The Devil's Influence

by Chris Pisano

  Bale felt proud of himself as he followed the boggart through the rest of the shop to a backroom. It was not often that he was able to stay focused for this long! He felt very proud of himself, indeed. A new weird feeling replaced pride when Wort opened the door.

  The Bogart’s backroom office was the same as any other—squat desk in the middle with a second-hand chair behind it, two walls lined with shelves of parchment sheets and scrolls, a metal safe locked shut tucked away in the corner. Even though Bale had spent little time in an office of any sort, he was positive that they should not include a broken window and three men clad in black. One was a human rooting through the shelves of papers while another, a tan scaled saurian, was picking the lock on the safe. The third was a human and had his feet propped on the desk while leaning back in the chair. He spoke, “Hello, Wort. Vogothe was wondering if you remembered that you owe him some money. You do remember that, don’t you?”

  “Heh. Ummmm, yeah, of course. Of course, I do,” Wort said.

  “That’s a good start. A very good start. I think you’re smart enough to know that if you’d like a very good finish, then you should pay Vogothe the money you owe him.”

  Big smile exposing rows of nubbed teeth, Wort crept to Bale’s side while using flourishing sweeps of his hands as he talked. “Of course, I’ll pay him. You let him know I’ll drop it off later today. Directly to him in about an hour.”

  The man in the chair moved his feet from the desk to the floor. The other two stopped what they were doing and moved closer to their partner. All three were dressed alike with brown leather chest plates and boots covering black clothing. Black material covered their faces from noses down, leaving their hungry eyes and shaved heads exposed. Teeth sized metal piercings formed wicked smiles on their face coverings, the effect looking more vicious on the saurian. “I assure you, we are authorized collectors for Vogothe. Handing us the money is as good as handing it to Vogothe himself.”

  “Heh. That right? Well, there is one thing I forgot to tell you—the ogre has the money!” On his final word, Wort slammed the door shut and ran past Bale. Faster than his inebriation should allow, Lapin jumped from Bale’s pocket and latched his teeth to Wort’s neck. The boggart squealed and fell to the floor. “Ow! Ouch! Stop it! Stop!”

  The door opened and Bale slammed it shut, muting the sounds of three mercenaries crashing into each other. He was confused. Was this some game Wort was playing? If so, then with whom? Bale? Or the three men? The door popped open again, and Bale closed it. This time he leaned against it. “Wort? Why did you tell them that?”

  “Ow! Why do you think? I don’t have the money!”

  “Why did you tell them that I did?”

  “Stop! Ouch! To distract them while I ran.”

  “Oh,” Bale replied, the only one he could come up with.

  “Idiot!” Lapin yelled at Wort in between bites.

  “Ouch! I’ll give you the information you’re looking for.”

  Lapin stopped biting. Standing on the boggart’s chest, Lapin said, “Okay, start talking.”

  Wort smiled. “After you take care of the mercenaries.”

  Lapin opened his mouth, ready to bite, but Wort cut him off, “If they kill me, you get no information.”

  The rabbit closed his mouth and growled. He looked over to Bale and said, “Sorry, but it does not look like we have a choice. If you want to know more about the people who wanted the children, then we’ll have to take care of the mercenaries.”

  Bale was slightly relieved to hear this. Negotiations of any kind made him feel uncomfortable and the pounding on the door made his back hurt. Taking care of the mercenaries was something he understood. He stepped away from the door.

  Expecting more resistance than they received, the three mercenaries crashed through with ease but fell to the floor in a pile. Bale ripped the door from its hinges and raised it over his head. The mercenaries kept their wits and scattered before Bale smashed the door to splinters.

  Panting, Bale looked around and saw no one, not even Wort or Lapin. To his left was a wall of vases, to his right the aisle of shields and pikes. Bale opted to go down that aisle. Along the way, he grabbed a pike. All the shields were too small to offer him any real protection, so he let them be. By the time he got to the end of the aisle, the human mercenary who had done the talking stepped into view. “Well, my gargantuan friend, it seems that Wort has placed his fiduciary responsibility on you. Shall we make this easy and you hand over what he owes to Vogothe?”

  “I like my fi-tuciary hard,” Bale said.

  Even with a mask over the bottom of his face, Bale could tell the man was confused. Good. Bale like when his enemies were confused. It was the perfect time to strike.

  He tightened his grip on the pike handle and, Bale reeled back. He had forgotten about his surroundings, though. The top of his pike smacked into the row of pikes lined up along the one side of the aisle, scattering them backward. The gurgling cough he heard next told him that the pikes had stabbed someone.

  The man in front of him looked shocked and Bale glanced over his shoulder. Bleeding from four different puncture wounds, the other human mercenary coughed and collapsed to the floor. Bale looked back to his original foe.

  “Impossible,” the mercenary said. “How did you know he was behind you? No matter.”

  Before Bale could answer, the mercenary ran. Bale chased but lost the mercenary as he turned the corner. So focused on finding his target, he forgot about the suit of armor Tingle had knocked over when they first arrived. He tripped over it and fell—just as the saurian mercenary lunged from behind. Missing Bale, the mercenary impaled himself on the sword held by the other suit of armor by the doorway. After coughing up a few gobs of blood, the saurian stopped squirming. Bale stood and looked at the dead mercenary.

  “You may be a master tactician,” the last mercenary said, appearing from an aisle at the far end of the shop. “But I’ll be back with more of my men. We’ll see how well you do against those kinds of numbers.”

  The mercenary ran to the back office, fleeing through the broken window.

  “Idiot!” Wort yelled as Bale as he popped up from his hiding spot under the floorboards.

  “Him?” Lapin yelled, perched upon the boggart’s shoulder. “He saved your life!”

  “But he let one get away. He will be back with more mercenaries. Vogothe will not be happy about this.” Wort strummed his fingers together nervously as he looked around the shop. “I have to run. I’m coming with you.”

  “You mean you want to be a part of our band of heroes?” Bale asked, unable to stop the smile forming on his face.

  “Yeah, yeah, whatever you want to call it. I’m coming with you. First, let me get my gold and gems from my safe,” Wort said as he walked toward his office.

  “You . . . you had the money to pay back Vogothe?” Lapin asked.

  “Of course, I did! I’m a boggart after all.”

  “Then why in the eight hells did you not pay back Vogothe?”

  “I already answered that. Because I’m a boggart.”

  Even though mercenaries tried to kill him, Bale was happy about recruiting another team member. It was beginning to feel like the good old days Before Pik and Zot died. Bale liked that.

  ten

  Diminutia felt torn. He wanted to help his friend. He wanted to make his wife happy. He had no desire to save the world, having done that once in his lifetime already. Once should be enough surely? Silver assured him that once they found the last item the Wizard’s Guild deemed to be one of the most powerful in the world, something called the Eternity Seed, Diminutia and Dearborn could go back home with a clean conscience. He knew Dearborn could turn around right now without so much as a pang of guilt, regarding nothing more important than her children. Diminutia felt the same way, which was why he agreed
to help Silver. He felt Silver was downplaying the importance of the item and flat-out lying when saying the Wizard’s Guild had everything under control regarding the other missing items. And what was Bale’s involvement in all this? It was not the most pertinent question to answer, but the curiosity of it held weight in Diminutia’s mind. Even if that answer was not to be found on this quest, then he might have to ferret it out on his own later.

  It had been a three-day ride to the town of Freeman’s Way, and Dearborn had stared at the mystic glass showing the smiling faces of their children for the whole trip. During the nights she helped collect firewood and trapped a few plump rabbits for their dinners. She listened to stories that Silver and Diminutia shared and laughed during the appropriate points. She said she enjoyed seeing Silver. Diminutia believed her, but he knew that she would rather enjoy his company back at their house, at their dining table. As soon as morning arrived, they would pack the horses and be off, and Dearborn would go back to looking at their children, giving only cursory glances to get her bearings.

  Like many of the other towns that had been razed by The Horde, Freeman’s Way had spent the last decade coming back to life. The denizens refused to leave, most having nowhere else to go. They stayed, they banded together, they rebuilt.

  Diminutia had not been back since that day and admired the construction, the updated designs in the architecture. The indomitable human spirit. The streets were lined with two-story structures abutted against each other just like many other towns, but the newness of them could be seen, the hope could be felt.

  The Day Sun was at its highest, bathing the town in a radiance seldom seen. The town folk moved about at a moderate speed, neither too slow nor too fast in getting to their destinations, none refusing pleasant conversation should the opportunity arise. A warm smile and an accepting nod greeted Diminutia anytime he made eye contact with someone on the streets.

  As usual, Dearborn caused a bit of a stir simply by being herself. She wore a simple tunic for farming, one with minimal sleeves for comfort and did nothing to hide her muscular arms. Even atop a horse, one could see that she would be the tallest person around had she been walking instead. And her beauty knew no equal, black hair gleaming brighter than any maiden’s, blue eyes sparkling more than any gem. Diminutia smiled.

  Even if she had not been too focused on the mystic glass, she would have ignored the stares and whispers anyway. When she had been the Sergeant of The Elite Troop, she had been self-conscious of her size and uncertain about what to do with her beauty, feeling her only place in life was with the army or a member of a traveling freak show. These feelings she would confess to Diminutia, entwined in his arms during the twilight time between spent passion and impending slumber. Over the years, he watched her become more comfortable with who she was, more confident and happy in her role as wife and mother.

  Diminutia had never viewed her as anything other than the love of his life. Sure, she was taller than he and could lift him with one arm should she choose to, but her kindness and generosity dwarfed her muscular physique. He felt special for being the lone individual she chose to spend the rest of her life with, so he did not care when people stared. Let them. She was a once in a lifetime rarity to behold, and Diminutia knew that they looked at her with some form of jealousy in their eyes.

  So rapt in silently extolling his wife’s attributes, Diminutia lost his place in the town around him, until the snort of his horse broke him from his reverie. He chuckled to himself and then leaned over to place a hand on Dearborn’s shoulder. “We’re here.”

  She looked up at their destination—an antiquities shop. As if waking from a deep sleep, she looked around. “Where are we?”

  Diminutia chuckled again. “This is the shop of our old acquaintance.”

  As Silver dismounted, he said, “Of all the rebuilt buildings, his looks exactly the same as before.”

  “Too true,” Diminutia replied. He jumped from his horse and took the reins of his wife’s.

  Still looking confused, Dearborn dismounted and asked, “No. I mean what town are we in?”

  “Freeman’s Way.” Diminutia wrapped the reins around a nearby post.

  “Freeman’s Way,” Dearborn repeated, whispering. “Freeman’s Way. I know this town. Why do I know this town?”

  Diminutia smiled as he tucked a lock of her hair behind her ear, keeping his hand on her cheek. “I do not know. I’m sure we can figure it out together.”

  Dearborn returned his smile. “I am sure we can.”

  Gesturing to follow Silver through the entrance, Diminutia said, “After you.”

  Offering a playful curtsy, Dearborn said, “Thank you,” and followed Silver.

  Diminutia followed. Once through the door, they found themselves in an open, one room store. All forms of antique and artifact lined the walls, on display for potential buyers to ogle. Standing in the center of the room was the shopkeeper, the man they sought. He was shorter than average, with a pinched face that could shift from sympathetic to sinister, depending on the amount of money involved. A black and gray mustache started thick under his nose but quickly tapered to nothing by the time it reached either end of his upper lip as if the motivation to do so waned exponentially. Upon seeing the first of the trio, his face shifted to a dubious state. “Silver? Is that you?”

  In a friendly way, Silver spread his arms out in front of himself and answered, “Indeed, it is, Haddaman Crede. It is. Diminutia as well, and his—”

  “You!” Dearborn yelled. Before Diminutia could even form a question in his mind, Dearborn ran to Haddaman and grabbed a fistful of his shirt. In one fluid motion, she lifted him and slammed his back against the ground. Items on shelves toppled, and tapestries fell to the floor. Using both hands, she hoisted him over her head and threw him across the room.

  Silver intervened. With a few practiced hand gestures and precisely spoken words, he created a simple spell that knocked Dearborn to the ground.

  Standing so close to Silver, Diminutia reached out and shoved his friend squarely in the chest, knocking him off his feet. “Stop!” he yelled. “Everyone stop!”

  Rubbing the back of his head, Haddaman sat up. “She attacked me!”

  Walking to his wife, Diminutia pointed to Haddaman and barked, “Stay!”

  “Dim, Haddaman’s right,” Silver said as he started to get to his feet. “Your wife attacked him without provocation.”

  Diminutia pointed to his friend and said, “Stay down, Silver. Just stay down and we’ll figure this out.”

  Dearborn sat on the floor, legs pulled close to her body, arms resting on her knees. Diminutia crouched next to her and gently brushed her mussed hair from her face. He did not need to ask the question. Dearborn answered, “It’s him.”

  “Him?”

  Dearborn turned her head, exposing a hatred within her eyes Diminutia had rarely seen. “Him!”

  Diminutia remembered the stories she had told him about the gemstones of the damned. About the demons who haunted them. About losing her friends and army comrades in the bloodiest of ways to these demons. About one man whom she blamed for the cause of such loss. Diminutia never thought he would meet this individual; however, he found very little surprise when the villain of his wife’s stories was Haddaman Crede.

  Upon realizing what role Haddaman played in Dearborn’s past, Diminutia helped his wife to her feet and turned sharply. With each step he took, Diminutia squeezed his fists tighter, knuckles cracking by the time he stood in front of Haddaman.

  “Dim?” Silver asked, still not standing. “What’s going on?”

  Seething, he looked upon the twitching man like a vengeful god debating about what punishment to dole out. “Well, Silver, it seems like our friend here shares the same soul as someone who would fuck a goat while setting it ablaze.”

  “But . . . we already knew that.
”

  “Ah, but what we did not know was that he was directly involved in the loss of Dearborn’s regiment and the disappearance of Prince Oremethus.”

  “Now, hold your tongue,” Haddaman said, the indignation in his voice genuine. “Demons led to the demise of your Elite Trop, Dearborn, and our prince was driven mad by the accursed gemstone, not by anything I had done.”

  Taking a stance next to her husband, Dearborn flexed her arms as she crossed them over her chest. “Your words hold a very cursory truth. If we were to dig deeper, we would discover that it was you who weaseled your way into the companionship of the Elite Troop. It was you who convinced the prince to keep possession of the gemstone. It was you who was a nonstop distraction.”

  “Distraction? Your troop needed a guide. Who was the one who actually solved the puzzle to get the gemstone?”

  “The prince!”

  “With my encouragement and guidance.”

  Using one hand to massage his temples, Diminutia waved his other at Haddaman. “Enough. When my wife shared those stories with me, I couldn’t help but wonder who could be so dastardly as to prioritize their hope of fame above the lives of others. I must confess, I am not surprised, Haddaman. Not surprised.”

  “Wait. You two have been together all this time, exchanged all those stories, and neither of you ever mentioned my name?”

  Diminutia shrugged. “She always referred to you as disgusting filth lower than fish shit, and I do not believe you and I have a story together worth telling.”

  Remaining on the floor, Haddaman crossed his arms over his chest and pouted. “What a glowing way to recount our shared business venture.”

  Diminutia frowned. “Business venture? We knew each other’s names and the only time we spent together were those of running while local authorities chased us for petty pilfering. In fact, the only time I had ever been caught was when you tripped me.”

  “It was an accident,” Haddaman said, implying surprise that Diminutia did not know the truth.