The Devil's Grasp

by Chris Pisano

  Silver moved over to the bar to ask for service for the table. No one in his group would be in the mood to wait for drinks. After a short and guttural exchange with the barkeep, he showed up with a tray full of mugs to deliver in person.

  “Drinks for all,” Silver announced sullenly, without looking up from his distribution of beverages. He assumed as he moved them from tray to table that they would be passed about, but quickly realized that they were, in fact, piling up in front of him. “Belhurst, you want to share these …” he began, looking up at the wizard finally and realizing he was already drinking from a mug. They all were, in fact.

  Diminutia looked at Silver and said, “The barmaid,” he hesitated over the nomenclature, clearly struggling with himself not to call her a “beer wench” in the presence of Dearborn, whom he feared would react harshly to what he considered a statement of fact, not an indictment or passing of judgment, “showed up with them as soon as we began to seat ourselves.”

  “So, who ordered them?”

  “She didn’t say.”

  “Bale! I’ll bet Bale noticed that Nevin wasn’t here, and he’s rubbing our noses in our own mess. He’ll pay for this. That son of a bitch! If it’s him, Dim, I swear …”

  “Yes, my friend, you do need respite it seems” the bard said, approaching the group. “And you draw a lot of unwanted attention to yourself, as well. Forgive me for not announcing myself sooner, but I noticed the … ah … difference in your group and thought it best to give you a few moments to dedicate to your thoughts.”

  “You!” Silver growled, pivoting around to greet the bard. “What are you doing here?”

  “Was this not where we had agreed to meet at the journey’s end?” asked the bard assuming a stance of innocence that stood falsely in Silver’s mind.

  “I … no, actually, I don’t think it was,” Silver said starting to rise.

  “I paid for the drinks, my friend. Let your mind find ease. Merely an opportunity to show a little courtesy to those who so rightly deserve it,” said the bard.

  “Do you have any idea what we went through? Do you know what you put us through? Do you have any idea …” Silver fumed, puffing himself up, adding the mass of his fury to his already weighty words. But the bard interrupted him.

  “Yes. Yes, I do. I know what you left behind. Each of you,” confessed the bard, lowering his eyes from the burning stares he received from across all corners of the table. “May I procure a chair and join you?” he asked, already grabbing one without an owner from a neighboring table.

  “No, I don’t think you should,” Silver snarled.

  “Silver,” Diminutia said, touching his friend’s arm. When he was sure he had Silver’s attention, Diminutia continued. “This is it. This is the end. This is where we can leave things. Find a resolution, a completion.”

  “Oh, we’ll end things, all right. I’ll see things ended on the end of my dagger,” Silver seethed.

  “That won’t solve things. We all wanted to do this, and it’s done. Let’s move on, Silver,” Diminutia urged, his voice even and reasoned.

  “Are you saying we quit?”

  “No, Silver. I’m saying this is how we can … can bury Nevin.”

  “There is much to what they say to you, Silver. And I can offer you something more yet,” the bard said, “something of what you are looking for to aid you in your struggle of the spirit. There is yet a way for you to recover what has been lost. All of you. All who work together in this task stand to profit from a reversal of fortune.”

  “No more, Bard. We’ll have no more of your riddles or tasks. And no more of your stones …”

  “The Sun Stone can grant life, Silver. And it beckons from a spot not far from here …”

  “Damn you! How dare you dangle another trinket in the face of our loss?” Silver shouted standing up, shining poniard glinting dully in his hand.

  “Silver,” Belhurst said mildly, “what he says is true.”

  “Belhurst, no more,” Silver pleaded, falling back into his chair. “Let it end here, please.”

  “You have two stones already, wizard,” the bard said seductively. “Seek it out or our hope of redemption will be lost to the swirling depths of evil that is The Horde.”

  “The Horde?” Silver asked. “Better them than the demons. Let’s end their threat here and be done with this. The king and his army can handle The Horde.”

  “With the Sun Stone, Silver, The Horde can regenerate their numbers. All hope will be lost in the face of their ever-replenishing numbers. To end this once and for all …” His words trailed off, but Belhurst made the meaning known to all at the table. Their work was near an end, but far from finished. If it was ever truly to end, then all evil must be eradicated. Despite their wish to be free from the stones, the companions at the table found themselves drawn yet again into the maze of events that men call destiny.

  “Tell us where we can find the stone,” Silver whispered.

  Though their conversation had been lost in the ebb and flow of all of the other goings on in the tavern, the other patrons were certainly aware of some of the events that had transpired. Pik, in particular, had seen enough of the action to recognize Silver and the wizards who banished him to the Fecal Swamps. And now the bard sat with them. His eyes glinted with malice, or was it purpose, as he gathered up Phyl and Bale and led them to the table with the bard, Silver, and his friends. “I see your journey for the stone has brought you loss as well.”

  Silver scowled at the hobgoblin, but understood the meaning when he realized why Zot was not with Pik. His face started to soften, until another realization hit him. “You have one of the stones?”

  “Yes. And this charlatan here tried to trick us into finding yet another.”

  Silver glared at the bard, not attempting to hide his hatred. “Funny. He’s trying to trick us as well.”

  The bard smiled. The snare was baited, now to trip the trap. “Well, I guess it’s of no circumstance to anyone standing here that the Sun Stone is in Grimwell.”

  Nostrils flared and brows furrowed. Gasps and grunts escaped from unsuspecting throats. Fists clenched as feet shifted. The reactions were different, but everyone who heard the bard’s words had one. Some reacted to the news that the Sun Stone was close. Others reacted to the town name of Grimwell, like a child uttering a profanity, hoping no adult took notice.

  In a daze, Dearborn’s hand slid atop Diminutia’s. “Do you believe the Sun Stone can resurrect our comrades?”

  Not knowing what to make of the physical gesture, Diminutia moved with it and placed his other hand on top of hers. “If it does, do we truly wish it to?”

  Her eyes sinking into a pool of tears, Dearborn turned to Diminutia, trying not to lose herself in his sky-blue eyes. “I watched almost forty of my closest friends, each and every one of them I’d call family, torn to shreds by … by monsters.”

  Trapped by Dearborn’s beauty, Diminutia’s heart spoke faster and louder than his mind could comprehend. “We’ll do it. We’ll go to Grimwell and get the Sun Stone.”

  “What?” Silver shouted.

  Anytime Bale heard the word Grimwell his stomach shifted. His mother scared him with bedtime tales of the monsters lurking in that town. What kinds of creatures would willingly live in a city of mud and feces, squalor and filth? Not kind ones or nice ones, Bale believed. But a lone spark of suspicion ignited inside his mind. Then a breath of rational thought fanned the flame. Soon realization blazed through his skull—if Diminutia and Silver found the Sun Stone, they’d be one up on him and his friends. “We’ll go. We’ll go, too!”

  “What?” Pik shouted.

  “I agree with our odoriferous friend,” Belhurst chimed in. “We should all go together.”

  “What?” Silver and Pik shouted in unison.

  “It will be an arduous journey, and it wouldn’t hurt to add more to our party. We should all get some rest tonight and reconvene here tomorrow. Follen and I will go to the wizard’s guild at
first light to replenish our supplies.”

  “No!” Silver and Pik shouted, again in unison. They paused and sneered at each other, sickened to their stomachs that they agreed with each other.

  Belhurst frowned. “Stop thinking with your egos or your broken hearts. Use your heads. This is the best course of action, and you know it. We need to rest and resupply, not argue like disruptive children.”

  Rest and supplies would not come to anyone, even if Pik and Silver weren’t formulating their arguments. The far side of the tavern creaked then crashed forward. The wall of dark boards and thick logs cracked into popping splinters, collapsing part of the roof. Confusion reigned as patrons screamed and ran, many unable to escape, reduced to bloody sacks of pulp. Silver, Pik, and their friends readied themselves for an attack while searching for an escape route. However, Silver couldn’t help but notice that the bard had mysteriously disappeared.

  Twenty-eight

  Poets and artisans pontificated that there was no greater beauty than watching the sunrise over Phenomere. Many would agree that the actual event would render all their works nothing more than scribbled words and splashed paint. The sight inspired pauper and politician alike and always gave the hope of a new life emerging from the darkest of nights. But today the sunrise brought a foreboding chill of death.

  The early morning red rays cast a murky pall upon Praeker Trieste’s armor, turning it from green to brown. He stood motionless upon the tallest hill beside Phenomere and watched as the morning sun’s red turned to orange, glinting an amber brilliance off of every window. He almost felt pity for what he was about to do to the city.

  Behind him his troops grew restless, quarreling amongst themselves, pushing and shoving for the best position. Every one of them wanted to be first into the city once the general gave the command.

  Praeker smiled as he listened to the snarls and grunts and howls from behind him. More beautiful music he had never heard, save for the retched cries of anguish from the innocent. But he remained patient until the horizon no longer hid any part of the sun, its bright yellow rays chasing away early morning shadows. Praeker Trieste did not want any moment of his glory to go unnoticed. He wanted the entire world to see what he was about to do. He wanted the world to know that he could raze it all with one simple word: “GO!”

  The lands rumbled as Praeker’s squalid army charged down the hill’s side. Men and non-men alike rushed forth with hatred in their hearts and death on their breaths. Centaurs galloped and satyrs hopped, ogres lumbered as best they could, while lycanthropes tossed clods of ground into the air with every stride. Wings flapped and scales slithered and claws protracted for a better grip while racing to a bloody glory.

  The only obstacle between the hilltop and the city was a small farm. Many of the creatures ran past, not wanting to waste their time. But an ogre and a cave troll made a wager to see who could do the most damage as they barreled through the house, reducing it to tattered tinder. They bickered the rest of the way down the hill as to who won. A small contingent of cat-creatures succumbed to the lure of fresh livestock, taking but a moment to bloody their muzzles on fresh pig while three rabid satyrs raped the farmer’s wife, a way to tease themselves before the carnal gorging they expected from within the city. They laughed as the farmer himself perished underneath the pounding hooves of a half dozen centaurs.

  The army caught Phenomere completely unaware. The first wave of the fastest creatures reached the suburban streets and shops before a single scream could be wailed. Morning chores ended with evisceration. Those finishing breakfast soon became breakfast as a sick twist of fate descended upon them. Gargoyles used the baker’s own bread to sop up his blood as they snacked. Ghouls retched at the sugary smells of the tart shop, more content feasting upon the tart maker and his apprentice. The tulips of the garden shop were barely a garnish as a minatory minotaur tore the shop keeper and her customers to shreds.

  In an agonizing instant, the streets were covered in a creeping carpet of blood. A few of the slower moving creatures in the rank and file army, realizing there would be little enough slaughter for them, turned their dimwitted focus towards herd animals setting about their grazing and the shepherds who tended them. The shepherds didn’t last long against their assailants, and the only protection the flock offered was the time it took to be slain and devoured.

  A pair of bugbears ran a ring of sheep in circles until they fell dizzied to the ground. Then each set upon the hapless creatures in a sadistic race to see which could kill the most. The shepherd had run off towards the woods, his shrill screams crying out his location. When the bigger of the two bugbears had endured enough of the unyielding shrieking, she caught the shepherd and ripped him open at the navel, peeling back layers of skin as though it were an orange.

  Praeker Trieste had given careful orders to his lieutenants not to discourage any act of vandalism, fornication, or murder, unless an actual skirmish line developed and bodies were needed in the front lines. Demoralization was often the key to victory he acquiesced, mentally reviewing the timeline he had established. Everything was proceeding according to schedule; he smiled, watching his legion make friends with the locals. How important and gratifying it was to be good neighbors.

  Agitated and excited all at once, the scorpions that made up his armor skittered across his skin. It glinted with unusual beauty in the sunlight in an odd parody to the death and destruction that it heralded. The charisma of his magnanimous presence had been used to cull the minds of hundreds of creatures, creating an army that was impressive in its array, if not for its head count. His appearance inspired fear even in the dumbest and biggest of creatures, but his understanding and tolerance of mayhem kept morale high. His army was not comprised of specialists, nor of extremely intelligent beings, though his officers had been handpicked for that trait in particular. Yet the world of men would be hard-pressed to stem the tide of his advance.

  The citizens of Phenomere fled their homes and businesses, but to little avail. When a few stragglers began to outdistance the army, a wave of harpies swooped out of the clouds to lift them from the firmament. They carried the screaming victims several hundred feet into the sky, the creatures torturing the humans with random talon rakes or attacks aimed at their most tender parts. When the skin had been sufficiently torn and enough blood let, they dropped the sufferers to their deaths.

  Within the walls of Phenomere castle there was disarray as word of the insurgence slowly leaked through the outer bailey. Several guards stationed atop the highest turrets, who witnessed the harpies and other flying creatures, passed word to their sergeants who deduced the meaning of it all. War had come to their very doorstep without a vanguard to announce it.

  “Lower the portcullis,” one sergeant yelled at his men, moving quickly to complete his appointed task.

  “Nay, nay. Belay that order! We must leave the portcullis raised so that any survivors have egress,” a young sergeant, barely able to sport stubble, shouted.

  “There will be no survivors, and you’ll only add us to the number of the fallen. We must close the gate,” came the response from a grizzled veteran.

  “What if we send a contingent of men out there to help fight off the creatures? Then we can do a fighting retreat to cover them,” suggested the young man, clearly not willing to write off the lives of so many of his countrymen.

  “That’s suicide! Don’t you see how much ground there is to cover? Plus, we’d have to defend against an aerial assault as well,” chastised the veteran leader. “Drop the portcullis. Cut the losses. Fight them on our terms.”

  Random orders streamed in from all directions as officers shouted directives to men they couldn’t even see amidst the confusion.

  “Ready the ballistae!”

  “Turn the catapults.”

  “Prepare the pitch.”

  “Fetch quivers and water skins.”

  “Archers to your posts.”

  Shouted orders replaced birdsong. Hatred strangled se
renity, and fear mangled tranquility as the world spun out of control. All seemed lost in a wave of confusion as the moment of theory and application merged with disastrously disorganized results. To the eyes of those few who had seen fighting in their lifetime, all seemed lost. Then a calm and commanding voice rose above the tumult. The penultimate moment replaced by the promise of rebirth.

  “The portcullis shall remain open, by order of the king of Albathia.”

  Noise ceased to the point that even breathing stopped. All eyes turned to the near turret and beheld Daedalus, Prince of Albathia, resilient in gleaming cobalt-colored mail. The young prince stood on the deck outside his apartments, several stories above the maelstrom of men in the outer bailey.

  “We will not abandon our people, nor betray their hopes of salvation. They look to us in their time of need, and we shall arrive to them as saviors. Commanders, form up your men. Take this war to our enemies. Let them know that the very streets of our city are armed to repulse them, wave after wave, until their lines dissolve, broken. Go forth with the blessings of your king. Return with the salvation of our city held aloft.”

  The confusion and panic of a seemingly unwinnable situation melted away as the world suddenly came back into focus. Purpose took direction in hand, and resolve was born. Sergeants barked out orders with authority, and men fell into rank as if this were merely another routine drill to be played out with precision before one could return to the comfort of his feathered bed. Within a score of minutes, men were armed, ranks were formed, and divisions marched out the raised portcullis, leaving only a handful of their number upon the walls and two dozen, at most, left standing upon the grass inside the outer bailey. Those who remained in the sanctity of the walls watched their comrades march out into the streets of the capital.