The Devil's Influence

by Chris Pisano

  Qual’s expression soured. “The Porous Mountains? They got their name from all the caverns within them. It would take a very long time to explore them.”

  Cezomir smiled. “That should be little concern for us with your ability to create portals.”

  “Very well. Let us start there.”

  They all stood and went outside, but no sooner than their feet touch the streets, Mallen spoke up. “Before we go, however, there’s a shop nearby that serves pastries filled with dunnulab berry jelly. It has been way too long since I’ve had one.”

  “The dunnulab berry?” Riz asked, bovine ears twitching with excitement. “I say we go. How often do we have the chance to try a fruit usually reserved for kings and queens?”

  “Do we really want to waste time with desserts?” Cezomir asked.

  “Qual is paying,” Mallen answered.

  Riz clutched his vest and straightened his posture. “Then we have nothing but time. Which direction?”

  Mallen bowed and extended an arm, suggesting the direction. Riz nodded and led the way. Qual followed, snarling as he passed by, “Humans are such children.”

  The corner of Cezomir’s muzzle curled upward in a smirk. “You are a mysterious one, Mallen.”

  “Thank you, sir,” Mallen replied, still bent at the waist.

  “A mystery indeed,” Lina mumbled, walking by.

  Mallen stood straight and followed close enough to Lina so she would be the only one who could hear him say, “One you’d wish to solve, perhaps? I know you have a penchant for humans.”

  Never breaking her stride, she replied, “I do, but I have yet to figure out what you are, so I think you shall remain a mystery to me.”

  Mallen laughed again and shook his head. Fortunately for Lina, that act saved her life. A glint of metal arching downward caught his eye. He raised his skeletal arm in time to stop a short sword from cleaving into Lina’s neck. With a cat’s yowl and claws out, she jumped back.

  Mallen recognized the style of armor, the insignia, the colors. The attacker was a member of the Elite Troop. The young soldier looked surprised, either by having his attack blocked or that a man’s skeletal arm was what blocked it. But he was not distracted for long. Sword still against bone, the soldier landed a punch directly to Mallen’s nose. He had little room to maneuver, but there was enough momentum to bloody his target.

  Bringing his flesh covered right hand to his nose, Mallen cried out and backed away. Stumbling, his step was awkward and forced Lina to alter her movements as she attacked. The soldier dodged her claws and countered with his sword. He, too, was off balance and missed. Composing himself, Mallen called out to his companions, “Elite Troop!”

  They had seen the attack and began to turn to engage by the time Mallen yelled to them. Riz led the charge, head down and horns first. Cezomir and Bigol ran behind the minotaur, flanking him on either side, ready for the soldier to jump out of the way. Instead, the soldier dropped to the ground, crouching into a tight ball. In an instant, he sprung, keeping low to the ground, hitting Riz in the right leg.

  The minotaur roared and stumbled, striking Cezomir on the way to the ground. Jumping to his feet, the soldier assessed the situation and concluded it to be dire, so he turned and ran. He turned down the first alley he found. Mallen unsheathed his dagger and chased after him, quickly joined by Lina and Bigol. He cursed when he entered the alleyway; his prey was almost out the other side.

  Until Qual cut him off.

  The soldier stopped so suddenly that he fell backward. He scuttled away as the wizard approached with flame blazing from his eyes and fire dancing around his hands. Mallen smiled as he and the other two closed in. “It’s going to be a good day for us.”

  “No, it is not,” a woman’s voice said, coming from everywhere.

  Black mist streaked across the entire length of the alley like dark smoke trails from invisible rockets, painting shadows across the air itself. Mallen and Bigol stabbed at the darkness while Lina sliced at it with her claws. All efforts were useless.

  Great globs of ooze bubbled and fell away from the mist, but before they hit the ground, they each sprouted blood-red wings and claws. Buzzing insects called forth from some black hell swarmed the assailants. Lina hissed as she swatted at them in a blind panic. Even Bigol released grunts of fear and pain.

  The insects turned to powder as Mallen struck them with his skeletal hand. More insects formed faster than he could destroy them. “Get us out of here, Qual!”

  Fire blazed from the other end of the alley, the wizard’s doing. “Bah! Keep fighting! It’s merely an illusion!”

  Dozens of the ribbons of mist spiraled together in front of Mallen, forming a gaping stab wound in the air. Clawed hands reached from the hole, leading the way for a tar-skinned demon. A muzzle full of teeth in a rictus grin opened and snapped shut, a threat of things to come. Twisted horns crowned a flowing river of blood red hair. The demon swiped at Mallen, but he dodged the attack. The great claw gouged a chunk of stone from the building behind him. He yelled to Qual, “This is no fucking illusion!”

  The fire at the end of the alley ceased and a great gust of wind blew. Thinking it another attack, Mallen sunk his skeletal fingers deep into the stonewall. The wind grew stronger, pulling Mallen from his feet. The hideous demon shrieked and lunged at Mallen. He let go of the wall and flew from the alley, tumbling along the ground into the street.

  With a quick shake of his head, Mallen oriented himself. He was with his companions. Qual had gotten them out of the alley. Flopping around on the ground, both Bigol and Lina clawed at themselves, slapping away minescule terrors that were no longer there. Worried look on his face, Riz helped everyone to his or her feet. Qual chattered away and waved his hands, creating a portal for them to escape through. All watched the alleyway, even Cezomir looked afraid.

  As Qual finished the portal, the maelstrom in the alley settled. The blackness receded into a single point, into a woman, a dark elf with red hair. A wizard no doubt. Mallen sensed a great power within her since she could defend the Elite Troop soldier against three mercenaries and a wizard who was quite impressive in his own right.

  As Mallen stepped through the portal, he found it curious that the soldier looked even more horrified than either he or his companions.

  nineteen

  “Well, this is certainly entertaining,” Diminutia stated, drawing a sideways look from Haddaman. “Not what I expected.”

  The small group entered the warehouse turned arena, Diminutia noted that despite a lack of charm or even a rustic look, there were no lack of onlookers. The place itself was earthen floor and carved log benches. There was a bar on each of the two long walls. Both had a crowd milling about them, as they not only served up all forms of alcohol but also accepted bets for those interested in placing a wager upon the games at hand. Dearborn frowned at the cesspool of a sight and the mass of living things that it held.

  “Ah, isn’t this great?” Haddaman asked.

  “This sort of sport fighting is illegal,” Dearborn stated. “The king outlawed it!”

  “There’s simply no better endorsement.” Haddaman smiled. “Besides, you no longer work for the crown. Or have you forgotten?”

  “What she means is that we have no interest in being here any longer than necessary, Haddaman,” Diminutia said, “Let’s just do what we need to do and then get out. Being in these types of places often attracts unwanted attention, so we need to blend in as best we can.”

  “Very well,” Haddaman stated, “you do the blending and I’ll work on the doing.”

  “What exactly is your plan, Haddaman?” Dearborn asked.

  “You’re always so distrustful of me,” Haddaman replied in mock indignation. Eliciting no response, he sighed. “This arena is owned by Vogothe. His criminal organization is just like any other organization,
the underlings will take every opportunity to worm their way into the good graces of the one who controls them. There are lots of worms here, lots of ears to the ground, lots of information. You three find a seat somewhere and watch the fights. You might want to make a wager. It appears that they’ve just announced a match, judging by the amount of activity at the bars.” Dearborn’s stare remained hard as granite. Haddaman continued, “If you want to play the part, then you have to look the part. I suggest that you let Dim make the wager. One look at you and someone is bound to try to get you to take part in the games.” Haddaman laughed as he walked off into the crowd.

  Even though he was trying to keep an eye on him, Diminutia quickly lost sight of Haddaman.

  “One thing’s for certain,” Dearborn said.

  “What? That you hate him?”

  “For starters, yes, but there’s no denying that Haddaman has a supernatural ability to blend in when he wishes.”

  “Providing that he doesn’t open his mouth, you mean.”

  “I thought that part went without saying,” she said.

  “I’ll see if I can find him and whatever trouble he may be stirring up,” Silver said. He slipped into the crowd as unnoticed as a shadow upon the floor.

  “Come on,” Diminutia said, taking Dearborn’s hand and giving it a slight tug. “Looks like a match is about to start. Let’s try to find a seat somewhere toward the back so that we don’t have to actually watch this spectacle.”

  Finding seats away from the action proved easy. The rest of the section had turned into a thronging mass that pushed its way toward the pit in the center of the room. Diminutia was curious but did not want Dearborn to think less of him, so he sat still as best he could to make obvious small talk. Dearborn sat facing him, and he knew it was only with great effort that she could focus on him. The discomfiture that rarely visited them as a couple was disconcerting. He blathered on, not certain himself what he was even saying when Dearborn sat up straight. Pointing, she said, “Found him.”

  Diminutia nodded, then rose from his seat and made his way over to the closest bar to place a bet. He fished around in his pocket for a few coins and slid them to the person taking money. He was vaguely aware that he was asked a question and without having any idea why he answered, “Human.” A voucher was shoved into his hand and he made his way up to the mass of onlookers peering around for any sign of Haddaman. What he saw instead, however, was a man about his own age in the middle of the pit awaiting his opponent.

  He had never seen the man in the ring before but found his name to be Draymon from listening to random conversations in the crowd. Draymon spoke to himself—a prayer, maybe? Diminutia knew very few himself.

  As Diminutia edged closer he saw the man’s opponent: an ogre, judging by his size. A damned big one at that! He had all sorts of armor strapped about the left side of his whole body with a dragon’s breath barrel around his arm. As the big non-human fighter walked down the ramp into the pit, he pumped his free arm into the air driving the crowd into a frenzy. He frothed at the mouth as he ground his haphazard teeth, and then let out a terrible bellow, followed briefly by an unconscious belch. A look akin to embarrassment settled over the ogre’s face.

  Diminutia rubbed his eyes, doubting if they were working properly. Was he seeing who he thought?

  “Yes,” a voice came from next to him. Silver. “That is indeed Bale Pinkeye heading into the pit.”

  “You two know him?” Haddaman asked, appearing in between Diminutia and Silver as if by magic. “It seems that he’s doing well for himself. I mean, this is the championship round after all.”

  Diminutia opened his mouth to ask if Haddaman had found any useful information, but almost fell after being hit by the hindquarters of a centaur shoving his way closer to the pit. A boggart accompanied the centaur, staying close to the protectiveness of the legs. A satyr working his fingers together in worry slid his way in between the centaur and Diminutia. “Oh, this is so nerve-wracking.”

  “Phyl?” Diminutia asked.

  Not looking away from the pit, Phyl rested his head against Diminutia’s shoulder. “Can you believe this nonsense, Dim? Bale is so out of his depth. Inexperienced. Almost helpless.”

  Taking the center of the pit, Bale raised his arms and shot a blast of dragon’s fire from the nozzle around his left arm. The crowd roared and he roared with them.

  The smell of wet fur turned Diminutia’s stomach and he slapped Phyl’s head from his shoulder. “Get off, you horned rat.”

  “Ow! Is that any way to treat old friends?”

  “You’re being far too liberal with the meaning of that word, considering I don’t know these two.”

  Tingle flicked Diminutia with his tail and Wort spat on the ground.

  “Wort?” Haddaman asked, pushing past Diminutia. “Is that you?”

  The boggart pushed past Diminutia as well. “Haddaman? I thought . . . we thought you were dead! Or kidnapped. By Vogothe.”

  “This is Haddaman? The man we were looking for?” Phyl asked.

  “It is,” Haddaman answered. “But why would you be looking for me, and why would you possibly believe me to be dead or kidnapped?”

  “These idiots came to my place right when Vogothe sent some goons to collect money from me, but we gave them the slip. The big guy in the arena wanted info about a kidnapping job. A different kidnapping job, not you being kidnapped. So, we came to you.”

  “What?” Haddaman shrieked. “You owe Vogothe money and you came to me asking about kidnappings? Why?”

  Diminutia laughed at the boggart. “You owe Vogothe money? I know who the idiot is now.”

  Wort clenched his fists and stepped closer, but the crowd shifted again, pushing as one mass toward the pit as they reacted to the announcer beginning the fight.

  Diminutia struggled to free himself from between two cheering goblins, and shoulder his way around a stout dwarf. The fight started and he steeled himself to the idea of seeing a man burned to a crisp. But Draymon parried well, moving with practiced intention. He dodged a plume of flame and smacked Bale in the shoulder with his quarterstaff. Diminutia now wondered if he had to worry about Bale.

  The two fighters exchanged blows; Draymon rolling with the punches, Bale absorbing dozens of them. The longer the fight lasted, the more the crowd reacted, and the more Phyl hid his face behind his hands.

  So caught up with the pit, Diminutia lost sight of Haddaman again. Looking to Silver, they exchanged glances. More than a decade had distanced them from the last time they needed to communicate like this, but there was no confusion about the message found within glances and gestures. Silver went to look for Haddaman.

  The fervor of the crowd’s combined voice drew Diminutia back to the pit. He wormed his way to the banister just as Bale slammed Draymon to the ground. Bale put his foot on Draymon’s chest and posed for the crowd, soaking in their adulation, until he saw Diminutia. He waved and yelled, “Hey, Dim! Phyl! Look, it’s Dim. Hi, Dim!”

  Diminutia sighed, knowing very well Bale had forgotten all about Draymon’s quarterstaff. A hit to the shin. A jab to the bulbous belly. A crack across the head. The crowd winced and cringed as one after every strike.

  Bale pressed his right hand to his head and wobbled, dropping to one knee. Draymon approached, gripping his staff with both hands like a farmer ready to behead a plump turkey. Phyl buried his face in Diminutia’s shirt as Draymon raised his staff over her head. The crowd quieted in anticipation of the finishing blow.

  A horn sounded, signaling the end of the bout.

  Different noises erupted from the onlookers. Boos. Cheers. Yelling. Calls for bets won, lost, and yet to be made. As everyone scuttled around, the announcer yelled through the horn, “Gathered guests, this fight appears to be unwinnable by either of these contestants, so it’s time to bring out our house champion. H
ell itself coughed out this creature for this very event. I give you Ar’drzz’ur, general and champion of the Netherworld!”

  Dearborn screamed.

  twenty

  Dearborn’s world went red. Red from rage; red from blood.

  Ar’drzz’ur. The demon general who led the denizens of Hell during the demon war. Who killed Dearborn’s Elite Troop a decade ago. Who killed the man she loved. Who she fought, and killed, twice.

  She would kill him again.

  As soon as the announcer mentioned the fighter’s name, the arena patrons went wild, crowding the banisters that protected them from falling into the pit. Dearborn rushed into the mass of bodies. She tried to get a view of him, the creature responsible for every tragedy in her life, as he entered the pit, but the crowd was too dense. That did not matter, though. She was going to kill him again.

  Pushing her way through the crowd, she aimed for the pit entrance. Her husband grabbed her arm. “Dearborn?”

  Yanking it away from his grasp, she continued shoving bodies out of her way. She could not talk to him, could not even look at him, or else her rage would crumble away now and rebuild itself years later in horrible ways. A future argument with Diminutia fueled by resentment? A scolding that would go too far with one of the children? If she did not kill this demon again, he would live inside her heart forever. Diminutia would just have to trust her.

  The announcer extolled the victories of the house fighter, allowing plenty of time for wagers to be made. With one final push, Dearborn broke free from the mass of bodies at the top of the ramp leading into the pit but was greeted by two crossed battleaxes in front of her. Two shirtless men wearing grated helms guarded the entrance. She assumed that they were more for show since they lacked armor, and were each stupid enough to hold the head of their axes too close to the other guard. She almost laughed when one of them said, “That’s far enough, woman. We can’t let you in the pit with the fight ready to start.”

  Dearborn grabbed the necks of the battleaxes and smacked the ax heads against the guards’ helms. The guards fell unconscious, but Dearborn kept the axes. And jumped into the pit.