by Chris Pisano
“Dim, this guy was too young to be entrusted with the stone. I’m not gonna mess with this one. I’m going to search over there a bit.” Silver spoke in mellow tones as though his words might disturb the air enough to cause his comrade further discomfort.
As he walked, Silver noticed that the ground itself seemed to recoil from the waste that had been spilled upon it. Grass had withered beneath the mess of demon flesh. Rocks melted, and the dirt was pockmarked as though pulling away in revulsion at what had been laid to rest upon it.
In all directions he could see more soldiers or remnants of soldiers. Mixed in periodically were horses, too, though they had been shredded and feasted upon and often the parts he found were too indistinct for his brain to immediately recognize them. It was odd that horses were in such a state, but given what appeared to be the massive numbers of slain demons, it was possible that they had overwhelmed the humans with such impossible odds that many of the attackers simply had no fighting targets and spent their time on other diversions.
Confounded and disgusted, Silver trod forth regardless of his roiling stomach. His right hand pinched his shirt over his nose, while his left handled the occasional satchel or checked a lumpy pocket with gossamer touch, afraid of offending the items he handled. Repulsed by his own actions, he reverted to testing the effects of the human corpses with the tip of his boot first, all the while mumbling his discontent. Until he heard a moan come from behind him.
Silver’s spine petrified as his muscles froze, a defense mechanism employed by small game. He even held his breath, but decided that if it rarely worked for the rabbits and rodents, it probably wouldn’t work for him. In one fluid motion, he spun, crouched, and produced his dagger to face more unmoving corpses.
Just then, he saw movement. A foot. A leather boot twitched. Then came another moan, a woman’s.
“DiiiiiiiiiIIIIIMMM!” Silver yelled as he watched the foot twitch again. His friend ran to him, as did the three wizards. Slack jawed, they all stared as the foot jerked again. It took some doing, but they made out two legs, the rest of the warrior hidden by the half mound of slaughtered demons. A very large one on top trapped the soldier. Another moan snapped the five onlookers from their stupor.
Surprising even themselves with their act of selflessness, the thieves joined the wizards in aiding the soldier. All five men gathered on one side of the monstrous demon, four times the size of a normal man. Positioning themselves between its shoulder and hip, they pushed. Hands slick with the demon’s gore, they all released shouts at various volume and intensity. With a unified thrust, they rolled the demon aside.
Pulling in a large gulp of air, the soldier coughed a thick gurgle. Then she sat up and spat.
Diminutia recognized her. Even though malachite-hued blood masked her face and matted her hair, causing the other four men to mistake her for a fellow male, Diminutia knew who she was. His angel. “You?”
Dearborn paused from spitting and retching to look up at Diminutia. Stunning the other four men with her feminine voice, she replied, “You.”
Their eyes locked, their hearts grappled, neither knew what to say or do. Each wanted the other to speak first, not caring what the words were, just wanting some indication of what to do next. Their silence was as boundless. It truly would have lasted an eternity had Belhurst not kept his wits about himself. With the slight-of-hand of a street magician, Belhurst removed a cloak and handed it to Dearborn. “Here, madam warrior, use this to rid yourself of demon filth.”
With great difficulty, she pulled her eyes from Diminutia and accepted the cloak, using it as a towel to wipe away the larger chunks. She stood and felt four pair of eyes widen at her height, taller than anyone there. Only Diminutia was not caught unaware. Attempting to cover for the rudeness, Belhurst removed another cloak and handed it to her.
“Thank you,” Dearborn offered as she accepted the second cloak, dropping the first one to the ground with a goo-filled slosh.
“Madam Warrior, what happened here?” Belhurst asked.
Dearborn told them. Of the successful mission. Of the maddening of Prince Oremethus. Of the demon ambush. By the end of her story, Belhurst offered her a third cloak for her to wear and made introductions. Silver did a double take with the wizard, noticing that less three cloaks, he still seemed to be wearing just as many as when they first met.
“So you are in possession of the stone?” Belhurst asked as nonthreatening as possible.
Dearborn turned to Diminutia. “Why? Are you going to attempt to steal it again?”
Diminutia begged his mind to produce a clever and savvy answer, but nothing came.
Belhurst replied for him. “No, Dearborn. We are going to attempt to destroy them.”
Dearborn looked to the old wizard as he held out his hand. In the center of his palm rested a stone blacker than the hole to hell. Her eyes widened, mesmerized, only able to break from her trance when Belhurst closed his hand. Feeling a rudimentary sense of trust with this small group due to them rescuing her, she reached into a small pocket and produced the Satan Stone. Crimson, orange, and yellow swirled together like the flames to the hell whence the Shadow Stone led. Before the men could become entranced, she placed it back in her pocket. “It’s cursed. It brought … this …”
For the first time, Dearborn looked at the battlefield. To her, it seemed to go on forever, littered with bodies. Most were demons, but the rest was comprised of her friends, men whom she called family. One she wanted to call lover, even husband. Her gaze lingered on Iderion long enough for Diminutia to recognize the large man. He wanted to comfort her, put his arm around her, but felt it to be inappropriate. Again, Belhurst became the voice of reason, “Madam Stillheart, all of us have lost someone close because of these stones. None as fathomable as what you had to endure. I suggest you travel with us to Phenomere where we intend to meet the wizard’s guild and devise a way to destroy these stones and send them back to the hell they came from.”
With her eyes still scanning the battlefield and her mind half-wondering how she survived, she heard enough of what the wizard said to reply, “Yes. Yes, that would be a good idea.”
After rounding up the four horses that remained alive, Diminutia offered to share his steed with Dearborn. She accepted and jumped on the horse; the horse groaned, not happy that it had to carry such a large passenger. Dearborn wanted to wrap her arms around the handsome, blond man in front of her, but opted for the less presumptuous choice of gripping the back of the saddle for balance. With one last glance over her shoulder, she wondered her fate, wondered how she planned on telling more than thirty families that a member would not be coming home, wondered how to tell the king that the mission failed, wondered about her future in the army. She closed her eyes and swallowed the lump of guilt in her throat as she wondered how, after days of riding, the man in front of her managed to smell so good.
Twenty-seven
Phyl walked out of the stable where they had stayed the prior three nights and greeted the late morning sun with a yawn, stretch, and a few excited flickers of his tail. Even though nonhumans enjoyed the same freedoms as humans within the country borders of Albathia, they were not always well-received by the human residents. Although Prince Perciless pushed for, and upheld, all forms of affirmative action, not all business owners adhered to such principals. When Phyl, Pik, and Bale first stumbled into the capital city of Phenomere, they had great difficulty finding a room. They knew very well that any time an inn owner said, “No vacancy,” he secretly implied the finishing phrase of, “for you.” It took some time to find an inn run by a fellow nonhuman, one owned by a centaur. However, the centaur was of limited intellect and even more limited business skill, opening a stables-only inn, since he, as a centaur, enjoyed stables.
Phyl, Pik, and Bale hardly minded, having endured worse conditions in the past. And they certainly enjoyed the company of other nonhuman creatures who also found closed doors at many of the human-owned inns. Although entertaining, especia
lly one particular minotaur who was a never-ending source of raucous haiku, none could replace the void left by the death of their dear friend Zot.
After Phyl finished stretching away the prior night’s sleep from his body, he noticed Pik stumble from the stable holding his palm over his bruised eye. Earlier in the morning Pik and Bale had gotten into an argument regarding a mysterious note found attached to Bale’s pants three days prior. Bale said the note was from the bard instructing them to wait. After three days of waiting, Pik demanded to see the note. Bale said “no” the only way he knew how—with a punch to Pik’s face.
Phyl offered only a tsk-tsk and said to Pik, “About time you decided to join the land of the living.”
Shooting Phyl a glare with his good eye, Pik walked past him and growled, “Let’s get to the tavern to see if Bale is making money or spending money.”
Phyl walked along, unable to stifle a silly smile. “That rabbit is something else.”
Upon first arriving in Phenomere, they decided to spend their last silver pieces on grog. So distraught with the unpleasant turn in his life, Lapin decided to join them in their revelry and began whining about how they had to leave Dragon hiding in the forest that neighbored Phenomere. Pik and Phyl found out quickly that the tavern patrons were more than happy to pay to see a talking rabbit. However, they were a bit dismayed to discover that Bale was also more than happy to pay to see a talking rabbit. After a few pints of ale, the patrons were privy to a singing, dancing rabbit. And so it went for days, a flask of alcohol never out of Lapin’s reach.
Pik and Phyl entered the tavern and paused to let their eyes adjust to the dark gloom of the room. It took no time to find Bale, probably the largest creature in Phenomere, straining the joints of a bench while seated at a large table enjoying a plate of rattails. Much to their surprise, they noticed the bard sitting at the same table. With his eyes glazed over. And his fingers massaging his temples. Visibly in pain. There, in the center of the table, sat Lapin, drunk and bending the bard’s ear with the epic tale of how Bale and crew found the Spirit Stone.
“… and then …” Lapin paused to lap some ale from the shallow bowl he nursed. He wiped his mouth with his left paw. Swaying, he pointed to the bard with his right paw and continued. “… and then, you know what he did? You know what this dumb, stupid, dumb ogre did? Do you? He licked it! He licked the rock! Licked it!”
In between lip-smacking slurps of fried rattails, Bale tried to defend himself, “He used big words on me!”
“Veer!” Lapin tried to glare at Bale but couldn’t figure out which blurry ogre to focus on, so through crossed eyes, the rabbit yelled at all four. “The word was ‘veer!’ How do you not know what veer means?”
The bard felt his own eyes cross. He assumed they turned to look at the inside of his head, hoping to see the hammer that pounded against his brain. No such luck. He then looked outward to the rest of the bar, hoping to find a sympathetic patron willing to rescue him. Instead, he found something better—Pik.
Jumping out of his chair, the bard greeted Pik and Phyl with open arms and a wide smile. “My friends! It is so good to see you!”
“And what makes you think we’re happy to see you?” Phyl started. “We’ve been waiting for three days. Three days for you. It sure seems like you’ve been here for more than a day. Couldn’t leave messages for us at the local inns? And don’t tell me you couldn’t find us. Seriously, how hard is it to find an ogre? I mean, you should have the common courtesy to try to find us to let us know you’re in town. And, sir Rabbit! Are you drunk again? So early in the morning? You should be ashamed …”
The bard stood rubbing his temples again as the flustered satyr moved past to cajole his traveling partner. Pik made his way next to the bard and said, “Now you know how I feel. I have to deal with that all day, every day.”
“My condolences,” the bard groaned. But his smile returned as brightly as the day sun slipping out from behind passing clouds. “I hear your little cadre found the stone in question?"
“Yes.”
“May I see it?”
“No.”
“Why not, may I ask?”
Pik made his way to the closest empty table, his lanky limbs giving the impression of him walking against the wind. The bard followed and took a seat. The hobgoblin’s eyes blurred, his vision leaving for far off lands to watch unspeakable horrors. “It’s not with us,” he lied. “We have it some place safe. Away from us. It is cursed.”
The bard laughed as if Pik told a joke. “You jest, spinning a silly tale to bemuse yourself at my expense.”
Pik cast a hard glare to the bard. The laughter ceased. “I assure you, Bard, it is no joke. Or have you not noticed one missing from our fold?”
The bard’s gaze fell to the table in shame. “Aye. The short one. But …”
“It was the stone.” Pik emphasized his point by slapping the table’s top.
The bard kept quiet, letting Pik fume in silence. A bar wench delivered two mugs of ale and Pik drew hearty gulps from his. The bard cleared his throat before attempting to speak. “I know where the Sun Stone is.”
“No,” Pik replied, staring off into a deserted corner of the tavern.
“I don’t have a map, but I have reasonable assurance …”
“I said no, old man. We lost a dear friend. We’ve lost family members. We’ve been banished from the town we once called home. All because of the first stone, the Spirit Stone, you had us seek. Now you dare ask us to find a second stone? You are indeed mad, Bard.”
The bard threw himself back against his chair, wondering what strategy would work best. Before his thoughts drifted too far into the rash and excessive, the tavern door opened again, and in walked six figures. The bard smiled.
Weary from their journey and simply looking for a room to sleep away the rest of the day, Diminutia and Silver led Dearborn and the wizards to a tavern that offered rooms and had an owner who owed them a favor. Diminutia convinced Dearborn to remain in their company until the following morning. She agreed, needing some time to rest and regroup her thoughts. What would she tell the king? Would he view the lone survivor of his Elite Troop as a hero or a failure? How could she possibly explain the disappearance of his son? She would love to tell him the truth, tell him that Oremethus’s sanity abandoned him, but could not put a father through such misery. And it was doubtful that he would even believe her.
Dearborn had a home, had her own room, but after everything that happened to her, she doubted she would find any comfort there, and she doubted that she could make it there without being seen by someone she knew. After a battle, she found it necessary to be with those she fought with rather than spend the time alone. Being in the Elite Troop brought the benefit of camaraderie, and that was something she craved right now. Even though these thieves and wizards did not fight by her side, they still fought similar battles, shared similar victories and losses. She needed them right now and followed them into the tavern.
How wickedly wonderful, thought the bard. The bearers of pain, the victims of his farce—the brainless, the gullible, and the noble—here they were and all under one roof. If the stones stayed in several hands, it was as bad as them being lost, after all. Now to play upon their suffering, their sense of duty, their simpleton nature. His eyes sought out a buxom serving wench, while his mind formulated the best way to use her.
Silver, having panned the room as they entered, found an empty table suitable to accommodate his group. He quickly noticed the presence of Pik, the hobgoblin, herald of Bale Pinkeye and his terrible troupe of monstrous misfits. Silver led the way toward the empty table ahead of them, but allowed the wizards to pass him by until Dim pulled even with him. His back to Pik, Silver pointed toward his own chest in the general direction of the hobgoblin for the benefit of his partner.
“Hobgoblin company,” he muttered.
Without breaking stride, Diminutia responded to his partner. “Satyr at high noon; Ogre at mid-dusk. No sign of th
e living footstool,” Diminutia warned with a worried look that changed to a pleasant smile when Dearborn drew even with him. “Does this table suit you, milady?” he asked, punctuating the question with a sincere, though foreshortened bow, in an attempt at good humor that he did not feel. His actions came across as practiced, but not callous. Dearborn could understand if not fully appreciate the philosophy behind the “yet life continues” attitude. A smile, as fleet as a leprechaun, touched at the edges of her lips, an evanescence of hope, an emotion that was briefly contemplated but had never formed.
“Anything with four legs that can support me will do.” She had the haggard look of loss about her. It seeped into her skin, strung itself through her clothes as if it were thread, settled at the bottom of her glance as if steel. She reminded herself not to allow grief to eradicate cordiality.
Silver stared at her as she passed him, awash in the waves of her despair. Though he had suffered his own loss, he marveled at how she must have willed herself to remain standing through such anguish. He had lost a dear friend, and his world seemed clouded over, but Dearborn had clearly lost so much more. What, then, must be driving her to continue on? Duty? Maybe. Honor? Possibly. Ambition? Not likely. Self-loathing? Revenge? He shuddered inwardly and physically. With her skills and size, he could only imagine the utter destruction she might leave in her wake if she harnessed such caustic purposes allowing them to goad her towards action. It was a scary proposition he decided, in no small part from watching the tendons and muscles in the back of her arm stand out huge and horseshoe-like when she drew her chair under herself.