The Devil's Grasp

by Chris Pisano

  The rectangular area had been partitioned from the rest of the area by heavy cords bearing banners of alternating blue and silver. Before he ducked beneath the ropes, Daedalus caught the attention of the sergeant of arms, Pendrick, a squat man with a jutting jaw and impossibly large forearms that seemed to be covered with fur, instead of hair.

  “Guard,” Daedalus hissed, waiting until the sergeant turned to face him before continuing. “Admit none except by noble birth. Let the rest watch from a respectable distance.”

  Stolid and bowing with as much formality as his brutish figure would allow, Pendrick replied, “As I have been commanded, Your Highness.” Pendrick moved off, issuing his commands, administering punishment where adherence was not immediate and precise.

  Daedalus turned to regard the center of the field. A large tree, felled but not stripped, lay horizontally across the field, suspended waist high, supported at either end by a large rock carved to hold the bough securely. No one had ever bested the young prince at this event, including his brothers. He circled the great log, examining every nuance and flaw, noting several places where the bark was loose and an unwary opponent might lose his balance. After several minutes of intense scrutiny, he sought out Sergeant Pendrick. “Let them in. And have my quarterstaff brought out.”

  “As I have been commanded, Your Highness.”

  Several noble children crowded around, pushing for a good view only to be parted by three guards bearing an elaborately carved box of dark mahogany. As they neared the partition, Pendrick moved out to meet them, taking the case and, with a movement that signified formality, offered the case to Daedalus. The great box opened easily, and the young prince snatched greedily at the quarterstaff held within. A stout piece of oak, it stood eighteen hands high and was thick as a wrist, with both ends butted in a cap of hammered bronze.

  Weapon in hand, Daedalus mounted one end of the log, facing the western end where his opponent would be allowed to ascend. Being well before noon, the morning sun would be in his opponent’s eyes. Home field should carry some advantage, after all. For the moment, he claimed the spotlight as his own and despised relinquishing it before he could duly appreciate it. A warm breeze teased his ear like the breath of a lover departed and found again. A chill swept through the air leaving his cheek as cold as if resting against a stone wall. …

  “… Daedalus!” Perciless cried, snapping his younger brother’s attention from then to now. Daedalus found himself out of balance, his cheek resting against the stone wall of the hallway.

  Grasping his brother by his shoulders, Perciless helped him regain his balance. “Daedalus, how fare you?”

  “I shall be fine,” Daedalus replied, wresting himself free from his brother’s grip.

  “These fainting spells of yours have us all concerned.”

  “I do not faint, Perciless! My body sometimes is unable to handle the fire of my passion mingling with the ice of my intellect.” He paused to wipe sweat from his brow. “Now if you will excuse me, I need a quick splash before I meet with others.”

  “But …”

  “I wish to look my best, Perciless. Head along now, I assure you I shall not be tardy.”

  By the time Daedalus reentered his chamber, he was halfway stripped. Modesty be damned, he thought as he left his chamber door wide open and stood completely without clothing, pouring a pitcher of water into a basin. With an obsessive vigor, he swirled the soft fibers of his washing brush over his left shoulder, then his right. And repeated. And again. After all, his brother’s hands had touched countless peasants over the decades, making them no less sanitary than that of a peasant itself.

  Donning a new tunic, even new robes, Daedalus strode from his chamber into the hallway. His step hastened as he neared the meeting room; all eyes turned to him upon his entrance.

  The size of the chamber was incomprehensible to the average peasant. The table, a rectangular slab of slate sliced from Mythos Mountain itself, sat in the center of the room, patiently awaiting any and all meetings. From the vaulted ceiling a chandelier hung. Dozens of small oil wells set within elaborate arrays of hand cut crystal evenly disbursed the light to radiate about the entire room with ease. Statues stood guard around the perimeter of the room like stone sentries, all representing Albathia’s greatest citizens. Generals stood by philosophers, as artisans intermingled with warriors, each tenfold larger than the individual it immortalized.

  As casual as if no one were there, Daedalus took his seat next to Perciless, whose perplexed gaze went unnoticed. “I assume I have not missed much?”

  “Not at all, Son,” King Theomann said from the head of the table. “We had just exchanged of few pleasantries and …”

  Daedalus’s interest quickly vanished as his sight swept across the others at the table, a veritable who’s who of whom he loathed. At table’s head was master, the puppeteer, King Theomann. Seated at both perpendiculars were his first and second born whelps, close enough to the puppeteer as to not strangle themselves on their own strings.

  Across the table, seated next to Oremethus, was General Iderion Irskine. Daedalus bore no ill will toward the general, the worst thoughts he could muster being the general’s undying loyalty. However, his loyalty belonged to the throne, no matter who sat in it.

  But there she was, next to Iderion, close to the top of Daedalus’s hate list. Trying to fight it, just looking at her propelled Daedalus back to a time she probably did not remember, a time he could never forget …

  … The midsummer festival. There he stood, barely across the threshold of adolescence, at one end of the log with quarterstaff in hand. His first opponent made his way atop the other end of the log. Daedalus cared not to know his name; he simply regarded his opponent by his place in life, the son of the jeweler. Knowing where his opposition fell in nature’s hierarchy was the only information needed. As expected, the jeweler’s son had a fighting style based on finesse, having spent many long hours with a steady hand setting all sorts of stones in gold and silver stands. However, his strength held his weakness. With perfect precision, Daedalus threw a blow—easily blocked—then retreated a step, threw a blow, retreated, and continued until the jeweler’s son grew confident, until he stepped forward when Daedalus did not withdraw. Putting the full weight of his body behind two quick strikes, the young prince smashed all eight exposed knuckles of the jeweler’s son, the sparse crowd winced in unison at the noise of cracking bone. Daedalus dealt the finishing blow, leaving a scarring gouge in his opponent’s forehead, as callously as swatting away a fly.

  Strutting to Daedalus’s end of the log came Tallon and Tallia, twins sired by his father’s sister. Adolescents at the time as well, they were also two of Daedalus’s greatest supporters, a brother and sister who shared the same fate as their cousin—to be unseen in history’s eyes due to birth right. And they accepted their fate as well as he did.

  “Well done, Cousin,” Tallia said, offering a cloth to Daedalus for his shimmering brow. He refused by ignoring her gesture.

  “He was but the first match, Tallia. However, I do feel the rest shall end just the same,” Daedalus replied.

  “We shall stand firm behind you, Cousin,” Tallon said. “As we always have.”

  The second match was with the son of a baker, this particular baker created such pastry that could only be enjoyed by the wealthy and regal, allowing him title of nobility.

  Daedalus accurately assessed his opponent’s strengths: strong legs from long days of standing, fingers like a vice from years of kneading thick dough, yet a skilled touch from carefully crafting crusts and candied cakes. But Daedalus also calculated correctly his weakness: sore shoulders from ceaselessly slouching over countertops all day long. A few well-placed strikes put the baker’s son on the ground. The victory was far less vicious than the prior; Daedalus was fond of the baker’s candied cakes.

  The third opponent fell even faster, then the fourth, the fifth, and the sixth. One victory blurred into the next. He was unstoppable, d
efeating all who stepped upon the log, some twice, the longest bout a blink over two minutes. And the people noticed.

  A crowd formed, first of nobility, but the peasant curiosity overwhelmed Pendrick’s ability to keep order. The penury of the peasant throng assaulted the prince’s senses as if a mange stricken canine had befouled a kitchen floor; however, Daedalus coped, as long as they minded their place: in the dirt looking up at him. And if a peasant wandered too close to the contest and took a shot from a stray staff strike, then what could he do? They should know better.

  All went well for the prince, taking the respect he felt due to him. Tallon and Tallia led the crowd with chants during competition and cheers after victory. Then she came.

  The daughter of a blacksmith, quarterstaff in hand, took the other end of the log. Blacksmithing was a commoner’s job in Daedalus’s mind; however, her father fitted the army and shod the horses of the wealthy, earning the king’s nod for nobility. Although she had an angel’s beautiful face, she had the hard, lean body of a warrior. He knew her age to be around his, yet her size dwarfed his oldest brother.

  Why is she doing this? he thought. To mock me? Belittle me? Unbeknownst to him, her heart had led her to the end of the log. She desired to get closer to one she had only seen from afar. She had no intention of winning, simply to earn his respect by lasting longer than any of the other competitors.

  The battle began, and he charged toward her, staff swinging, hoping to make short work of her. This was no place for a commoner and certainly never a place for a woman, no matter how capable. Determined to make an example out of her in case other undesirables had thoughts of mimicking her nonsense, he unleashed a flurry of thrusts and jabs. To his dismay, she parried them all with ease. Every blocked strike or dodged swing would send explosions through his heart. But when he heard more of the crowd cheer her name, her name, over his, ire welled deep within his soul the way unattended broth would boil over a kettle.

  More strategy was afoot at that moment than just the match. Unhappy with the happenings, and fearful of the outcome, Tallon and Tallia decided to take matters into their own hands. Making their way closer to the bout, they inspected the crowd, scrutinizing each individual until they found exactly what they sought—Perciless, a dupe they could use to disrupt the match, forcing an early end with no winner.

  Slinking closer, Tallon and Tallia positioned themselves behind Perciless, who stood rather close to the action. Too close. Each giving a subtle shove, they knocked the young, gawky prince off balance. They merely wanted him to interrupt the fight, but the prince’s own clumsiness dictated that he reach for the closest object—the log, right by the feet of Daedalus. Distracted by the happenings, Daedalus took his eyes off his opponent just as she made a ferocious strike, connecting the end of her staff with the small of his back …

  … Daedalus snapped from his intense recollections with a mild jolt. Only his brother, Perciless, noticed him jump. Even to this day, Daedalus remained unaware of his brother’s innocence and returned a murderous scowl, his hatred renewed by the memory of his witless cur of a brother ruining an opportunity for greatness.

  Forcing himself to stay focused and not stray back down yesteryear’s path, Daedalus could not help but casually rub the small of his back. The shot he took from Dearborn was one he would never forget. It pained him to urinate for a full week after.

  “As I was saying,” King Theomann droned on. “Oremethus, with the help of General Irskine’s Elite Troop, will do whatever is necessary to find these stones of legend. This kingdom has known its share of strife, but it was founded upon the principles of freedom, and we must not allow anything to jeopardize what the scions have passed to us. I know many of you view the tales of these stones as hokum. I myself wonder were the history ends and the fairytale begins. However, the country of Tsinel whispers war. We have been receiving an alarming number of reports from our border farms and villages of larceny and murder committed by those living in Tsinel, yet when we implored our neighbor to investigate, the appointed members of Tsinel’s army acted worse than the criminals they sought. I wish not to wage war with our neighbor—it would be disastrous to our way of life. If we obtain these stones, even if they do not possess the mystical powers of legend, we may be able to win the war before it begins by proclaiming they do have powers. In addition, I have heard many a rumor of The Horde questing for the stones as well. If The Horde were to find them … there are those thoughts that a man ought not to have, much less lend voice to.”

  Daedalus attempted to stay focused on the words of his father, but found that he was unable to pay heed to the incessant droning of patriotism that spouted forth from his father’s beard-enshrouded lips. His mind wandered, and as it did, his body seemed to play its own part in his distraction: an itching around his left foot grew more persistent the more he tried to ignore it, lest he be seen as a fidget. But the seconds crawled by slowly much like an insect crawling across his skin.

  With as little motion as possible, he stretched a hand down to claw at the offending area. As his fingers scraped across the tight golden skin on the top of his foot, they ran across an object that was certainly foreign to his body. He ran his fingers across the thing, his brain recognizing the shape as oval and hard, a shell. Before he could discover more, the object darted away.

  Attempting to appear interested in the conversation, Daedalus gazed at his father as the king spoke. “Perciless, you will assist me in getting the command post ready, seeing to the general readiness of the troops, and the early stages of planning. I do not want the citizens of our kingdom to recognize their king as preparing for war. With you as my liaison, all will seem to be routine inspection and an aging king passing on some of the burdens of stewardship to his maturing son.”

  Intrigued by the feedback from his fingers, Daedalus risked a glance under the table. All seemed as it should be, but as he stretched his legs, which had been crossed at the ankles, a patch of blackness crept off the leather strap of his right sandal and began to ascend his leg.

  Brown if yes, black if no. The statement swam before his eyes as if printed on paper. He had sent the brown messenger back to its master to indicate that their plans should proceed. The black one must have gotten loose and hidden in the cuff of the robe he had changed into when Perciless had sullied the first set! He must not allow anyone to see!

  “Daedalus, my son, you will …”

  At this, Daedalus clutched at his forehead with his left hand and made a groaning noise. He slouched in his chair to garner a more advantageous view beneath the table. Offering another moan as distraction, he slapped his sandaled foot against the floor, but missed his scuttling target. Another moan, another twist of his body, and another stomp. This time his action was met with reward, the crushing of the scorpion. Panting from his feigned spell, Daedalus gripped his chair and pulled himself straight, dragging his sandal across the ground, smearing all evidence of the squashed arachnid.

  Perciless was the first to his brother’s side and helped him to his feet, supporting the majority of his weight as Daedalus overacted the part of someone stricken lame.

  From his seat at the head of the table, King Theomann sighed, a mixture of concern and relief. Though disconcerting, this was the perfect opportunity to relieve his son of responsibility and ensure that he would be safe and at hand. “You, Daedalus, will seek physical care …”

  Four

  The town of Freeman’s Way was a humble town, a town where one could lead a fruitful, yet modest, life. The lone road wound its way from the south, as the town was flanked on the east and the west by fertile farm land fit for livestock or crop, crowned on the north by lush forest in which both hunting and gathering were always plentiful. Freeman’s Way had one of every shop necessary to get one through the day. There were even a few taverns; enough to keep the populace satisfied after a hard day, but not enough to attract rapscallions, such were the tendencies of most isolated towns. This one even had a few retired adventurers,
boasting quite often of their terrific tales and their unbelievable findings. Within this circle of retirees, a few claimed to be experts in antiquities and all forms of art and weapon, no matter how rare or arcane. That was now why the town lay in rubble, besieged mere hours prior. The buildings, more than half, were burnt to point of collapse. A majority of the citizens littered the streets dead or dying, the survivors stumbled around dazed, mystified by the happenings, confused as to why a wrath such as this fell upon their humble town. All except one.

  In the center of town stood the remnants of an antique shop. The eastern wall was largely intact, as was a portion of the roof. The rest of the above-ground structure had burnt and crumbled. Undetected by hastily scanning eyes, the floor beneath the rubble had remained completely intact. Made of good hardwood and reinforced from below, the floor covered the secret catacombs beneath the shop where the proprietor conducted some of his more illicit activities. Haddaman Crede hid in these catacombs, while the last vestiges of local civilization struggled on. Ever the coward, when the first screams rent the stillborn air, Haddaman crept below ground and prayed for the violence to pass. His throat tightened at the weeping of women and his voice almost betrayed him at the wailing of infants, but the sound of his own terror pounding in his brain frightened him back into silence.

  Once a hush had fallen and the cacophony above had been replaced by the staccato of his heart, he made to creep back into the light of day, but as he reached for the trap door above, a small scorpion squeezed through the narrow crack around the door frame and dropped onto his outstretched hand, scurrying for the cover of his sleeve. Only the lightning-fast reflexes of a coward prevented it from doing so. He flailed his arm; the scorpion sailed to some corner and was lost in the depths of the darkness. He lacked the courage to look for the pest and sat himself upon a dusty table, all the while hoping that scorpions were not as adept at climbing as other, less poisonous insects. Pulling his legs to his chest and hugging them, he hoped for a miraculous rescue.