The Devil's Influence

by Chris Pisano

  “So, humiliating me in front of the men was for your benefit as well as mine?”

  Zellas opened his mouth to answer but closed it before he loosed any words. Instead, he squinted, regarding the young sergeant. “Do you remember our arm wrestling match two years ago?”

  This question confused Landyr. He expected another tongue-lashing, almost welcoming it as a form of defiance. Instead, the general asked about the arm wrestling match. Two years ago, Landyr’s skill as a soldier was surpassing everyone else’s, and his ego had surpassed even that. After winning an impromptu arm wrestling tournament with all the other members of the Elite Troop, he was goaded into challenging Zellas. He lost, the competition devastatingly short-lived, but not before making a wager with the general. “Yes, I remember.”

  “You lost.”

  “I did.”

  “Badly. In front of all the men.”

  “True.”

  “Do you remember the wager we had made? The one you lost?”

  Landyr looked into the dancing flames of the fire, seeing the event as clearly as if it were playing before him now instead of two years ago. The loser of the wager had to run through the obstacle course the following morning, wearing nothing more than a dress. Outside. During the start of the Spring Fair. A smirk tugged at the corner of his lips. “I do.”

  Landyr had run the course in record time, even with his considerable manhood flopping around freely. His fellow soldiers jeered and whistled, calling him a fair maiden during his run. Townsmen laughed while all the women craned their necks for a peek anytime the dress whisked about. The elderly shooed away the children or hid their eyes. Even though it had been embarrassing, he still laughed at the ridiculousness of the moment.

  “You were humiliated in front of the entire Elite Troop as well as other soldiers in the army and plenty of townsfolk. Yet, you laughed. You did not sulk or throw a tantrum like you did today. What might be different, I wonder?”

  The smirk fell away, and Landyr shrugged a shoulder. Zellas knew him well enough to ferret out the truth with ease, so there was no point in giving the information away for free. Landyr decided to make Zellas do the work.

  The general continued, his tone that of a parent discussing the mystery of how cookies disappeared with their crumb-covered child, “We only have eight men with us, far less than the number from the day of you taking to women’s clothing, so that can’t be it. You have a known dislike for wizards, so that can’t be it. Maybe it’s something else? Or maybe you’re changing your mind about wizardry? I wonder if you’re thinking about abandoning your career as a soldier for one involving cloaks and spells and potions? Maybe not wizardry itself, but these wizards in particular? Their inviting personalities are finally winning you over. Is it all three of them, though? Or just maybe one in particular? Hemmer? Millinni? Chenessa?”

  Landyr knew her name would end the list, yet he just could not stop himself from reacting. A frown. A smile. A twitch. He did not know how his face betrayed him, just that it did.

  “Aaaaah,” Zellas continued. “The undeniably beautiful dark elf. Exotic. Mysterious. Dangerous.”

  Landyr shifted again, his whole body this time. All four words Zellas used to describe her hit their mark with deadly precision.

  Zellas sighed. “As your general, I must remind you that matters of the heart lead to a clouded mind. As your guardian, I hope I taught you better ways to garner the attention of an attractive woman. As your friend, I feel I must tell you that a rattle and soft cottons for your feet might be more befitting than your sword and boots the way you’re pouting.”

  Landyr frowned, upset that the perceived apology turned into yet another insult. One word stood out, though. “As a friend you say?”

  “Yes.”

  As soon as the word passed over the general’s lips, Landyr shoved him, putting his full weight into it. Zellas landed on his backside, but let momentum carry him. Even when surprised, the general showed grace in his movements, springing to his feet. Teeth clenched as hard as fists, Zellas advanced, but pulled up. Landyr was too busy laughing to defend himself.

  Zellas relaxed. “Hiding behind semantics, are we?”

  “Who was the one who taught me how to be smart enough to do that?”

  Cocking his head in thought, Zellas answered, “Well, that was a pretty smart move, so obviously, it was I who taught you that.”

  “Maybe.”

  Zellas laughed and shook his head as he walked away. “Sleep well . . . Sergeant.”

  That statement told Landyr that he pushed his luck, and the general might not be so forgiving the next time he tried a stunt like that. He also knew it was a way to get Zellas to leave him alone. But he did not eschew the idea of sleep.

  Each soldier had a thin blanket. Since it was a warm night, he folded his to use as an ersatz pillow. Lying on his back, he stared at the blackness of night, the sky hiding its stars like they were secrets he did not deserve to know. The light of the fire dimmed and its warmth faded as Landyr’s eyelids became heavier, sleep slowly conquering him. Unconsciousness would have won the battle if not for an all too familiar voice next to him. “Would you like to talk about what happened at Bernum?”

  “No.” He spoke the truth; the wizard should have easily sensed that in his clipped tone and his refusal to move from his position to look at her lying next to him.

  “Landyr—” she started, but that only fueled his boiling frustration. Before she could say anything more, Landyr cut her off with, “What are you?”

  “I am Chenessa.”

  “Not who. What.”

  “Aren’t they the same concepts?”

  “Not to me. Not right now. What are you?”

  “A wizard. A woman. A—” This time Landyr turned and propped himself up on his elbow. The dark elf remained on her back, looking up at him. Her face calm, yet a sense of worry flowed from her. Landyr continued to let his frustration speak for him. “Do not play coy. What are you?”

  “It doesn’t matter.”

  “It does! I need to know what I’m falling—” Landyr stopped, his own words surprising him. He would explore those questions later, one question of utmost importance had to be answered first. “. . . following around. I need to know what is leading me around and what I’m dealing with. There is a world of difference between a dark elf and a demon; a being from this world who fought for it ten years ago, and a damnable creature from hell who tried to destroy it. So, yes, to me, it does.”

  “No, it doesn’t.”

  Fury blazing brighter than his campfire, he opened his mouth to unleash it, but Chenessa quickly reached out and placed her hand on his cheek, her thumb gliding from top lip to bottom. He cursed himself for yielding to her soft touch so effortlessly. She continued, “I don’t say those words to belittle your feelings. I know you’re confused. What I mean is it doesn’t matter what I tell you. Whether you think I’m demon or dark elf, you’ll be angry if I answer with the opposite, and forever dubious if my answer confirms your guess. Even if you’re still unsure, my answering your question will not put your mind at rest. It would simply cause you to look for clues and conspiracies where there are none. You’d question my every motive, and analyze my every word. The only thing I swear to you is I fought with the wizards during the demon war a decade ago and have been with them ever since.”

  “But—” Landyr tried. The warmth of her gliding fingers stopped him from forming any more words.

  “I fought with you, Landyr,” she repeated.

  Her words held truth; Landyr felt it in his bones. He pondered them, wondering if she was right about her assumptions. He would be disgusted if she admitted being a demon, but he would also forever doubt her had she claimed to be a dark elf. He still wanted to know, but he would not find that answer at this moment. He did have another issue on his mind. “You
rescued me.”

  Her eye roll was subtle, but Landyr saw it nonetheless. She replied, “Yes, yes, I bruised your male ego, being rescued by a woman, and only soldiers can save another soldier. I get it. I did what had to be done.”

  “For the mission?”

  “No, you idiot.”

  Confused, Landyr asked, “Then?”

  Chenessa sighed, her turn to be frustrated. “Are you going to kiss me, or do I have to mind control you to look at my breasts again?”

  He looked down at her breasts, her whole body. Naked.

  Had he been so consumed with the actions of earlier today that he missed the fact that she was naked this whole time? Or did she show up clothed, and then use her magic? His questions, as well as all form of mental activity, stopped as her hand slid from his face to his shoulder. She pushed him on his back and straddled him. His body reacted.

  Shifting, she ran both hands over the bulge in his pants and smiled. “Okay, so I have some form of confirmation that you like me in at least one way.”

  Before he had to wonder if she came from the pits of Hell, he was beginning to like her in so many more ways than just one. An immediate worry slipped from his mouth. “Everyone will hear.”

  As she yanked his pants from his hips to his knees, she replied, “No they won’t. We’re far enough away from camp.”

  Landyr turned his head, but his fire, the camp, was so far away, the flickering amber light was no stronger than a dying candlewick. He looked back to Chenessa, the dark trees of the forest at night served as a backdrop. Again, he questioned his perception—how could he have moved so far away, so quickly, and not have noticed. “How—?”

  Chenessa cut him short by ripping his shirt in half. Her hands caressed his bare chest. “You ask the dumbest questions.”

  To keep him from asking more, she leaned forward and kissed him. As their mouths danced, she rolled her hips, moving wetness and warmth over his erection. He slid inside of her with ease and they both gasped.

  Flicking her hair back, she sat up, her knees digging into his ribs. Hands on his chest, she braced herself. The muscles along her waist rippled as she moved. He reached up and grabbed her breasts. He squeezed and she moaned, her soft skin spilling around his hands. Her tempo quickened.

  Landyr breathed in the taste of her kiss still on his mouth, as well as the aromas of the forest: the leaves, the dirt, the air. He moved his hips as well, keeping pace with hers as she sped up. Wanting to explore, he shifted his hands, cupping her tits now, his thumbs moving in circles over her nipples. Like her lips, they were a different shade of darkness, black ink on black cloth. A stray thought took the most inopportune time to assert itself—were these the breasts of a dark elf, or a demon?

  Almost as if he had the answer all along and just needed to form the question, black mist flowed from her nipples, wisps of smoke dancing along the air. Chenessa gasped and her lips parted, black smoke pouring from her mouth.

  Shocked, he squeezed his eyes shut to the point of pain, and reopened them. No smoke. No mist. Just a beautiful woman riding him, moaning harder as she ground against him, faster and faster. Her moaning. Her mouth. Her teeth. Her teeth were not the same. Once straight and blunt to form the perfect smile, now pointed. And growing.

  Landyr’s eyes widened as Chenessa’s mouth distended, making room for more and more razor teeth, her jagged smile extending to her ears, to the horns sprouting from the sides of her head. Conical, they spiraled and twisted as they grew upward, aiming for the back of her head. She looked down at Landyr and her eyes were no longer shades of gray, now swirling whirlpools of flame.

  Landyr cried out, but unsure, even to his own ear, if his voice held fear or ecstasy. Teeth gnashing, the sound of bone striking bone, the creature atop him laughed and fucked him harder, faster. He kept pace, his tailbone repeatedly lifting from the ground and slamming back down, for if he slowed, the damage could be devastating.

  Her nails dug into his skin. Senses so heightened, he could not tell if they were simple scratches or if she tore his flesh from his bone. He was too afraid to look. He needed to stop, needed to finish. He yelled, a long continual moan to summon the strength to do what he needed to do. He released.

  The spasms were so strong he swore his spine realigned while he kneecaps shattered. His vision blurred as he took great gulps of air. Steadying his breathing, he looked up to his lover. Clarity returned to his sight and he saw the beautiful dark elf, the sweat causing her skin to shimmer in the moonlight. She, too, panted, satisfied.

  Her smile, so beautiful. Her eyes, mesmerizing. Sweat slicked hair plastered to her perfect face, giving an odd illusion that blood gushed from her scalp. Maybe it was? Landyr could not be certain about anything. Hands on his chest, she asked, “Any better idea of what I am?”

  Panting, voice dry, he whispered, “Demon.”

  Chenessa’s smile shifted, sad and disappointed. She shook her head. He had answered incorrectly. Why in the name of the two suns was he always giving her the wrong answer? He drove the back of his head into the ground, awaiting the worst, vaguely aware that they were now back at his campsite.

  Standing, she ran her hand between her legs, between the silk Landyr had parted. With a flick of her wrist, the culmination of their last few minutes together splashed into the fire and sizzled away. Her body faded like dissipating smoke. As she disappeared, she said, “Get some sleep. Tomorrow will be a big day.”

  Landyr had no idea what she could have meant by that, and did not care to waste any thought trying to guess at her message. He only knew that if he could calm himself enough to surrender to sleep, he would dream about teeth and claws and black horrors-and her delectable aroma.

  Women. Wizards. Demons. Landyr no longer recognized a difference.

  twenty-two

  The fire popped and puffed out a cloud of amber ash. Had it been dark yet, it would have been a brilliant display. Instead, the orange bits of light faded quickly in the twilight sky. That did not stop the satyr from complaining about the ash singing his leg fur. Next to the satyr, a white rabbit . . . laughed?

  Draymon rubbed his eyes and then used his pinkie to clean out his ear. Was the rabbit talking now? Hurling insults at the satyr? He was taken aback when the satyr threw the rabbit into the fire. No one else in the motley party Draymon spied on did anything to stop the action. Then he saw why.

  As effortlessly as bounding across an open field, the rabbit hopped out of the fire and settled in front of the satyr. Resting on its haunches, the rabbit used its front paws to dust away some of the soot. After a moment, the rabbit stopped, pointed at the satyr and went back to laughing at him.

  Draymon chuckled to himself. Dearborn certainly found herself thrown in with an interesting lot, had she not? He wished to join them, to let her know he was there, and tell tales to fill in the gap between now and the last time they saw each other. At the time, they were mere teenagers, feeling the unique push-pull of adolescence.

  The mid-summer festival, he and the other children of nobility or prominent tradesman participated in a duel with the youngest prince, Daedalus. In retrospect, it seemed rather irresponsible for adults to hand adolescents quarterstaffs, but he and the others had been told it was more of an exhibition, a theater stage where they could act with the prince, the featured performer.

  Draymon was the first to go against Daedalus, and he quickly learned it was more than just sparring to entertain the crowd. The youngest of three princes, Daedalus was frustrated with his lot in life, even at such a young age. He relieved his frustrations fully any chance he got. At the age of twelve, Draymon ended up with permanently mangled fingers and a divot in his skull as a reminder of what happened when royalty threw a tantrum. However, his prejudice dissipated before it could form, because of Prince Perciless. Even as an adolescent, Perciless possessed altruism few could comprehend. He remov
ed himself from the festivities to assist in the care of Daedalus’ dispatched foes.

  Daedalus produced many wounded that day, and Perciless tended to each of them. He personally cleaned and wrapped wounds or helped the onsite physician reset bones, apologizing for his brother’s actions. Draymon was the first, focusing his burning hatred only on Daedalus, praying for an immediate vengeance. His prayers were answered, the vengeance being delivered by an angel.

  About the same age as Daedalus, Dearborn Stillheart, the adolescent daughter of the blacksmith, was taller and more muscular than many adults. She alone defeated the vindictive prince. Draymon basked in the action as if soaking in a salve. Every hit that she delivered eased the throbbing in his head, every time she parried a strike, Draymon’s hands hurt a little less. He had to stifle a cheer when the end of Dearborn’s quarterstaff slammed against Daedalus’ lower back.

  When the bout was over, she looked devastated, upset that she had won. Draymon wanted to throw his arms around her and tell her not to be sad. She defeated an evil. However, he never got a chance to congratulate or thank her. For the rest of the summer, he discovered the extent of his crippling injuries. As the son of the jeweler, he could never master the trade of setting stones if he could not even hold a simple dinner utensil.

  Draymon’s father was devastated, cursing king and country behind closed doors, but relegating his rebellious ire to increasing his prices by ten percent. However, the price hike was not enough to help Draymon or stymie his father’s obsession to fix him. For the first year, physicians were called in from all over the continent. The next year, Draymon’s father sent him to other specialists.

  He did finally get to thank her, though. Having a conscience as heavy as Perciless’, Dearborn had been making her way to visit all of those defeated by Daedalus. Draymon wanted to extol her virtues as a fighter but decided against it when she became disquieted by the start of the accolades. Instead, he changed the topic to smithing, a profession she was destined for. The conversation flowed through many topics, including that of magnetics. This intrigued Draymon.