The Devil's Grasp

by Chris Pisano

  “Your Highness! I … I …,” Dearborn said, choking down the anger she felt toward herself.

  As any good prince would, Oremethus said, “I am hardly king yet, Sergeant, so no need for that title. I am more concerned about how you fare?”

  Dearborn continued to spit the foulness from her mouth, cursing the circumstance in which she must act so unseemly before a prince. “Save for my pride and an acrid taste, I am unharmed.”

  Grabbing the reins of Dearborn’s horse, Oremethus led it to her. Turning to his own horse, he fished through his satchel until he found a ragged cloth. He tossed it to her and said, “Judging from what I stumbled upon, I’d say there was an ambush while I was away?”

  After she mounted her steed, Dearborn made use of the rag to wipe away the mud and ichor. “Not quite. As we were making our way to Balford’s Bounty we spied an odd caravan. Upon investigating, the civilian gave away our position …”

  “I believe it was that same civilian who saved your life.” All eyes latched onto Haddaman as he walked toward the crown prince while Glindos and Barrett flanked him on their horses. “Right before you cast him off like a sweat-soaked shirt.”

  The tussle with the strange creature was less painful to Dearborn than Haddaman’s words. Then the situation worsened when the booming voice of Iderion came from behind her, “Is this true, Sergeant?”

  He seldom called her sergeant, and never with the angry tone she had just heard. She wished she could remove the bitter taste of his disappointment as she rubbed her tongue over the rag. “After our troops scattered, I needed to evaluate the situation. The civilian’s horse had been killed, and I felt keeping him with me would have slowed the process. I placed him in competent hands with Glindos and Barrett.”

  “This is true,” Haddaman said. “And their competent hands proved their worth, rescuing me from the clutches of an attacker.”

  The forest chilled as the waning day sun set, but Dearborn felt her face set ablaze by all the men staring at her. Embarrassment. Anger. Shame. Fatigue. She so desperately wished that the creature’s corpse could shake off death’s shroud so she may release her fury upon it. She’d even settle for a few witness-free moments alone with Haddaman behind a large tree.

  Iderion’s glare wore heavier on Dearborn’s shoulders than her armor as he commanded, “Sergeant, the civilian is now your full-time responsibility until mission’s end.”

  Not even trying to contain his smugness, Haddaman joined Dearborn on her horse, smiling the whole time. Sitting behind her he whispered into her ear, “I see we are partners again.”

  Watching Iderion turn his attention to Oremethus, Dearborn replied, “I do not understand your motivations, but understand one thing, you are not my partner.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. Your company has been the highpoint of this adventure. Plus, you need someone to pick the leaves out of your hair,” Haddaman said as his fingers went to work.

  “Do not touch me, you worm.”

  “See, that would be an impossibility. Once we go to gallop, I will need to brace myself. And since there is no other option …” Haddaman’s haughty voice trailed off as his hands slipped around her waist.

  For a fleeting moment Dearborn welcomed the idea of a man touching her so, since it had been far too many years since the last time one did. However, the thought of this man making such an intimate gesture stirred within her gut a disgust that rivaled the refuse pile of any slaughterhouse. Keeping a watchful eye on her superiors, she leaned forward and threw her elbow back, connecting with Haddaman’s nose. She hardly had the leverage to do any real damage, but a mild sense of satisfaction skipped through her body when she heard him say, “OW! My nose is bleeding!”

  Before Haddaman could demand the drama he so craved, Dearborn threw at his head the filth-soaked cloth she had just finished using. As Haddaman fought with his gag reflex, Dearborn warned, “If I hear one more word of this incident, I will be certain that rag will be the last thing you ever eat.”

  “Well, this is just wondrous. I can’t tilt my head back without holding onto something, and I fear losing an eye if I try. Is there a strap we can arrange somehow or perhaps a braid to hold? This is really gushing. Were you chiseled from granite?”

  “Enough, Haddaman,” she hissed.

  “You would make a handsome statue …”

  “I’m flesh and bone, Haddaman. Never again suggest that I am otherwise.”

  “You know, it’s a compliment. You could accept it gracefully.”

  She drew in a large gulp of air so she could launch a hostile and wordy retort, but before she could begin, Oremethus ordered Glindos to sound the horn signaling his command to regroup. The sound was taken up by several other horns, and within moments the company was assembled for inspection.

  Normally Dearborn would join Iderion in the task of examining the troops and making sure every member gave account of himself, but after their recent exchange, she settled back, her pride pricked and wounded as if she wandered through a briar patch of emotions. Iderion did not tarry for her, nor did he look to her. If he took notice of the breach of conduct, he gave no signal as he set himself to the task of inspection.

  “Two lost, Crown Prince. I request a brief moment that we may honor their valor,” the general said.

  “Iderion, take the night. The troop is weary. I scouted a path that leads to a well-traveled road. It is not a long ride, and if we leave at dawn, we’ll reach the road by mid-morning.”

  “With all due respect, my Prince, you took a considerable risk scouting ahead. It would be best if we press the advantage immediately. We will be ready to ride before an hourglass would need turning.”

  “Very well. There is no need for a disagreement in front of the men, General. I’ll take your counsel to heart. But there are three officers present, so we should vote and let the majority rule. Sergeant, what are your thoughts?”

  Dearborn had been so engrossed in her own displeasure that it did not register at first that she was being addressed. Haddaman, not wishing to miss an opportunity to create indebtedness, roused her with a quick jab of his fingers to her ribs, then whispered the prince’s question into her ear.

  “If we stay, my lord, the loss becomes stigma. We are well prepared to ride onwards. And we will benefit from better ground upon which to throw our bedrolls.”

  Oremethus held her in his gaze for a long moment. Dearborn knew without doubt that he had included her in the decision to restore her confidence and save face with Iderion. Dearborn did not look away from his gaze, signaling her thanks.

  “Consider it settled then. Take a few minutes to honor the fallen, then prepare to move.” Oremethus moved off towards a small cluster of men who had taken up a prayer for the fallen. The man who led the prayer faltered at the prince’s approach, unsure if he should allow the prince to take the lead, but Oremethus flashed him a quick gesture to continue talking as he found an unobtrusive spot in the back of the group.

  Dearborn entertained the idea of broaching the subject of their journey with Iderion to assure herself that they were back on stable ground. But as she was about to urge her horse into motion, a phlegm-filled cough from Haddaman reminded her of his unwanted company.

  Twenty feet away, Iderion sat impassively atop his horse, a roan that was massive in its own right, a head higher than her own mare. She pitied the beast as she watched its muscles jerk in reaction to the strain of Iderion’s bulk. The thought filled her with a longing to feel his full weight atop her, crushing her down into a soft pile of leaves—pinning her back into a bed swathed with soft linens and pillows …

  “So, you suggested that we move on?” Haddaman’s voice was a clarion against the stillness of a serene night. “It’s always been my experience that a thick forest offers a little more in the way of concealment than an open plain. Not to mention protection from the elements. You are exposing us to who knows what. Do you choose this path because it is wise to bridge the chasm between yourself and your super
ior?”

  “Haddaman, you are the chasm between me and Iderion. Still your tongue—swallow it if you must—but do not interrupt my period of bereavement again.”

  “You call this grieving? You haven’t even gotten off your horse!”

  “Once again, you are my tether, Haddaman.”

  “There is no weakness in grief, Dearborn. You are like no woman I have ever known.”

  “Enough,” she said with undisguised severity. “Now hold your tongue, or I’ll help you to bite it off. We ride in silence.”

  Dearborn busied herself with tightening the flaps to her saddlebags and running through mental checklists of supplies. When it was time to make camp, she wanted to be prepared.

  She could not see his face, but she imagined Haddaman smiling. Though he was not physically threatening, his mental perspicacity was sharpened to predatory precision. His insidious nature made him just smart enough to be dangerous. She could imagine him as capable of even the worst sort of betrayal, while being cunning enough to assume an innocent posture in the aftermath. She shivered as she tried to push his image out of her mind.

  From behind Dearborn, Haddaman scanned his companions as they saw to last minute preparations. Despite, or perhaps because of, their recent display of fighting prowess, he felt that he could have done far worse for himself. If nothing else, he rode with a score or more of other potential targets. Yes, he thought, his odds of survival had vastly improved since his rescue from the cellar and those abhorrent scorpions. Just the thought made his very skin crawl, and he gave a slight shudder.

  With an effort, Haddaman stilled himself and drew his thoughts back to the requirements of the present. He still had not quite figured out how to brace himself against the dual powers of inertia and gravity once the horse leaped into motion, but he was pretty convinced that holding onto Dearborn was not an open option. He resolved himself to the notion that he would have to lean back and hold the saddle as they rode, knowing full well that his reward would include pinched fingers and strained shoulders, but it could not be helped. Some precautions were necessary. Survival was often a fickle notion that alternated like the sides of a spinning coin.

  Dearborn felt him shiver behind her. She noticed for the first time the slight chill in the air. Good, she thought, let him be uncomfortable and catch a mighty cold.

  Dearborn tapped her heels against her steed's sides, readying it to move as she saw her comrades finish their prayers. She listened to Iderion as he barked out orders and announced plans, soaking in his every word with her entire body. As smooth as silk against satin, the Elite Troop reformed its caravan, this time with Dearborn taking rear flank and noticing that Iderion made no gesture for her to join him at the front, not even a stray glance back. She sighed with her whole body, not even caring how obvious she made her feelings in front of Haddaman, and settled into her mount. A rough and winding road lay before her, physically, mentally, and emotionally.

  Twelve

  No longer did the word “lines” sufficiently describe the deep furrows that assailed the face of King Theomann. They were trenches that stress had dug into his flesh. Though his father smiled at seeing him return, the effects of the strain were rapidly aging the king. This worried Perciless.

  “Father, please forgive me if this seems pessimistic, but are you well?” Perciless asked. “Though your first concern is undoubtedly for your kingdom and your people, it would not do for them to be suddenly without a king.”

  King Theomann chuckled. “Perciless, I may never have raised my family in an overly religious fashion, but I certainly never gave any of you cause to fret over the natural cycle of mortality. Your mother died when you were but a year old. You were taught to mourn out of respect and to move on out of pragmatism. This is the way of things. The people will always have a king, so it is only right that they be my primary concern.”

  “Does kinship really bear such little meaning to you?”

  “Do not mock my teachings. You know what my sons mean to me. You three are all I have left of your mother, especially Daedalus, whom she died bearing. I’ve often thought that part of her lives on in him. No more of this talk now, Perciless. Have you done as I asked of you?”

  “Yes, Father. I have met with the logistics officers at the army camps by the border and scripted their needs. Tomorrow I shall meet with the craftsmen and see to it that they are able to supply the army with the required goods in a timely manner. I’m sure I’ll need to assuage one or two …”

  “Well if anyone is more capable of persuasiveness than you, dear Brother, I’d be hard pressed to finger the individual,” Daedalus said as he entered the room with the stealth of light breeze, startling both Theomann and Perciless. His words oozed thick and sugary, clinging to anyone who listened like molasses on sweetbread. “Is there any assistance that I might offer to you in your … task … what was it again?”

  “Daedalus, dear boy, you have errands of your own to run. Perciless is quite capable of handling his own affairs,” Theomann said while reviewing the requisition order he intended to give to Perciless.

  “Father, never would I suggest otherwise. I merely wish to extend the additional vitality that my youth offers and …”

  “This is not the time for a family moment, Daedalus. There are matters of kingdom security …”

  As the praying mantis seeks to attack the soft underside of its prey, thus Daedalus sought out the weak spot in his brother’s nature. “And since we are the ruling family of said kingdom, then any discussion we have collectively serves as both family time and kingdom security. Is this not necessarily so, Perciless?”

  “Daedalus, I …” Perciless spoke with difficulty; conflicting loyalties created a lump in his throat, making speech difficult. He did not want to offend his brother, but neither did he desire to disobey his father. Perciless, of all the members of the noble family, wished to appease everyone.

  “Enough, Daedalus,” Theomann said with a weary sigh. “I must insist that these meetings be held privately. Please retire to your chambers until your appointed meeting time. If you prefer, I can have Seneschal Wainwright or Chamberlain Joudry notify you at the appropriate hour.”

  “Thank you … sire … but no. I feel that telling time is well within my realm of capabilities. Until then, Your Majesty. Prince-Brother, good day to you as well.”

  With a halfhearted bow suggesting a disgruntled nature, Daedalus turned on his heel and strode from the room. Perciless watched him retreat from the room before turning his attention back to his father. He noticed the king shoot a dismissive glance after Daedalus, but the look he received had become much more scrutinizing.

  “I wonder, Perciless,” King Theomann said, “if your head completely rules your actions.”

  His father’s eyes seemed cold and empty to Perciless. There was no familiarity in that gaze, only recognition. Was this truly what it meant to be king? Perciless wondered. At moments like this, Perciless thanked fate that Oremethus stood between him and the throne. He had never been as close to his older brother as he had been to his younger one, despite Daedalus’s inveighing manner.

  “Father, the commanders have requested a large number of goods. Will we issue credit to the craftsmen or pay them in coin?” Perciless asked.

  “More than likely we will need to levy a tax on the landowners to keep the coffers from being depleted. And since the arms are for the good of the kingdom, we will request them at lower than standard price.”

  “Forgive me, Father, but if we levy a tax on the landowners, won’t they only pass it on to the peasants? What of them? Will they not go hungry? Surely there is enough in the treasury to cover our needs.”

  “What good is food to a peasant who is not alive to eat it? A little discomfort is acceptable to ensure their safety. And we must do what we can to keep the treasury reserves high. We may pray that no war happens between Tsinel, but if it does, our prayers will do little good against their armies.”

  “If Oremethus is succes
sful and no war happens, will we make restitution to the people?”

  King Theomann pondered his son’s question as he rolled the weapons requisition order parchment. He frowned as he poured a dollop of wax to seal the overlap and sighed as he pressed it with his insignia. “Perhaps. Perhaps not. One must always plan for the future. The people of this kingdom accept our rule, and they accept our judgment. They have prospered under the hand of our family, and now it is only just that they pay for that. Our goal is to see not only the kingdom survive this threat, but also for the untold misfortunes of the next several centuries. You have your mother’s capacity for caring. Empathy is a wonderful quality, but you must show concern for the kingdom as a whole. To care for every individual is the concern of a priest, not a prince.”

  “Father, have I not completed what tasks you laid before me? Whatever my thoughts, I have always fulfilled my responsibility to the kingdom.”

  The king looked at the prince; he found both fault and perfection within the young man. He knew Perciless wanted to please everyone, but he could never seem to grasp that a horse could not be both racer and worker. Once more, the sigh of a frustrated father passed over his lips as he handed his son the sealed and stamped requisition order. “You have fulfilled your duties adequately, Perciless. Here are the requisition papers, and I know you will perform this delivery duty as well. It is obvious your studies go well, but I would see you spend more time on logic and critical thinking. You are several seasons too soft to rule, Perciless. In the meantime, I thank the gods for Oremethus’s lack of naiveté. He will see our kingdom through these difficult times should it be required of him. I am tired now, Perciless. Leave me to my tasks so you may do yours. Think on what I have told you, and decide where your future lies. I have tried to be a good father to you, but I must always be your king first and foremost.”

  “I understand. As you wish, Father,” the frustrated prince mumbled as he left the chamber, giving nary a glance back to his father.