The Devil's Influence

by Chris Pisano

  They giggled, all three of them. After one final squeeze, Dearborn let them go and stood. Now that Ideria’s tears were dry, Dearborn felt better about scolding her. “What were you thinking, going in there with a bull?”

  “Nevin kicked the ball too hard and it went over the fence.” The boy winced at the mention of his name and then nonchalantly slid behind his sister.

  “Then why didn’t you come for me?”

  “Because I wanted to be brave like you.”

  Dearborn sighed. She leaned forward, placing her hands above her knees. “Being brave is not rushing into a dangerous situation by yourself. Being brave is asking for help.”

  Ideria dropped her gaze to the ground and turned her attention to matting down a patch of grass with her foot. “I am sorry, Momma. Could . . . could you get our ball for us?”

  Dearborn placed a hand on her daughter’s shoulder and said, “Of course I will.”

  “Too late,” came from behind her. She turned and saw Diminutia sitting on the fence with the ball in his hand.

  “Poppa!” both children yelled as they ran to him.

  Laughing, Diminutia jumped off the fence and hugged his gleeful children. “It is good to see you monsters, too. Here. Here’s your ball back.”

  Ideria and Nevin went back to kicking the ball around as if nothing happened, the fright of minutes ago a mere whisper in the voice of memory. While they played, Dearborn approached her husband and kissed him, followed by a hug. “You missed the excitement.”

  “I saw. Right after I stabled the horse, I watched as you wrestle the bull.”

  Dearborn felt the warmth of reddening cheeks. As demurely as possible, she said, “The bull is so young it could still be considered a calf.”

  Diminutia cupped her face in his hands, demanding eye contact. “Listen. What you did was no small feat and you should be proud of yourself. Every child should be blessed with a mother like you. You fought a bull and won. That act lights a fire in my loins, and I am the most blessed husband in the lands to have you as a wife.”

  Dearborn loved him. Fighting the urge to cry for the second time today, she knew his words were sincere. Despite being taller than the average man, he still had to look upward to offer such niceties. It made her uncomfortable anytime she displayed such strength. “I know you mean what you say, but you know very well that I sometimes don’t feel very feminine.”

  “I know,” Diminutia said as he let go of her face and reached into his pocket. Resting in his palm was a gold bracelet with three modest rubies inlaid. “That’s why I got this for you.”

  Glancing over her shoulder to make sure the children were out of earshot, Dearborn placed her hands on her husband’s to hide the bracelet. With the whisper of discussing a conspiracy, she said, “You know I do not like when you do this.”

  Diminutia frowned mockingly and took a step back. Crossing his arms over his chest, he said, “I got that for what I deemed to be fair.”

  Dearborn opened her mouth but paused as she noticed the bracelet was now on her wrist. Her husband was a thief, a sleight of hand master before he had met her. Because of her, he had given up that career—for the most part. On occasion, he would return from the market with a piece of jewelry for her, or a vial of perfume, maybe a garment of the finest silk. She only accepted these gifts because she knew he would never pilfer from those who needed them more, and it was always from someone who had slighted him somehow. She appreciated the gesture, as always, and said, “Thank you. It does look lovely.”

  “Of course, it does. But . . . uh . . . remember never to wear it around the Constable’s wife.”

  It was her turn to cross her arms over her chest, her striated muscles making the gesture far more intimidating. “Why is that?”

  Diminutia unfolded his arms and extended them outward in an open-palmed shrug to imply that he did not realize his fault until well after the infraction. “What? The bastard Constable overheard my deal I made with Muncy for the eggs and goat I sold to him. He then swooped in and haggled . . . nay, browbeat Muncy into selling the newly acquired goods for a pittance of a profit.”

  “Pittance, you say?”

  “Aye, pittance indeed! Barely a twenty percent profit!”

  Dearborn should be mad. But it was his damnable smile. As bright as his sky-blue eyes and warm as his sun-kissed hair, but just crooked and impishness enough to tickle her heart. Plus, the Constable had been known to take bribes, affording his wife’s lavish tastes. So, instead of a scolding about morals, she laughed and said, “One day I will take you to the bursar of the closest school to give you an education in basic mathematics.”

  “About time he received an education.” The words were spoken in a man’s voice, coming from nowhere and echoing everywhere as if the very air itself wished to speak.

  Diminutia procured two of the many dirks hidden throughout his modest outfit of tanned leather pants and loose-fitting shirt. Dearborn hefted one of the planks from the corral. Even though it was too wide to be a fighting staff, it would certainly serve well as a bludgeoning weapon in her hands.

  Husband and wife readied themselves for an attack, simultaneously minding their children while trying to ascertain the source of the enigmatic voice. Finally, Diminutia used the tip of his knife to point to a shadow cast upon the ground, formed by the angling rays of the falling morning sun and the rising evening sun against their house.

  A figure emerged from the shadow, but not in a way that made sense to Dearborn. It did not move away from the house as if relinquishing a hiding spot; it oozed from the shade as if the darkness were birthing it. Dearborn’s muscles tensed as the figure took shape—an ink black steed carrying a rider wearing a hooded cloak just as dark. Before Dearborn could charge, the man lowered his hood. She recognized him from ten years ago.

  Back then his black hair had been long and flowing, now it was short with a few dozen rogue strands of gray. His dark eyes were ever smoldering, so deep set that Dearborn could not even guess as to their color. His prominent nose fit his face well, neither bulbous nor beak-like. He still had the air of a thief, yet Dearborn knew he had become a wizard. It had been a decade since last seeing . . .

  “Silver?” Diminutia asked.

  “It’s good to see you, old friend,” Silver said.

  Dearborn had a sinking feeling in her gut that his words would ring false before the end of this visit.

  four

  Landyr scratched his smooth face with the tips of his gloved fingers. The roughness of the old leather felt good against the offending itch. He crossed his arms and lightly tapped the back of his head against the stone wall behind him, frustrated that the highlight of his morning had been the temporary relief of a bug bite at the back of his jaw.

  Patience, he thought, remembering the words that General Zellas often said to him. As with all young men your age, you lack patience. Landyr hated being lumped together with those of his age. How many men, or women for that matter, of twenty, possessed the drive and talent to rise as quickly through the army ranks to become Sergeant of the King’s Elite Troop? How many children at the age of ten had to endure watching their parents being torn apart by a horde of monsters? How many people his age devoted their lives to the King’s army to make sure such atrocities never happened again? But, he did need to work on his patience, this he knew.

  Landyr sighed. It was louder than he realized because he took an elbow to his ribs from General Zellas. The general gave a disapproving frown and subtly pointed to the King, where Landyr should be focusing his attention. Landyr could not help but view the frown as one a father would give, stern but caring. After being orphaned ten years ago during the terrible attack by The Horde upon his hometown, Zellas was the only patriarchal figure in Landyr’s life.

  For three days, Landyr hid in his father’s blacksmith shop, surviving on insects an
d a rat slow enough to be caught by a ten-year-old boy. Too afraid to step outside, he hid even though he heard voices of people assessing the damage to the area and looking for survivors. Finally, a woman taking inventory of the smith shop found him. A tall and muscular woman with a face so beautiful that angels would be ashamed to be seen near her. Smiling, she coaxed him from his hiding spot, telling him stories of how when she was a little girl she grew up in a blacksmith shop just like this one. He trusted her face, trusted her words, and took her hand. She introduced herself as Dearborn Stillheart and listened earnestly when he told her he wanted to join the King’s army. Instead of taking him to the orphanage or a shelter, she took him to Zellas, a lieutenant at the time.

  Landyr lived in a set of stables, converted to house like-minded boys with a promising future in the army. Like the steeds that once lived there, Landyr put on his own set of blinders, training hard and focusing only on the goal of being the best. Once he could hold his own with a sword and displayed impressive accuracy with a bow and arrow, he became a soldier in Zellas’ regiment. On occasion over the years, he would see Dearborn again as she lent her services to assist in training and advise in rebuilding the King’s Elite Troop. Rumor had it that she was a sergeant in the Elite Troop before it was decimated by demons, but no one wanted to pry too deeply into the past of a woman who was taller and more skilled than any man she trained. But the King trusted her, heeded her suggestions. He reinstated the Elite Troop, naming Zellas as the general. Landyr’s potential earned him a place within the Troop; his unwavering determination over the years earned him the rank of sergeant. Earned the respect of his General and King. Earned him the right to suffer through this pomp and circumstance of the King’s business.

  Upon his wooden throne—a seat too modest for a king, Landyr thought, but it was one of the many reasons why he admired the monarch so—sat King Perciless, only known surviving son of King Theomann. Two advisors flanked his right, and two to his left. The closest and most trusted was Seneschal Pendrick, the oldest man in the room by far, if not the entire kingdom. His bald head supported a round face that held thick twists of skin rather than wrinkles, eyebrows lunging toward his jowls, lips merely cuts of skin above a knotted chin. A face found in a tree’s bark. Squat and slouched, his body resembled a boulder long forgotten by time and nature. Landyr often wondered if Pendrick left this room after the proceedings, or if he simply had been fused to his chair. Nevertheless, his voice was the first that the King listened to.

  A sense of pride did tickle at Landyr. It felt good to be involved in the governing process. He just wished it were more than standing around listening to neighbors squabbling and swapping insults until the King issued a fair judgment to solve their problems. The King, Landyr appreciated; the tedium he did not.

  Frustration stung the inside of his belly like malcontent bees. The restless insects then swarmed up his chest and buzzed around at the back of his throat. Even though he knew it would show his impatience, Landyr could not stop himself from whispering, “Is there no better way to spend our time?”

  His words warranted another elbow shot to his ribs. General Zellas leaned close and whispered back, “I say this as your general, not your friend or caregiver—hold your damnable tongue.”

  Landyr gave an apologetic nod and Zellas went back to standing straight, eyes forward. Anytime Zellas put a label on which role he played, Landyr knew how to take his words. Which person he was. General. Teacher. Friend. Caregiver. Sometimes, all at once. No matter which label Zellas used, Landyr most often viewed his as a father figure. After all, most good fathers were all roles to their sons.

  It was easy for Landyr to view Zellas that way, no longer able to conjure an image of his own father, other than the bloodied and wide-eyed corpse with slick gashes across his face and meaty chunks ripped from his body. The two men did not look all that dissimilar, Zellas being a possible future for Landyr. Both men had thick, black hair; Landyr kept his cropped short to his head while Zellas had his long and wavy with streaks of white flowing through the raging river of black. Both men had chiseled faces that would make any maiden swoon, Landyr’s youthful and free of any hair while Zellas’ laugh-lines and crows-feet gave him a distinguished look. Landyr could reach the height of his general if he stood on his toes and his frame almost as muscled, a year or two of consistent exercise should suffice in matching his size. Indeed, to the casual eye, an observer could mistake them for father and son.

  Landyr willed himself to pay attention. With a slight shake of his head, as if snapping himself out of a slumber, he focused on the King just as he finished giving a ruling. Apparently, a group of five wild pigs roamed along the border of two farms. The farmers each took two but argued about the fifth. King Perciless told them to hold a community feast using the fifth pig as the main course and then gave them five silver coins for any necessary supplies they did not have. The King giving coins to peasants! Landyr felt all was right with his decision to pledge his life to this King.

  Next up, a somber couple dressed nicer than the average citizen, but far from nobility. The husband kept his left arm around his wife’s shoulders, lest he let go and she collapse in a heap. Her body trembled and she kept dabbing the tears from her eyes with a plain white cloth. Such a heartbreaking sight, the clerk almost forgot to announce them. “Mr. and Mrs. Palworth from Hetherton.”

  King Perciless leaned forward, giving the impression that he might soon leave his throne to hug the distraught Mrs. Palworth. His usually sympathetic blue eyes now held pure anguish. “What troubles you, good couple Palworth?”

  “Our son, your highness,” Mr. Palworth answered.

  “Your son?”

  “Yes. A spry and smart boy of ten. He . . . our son . . . he was kidnapped.”

  “Your son was kidnapped?”

  Mrs. Palworth gave a choking gurgle at any mention of the word, “son.” Mr. Palworth squeezed her tighter and continued, “Yes. From our house the night before last.”

  “That’s truly terrible,” King Perciless said, his face holding the expressions of a dozen different emotions, all befitting, all palpable. “I’m terribly sorry. This should not be happening in the Kingdom of Albathia. What have the authorities of Hetherton to say about this?”

  “They said . . . they said it was like nothing they had ever seen before. Masterfully done. The . . . the . . . the kidnapping was done with the skill of a seasoned professional. There have been no ransom demands yet. We’re simple antique dealers who treat all our customers fairly.”

  “Antique dealers? You hardly seem likely targets to warrant such . . .”

  “Excuse me?” a timid voice a few places behind the Palworths in line. Landyr cringed at such impertinence, but relaxed when he saw it came from the husband of another couple, in the same state of anguish as the Palworths. “I apologize for the interruption, sire, but we, too are antique dealers who have traveled here from the town of Whiterock to discuss our daughter. She is only eight, and she was taken from our house, at night, three days ago.”

  Showing no signs of anger from being interrupted, just more sympathy, King Perciless said, “Another kidnapping?”

  “And a third, your Highness,” came from even further back in the line. A single man with bloodshot eyes and worry lines upon his face stepped from the line, wringing his hat close to his chest. “My son. My son has been taken from me. And I, too, deal in antiquities. In the town of Goshthorn.”

  Landyr felt for these families. Only a monster could think about children being stolen from their homes and not feel pity. Feeling he might be getting too pulled into these strangers’ emotions, Landyr looked away. About fifty people attended the hearing as observers, another fifty in line. All one hundred entranced by what they were hearing, almost half shed some quantity of tears. Even a few of the regular palace guard looked ready to drop their weapons and run home to hug their own children. Except for o
ne person wearing a hooded cloak mingled among the crowd of observers.

  From the height of the figure and the body language, Landyr surmised it was a man. The cloak was thin and flowed over the man’s shoulders like oil yet when touched by the torchlight the right way, flared red like dying embers of a campfire desperately attempting to reignite from the provocation of even the slightest breeze. Dubious about the cloaked man, Landyr shifted to tell Zellas but stopped when the man snapped his fingers. He was looking right at Landyr even though most of his face was shadowed by his hood. What Landyr did see was the man’s chin. And it looked dark green.

  Scolding himself for allowing such an oddity to stop him from completing his action, Landyr tried to lean in toward Zellas, but could not. He could not move, not a twitch or wince. Magic! The concept brought Landyr’s blood to a boil faster than walking through dragon fire. Over the past decade, he had learned that The Horde invasion was brought on by a mad wizard’s quest for magical stones. He blamed magic and wizards for the wanton slaughter of his parents. After making a few feeble attempts to learn magic, he realized it was not in him, was not for him. His heart rejected it, his mind could not understand it. He hated magic. He hated it!

  Landyr strained against whatever spell paralyzed him while staring only at the hooded man. He fought, he struggled. He willed his body to deny the magic its effects. The man slipped between people in the crowd, back toward a nearby archway. Unseen by anyone else, he moved along the back wall, blocked from Landyr’s view when he passed behind a pillar. He snuck behind a second pillar, a third, but did not reemerge when he walked behind the fourth pillar.

  Gritting his teeth to the point hearing cracks ripple along his jawline, Landyr fought against the spell. He refused to be controlled by magic like some useless pawn in a perverted game of chess. Pushing himself harder, he seethed, continuing to watch the pillar where the man had disappeared. Breaking free from invisible binds, his arms flung forward as he lurched. Without as much as a grunt to Zellas, Landyr ran across the great hall, to behind the pillar. A door.