The Devil's Grasp

by Chris Pisano

  The uninviting cave did not appreciate visitors. Walls danced with each other, flowing in and away, creating narrow pathways with jagged rocks meaning to scrape and cut any who passed. The ceiling flowed like a snake as well, raising high only to set up for an unexpected drop, twice using surprise stalactites to smack Mahlakore in the head. But the ground was the cruelest trickster of them all: infested with stalagmites, none tall enough to use as support when passing by, the floor rippled with holes and cracks and pits ready to ensnare an unsuspecting foot with every step. Mahlakore lost count of how many times he had twisted an ankle or almost fallen. His heart beat hard and strong from his shins to his soles. Mahlakore cursed his luck for being chosen to go on this assignment—he was a swordsman!

  However, he was surprised to see Haddaman prove his worth as a strategist. Many times when a fork in the cave appeared, Haddaman knew which path to choose, almost from instinct. A pernicious gulch almost claimed them, going unnoticed by Mahlakore, due to rock placement that caused a natural illusion, but Haddaman noticed it.

  “The shadows from the torches did not act as they should have,” Haddaman said, chest puffed, proud as a peacock. Surely the story of how Haddaman saved everyone’s lives would be repeated at the camp—by Haddaman.

  Mahlakore soon became sick to his stomach with every word Haddaman spoke. Thanks to him, they avoided every trap, dodged every trigger. Once he knew his importance, Haddaman pointed out even the obvious.

  “See how the heads have been severed?” Haddaman said, investigating a mound of decapitated skeletons. “That must mean the trap is a set of blades, so we need to find the path these blades would travel along the walls, and we’ll find the trigger point.”

  Even a child could see that! Mahlakore screamed in his own mind.

  The trek became tedious. Mahlakore understood adventures would be long, but most were seen from the top of his horse, with a pleasant battle or skirmish breaking the monotony. He did not train to have his skin rubbed raw, or his ankles pained by following a man of suspicious history through a cave! Mahlakore’s head throbbed harder than his feet every time he thought about the return trip through these caves, following the same paths to exit. He begged every god he could recall for an ending soon. He got his wish.

  After thwarting one last trap, they came upon a wall, polished smooth, with a hole as wide as his shoulders. It glowed a pale blue. Without hesitation, Dearborn crawled through first. Upon her clearance, albeit from a shaky voice filled with wonder, Oremethus went next. Not giving the only person who could find their way back out of these caves a chance to leave them behind, Mahlakore stood angry and defiant, convincing Haddaman to go next.

  Making his way through the hole, more like a tunnel, Mahlakore’s hands became as sore as his feet. His curses overflowed his mind and uncontrollably slipped from his lips with every jab to his head or scrape across his shoulders. With one final tumble, Mahlakore made it to the end, flopping on the floor of the final room.

  All four stood in amazement, unable to truly conceive what they saw. Mirrors of all different shapes and sizes lined every cragged wall, the entire uneven ceiling and floor. The room seemed larger than the mountain, an infinite illusion, but it might only be the size of an outhouse, as far as any observer knew.

  “It’s like being inside a diamond,” Haddaman whispered as he looked around. Within each facet, within every flat surface of every mirror, was the prize they sought—the Satan Stone resting on a modest pedestal.

  Oremethus blew out a lengthy sigh through pursed lips. “Try not to move too fast. We will need to be cautious. This could take hours.”

  Hours? Mahlakore shrieked in his own mind. That was not an option. They were too close to the prize to wait in this damnable mountain for hours. He decided it should take minutes.

  With a quick step, he stumbled around the room, watching his reflection appear, or disappear, depending on how he moved or turned.

  “Mahlakore!” Dearborn barked. “Get back here!”

  The young soldier focused on the myriad mirrors. He watched and studied, turning left, then right, then right again, far from his superior’s view. “’Tis simply a maze of mirrors.”

  “Nothing on this trek has been simple, young man. Let’s all take a moment to catch our breaths and formulate a plan,” Haddaman added, his words sounding sincere.

  “A plan has already been formulated. And I’m executing it riiiiiiiiiiiight … now!” Mahlakore noticed a mirror the size of a melon by his head that refused his reflection, but happy to show the stone. Thinking there was no mirror there, simply the stone, he grabbed for it. The sting of jammed fingertips rippled through his arm and he realized the mirror was set back farther than he thought, with a slight angle downward.

  “Damnation!” Mahlakore cursed, saliva frothing at the corners of his mouth. He turned to head back to Dearborn to take his well-deserved tongue lashing, but his hand did not move with him; it was still stuck to the mirror. Needing the use of his other hand, he pulled harder. His hand came away, but some of the mirror came with it.

  Stunned, Mahlakore watched as strings of the reflective glass clung to his fingertips, a silvery web. The strings then tugged, yanking his hand into the mirror itself. Never once losing its reflective clarity, the mirror oozed past his wrist, creeping up his forearm, and then pulled him in some more, submersing him to the elbow.

  “Sergeant! Dearborn!!” he cried, his voice showing his youth, cracking in panic.

  By the time Dearborn, Oremethus, and Haddaman arrived, the entire left side of Mahlakore’s body was consumed by the wall of mirrors and continued to be devoured. Without thought, Oremethus grabbed Mahlakore’s flailing right arm while Dearborn wrapped herself around his twitching leg. Both prince and sergeant screamed as they pulled, using every muscle they could call upon. Despite their efforts, Mahlakore slipped from their grasp into the wall, leaving Dearborn with nothing more than the reflection of her tear-streaked face.

  “Should have listened,” Haddaman commented, looking around at the room for some clue how to get the stone.

  Not appreciating the obvious, especially stated from Haddaman, Dearborn stood with fists clenched and the devil in her eyes. Not needing to be clairvoyant to see what was going to happen next, Oremethus diffused the situation, “Sergeant. Sergeant! Stand over there to collect your thoughts and say a quick prayer.”

  Dearborn picked up her torch and did as ordered. She prayed to have one hour alone with Haddaman. She prayed for him to find the same fate as poor, misbegotten Mahlakore. She prayed for everyone to open their eyes and see Haddaman for the treacherous snake that he was. She prayed …

  “Sergeant!” Oremethus said, disrupting her holy moment. “I have an idea how we can find the stone using a little more caution. Move about ten paces to your left.”

  Dearborn grunted in acceptance like a foot-soldier and did as she was told. Oremethus asked the same of Haddaman, then instructed him to alternately raise and lower his torch. The shadows, Dearborn thought. He’s manipulating the shadows to understand the room and where the stone might be.

  For over an hour, Oremethus orchestrated a three-person dance. Move to the right, stretch, squat. Flow to the left, bend, twist. Glide forward, spin once, twice, three times. They each moved around the room, often repeating paths they had already taken or moving to where another had once stood. The shadows danced with them.

  Even with her heart in a vice, Dearborn felt impressed with Oremethus. The crown prince remained calm and focused, even though his spoken voice was worn raw. She often tried to guess which image of the pedestal perched stone was real amid the illusions, but she was overwhelmed. She had never in her life believed herself to be anything less than intelligent, but now she found herself floundering before this riddle.

  Oremethus remained more patient than time itself. His eyes brimmed with determination, studying the slightest nuance of every shadow movement. Moving Dearborn here, moving Haddaman there, another step this way. De
arborn watched and obeyed, assuming his plan was working. He continued to experiment with the light and darkness, making sure he accounted for every contingency. Then, he stopped.

  Dearborn watched as Oremethus stood before the stone. Or was it another illusion? A mirror ready to devour the crown prince for choosing incorrectly? She knew he thought this was the stone. “Prince Oremethus? Do you think you have found it? The real stone?”

  His tongue slid across his parched lips as he wiggled his fingers, a snake ready to strike.

  Dearborn moved from her position, walking toward the prince. “I do not believe you should reach for the stone. I’m sure Haddaman would be more than happy to try for it.”

  As if no one else existed in the room, Oremethus raised his hand, fingers still wiggling, as a smile, touched with a hint of madness, slid across his face.

  Dearborn’s pace quickened. “Oremethus! Please, don’t!”

  As fast as a viper strike, Oremethus shot his hand forward and plucked the stone from its pedestal.

  Dearborn stopped in her tracks. She looked around the room, wondering what trap was tripped, what murderous device would befall upon them. Nothing, except the quickening of her heartbeat.

  Oremethus smiled, wide and bright, showing every tooth in his mouth. As if just plucking an apple from a low hanging branch, he held it between his thumb and index finger and waved it above his head. Haddaman laughed and rushed over to the prince. He clapped him on the back, dispensing with the pomp and circumstance of being in the prince’s company and shared in the celebration of an arduous task completed. Dearborn still looked over her shoulder, over her head, under her feet.

  With Haddamn’s hand on his back, the prince shined his smile upon Dearborn. “As you were saying, Sergeant?”

  “I never doubted your abilities, sir. It would have eased my mind if you let either Haddaman or me reach for the stone.”

  “Allow someone else to claim the prize after I did all the work?” Oremethus asked, sarcasm dripping from his words. He watched Dearborn lower her gaze and decided to rephrase. “This may shock you, but I do enjoy hunting boar and bear without the watchful eye of body guards. Even ones as apt as yourself.”

  Dearborn smiled at the compliment and looked at the prince and Haddaman hanging from him like a river leech. Then a chill ran down her spine when she noticed the look in the prince’s eyes—it was the same as Haddaman’s.

  “Now, let us leave this place,” the prince continued. “I wish to give this stone to General Iderion for safe keeping.”

  As they left the mirrored chamber, a second chill ran down Dearborn’s spine. Everywhere she looked, she saw Mahlakore’s eyes staring back at her.

  Fifteen

  Even a mere glance revealed the mountain range known as the Dragon’s Maw to be one of the most majestic sights a mortal could ever hope to lay eyes upon. More than one of its high perches had lanced a low-flying cloud as it tried to drift by. Many a rain-laden cloud had dropped its cargo on the other side of the range, and there was no lack of forest. However, no forest dared to cross over the peak into the desert side, giving way to a rocky soil unconducive to many living things. However, as much as Nevin wished to, he could not enjoy its beauty, only seeing the dire journey that lay before him.

  “Belhurst,” Nevin said.

  No answer. Once the wizards and thieves had made their way through the winding foothills, narrow passage ways, cliff faces, and one twisting cave to make it to the other side of Halcyon Hills to the barren land that nature scorned, The Scorched Sea, the wizards opted to rest on this plateau. One final path down from their resting spot through meager patches of pitiful brush and malnourished trees, and they could walk upon the most fearsome patch of forsaken land.

  “Typical wizard,” shot Silver, “selective hearing.”

  Nevin kept his chuckle to himself as he glanced at the prone wizards. During the entire journey, Silver tongue-lashed the wizards at every turn, admonishing them for taking longest ways possible. He even went so far as to say a team of motivated snails could have beaten them to the treasure.

  It was twilight, though the gray had been removed from the sky, chased away by the waning day sun. Sunset was breathtaking here and Nevin had no qualms relishing it a bit longer.

  “Belhurst,” the elf tried again, this time shaking the man by the shoulder. For a man who proclaimed sleep was scarce, he sure knew how to become thoroughly absorbed by it. “Who are they?”

  Nevin’s acute eyesight had noticed a small encampment in the valley below. Only a handful of tents comprised the entire camp, though there could have been a few more under some low hanging branches. At this distance, the only certainty was that two of the tents were grand. And given their isolation from civilization, Nevin’s calculating mind led him to a few assumptions he found none too pleasant. “Slavers?”

  “I still don’t think so,” Silver muttered.

  “Who else has money this far from civilization?” Nevin countered.

  “You know, Nevin, clairvoyance does require a certain amount of concentration on my part and patience on your part,” Belhurst replied at long last.

  “Sometimes survival depends on a split second, so give up the goods, man. Who are they?” Silver snapped.

  “Well, I’m afraid I’m not quite sure.”

  “What do you mean you aren’t quite sure? What kind of wizard are you exactly?”

  “Insults will nary get you the results you seek, Silver.”

  “Yes, well, neither will you,” Silver said, his face reddening with each spoken word.

  “Please open your lesson book to the chapter on patience, gentleman,” Belhurst responded, words dripping with sarcasm.

  “Look, this is getting us nowhere. I’m bored, and I’m going to take a look,” Diminutia said as he walked past.

  By the time his words registered with the arguing men, they were already staring at his back.

  “Is he truly going down there?” Belhurst asked.

  “Certainly looks as such,” Silver said, letting his thoughts trail after his friend.

  In days long past, Diminutia had divided his time amongst countless professions, trying new things in the continuous search to find the one perfect for him. He started by playing a street urchin in his youth, using his blond curls and sapphire hued eyes to pander to the pity of good folk offering free coin. He graduated to being a pick-pocket, then one half of a con-man team, and then a flat out thief, though they all lacked certain elements he sought. He wished to be bold and debonair, yet clever and skilled, all while still maintaining his code of honor. He found the niche in life he so craved once he met Nevin and Silver. With these two he was able to display all of his talents, splash all of his colors upon the canvas, as it were, and paint a portrait of himself to which he could add more.

  As he picked his way through the tall grass, trying to avoid the ruts that threatened to turn his ankles, it came to him in shocking clarity that he had never really done any true reconnaissance work. He began to sweat, from the heat he told himself, and that empty feeling in the pit of his stomach was merely a reminder that he had little to eat all day. He would never admit, not even to himself, that he was more than a little unnerved.

  “Hunters, or poachers, or just simple folk out and about,” Diminutia whispered to himself, descending to the dry desert floor. “Whoever they are, they’re probably mere peasants and can’t possibly be skilled. Don’t even need to get that close, could just climb a tree and watch them from a distance.”

  When he figured he was within earshot of the few men milling about, he began to slink, like a great cat stalking prey. He stifled a chuckle once he realized that “reconnaissance” and “thievery” demanded similar skill sets. The smell of cooking meat reached him, though faint at this distance. He could hear two of the men conversing in low tones, though he could not make out any distinct words at this range.

  Diminutia paused, watching the activities within the camp, studying each man in turn f
or clues as to their current duties and patterns. Several of the men were on guard duty, and Diminutia noted the arrangement of the perimeter they walked and the amount of time it took for each man to complete his portion of the circuit. Within the box-like shape that their footfalls created, several other men shuffled about aimlessly completing more urbane tasks. Those are the more dangerous ones, the thief reminded himself, always preferring the predictability of patterns to the erratic movements involved with random chores. Slowly shifting closer, he knew that his outfit blended with the taupe background as well as having the advantage of dusk’s shadows.

  Engrossed, Diminutia never noticed the guard until he suddenly appeared from between the squat trees a stone’s throw to his right. Good peripheral vision was a gift, and he was thankful for it. He detected the movement early and was able to hold himself motionless until the man turned away, still oblivious to the thief’s presence.

  Well now, that was interesting. Nice one, Dim, he thought, scanning the low-hanging branches over his head as he contemplated taking to the trees for added safety. He spied a stationery man hiding in the shadows off a good bit to his left. The thief crawled on his belly to the trunk of a thick Joshua tree. He was skilled at climbing, and the branches above him might be thick enough to support his weight.

  From the stealth that they displayed, Diminutia doubted that these men were slavers. Slavers tended to be coarse and not too concerned about giving away the location of their camp, believing that brute strength and sheer numbers would intimidate most would-be attackers. Nor would they have guards march a perimeter.

  Tree, rocks, or brush? Tree, rocks, or brush? Diminutia thought. The tree might not support his weight, getting to the rocks might expose his position, and the brush was perfectly uncomfortable. But thanks to his careless self-debate, he found he no longer had a choice.

  Within the crunch of dried grasses, the heel of a leather boot pinned Diminutia’s hand to the ground. Petrified by the prospect of capture, the thief stilled himself solid, nary a breath, blink, or twitch; he would have stopped the beating of his heart if he could. Shifting his eyes only, Diminutia followed the leg all the way to a man’s rump, wide enough to hide the amber streaks of the sunset. The man let out a sigh of relief, followed by the familiar splashing and smell of used ale. The man sighed again, more relief, as trumpeting sounded from his posterior. First the noise, then the stench fell upon Diminutia.