The Devil's Grasp

by Chris Pisano

  “Apologies, my Brother. I am exhausted and in need of a bath. Excuse me for the nonce,” Perciless said dispassionately as he attempted to push past his brother towards the exit. He had not taken the time to properly prepare himself for such an encounter, had not ordered his thoughts, nor crafted his responses to the obvious questions. He did feel the desire to discuss with his brother what he had discovered in his chamber, but now was not the time, lest his rising anger get the better of him.

  “No, Brother, my apologies to you,” replied Daedalus as he deftly moved to impede his brother’s progress. “You definitely have the look of a man who needs to eat. And you are marked by the scent of hard work … or is that fear?”

  “Daedalus, please … I must be allowed to go.” Perciless could no longer keep up the evasion game, and his eyes locked on Daedalus’s. With their callused look, Perciless implored the younger man to allow him to exit the mounting confrontation. But Perciless now knew better, knew his brother would keep pushing. And he did.

  Daedalus held his brother’s gaze for a few seconds, then looked to the ceiling as if granting clemency by removing his harsh stare. “What, may I ask, shall I tell Father? He assumed you had left for the border of Tsinel to tend to the needs of our burgeoning army. Alas, his feeble mind knew enough that if his assumption were true, you would have returned weeks ago. It was almost more than he could bear to face the possible loss of two sons. At least allow me to ease his feverish imagination.”

  “You wish to put Father’s mind at ease? You wish to know what to tell Father? Fine. Tell him why you have changed the requisition orders for the weapons.”

  Daedalus shrunk back from Perciless’s fiery gaze like a moth’s wings shriveling from a torch’s flame. Visibly confused, Daedalus muttered, “What … whatever do you mean?”

  Pressing his advantage, Perciless said, “Come now, Brother, I am neither of our lackey-like cousins. I know the deed, but not the reasoning. Tell me.”

  Taking a moment to straighten himself, Daedalus indignantly brushed away wrinkles from his chemise, an obvious stall tactic. Perciless allowed him to indulge. Finally, the younger brother looked up and said, “Yes. Yes, I did change the orders. Do you know the details of the changes?”

  “Some.”

  “Well, then you know that I increased production.”

  “At the cost of the craftsmen!”

  With a huff, Daedalus snapped back, “Do you not believe that shaving off some of their robust profits is worth the extra armament? How can it be wrong to give soldiers more weapons?”

  Perciless’s only rejoinder was a quiet, “Why?”

  “Why? Well, it is certainly nice to see that you and Father share your distrust in me. I do have tactical skills, you know. No doubt you have been rummaging through my room, so I can only assume that you have noticed the volumes of books I possess on strategy. Why, you ask? Because the numbers Father suggested were wrong!”

  Even though his guts twisted like agitated worms, Perciless kept his face as unflinching as stone. “Even though your claims are admirable, your actions are not. Remember, your actions have consequences, and I seem to be the one who pays them.”

  Lips pulled tight, Daedalus almost appeared humbled. Pushing the words out of his mouth, he said, “I apologize.”

  Relaxing his expression, Perciless saw a glimmer of what he had hoped to see in his brother with this request for redemption. “Very well. I feel that has been settled. I am off to see Father, to let him know that I was at Balford’s Bounty and the horrors I saw while tending to the needs of our people. I will also let him know that I will be leaving immediately for the border of Tsinel to tend to the needs of the troops.”

  “Truly? Leaving so soon after just returning?”

  “The world is a cold and hard place, Daedalus, and one must remain ever cautious, ever vigilent. One can never drop guard for an instant. You have taught me this lesson,” Perciless replied. Content with the look of surprise on his brother’s face, Perciless left the room.

  Twenty-two

  Bale stared at his mug of ale, using both hands to spin it. He didn’t see it, though. Memories of Zot skittered across the ripples of ale. They had met in this very tavern about a decade ago. Bale had been drinking, as usual, and didn’t know when to stop, also as usual. With blurred vision, Bale had mistaken Zot for a stool and tried to sit on him. It had been friendship ever since.

  Zot and Bale shared many good times in this tavern. There were plenty of other taverns in Bogosh, but this one was where Bale had met Phyl and Pik as well. This tavern possessed the comfort of home. It only seemed fitting that he meet here with Phyl and Pik to mourn the loss of Zot.

  “This place seems so empty without him,” Bale blubbered.

  “That’s because it is empty,” Pik replied.

  As if just waking up from a long nap, Bale lifted his head and looked around the place. Pik was right, they were the only ones in the tavern, except for Munty the tall gnome, proprietor of this establishment. Despite the fact that he was tall for a gnome, he still needed a step stool to see out from behind the bar. His red, pointed hat could be seen any time the tavern was open; no one ever tried any form of shenanigans when the red hat floated about the crowd or behind the bar. However, it was rare to see his red hat as the only hat in the bar. Yet, there it was, on top of Munty’s head, the only other head in the bar. He stood on his stool, looking with hawk-like eyes over the bar at his only three customers.

  “Wow,” Bale mumbled. “We must be early.”

  Pik snorted, his anger over the loss of his friend apparent.

  “We’ve been early before,” Phyl said. “And there always seemed to be people here.”

  “Maybe it’s a holiday?” Bale offered.

  “Yeah?” Pik snapped. “And maybe the king himself is visiting. Care to interrupt our mourning time to discuss it some more?”

  Even with a frightfully low intellect, Bale understood Pik’s hint and went back to staring at his ale. This time he took a sip. He thought of the time he and Zot spent a week wooing the Wartpus sisters. Bale smiled at that memory and took another sip. Then there was the time a rogue roc flew into town, caught Zot, and tried to feed him to its hatchlings, so Bale rolled in for the rescue. And he sipped his ale. He could never forget the time Zot had drank himself to near blindness, fell smitten for a female centaur, and aggressively pursued her. This led to a hoof kick to his kneecap, giving him his noticeable limp. Bale drank to that memory. He remembered when he and Zot tricked Nevin, Silver, and Diminutia into wandering to the Fecal Swamps. No … wait … that was the other way around. Bale reflected with fondness anyway and sipped again. After a few more memories, Bale found himself out of ale.

  “Munty! I need another,” Bale barked. No response. He lifted his head again to look around. Still no other patrons. No Munty either.

  Knowing Pik would spew forth insults and Phyl would turn a simple question into headache-inducing, empty rhetoric, Bale took matters into his own hands. Well, his own feet, as the ogre stood and ambled to the bar itself. Still no Munty.

  “Odd,” he mumbled to himself as he inhaled a few times through his nostrils. “I smell fire. And rum?”

  Leaning over the bar, he looked to the left and saw a spitting spark eating away at a line of black powder. He looked to his right to see that the trail of black powder led to twenty stacked cases of rum, three of them spilled and flowing along the floor. Once he had watched the disastrous effects of Zot lighting a pipe after a long night of sloppy rum drinking—Bale was finally wise beyond his limited intelligence. He knew what would happen once the sputtering flame reached the rum.

  Moving faster than his girth would suggest, Bale turned from the bar and ran to his friends. Despite Pik’s cursing and Phyl’s questions, Bale snatched them from their seats, one under each arm, and barreled toward the closest wall. Having no other means, Bale decided to use the hardest thing he could find as a battering ram—his head. Lowering it, he plowed forwa
rd just as the flame reached the cases of rum. The fire flash explosion propelled the ogre and his friends through the wall, tumbling and rolling along the dirt roads of Bogosh outside.

  Bale awoke to the sounds of arguing. He knew that Pik had to be involved, but he swore he could hear dozens of other voices. Rubbing his sore head, he sat up and opened his eyes to see what his ears heard. Phyl cowered behind Pik as the hobgoblin argued with dozens of townsmen. And half of them held shovels, pitchforks, or lit torches.

  “What … happened?” Bale moaned as he made his way to his feet.

  Phyl ran to the larger of his two friends. “They’re kicking us out of Bogosh! They set us up in the tavern, that’s why we didn’t see any other customers today!”

  “What? They blew up Munty’s tavern?”

  The tall gnome sidled up to the ogre and waved his finger in fury. “You bet we did! It was my idea!”

  “You blew up your own tavern?” Bale repeated.

  A random voice from the crowd of creatures yelled, “We’ll help him build another one!”

  “Plus,” Munty continued, “It was the only way to get rid of your stench! Why is it every time you come from the Fecal Swamps, the first place you come to is my tavern? Ugh!”

  Heart hurting beyond words, Bale sniffed and asked, “But … but … where will we go?”

  With rage like a boulder rolling down hill, Munty blurted, “Who cares? Just get out! If you’re looking for some place to fit in, why don’t you go live in Grimwell?”

  As if Munty had blasphemed, a hush swept through the crowd. Both Phyl and Pik stared at the tall gnome in disbelief, wondering how someone they had known for so long could say something so hurtful. On the verge of tears, Bale whispered, “Grimwell scares me.”

  “As it does everyone,” Pik said.

  “But it’s not as frightful as that curse you three brought here,” Munty replied. “Please. Just go.”

  With a snort, Pik turned and started down the road leading south out of town. Phyl shook his head and followed. Confused by all the emotions swirling around in his chest, Bale lashed out the only way he knew how. He stole Munty’s red hat. However, Munty’s white hair came with it. Bale looked at the cap, long, white hair stitched into it, and then to Munty, the tallest, baldest gnome he had ever seen. Not knowing what else to do, Bale shoved it in his pocket and ran after Pik and Phyl.

  By the time he caught up with them, Pik was well into another diatribe. Bale was used to the scene that spilled out before him, but it was only his accustomedness to such things that upgraded the display from disturbing to disconcerting. Many times had Bale stared at Pik, convinced his limbs were tied to puppeteer strings and well beyond the hobgoblin’s control. Pik’s arms, long and spindly, seemed akin to spider’s legs as they flailed about him, moving in rhythm to his griping. In fact, the only thing that could move faster than his arms was his mouth. Once that was set into motion … well, it was like a ship at sail with no port to call home. “Who needs nonhumans anyway?”

  “Pik, in case you haven’t noticed, we’re the only friends we have right now, and our own number just dwindled,” Phyl muttered. His face had taken on that ashen look of someone who had seen death. In life, the satyr had not been very close to Zot, but in death they were bound to one another.

  “Bah! We sell the stinking stone, and then we can buy friends! In fact, I’ll bet the human king himself is looking for this stone …”

  “Pik, stop talking about it,” Phyl said, casting anxious glances over both of his shoulders in turn. “You can never be too careful about who hears.”

  “Who cares? It will only up the market value. More potential buyers means more profit for us,” Pik stated. Surreptitiously, he peeked at his friends to see if his speech was having any effect on them. The key to persuasion lay in convincing Bale. Get the ogre agreeable, and the satyr would acquiesce to selling his own family. The satyr was pale from worry, and his brow was lined with deep furrows. No great surprise to Pik.

  He continued to spew meaningless drivel at a rate that was surely incomprehensible to even the most erudite creatures. Keep them off balance; convince them before they knew what they were agreeing to; that was the hobgoblin’s wont. Now to see what reaction he was getting from Bale, but, as luck would have it, a blank stare was all that met him when he looked at Bale. No great surprise he realized, but he was disappointed nonetheless. His reasoning should be met with accolades, not the silence of stupidity!

  Exasperation seized Pik by the shoulders, a crushing grip that threatened to compress his spine. In that instant, the hobgoblin had an epiphany. Ogres are a moving mass of destruction, an injustice at best. In the case of Bale, it was an utter waste of flesh. Was his brain even large enough to cramp occasionally?

  “Ogre,” Pik yelled, “what do you have to say? What are you thinking?”

  “Pik, I, uh … do you see that bunny?”

  “Bunny! Bale, you’re a walking monstrosity. Nature trembles at your approach …”

  “That’s because nature has a nose,” posited the satyr with a smirk.

  “Four hundred and thirty stones’ weight worth of stupidity! That’s what you are, Bale! You moronic mass of muscle …” The hobgoblin swayed in irritation as his lithe form was whipped into a frenzy of motion by his rage.

  “And would it be too much to ask for you to bathe once in a while,” asked Phyl, his offended nose wrinkled. “And how about buying a decent pair of pants?”

  “How is it that you even speak? Why is it that you speak? Words are wasted …”

  “We may be creatures, but we can still be civilized …”

  “Words are affronted when you use them.”

  “Noses are offended when he walks past.”

  “Trees understand the rules of argument better than you.”

  “Trees understand the rules of fashion better than he does!”

  The verbal abuse continued for several more minutes as the hobgoblin and the satyr unleashed every insult they could muster. The witless ogre merely walked without blinking. Perturbation seemed a concept he simply couldn’t grasp with his meager mind.

  “Bale, even stupidity is offended by you …”

  “Colors are offended when you wear them.”

  As if an inharmonious chord had finally been struck, the ogre reached out with both hands and gripped the shoulders of his companions. Without discernible effort, Bale lifted both of his companions from their feet and shook them until all of the words had spilled from their mouths and silence reigned.

  “Pik, do you see that bunny?” Bale asked after getting the hobgoblin’s attention.

  “I … uh … guh …”

  “I think that bunny is whistling.”

  “Phyl,” Pik grunted, “I think … uh … we should … guh … reconsider our statements.”

  “I … uh … agree! Bale, you’re mussing my hair!”

  “You guys are dumb,” said Bale, lowering his companions back to the firmament.

  “We’re dumb? You’re the one who thinks a rabbit is whistl … wait! A whistling rabbit?”

  “Oh, Pik,” whined Phyl. “That can only mean one thing!”

  “Dragon!”

  Phyl and Pik began to run in wild circles looking for a place to hide. Finally, the need for distance outweighed the notion of concealment, and they both took off at full speed in a straight line.

  “It’s not a dragon,” Bale said. “It’s a bunny. One that whistles, too.” He was oblivious to the flight of his companions. Their voices began to fade with the distance, though snatches of their conversation drifted back to him.

  “Phyl, go the other way!”

  “Right! He can’t catch us both if we go opposite directions.”

  Before him on a stump sat the rabbit, merrily whistling a tune that Bale recognized as a drinking ditty. Or at least he would have recognized it if he were capable of more than one thought at a time. But he was too preoccupied with catching the little critter to think or hear or
speak or do anything more than drool. Bale stared at the bunny, not wanting to risk any sudden movement that would send it scampering off.

  “Hey there, little bunny. It’s okay. I won’t hurt you. I think I have a carrot here …”

  “Bale!”

  “That’s right, Mr. Bunny. My name is Bale. And your name is Bun …”

  “Bale,” said the rabbit. “It’s me … Lapin!”

  “Rabbit … right. Yes, I see that you are, Mr. Bunny. I’m an ogre …”

  In an effigy befitting a talented mime, Lapin’s jaw dropped. This ogre displayed true talent with riddles. He’d shown a remarkable facility for languages. He’d bested a dragon! Lapin had always doubted the assertion that the intelligent lacked common sense, but here was undeniable proof.

  “Perhaps recruiting you isn’t such a wise move after all.”

  “No, it’s okay, Mr. Bunny. Recruit me.”

  Bale used two fingers to hold his pocket open.

  “Here’s a nice hole for you to stay in while you do your recruiting.”

  “Bale, we need to talk.”

  “We are talking. But I could hear you better if you were snuggled up in this pocket.”

  “Oh, for crying out loud! If I get in your stupid pocket will you just go where I tell you?”

  Bale offered the smile of a simpleton as a response. Lapin felt he had no other choice, so he leapt into Bale’s cavernous pant pocket. “This is so revolting. Okay, let’s …”

  “Wait!” Bale shouted. He reached deep into his other pocket, digging around for an object. Lapin winced with every clack of metal he heard, not wanting to think about what he heard or how it managed to fit in the ogre’s pocket. Bale stopped rooting and let out a rumbling chuckle. He found what he was looking for—Munty’s hat.