The Devil's Grasp

by Chris Pisano

  “Manly? Did you say manly?” Intrigued, he looked to her and was met with the blooming rose of her blush. Briefly their eyes locked and Diminutia swore he felt his courage rise within his heart instead of his loins.

  “Forgive me, milord, other patrons beckon,” she said, hurrying off.

  “Manly,” he murmured with reverence as though the word were a secret worth remembering.

  “Come back to reality, Diminutia,” whispered Nevin. Being the elder by more than a decade, he remembered all too well his youth and the meaning of the glint he saw in Diminutia’s eye.

  “One half the price, elf, and fame awaits your outstretched hand,” the bard, picking the moment as his opportunity, offered to Nevin.

  “Getting a good price … now that’s manly! Bard, I say one third your original price. Nevin, pay the man and let him be off. Fame is a fickle mistress. Let’s not disappoint her,” Diminutia said, his mind cluttered with lavish victory parties decorated with many wenches. And gold! Deep troves of king’s gold!

  Nevin rolled his eyes. “Dim, you cannot be serious about …”

  With perceptible force, the frame of the small tavern shook as the door was shoved inward, hinges groaning in protest at the unaccustomed use of excessive force, cutting all conversation within the tavern short. Even through the thick haze of the room, the twilight backlit the enormous figure of an ogre paused within the doorway, taking in the contents of the tavern, and making the most of his entrance.

  Every bit of eight feet tall with the girth of a warhorse, Bale Pinkeye grinned a gap-toothed greeting and stooped under the doorframe as he entered. His thinned, lank, nut-brown hair, a corona atop his knotted, green head, resembled a parched patch of ground, upon which a mule had just feasted. Straightening himself, he brought one gnarled, wart-encrusted hand up to his head, freshly matting the scrub there into an attempted comb-over.

  “Must you always be so boorish, Pinkeye?” Nevin asked, sneering.

  The ogre laughed, shaking the tavern to its foundation with both his booming voice and the unconfined undulation of his copious folds of fat. “I’m not boorish. I’m very exciting and fun! Everybody in this tavern loves Bale Pinkeye. Wench! Grog!”

  Seething stares of discontent from all corners of the room followed the ogre as he stomped to the bar. Whispers and murmurs circulated amongst the patrons, swapping stories of Bale Pinkeye’s drunken, and often destructive, stupors. None loved Bale Pinkeye, except for the few close friends that he kept, one being an orc named Zot who trundled into the bar behind Bale. “You idiot!” Zot yelled at his friend. “He said, ‘boorish,’ not ‘boring.’”

  Knowing to leave well enough alone, Nevin turned his attention back to the bard. “Look, it is quite obvious that you do not wish to accompany us on this journey. If your intentions of ‘purely historical’ observation are true, that means we will have to record many aspects of the quest. At the very least, we will have to imbibe less to keep our memories with us, which could be asking quite a bit from the three of us.”

  In unison, the three thieves pulled an extended drink from their mugs to emphasize the point.

  Not being one to leave well enough alone, Silver set his tankard down and nodded toward Zot. “Looks like more trolls are showing up.”

  Zot ambled from the bar to the thieves’ table. “I’m an orc, not a troll!”

  An uglier orc did not exist. Half as tall as any man at the table, but easily twice as heavy, Zot seemed to consist of mismatched body parts. Painted with various, uneven hues of green, the creature’s left arm was noticeably longer than his right. Cursed with a limp in his gait, either his right knee did not work or it was missing altogether, his stubby legs had the dubious task of carting around a whale’s worth of weight.

  However, it was his most obvious physical affliction that earned him the name Zot “the Snot.” The cavernous nostrils embedded in his mountainous nose were unable to hinder his body’s mellifluous secretions.

  Silver repeatedly slid his index finger down his nose, as if trying to wipe away an invisible piece of dirt. “Hey, Zot. You have a little something on your nose there. You might just want to … it’s just a little bit of … do you need a rag for that?”

  Mucilage slopped onto the middle of the table, flung from Zot’s thumb. With a snort and a sneer, the orc left the thieves to join his ogre friend.

  Diminutia reeled back from the offensive bodily fluid on the table. He turned his gaze back to the ample cleavage of the bar wench. To the bard, he said, “One third your original price is our final offer. Take it and leave.”

  Head hanging low like a child scorned, the bard scooped up the loose coins Nevin tossed in front of him. “Now … how will I contact you for your tale?”

  “We frequent this establishment. Keep coming back until you see us again. You have your coin, now be gone …”

  The bard ceased his fidgeting and, for proper appearance, gave a slight bow. Trudging away wearing a cloak of disappointment, he offered parting words. “Fare thee well, adventurers. Fare thee well.”

  Nevin turned his mead-glazed eyes to Diminutia. “I believe you have just demonstrated why I do all the negotiating.”

  “Bahh. This was not negotiation for a regular job. Plus, the bard was annoying me.” Though his vision began to blur, Diminutia snatched the map from the table the way a poison victim would grab an antidote. “This is for something much more.”

  “I say we sell it,” Silver said.

  “I say you let your good friend Pik look at it,” came from behind Diminutia.

  The three thieves jumped as one, startled by the unwelcome comment. They turned to see Pik Pox looming. Long and lanky, as tall as Bale, with smooth malachite skin, Pik Pox was a hobgoblin. His gaunt body swayed with an eerie calm, like a spider watching a fly encircling its web.

  “I’m quite good with maps,” Pik smiled, ardent eyes glittering atop Silver’s half-drained tankard of mead.

  “Someday, Pik, I’ll have your eyes strung on a necklace, but for now, hand over my alcohol,” growled Silver, angry that he didn’t notice his drink being pilfered by the hobgoblin.

  “Perhaps, human. Perhaps. I anticipate the effort.” As if to emphasize his sarcasm, Pik traded a glance between the double-headed axe that hung from his belt and the dagger that the human wore. Pik’s right hand returned Silver’s tankard, while his left hand raised a different drink, newly garnered from a neighboring table, to his slick, olive lips.

  “Well,” Diminutia began, “I’d say both suns are setting on our little reunion. And you know how dangerous it is for three honest and timid gentlemen like ourselves after dark. Be seeing you,” he concluded by casting his gaze to the ogre, implying to Pik where he should go. Still leaning up against the bar, which was bowed beneath the combination of his bulk and the weight of the half-dozen, empty tankards loitering around him, Bale waved to Pik. Yellow lips moistened in libation, lower lip stretched over one exposed tusk, Bale stood with a drink in his upraised hand. Pinky extended, he turned his attention to bawling out for another mug full of grog; an alcohol conceived by the ogre scholar Fattous Largemouth, derived by fermenting the bitter roots of the melanoid tree and the funereal leaves of the ravenberry bush, yielding a gelatinous brew of inky hue.

  “Let’s get out of here before trouble finds us,” Diminutia urged his companions. He turned to leave but found his left foot bound to the floor, a green adhesive applied liberally to his honey-leathered boot—the all too familiar work of Zot.

  “The inhuman footstool’s been at work. Do you think the bar wench could fetch some form of solvent?” he asked of his companions. While the thieves lamented in disgust, Zot, who had crept undetected under their table, flipped the planked and knotted piece of furniture at Nevin, sending the elf sprawling.

  Yanking his foot from his very expensive leather boot, Diminutia drew his dagger, ready to slice the cost of the boot from Zot’s hide. Nevin stood, wiping a trickle of blood from his lip, ready to send the orc ba
ck to whatever fecal pool rejected him. Having never been fond of any green creature, Silver readied himself to tangle with all three miscreants.

  “Now gentlemen,” Pik said, his words slid from his mouth as smooth as a silkworm’s thread. “I believe we have caused enough commotion for one evening. We are certainly more civilized creatures than this.”

  The thieves looked at each and shared the same thought—how outrageous it was for a hobgoblin to consider himself more civilized than either human or elf. However, a room full of stern and quiet eyes halted their desire to strike. They took great pride in their chosen vocation and worked hard not to be perceived as common hoodlums. “It pains me to say this,” Nevin said through clenched teeth, “but we should depart. We have quite a full plate for tomorrow, let’s not ruin our appetites tonight.”

  “Very well,” Silver mumbled.

  Anger held Diminutia’s tongue still; he showed his reluctant acceptance by simply turning away.

  Attempting to repair their image, the thieves returned the flipped table and chairs while Zot and Pik, who cared little about their image, joined Bale at the bar.

  “They’re one up on us, Nevin. They’ve never been one up on us. We have to even the score,” Diminutia said, using his dagger to cut his boot free from the sticky sludge.

  “There is a first time for everything,” Nevin replied. “Let’s just take the map and … the map?”

  “I don’t have it. Silver?”

  Silver responded by affixing his eyes upon the three green patrons, enjoying overflowing libations in between uproarious laughter, standing at the bar.

  Nevin threw the chair he was holding to the ground and started toward the bar.

  “Nevin?” Diminutia asked as he and Silver followed.

  “They’re now two up on us. That we cannot allow.”

  Nevin and Silver strolled up to the bar and stood on either side of Bale. “You know, we want to buy you guys a round of grog. Barkeep! Another round for our friends here.” Nevin made no attempt to hide the sarcasm seeping from his lips.

  Trying to hide the map, Bale’s thick fingers fumbled with it like a child trying to hide a stolen treat after being caught. “Well, uhh … that’s very nice of you. Why?”

  “We just wanted to show you that we had no hard feelings about that little misunderstanding a few moments ago.”

  Being the smartest of his seven brothers and three sisters, Bale flaunted his colloquial mastery. “I … uh … ummm …”

  “No need for words, Bale. The look on your face is thanks enough.” Nevin finished his sentence with a slight nod to Silver. Faster than a blink of an eye, both men spun, each sweeping their foot across the back of Bale’s knees. Stumbling backward, Bale flailed his arms, splashing the grog in each hand throughout the tavern, until he finally fell, reducing two tables to splinters and ruining the evening of five patrons.

  Hissing, Pik lunged for Nevin. Before the hobgoblin could reach the elf, Diminutia used his dagger to slash the thin belt that held Pik’s baggy pants fast. His pants fell to his ankles causing him to fall as well, missing Nevin. On his way down, reflex dictated he grab for the nearest object, even if it was now the barstool on which Zot sat. Pik unwittingly pulled the legs out from under the barstool, launching the orc across the tavern where he ultimately ended his journey on a nearby table, his rump lodged in a large bowl of broth.

  “That’s it!” the barkeep screamed, slamming his fist on top of the bar. “All orcs, ogres, and hobgoblins out of my tavern!”

  Collecting themselves and Pik’s ragged pants, the three that the barkeep singled out left the tavern, not caring about the room full of icy glares that accompanied them. Diminutia blew a kiss while waving the map with his other hand.

  “They’re one up on us again,” Zot mumbled as they walked through the night. “They stole back the map we stole from them.”

  “They’re always one up on us,” Bale mumbled as well.

  “Well, not this time. Ol’ Pik has a plan,” Pik said.

  “What?”

  “It’s simple. We follow them.”

  Bale and Zot cheered, Pik quickly joined, laughing and howling as well. They continued raising a ruckus down the street until Bale accidentally stepped right where a horse had recently polluted the road.

  Two

  Dearborn Stillheart awoke to the morning sun’s soft kiss against her cheek. A new day’s dawning, existence inchoate. Unthinking, she swiped sleep from her eyes, pale and serene like the morning sky on a cloudless day. Unbound and airy, she slid from beneath the blankets and strode vigorously across the exposed stone floor of her bedroom to regard the faultless form of her womanhood in her mirror, one of the privileges of freedom. Freedom. With all of its elusive and elastic clauses, one wondered at its true definition. Free to do what she could, not what she wanted.

  Azure awareness focused on her mirror, glass and steel housed within the coppered frame on the bare wall. Like the mirror, her mind was reflective, but she cast off the miscreant thoughts like anchors from a boat that did not wish to be tethered and slipped into the current of the fleeting moment. Dismiss the pessimism, she thought as she brought her gaze to bear on the countenance that the mirror reflected. Gathered beneath the gauzy nightclothes, sinews like springs and muscles of molded perfection piqued her anger as they replicated an image that defied her desired optimism. Unable to turn immediately from her mirror, her glance slid into a stare. Her soul was cast in the silvery glass as with her body—the woman she saw and the woman she hoped to see were two different people.

  Combing a few stray tresses of her lengthy hair, as black as midnight, she fixated on her contrapposto form. Substantial hips sprouted from a waist thin enough to be envied by any woman; however, their shape had not been molded by the natural process of child birth and rearing, but through training with the king’s army and clinging fast to thunderous steeds while riding into battle. From sternum to pelvis, eight abdominal muscles protruded like angry fists attempting to pound free from fleshy prison walls, and no woman in the capital city of Phenomere, maybe even the entire kingdom of Albathia, had a chest to compare to Dearborn’s. That saddened her since her cleavage was minimal, increasing only when she flexed, while the girth of her greatness consisted mostly of her forged back.

  Hands still taming hair atop her head, she focused her attention to her arms, thick enough to handle a broadsword with ease; she wondered what man could ever accept her as a wife. Then she flexed; a pronounced web-work of olive veins appeared as her biceps tightened to the hardness of stone. Even her triceps swelled, much the way they did every time a member of the troop challenged her to an arm wrestling match. But even though her arms were strong, they were never strong enough to pull her heavy heart from the deep, dark recesses within.

  “Either a career or a man,” she whispered. Her hands slid over her sheer nightwear as she hoped that her delicates were not the only distinguishable quality between her body and a man’s. But what other choice was available? Being taller and stronger than most men made her no more desirable for marriage than a legless ox for plowing a field. A life away from King Theomann’s army would allow her body to shed some mass, but then what means could make her ends meet? Even if she retired and found a man to give her his heart, could he also give her the accouterments to which she had grown so accustomed?

  Being a member of the Elite Troop in the king’s army did lead to a life of lavish luster. The finest furs adorned her bed. Tapestries of silk flowed across the walls of her room, large enough to house two small families in comfort. A hot meal was at her constant disposal, as was a warm bath. Even taxation was a burden she had not to bear. She was left wanting for nothing, save an escape from the emptiness inside.

  Her only defense against the overbearing emotions that threatened to consume her with hopelessness was to bury them behind a burly façade. This, however, required her to be bathed and dressed, something she could not manage while reflecting in the mirror’s vigilant eye. S
he turned from the sight of her own image, and the loneliness faded, evaporating behind the mental defenses of her own construction.

  Time for a bath, she decided, noting that the slant of the sun’s rays suggested that others would soon be up and about. She so despised being seen with less than her full regalia to hide the manliness of her form. She donned her silken robe, more concealing than the nightwear, and made for the warm springs, pausing only a moment outside her door to retrieve the pair of buckets affixed to a shoulder bar that were so integral to her daily ritual.

  The warm spring fountain stood a few houses from the barracks, scarcely a brief walk if she was brisk of pace. She recently discovered the joy of a long soak when she was breathless from her run to the fountain and back. She made a mental game of it, challenging herself not to spill a drop of the warmed liquid on her return trip.

  She set off at a pace that a sleek warhorse would have difficulty keeping for long. She passed Squire Bardeth’s cottage, noticing even in her haste that the freshly applied paint was a slightly darker tint than the former one, though still a quite suitable shade of taupe for a cottage amongst the canopy of Catalpa leaves that stretched across its roof. The stalks that were the tree’s beans swayed slightly in the light breeze. The gabled roof of the old cottage had a pleasing angle, but she could not help notice that the shingles needed replacement around the chimney. She wondered vaguely if the squire had noticed yet.

  Up ahead the familiar form of the widow Palna’s homestead greeted Dearborn. Palna was quite a cook and many were the mornings that some fresh baked good beckoned with its sweet scent as she passed by. Today was one of those mornings. A strong scent of apricot drifted across her path as she ran. One of these days I will stop and savor the taste behind that aroma, she promised herself.

  The remaining houses on her route passed by quickly. She noticed, however, that Perlath, the wheelwright’s wife, had replaced her pansies this year with a crop of daffodils, their yellow center beaming out to her like small suns amongst a backdrop of clouds.