The Devil's Influence

by Chris Pisano

  These three wizards looked harmless enough, though, one being a crone so maligned by time that Landyr hoped he would never reach that age, and said a prayer about dying a warrior’s death on the battlefield. The male of the trio had a relaxed air about him with an inoffensive face and agreeable eyes. He seemed more like a fellow one would meet at a tavern and strike up a conversation because he was at the neighboring barstool. Fearsome wizard, indeed! Landyr moved his hand away from his sword and relaxed. Until he got a good look at the third wizard.

  A spell had been put on his crotch, making his member twitch and dance on its own. Landyr was embarrassed and felt his cheeks flush, especially when he could not blame magic for the fault of nature. The wizard was beautiful; a dark elf like none he had ever seen. Smooth and blemish free, her skin was the black of sleep right before slipping into a euphoric dream. Long, thick curls, her hair was red. Not the weak shades of orange that soulless gingers insist on calling red. No, this was as if she exsanguinated a god and dyed her hair with his blood.

  She glanced at him and did a double take, ultimately frowning and looking away. That was when he realized his mouth was hanging wide open. Closing it, he shook his head to compose himself. Another smack across the back of his head from the hand of Zellas worked much more effectively.

  The general approached the three wizards and offered a smile. “Greetings! You certainly have extinguished the fears of the shopkeepers and townsfolk. I, General Zellas of the King’s Elite Troop, must congratulate and thank you.”

  Landyr stood behind his general and forced a pleasant smile upon his face to look appreciative for the wizards. It pained him to do so, but, along with impatience, diplomacy was another skill he endeavored to improve upon. He viewed diplomacy no differently than dressing up trained monkeys to perform during festival shows.

  “No introductions necessary, General Zellas,” the crone wizard said. “We are from the Wizard’s Guild in Phenomere and are well aware of you and your Elite Troop. I am Millinni. This is Hemmer and Chenessa.”

  Chenessa. Landyr liked that name, wondered if it had any significance, any meaning, to her race or to her profession. He made sure to ask her about that. It was odd that he even had the slightest inkling that they would be working together. He then found it positively dumbfounding that he was dedicating so much time and effort thinking about this woman. More like the way a schoolboy virgin would obsess over his first love. This nonsense needed to stop! Landyr shook his head to regain the moment.

  The wizards recounted a tale of rescuing the children, but it barely registered with Landyr, muffled in his mind as if listening to a conversation on the other side of a wall. Apparently, the wizards and a few locals of the area rescued a wagon full of children.

  “They are all children of antique dealers?” Zellas asked.

  “With the exception of two who belong to museum curators, yes,” Millinni replied.

  “Were you able to apprehend anyone?”

  “Two of the sellers. We have to interrogate them, but it’s doubtful that anything useful will come from them.”

  Landyr snorted in contempt. Wizards interrogating, indeed! They probably depended on powders and burning incense; that would be why their interrogation would yield no results. Of course, his derision warranted looks from those close enough to have heard it, so he started to cough. “Sorry. Dry around here.”

  “As you well know, general,” Millinni continued her talk with Zellas, “Sellers rarely know anything about their buyers, and usually care to remain ignorant of their names and motivations. If who we captured were merely errand runners for the sellers, then they’ll know even less.”

  “So, we need to find the buyers.”

  Landyr tensed as a spike of pain stabbed him between the eyes. Wasting time with this was madness enough, but now add in wizards? However, Millinni’s words were music to his ears. “No need to concern yourself, general. The Wizard’s Guild is looking into this.”

  “I do think I need to concern myself. The only reason to kidnap children of those who deal with rare artifacts is if someone is looking for something rarer than what’s on the shelves of any of the antique shops. Something that the kidnapper is having difficulty finding. Who better to search for it than those with connections in the world of rare artifacts? The kidnapper thinks that they know something he does not, maybe?”

  Millinni smiled, a slick twist of the mouth a local politician would display when trying to deflect from a larger issue. “That is certainly some clever leaps in logic, but—”

  “But, you’re involved. The Wizard’s Guild is involved. Investigating who the true kidnapper is, who wants to ransom the children for this unfound artifact. That leads me to believe that the only inaccuracy of my assessment is how powerful, how valuable this magical artifact is.”

  Millinni’s smile faded. Landyr’s ability to read people was nowhere as astute as his general’s, but he could tell by the wizard’s sour reaction that Zellas was right. The general leaned closer to Millinni and waggled his finger at her. “From your reaction, my reassessment is now accurate. Since there is a magical, and presumably powerful, artifact that the Wizard’s Guild is looking for, then the Elite Troop will lend a hand in finding it.”

  “That is very unnecessary,” Millinni growled. Her body language shifted, tensing, and Landyr wondered if she were working up a spell.

  “How many wizards has the Guild assigned to this quest?”

  “Guild protocol is not—”

  Zellas interrupted her with a hand wave, erasing the words from the air as she spoke them. “No, no, no. No politics here. From general to general. How many?”

  Clearly rankled now, Millinni growled, “There are four of us using two different methods of investigating. More if we deem it necessary.”

  Zellas clapped his hands, as gleeful as if winning a prize. “See? We can assist! We have thirty members in three different towns, all with the same goal in mind. Ten of us are right here now, ready to serve.”

  Millinni opened her mouth, but Zellas was getting faster, “Now, if you truly believe we are a hindrance, I would be happy to deliver that message to King Perciless himself, and then we can let him communicate with the Wizard’s Guild to see how everyone should proceed. I forget—the Guild has a sterling relationship with the King, right?”

  All three wizards glared at the general. Landyr felt torn. He did not wish to spend one second more around wizards, let alone join them in some investigation better suited for constables and bounty hunters, but to see the look of disgust on their faces, a look that his general caused . . . well, he could endure their company as long as Zellas could get them to replicate those looks.

  The skin of her lips wrinkling with every syllable, Millinni growled, “You would threaten the tenuous relationship between the Guild and the throne? For what?”

  Zellas took a step forward with the flourish of an actor upon a stage and stood close enough for his tunic to touch her robes. Placing his hands upon her arms the way a rogue would steal a kiss from a princess, his voice deepened as he said, “Obviously to get closer to you.” He punctuated his sentence with a wink.

  Millinni could respond only with a wide-eyed gasp and a quiver from her bottom lip. Anyone within earshot reacted much the same way. Landyr counted three heartbeats of pure, unmoving silence from the entire town. In control of everything, Zellas broke the silence by walking away from Millinni, saying, “Excellent! It’s settled then. We’ll wrap up our questioning and then meet you in the tavern at the end of the block in an hour to share information and determine our next course of action. We’ll contact the other two parts of the Elite Troop to find out if they have discovered anything pertinent. And, of course, I’ll send word to the King that the Wizard’s Guild has, so far, been an invaluable ally.”

  Without so much as a glance back, General Zellas kept walking do
wn the street, toward the tavern. Landyr hustled to keep up. “You are seriously willing to seduce a woman old enough to be your grandmother’s grandmother in order to go along with them to find some trinket that’s meaningful only to them?”

  Far enough away that no other set of ears could hear his words, Zellas stopped and turned to Landyr with a smirk. “Perception is the key to negotiations. It does not matter what I’m willing to do, it only matters what they think I’m willing to do. I distrust wizards as much as you do, so when they get fidgety and secretive as they did while talking to us, then that means they’re up to something. It is our duty as the King’s Elite Troop to discover what that is. Plus, I’m doing this for you as well.”

  Landyr reeled back as if the general threw a bucket full of ice water on him. “Me? How could you possibly be doing this for me?”

  Zellas leaned in closer, a conspirator sharing information. “I’m speaking to you now as your friend. When was the last time you were involved in a tussle involving a warm bed as an arena?”

  Out of reflex, Landyr glanced over his shoulder to Chenessa. She was watching him but quickly turned away. He saw just enough to recognize her look of confusion and intrigue. He did not respond to Zellas, but the answer was simple—a long time. Too long.

  nine

  Bale rubbed his temples with both thumbs. The arguing was becoming too much. Lapin wanted armor; nothing would do other than plate-mail. Excuses as to why any other kind would not work flowed from his mouth any time a non-plate-mail suggested was made. Since Lapin wanted plate-mail, Tingle wanted plate-mail. Phyl jumped aboard the plate-mail wagon as well, his caveat being that it was stylish. Something slimming. Then came the argument about the priority of who got their armor first. Lapin said he should since he suggested it first. Tingle argued that he should get his first since it seemed likely that it would help him the most should there be any sort of battle. Bale ended that argument by declaring he should get plate-mail first since he was the biggest and the leader of this band of heroes, even though he was certain that he did not even want armor.

  Lapin declared, “By the seventeen hells, Bale is right.”

  Tingle immediately disputed the number, saying there were only fifteen hells. Lapin then called him mad and argued that there were thirteen hells.

  Bale did not know how many hells there were, but he certainly felt like he was in one of them now. The rubbing of his temples stopped neither his headache nor the arguing. He did not know how many gods there were either, but he thanked all that he could think of for finally getting him to his destination.

  The town of Thistle Run was a growing town. Located between a river and a mountain, it served as a bustling hamlet for those looking to find work in either the mines or the ports. Bale had tried both and found that he had the aptitude for neither. He did have an aptitude for drinking, though, and would often drown his sorrows in any of the dozen taverns available after he had been fired from his job at any of the mines or docks. Upon a barstool in a tavern was where Bale met Wort, a boggart who hired Bale for odd jobs. Usually, jobs that fell outside the purview of legality. However, with the racket happening behind him, he found it impossible to think too well, having a difficult time trying to remember which tavern he would meet Wort in. He decided that he needed a drink so badly that any tavern would do. The incessant arguing grew to such a crescendo that it inhibited his ability to find a tavern. He needed help, so he went into the shop closest to him.

  It was an antiquities shop, specializing in paraphernalia of wars long past. On either side of the door were suits of armor, built for humans, each holding a sword. Head spinning so badly, he almost asked them for the location of the nearest tavern. Instead, he walked further into the shop and asked in general, “Hello? Anyone? I’m just looking for the nearest tavern and was wondering if you could help.”

  “Bale? Why are we in this shop? Is this where we’re going?” Phyl asked, pushing his way past the ogre.

  Bale stumbled as Tingle entered the shop, shoving the ogre to fit through. “This? This is your idea of grand adventure. Depressing. Absolutely depressing.”

  “Tavern?” Bale called again, walking down an aisle lined with shields through the ages on one side and a vast array of pikes on the other side. “Tavern? Anyone?”

  “Tavern?” a cranky voice called from the adjacent aisle. “This ain’t the town greeting center! You want an antique morningstar, I got that. Information? No!”

  Phyl rushed to Bale. “Did he say antique morningstar? I love morningstars. They make such decorative wall hangings.”

  “Tavern?” Bale asked again, this being the last word frustration had not pushed from his already disheveled vocabulary.

  “I said I ain’t the—” the voice cut short as the owner of it rounded the corner to face Bale. It was Wort. “Bale?”

  Nose as pointed as a rat’s, ears shaped like a bat’s, the boggart stood only to Phyl’s shoulders. Since Phyl stood to Bale’s shoulders, the ogre now had to worry about accidentally stepping on Wort. “Wort? What are you doing here?”

  Wort ambled his way to the ogre and positioned himself between Bale and Phyl, his back to the satyr. “What am I doing here? I own the place. What are you doing here?” He paused to cast a silent aspersion over his shoulder at Phyl and caused the satyr to cringe. Wort turned back to Bale and continued with an angry whisper, “How did you even find me here. No one from . . . that part of my life knows where to find me.”

  “Bale?” Phyl asked. “Who is this cantankerous creature?”

  Looking at Phyl, Bale pointed to Wort. “This is Wort. He’s my contact.”

  “Shhhhh!” Wort fussed and waved his hands, trying to erase Bale’s words.

  “Wait,” came from around the corner. Tingle had made his way further into the shop. “This is the guy we’re looking for? The one who set you up with that job?”

  “Yes,” Bale replied.

  “Shhhhh!” Wort repeated.

  “If it didn’t go against everything I believe in, I would laugh,” Tingle mumbled.

  “Yeah? You think this is funny?” Wort yelled. “No centaurs allowed in my shop, so get out.”

  “What? You can’t do that. That’s discrimination!”

  “Yes, I can, and there are reasons!”

  “Reasons? What could be a good reason for discrimination?” Tingle demanded, flicking his tail in anger. With a swish, his tail smacked a vase and sent it crashing to the ground.

  “You’re paying for that.”

  Tingle crossed his arms over his chest and said, “I don’t see any signs warning customers to be careful since there are breakable items.”

  “Warning . . .? Breakable . . .? It’s an antique shop! Out! Get out!”

  “Fine. I do not want to diminish my social status by being seen in here anyway.” Tingle snapped as he made his way out of the shop, but not without accidentally knocking over one of the suits of armor by the door.

  Wort glared at Bale while the clatter of the falling metal settled. When the hum of the rolling round shield finally stopped, Phyl gently cleared his throat and said, “I . . . I’m going to go outside and see how Tingle is doing.”

  The only noise was the satyr’s hooves against wooden planks of the floor and Bale’s heartbeat. Once Phyl exited the building, Bale gulped. “So . . . how’ve you been?”

  “What do you want, Bale? Why are you looking for me?”

  “It’s about the job you sent me on.”

  Wort frowned, making his hard to look at facial features even more so. “Yeah? You mean the one you failed? The one that got busted up by the local authorities and cost me months’ worth of broker fees to pay for restitution?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Good! You better start apologizing and you better tell me you’re going to do three . . . no, four jobs free of charge.”


  “Ummm,” Bale muttered. His mind was swirling. He had an objective for this mission, but almost forgot what it was due to the other members of his party arguing. Now, right when he almost remembered what it was, the person he needed to talk to used fancy words and guilt to confuse him. Did he really have a legal or moral obligation to do more jobs for Wort?

  “Bale!” came from his pocket. He looked down and smiled at Lapin, who looked up with crossed eyes. “Do not let this swindler swindle you.”

  “What the—? Is that a talking rabbit?” Wort asked as he reached for the Lapin.

  The rabbit smacked away the Boggart’s hand. “Fingers off the fur, buddy! Technically, I am a thousand-year-old knight trapped forever in rabbit form.”

  “I thought you told me you were a thief?” Bale asked.

  “Does not matter. What matters is you came here to get information. You have a mission, Bale.”

  Bale straightened his posture and sucked in his gut to the best of his ability, which was not at all, but he thought he did. “That’s right. I have a mission. I need to find out who wanted the shipment that you had me deliver.”

  “Yeah?” Wort snorted with a chuckle. “Not gonna happen.”

  Bale leaned over, his eyes mere inches from Wort’s beady black eyes. “Wort, it was children. Did you know that? You brokered a transaction involving children. I just want to know who it was for and then I’ll leave you alone.”

  The boggart looked away, a veil of confusion falling over his face. “Children?”

  “Yes, children, you creep!” Lapin yelled. “Bale! Remind him that you are bigger than he is.”

  Bale leaned even closer, the boggart’s ragged eyebrows tickling his nose. “I’m bigger than you.”

  “Baah! Fine!” Wort yelled, pushing Bale’s face away. “Just quit breathing on me. Come, come. Let’s go to my office.”