The Devil's Influence

by Chris Pisano

  Draymon rested his forearms on the table, rag absorbing the slowing flow of blood. A simple lift of his right shoulder implied a lack of interest in Bartholomew’s statement. “Maybe it is.”

  Bartholomew and Obeed erupted with laughter. Their leader removed his feet from the table, revealing that he had been hiding a mug of ale from Draymon’s view. He slid it to the pit fighter and said, “I do not care if it is or not. You know how to use it. I feel more comfortable about my safety should we need your skills elsewhere.”

  “Does that mean I passed the test?”

  “It does.”

  “And you got the information you came for?”

  “Talked to a man who knows a friend of mine during your last fight.”

  “We can go now?”

  “No. I put 100 coins on you to win the championship.”

  His partners laughed again. Draymon smirked and shook his head, but accepted the ale. He was willing to fight in the pit one more time just so Bartholomew would stop riding him about proving himself.

  “Why do I need to be the one to fight in the pit?” Draymon asked when they had first arrived at Vogothe’s arena.

  “Because you need to prove yourself,” Bartholomew answered.

  “I thought these fights were illegal. We just left the king, who said these fights were illegal.”

  “Just because they’re illegal don’t mean they don’t happen.”

  No words were truer. Draymon wondered how there could be so many people with no fear of law enforcement. In fact, a man with a constable’s badge walked by with his arms around two wenches. It seemed that the only people who did not know about this arena were king and court.

  The arena was an old warehouse, used to store failed hopes and broken dreams under rafters that once protected furs and packaged feed. The dirt floor packed hard from hundreds of feet tromping around as clamoring people bustled through a crowd they created to get a better look into the fighting pit. He did not know who he felt more pity for, those in the pit, or those who watched. Even when he first heard his name called by the announcer, he could not answer that question. Even now, after winning four fights in a row.

  Draymon took a pull from his mug and set it back down. All around him were only two emotions: happiness and despair. He felt sorry for these people, even the happy ones, the ones winning money from the fights or simply enjoyed being here for the ale, the food, the camaraderie, the excitement. He wanted to help the king but wondered how fighting in the pit did that. Louder than he wished, he mumbled to himself, “What are we doing here?”

  “The king has been looking for his brother for ten years now with no success. Do you know why?” Bartholomew asked.

  Draymon knew the answer, but he needed to have Bartholomew feel in charge. That did not mean he was going to give the bounty hunter the satisfaction of asking. Instead, he looked at the spot of blood on the cloth. Bartholomew grunted, but continued, “Because he’s the king. He’s been using law enforcement to investigate his brother’s whereabouts. Constables and soldiers aren’t going to find anyone who don’t want to be found. They look in the wrong places, ask the wrong questions, and believe the lies. A few years back, he wised up and started paying mercenaries, but that still wasn’t enough. Mercenaries aren’t nothing but constables who got fired or soldiers who don’t know how to do nothing else. They still think like law enforcement. The king wants to find his brother. I hunt people. I find people. And I find them by talking to those who law enforcement can’t.”

  “So, we need to turn to places like this. Dens of filth run by criminals.”

  Bartholomew gestured to imply innocence. “I didn’t make the rules.”

  “If you did, then you couldn’t break them.”

  The bounty hunter laughed. “Too true. However, one rule I recommend you follow is getting back into the pit. Your fight time is now.”

  Draymon pushed the half-finished ale to the center of the table and tossed the rag next to it. With just enough ache in his joints to be noticed, he stood and made his way to the pit. One last fight. He would be glad to pay extra for hot water in his bath tonight with his winnings. Just one more opponent.

  Rolling his neck to stretch out the kinks, he made his way down the ramp into the pit, cheers and whistles accompanying him. The announcer brought a cone to face, the small end by his mouth to amplify his voice. He held a small hourglass, with only enough sand to measure minutes with his other hand. “Welcome good people and honored guests of Vogothe to the championship round for the fights this eve! As you know, this will be a timed round. If there is no decisive winner by the time the sand runs out in the timer, then we will bring out our house champion.”

  The crowd erupted by the mention of the house champion. Draymon rolled his shoulders. He did not like the sound of that, so he decided to make his victory quick, the crowd’s enjoyment be damned.

  “Our first fighter is new to the pit but has been winning like he’s been here for years. A human! Named Draymon Skar!”

  The crowd cheered, and he wondered if it would be louder for his opponent, who remained a mystery. He had not seen any other fights, opting to take the time to rest instead. From within the pit, he watched as a large figure moved through the crowd. This did not surprise him; every opponent had been bigger. However, his heart stopped when the crowd parted and his opponent made his way down the ramp.

  An ogre. A very large one. His skin held the same green hue as the slime between a man’s toes from wearing boots for longer than three consecutive days. His face looked as if a blind child had created it from clay. A burst of brown hair sprouted only from the center of his pointed head. He was very ugly, even for an ogre. Yet, this was not what upset Draymon. It was the choice of weapon—the side of a battlewagon.

  Left arm completely sheathed by spiked black metal, his hand was inside a nozzle, the open end dripping fire. Armor of the same spiked metal covered his left leg while a crude helm of spikes covered the left side of his face. The beast had the belly of a well-seasoned ale drinker, one that flowed over his pants and jiggled with every step, normally a hindrance, but in this case, serving as a perfect counterweight to the tank of flammable liquid strapped to his back that fueled the flame dripping nozzle.

  “Our next fighter is also new to the pit, and has owned it all evening! An ogre! Named Bale Pinkeye!”

  Draymon was no longer confident about the outcome of the match.

  eighteen

  Mallen awoke with a headache and a sore cock. He laughed. It had been three years since he had a hangover or any form of sexual ache. The whore from last night earned her money, starting and finishing him three times. He paid her for four, happy to get attention from something other than his hand. She was nowhere to be found now, as the Morning Sun started its descent. The Evening Sun would begin to rise soon, and Mallen would have to meet his crew.

  Mallen wanted to stretch, but his bladder had other ideas, commanding him to move from the bed to the other side of the room with more alacrity than his throbbing head wished. He laughed again as he filled the chamber pot to the brim with his morning water.

  Back to the bed, he checked under his pillow and the bag of gold coins was still there. The whore had been satisfied enough with her payment not to rob him in his sleep. A woman with talents and common sense, a rarity indeed. He tried to remember her name, but it remained missing from his memory. He offered himself a shrug of the shoulder as solace, just happy that she made no attempt to steal his gold. It would have been a shame to kill her.

  Digging out a handful of coins, he thought about using them for a warm bath, but decided against it and dropped them back into the bag. Not enough time. Plus, the smell of sex overpowered the smell of dungeon. He laughed at that notion. Before falling in with larceny and Cezomir, Mallen viewed grime as an enemy. Not anymore. Not with this lifestyle.

>   Last night, he did purchase new clothes, though. A simple white shirt, brown pants, and black boots. The boots were of a high-quality leather, as was his belt. He enjoyed a good belt. As he snaked it through his pants loops, he also guided it through the top of his coin bag and a dagger sheath. He scratched his ass and left the room to begin his day.

  Mallen was the last one of his group to arrive, and he felt the weight of everyone’s glares as he descended the staircase. As the only human of the group, he had to endure constant judgment as the other creatures breathed an air of superiority. He did not care. He was good at what he did and did anything required. Steal or kill, he did it with a smile.

  All their gazes were upon him and he carried them like an ox would a yoke as he stopped at the bar first. A mug of ale for himself. Fuck everyone else. Out of spite, he even tipped the barkeep more than anyone else in the party would have, even if they could not see him.

  Weary eyes greeted him at the table, except for Qual and Lina—the wizard was angry, and the Yullian was confused. To add his mark to the meeting, he waited until Qual opened his mouth to speak and then held up his index finger, an unspoken request for silence. While the wizard stared gawping at Mallen’s gall, the mercenary quaffed from his mug in loud gulps. When finished, Mallen placed the mug gently on the table, wiped his mouth with the sleeve of his shirt, and asked, “Did I miss anything?”

  Riz laughed, a bizarre abomination of a human’s laugh being coughed out of a bull’s throat. Mallen liked the minotaur the most. The creature did what he wanted when he wanted. It helped that he was the largest of the group. Sure, Cezomir would win in a hand-to-hand against Riz due to his ferocity, but the werewolf would walk away maimed. No doubt in Mallen’s mind. He also liked the minotaur’s style. The beast dressed like a human of nobility—a vest made from the finest velvet dyed purple, golden thread filigreed into swirling patterns, along with golden necklaces adorned his torso. Each finger had a ring that would make anyone less than king jealous. Yes, Mallen enjoyed the ironic sight of such a lowly creature dressing as if he were a part of society’s pinnacle.

  Cezomir chuckled. Mallen was not sure if the werewolf laughed at his joke, or at Qual’s reaction. Either way was fine with Mallen. He had little in common with Cezomir, other than an equal love of sniffing out the scent of a woman, but he wanted to stay on his good side. Cezomir was a good leader. Fair. Smart.

  Bigol did not laugh. Did not react at all, simply looking away. Mallen smiled to himself about that, satisfied that the hobgoblin understood the message he received last night.

  After arriving in Bernum, Qual had passed out an obscene amount of gold to everyone and disappeared. Riz went looking for something to put his cock into, a decision Mallen respected, although he felt pity for whoever was on the receiving end of the tree trunk hidden in the minotaur’s britches. Bigol loved the games of chance, and those games could be found many places in Bernum, from flashy wheel spins at luxury gaming dens to the clack of dice against the walls of dark alleys. Mallen said he wanted booze, the more fire it caused in his gut, the better.

  He lied.

  He followed Cezomir instead.

  The werewolf had a good mind between his ears, and there was no better way to understand it than to observe it. Mallen had his own agenda to follow while in Bernum, but first, he wanted to see why Cezomir followed Lina. Maybe he just wanted to tussle with her? Mallen understood why. Even though she was a bigger woman, her muscles curved in all the right ways. A familiar bulge started to form in Mallen’s knickers as he thought about Cezomir and Lina engaged in a fur-filled entanglement. Maybe he should have followed Riz instead?

  Following Cezomir was easy, because following Lina was easy. They moved along well-traveled streets right to the inn and tavern called the Giant’s Den. Mallen had a suspicion he could find everything he needed for the night all in this one place. The tavern did not disappoint him. But Cezomir did.

  The werewolf was content to sit around and eat; staring at a closed door while Lina was behind it having all the fun. Mallen grew bored and needed to contact Vogothe. After a few failed attempts at worming his way into seemingly illicit conversations, he realized that even those who traversed through the underworld had a sense of decorum, and a man who had just spent three years in the same clothes did not meet their standards. After a trip across the street to the nearest clothier, Mallen tried again, this time letting his gold invite him into situations he had not been welcome to before. Buying rounds of drinks and losing card games to the right people got him what he needed—a meeting with a man who knew Vogothe.

  It started with a young street urchin, barely a man raised by a drunken father who worked many hours in the mines, and more hours drinking at taverns. Left to his own devices, this kid whose name Mallen forgot as soon as he heard it, worked his way into a criminal organization. Intoxicated, the boy’s mouth moved faster than his mind and he mentioned he knew how to contact Vogothe. Mallen slipped him a few coins and told him to bring the man he knew to the alley by the tavern.

  In the alley, the boy showed his naïveté with his over-zealous attitude toward the meeting. He introduced Mallen to Breeden, an older man with multiple scars upon his face, and a look of displeasure about the clandestine meeting with a stranger in an alley at night. The boy—Chett? Drit? Tred? Fuck all, Mallen really did not care about the boy’s name—had much to learn if he lived to see morning. Breeden grunted, “What you want?”

  “To get a message to Vogothe,” Mallen answered, keeping his hands behind his back.

  “Why I give a shit about that?”

  “Because he wants to hear from me.”

  “Who the fuck you?”

  “Mallen.”

  The old man squinted, getting a better look. “Heard of you.”

  “Good. Let him know I’m out of Hellweb. Also, let him know that I’m still with my crew, and we’ve been tasked to find Prince Oremethus.”

  A rhythmic gurgle warbled from the old man’s throat, what Mallen assumed to be a chuckle. “Hell of a task. Why should I tell him?”

  Mallen revealed his skeletal arm and rolled up his sleeve. Fear washed across the old man’s face. Wriggling his bone fingers, Mallen answered, “You can also tell him about this as well. And thanks to your young friend, I know how to find you, Breeden.”

  Mallen had bluffed well enough for the old man to scowl at the boy. He was certain that later no matter how sincere the boy was at telling the old man the truth, he would not be believed. Breeden grumbled, “I’ll tell him,” and then cuffed the boy upside the head repeatedly as they left the alley. Once they were gone, Mallen laughed to himself. Until he turned around to see Bigol had been standing behind him.

  At first, he got angry, wanting to strangle the hobgoblin, but then he realized how easy that would have been. Instead, he smiled and sauntered over to his partner and asked, “What did you witness?”

  Bigol tilted his head and shrugged a shoulder, implying, ‘Enough’.

  Still smiling, Mallen reached for the corner of the stone building next to him with his skeletal hand and broke off a chunk. As easily as crumbling dried cake, he reduced the hunk of stone to pebbles with one squeeze. Try as he might, Bigol could not hide his open-mouthed expression of awe. Bumping shoulders, Mallen walked past Bigol and left the alleyway, parting with, “Keep that tongue of yours still.”

  Now, at the table with the wizard and his crew, Mallen smiled to himself, remembering his parting words to the hobgoblin last night. So did Bigol, judging from his lack of eye contact with anyone at the table. Cezomir noticed, but showed no signs of caring.

  Glaring at Mallen, Qual asked, “Did you happen to find Prince Oremethus last night?”

  Mallen laughed. He hated the wizard, but always appreciated sarcasm. “No. But I heard stories of a cloaked stranger.”

  Qual snorted. “That’s it? A clo
aked stranger? There are thousands of them in any given city.”

  “True, with you being one of them. But this one consistently seeks out magical items. Arcane and powerful relics. Any who had the displeasure of accidentally seeing the face under the hood told me that this man’s eyes held pure insanity.” Mallen’s voice dropped, becoming more reverent. “A misperception of reality so deep that it hurt to look at.”

  Lina leaned forward in her chair, resting her arms on the table. “I hate to agree with the human, but I heard similar stories. Some simply referred to the man as Madness, as if it were his name, or he the embodiment of the concept.”

  “This helps us how? An eccentric person looking for antiques?” Qual asked.

  Cezomir answered, “There are stories about Prince Oremethus. Some say he held one of the demon stones, some say he started the Demon War, some say he looked into Hell itself. But they all say he went mad.”

  “Madness from a stone? You believe these stories?”

  “He either consorted with demons or looked into Hell. Either way would cause a man to lose his sanity.”

  Qual laughed at a joke no one else knew. “Yes, well, I do believe some people could go mad from looking into Hell. Very well. Let’s assume this mad, cloaked man might be the prince. Any way to contact him?”

  Lina shook her head. “No. None I spoke with said they know how to find him or where he comes from. He just appears, asks for unusual items, then disappears. However, everyone says that he has an unusual odor, that he smells of . . .”

  “Peaches and licorice,” Mallen interjected.

  Nodding, Cezomir added, “Yes. Peaches and licorice, which is the scent of the Yebleveen flower.”

  “I believe some grow in the Porous Mountains. That would be the closest source of Yebleveen flowers,” Lina said.