The Devil's Grasp

by Chris Pisano

  Seething, the prince could find no reason to argue. He gave the bard his blessing for his mysterious task and then continued toward his safe house. Daedalus found himself in a position that was not one of control, certainly a position he disliked very much. However, he found little choice but to follow along with the plan. But he planned to be as guarded as possible.

  Thirty

  Silver watched as half the tavern disappeared, its walls and roof reduced to tinder and dust. Striding through the debris came the cause of the wreckage, a cave troll and an ogre. Each as tall as Bale, they shoved each other and argued about who caused more damage. They paused when they noticed that they didn’t scare everyone out of the tavern then smiled as they wagered who could kill the most. And they had quite the selection to choose from: three wizards, two thieves, a warrior woman, a quivering satyr, a hobgoblin, a rather dim looking ogre, and one drunken rabbit staggering his way into the ogre’s pant pocket.

  “Bale?” Diminutia asked, wielding his dagger. “You don’t happen to know them do you?”

  Bale stood straight, indignation rippling through his spine. “All ogres don’t know each other. I didn’t ask you if you knew the bartender just because he was human!”

  “You pick now to be logical? Just go talk to him before he and his friend squash us!”

  Bale scowled at Diminutia and advanced to greet the other ogre and the cave troll. But the only words he could get out of his mouth were, “Hi. I’m Bale …”

  With a ground-shaking thud, the ogre punched Bale in his bulbous gut. The cave troll delivered an upper cut that lifted Bale from his feet. Bale fell into a pile of splintered rafters and shreds of what was once a thatched roof. The ogre and cave troll turned their attention back to the devastated tavern’s remaining patrons.

  Dearborn drew her sword and grabbed a nearby chair as she calculated ways to use it as a weapon. Diminutia, Silver, and Pik wielded daggers, planning strategies based on speed and avoidance. The wizards backed away, scrabbling for food scraps, wood flecks, candle wax, anything to use as makeshift ingredients for any kind of offensive spell. Phyl fainted.

  Follen found enough ingredients to release a weak fireball at the cave troll just as Dearborn threw the chair against the head of the ogre. Both monsters laughed. Even though they were only two feet taller than their prey, they looked down at them as if they were puny insects, begging to be stepped on. They laughed so loud they didn’t notice Bale make his way out of the pile of rubble.

  Diminutia and Silver saw Bale mad once. Really mad. It was the only time he didn’t act like a bumbling lummox, the only time he truly inspired fear. When they saw the veins in Bale’s jaundiced eyes bulge and saliva flow from between his brown and broken teeth, they knew he was really mad.

  “Time to leave,” Diminutia said, grabbing Dearborn’s hand, getting ready to seize any opportunity to run. Silver gestured at the wizards to prepare to escape as well. Despite loathing to touch him, Pik scooped up Phyl in his arms.

  The cave troll and ogre laughed at their prey, finding it amusing they thought they were going to escape. Their laughing ceased as Bale slammed their heads together. Anger reduced Bale’s already limited vocabulary to growls and snorts as he pounded his adversaries with his fists. A crushing blow to the troll’s head. A devastating punch to the other ogre’s jaw. While the troll was dazed, Bale grabbed his head, twisted, and spun, lifting the monster off his feet. After three revolutions, Bale released the troll into the other ogre. They collided with enough force to level the rest of the tavern down around them.

  Huffing and puffing, Bale stood in a hazy daze. Still carrying Phyl, Pik approached his ogre friend and asked, “Bale? Bale, you okay?”

  “Uhhhh. What happened? I remember everything going black, and I saw sparkly stars and … why are you holding Phyl?”

  Through groggy eyes, Phyl looked up and replied, “Because he cares.”

  Pik dropped Phyl.

  “We have to leave. Now!” Silver yelled as he witnessed the devastation around him. The once majestic scenery of Phenomere now burned and smoked with streets stained red from blood.

  The dilemma between fight and flight was never further from anyone’s mind. They simply ran. Smoke, pungent and acrid, billowed upwards from over a dozen places just within the area directly around them. Shouts hung thickly in the air suspended by the screams that rose up from human throats. There was very little actual combat, and what small patches of it that could be seen by the fleeing group was horribly one-sided. A pang of guilt touched several of them as they ran through the streets, an effigy of the once-proud and clean cobbled visage.

  To the humans in the group, it was like hearing their own death knell. A symbol of freedom and strength crumbled before their very eyes. A sense of hopelessness pressed in on them.

  For the nonhumans, it was a stirring moment as well. Though they had no sense of being bound to this place or its terrified and hunted inhabitants, there was still a feeling of a community in need, and though they were outwardly and inwardly not human, they still had a communal sense that was left without placation by their seeming cowardice. Bale was deeply affected by the sights and sounds as they rushed to meet him.

  When a woman or child stumbled into their midst, they did their best to provide a direction, dodging debris and conflict with a purposeful determination known as avoidance. A baker met them with an upraised rolling pin and a half-burned apron that had the look of being only recently extinguished. He implored them to lend a hand against his plight. Still they ran on.

  A schoolteacher staggered into them, her arms straining with a load of supplies and dusty tomes. She asked them to loan her the use of their strength to carry away the remainder of the school’s books. Panicked and fearful as she was, her request was more of a command, and Phyl had to stop Bale from doing the woman’s bidding, such was her presence and determination. But still they ran.

  And when a shepherd ran to them wringing his hands and expelling his tears over the demise of his defenseless flock, they continued to run. They ran through the fields and into the forest, not stopping until the sounds of battle had been left behind. But they knew their memories were forever stained with the sights of this day. They stopped to catch their breath and figure out a plan, but for some time no one spoke.

  Gone from their minds were the humorous happenings of daily life. Diminutia no longer thought about women and their supple curves. Silver lost all track of money and fame. Phyl couldn’t give a hoot if the others liked him or not, nor did he look for their opinions about his current hairstyle. Bale didn’t mind being thought of as the “dumb one.” Their personal needs had changed, mutated by the events around them, powerless to effect changes upon the world around them.

  They panted, heads down and sightless for many minutes. The thieves and nonhumans, their groups ravaged by attrition, were simply unable to comprehend how their ill-tempered but jovial disputes had led them to such a bloody end.

  Belhurst, knowing that it would take a directed effort to lead this group onto their necessary next step, was the first to recover his wits and, thus, the first to speak. “Thoughts of hopelessness trudge through our minds like a homeless leper searching for his last meal. But we must stave them off. Phenomere will rebuild, lives will reconnect. We know the reasons behind this disease, and only we can stop the contagion from spreading. The monster behind the attack on the capital of Albathia wants the same treasure we seek, and with it he could raze the entire world. We must not allow that to happen! We must retrieve the stone from Grimwell.”

  Catching her breath, Dearborn hunched over, her hands resting just above her knees. Trying to clear her mind of the recent horrors, she fought hard to ignore Belhurst’s speech. But haggard gasps turned to sobs and what dripped from her face to her feet was no longer sweat, but tears. “The stones. The stones! All I hear about are these damnable stones! I’ve pledged my life to a man I could never love, a troop long since decimated, and a kingdom burning as we speak
. All stripped from me, all taken. I have nothing left but my very life, and I refuse to give it to those stones!”

  Pik and Silver wore the same expression on their faces, brows furrowed in pragmatism as they glared at Belhurst. Even a witless fool could see the dissention roiling below the sweat-slicked surfaces. Even Bale saw it and knew he had to speak before they did, because they would use fancy words to confuse and manipulate him. But not this time! He strode to the wizard’s side and faced the opposition. “I’m with Belhurst.”

  Phyl squealed, and Pik snorted. “Bale …”

  “It’s a chance to save the world,” Bale said, trying to stifle the excitement of an ogre attempting to fulfill an adolescent dream.

  “Bale …”

  “Zot would have done it.”

  Amazed and dismayed that Bale played the friendship card so well in this emotional game, both Phyl and Pik sighed. Seeing little recourse, the satyr and the hobgoblin stood by their friend.

  “Madness,” Silver said as he turned to Diminutia, ready to suggest they leave. Before either could converse, Pik added his thoughts.

  “There goes Nevin’s merry band of cowards. Saving the world will certainly be an achievement never to be one-upped.”

  Fire ignited behind Silver’s eyes. Diminutia put his hands on his friend’s shoulders. “Silver. He does have a point. Could you live with yourself if Bale saves the world?”

  Silver cooled from blind rage to sorely irritated as the cogs in his mind ground soundly. Weighing his options, he deduced it would be much easier to steal and fence in the current state of the world than a demon inhabited tyranny. “Fine!”

  Diminutia’s lips wrung into a wry smile. He turned to Dearborn, arms crossed over her chest and cheeks still glistening from used tears. Approaching her, he extended his hand. “Dearborn. You have not lost everything, you have simply yet to find more. And I certainly would be interested in aiding you in that quest. No matter how long it may take.”

  Dearborn took Diminutia’s hand. But their moment was ruined by footfalls, shuffling leaves and snapping twigs, phlegm-filled snorts, and prodigious belches. And a gruff voice laughing. “Awww. Ain’t that sweet?”

  The band of wizards, trolls, and thieves turned to see a contingent from The Horde, blood soaked and weapons ready, making their way through the forest. Everywhere one of the heroic party turned, they witnessed yet another creature reveal itself, as if the trees gave birth to the retched beasts. Weary and broken, but still the humans and trolls readied what weapons they had to face the patrol party.

  Whooping and laughing, the salivating monsters encircled their prey, taunting them with verbal jabs, promising slow evisceration. Diminutia and Dearborn still clutched each other’s hands as they found themselves back to back. Muscles tensed and nerves electrified, they waited, readying themselves for the monsters to pounce. Until the sounds of cracking timber distracted everybody.

  Echoing sounds of trees splitting approached. Thunderous noises of whole trunks snapping while the cacophony of tens, dozens, hundreds of trees falling into each other filled the forest. Then the familiar smell of oil wafted into the nostrils of Lapin. He smiled.

  A rippling gush of horizontal fire flowed over half a dozen monsters, crisping them in an instant. Those left standing trembled as a maw full of teeth let loose an ear-splitting roar. With a few well-placed chomps and quick slices of his claws, Dragon disposed of the immediate threats.

  “Dragon!” Lapin squeaked from Bale’s pocket. Then hiccupped. Then pulled a swig from his flask. Then hiccupped again. “I knew you’d save us, buddy!”

  “Lapin? Are you drunk?” the dragon asked.

  “He has been since we arrived to Phenomere,” Belhurst answered.

  Dragon shook his head. “Be that as it may, you must go. The forest is crawling with scouting parties, and I’m sure this fiasco attracted some attention.”

  As if on cue, screeching from above the tree line revealed circling griffins and harpies.

  “I’ll take care of them,” Dragon continued. “Where shall I meet up with you?”

  “Grimwell, brave Dragon,” Belhurst said.

  Even Dragon winced at the town’s name. He looked back to Lapin and said, “Do your best to protect them, Rabbit.”

  Lapin lifted his flask in acknowledgment. “That, I will do.”

  Within a blink, the dragon launched himself from the forest, frying a griffin and shredding a harpy. With heavy hearts and sore bodies, the stone-searching party continued on their way. Though, Dearborn’s and Diminutia’s fingers remained entwined.

  Thirty-one

  “I’m scared,” Bale whined.

  The others, except Lapin, felt similar feelings of dread walking through the ominous forest. However, none of them expected such sniveling to come from the largest creature of the group. This was, after all, an ogre who could scare sunlight and mere days ago fought to victory against another ogre and cave troll, both of whom possessed superior physical prowess.

  Lapin, thoroughly pickled and still imbibing from a stolen flask while lounging in Bale’s pant pocket, gave no thought to the ogre’s words of cowardice. With every sip of an unnamed, wicked whiskey, the rabbit’s emotions flipped from numbness to concern. Having done nothing more than consume amounts of alcohol that would knock Bale to the ground, Lapin simply couldn’t feel anything other than numbness at the moment. However, if he noticed the lack of his long-time companion, the dragon, he wondered where he might be. It had been days since they fled from Praeker Trieste and his Horde as they attacked Phenomere, thanks to the dragon facilitating their escape. Where could he be? Lapin would ask himself. Maybe flying ahead to clear our path? Then he would take another swig and erase his mind of all thought.

  “Shut up,” Pik said to Bale. The hobgoblin’s voice held a false bravado as chills ran down his spine with every step. How could anyone not be afraid? The scarcely used foot path even seemed frightened, twisting and turning through the black trees, as if trying to flee from the forest itself. Branches reached for the travelers like hungry fingers trying to scoop up a snack. They appeared everywhere, as if from nowhere, making it impossible to determine which tree held what branch. The black wood of the angled branches stabbed the sky as if trying to scrape away the light. The trees created perpetual night even though not one held a single leaf.

  Diminutia and Dearborn walked side-by-side, neither very comfortable with the twisted trees. The black and knotted bark flaked and curled in such ways that anyone who looked at the trees swore they saw screaming faces. Diminutia saw yelling guards and angry victims always in pursuit, always one step behind him knowing one day they would catch the slippery thief. Dearborn saw the anguished grimaces of her fallen comrades, each screaming in pain, each falling to death’s clutches way too young.

  Silver watched Belhurst, only letting the ragged wizard out of his sight to blink or to glance at the other ragged cohorts. The thief knew how the wizards thought now, knew why they fussed and jumped over the sound of every breaking twig or tree trunk creek. Not only did they not have enough time to supply their cart, the cart itself was lost during the attack of Phenomere. Each wizard possessed a few ingredients, stuffed in the myriad pockets of their robes. But judging from their perpetual state of paranoia, Silver knew they did not have enough to fend off the demons of the Shadow Stone. Nor the demons that guarded the Satan Stone or Spirit Stone, if the stories from Dearborn and the trolls held truth. Silver approached the lead wizard and asked, “What do you fear the most?”

  Belhurst chuckled from the question. “Too many choices, my friend.”

  “The Shadow Stone demons?”

  “Yes, for they are near. As well as the Spirit Stone demons that decimated our nonhuman companions’ families. Praeker and his army may be faster, but even he wouldn’t raze Phenomere and leave it. He needs to stay to restore order to his sick liking. Dearborn and her troop vanquished the Satan Stone demons back to hell. But from the stories of our smelly friends, th
e demons attached to the Spirit Stone are swift and stealthy.”

  Grip tightening on his dagger, Silver asked, “How much farther to Grimwell?”

  Before Belhurst could answer, the trees curled inward. Those who had daggers or swords cut and sliced at the furling branches. Dismay filled their hearts as they cut nothing.

  “What manner of trees are these?” Pik screamed, waving his dagger around as if trying to stab a fly.

  “It’s not the trees,” Belhurst yelled. “It’s the Shadow Stone demons!”

  Snarling, Silver grabbed Belhurst by his robes. “Then make light, old man!”

  Belhurst slapped away Silver’s hands. “With what?”

  Follen produced weary words and waved withered hands. He used the only ingredients he could muster from his robes to produce a handful of flaming moths. With jerky flits, the fire-winged moths swarmed one tree, crashing into its bark and disappearing into fiery puffs. The dozens of moths were enough to ignite the peeling bark of a blackened tree. In seconds, the tree popped and crackled like a giant torch. Dearborn and Diminutia broke branches from nearby trees and tried to ignite them from the wizard-made inferno. To no avail.

  “Why aren’t they lighting?” Diminutia asked.

  As the others ran to the light of the burning tree, Belhurst explained. “The fire will only burn this tree, nothing else.”

  “Splendid,” Diminutia mumbled as he tossed the branch at the undulating blackness. “Now what?”

  “We have to push through,” Silver said. “The fire may not burn anything else, but it certainly won’t last until morning.”

  “And the forest is so thick, we have no way of knowing when morning is,” Pik added.

  Before anyone else could participate in the debate, high-pitched whistles split the air. Everyone paused, no longer fearing the rippling blackness. The whistling grew louder, bolder, closer. Hands tightened on hilts when they realized that what they heard wasn’t whistling at all. But laughing.