by Chris Pisano
Nevin grabbed Diminutia’s arm and gave a squeeze, letting his ignorant, human friend know he did not display the proper social grace. “We should let them grieve for their perished comrade, my oafish friend.”
“Perished?” Diminutia asked. “But he’s still moving.”
Moxxen slowly writhed on the ground, black veins like calligraphy on his papery, ashen skin. His hacking gurgles brought unease to the thieves’ stomachs.
Follen started to chant and gesture, while Grymon waved his arms and, despite his wooden leg, moved with the elegance of a dancer as he talked to the heavens. Belhurst would have joined them if not for the tip of Silver’s dagger. “Wizard, we want answers and we want them now!”
“Very well, you impatient dolt! We were attacked. Attacked by the demons sworn to protect the Shadow Stone, the stone we possess. They are creatures of a darkness none of you could possibly fathom. Fire burns their flesh worse than it would you, and bright lights cause them quite a bit of discomfort. And one such creature is attempting to possess Moxxen.”
“Light? It’s dawn soon. We simply leave him be and that’s the end of that.”
“The whole point of a demon possessing a human is for the benefits of the host body. In this case, protection from light.”
“Nevin and I were both touched by these … shadow demons before the ambush. Are we to share a similar fate?”
“No. Demons can only possess the tainted. We wizards have all touched the stone, you thieves have not …”
Grymon and Follen chanted louder as Belhurst made one final sweeping gesture. The luminescent mist made from glowing worms to ward off the attackers congealed and funneled to a pinpoint right on the tip of Silver’s dagger. When finished, the dagger glowed with a brightness a full moon would envy.
“You have bedeviled my dagger!” Silver yelled.
“No,” Belhurst said. “Merely turned it into a useable weapon. Now drive it through Moxxen’s chest.”
“Are you daft? I hardly like you wizards, but I can’t murder one of you!”
“You had that very tip to my throat seconds ago!”
“Yes, but you were infuriating. You kill him if the deed needs done so badly.”
“I can’t.”
“Ha! Then why do you speak with me in disapproving tones when you can’t bring yourself …”
Belhurst cut him off by snatching the dagger from his hand. No sooner than he did, the glow faded to nothing. “Your blade is enchanted now. None here, save you, can use it.”
Belhurst emphasized his point and expressed his contempt by giving it back, jamming the hilt into Silver’s chest.
“So enchant another weapon!” Silver refused to lose this argument.
“The mist that fended off the other demons, and what enchants your blade, is ground moonworm, which we have just depleted.”
Before Silver could admonish the wizard’s lack of forethought, the sounds of snapping bone brought his attention back to Moxxen. Both of his legs twisted and stretched, flopping like eels on dry land. The possessed wizard rolled, his chest and face touched the ground while his ever-expanding legs continued to whip about.
“Do it, Silver,” Nevin yelled, brandishing his own daggers even though he knew they would be of little use against whatever possessed Moxxen.
“Very well,” Silver said, his face contorted with anger and disgust.
He approached with the dagger pointing down, ready to drive it through the possessed wizard’s back. Moxxen’s hands clawed at the dirt as if he tried to push himself up from the ground. The thief raised the dagger, but stopped, shocked to see the wizard’s head turn all the way around to look at him. The brutal noises of muscle tearing and bone shattering froze Silver in his tracks. Just as he regained his senses, Silver thrust downward only to be stopped by a pair of gruesome, gnarled hands that formed from the wizard’s elbows. One hand struck the dagger from Silver’s grip; the other sent the thief flying backwards.
Black bile oozed from Moxxen’s mouth as the demon inside commanded the husk to rise. And reshape. Bones were now merely sticks to add a loose frame to a child’s kite. Moxxen’s prominent ribcage expanded and pressed against the bubbling skin, forming a set of sideways jaws. Moxxen’s legs divided and divided again, forming thick tentacles. Intrigued by the use of hands, the demon inside rearranged Moxxen’s skeleton to create a dozen more pairs, gripping and snapping, jutting from makeshift arms all over his body.
Shouting erupted from all corners of the little camp as wizards and thieves slid slowly from disbelief into hysteria. Follen did his best to rush to Silver’s aid, hobbling to stand over the fallen man, an incantation on his lips. Nevin noticed that Grymon had maneuvered himself in front Belhurst and did likewise.
Without taking his eyes off the ever-changing form of the erstwhile Moxxen, Nevin called back to Belhurst. “What now, wizard?”
“I’m not sure, Nevin.”
“What do you mean …?”
“This has never happened before. We always theorized that it might, but our discussions never evolved beyond the argumentative phase.”
“That’s just lovely,” Nevin spat.
“Perhaps if we …”
The thought hung uncompleted on the thick air of the night as the being that had been Moxxen began to rise. Twice as long as an ogre stands, the multi-armed monstrosity used its newly formed tentacles to lurch into motion and cover ground faster than anything bred for speed. It was on Follen quickly, and a casual back handed slap sent him flying through the air to land akimbo at Nevin’s feet.
“Nevin!” Silver, who had just struggled to his feet, was snatched up in the air before he could turn to flee and thrown skyward by the beast as if he were an empty rucksack, his limbs flailing like unfastened shoulder straps. He landed in an outcropping of dense brush, bruised and barely conscious, but alive.
From the other side of the camp, Grymon gestured furiously. No sooner had his first invocation, a fan of searing flames that erupted from his fingertips, proved ineffective than he had begun a second spell, a torrent of jagged hail. To the wizard’s chagrin, this attack proved equally fruitless. From behind him, Diminutia had produced a pair of wickedly sharp daggers that he hurled into the maelstrom of fire and ice. The demon, anticipating such attacks, had constructed a chitinous exoskeleton over its bulk so the blades menaced nothing more than the ground.
“Belhurst, we’re in trouble here,” Nevin yelled. Think, man!”
“Retrieve the enchanted dagger!”
“And you propose I do that how?”
“I will distract the creature. Get the dagger to Silver.”
“Truly?”
“Go now, Nevin.” That being said, Belhurst pushed the thief into action. Nevin stumbled toward the dagger while Belhurst called out to the creature.
“Creature of the abyss, I command you to return thence!”
“By what … right … do you … claim … dominion … over me, mortal?” the monster growled, using Moxxen’s mouth.
Belhurst drew forth the obsidian stone from the depths of his pocket and held it aloft.
“Ah, yes … give … it to me …”
In a blur of motion, the creature covered the score of yards to the wizard’s side. With similar celerity, Nevin raced across the campsite, scooping up the glowing dagger as he passed its resting place. Then he made a headlong dive at the prone form of Silver.
“Silver! Get up man!”
“Nevin!” Diminutia shouted from across the campsite. “Get a move on!”
Looping his arm under Silver’s, Nevin struggled to get them both to their feet. Diminutia rushed to their collective side to lend his own support, the third leg of a tripod.
Across the way, the demon had taken Belhurst in hand and raised him a dozen feet off the ground. Another one of the beast’s hands was near the wizard’s temple. Four of the digits on the hand were retracting into its “skin” as the middle one elongated into a flesh and bone spear, its intention to lance
him apparent even through the excessive drool formed by its cackling. Belhurst did his best to keep the beast fully focused on him with taunting words, but the creature gave him intermittent squeezes, making prolonged speech impossible. Though the stone in the wizard’s left hand was clearly the object of its desire, the demon seemed quite intent on making the wizard suffer unto death.
“Silver,” Nevin said, “can you stand on your own? You have to stab that thing.”
“I can stand, but wobbly. And my vision is a tad blurred.”
“Right. Follen, can you levitate us?”
No verbal response came, but within an instant Silver and Nevin, locked together by their limbs, began to rise. Diminutia drew his dagger and watched as his friends took flight. Unnerved by not being able to contribute, he stood ready, his eyes bouncing from the creature to his sky-bound comrades.
“Not too high now. The goal is to break the creature, not us,” Nevin called down to Follen.
A wry smile crossed Follen’s crooked mouth, but still he did not answer, focusing on the spell. When they were in position, a man’s height above the center of the beast, Nevin whispered to Silver, “Aim well.”
“As well as I can.”
“I see … you … up there!” the creature moaned, eyes forming from bubbling sores on its back.
“Lovely,” Silver muttered.
“It matters … little. As you … can see… I have … the stone!”
“And as you can see, demon, you are mistaken,” Belhurst said. Gasping, he uttered a phrase and flicked outward a black powder he had hidden in his other hand. The wizard’s corpulence dissipated, his body turning into a fine mist that slipped through the demon’s hands. Belhurst escaped, taking the stone with him.
Seeing that Belhurst’s maneuver distracted the demon, Follen released the two floating thieves from his spell and allowed gravity to work its own magic. In an act of self-defense, Silver put his hands below himself, still holding onto the dagger. As he impacted with the creature, the blade buried itself deeply into its flesh, searing its way even deeper until it was lost from his grasp. Nevin wrestled with the flailing arms and tentacles, hoping to give Silver the time he needed. The demon’s skin peeled away in a frothing boil everywhere the blade sliced. Acrid smoke and death cries filled the air as the demon twitched and bucked spasmodically for several minutes.
“Well then. That was certainly entertaining,” Diminutia said after the creature delivered its last twitch.
“Not now, Dim,” Nevin said. He walked over to the sullen trio of wizards and asked, “What is our next course of action?”
Without moving his eyes from the fell demon, once his friend, Belhurst replied, “First, allow my brethren and me a few moments to mourn. Then we will do what we can to cast more spells to hide the stone’s presence from the shadow demons and continue our quest. Morning comes, so we have nothing to fear from them at the moment.”
Nevin turned to the horizon to see the rising morning sun and wondered how his fate fit into the new day.
Ten
Bogosh was commonly referred to as a “creature town”—a town whose population consisted of more nonhumans than humans. However, Bogosh was hardly the nightmarish image many cloistered humans might envision. Certainly, there were far fewer cobbled roads, and nary could a domicile be seen that was not in a state of ramshackle disrepair. But appearance was subjective. Instead of a home built from tinder and twigs with thatching for roof, many inhabitants found comfort in a hollowed out hill or knoll, topped by wild grasses and heather. Many other houses were thick, clay domes that had one opening to allow the owners and visitors to enter and a second opening in the roof to allow smoke to leave. The insulation of such a structure was far superior to wooden boxes pocked with joints and windows that made heat preservation during the depths of winter a losing battle.
Main streets were lined with posted oil lamps, just as any other town, maintained by those who were elected to do so. Orcs and goblins and trolls were neighbors not nightmares, offering what they could for the community, including smiles and courteous conversations when required. Compliments were given about the state of a yard, mud not grass, or the progress of a garden, thistle-berry not rose. For an observer who could see beyond the bitter rind to the sweet citrus it covered, it was plain to see life in Bogosh was no different than the town in which they themselves resided.
The populous of Bogosh was not restricted to creatures other than human. However, any human living in a creature town had neither the riches of royalty nor the beauty of fable characters. Those who received scoffs and jeers on the streets of human-only cities received comfort or anonymity in a creature town if they so inclined.
One such human was the bard. With the facial features of a sloppy boar, the Withered Wart Tavern was one of the few public establishments where his appearance would not catch a discerning eye. He spent more than a fortnight huddled in solitude at a table close to the tavern’s main entrance, nursing many an ale. He had a tale to tell, yet could not seem to find the right audience. Those who needed to hear the tale had to be born of adventuresome stock, with the occasional proclivity to turn a blind eye to better moral judgment now and again. The tavern seemed the logical place to start. Unfortunately for the bard, many of the clientele had noble motivations, like hard work and family, none who might bend in the howling winds of temptation.
As fate would have it, just as the bard contemplated settling up his tab and turning in for the night to dream of traveling to the next town at sunrise, four creatures entered, cut from the very cloth he wished to embroider. He could sense it. More specifically, he could smell it. The bard was a very well-traveled man, it would be impossible to be a bard and not have seen much of the world, and he recognized that smell. These four had recently been to the Fecal Swamps.
Bale Pinkeye, the ogre, Pik Pox, the hobgoblin, Zot, the orc, and Phyllis Iphillus, the satyr, entered the tavern. All eyes turned toward them, but at the speed of smell, all noses turned away. A few nearby patrons placed the appropriate coin, with overly generous tip, on the table and scurried away from the foul miasmas surrounding the four. Never passing up a gifting opportunity, Bale and his cronies immediately sat at the table. Not only did the serving wench assigned to the table offer to forfeit claim to the coin, she tried to convince, then plead, then argue with the other wench to take the befouled customers. Two pixies happened to fly too close to Bale on their way out; their wings shriveled as if an invisible flame had melted them. After a precipitous fall to the floor, they supported each other as they staggered from the tavern the way two drunken loons would. However, their night would continue at the apothecary and end at the nearest abbey.
His hope renewed for finding someone to do his bidding; the bard listened with vigor to their conversation.
“The Fecal Swamps!” Bale moaned. “Damn those thieves! And those wizardy guys! We can find the Fecal Swamps well enough on our own without those guys sending us there!”
Being easily duped is exactly the characteristic I was hoping for, the bard thought, unable to halt a smirk from forming.
“Yeah, it’s really not as funny as they think,” Pik said. The consoling tones of his voice were lost on Bale. “How did those wizards know to send us there anyway?”
Wizards? Thieves? the bard thought. Could it be?
Thinking about Pik’s comment, Bale tilted his head to one side, then tilted it to the other as if trying to drain water from inside his head. “I still say the thieves told them to do that! I don’t trust them. Especially that Nevin.”
Great fortune! The bard could barely contain himself. Taking a closer look at the motley group, the bard realized he knew this group. Or at least he had seen them before … at the tavern with the thieves. His thieves!
Phyl placed his hand on Bale’s forearm and did his best to console the ogre, “Bale, it didn’t seem like Nevin or the others knew the wizards. I don’t think they told the wizards anything. How could they?”
&n
bsp; The ogre’s eyes fixated on Phyl’s hand. For the life of him, Bale could not figure out the purpose of the gesture. He was so confounded, that he did not hear a single word the satyr said. Bale abruptly stood, taking his forearm with him, and said, “I’m gonna get an ale.”
Almost giddy, the bard bided his breath as the ogre approached the bar, needing to pass by his table first. Waiting, almost lurking, he sat as the ogre came closer. Closer. Closer. And like a spider whose web just snared a fly, he sprung.
“Ho, dear ogre,” the bard called to Bale.
Bale stopped midstride and looked about only to find a grinning bard sitting at a table. Unaware that he was the lone ogre in the tavern, Bale pointed to himself and mouthed the word, “Me?”
“None other,” replied the bard.
“Oh, sorry,” muttered Bale. “I thought you meant me,” he concluded before turning away from the mongrel-looking human.
“Wait, mighty fellow. Yes, yes, I meant you! Why, no other within these confines possesses the skills and attributes I see manifest in you.”
Bale began to pat at himself nervously. “I’m infested? Infested with what?” he exploded.
“No, no, my humorous friend. I mean you are exactly what I am looking for.”
“Umm, yeah, well I have a friend named Phyl over there who might intermingle such an idea. Who would have thought my good looks would be a curse?”
“Please, my colossal companion, have a seat. You misunderstand me. Let me get you an ale while you listen to a proposition I have for you.”
“I think I understand you perpetually well. You think I’m dumb, but I know well enough what it is to be propositioned. And I want no part of it!”
“What? No! No, no, no. I’m not propositioning you. I have a job for you.”
“I’ll bet you do …”
“All I’m asking you to do is listen to a story while you drink a mug of ale that I bought for you.”