists. “Did you get the magnet and the harness, too?”

  “Of course. I am a professional.”

  Znuul walks over to the crate, sets the swords down on it, and pulls out another box. From that box, he pulls out a large circular slab. He picks up a sword, and the metallic slab clicks to it.

  “Perfect.” He pulls the sword from what seems to be a big-ass magnet.

  He looks at Sharjeel and says, “You wish a bonus for work well done?”

  “No, I wish to see what kind of man could wield swords such as these. I wonder if such a man is a man at all? There is press coverage of a creature by the name of Ahtsag Znuul. This creature took my attention and returned me to my faith after so many years.”