The Devil's Influence

by Chris Pisano

  “Have you seen a healer since then? Consulted with a wizard to see if there is anything that can be done to restore your hands?”

  Draymon shrugged. “These hands have made me what I am today. No need to change that now.”

  Perciless smiled. “I agree. Let’s leave change to philosophers and holy men, shall we? However, I have a favor to ask.”

  “I can never repay your kindness properly. Of course, I will do whatever you ask of me.”

  “Keep an eye on this mercenary for me. I fear I have exhausted all my other resources over the years, and it sours my stomach the need to call upon mercenaries and bounty hunters. Having a person I can trust along with them would ease my mind a bit. Do this for me, please.”

  “I will, my king. I surely will.”

  “Draymon?”

  “Yes, King Perciless.”

  “Are you sure that you’re up to this?”

  The young man nodded.

  “Very well. Find my brother, Draymon. Return Oremethus to Phenomere.”

  twelve

  The stench of recent death exploded from the dungeon as soon as the door was opened. The bizarre mixture of sweetness and putrescence of meat turning to rot caused everyone in the Elite Troop to wince and cover their mouths. Most backed away seeking fresh air. The warden of the dungeon vomited as soon as he opened the door. Landyr, focusing on the smell of leather from his glove, at first pitied the warden since he got the worst of it being closest to the door. No one had expected such a repulsive odor. His feelings moved to contempt as the warden crawled away and vomited again. He mumbled to himself, “You are an enforcer of the law, show some backbone.”

  He received a smack to the back of his head from Zellas. The frustration within the general’s eyes was apparent, made even more so with him concealing his nose and mouth with his other hand.

  Landyr gestured, implying the phrase, ‘You know I’m right.’

  The general’s expression changed as his body shifted as well, the words, ‘Show some decorum,’ communicated without being said.

  Landyr rolled his eyes and drew his sword. A malodorous surprise would not stop him from doing his duty. As he started down the stairs, he glanced to Chenessa. She huddled with the other two wizards, Hemmer and Millinni, at a safe distance. From the expressions on all three of their faces, the smell had reached them as well, and they knew very well what had caused it.

  The stairs looked like they belonged at a busy abattoir; painted with shades of brown and red, depending on how deep the pool of blood was, with random chunks of meat placed about, and entrails flowed along. Landyr regretted his jibes about the warden’s fortitude as nausea stirred around in his belly. He did not wish to look at the gore, but he feared slipping on the mess were he to look up.

  The guttering flames from the wall sconce provided enough light in the small dungeon. Only six cells, five with their doors opened. And three slaughtered guards on the floor.

  Landyr regained control of his rebelling stomach and forced himself to examine what was before him. Two guards face up, one face down. Massive holes in their torsos; large enough to see through to the floor they lay upon. The way the flesh and meat and bone curled outward on all three confused Landyr, as if something inside of them exploded. That was nigh impossible, though.

  “They were killed outside and dragged down here,” Zellas said, walking down the stairs. From the look of the stairs, Landyr came to the same conclusion. He simply nodded.

  “Their torsos?” Zellas asked. “Like something burst from them?”

  Landyr nodded again, but this time he spoke. “I don’t know how the prisoners did it.”

  “They didn’t.”

  Both Landyr and Zellas jolted with a start, even though the voice was a chalky whisper. Millinni.

  The crone of a wizard descended the stairs alone. The shadows played upon her differently, unnaturally, as if the light were afraid to touch her, just as life tried to flee from death. With every word possessing the necessity of a dying person’s last wish, she said, “The prisoners did not do this to the guards. Whoever broke them out did this. With magic.”

  Zellas scratched at his chin, a nervous reaction to an uncomfortable situation, and glanced at the empty cells. “Who were these prisoners?”

  Landyr had been wondering that himself ever since their orders changed to investigating the prisoners in this dungeon.

  While in the town of Whiterock, in a tavern with a name long vanished from Landyr’s mind, the ten members of the Elite Troop and the three wizards hashed out the details of their tenuous partnership. It was a simple matter, really—the wizards led and the soldiers followed. Landyr did not like the agreement, but he trusted Zellas as friend, general, and guardian. Both factions promoted open communications. Zellas wished to be present anytime Millinni communicated with the guild; Millinni requested access to all written words sent back and forth by messenger. After Zellas wrote down the plan, under the watchful eye of Millinni, he rolled it up, sealed it and gave it to one of the other eight to act as messenger. Once the messenger was out the door to journey to the king, Zellas ordered a round of drinks.

  The wizards eschewed the invitation to stay and left the tavern. The soldiers of the troop were well regimented. They enjoyed only one round and retired to their rooms on the second floor of the tavern. However, slumber eluded Landyr.

  The inn’s construction was commendable. The walls thick, the floors sturdy. Not a sound from the outside world or from the tavern below could penetrate. Landyr realized that it was pointless to lay awake thinking about the inn’s construction, so he got up. Boots, pants, tunic, and enough gold to pay for the number of drinks it would take to calm his unsteady mind.

  He ordered two tankards of ale from the bar but decided to sit at a table in the far corner, partially obscured by shadows. A perfect place to disappear, to settle his mind, and to simply take in the sights of life around him.

  Despite the late hour, there were still a dozen patrons. Most of them alone and silently using alcohol to wash away memories, or a few in pairs mumbling to each other. A table of four men with snarling faces and gnarled bodies talked among themselves at another corner table. Cutthroats, Landyr assumed, scheming future malfeasances no doubt. If things went awry, he could subdue them, no matter how numb the ale might make him. He sensed no trouble in the air, though, and contemplated his duty as a sergeant in the Elite Troop, wondering where this investigation might take them next.

  Those thoughts lasted through one tankard. The second tankard made him susceptible to other thoughts, specifically ones that led to him scanning the room for any women. One. A satyr, horns bejeweled, leg fur lustrous and well groomed. Landyr took a swing of ale to wash away the perversion that muddied his thoughts. He was not that desperate, and even if he was, he knew very well that the Troop would find out—they always found out—and he did not want to deal with jokes that came at his expense.

  Mind finally tired, Landyr drained the last of the ale and brought the empty tankards to the bar. He dropped a coin on the bar as a tip.

  “That’s very nice of you,” a woman’s voice came from beside him.

  “Chenessa?” Landyr asked, sounding more surprised than he wished to let on. “I didn’t see you come in.”

  Sitting on a stool, she turned to face him, long legs in black leather crossed at the knees. Fingers dancing in the air, she gestured with the same flair as a stage presenter. A black vest striped in red with the same blood hue as her hair showcased her toned arms and flaunted her cleavage. Landyr struggled with every fiber of his being to keep his gaze from straying below her face. “I am a wizard after all. I am steeped in magic.”

  She smiled.

  He grunted and turned back to the bar where he found a full tankard of ale, yet the coin remained.

  “I apologize,” she sa
id, losing the mirth in her voice and posture. “I should have seen that you wished to be alone.”

  Quickly, again more so than he would have liked, he turned back to her. “No. No, you don’t have to go. It’s not you.”

  “No?”

  “No. It is I who should apologize for my reaction to two of my least favorite words.”

  Chenessa sighed but stayed. “Ahh, yes. The dreaded words ‘wizard’ and ‘magic.’ Two things that curse the world.”

  “I . . . I have had some negative experiences because of magic.”

  “We all have. It’s been a decade since Wyren unleashed Hell upon this country, and we are still feeling the effects. We all lost someone or something that cannot be replaced. That hasn’t vanished from our hearts.”

  Landyr took a long pull from his tankard, watching her, watching how the flame light from the nearest candle did little to make its presence known against her midnight black skin. She was beautiful.

  Smirking, Chenessa then said, “Now you’re wondering how I knew what you referred to. Again, magic.”

  Landyr softened his expression as he put the tankard back on the bar. “Magic? I don’t think so.”

  “No?”

  “No. Like you said, it’s a topic that still haunts people. I could look around this room and know which people are still thinking about it. Those who look like they’re lost, unable to shake free from those events. Those are the ones still thinking about it.”

  “So, mind reading is just simple deduction?”

  “Just simple deduction.”

  “How about mind control? Would you consider mind control magic?”

  “Of course. Anyone would.”

  “Very well. Do I have your permission to control your actions?”

  Landyr brought the tankard to his mouth and drew deeply, more so to prevent himself from laughing at such a ridiculous notion. He placed the vessel back on the bar, but unable to stop his smile, he could not hide what he thought of her statement. In a secret effort to massage away his smile, he used a knuckle to wipe away a stray drop of ale from the corner of his mouth. “Sure. You are welcome to try.”

  “Look at my breasts.”

  His gaze dropped to her bosom.

  “Look at my eyes.”

  Dismayed, he looked back into her eyes.

  “Look at my breasts again.”

  Reflex dictated that her cleavage be brought into his view. Embarrassed, he needed to stop stumbling into easy traps and look somewhere else. Up. He thought up would be safe.

  “Now blush and look at the ceiling.”

  Confound it! No more! Curses and profanity tumbled through his mind as he felt his cheeks flush. He refused to look anywhere but up. “Stop talking!”

  Chenessa giggled, a soft and delightful noise that soothed away Landyr’s anger. “Are you saying you no longer wish me to control your mind?”

  “If you tell a man to look at your breasts, his mind is not what you’re controlling!”

  “No?”

  “No,” he answered the ceiling. “All you did was use a trick employed by charlatans and fortune tellers. You simply made a suggestion that preyed off obvious desires.”

  “So, you’re saying you have an obvious desire to look at my breasts?”

  The crick developing in Landyr’s neck distracted him long enough to think about the next set of words. He did not know what they should be, nor did the ceiling give him any guidance. Tilting his head ever so slightly, he looked to judge her mood. Lips curving upward, eyes a bit wider than usual, she displayed a mix of innocent playfulness and a delicious amount of deviousness. He was quite certain that a, “Yes,” would not be the wrong answer.

  Before he could open his mouth, though, a sphere of blue light bloomed into existence. Chenessa passed her hand through it and it expanded. The light dimmed as the sphere grew and morphed, finally stopping at the size and shape of a beauty mirror found on the bureau of any princess. Just like such a mirror, a face appeared, but not of the person looking into it. Tone more confused than angry or annoyed, Chenessa asked, “Silver?”

  Landyr was more angry and annoyed than confused by this interruption. The man within the glowing blue perimeter floating above the tavern floor had black hair and deep-set eyes just as dark. A wizard. “Yes. I contacted Millinni to get an update. She told me to contact you, so I . . . oh! I did not realize you were with someone.”

  Landyr looked directly into Silver’s eyes, never once blinking or wavering. He knew it was a sign of aggression and he hoped that the wizard took it as one.

  Without so much as a glance to Landyr, Chenessa said, “He’s the sergeant of the Elite Troop. The King had sent them to investigate the kidnappings of local children. We crossed paths and decided to help each other.”

  The wizard’s expression shifted, relieved and no longer pensive. “Oh. The Elite Troop? Well, that is certainly fortuitous. During our rescue of the children, I encountered an ogre. I . . . investigated and discovered that he was once a part of a small band of criminals led by a werewolf named Cezomir. The werewolf and his associates are being held at Hellweb. Are you familiar with it, Sergeant?”

  A system of smaller underground dungeons set aside for the worst criminals? Of course, Landyr was familiar with it. He knew it was not far from this town, a day’s ride at most. Without so much as even a nod, he answered, “Yes.”

  “Excellent. Take your investigation there.”

  Landyr did not respond. He did not like receiving orders from anyone other than General Zellas or the king, especially a wizard.

  Silver’s expression softened even more as he addressed Chenessa. “Please be cautious. Even though they are behind bars, Hellweb contains the worst fiends in all Albathia. If something were to go wrong . . . well, please just listen to Millinni.”

  Landyr rolled his eyes, but neither of the wizards noticed. He wanted to tell the wizard to peddle his schlock elsewhere, but he almost fell off his barstool when Chenessa sincerely said, “Thank you, Silver. I appreciate your concern. I will do as Millinni instructs.”

  A slight smile played across Silver’s face. “I trust you will. Rest well tonight and fare thee well tomorrow.”

  Rest well, indeed! Landyr’s night was quite restless, and not in ways he had hoped. After the conversation ended, Chenessa exchanged pleasant goodbyes with Landyr and left. He went back to his room and stewed until finally passing out and giving way to dreams of being annoyed and frustrated.

  The ride to the Hellweb dungeon system had been uneventful with minimal conversation, the wizards spending the journey whispering among themselves. Now, standing in the dungeon with three slaughtered guards, Landyr wondered if Silver knew he was sending the Elite Troop to this scene.

  “Let’s find out what happened here, shall we?” Millinni said he she crouched next to one of the guards. She caressed his head like a ghoul savoring the last seconds of hunger before devouring its meal. Her words dipped in bloodlust, she continued, “His eyes remained open after he died. How very, very fortunate.”

  She jabbed her fingers into his eye sockets. Wet sounds echoed through the dungeon as her fingers slopped around inside the dead man’s skull, a sexual tryst between the living and the dead. One last slosh and she stood with the man’s eyeballs, one in each hand.

  For the second time in minutes, Landyr fought to keep from revealing the contents of his stomach. “Is this really necessary?”

  “The dead do not need their eyes, but we, the living, can still use them.”

  Holding both eyes in one hand as if they were merely coins to be paid for a service, she used her other hand to dig through the folds of her robe. A pinch of powder, a splash of liquid. Millinni coated the slimy orbs in the palm of her hand while whispering practiced words. Once finished, she took one of the eyes into her o
ther hand and looked at them both with glee and laughed. Her cackle grew louder, mutating into a scream as she shoved the eyeballs into her own sockets.

  Landyr had no time to acknowledge the disgust brewing within him; Millinni grabbed him by the arm and his world changed.

  The dungeon walls disintegrated, turning to dust and blowing away, revealing the outside of Hellweb. A hallway of stonewalls in various states of disrepair with thorn vines growing over and through the rock. No ceiling, the rising Morning Sun casting strange shadows. Two men Landyr did not know were with him, all three standing in front of the dungeon door. No. He did recognize them—two of the dead guards, now alive and happy for shift change.

  No noise. Not a whisper from the wind, no sounds of laughter to accompany open mouths, no noise from the blood coursing through his body. Nothing else, just the sense of sight.

  The other two guards stopped laughing and turned their heads. Landyr turned his head as well, but not of his own will. With a confident stride, a cloaked figure approached the guards. Landyr and the other guards drew their swords, and the man stopped a mere five feet from them. His skin was green but held the luster of a freshly oiled sword. Smirking, he flicked his hand toward Landyr and the other two guards. A cloud of dust hung in the air for a second and then disappeared, inhaled by Landyr and the guards.

  Landyr wished to get a better look at the assailant, but he turned to look at the other guards, just in time to witness their chests explode with enough force to shred their leather armor. Gouts of blood sprayed from newly formed holes as organs fell free and slopped to the ground. In his peripheral, Landyr could see his intestines wriggle from him like malcontent worms squirming to freedom.