The Devil's Grasp

by Chris Pisano

  “So you led us here hoping to avoid him? Or was all of this chasing around pointless? What of your magic, wizard?”

  “Only the combined power of the stones can defeat him. As you well know, we are lacking in that area. The citizens of Grimwell will attack him en masse, and we will need to use their sacrifice as a cover for our escape.”

  “You would let them die so that we might live?”

  “If we fail, there will be no living as you know it. Is it pointless to preserve hope?”

  “Is it any less a slaughter?”

  “Fate works in strange ways, Silver. Not all of them will satisfy you.”

  Belhurst never took his eyes off the scene of Praeker challenging the citizens of Grimwell as it played out before him. Whatever their chance of success, it depended on his ability to react to the nuances of the events that were in motion around them. He continued, “There is little time, be ready, all of you. We run as soon as he loses sight of us.”

  During the length of their discourse, the denizens of Grimwell had grouped and massed around the solitary figure of Praeker Trieste. Like a spire amidst a ring of stone, he loomed over them, motionless, a creature sensing the air before a storm as it filled with electrical current. They stood about him a grim resolution mantling them. But before the wave could crash upon the strand, a lone figure approached. Huddled and hunched like any of the other creatures before him, this one approached with a defiance the others lacked.

  The hunched man pulled all eyes toward him. He hobbled to the center of everyone like an actor building suspense for his soliloquy. Daedalus approached, recognizing this man as the bard. “Where have you been?”

  Without even acknowledging the uppity prince, he removed his hood. Those who had met him could never forget the unsightly face of the bard. Perplexed, everyone watched in silence, even Praeker. The silence was broken once the bard held out his hands, one toward Belhurst, the other toward Praeker. A small clap of thunder accompanied the brilliant bolts of electricity snapping from his hands to the men at which he pointed. Like a violent slight of hand, both Praeker and Belhurst soared backward, hovering in their stead were the five stones; four where Belhurst had been, one where Praeker had stood.

  No one could move, from fear, from shock, from amazement. Reflexes dulled due to the awe of the sight they just witnessed and watched as the five stones floated toward the bard. Once they fell to his clutches, he cackled, the sick sound of salacious satisfaction itched every ear. And his skin melted away.

  As warts bubbled and pockmarks gaped then fell away, the bard produced a walking stick with a pommel carved into the shape of an open hand, small cup-like indents carved into the tip of each finger. Cackling at his still-frozen audience while his skin continued to slide away, he placed one stone in the cup of each fingertip. Like a starving man clutching for meat, the fingers curled shut to form a wooden fist. He held it over his head in triumph.

  Once he finally shed the last layer of skin, the bard was no more. Only Belhurst knew the man who stood before them now. “Wyren!”

  The mad wizard cackled even louder, his eerie laughter echoing around everyone. After imprisonment in hell for hundreds of years, he had some revenge to exact.

  Thirty-three

  Praeker Trieste gasped for the first time in sixty years, since he first laid eyes upon this continent only to see his naval fleet had been launched from his native lands of Irabel decimated by Belhurst and his band of wizards. Trieste had been transporting the Shadow Stone upon the boat he captained. Capsized and dashed to flotsam and jetsam, his boat was lost with the treasures, including the stone. Crawling upon the shore, just as broken as his ship, he swore he would get the Shadow Stone back, as well as its four other brethren.

  Trieste had done some fell research, learned nefarious incantations and soul-blackening recipes to thwart the effects of aging for the scores of years necessary to obtain the power and knowledge of the other stones. He even culled together a band of outcasts that the citizens of this continent named “The Horde.” Through patience and a crushing fist, he finally obtained the Self Stone. He spent many decades tangling with the residual demons who protected the stone, ultimately destroying them. He used its power to control the scorpions that form his armor and mold the weak-minded to do his bidding.

  But now the stone he worked so hard to find and keep floated with the other four to the mad wizard, becoming part of the devil’s grasp. “Impossible.”

  “Ha!” Wyren laughed. “Everything is possible. All you need is enough time. For example, it takes a cunning wizard four hundred years of bribery and promises to escape from hell.”

  “Troops! To me!” Praeker bellowed. Behind him, the forest of black and twisted tress that bordered parts of Grimwell rustled with life. Even though the number was less than two hundred, the armor-clad and weapon-wielding human and nonhuman troops of The Horde still looked menacing. They formed a semicircle around Praeker as they growled and spat at everything not a part of their army.

  “What in the name of every god great and small is he holding? It’s merely an old man holding a bejeweled staff,” Pik whispered. “But he has the power to frighten Praeker Trieste?”

  “That’s what happens when a madman holds the world’s most powerful weapon. He frightens fear itself,” Diminutia whispered.

  “That staff,” Silver said, hoping to alleviate his fears by verbalizing them, “if the stories he told us are true, has the power to open doorways to hell itself. The wielder can summon as many demons as he’d like and control them all.”

  “If the stories he told were true?” Dearborn asked.

  “Yes,” Silver answered. “As the bard he told us the tale of the first time he … as Wyren … possessed the staff. A band of mercenaries defeated him, casting him into hell. They removed the stones and hid them.”

  “The stones we so deftly found.” Dearborn frowned as a knot twisted in her stomach, realizing she had been duped, tricked into destroying her life and possibly the world as she knew it. “However, it does explain the demons attached to each stone.”

  “True. I doubt very much any of them would want to go back to hell or stand to be someone’s puppet.”

  “Now what?” Pik asked.

  “It seems we are now a part of Praeker’s army,” Dearborn said, noting the actions of the creatures within Praeker’s control. Griffins and harpies glided in cautious circles over Wyren. Weapon-wielding men and monsters shuffled slowly toward the threatening wizard. Praeker himself tightened his grip on his sword’s hilt, an action the general so rarely needed to do.

  “This world. This world is now mine!” Wyren screeched as he threw back the flap of his robe to expose filled bladders tied around his waist. Before anyone could blink, the cragged wizard snatched one from his belt and flung it to the ground. It burst, splattering globs of crimson blood. With the tip of his staff he connected a line of blood into a circle. Even as Praeker gave the order to attack, Wyren broke two more bladders on the ground and formed a grave-sized oval. By the time anyone or anything could even react to Praeker’s command, Wyren ran toward an outcropping of rocks just outside of the town’s border. He slammed more bladders against the flattened surface of one of the jutting rocks, twice the height of a normal man. Wyren’s staff traced a circle on the rock’s surface just as large. He brought forth hell and ruled it like a god.

  From the smallest hole, swarms of pinching, stinging insects erupted forth. The ground vomited vicious clouds of them. Undead and rotting pixies and imps, craving flesh to rend, quickly followed them. Hundreds of them followed the angry noises of the insects into the skies, focusing on Praeker’s winged warriors. Griffins snapped their jaws and slashed with their claws, but did nothing to diminish their attackers. Harpies screamed and tried to flee. None could escape. The demonic insects flooded mouths, bloating stomachs and lungs, as well as stung eyes. The fetid faeries wasted no time as they tore through gobs of flesh to sink their teeth into still-beating hearts.
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br />   Mutated vipers and enlarged scorpions slithered and scuttled from the second of Wyren’s doorways. Praeker’s soldiers found them substantial enough to slay, but were not fast enough to press forward or give chase to Wyren. Swords sliced through scale with ease. Wriggling bodies flopped across the grounds. Many of Praeker’s men swung their weapons back and forth, back and forth, as if reaping fields of bloody grains. But fangs and pincers found their marks as well, massive waves of hell’s living bile engulfing those in its way.

  The ground trembled as the demons emptied from the doorway formed on the boulder. Monstrous creatures strode forth, abominations to nature. Torsos of trolls sprouted from bodies of enormous spiders. Raptor talons replaced legs of mammoth millipedes. Fangs and claws twisted onto perverse bodies of corded muscle and rippling sinew flowed forth from the hole, every creature larger and more fearsome than the prior. Finally, the stentorian commander followed, chest out and back straight, the fires of victory burning within his eyes and clouds of death billowing from his nostrils. Ar’drzz’ur.

  “No,” Dearborn whispered, tears streaming down her face. “No. No. It’s … it’s not possible. I killed him. I killed him!”

  Belhurst turned to the others and said, “Follen and I will work with the Grimwell wizards to stave off the masses. The rest of you, stop Wyren. At any cost!”

  As they ran off, Belhurst and Follen did as promised and followed the Grimwell mayor to a nearby mud hut that served as their magicians’ guild. The two wizards and a half dozen magic wielding citizens stood firm. Ten other citizens, the least encumbered by physical deformities, acted as runners, simply bringing everything from the inside of the hut to the outside. The Grimwell witches needed only seconds to make brews that bubbled into noxious clouds, killing demon insects by the thousands. The falling bodies seemed like an endless shower. Carcasses crunched with every footstep as the crusaders continued. Follen and Belhurst sent blankets of azure flame across the ground, turning every viper and scorpion to dust upon contact, yet leaving all other battle participants unharmed. The swarms of small creatures dwindled. But the larger creatures attacked.

  Within a few short strides, claws and teeth shredded the runners. The sorcerers retaliated as best they could with devastating spells, turning the monsters to mist or setting them ablaze with inextinguishable flames. But jaws devoured a Grimwell witch and claws shredded another. For every two of the larger monsters that melted into a pool of ichor, one spell-caster was lost.

  Seeing the dire situation for what it was, Follen knew of only one solution. One that Belhurst would not like. As his colleague fought, sending lightening to strike as many opponents as possible, Follen grabbed the necessary ingredients and a cauldron. Despite the war raging around him, he mixed the ingredients with impeccable precision. Once complete, he lifted the cauldron and poured the thin liquid on himself.

  “Follen?” Belhurst yelled, whips of fire snapping from his hands. “What are you … No!”

  Before his friend could protest further, Follen spoke an arcane incantation, a spell that would end this skirmish.

  “No!” Belhurst yelled again, powerless to stop his friend.

  But it was done. The spell was complete. Giving one last smile to his friend, Follen dissipated, turning into a cloud of black smoke, living death. The spell only lasted for seconds, but that was more than enough time for Follen. Still maintaining control of his now nebulous body, he glided through the air in many directions, black wisps touching those he wanted to kill. Scores and scores of demons fell upon contact. The spell worked. But it could only be performed once.

  Belhurst wept as he watched the black smoke fade away on the winds, leaving only memories.

  Angered that he lost an entire battalion, Ar’drzz’ur turned to Wyren and said, “Master!”

  Wyren was running up the side of the nearest rock face, a jagged path leading three stories above the battlefield. He paused when he heard his lackey. The war was not going in his favor. But that was easily remedied as he paused and emptied a few more bladders of blood to create more doorways.

  Hideous beasts erupted through the planet’s crust from within the circles of blood.

  The clash was titanic. Praeker did his best to rally his army, though his calls and commands were lost in the cacophony of death. Rage and hatred became palpable entities.

  “All is lost here if we do not stop Wyren,” Belhurst yelled.

  When Pik and Bale stared at him openmouthed, he resorted to pointing in the direction Wyren had taken, hoping his nonverbal cues would be understood. Pik nodded and grabbed at Bale’s elbow, steering him off at a loping run in the direction the wizard had suggested, dodging combat wherever possible.

  Belhurst, surveying the carpet of carcasses before him, began a nefarious incantation. He had never approved of the necromantic arts and so had rarely used them, but desperation drove him. His allies were dwindling in number, and exhaustion was a terrible concern. When his hands waved in the final gesture and the last syllable had escaped his lips, he turned and ran after Bale and Pik, evading combat with a nimbleness none would have guessed he possessed. In his wake, the dead began to twitch spasmodically, shaking and jerking themselves to their feet. They would not fight with the same puissance they displayed in life, but they would be tireless in their efforts, and their numbers, Belhurst hoped, would buoy the flagging spirits of their living counterparts.

  On the other side of the rising dead, Dearborn fought with tremendous ferocity. Flanked on either side by Silver and Diminutia, she cut a swath through their enemies, leaving a corridor of death behind her. It was an inexorable march towards an opponent she dearly sought to avoid. She had thought never to look upon the twisted face of the demon-general, his ragged lips coming together with great effort over his crooked, dagger-like teeth to form a sneer of satisfaction. He was presently engaged in combat, though she could not see his opponent through the sea of bodies and hoped to take advantage of the situation, perhaps catching him unaware and while she had two bodyguards to fend off other interlopers.

  With deep but ragged breaths, she sought to exhale her exhaustion. Slowly she made her way to the towering spire of flesh that was the demon-general she thought she had banished forever. At twenty paces away, he was unaware of her as Dearborn summoned all her strength. His back was to her, shielding his opponents from her view, though he fought multiple opponents from the way the sword and axe he wielded were swung as with independent thoughts. Soundless, she charged the remaining distance between them, seeking to skewer the demon upon her blade. But as her sword-point drew near to impacting the base of his skull, a face formed on the back of his head, and a new pair of arms sprouted, weapons in hand, to fend off her charge and repel her without even losing any ground. In frustration, she screamed a stream of profanities. Silver and Diminutia drew to her flanks and fought equally hard to keep other attackers from interfering with her battle.

  It was a game of hack and slash, parry and riposte, each seeking for a break in the other’s defenses. Within the first few seconds of the clash, Dearborn bore three cuts, none of them deep, though blood ran freely down both her arms, threatening to make her hands slick. Ar’drzz’ur also bore several slight nicks across his abdomen and chest, but nothing that might compromise his grip on his weapons. With a sword and bardiche, he continued his onslaught on the female sergeant.

  She was getting nowhere. She was loathe to move too far, lest it disturb her comrades in their defense of her. But deciding to change her tactic, she began to circle the great beast. As she moved, her eyes darted to and fro searching for an opening in his defenses. The demon-general’s other opponent held his ground as she circled, and she was startled by the alien-green armor bristling with swarming scorpions that stood with her. Her movement was halted as the arachnids menaced her with an upraising of claws and stingers alike, though their master paid her no heed. Praeker Trieste, then, was her accomplice in this, at least for the moment, though she feared his help almost as mu
ch as she did his opposition. Then, with fading hope, she realized that even his huge stature was dwarfed by that of the demon. Suddenly, to her eyes, the legend appeared vulnerable. The three-sided battle raged on.

  Bale lumbered forward, Pik at his side. Though their gait was strange and hardly graceful, still the results were undeniable—the bent and gnarled wizard was within their view at long last. Wyren cast a strangle-mouthed gaze in their direction and paused only to spill blood and draw another circle with the butt of his staff. Before more demons could crawl from the depths, he was moving forward again. He reached the top of the plateau where in a stone alcove he had stashed two urns of dragon’s blood. He had only to reach it, and this whole battle would become but a fleeting struggle, a tale none would hear.

  A new contingent of demons sprang up from the area he innocuously anointed, twelve wild–looking, lupine forms howling and slathering in a charge at the would-be heroes. Bale met the force with his own headlong charge, refusing to lose the power of his momentum. They were upon him in a flash, but even their insane rage paled against his own. Teeth clenching, he ignored the pain of their bites. He focused his fury on his opponents, one at a time; his balled fist pounding one, then another of the creatures straight into the ground, crushing their heads like melons. Pik, who slowed up initially knowing that his slim form would be swept away in the tide of the charging frenzy that faced him, came to Bale’s aid within seconds of the skirmish’s start. Suddenly, the two friends wished they had paused long enough to gather a few more allies in their chase of the crazed wizard.

  Amidst a background of howls, snarls, and scrabbling claws, Bale and Pik stood tall, withstanding the furious onslaught of their attackers. Bale continued to pummel his opponents, but as he raised his left arm, two wolf-demons lunged at him. One of them found purchase and attached itself neatly to his huge bicep, and, refusing to relinquish its hold, grinded its teeth together, rendering his left arm useless. Growling in pain, Bale used his other arm to squash another skull against the unyielding rock beneath him.