The Devil's Grasp

by Chris Pisano

  By all the gods real and unreal! What manner of food could this man have eaten to produce such a rot? Diminutia yelled inside his head. The cascade continued far longer than the thief thought possible. Twisted images of needing to build a boat to survive the impending flood or life sprouting forth in the desert from this one lone drunkard danced through Diminutia’s head. The flow slowed to a trickle, then to a stop. With a rumbling belch for final punctuation, the man strode back to camp.

  Ire welled deep within the thief. Plans changed. What started as a simple reconnaissance now became a quest for pride. Diminutia was now going to steal something; something big, something that would be sorely missed once the suns came back above the horizon.

  He skulked through the grasses and brush, careful to avoid the newest man-made lake, creeping within spitting distance of the camp’s first tent. This tent sat farther away from the others, aloof in design as well as distance. Thicker than the others, Diminutia could barely see the glow of a lit oil lamp as opposed to the full silhouettes he saw through the thin cloth covering of the others. Treasure tent? he wondered. Naah. Too foolish a placement. I’ll move over … whoa! He interrupted his own thoughts once he finally got a good gander at his surroundings.

  Even though the day sun had now set, the campfire shined quite a bit of light on Diminutia’s situation. Swords. Shields. Bucklers. Quivers choking on arrows. Armor of all kinds. And the king’s insignia touched them all. Soldiers. The men milling around the fire, tearing their dinner from its bones, were all heartier than the average soldier.

  Run away, Diminutia thought. Run away now. Just as he thought to shift, he was almost stepped on again. By the same boot. Attached to the same rump. How can a man the size of a horse move as a mouse?

  Were he more of a bandit and less of a rogue, he’d have slit the large man’s throat! However, he was more of brain and less of courage to act upon such a foolhardy impulse. Plus, intrigue demanded he watch the theater play out before him as the soldier stopped in front of the tent’s entrance.

  Curious, Diminutia thought as he watched the soldier. The large man looked as nervous as a schoolboy, anxiety seeping from his eyes. He ran his hands through his tangled hair and bushy beard in what looked like attempts to either comb or shoo rodents from their nests. Rapping on the tent’s post, the man sucked in his prodigious gut, which did little for appearance, and whispered, “Sergeant? Dearborn? You awake?”

  “Yes, General?” Dearborn replied from within the tent.

  General? This fattened ox is a general? And a woman is sergeant of such a fiercely armed group of soldiers? You sure know to chase a rabbit into a serpent’s pit, don’t you, Dim? the thief chided himself. However, he could not see the sergeant from his vantage point, only the nervous general. He stretched his neck as best he could, but saw nothing more than a hand flip open the tent’s flap.

  “Sergean … Dearborn. I’ve … I’ve been on edge this mission. More so than usual, because of Prince Oremethus. I am a professional, and his being here should not affect me so, especially in the forest when we were attacked …”

  “General, please. I acted inappropriately,” Dearborn cut him off. “You should have said nothing different.”

  “Be that as it may, my words filled me with regret. You are my best soldier, even more.”

  “More?”

  Diminutia rolled his eyes. The implications of the conversation were obvious in the tone of their voices. The stumbling of his words, the hope held within hers. How either of them remained oblivious to this seemed impossible.

  “Uhhhh …,” Iderion stumbled. “Friend. You’re my best friend. Other than my wife. And dog. But not like either of them. Neither of them. Definitely not the dog, at least. More like …”

  Wife? Diminutia thought as he rested his chin on both palms. Ooooh, this is getting good.

  Dearborn forced a polite chuckle. “You finished most of the ale yourself tonight, didn’t you?”

  “Yes. Yes, I have,” Iderion replied. “Which is why I’m here. To give you this, the Satan Stone.”

  “The Satan Stone?”

  The Satan Stone! Diminutia’s focus returned. Again, he craned his neck, able to see Iderion hand a small pouch to the mystery woman in the tent. Ha! Not only shall I get revenge on this bloated fool for befouling the earth before me, but I also save us the hassle of trekking to an empty cave.

  “Aye,” Iderion replied. “As you mentioned, the ale has cast quite a spell upon me. I fear I am the least qualified to guard it. Lest I awake tomorrow with no memory of where I may have stashed it.”

  “Iderion, I …”

  “You, Dearborn. I trust you. A trust like I have in no one else. No one.”

  Diminutia watched as Iderion turned and ambled away, giving Dearborn no chance to retort. Then he heard the tent flap close.

  Making less noise than a breeze, Diminutia crawled to the back of Dearborn’s tent. He watched the dull, orange glow cast from within the brown tent hide, wondering what a female sergeant might look like. Rounder than the general, he thought. And possibly more hairy.

  The glow faded, and Diminutia counted to one thousand, thinking that would be plenty of time for the sergeant to drift into slumber’s realm. As careful as reassembling a shattered eggshell, he rolled the back flap of the tent. Once he created a sufficient opening, he dug his elbows into the dirt and used them to slide his body across the ground, his head poking into the tent.

  Dearborn had not extinguished her oil lamp; she merely turned it down. As she lay on her back contemplating the Satan Stone, Iderion, and her life in the Elite Troop she heard a minor rustling from behind her at the back of the tent. Thinking it a rat looking for food or warmth, she rolled over—just in time to see the blond head of a different type of rat poke through.

  Reflex dictated she grab his wrist. But once she saw the way his blond locks played against his boyish face and the depth of his blue eyes, her senses took flight. A handsome man had never attempted to sneak into her tent before. The soldier in her soul fought with the woman in her heart, the desperate and lonely woman. Reason won over emotion when she deduced this man could only be one thing.

  “Thief,” she hissed, her grip on his wrist tightening, ready to rip his arm from his body.

  Diminutia’s hand throbbed from her tight grip. But he didn’t care. So taken aback by her being the complete opposite of what he expected, he forgot why he was there. Finding and bedding bar wenches was second in nature only to breathing, but never did he imagine finding the most exquisite woman tented at the edge of a desert. With her face, she seemed more suited for the king’s concubine than his army.

  “Beautiful,” he whispered.

  Her face shifted from anger to surprise; her grip loosened. He wanted to stay, to speak, to talk to this lovely angel, but his instinct as a thief freed him from this ambush. Her hand no longer throttling his wrist, he wrenched himself free, jumped to his feet, and ran.

  She chased.

  He scrambled away from her tent, away from the noisy brush, toward the myriad jagged rock edifices.

  She followed.

  Surprised that he heard no sounds of alarm during the length of time he ran, he took a pause near the precipice of a rugged ridge to acquire his bearings. His breath eluded him as he saw what chased him. Her size confounded him. Never, never, had he beheld a woman so large, but her shape and movements, the sinewy grace of a wildcat, mesmerized him.

  Leaping and bounding up the side of the rocky knoll, she questioned her motivation. Why am I chasing him? she thought. He’s probably a desert nomad, too scared to try a second attempt. But upward she went, closing the gap between herself and her prey.

  He reached the top, but realized the edge of the small plateau dropped into an abyss the moonlight was unable to explore. He had to jump across the chasm, the length of three men from head to heel, to another plateau that had a much more reasonable grade down and plenty of tall grasses for an appealing escape route. The sounds of peb
bles and stones giving way indicated that his pursuer grew closer. Concentrating, he sprinted the length of the plateau and sprung right at the edge. Out of fear, his legs continued to churn even though there was no ground beneath them. He leapt just far enough to land right at the edge of his target. Momentum allowed him no balance as he stumbled, tucked his head, and rolled as his shoulder hit the ground. Coming to a full stop as his legs flopped over his head, he panted like a rabid cur, then kissed his hand and patted the ground. He sat up in time to see her spring across the gap between plateaus and land with the softness of a feather.

  She stood as a statue and his heart seized. She only wore a ragged shirt to sleep in, and it barely kept her modest. Sweat coated her arms and legs, shining from the moonlight, accentuating the tone of her muscle. Her hair flowed over her body like a cloak, a dark mist that seemingly crept across the ground to him, wanting to pull his heart from his chest. Then she was gone.

  Unaccustomed to such abuse, the ledge of the plateau gave way from under her feet. He scrambled to the ledge hoping beyond hope she did not fall. On his knees, he saw her hands and fingers sliding across the dirt toward her doom. Certain she could conquer any demon she faced, he still refused to let this angel be swallowed by the dark maw of hell.

  He grabbed her wrists and pulled. She outweighed him, and he had never attempted to lift anything heavier than a stolen sack of gold. Digging her toes into the side of the edifice, she scaled the rock wall and gave one final thrust as her foot hit the plateau floor. The thief and soldier twisted and tumbled onto the ground. She landed on her back, he on top of her.

  She saw only his face above hers; sweat matted random strands of his hair to his forehead. A bead of sweat slid around his cheek to the tip of his chin and broke free, dropping to her chin. She gasped.

  Supporting himself with his left arm, he was still chest to chest, hip to hip with her. Every woman he could remember was softer, but none had the body control. She inhaled as he exhaled, she exhaled as he inhaled, a perfect rhythm formed.

  Locks of her hair covered the left side of her face. Dizzy with anticipation, he slid them aside. Her breath ceased as his fingers glided over her skin. His knees slid across the ground, closer to her body. Her feet followed, her thighs sliding along his. They exchanged desperate breaths, as if breathing for each other; his lips descended toward hers.

  “Dearborn!” rippled through the still night air. And the thief was gone, stealing something after all; the one thing Dearborn was never able to give away. She sat up and watched the tall grasses ripple and wave as he ran through them. Only when she saw no more movement did she reply.

  “Here, Haddaman!” Standing, she dusted herself off as she saw the dark figure of the civilian she despised the most appear on the other plateau, one chasm away.

  “What happened? What are you doing all the way over there?” he asked, huffing as if he had never climbed before.

  “I thought I saw something,” Dearborn said, looking back toward the tall grasses. “So I followed it. It was just a deer.”

  “I hardly think so,” Haddaman huffed. “A desert deer, indeed.”

  Dearborn snapped her gaze back to Haddaman. “It was a deer. And what exactly are you doing here?”

  “Due to your raucous cohort, I could keep my eyes shut for no longer than a blink. Since I couldn’t sleep, I figured some fresh air would help. I saw you running up this plateau and thought I’d check on you. I do care about your well-being, you know.”

  “I hardly think so,” she said, taking one last look at the tall grasses, cursing her luck; the man she wanted to be with was a dream, while the man stuck to her side, a nightmare.

  Sixteen

  Phyl lifted his small tankard of ale, his trembling hand causing frothy liquid to splash over the sides and run down the length of the mug. By the time his beverage reached his mouth, the metal rim chattered against his teeth and foam shot up his nose. Frustrated from only garnering a sip of froth and unable to control his quaking, he placed his mug on the table. “It’s the stone. It has to be.”

  “That’s ridiculous,” Pik replied. He considered the circle of events that led him and his companions back to the tavern in Bogosh to await a bard who, so far, might as well have been a figment of their collective imagination. No one in Bogosh had seen the bard, nor even vaguely recalled his presence on the day Pik and his friends were given the stone-finding quest. The light from the oil lamp slid across his pursed lips in slick strokes, while his furrowed brows and taut cheeks caused shadows to fall and tumble in a terrifying dance. His eyes held such anger that it was no wonder why humans considered hobgoblins things found in nightmares. “How is that even possible?”

  “I agree with Phyl. The stone is cursed,” Zot offered, watching the flickering flame as if it held the answers.

  “Bah! Curses are for parents cajoling a child or washed-up witches pilfering a few coins from gullible tourists.”

  “Zot was just saying,” whimpered Phyl.

  “The only curse right now is having to listen to the two of you come up with explanations for what’s happening.”

  Pik’s words were enough to make Phyl try for another sip of ale. He used both hands this time, but found the results to be twice as disastrous. He returned the mug to the table. “You’re not the only one who lost someone close, you know. Zot’s brothers and sisters disappeared one at a time while he had the Spirit Stone. And I just lost my best friend and hunting partner.”

  “Hunting partner,” Pik snorted, as if the words were offensive. “If it were possible to be a worse satyr than you, it would be him. You’d bend our ears with tales of hunting women with him, but after three ales you two would spend the rest of the eve singing like drunken fools.”

  “Still,” Phyl said, slouching as if each word deflated his soul. “He’s dead. And so is your sister.”

  “She could still be alive!” Pik’s words gnashed at Phyl as sharply as his razor-like teeth. “She … she … she’s missing. Maybe ran off. But she’s not dead.”

  “They’re all dead,” Zot whispered. Unblinking, he stared at the oil lantern’s flame, slowly rotating his mug with his stubby fingers. “My brothers and sisters. My cousins. My parents. Their parents. Ever since we came back to Bogosh with that stone. And it’s my fault for wanting to carry the thing. Now it’s Bale’s turn.”

  Pik leaned forward and growled. “It’s not the stone.”

  He leaned back again peeking over his shoulder. All eyes in the tavern were trained on Pik, Zot, and Phyl. Everyone else thinks we’re cursed, so why can’t I? Pik asked himself.

  It started subtly. Pik and his friends returned from finding the Spirit Stone—after one more accidental trip through the Fecal Swamps. They spent the night in revelry, recounting the embellished tales to any soul who would listen. The ale and grog and mead and wine showered the town like no rainstorm ever could. The next morning, one of Zot’s brothers went missing.

  Zot’s siblings were known throughout town for being excessive in their drinking, and a second thought about his whereabouts never crossed anyone’s mind. The following night, one of Zot’s sisters disappeared. However, the local authorities found her trussed up by her own entrails from a tree at the edge of town.

  Fearing a legitimate scoundrel lurked parts unknown of Bogosh, children adhered to curfews mandated by their parents while the town witches placed spells of protection and good fortune on Zot and his family. Then Bale’s sister disappeared.

  To the untrained eye, Bale’s sister bore a striking resemblance to her brother—including the knot of orange hair upon a pointed head, crooked yellow teeth, and placement of various warts—the only noticeable difference being her lopsided breasts: one tight and firm, the other flouncing with every step, as if it were trying to escape her all too revealing chemise that she always wore. The woman was of mountainous proportions, even by ogrish standards. From another town, she had heard rumors of Bale’s recent dalliances with disaster and decided to visit
him. Upon arrival, she burst into the tavern, sharing her brother’s zeal and force, joining him and his cronies as Phyl shared a story in which he embellished, exaggerated, and downright lied about hunting female prey the prior night. During the story, Bale noticed his sister swoon and saw her send a wink Phyl’s way.

  Dismayed by the ramifications of his lies, and sickened to have an ogre woman flirt with him, Phyl excused himself from the tavern to retch in an alleyway. He walked with hastened step, gulping the fresh air as if it were a waning commodity; the stench of one Bale was harsh enough, but two was downright insufferable. A stray thought of Bale’s sister’s clammy, pockmarked paw stroking his leg fur slipped into his head. He retched again. Finding no other recourse, he went to see his best friend, Mungus.

  His friend was a tall and lean satyr, leg fur the color of warm tar. His horns had perfect placement and an upward curl to accentuate his devious smile, extending it through his whole face. Once Phyl arrived to bellyache about his night, his friend offered spiced wine and a full-face smile. Through two bottles, they bragged about the human women they could conquer, no set of bloomers strong enough to stop them. Standing in front of an open window, his friend offered Phyl another smile. The window shared the same dimensions as a saddlebag, but large enough to allow the moon light in, making a halo around his friend’s whole body. Then the halo disappeared.

  Within two blinks and one heartbeat after the moonlight’s extinguishing, Mungus’s hooves left the ground as his haunches wedged themselves in the window. Something relentless and determined outside pulled his tail. Before he could react, a second tug forced his hips through the window. Mungus screamed. His hands flailed along the wall for support, but a third tug doubled him over. His bones popped and cracked, his hands flopped like headless fish, and his hooves wiggled like snake tails. Blood erupted from his mouth on his final exhale, splattering the floor. One last tug, and Phyl’s friend disappeared out the window.