The Devil's Grasp

by Chris Pisano

  The Elite Troop moved out.

  Dearborn swept the area one last time with an all-encompassing glance. It was hard to believe, but there was nary a sign that anyone had camped in this area, let alone such a large group. All evidence of their stay was completely eliminated and in the matter of only an hour. Even the holes from their tent stakes had been filled in so completely only a trained and gifted eye could spot them.

  Haddaman picked up on her quick head movements, and, typical of a man, he could not help but say something. Typical of himself, he could not help but say the wrong thing.

  “Who saw to Mahlakore’s duties?”

  “You no longer get under my skin, so say what you will.”

  “What? No, no, no. I was simply marveling at the astounding job your troop does. They make a comfortable camp in minutes and pack up, leaving no trace, in half the time one would suspect—all of it without effort or word. It’s like watching a colony of ants. Every job is seen and attended to. I was just wondering how the, uh, recent ‘vacancy’ was handled.”

  “It is an honor to cover for another member. If anything, his duties were seen to several times over. No one here is selfish like you.”

  “How interesting. This selflessness that you all display … how deeply does it run? Would you go hungry or lay down your life for another?”

  “To a person. Without hesitation.”

  “I see. Does that extend to fame and fortune as well?”

  “None here are interested in either.”

  “Really? So the members of the troop who have families to provide for would allow their children to go hungry whilst they empty their pockets for the benefit of their comrades?”

  “What sort of twisted thinking is that? No one would ever ask, nor expect such a thing.”

  “But the nature of selflessness is to act without regard, quite prior to expectation and quite independently of being asked.”

  “You may appear to be a ‘human’ outwardly, but you reek like a kobold. Do you think up these ridiculous scenarios when you should be sleeping? Certainly there are better ways to occupy your time.”

  “Your avoidance of the issue is the only answer I require. I was merely trying to show you that your answers sound good, but hardly represent the reality of the human condition. Your back may be safe with these friends of yours, but your purse strings still require watching.”

  “Never again suggest that there is a thief amongst these men.”

  “Dear lady,” Haddaman continued, “whether one filches coins or hearts or the credit for your deeds, a thief is still a thief.”

  Dearborn found Haddaman’s smugness repulsive. His smile belonged on a barracuda, not a human being. And the actions he suggested … such things may take place in a merchant’s guild, but among this group such reprehensible behaviors could never be manifest. He toyed with her mind again. He sowed seeds; a malcontent spreading his wayward gospel: a reaper of the disillusioned. She could not wait to be rid of his taint, though she feared her skin would bear the putrid reek of his association forever.

  “Haddaman,” she said, “you would do well to quell your tongue, or you’ll be ducking tree branches for the remainder of the trip.”

  To emphasize her point, she urged her mount towards a small hazelwood tree that sported a particularly low-hanging branch. The smell of it caught in his nose and lingered as an unpleasant reminder. Unconsciously, he raised his left hand up to his forehead and stroked at the bruise that was visibly imperceptible, but forever impressed upon his psyche.

  Dearborn felt his reaction to the tree and allowed a smile to run rampant across her lips.

  Several moments of quiet passed between them. She added them together in her head until the skeins could be woven into a tapestry of silence. When she was quite satisfied that Haddaman would remain reticent for a while, she reached out with her instincts to the surrounding landscape of brush and small trees trying to attune herself to their surroundings as the troop left the desert.

  Only the sound of their horses’ hooves broke the stillness as the troop rode in their customary column. Before today, she had marveled at the cohesiveness of the unit, despite the addition of two outsiders into their midst. Haddaman would forever be an interloper into their world, but Oremethus was like an indigenous element.

  Up to this point, she had been impressed with him the whole trip. She had expected something far different from a member of the royal house—stale emotions and manicured manners, perhaps. Someone who could barely handle a horse and rode with a weak back, like a tree growing on a hillock, bowed at the middle from its search for sunlight. His balanced posture was owed to his youth, she allowed, but that same trait belied his charisma and critical thinking skills. He was anything but indecisive, she thought, watching him ride in solitude.

  Now he seemed a bit different—aloof, standoffish. He hunched his back. He wasn’t well integrated with the riding column; the pace of his mount was uneven. He was keeping the horse from settling into an established pattern, constantly expanding the distance between himself and the men in front of him. In response, the riders behind him found themselves having a difficult time keeping a steady pace. On occasion he would turn around and cast scathing looks at them until they dropped back. The remainder of the formation made the adjustment without realizing it, but as she scanned ahead, she soon realized that the front of the column started to outdistance them.

  She urged her own mount into a quicker pace, allowing her to draw even with the next rider. She whispered a quick message to the rider and watched as he mimicked her actions, spreading the missive through the back portion of the line. She watched the pair of guards receive their orders and respond by trying to close the gap between themselves and the crown prince.

  Curious to observe his reaction, she watched as Oremethus took notice of their actions. The intrusion into his established personal space became apparent, and his response was immediate. In disbelief, she heard him snap to the nearest rider, “I need not be coddled like a muddled dolt!” before digging his heels into the horse’s ribs to catch up to the front half of the train, leaving the back half behind in a cloud of bewilderment.

  Dearborn took it upon herself to find what might be stuck in the crown prince’s craw. She rode ahead, and her men changed the jumble of horses to an evenly spaced line. Communicated with grunts and pointing, the soldiers lined their steeds twenty paces apart, the rear held by Oxton, one of the troop’s grizzled veterans.

  Oxton’s appearance often led the newer, younger members to believe the older man to be downtrodden. Little did they know the silver-haired man’s muscles were twisted like rope, weathered and tightened to tense cords over time. Many a young buck walked away from challenging old Oxton to an arm-wrestling match with bruised hands and sore wrists. But in the Elite Troop, veteran status held the privilege of being a messenger.

  Oxton had recently returned from a meeting with another messenger, receiving news that tensions with Tsinel were on the rise. Once Dearborn saw to the crown prince’s mysterious needs, Oxton would ready himself to ride ahead thirty miles east and meet another of the troop’s messengers to have him deliver the news of finding the Satan Stone. He just had to hold the rear long enough for his commanding officer to soothe the royal child. He never expected to hear a branch snap from behind him.

  Oxton stopped his steed and stroked its mane to sooth it. Damn fool creature. He couldn’t have his horse prancing around causing too much noise, or he’d look like a neophyte. The gnarled old soldier watched the chest-high patch of thicket behind him, wondering what he was looking for. Damnation, he started to wonder why he was even looking.

  He considered calling out to his companions, but stopped himself, recalling the jabs about his ‘advancing age.’ He wasn’t ready to be forced into retirement and wouldn’t have himself appear addled. He could surely handle a rogue rabbit or a stray squirrel, determined to catch a light snack for the campfire later. Drawing his sword, he guided his horse t
o the brush. The foliage was surprisingly foreboding, as if light itself were too scared to touch it. The gray hair running down his neck and arms stood on end as his grip on the sword tightened. Oxton poked the thicket and brush with his sword, chills shooting through his body with every poke. Nothing.

  A smile slid across his face while he silently congratulated himself for keeping his demeanor cool. He sheathed his sword with a light heart and tugged on the reins, indicating to his horse to turn about so he could join up with the group again.

  Before he could turn, the darkness gave way to glowing eyes, gleaming horns, and glistening teeth. One set would have turned his spine to jelly, but thirty pulverized his soul. Beset with the urge to flee, the horse whinnied and turned. But not fast enough. Claws of all shapes and sizes reached from the brush and pierced every part of horse and man. Not a scream, cry, nor even the slightest yelp could be formed. No twitch, flinch, nor parry could be made. Oxton tried to fight or flee or yell a warning to his troop mates, but muscles didn’t move, and words couldn’t form. Once he felt his own blood gush over his arms, chest, and legs, he realized he was being dragged into the darkness. …

  Nineteen

  Diminutia sat fidgeting, unaware that his foot tapped or his right hand ran up and down the back of his neck. He never could handle interrogations well. A decade ago he had worked with a different set of partners; however, he cracked under the pressure of the authorities’ questioning and sold them out for his own freedom. Never forgiving himself, he vowed that he would be more steadfast in his moral conviction, never letting his weakness compromise Nevin or Silver. But now the pressure was on. Ten eyes stared at him as the campfire danced its wild dance, casting restless shadows on the world around him. He was about to crack; the need to surrender or run boiled deep within his gut.

  “So, she was very beautiful, but built like a man?” Silver asked.

  “No,” Diminutia replied, his foot tapping faster. “I mean … she was certainly beautiful. But not like a man. She was very tall, taller than anyone here, and sinewy. But not round and … and … bumpy … like a man. Smooth and sleek.”

  “Did … you just describe her as … sinewy?” Silver asked, leaning forward. The fire’s shadows altered his face to look more sinister than the devil.

  “Ummm … yes?”

  “Could she throw down anyone and everyone around this campfire?”

  “Undoubtedly with ease.”

  “Did she have big, bountiful breasts?”

  “Ummm … no.”

  “It was a man!” Silver emphasized the word by pointing at Diminutia while a smile crept across his lips.

  Not able to grasp the reasons behind ridiculous chiding among humans, Nevin often stayed out of those types of conversations. But tonight, he could not resist this opportunity. “Did Dim just say she did not have big, bountiful breasts? I thought that topped his list of ‘must haves’ when it came to women. Actually, are there even any other features on that list?”

  Foot tapping even faster now, Diminutia’s hand began to play with a few stray hairs from the back of his head. “She was beautiful. Beyond beautiful. And there was a connection there, between us. A spark I’ve never felt before. Maybe … maybe that’s why I’ve never found true love … I’m always looking for big, bountiful breasts. Maybe I was looking in the wrong direction all this time.”

  In unison, Silver and Nevin pulled their eyes from Diminutia and looked at each other. A fit of uncontrollable laughter then consumed both of them. “Love! He said, ‘love.’”

  Their jocularity ended with the clap of Belhurst’s hands and his agitated whisper, “Enough!”

  He waited until all three thieves looked his way before he continued. “You three possess the stealth of a herd of drunken elephants. It amazes me you haven’t been caught. While focusing on the dithering of Diminutia’s crotch, you’ve glossed over the important part of his story—the king’s Elite Troop.”

  “Elite Troop?” Silver asked, now scowling from having a good laugh interrupted. “What makes you think it’s the Elite Troop?”

  Belhurst rolled his eyes. “Do you know nothing of what goes on in the kingdom around you? Diminutia said they had the king’s insignia on everything, and they had completed a mission to find one of the stones. Do you think the king would trust a regular troop plucked from his army to handle such a task? And, the most obvious clue of all, the Elite Troop has a female sergeant.”

  Diminutia gave a placating smile. “Belhurst, we are thieves, not spies. We’re known for robberies, not espionage. We don’t care about the king or his army. We focus on the local authorities and their routines.”

  “Never the matter,” Belhurst huffed, dismissing Diminutia with a wave of his hand. “We must pack, douse the fire, and be on our way.”

  “Now?” Silver asked. “It’s the middle of the night.”

  “Yes, now,” Belhurst replied. Heeding the command, Follen and Grymon stood from the fire and prepared their trappings.

  “Wait,” Nevin said. “Wizard, we need our rest. We’ve been through more than we could have ever imagined since meeting you. We’ve been to parts of this land that we would have never ventured to otherwise. We witnessed an entire village razed by a horde of unholy creatures. We now know that demons are real. We need to rest.”

  “The Elite Troop is too close, and we’re begging them to find us with your wanton rabblerousing.”

  “They completed their mission. I hardly doubt that they would care enough about some miscreant thief to search for him.”

  “Why wouldn’t they? As you just said, they completed their mission. They have plenty of spare manpower now. Soldiers without a fight can become very restless, especially if they notice a campfire accompanied by raucous laughter. Besides, we still need that stone.”

  “We failed, wizard. It happens from time to time. When it does, we get a good night sleep and come up with a new business plan in the morning.”

  Belhurst stood, the shadows created from the fire made him ominous and unnaturally tall. “We cannot fail, thief. And your tiny little mind is missing the obvious.”

  Never one for succumbing to insults, Nevin discovered he did not like it when the wizard hurled one at him. Standing and puffing out his chest, Nevin stared Belhurst in the eye. “And what exactly is that?”

  “We know where they will be going, you dolt. They are the king’s Elite Troop. They report to the king. And where does the king live?”

  “Phenomere, the capital of Albathia.”

  “I’m impressed you know that much,” Belhurst said, turning his back on the other thieves, their hindquarters still planted on the ground. The old wizard moved off to help the other wizards pack.

  Silver and Diminutia both looked up to Nevin, seeking his opinion. The elf could not take his eyes off Belhurst.

  “See,” Silver whispered. “I told you he was an ass.”

  With no shift in his emotionless expression, Nevin replied, “I agree. But let’s pack. I’m inclined to travel with them to Phenomere. I want that stone. And the one they’re carrying as well.”

  After they stood, they walked to their bedrolls in unison. Diminutia still fidgeted with the back of his neck. “The stones? Let’s think about this. There are demons guarding this stone, the Shadow Stone. I can only assume there are demons guarding the other ones as well. And that one is called the Satan Stone. Much more ominous, don’t you think? Why would we want that burden?”

  Focusing only on travel preparation, Nevin replied, “Did you not just try to steal that very stone mere hours ago?”

  “Well … yes. But I was mad for almost getting urinated on.”

  “There you have it. Has Belhurst done any less to my honor … our honor … with the intonations of his words? I want to do the same thing for the same reasons.”

  Shrugging, Diminutia said, “Sounds like a good enough reason for me.”

  Silver rolled his eyes. “Waking up is a good enough reason for you to explore any and
every possible shenanigan placed before you.”

  “You know how to cut a man to the quick.” With the back of his right hand he made a pronounced pantomime of wiping a tear from his eye.

  At this, the three friends shared a quiet mirth that left even Nevin twitching with the effort to restrain himself. They stood around waiting for the wizards to finish packing up their “damnable cart,” as Silver had named it some time ago.

  “Um, at the risk of disturbing our uncomfortably fraternal moment, Nevin, what exactly do you have in mind?” Silver asked.

  “How many times do you remember tricking Bale into giving us something of value?” Nevin answered with his own question.

  “More times than I can count.”

  “Same concept. Dim, do you want to keep one of his friends busy while I spend some special time with Belhurst?”

  “With pleasure. Finally! A little skullduggery.” Happy that the focus of attention had shifted from the story of his early evening encounter and stayed elsewhere, Diminutia hauled himself to his feet and sought out the most congenial of the wizards.

  With minimal effort, a plan came together. Such was the reward of working with the same partners for such an extended period of time. Nevin afforded himself a slight smile as Diminutia went to offer Grymon whatever aid he could. The smile transformed into a wolfish grin when bits of casual conversation between the wizard and the thief floated back to him.

  Nevin then turned to see Follen working on packing the bedrolls. “Silver, care to keep this one occupied?”

  “I would love to.”

  “Excellent. I’ll see if I can catch Belhurst’s ear.”

  Silver smiled broadly. “Yeah, good luck with that.”

  Nevin sought out the head wizard, but something in his gut defied digestion. What could the wizard possibly be thinking? Did he truly expect them to take part in something that might end in a conflict with the king’s Elite Troop? The very idea was ludicrous. The thievery part might not be difficult, but more than simple chains would greet them if caught. Odds favored someone getting seriously hurt or killed. Pure and simple, these were soldiers, not militia or law enforcement. They’d more likely kill the thieves first, then force Belhurst to perform some necromancy to interrogate them later. The thought chilled him through.