The Devil's Grasp

by Chris Pisano

  Even though Bogosh was a creature town, it had just as much gossip as any human town. Word spread of the killings and startling disappearances surrounding members of the community. By the time authorities could react to one of Zot’s siblings dying, one of Pik’s cousins went missing. Rumors plagued the town, ranging from these four adventurers being cursed, to insidious schemes of them attempting to gain power over the town through murderous fear. Conversations would stop anytime they entered a building. Their mere appearance turned average citizens into guarded sentinels, eyes watching, probing, observing every last minute detail and movement. Even in the tavern where three of the four sat contemplating their predicament. And the stares became more stifling as Bale entered.

  The tavern shook with every step, but Bale’s mouth was closed, no laughing, no boisterous barbs. He sat with his friends, his chair groaning for mercy.

  “Any luck finding your sister?” Pik asked.

  Bale turned his head, between slouched shoulders, and stared at Phyl through accusatory eyes. “None.”

  His soul heavy from the loss of his own friends and family, Phyl met Bale’s stare. “Bale, you can’t be serious. You can’t think I had anything to do with this.”

  “I saw the way you two were looking at each other that night. Just because I can’t find any indiscriminating evidence, doesn’t mean you’re incoherent.”

  Taking pause to muddle through the misused words and translate what Bale meant rather than what he said, Phyl replied. “I told you where I went that night. To a friend’s house.”

  “Yeah. Your hunting partner. And my sister was probably on top of your list. A beautiful woman like her would have a hard enough time resisting one satyr. But two? She never stood a chance!”

  For fear of spontaneous laughter, vomiting, or crying, Phyl fought hard to keep the images of himself sharing a romantic tryst with Bale’s sister far from his mind. But no matter how hard he tried, he could not coax himself to hurt Bale’s feelings by revealing that she was not as attractive as her brother thought. In fact, Phyl heard a rumor that a Dungbeast from the Horrid Mountains died from one look at Bale’s sister. His best strategy was to block and deflect. “I think the greater mystery is why we haven’t seen the bard? He told us to come back here, and here we are! Well, where is he? How come no one has seen him? And how come no one remembers seeing him the last time?”

  “He set us up,” mumbled Zot, unblinking. “He knew the stone was cursed. Had us get it, so he didn’t have to face the curse.”

  “And that’s exactly why we’re gonna be ready for him when he shows up. Smart guys like that don’t expect much from the likes of us, so we have to plan this out and play it smart,” Bale said. He pushed himself from the table and stood up in slow motion, tapping a finger against his temple, his efforts filling the tavern with a dull, hollow sound.

  “Where are you going?” Pik asked.

  “Shopping,” grunted the ogre in the general direction of his companions. “You guys stay here and keep an eye on each other.”

  “What about you,” Phyl asked. “Will you be okay?”

  “Don’t confuse me. I might forget something. If the bard shows up while I’m gone, make him feel real comfy. And don’t do anything awful to him until I get back,” Bale finished his statement, wiping some drool off his chin with the back of his oversized hand, leaving only a wicked, tooth-gapped smile. As he walked towards the door, he hitched up his pants with his left hand. “Don’t forget a belt,” he murmured to himself.

  “Well, what exactly are you going for?”

  “You’ll see,” Bale promised, still holding the waistband of his tattered pants in his hand, and promptly disappeared out the door leaving a trail of silence in his wake.

  The little group sat staring at each other for no short time. They fumbled with their plates or stroked their mugs pensively or stared intently at several bugs scurrying across the ground. None seemed quite able to break the silence, until Phyl cleared his throat.

  “Did anyone happen to notice Bale’s pants?” he whispered.

  As one, the other two members of the group wailed in disgust.

  “Aww, c’mon, Phyl!” moaned Zot.

  “Well, he holds them when he walks now,” said Phyl in an exasperated tone as if trying to make the conversation take a redeeming turn.

  “Only you would notice something so miniscule,” said Pik, rubbing the condensation off his mug with his thumb.

  “Um, there’s hardly anything miniscule about Bale’s pants,” the satyr said, flinching his shoulders as his comments elicited a new chorus of groans.

  “Guh,” mouthed Zot as he stood, repulsion evident on his disgusting face.

  “Where are you going now?” asked Phyl.

  “To find something to get this awful taste out of my mouth, thank you very much,” shouted Zot as he trundled in a semi-straight line towards the bar.

  “What did I say?” asked a dejected Phyl, his eyes lowered toward the dirt he felt like.

  Without a word and without even lifting his eyes from his mug, Pik slapped the satyr in the back of his round head, the meaty smack drawing a roar of applause from every creature close enough to hear it.

  “I just thought that someone should notice that Bale is losing weight. No matter what the circumstances, Bale has never been concerned enough to miss a meal. Until now. He hasn’t been sleeping, either.” The satyr turned large, watery eyes toward his hobgoblin companion in the manner of a pleading child. And his silent entreaty was met with the compassion for which hobgoblins were known—another meaty smack to the back of the head. This time, however, Pik hit the satyr so hard that Phyl went flying from his stool. Shaking the numbness from his hand, Pik rose from his chair with a shout of pain that he quickly turned into a yell for more grog lest the other creatures see him as weak.

  “I hate you, Pik! If it weren’t for all of these strange happenings,” groaned Phyl as he struggled to his feet, picking several bugs from his leg fur and straightening his right fetlock, “I’d leave these guys on their own. Now where did Zot go?”

  Dinnertime neared, and the custom in Bogosh, as with many towns, was to go home for dinner. Creatures began to stream out the doors in twos and threes. The satyr scanned the thinning crowd until he found the misbegotten orc half sitting on a stool at the bar, his longer leg fully extended. Zot was miserable as he used both hands to cradle his cup towards his lips. He shook so badly that Phyl noticed even at some distance. Sentimentality was an emotional nadir to an orc, so Phyl knew that fear caused him such tremendous distress.

  “It is that stone! I know it is. And if we don’t stay together, we’ll wind up getting picked off one at a time. I have to keep everyone happy until Bale gets back.” Phyl sighed as he watched Zot dig a finger deep into his nasal cavity. “Why is it always up to me to make the peace?” With quick strokes of his hands, Phyl straightened out his leg fur as he hopped his way towards the saturnine orc.

  “Zot, I’m really sorry I upset you. But you’re totally right—it is the stone. We just have to stay together and …”

  “Phyl, leave me alone,” Zot spat, spraying grog all over the satyr.

  “I’m trying to apologize here,” Phyl whined.

  “And let me commend you on doing such a superlative job, too,” yelled Pik from across the room. “Though I would remind you that ‘butt-kissing’ and apologizing aren’t completely synonymous.”

  “Wha …? I’m doing no such thing! I’m telling him that I agree with him. I mean, it all makes sense. I had nothing to do with the disappearance of Bale’s sister and … wait! Zot, where are you going?”

  “Somewhere else, obviously. Don’t wait up,” Zot said, standing from his stool.

  “Way to go, satyr,” Pik said with disdain. “You’ve managed to do the exact thing that you charged yourself not to do. Oh, and by the way, I really liked the way that you disguised the effort to ‘clear yourself’ under the thin veil of an apology. Nice touch.”

 
; “AGH! I’ve had just about enough of you, hobgoblin!”

  “Oh, really? Fur in a bunch, is it?”

  “Yeah, something like that! And it’s all because of you!”

  “Me? Phyl, did you hear any of the words that were spouting out of your lips? For once, Mr. Perfect, you have no one to blame but yourself.”

  “I, uh … oh, I suppose you’re right. Pik, what are we gonna do? We can’t just let him wander around out there. Where do you suppose he went?”

  “How should I know, genius? You’re the one who chased him off. Guess you should have thought that part out before you enacted your master plan.”

  Phyl pulled up a stool and hopped up on it, sitting with his shoulders hunched and his head down. He balled up his fists and dropped his head on them.

  “What are we gonna do?” Phyl asked aloud, though he knew the only answers he would receive were the ones he gave to himself.

  ***

  Zot shuffled down the main street of Bogosh, disturbing the dust with his shorter leg. “That stupid Phyl! What does he know anyway? And curses on Pik and Bale, too! Curses on that bard and his stupid cursed stone! I better find Bale. I’m sure whatever his brilliant idea is, he’ll need some help with the shopping. He needs help, whether he admits it or not.”

  On cue, Bale strolled by Zot. The ogre still held his pants up with one hand while carrying a bag in the other. Oblivious, Bale continued past the orc.

  “Bale!” Zot snapped, taking great offense to not being noticed.

  Bale turned around. Then again. Well into his third rotation, he finally decided to look down. “Zot?”

  “I see you made your purchases.”

  Bale held up the bag and smiled. “All of you are in for a surprise of epic propositions!”

  “And what might be in the bag?”

  “A ball of twine!”

  “Obviously a wise choice on your part since you still haven’t gotten a belt.”

  Confused, Bale looked down at his left hand holding up his pants, genuinely surprised that he had no idea what his left hand had been doing all day. “Damnation!”

  Zot laughed. “Head back to the tavern, Bale. I’ll fetch you a belt.”

  In a daze, Bale mumbled a thanks to Zot and continued his trek back to the tavern. Zot shook his head, his heart heavy with sympathy for his friend, for all his friends for that matter, and himself. They had returned home from their epic journeys only to have their families and friends die or disappear. Was it really the doing of the Spirit Stone? Was it cursed? Zot shook his head again, this time to shake away such distracting thoughts, lest he become as oblivious as his ogre friend.

  As Zot ambled to the store, he was oblivious about one thing—the rabbit that had been following him. Never less than ten paces away at any given time, Lapin skulked in alleyways, bushes, crevices, and any nook or cranny in which he could hide. Distressed, the rabbit watched the orc, wondering if he should make contact. But what would he say? Not to mention the last time they met, the orc wanted to eat him followed by Lapin’s dragon friend wanting to eat the orc. And just because the dragon spent centuries regaling Lapin with stories of how the stone was cursed didn’t mean it was true. Did it?

  The rabbit watched from across the packed dirt road as the orc entered the small general store. As he readied himself for another stirring round of internal debate, he noticed a slight fog roll in. So wispy, it went unnoticed by everyone else on the streets, except for Lapin as it stayed low, hugging the ground. Then he watched as it slid beneath the door of the store.

  He ran across the street. Halfway to the store, he heard the screams. Once he made it to the door, he saw why. The dragon’s stories were right. The stone was cursed.

  The fog had divided into half a dozen trails of mist. And each trail shifted between mist and demon. Skeletal ribs formed sharp points while twisted and knotted bone made long arms that led to clawed hands of white.

  Even though the patrons of the store possessed nightmarish looks and gnarled features themselves, none could compete with the flying demons, silent as death’s whisper. Goblins stood little chance against claws that flayed flesh in a flash. Troll guts splashed to the floor, the carcasses soon followed. Those who had their wits about them fought back, but every swipe of their hands yielded a fistful of mist, only to have the smoke reform into demons with spiked features.

  Intelligence was a burden Zot never had to bear. But he had enough to realize this was what had happened to his family and his friends’ families. These demons moved as mist and struck as steel. Every ounce of ire in Zot’s stumpy body flowed to his fingers and feet. With a phlegm-filled yowl, he launched himself at the nearest demon, grabbing its arms. The bones turned to smoke leaving Zot with empty hands and a burning heart. The demon escaped the orc’s grasp only to reform and attack. Ten claws, a foot long each, drove through Zot’s chest.

  Pain shot through his short body, from the top of his round skull to the tips of his stubby toes. In a cough, Zot’s mucus and blood splashed the demons smiling face. Zot smiled, too, and grabbed the demon’s hands. Putting the force of his death spasm into his hands, Zot snapped off the demon’s wrists from its arms.

  The demon screeched, its pain carried on its putrid breath. Zot fell to the floor and gurgled one final laugh, finding it amusing that the fetid disgust of the shrieking demon mixed with the stench of his own gurgling ichor still smelled more pleasant than Bale’s feet.

  As the handless demon writhed through the air, it caught a rather unassuming creature from the corner of its eye. A rabbit by the door, watching the horrors befall the patrons of the shop. Nothing deserved to live, especially the picture perfect puff of innocence like a rabbit! Despite its pain, the demon attacked. The rabbit ran.

  Lapin fled as fast as his furry legs could move. The demon followed, riding the air the way a shark slices through water. Refusing to turn to mist until it caught its prey, the bony demon gnashed its crooked teeth, catching nothing but stray fur from Lapin’s tail.

  Scurrying from the town into the forest, Lapin hoped to lose his adversary in the brush. No such luck as the demon’s bones shredded the thicket like slashing swords through dry thatch. It lunged, again snapping its jaws near Lapin’s haunches. Adrenaline aided the rabbit, picking up speed while zigzagging, putting some distance between himself and the demon. He just needed to run a little farther, to a small clearing that lie at the other end of the briar patch. There!

  Lapin burst through into the clearing and the chill of terror melted from his spine. After a few more leaps, he stopped and turned to his pursuer. He smiled with confidence and trust. The demon burst from the brush, twigs, and leaves exploding as the creature rushed forth. Jaws wide, teeth ready to rend its victim. Then with one crunching gulp, the demon … was gone!

  Lapin sat in the soft, warm grass and looked up to his long-time friend and companion, the dragon. The dragon looked down at Lapin while digging demon bone from between his teeth. “Lucky he was solid.”

  “Eh, I knew you’d be quick enough,” the rabbit replied.

  “Now do you believe me that the stone curses anyone who takes it from the cave?”

  “Yes. Yes I do.”

  “This is going to be difficult.”

  “Yes. Yes it is.”

  “So, how are we going to do this?”

  Lapin shifted his weight to his haunches and patted his face with his front paws. “Well … I hate to say it, but we should enlist the help of the very trolls who stole the stone from us.”

  “Oh, this is going to be difficult. Very difficult indeed,” the dragon mulled, sitting back on his own haunches. He felt a headache coming on.

  Seventeen

  Tallia clutched Tallon’s hand. She tried to show no fear, considering the company they kept, and, for the most part, she had created a rather apt façade, a wall of stoicism behind which all other emotions hid. But the snake around her ankle started to crack that wall. She knew she should be thanking this vile serpent; it at
e the fist-sized spider on her foot a moment ago. After a quick swallow, the arachnid eating snake decided to explore, wrapping itself around each of Tallia’s ankles, creating a slithering set of shackles, finding the scent of her perfume curious on its flicking tongue.

  Presenting a strong and unified front in these negotiations was paramount. Tallia knew this. She and Tallon needed to appear as stringent business owners, not the spoiled nobility she often felt like. Damn this snake to hell! She bit her tongue and tasted her own blood.

  Tallon knew. He knew very well why his sister fretted. Impressed with her strength of composure, he held her hand tight, low, and between them. They sat knee to knee, hip to hip on a tiny bench, making it very easy for him to lean forward and rest his elbow on his knee, a sign of intense passion for a particular point in negotiation. A perfect time for Tallon to say, “Touch nothing in the castle.”

  Across from the twins sat Praeker Trieste, staring at them with hollow eyes. They had just delivered a batch of weapons, the fourth batch, and wanted to firm up the price for them. Praeker leaned forward himself, looking at Tallon and not caring why the girl had such a problem with a rogue forest creature hugging her legs. “I find it difficult to tell my troops such specific orders when it comes to pillaging.”

  “They can kill everyone they want, save my sister and myself, and there are plenty of other treasures in the kingdom,” Tallon countered.

  “Why should I ask them to do this for you?”

  “Not for us. For you. How can we run a fiefdom in your name without proper resources? Every smith in the city holds gold and silver in exchange for notes. The royal treasury is not in the castle. The head of every family around the castle itself is a prominent businessman. There is more gold from those sources than your men can carry. Just leave the riches in the castle where they lie.”