The Devil's Grasp

by Chris Pisano

  From the corner of her eye, she watched her general, her Iderion, finish off one more demon, leaving only the demon-general, Ar’drzz’ur. Holding his massive shield and a broadsword larger than the right leg of most men, Iderion stood before the demon twice his size. Built like a man with the skin of a molded corpse and teeth of a crazed shark, Ar’drzz’ur had two horns sprouting upward from his temples; one shorn off from a battle before history even began. Iderion wanted to circle his opponent, size up his stance and movements, but the corpses of the fallen cluttered his path. Ar’drzz’ur snatched the largest sword he could find from the fallen. He then tossed aside or used his cloven hooves to kick away the bodies of man and demon alike.

  Pools of blood welled around their feet, Iderion and the demon-general, as they circled each other. Every step ended with a splash—the dirt saturated with ichor and bile, entrails kicked aside. Iderion bellowed a promise to send the demon-general back to hell. Ar’drzz’ur laughed and attacked.

  The demon swung with the force of every soul he had sucked the marrow from; Iderion blocked it with his own sword. Fissures of pain ran through his arm. He swore as if all his bones exploded. The demon’s second swing connected with Iderion’s shield, knocking the large man to the ground.

  Taking his time, Ar’drzz’ur sliced downward, but Iderion displayed a speed disproportionate to his girth, rolling out of the way. The demon’s blade stabbed the ground as the human-general jumped to his feet. He hacked at the demon’s arm, but Ar’drzz’ur deflected the sword with his monstrous hand.

  The demon and human continued to exchange blows. Iderion continued shouts of bravado as Ar’drzz’ur responded only with patronizing laughter. Inspired by Iderion’s unwillingness to forfeit, Dearborn gathered what little air she could muster in her lungs and spat in the face of the serpent demon that constricted her. Angered, the demon opened its jaws, saliva dripping from its jowls, and lunged for Dearborn’s head. Wrestling with the tip of its tail, she shifted it while moving her head aside as best she could. It worked! The demon’s jaws clamped shut and severed off the tip of its own tail. Hissing and howling, it loosened its grip on Dearborn to grab its tail, its own blood cascading from its mouth. With a somersault and spin, Dearborn procured her sword and lopped off its head. A final spit to clear the filth from her mouth was all she left for the twitching creature.

  Dearborn ran toward the man she loved, short sword in one hand, long sword in the other. Iderion succumbed to his warrior rage, swinging his broadsword with inhuman speed. Ar’drzz’ur blocked each attack with his own sword, but fell off balance with each blow. Watching her general turn the tide of the last battle to his favor gave Dearborn the strength to run to him faster. With the vigor of a pup half his age, Iderion chopped at the demon, driving him to his knees. Ar’drzz’ur held his sword as a shield with his left hand while his right disappeared into the piled organs of fallen soldiers on the ground for support. Dearborn smiled, knowing the demon-general faced imminent defeat. Iderion raged against the demon. Panting like a whipped cur, Ar’drzz’ur dropped his sword. Dearborn’s heart almost burst with joy, until she saw the demon’s right hand. Iderion raised his sword one final time. Ar’drzz’ur twisted his body to his left, his right hand, holding a sword from one of the fallen soldiers, exploded from the offal on the ground that hid it.

  Iderion was run through, his gut and sternum doing nothing to hinder the demon’s attack, the entire sword driven upward and out through his neck. Ar’drzz’ur wore the twitching Iderion like a sleeve. After one final spasm from Iderion, the demon flicked the corpse from his arm like a discarded rag.

  Dearborn screamed the pain of a million dying worlds. Miles away towns heard her, but none knew what it meant, many citizens taking the wailing howl as a divine sign or start of a legendary ghost story. None knew where it came from or by whom, lest they beat their own breast or rip their own hair out deep from the root as a grand gesture of sympathy, knowing no living creature should feel the loss of Dearborn Stillheart.

  Mere feet from the man she devoted her life to, her life, Dearborn froze from disbelief. Never taking her eyes off his corpse, she dropped her swords. She undid all her buckles and buttons, removing all of her armor. With the kind of strength the demon possessed, it would be useless. Dearborn knelt by her precious Iderion, stroked his hair once, let a tear fall from her cheek to his, and kissed his blood-soaked lips for the first and last time. When she stood, she took his broadsword with her.

  Ar’drzz’ur laughed.

  Dearborn charged, sword raised high and a heart full of hate. The forest shook with every strike of her sword against the demon’s. Not since its birth in the days of endless volcanoes had the world known such fury. And never had it heard thunder and seen lighting start at the ground and move to the sky. With every swing of the sword, sparks threatened to burn the forest, but the battlefield liquids soon extinguished any flame started.

  Ar’drzz’ur laughed.

  Dearborn slashed. And hacked. And cut. With every movement, she released a vicious noise that made a lion’s roar seem like a mew. Sweat washed away the blood, threatening her hold on her weapon. But she held tight, held hard to every memory, every smile she shared with Iderion. She lashed out with steel and profanity, cursing and yelling to every painful beat of her heart.

  Ar’drzz’ur laughed. And grew tired of this game. With one flick of his arm, his backhand sent Dearborn sprawling backwards.

  Every fiber of Dearborn’s being ached, begged her to stop. Her arms felt like boiling jelly as her legs turned to spoiled butter. Every nerve recoiled into a ball of hot razor wire. Her bones were made from thin porcelain. But nothing compared to the torment of her heart, a cyclone of butcher’s knives in a cathedral of silk. It demanded she stand, demanded she fight, convinced her to die later. Not sure how, she did just that—stood and gripped Iderion’s sword.

  Ar’drzz’ur smiled a smile of broken daggers as he sauntered over to Iderion’s corpse. Mimicking a scholar, he examined the body. As if making a grand discovery, the demon picked up the shield and looked it over. Determining it was sturdy enough for his needs, he turned to the wobbling Dearborn. “Little girl, you and your … heh … warriors have been most entertaining. But I grow bored, and I want the stone back. Because I think what will happen next shall be amusing, and it saddens me to think I’ll leave a battle without at least one scar, I offer you this. You have one unfettered attack. I shall not move or dodge or parry. Then I shall kill you and rape your corpse for one hundred years.”

  The demon-general, still laughing, held Iderion’s shield. He used two hands, one on either side of the shield, so large it blocked his entire chest. Little of the creature was exposed, only from his eyes up, his fingers, and his legs. But Dearborn did not even consider any of the exposed parts a target.

  Loving Iderion meant loving him completely and utterly, everything about him, down to the soles of his shoes. She loved his shield, because it was his, and because she loved smithing. She loved how the weight of the shield had always striated his left shoulder, adding to his already immense size, transforming him from a man to a god simply by holding it. The shield transcended craftsmanship, moved beyond the magnificence of artwork, to something Dearborn could not articulate, only admire. Loving the craft, she knew a shield of this size could never be made with one single sheet, but two sheets soldered together. And it took an artist to hide the seam from view. Loving the man who had owned the shield, she knew exactly where that seam was.

  Dearborn focused on the shield, staring at the seam, anticipating how the demon might jerk or tighten his body right before impact. Wrapping both hands around the hilt, she held the sword point out. With one final mountain-cracking roar, she charged. The sword slid right through the seam, right through the breastbone of Ar’drzz’ur. Smiling as the demon’s laughter faded, she felt his heartbeat vibrate the sword. The demon-general looked down and then back at Dearborn. His smile returned; he would live. But before he could move, Dea
rborn put every iota of pure hatred into one twist. The shield cracked in half and fell away. The demon’s ribs split, his heart turned sideways, and a geyser of blood erupted from his chest.

  With his last effort, Ar’drzz’ur stared Dearborn in the eye, smiled, and toppled forward. Having nothing left in her soul, Dearborn could not move fast enough, falling backwards, still holding onto the sword. The weight of the demon was more than she could ever hope to move, even when well rested. With a squish, both bodies hit the ground, blood pooling around Dearborn.

  The demon’s fetid final breath nauseated Dearborn. But she no longer cared. She stared into the demon’s dead eyes, his face frozen in a twisted, sinister smile. Her fate was to die trapped beneath the monster that killed the man she loved. She accepted that fate. Now she could follow Ar’drzz’ur to hell and kill him again.

  Twenty-six

  Lost. Diminutia was lost. Not with respect to the journey, though. He knew very well where he was—traversing through the thick forests that surround Halcyon Hills. He was lost on the inside, in what little soul he had.

  He trudged next to his partner in crime, Silver, but nary a word had been spoken between the two for the good part of a full day. It had been like this ever since Nevin died over a week ago. They both lost their best friend and brother in trade. Thoughts of good times, better pilfers, and narrow escapes danced through their heads, as did questions about why he acted so bravely and what would possess him to sacrifice his life. Did either Silver or Diminutia possess the depth of soul to reach deep and pull forth a sacrifice such as their deceased friend? Neither wanted to know the answer, be it yes or no. Either way chilled them to their bones.

  In front of the thieves, the three remaining wizards, Belhurst, Grymon, and Follen, led the way, pushing their greatly depleted cart of magical ingredients. They walked in silence as well, out of respect for their partners’ fallen comrade. Nevin might not have held the wizards best intentions in mind with his sacrifice, but they benefited from it as well and, thus, were thankful. Plus, they knew Diminutia and Silver well enough to know if they did speak when not welcomed to, then that would be the last thing their tongues would ever do.

  The five men headed toward Phenomere Castle. They had no horses, but hoped they got a head start on the Elite Troop, undoubtedly heading to the same destination after procuring the Satan Stone. Realizing that idea was futile, the five men simply trudged forward, three pushing a squeaking cart, two searching their souls, but all five cloaked in silence.

  Able to bear the pains of silence no more, Belhurst whispered to his cronies. They whispered back. All three peeked over their shoulders to the thieves, both of whom continued to keep pace, heads down. Since neither of them drew their daggers to flay the wizards, Belhurst assumed their level of talk to be acceptable for today.

  The wizards kept their words accurate and sentences brief. They made nothing more than a list of ingredients they would need from the wizard’s guild as well as others they could recruit to their cause. Despite their losses, they still guarded the Shadow Stone and knew that the Satan Stone had been found. They needed more help.

  Diminutia heard the wizards whispering but didn’t care. Their words were just empty noise as far as he was concerned. They didn’t annoy him. His own silence did. The lack of laughter and jocularity. The lack of Nevin.

  “I miss him,” Diminutia mumbled as he did each day since Nevin’s sacrifice.

  “Me, too.” Even though Silver only mumbled two words, his anger dripped from them.

  Diminutia smirked, the gears of his mind grinding away. “Remember the triplets?”

  Even though immersed in anger, Silver couldn’t stop a smile. The one time Nevin acted more reckless than Diminutia. Of course, Nevin had one too many tankards of ogre ale, but armed with a boldness never before seen, he approached three sisters in a tavern. Both Diminutia and Silver assumed he would introduce them to the lovely girls and all six would have a salacious time. Not in their wildest dreams did either Diminutia or Silver expect Nevin to leave the tavern with all three sisters. That memory brought a tear of pride to Diminutia’s eye.

  A chuckle escaped from Silver. “Sure do. Do you remember him running through town the next morning in his britches because their father came home early?”

  Diminutia rubbed his jaw. “Yeah. He ran right up to me and punched me square in the face. I told him my lifestyle wasn’t suited for everybody.”

  Both thieves shared a quick laugh, until a familiar stench wafted under their noses. They looked at each other with disgruntled frowns. Diminutia yelled to the wizards, “Hey. Any of you smell that?”

  “We all do,” Belhurst replied. “It smells of death.”

  Pushing their emotions to the side, Diminutia and Silver unsheathed their daggers and joined the wizards by their cart. They continued at a slow pace, but all five sets of eyes watched the forest, shifting from tree to tree, examining every movement, even something as simple as a falling leaf. Silver’s squinted countenance twisted as the smell thickened. “Notice there are no animals? Not even a bird.”

  “Yeah,” Diminutia replied. “That can’t be good.”

  The five men with a cart pushed on a bit further, until Diminutia noticed a figure on the ground. “Over there.”

  Their eyes turned as one, following the direction indicated by Diminutia’s pointing finger, though the scene they beheld was incomprehensible. For several long seconds they stared in bewilderment at the carnage that stretched out before them. After a silence devoid of any form of thought or understanding, Belhurst spoke.

  “Demons.”

  Though it was but one word, two mere syllables, it was pregnant with many emotions. The wizards recovered their wits first. A sharp hiss rent the still air as Follen drew an abrupt breath. His stance shifted from unnerved to wary, and his eyes danced about the surrounding area. Grymon took Follen’s cue and allowed his eyes to roam the other side of the scene. When no immediate danger was revealed to either wizard, they fanned out to their respective areas, moving slowly as they continued their search.

  Silver and Diminutia couldn’t pull their eyes from the carnage. Nor could they display more than an inkling of recognition. The bodies, if they could be referred to in such mortal terms, were strewn about, hacked and hewed to pieces.

  “What happened? Who could do such a thing?” Silver mouthed, displaying the numbness of uncertainty.

  “Isn’t it clear?” Belhurst asked. “Only the king’s Elite Troop could have killed so many demons. We cannot be far away from them, assuming they survived this battle. We must hasten to catch them or their attackers and retrieve the stone that these gory corpses once protected.”

  “Demons? Like the ones following us?”

  “Worse. Much worse. Each stone is protected by a different set of demons. Dark and lightless demons born from the great abyss itself haunt the stone that we carry. You can only imagine what kinds of demons protect the Satan Stone.”

  “I don’t have to imagine,” Silver mumbled as he saw a severed head of mandibles and horns.

  “If that is true, we should leave.” Diminutia looked to Silver as if he were a river rat scrabbling to stay afloat in a torrent.

  “Don’t be a fool! We have a great opportunity. The item we seek waited for us. Don’t give that back.” Belhurst strode off into strewn out carrion, searching for clues as to who survived the battle and in which direction the survivors went.

  “What do you think?” Silver asked.

  “That this is crazy!” Diminutia said rolling his eyes, exasperated with himself for even considering risking his own hide against more of these demons. Yet, consider it he did. He wasn’t sure where the wellspring of philanthropic ideals came from, but he had never been one to place the good of humanity before the good of Diminutia and yet here he was, poised on the precipice of benevolence, and he was having trouble backing away.

  Silver took a good look at Diminutia. Watched the way he rolled his eyes when he spoke. Ca
ught every nuance and syllable of his body language. He knew very well that his companion’s mind was set, and there would be no changing it. If there was no talking him out of it, then at least he could go along as damage control.

  “Well then,” Silver replied, “since we’ve both just enlisted ourselves into the service of certified lunatics, shall we begin?”

  “After you,” Diminutia responded with an embellished bow, indicating that Silver should lead the way.

  “Right. Let’s check over here,” Silver suggested, pointing towards the side of the grisly scene that was fronted more by open grassland and seemed the least likely place for them to risk being ambushed.

  The battlefield was huge and stretched before them like a lake of gore. They picked their way through the remnants of melee participants, careful not to touch. Both had come to the conclusion that whatever demons were made of, it certainly wasn’t the flesh of any creature birthed in nature. Many of the cadavers oozed or began to melt away, like a gelatinous mass set out in the heat. “Ugh, the smell!” Silver said, pulling his shirt over his nose.

  “I know,” Diminutia replied, doing the same.

  Neither of them was exactly unaccustomed to the smell of rotting flesh, but if this battle was as near its end as Belhurst suggested, then it seemed a bit early for such charnel smells to pervade the air.

  Silver tapped Diminutia on the shoulder. After he received the other man’s attention, he pointed to their left. A tangle of corpses laid piled a few paces away. As the thieves moved closer, they found all of the evidence they need to confirm Belhurst’s theory. The uniform of the king’s Elite Troop, though not intact, was identifiable on the body of one young man. His body was bent at horrible angles, and while Diminutia turned away to fight a spell of retching, Silver silently thanked the fates that the man’s face was buried in the ground. He was certain that had he faced the grimace that must accompany such apparent agony, he would end up on the ground heaving.