The Devil's Grasp

by Chris Pisano

  With the care of handling a ceramic flower, Bale placed the hat, with long, white hair still attached, onto Lapin’s head, his ears snug together inside the point. Bale recognized the disgust in neither the rabbit’s contorted face, nor his soured voice. “Follow the road and veer into the forest by the second boulder.”

  Bale walked to the boulder as instructed, but stopped, not knowing what the word “veer” meant. Too proud to ask, he did whatever came to mind, hoping one of his actions was right: first, he sniffed the boulder, then he licked it, then he did an arm-flailing jig. Fearing for his own safety, Lapin yelled, “Go into the forest here!”

  A bit ashamed, Bale followed the order. Lapin ducked and dodged the whipping twigs and leaves, as Bale opted for the most direct approach.

  “Left!” Lapin barked, blowing white hair from his face.

  Again, Bale listened, walking right into a clearing.

  “Stop,” Lapin ordered, keeping his instructions short and easy.

  Not having to wait long, Bale saw why the rabbit directed him to go to the clearing—the dragon. The monstrous reptile stalked around the perimeter of the open space, never taking his eyes off Bale. As a primal form of expressing dominance, he tossed clods of dirt with his claws and gave occasional snorts of smoke. Bale didn’t know much, but he knew that if he was capable of eating creatures smaller than him, then creatures larger than him were capable of the same. And this dragon was much, much larger than him. And probably still upset by the fact that Bale stole the stone from his lair.

  “Ogre,” the dragon gruffed, eyes locked on Bale. “You are brave to face me. Much more brave than the hobgoblin and satyr hiding behind the trees.”

  Knowing their cue, Pik and Phyl poked their heads out. With tentative steps, they made their way next to Bale in the clearing, trembling before the circling dragon.

  “Fear not,” the dragon continued. “I am not here to seek vengeance. As befuddled as I am about the fact, you claimed the Spirit Stone rightfully. But I know of its curse, know of the demons killing your families and friends. I’m here to offer my help.”

  “Help?” Phyl squeaked out, the fur of his legs keeping his knocking knees from being audible.

  “Yes. Lapin and I will accompany you to the human capital city of Phenomere. The world’s greatest wizards reside there, and we shall seek their council in this matter.”

  Pik, Bale, and Phyl stopped trembling. Having no home, no town to call their own anymore, and no discernable plan, the trio found no other alternative than to accept the dragon’s offer. Upon doing so, the dragon smiled and turned to his partner, Lapin. He wanted to congratulate the rabbit for executing such a brilliant plan, but instead said, “Are you wearing a gnome’s hat? With long white hair attached to it?”

  Lapin retreated farther into Bale’s pocket, fearing whatever might be lurking in there far less than the shame he felt.

  Twenty-three

  “This is madness!” Dearborn screamed.

  “Dearborn!” Iderion bellowed.

  Dearborn’s heart ripped into two. She stood inside Prince Oremethus’s tent with the prince himself and General Iderion. She hated arguing with the general. But he was wrong about this. She knew it, and he knew it. The prince was mad! Insane! Reason and reality had vacated his senses! Did Iderion not see this? Or not wish to admit it?

  “She is wrong!” Oremethus shouted back, pointing to Dearborn. His face glistened with sweat as he paced the perimeter of his tent. The fingers on his right hand rolled as if he played an invisible instrument. “We have to do this! Have to! They want the stone!”

  “Prince Oremethus,” Iderion said, his voice even and calm. “Though we know you are a master tactician, we must give credence to the sergeant’s suggestions. She and I have more battlefield experience. That is why the king has an Elite Troop to begin with.”

  “Wrong!” the prince shouted, the word exploded from his mouth with such force he stopped pacing and forced his eyes closed.

  Iderion and Dearborn exchanged glances, allies again in this struggle. But the prince continued pacing, his right hand still strumming, and his left waved wildly in the air. “Don’t you see? Surely you do! They have been picking us off one at a time. We started with forty plus myself, and we picked up Haddaman. We are down to twenty-seven. If we run, they will get us. Get us all! One. At. A. Time.”

  Iderion turned to Dearborn, and she knew she lost her ally again. Before he could say that he agreed with the prince, Dearborn barked back. “You didn’t see them! These aren’t men. These aren’t animals. These aren’t even those hideous creatures of The Horde! These. Are. Monsters.”

  Oremethus continued to pace. All form of decorum had diminished. Pomp and circumstance no longer mattered. Spittle flew from his mouth, and his face reddened as he rebutted, “Yes, monsters! Yet, you yourself stated that you and your men had slain them. If you can slay one, you can slay a dozen. If you can slay a dozen, you can slay a hundred!”

  Dearborn turned back to the general. “We are frightfully outnumbered. And thanks to our delusional prince, we have scant enough rest to keep moving, let alone wage a frontal assault.”

  “General!” Oremethus snapped, his pacing getting faster. “You must do this! You must do this! You must do this!”

  Frustrated beyond words, Iderion growled and stepped toward Dearborn, stopping within an eyelash of her face. With a guttural whisper, he commanded, “Our job is to fight while outnumbered and win unscathed. We shall rest when we are dead. And the prince, no matter how close it may be to truth, shall never be insulted. Prepare the men.”

  “Then I fear we shall be resting sooner than either of you realize,” she whispered back. Before the general could retort, she turned on her heel and marched out of the tent. Two dozen sets of weary and worried eyes greeted her.

  “We’re making our stand here.” Her voice cracked and crumbled as if she ate gravel. “Prepare yourselves.”

  The men grumbled and griped and groaned from the news. She allowed them; it was hardly proper, but she couldn’t bring herself to chide them for something she herself did as well. She did plenty of griping under her breath as she went to her tent to prepare herself for battle. She adjusted her armor, tying extra pads and plates on her arms and legs. She found ways to strap every sword and dagger she owned to her body, all the while formulating a plan.

  Demons were brainless beasts, not well-trained soldiers. Their previous tactic was to charge and keep charging. She didn’t assume they knew no other way, she just chose the most logical scenario. Half of her troop was very young and agile. She would order these men to climb into the trees. Hopefully when her men dropped from above, they could surround the monstrous attackers. An ambush, no matter how small, always yielded favorable results. But if the battle turned for the worse and the demons killed the prince, the self-appointed keeper of the stone, she would immediately order her men to scatter and retreat, with orders to reconnoiter at Phenomere.

  After she finished preparing for battle, she drank an entire bladder’s worth of Pallarian root juice. The sugary syrup burned all the way to her stomach, but her heart rate increased to a nice strong rhythm as the liquid fire spread through her entire body. She exited her tent, proud to see that her men were ready for battle.

  Barking orders, she had half of the Elite Troop in the canopy of the thicket in front of the camp, ready to pounce. The other half stowed what little food they had left and tied the horses to trees at the back of camp. They would be spooked by the demons and too ornery to ride into battle, but they had to be close by ready for retreat. The men hid weapons in strategic places, perfect for feigning retreat only to draw the enemy close enough to finish them with a surprise strike.

  Twelve men formed a line, each standing four paces to the left or right of any other man. Dearborn and Iderion stood in the middle. They planned to draw the monsters in and steadily pull back. The men closest to them would pull back as well in an effort to form two sides of a triangle. Finally
, her men from the trees would fall, cutting the enemy off from behind, forming the third side of the triangle. The sole task remaining was to wait.

  Dearborn stood steadfast, a guardian statue. Iderion fidgeted with his battle-axe, unhappy with the sergeant’s silent treatment. She might have been a sergeant, but she was still a woman, and as such, needed nary a single word to make a man squirm. Iderion could take the silence no more and whispered, “I know you disagree with this course of action, and I know you believe the prince to be touched in the mind, but this is the right thing to do.”

  “They’re coming,” was her only response.

  Iderion was at a loss. Not for the first time in his life, he realized, but it simply didn’t get any easier. If he expressed his true concern for Dearborn, he knew he would be undermining the confidence he had in her abilities. He was loathe to give her pause shortly before battle. But to say nothing would pull at his heartstrings should something untoward come to pass. He was no poet, he knew, and had not been blessed with a gilded tongue. His mind understood tactics and the balance of a weapon, but even one as obtuse in the ways of women as himself knew that he had a miniscule window here to make a statement that she would carry with her for life.

  “Dearborn … I …”

  His stammering was as effective as windmilling one’s arms to keep from falling. She turned to look at him. Confusion was clearly etched on her face as their eyes met. Reaching, digging, her eyes bored into him as though searching for the source of his very soul. For the first time today, Iderion allowed himself to be drawn into her eyes; tourmaline blue, and as clear as the most perfect specimen of that gem, even in this moment of tension and stress, her brow was smooth and unmarred by worry. If only he could lend voice to any of those thoughts. She took his breath away, and he wished to fill her sails with it, but was unable to do anything more than stare and create an uncomfortable moment.

  “Be careful,” he mouthed. So blank was his mind that even those words failed to register sound. If she had asked him to repeat himself, he would have been hard pressed to remember them.

  “Protect the prince,” she responded and turned away from him in a haste that caused her black hair to swirl about her.

  Iderion stood up straight, arching his back. To an independent observer, it would have appeared that he was stretching. In truth he was listening to her. Her words held disappointment, the disappointment of one who had hoped for more and not received it. He sought forgiveness from his lame apology, but felt foolish for not receiving it.

  “General, what would you have me do?” Haddaman. No one had considered Haddaman, or how to effectively protect him. This was not his fight. Nor could he be allowed to participate. But what to do with him? He was a forgotten man, a lost trinket, its value forgone, which suddenly found, no longer served any purpose.

  “Haddaman, I am reassigning you. You have a new partner.” Iderion lacked agility when it came to improvisation. He drew out his words hoping a plan would coalesce in the lacunae of his mind. Not much came forth, but he knew the civilian needed to be sent far away from the killing field.

  “Can you use a khopesh?” Iderion reached for the hooked blade that was strapped across his back.

  “General, I am … ummm … quite skilled with … throwing … weapons. In fact, I was once …”

  As Iderion suspected—no bravery was present in Haddaman’s voice. He gave up reaching for the weapon and used his other hand to pull a dirk from his boot, then shoved it at the erstwhile antiques dealer. It wasn’t much, but his impromptu plan depended on speed and avoiding battle. This way, at least he could shield himself from guilt while reminding himself that Haddaman wasn’t totally defenseless.

  “Go with Siempre.”

  Beneath his finely constructed façade, Haddaman was scared to death and was hoping to be sent as far away from a fight as possible. He would puff his chest and then accept the task of messenger with an air of disappointment. Or at least that was what he hoped would happen. That was the point of talking to Iderion in the first place. Oremethus would send him in front of the front line. The prince would do anything to place distance between himself and the encroaching danger of being separated from the stone he carried. And Dearborn … she would have tied him to a tree and used him as bait. While Iderion was no genius, Haddaman was far from average in that department. He chose his mark wisely and would dupe him with ease. “Siempre? With all due respect, sir, he’s a messenger—a glorified page.”

  “Haddaman, history teaches us that many wars have been lost due to lack of communication. The king must be informed of what happens this day. Reinforcements may be required. Our lives are in your hands. We need a hero. It is a role suited to you.”

  Haddaman you are a gifted actor, he acknowledged silently, his plan worked perfectly and gave himself an internal nod. Time was of the essence. He should protest once more, briefly, and then accept the gracious gift he was offered. The Elite Troop would do all the work—provide the sweat, tears, and blood, yet he would emerge the hero. It suited his ego and his mantle.

  “General, I fear I must protest …”

  “I will not be swayed, Haddaman,” Iderion said, wondering if Haddaman heard the sarcasm in his voice. “I cannot afford to risk failure in such a vital task. It must be you and your skills that see this done. If Siempre is attacked on his trip, the kingdom could be placed in jeopardy. Avoid the prince at any means. Now go. Mahlakore’s horse is young and light. It will be among the fastest steeds.”

  “General, I ask that you remember my protest formally. I’ll not be dishonored by ignorance later. I will do as you bid …”

  Screams filled the air. It was the kind of agonized noise that no human throat could produce even under the direst of circumstances. The demons charged, and Haddaman watched the general’s eyes widen then glaze over with the adrenalin rush of a seasoned warrior. Haddaman recognized that the conversation had ended, and he ran. He knew where Mahlakore’s horse stood, and he wasted no time seeking him out. Siempre was to leave at the first sound of battle and had been chosen for his role as messenger because of his mindset and loyalty to his orders. Even Haddaman understood that it took a special sort of individual to leave his companions in a crisis, regardless of the importance of his task.

  As he reached the horse, Haddaman cut the fetters with the dirk Iderion had given him, hoping a few seconds saved would spare his life. He leaped into the saddle and had the horse under way before he was properly seated. From his left he heard the sound of hoofbeats and knew that Siempre had started out. Yet another perfectly executed plan, Haddaman thought as he galloped away.

  Iderion barked orders as the demons attacked. Dearborn and the men that formed a line next to her moved back with perfect pace and launched arrows with elegance. The monsters certainly took more arrows than any other creature to fall, but fall they did. And they continued to advance at a pace the Elite Troop dictated.

  The demons had rushed the line like the brainless brutes Dearborn hoped them to be. Once in range, every member of the Elite Troop line fired shaft after shaft. The monsters slowed, but persisted. Leading the way, Dearborn ordered the center of the line to fall back, forming the point of a triangle. The demons followed, but not to the perfection Dearborn had hoped.

  So dumbed by bloodlust, the demons tore after the closest men as opposed to the ones firing the arrows, the men on either end of the line. The young men fought with the vigor all soldiers dreamed about, but soon fell. In a flurry of muscle and claw, the soldiers’ bodies twisted, their insides spilled out.

  Needing to keep the monsters corralled, Dearborn and Iderion barked a simultaneous order. Before the end of their breath, the men in trees dropped. With the deft placement of a watchmaker, the soldiers landed with perfect precision, the Elite Troop now surrounded the demons.

  Bringing the fury of hell with them, the demons in the middle of the godless pack of roiling flesh squirmed and squealed, trying to claw their way out. The monsters at the edge
sliced and bit at the Elite Troop soldiers. The soldiers were too well trained, and the monsters’ ranks dwindled.

  An occasional claw dealt a critical wound, shredding armor as easily as flesh, leaving torn steel and strewn entrails. Wild tentacles snatched a young recruit, yanking him to the center of mayhem. Nothing but a yelp and mists of blood lent to his legacy. The demons did mortal damage to members on the perimeter, but not enough.

  Dearborn threw knives faster than arrows could fly, then never wielding less than two swords. She saw slicing fangs rend plate-mail to scrap and deemed her shield useless. Plus, it took twice as many cuts and stabs to kill one of these monsters. And kill she did, lopping off heads and cleaving skulls, she used ichor and entrails to paint a portrait of fearful rage. Her shoulders burned past the point of feeling, her arms swinging and hacking as if they were possessed by the very demons she killed. She felt nothing, not the sweat streaming over her body, not the blood and guts spraying from every kill, just primal anger. It devoured her heart and gnawed her soul, reminding her that the prince demanded this, and the one person she trusted—loved—agreed with him.

  Iderion’s humanity disappeared as well; it served him little good in combat situations such as this. A civilized human might feel compunction for the twitching, beheaded bodies of the enemy. An upstanding member of society could never tolerate a face full of vomit after stabbing an opponent in the belly. The general could hardly afford such compunction leading his men to imminent death. And the warm ember that tried to ignite his heart every time he glanced at Dearborn had to stay extinguished—for now.

  The general and sergeant led by example, being more monstrous than what they fought. The mob of flesh shrank, the numbers diminished. A soldier would fall, mutilated beyond any form of recognition, but the circle shrank, the noose tightened. Finally, the last dozen warbled death knells came from slit throats of monsters.

  Falling to their knees or sliding against a nearby tree, the Elite Troop collapsed, every iota of heart and soul spent for their victory. Twelve remained, eleven men and one woman, gasping and wheezing, coming up for air after almost drowning in horror. Fatigue froze every inch of every body, only their eyes could move. All gazes shifted to the pile of carcasses. Two hundred bodies, severed and cut and stabbed and ruined, formed piles—huge piles. Dismayed and in awe of the force of their collective will, the remaining twelve stared slack jawed at the carnage they created. Then came a laugh. And a second. Unable to contain any form of emotion, the twelve let out all they had with laughter and tears and screams. Concerned, Prince Oremethus exited his tent. As stiff as knotted wood, the soldiers ordered themselves to stand in recognition of the prince. But before any questions could be asked, ideas thought, or orders made, a noise came from a hundred footfalls away. Then another, more terrifying sound.