The Devil's Influence

by Chris Pisano

  “Landyr, look at me.”

  “No.”

  “I’ll draw my cloak closed to hide my offending breasts.”

  “That’s not what I . . .,” Landyr paused and closed his eyes, exhaling to blow away any words that could embroil him in embarrassment. “No.”

  Chenessa chuckled again and then moved to stand directly in front of him. She placed her hands on his forearm. A warmth spread through his body, targeting his groin, his chest, and his head. So enamored by her touch, he barely heard her when she said, “I’ll admit that you were right about my mind control being the simple trick of understanding human nature.”

  Opening one eye, Landyr tilted his head to look at the beautiful dark elf, her ebony skin looking cold, but feeling so warm. “And at the tavern as well?”

  She smiled, wide and inviting. “Yes, at the tavern as well.”

  “Very well,” Landyr said. He needlessly adjusted his leather armor and then ran his hands over it as if to smooth away wrinkles. Feigning smugness, he continued, “Apology accepted.”

  Chenessa laughed again, melodious and infectious, pleasing in every way. Landyr tried to keep up the façade of righteousness, but succumbed and laughed as well.

  “I’ve never known a warrior to be so concerned about manners and the modesty of a woman.”

  “That’s because I’m a soldier, not a warrior. A warrior knows war, only war, even after there are no wars to fight. They become mercenaries or assassins or criminals. I am a soldier and I defend. I defend the kingdom because I am a part of it. I defend the citizens because I am one. When there are no wars to fight, I will know peace,” Landyr answered with the flat tone of reciting by rote.

  A look of confusion washed over Chenessa’s face. “From your tone, it seems that you’d rather be a warrior than a soldier.”

  Landyr sighed. “No, I apologize. I would rather be a soldier instead of an investigator, though.”

  “You don’t like this mission?”

  “It seems . . . small.”

  Chenessa stared into his eyes. So many different hues of gray mesmerized him, and he was unable to pull his gaze away, to blink. She might have been trying to use sorcery to pry into his mind, but he cared not one bit. He did not want to look away. Her smile returned as she hooked her right arm with his left. “I want a pastry.”

  “Excuse me?” Landyr asked as she led him along the cobblestone street.

  “I’m a fair maiden and you are a handsome soldier. It’d be a shame to waste such beautiful weather without enjoying the day first.”

  “Fair maiden you may be, but you are also a cunning wizard.”

  “If you know that I’m cunning, then you should know that I clearly have a plan and you should still your fucking tongue and bask in my delightful personality.”

  “Point well taken. May I ask where we’re going for this desired pastry?”

  “No. You’re too busy enjoying my company.”

  A part of him, the part that needed to be in control, wished that her comment was not so accurate. He was enjoying her company; her arm intertwined with his as they strolled along. Low Town offered more unusual wares than any other part of the city, but it was not as seedy as he had first imagined. Clean. Bright. Exotic. The cuts of meat hanging in the butcher shop window were from animals Landyr did not recognize; yet nary a drop of blood touched the ground underneath them. Fruits and vegetables were available to be picked from the vines growing along the walls, windows, and doorway of the produce market, yet the greenery was so neatly trimmed it rivaled the artistic shrubbery of Castle Phenomere. Splendid looking fish so large that at least two men would have been needed to reel in each graced the fish market, yet the usual smell did not.

  The bakery was no different, filled with delectable aromas he could not place and breads he had never seen before. Jelly filled tarts and cream frosted cakes made him salivate like a barracks guard dog before supper. He did not know what plan this cunning wizard had, but he hoped that it would not involve abstinence.

  Chenessa ordered a pastry, a ball baked to a golden brown, the deep purple filling leaking from the injection point. Despite the scrumptious appearance of the treat, Landyr focused only on the price, the equivalent of ten loaves of bread. He whispered to Chenessa, “Are you sure you don’t want me to use my authority to arrest the baker for robbing you?”

  Ignoring his comment, she bit into the dessert. Eyes fluttering from ecstasy, she moaned, “Mmmmm. Delicious. Best I’ve ever had.”

  “More tricks of the mind, I’d wager. You only believe it’s the best you’ve ever had because you paid such an exorbitant price for it.”

  Lips twisting into a wicked grin, she held the pastry before him, inviting him to take a bite. “Here, you tell me.”

  Landyr prepared himself for a tasty treat, a simple baked good filled with a jellied fruit. It would possess a wonderful taste, but surely not a flavor worth ten loaves of bread. He bit into it and would have gladly paid twice as much.

  The world around him blurred and warped. Gooseflesh covered his arms, reacting to the tickle of a cool breeze on a warm day, a favorite experience of his as a child. The only moment that surpassed that was his mother’s hug. The warmth. The safety. The ignorant bliss of being loved so greatly, knowing the feeling, but not knowing how to articulate it. The contentment of muscles not needing to flex and joints not needing to bend. A level of happiness that could make a man cry.

  Landyr blinked and felt the sting of tears forming. By the gods, he was about to cry! He shook his head to snap himself from his stupor and noticed that he cupped Chenessa’s empty hand with both of his. Embarrassed, he released her hand and mumbled, “I apologize for eating the rest of your pastry.”

  “Pastries are meant to be eaten,” Chenessa replied, giggling as she wiped away crumbs caught in the corner of his mouth. Her thumb lingered, slowly gliding across Landyr’s bottom lip and he forgot how to breathe. “Follow me.”

  Landyr would have followed her anywhere; however, she merely led him out of the bakery, back onto the market street. His heart raced, fueled by a mixture of curious emotions, ranging from the innocence of childhood to the experience of manhood.

  “So,” Chenessa started, “Was that the best pastry you have ever had?”

  “Yes,” he attempted to downplay that it was the best experience he ever had from food.

  “Yes? Worth the price?”

  “Yes.”

  “The jellied filling is the special ingredient. It’s from the dunnulab berry. It grows on a bush that can only be found on a small hill a half day’s ride to the west of here. It can be found nowhere else in the world, no matter where farmers try to transplant the bush. The farmer who owns that hill also has a dozen guards. Have you ever heard of that? A farmer with guards putting their lives at risk for something as . . . small . . . as berries?”

  The smugness of her smile did nothing to detract from its allure. Landyr wondered if the pastry was some form of wicked concoction, magical or medicinal. No singular thought dominated his mind, just many sensations rippling through his body. The way Chenessa looked, the way she looked at him, started to swirl those sensations toward his lower body. He tried to choose his words wisely. “Point well taken.”

  “Yes?”

  “Yes. I’m not sure you needed to take me to a pastry shop, though.”

  “No?” Chenessa asked, her voice the song of fake disappointment. She turned from him and continued, “So you did not enjoy your time with me? Well, that shouldn’t surprise me since you openly admitted that you don’t like looking at my breasts.”

  Her words desiccated the portion of Landyr’s mind responsible for reason and discretion. Before she could walk away, he grabbed her arm and spun her around. He pulled her close, chest to chest. Even through his leather armor, he could feel the weight of
her breasts pressing against him. His left hand pressed against the small of her back. His right went to her cheek. Fingers in her hair, thumb at the corner of her waiting mouth. Her lips parted. The desperate look of desire in her eyes. The feel of her skin. He savored every moment as he moved closer.

  He stopped.

  From the corner of his eye, he saw a Yullian. To see a cat-creature was rare; they usually did not wander far from the Yullia region. But that was hardly enough to pull Landyr’s attention away from fulfilling his desire. He recognized this Yullian but did not know why. He had only ever met one, and it was a male soldier who joined the king’s army a few years back. Not a woman, like this one, the one he recognized, but could not figure out from where. Then he saw the werewolf and the man with the skeleton arm.

  “Seriously?” Chenessa asked, the anger in her voice evident.

  “I’ve seen them before.”

  “I know of a monastery located on the eastern border of Tsinel where the monks teach anyone willing to learn the art of sexual prowess. Unless your delicate flower of virginity has never been picked, then I know of the perfect brothel that will . . .”

  “No. In my vision,” Landyr whispered as he guided Chenessa to the nearest alleyway. Still keeping her close to him, but now more protectively, he pointed to the figures at the end of the street. “In my vision at the prison. Millinni made me . . . see . . . through the dead guard’s eyes. Those are the escaped prisoners. The green skinned man in the cloak is the one who broke them out.”

  Chenessa gasped. “That’s Qual? The one Millinni is learning more about at the Wizard’s Guild?”

  Landyr wrapped his fingers around the hilt of his sword, but before he could unsheathe it, Chenessa placed her hand on top of his, stopping him. She whispered, “What are you doing?”

  “I’m going to kill Qual.”

  “You’ll be dead before he even sees you. He has five protectors with him.”

  “They’re mercenaries. Once I kill him, they’ll have no reason to stay. I’ll throw them a bag of coins to leave, if necessary.”

  “Qual is very powerful.”

  “We have the element of surprise.”

  “Landyr, please. We’ll let Millinni and Zellas know they were here. We’re close.”

  Landyr looked into the depths of her pleading eyes. He released the hilt and said, “You’re right. Let’s go.”

  “Thank you,” she said, punctuated with a soft smile. She turned to leave.

  This was one time he would not let the wizard control his mind. As she walked away, he did not follow. Before she could realize that he was not with her, he scurried down the alley and followed it to the other end. Good fortune smiled upon him; the alley led him right to his target. He drew his sword and attacked.

  seventeen

  The bigger man’s fist connected with Draymon’s cheek. He had not been quick enough to roll with the punch and it hurt more than expected. A taste of blood and the throbbing pain would serve as a reminder to focus. This was, after all, his fourth fight of the day.

  That was no excuse, though, and Draymon knew it. All the excuses in the world meant nothing to the prey if it found itself in the belly of a predator. It was also the fourth fight of the day for his opponent, and Draymon hoped that would have taken more of a toll on the larger man. He needed to accelerate the process of tiring him down.

  Draymon sidestepped to his left and landed a quick blow with his quarterstaff to his opponent’s right shoulder blade. Vogothe enjoyed blood with his sport. In the arena—a loosely used term to describe the dirt-packed pit as hard as stone ringed by walls of cut earth—each fighter was allowed one weapon. Most fighters killed to win, but it was not a necessity. Draymon had rendered two opponents unconscious and handled the third so decidedly that he quit, despite the vehement booing from the spectators. Draymon knew he could defeat this opponent by making him submit, but changed his mind after getting punched. He was going to get some satisfaction from knocking him out. First, he must wear the brute down.

  He kept shifting to his left and striking his opponent’s right side, doing very little damage, maybe a bruise or two the following morning. His opponent was spinning and that kept him from using his weapon. The man was twice as large and his weapon of choice was a chain. A great length dragged along the floor like the flaccid tail of a metallic beast. Some of it had been wrapped around his forearm, his fingers perpetually clutching it, and cracked it like a whip. It devastated opponents if it connected, and elicited cheers from the crowd even if it missed. But it was heavy, even for a brute.

  Fatigue had finally set into the man-monster’s arm, reducing the chain to nothing more than an elaborate prop. Instead of attacking, he now focused on trying to grab Draymon’s staff after every hit or poke. The crowd jeered, some even laughed, at how a fight brimming with the potential of death had turned into a mocking game of can’t-catch played by schoolyard boys. Draymon did not care; he was not in the arena for accolades. He simply waited for his opponent to make a mistake. They always made mistakes.

  Draymon dropped his shoulders and his staff for a fraction of a second, just long enough to create the illusion of opportunity. He opened a window of attack and closed it quickly. His opponent lunged forward, bringing his meaty fist down, a simple move meant to pound Draymon’s face. Holding it with both hands, Draymon blocked with his staff. Normally, smashing a fist against a quarterstaff would be painful enough, but doing that act against a quarterstaff with an iron rod for its core was devastating. The bones in the brute’s hand snapped like poorly whittled toothpicks, his fingers wrapping around the staff in unnatural ways. The crowd cheered.

  Draymon’s opponent bellowed, a roar reserved for a wounded predator at the precipice of death. Draymon weakened him but also gave him strength. In a fit of panic, the monster-man found new life within his right arm. He brought the chain straight down, the links sounding like a storm of metal hail hitting the ground. What he regained in stamina, he lost in tactical advantage. His attacks were all but blind, swinging his chain over and over in the same fashion, creating a rhythmic wave of metal. Draymon learned the pattern and attacked when the arc of chain could do him no harm.

  A staff thrust to the nose.

  One to the chin.

  Another to the right cheek.

  The bigger man wobbled where he stood, his legs becoming those of a newborn fawn. He fell to his knees, his hands useless on his lap. His opponent so weakened, Draymon could have delivered any killing blow he would like, if not for his distaste of unnessecary death. He even changed his mind about rendering him unconscious. However, he decided to indulge the crowd with some little theatrics, lest they turn against him for the next match.

  Planting one end of his quarterstaff on the ground, he used it as a pole, a pivot point. Using both hands, he swung his body around, his feet aiming for his opponent’s head. However, as he extended his legs, he pantomimed kicking the man in the head with great flourish but missed his face completely. Instead, his other foot connected with the man’s shoulder, knocking him to the ground. The crowd did not see the truth though, they cheered as they saw a finishing kick to the head.

  Draymon raised his staff over his head with his left hand in response to the crowd; the announcer and ring judge raised his right hand for him. The crowd response died quickly, as they made their way to the gambling windows. The next fight, after all, was the championship round.

  Needing a moment to rest, Draymon exited the pit and wound his way through an alleyway of people shouting their personal accolades and giving him back claps to a small table for three. He took the empty seat under the watchful eyes of Bartholomew and Obeed.

  With that omnipresent crooked smile of his, Obeed leaned forward and offered a rag to Draymon. He then wiped the corner of his own mouth with his thumb, and voice laced with mockery, said, “You got a little someth
in’ . . . a little smudge . . . a little bit of . . . somethin’ . . . right there. Right there.”

  Draymon snatched the cloth from Obeed’s hand and used it to dab away the blood from the corner of his mouth. “First time I got hit in four fights. I doubt you would have fared any better.”

  Obeed laughed and leaned back in his chair. Draymon did not know how to take it, did not know how to take Obeed.

  “Maybe with that staff of yours, he could,” Bartholomew said. The leader of the trio had only two legs of his chair on the ground while his feet rested on the table. While regarding Draymon with eyes the color and warmth of a tombstone, he dug into one of his many coat pockets for a pinch of dried grass to put between his bottom lip and gum. Today’s favored flavor was Albathian firewire. “Must be magic if you can use it with those gnarled fingers of yours.”

  Not magic, Draymon thought. Magnetics.

  After having his fingers mangled as a teen by Prince Daedalus, Draymon knew he could never learn his father’s craft as a jeweler. Over the next few months of healing, as a few fingers refused to go back to their original shape and a few more refused to bend the way they once did, he began to have doubts that he could perform simple tasks necessary to even live. Wielding a fork and knife became a life-and-death task. But the daughter of a blacksmith, a young woman named Dearborn Stillheart had suggested magnets. She knew little about them, other than the general idea behind them. However, she was skilled enough to defeat Daedalus during the festival tournament, so Draymon felt she knew enough about how the world worked and followed her advice. He dedicated the rest of his life learning about magnets, their secrets, and how to harness them. Now, he has a small collection of gloves with magnets woven between the fabrics. Some had weaker magnets, meant to aid in holding forks and knives, others, such as the fingerless pair he wore now, had stronger magnets in the palms, meant for holding quarterstaffs with an iron core.