The Devil's Influence

by Chris Pisano

  Draymon had enough education to understand finance. The quest to fix his hands was costing his family too much. On a journey to see a revered wizard, Draymon snuck away from the caravan. He knew the news of his disappearance would be heartbreaking, but that pain would heal, and it was a far kinder fate for his family than one filled with debt and obsession. Having followed the same route earlier that year, he knew of a nearby port town. He earned enough coin down by the docks as an extra set of hands for the merchants to load and unload their products. As near useless as his hands were, he could still lift and push and pull.

  After another year had passed, he was delivering a crate to a lone house just outside of town. He had heard the tale of the inhabitant being an alchemist, one who was determined to unlock the magic powers of metal. Draymon learned from their very first meeting that the man was no alchemist, just a retired scholar content to spend his waning years studying and harnessing magnetism. The concepts fascinated Draymon who visited the man every chance he got and eventually became his assistant. Over the years, he learned more about magnets and how they could help his life.

  Draymon happened to be in Phenomere when the demons attacked. He and a group of others joined up with a small contingent from the king’s army. With no official training, he did well, the magnets in his gloves helping him hold a sword. The demons were little more than animals, so the only tactic he needed was to swing and slash and cut. But he had survived. He felt exhilarated.

  The “alchemist” had paid well, and Draymon saved his earnings, having nothing to spend them on until after the Demon War—training. He paid top wages to anyone proficient in any fighting discipline he had not learned, especially with weapons. Soon enough, he stopped paying mercenaries and started working with them, learning how to earn a new living.

  Knowing how to fight, to win fights, gave him the confidence to explore the world around him. He enjoyed setting up camp, living off the land, providing for himself despite his handicap. Feeling self-sufficient, he went to find his family, to let them know he was still alive and capable of leading a productive life. Little did he know that decision would shape the rest of his days.

  It took some doing, but he discovered that his family had moved, shortly after he had run away. Rumor had it that his parents could no longer live in a town where his memory lived around every corner, over the threshold of their store. He tracked them down to a village across the country and found it still being rebuilt from being sacked by Praeker Trieste’s Horde. Most of his family had died that day along with many others, except for his sister. Young and frail, she had been taken by a group of slavers who took advantage of the town’s weakened state. Draymon tracked them down and killed them all. Despite his rage, he still had the wherewithal to discover who they sold her to before slicing the last slaver’s throat. He tracked them down as well—a sex den filled with unwilling participants, where the customers paid top price for such a detestable experience. He killed the owners and customers alike and freed any of the women and boys who had been enslaved. He was too late for his sister, but not for the others.

  One by one, he found the families of those who had been kidnapped. If their immediate family no longer existed, he would find a relative, no matter how far the branch extended from the family tree. He accepted the just rewards, but only enough to help him live, and never enough to harm those who paid him. That was his new calling. Finding those who were lost.

  During his missions, he sometimes had to work with mercenaries. Aristocrats wishing to find loved ones knew little about the outside world beyond their gilded cages, so they paid anyone who accepted the job, usually ex-soldiers like Bartholomew and Obeed, even when they looked at him the way they did now.

  Draymon returned to the small campfire, Bartholomew and Obeed watching him the way his old mentor would study one of his science experiments. Examining. Learning. Hypothesizing. Their expressions softened when Draymon tossed each of them a skinned and gutted rabbit, ready to cook.

  Neither of them gave any form of thanks, simply using the closest stick to spear their meal to hold it over the fire. As Draymon sat down to do the same with his food, Bartholomew asked, “What are they doing at the other camp?”

  “The same,” Draymon replied, holding his food over the fire.

  “Yeah?” Obeed asked. “Even the man-sized woman?”

  “Yes.”

  “What do you think of her?”

  Draymon refused to make eye contact, content to watch his rabbit meat, slowly spinning it to ensure that it cooked evenly. “She seems like an apt soldier.”

  “Yeah? I bet you took a moment to think about her soldiering your sword, eh?” Obeed laughed as he spread his legs and tugged at the air in front of his crotch to simulate masturbation. “Took a moment to polish your spear, I bet you did!”

  Bartholomew laughed as well, but more controlled. Draymon forced himself to smile despite finding the joke distasteful, the inference lewd. But he needed to show a positive reaction, lest they become suspicious and start to speculate on matters he would rather keep secret.

  “We’re going to follow them,” Bartholomew said.

  The abruptness of his statement took Draymon by surprise, but he made sure to temper his reaction to that as well. “That helps with our hunt for the king’s brother how?”

  “Maybe it will, maybe it won’t. We have plenty of time to take a side mission.”

  “A profitable one, I hope.”

  “So, you can be swayed from the king’s mission after all.”

  “I may regard my reputation higher than you two consider yours, but I assure you, I love gold no less than you do.”

  Obeed jumped to his feet, his fists clenched. Holding his spit in his right hand, he looked positively comical presenting a half-cooked rabbit as a weapon. Draymon worked his emotions to keep from laughing, as Obeed yelled, “What did he just say? Did he just say that we ain’t professional?”

  “No, Obeed, he did not,” Bartholomew answered. “He’s testing us to make sure we’re still committed to finding the king’s brother. Hopefully, your response was answer enough. Now sit down and finish cooking your spear tip.”

  Obeed lifted the rabbit to his face, almost as if he wondered how it got there. He then went back to glaring at Draymon as he sat down, but in an act of defiance, he forwent cooking the rabbit any further and instead bit a chunk of partially raw meat from its side.

  Draymon chuckled as he made a show of removing his rabbit from the flame to examine it. As intense as the kingdom’s judge, he scrutinized the meat, going so far as to give the hindquarter a good pinch. He returned his dinner to the flame and looked only at Bartholomew. “It’s good to know that no one’s reputation will be tarnished by this side mission.”

  Bartholomew laughed, as if it took him by surprise, a booming noise from deep within his belly. “You are correct. You have nothing to fear. Care to know what it is?”

  Ahh! Exactly what Draymon had been waiting for—trust. This was the first time Bartholomew willingly offered up information, and that meant he considered Draymon a part of his crew, as small in number as it might be. He might not have to kill these two after all, but he still had a part to play. “Entering me into another illegal fighting tournament to win you more money?”

  It was Obeed’s turn to laugh. Whatever perceived slight Draymon had perpetrated was now gone, forgiveness in the form of insult appreciation. Bartholomew’s face went stern, cutting a sideways glare at Obeed. Keeping his rabbit well within the flame, Bartholomew leaned back and dug through his satchel. He pulled out a small pouch and tossed it to Draymon. “Is this good enough? Or would you prefer a bosom to suckle on since you’re crying like a toothless baby.”

  Obeed took another bite. Blood, watery and pink, glistened from lip to chin. “I’d suggest the warrior woman, but with a chest wider than a man’s, I doubt she has a
bosom to suckle.”

  Again, working hard not to respond to Obeed, Draymon asked Bartholomew, “Speaking of the warrior women . . . why are we going to follow her?”

  “The Eternity Seed.”

  This time Draymon could not control his reaction. He dropped his dinner. “You say . . . the Eternity Seed? She has it?”

  “Not yet. Rumor around the arena was they were asking about it. I’m not too sure about the trolls in their party, but she certainly seems capable enough of finding it on her own. And they have a wizard.”

  That warranted the change in plan. Oremethus was on top of the king’s priority list, but having a magic item steeped in power would be a close second. If the legends were true, the Eternity Seed could grow any flora anywhere. The King could provide an endless supply of food to his people. If the legends were true. If this thing of myth existed. Shaking his head, Draymon picked up his spit and returned the rabbit to the open flame, not even bothering to knock off the ash and charcoal it had picked up. “I thought this was going to be something that would put gold in my pocket. I might as well dream a fortune to appear while I sleep.”

  “You’re selling shit and calling it cake. I don’t believe a single word you said, because you don’t believe a single word you said. You’re too afraid of the risk. I watched you fight—always taking the safe opportunities with your opponents, just wearing them down, never taking the risk of a quick victory. Am I wrong?”

  Draymon felt foolish. He was wearing a mask, but not one large enough to cover everything. He wanted to parse out information at his own speed, on his own terms, yet Bartholomew took more than offered. “You are not.”

  Bartholomew nodded and took a bite of his cooked rabbit. “I trust you, Draymon, but I need to know if I’m wasting my time. The safe play is finding Oremethus. We’ve learned he might be living on the Porous Mountains, and we all know where they are. Or you take a chance and go for the big score. If it exists, if we find it, the king will surely give us our own cities. You need to decide now what you’re going to do.”

  The rabbit started to burn, but Draymon did not care; he was no longer hungry, his sense of duty weighing heavy in his gut. But Bartholomew was right—they had a lead to where Oremethus might be, and that would not change even if they failed to find the Eternity Seed. This gave him a chance to stay close to Dearborn.

  Bartholomew’s face offered no hint of what he wanted Draymon to do. Neither did Obeed’s, but the smaller man gripped his spit so hard it cracked while leaning forward so far that Draymon wondered how he did not fall off the log he sat on. Obeed then jumped to his feet and cheered, exploding like a firework when Draymon said, “Let’s get the Eternity Seed.”

  twenty-three

  Cezomir’s nose twitched. Never did he suspect that the center of a mountain would hold so many smells. The cold stone. Hints of dirt. Dead and rotting animal carcasses. Unseen life feeding off the carrion. Various mosses and rampant mildew. Dampness seeped in from everywhere descending upon the smells, weighing them heavily within the werewolf’s nose. So much so that he almost missed the scents of the people following him and his crew.

  Qual continued to lead them, obviously unaware they were being followed. How could this wizard be so powerful in some respects, but downright ignorant with simple survival skills? Cezomir wondered. Once they made their way to the Porous Mountains, the wizard moved through the caverns with ease, taking every turn with confidence, choosing the way through every fork in the path with purpose. He had yet to hit his head or twist his ankle from unsure footing. Yet Cezomir held no confidence that Qual was not leading them into an obvious ambush.

  For now, the threats were behind them. However, moving through the bowels of the mountain, all that could change with one wrong turn. Cezomir inhaled again but caught a snootful of a fungus growing among the pools formed by dripping stalactites and stifled a sneeze.

  “You smell them, too, don’t you?” a whisper tickled his ear from behind him. A frisson chased a chill racing down his spine.

  “I do,” he answered, whispering as well as his gruff voice would allow. He slowed his step and Lina matched his pace. This cavern was tall and wide, the teeth being twice as long as anyone moving among them. In some areas the teeth met, giving the illusion of a slice of holed cheese, proving the appellation of the mountains accurate. Crystals formed along the web work of stone, angling and amplifying the light coming in from holes in the ceiling. “Clearly the wizard has no idea we’re being followed.”

  “Maybe. Maybe not. He is a wizard after all, so what he knows will forever remain a mystery to the rest of us.”

  Cezomir snorted in amusement. Truer words had rarely been spoken. As they walked, Bigol, Mallen, and Riz had all looked back at their leader. Following an unspoken order, they positioned themselves between Qual and Cezomir, creating a moving barrier to keep his conversation secret. “I smell a dozen. You?”

  “Thirteen,” Lina replied, glancing over her shoulder. “But only two concern me. One reeks of old magic, dark magic. The same kinds of magic the wizard we follow draws from. The other . . . well, the other you should recognize.”

  Not wanting to appear weak, Cezomir grunted as if he could recognize the scent, and then concentrated on finding it. So many damnable smells, musty odors masking the ones he wanted to focus on. But he concentrated and found it.

  The scent was that of a woman, but he did not remember her that way. If darkness had an odor, then this scent would be it. Evil. Death. The scent of whatever attacked them and saved the Elite Troop soldier in the Bernum alleyway.

  Cezomir had not been a part of the fray with the demon. The deftness of the soldier had caused Riz to blunder his assault and crash into Cezomir. The initial pain made the werewolf wonder if age were finally catching him or if he had spent too many years in a jail cell. He stood and shook off the aches, convincing himself that he should be pleased that he survived a minotaur’s charge.

  After aiding Riz to his feet, they ran to the alleyway and stopped. Cezomir could not fathom what he was seeing. The darkness was a living thing, hungry and trying to devour Lina, Bigol, and Mallen. Insects with crimson wings swarmed. A frightful creature with horns materialized in the center of the maelstrom. The face of nightmares.

  By the time Cezomir composed himself to attack, the battle was over. The werewolf had no idea what magics were necessary to defeat such chaos, but Qual ended it in a flash. The wizard created a portal for escape, Cezomir and crew gladly taking it.

  The portal led them to a sparse forest by the base of the Porous Mountains where they took the rest of the day to gather their wits and provisions. The wizard tended to wounds, healing most with eccentric words, exotic ingredients, and a wave of the hand for effect. As night approached, Cezomir and Lina went hunting for dinner.

  They walked together in silence, both sets of nostrils flaring to take in the night air. The prey was plentiful. Cezomir concentrated on his movements, loathe to be any louder than his hunting partner.

  As he watched her move, his hunger moved from his stomach to much lower. Wants and needs were curious things, how they sometimes tussled with each other for attention. A need should always take precedence over a want, but the way Lina’s body moved as she stalked among the trees made Cezomir’s desire for food diminish to nil. He wanted her, he finally admitted to himself. Had his face the propensity to blush, his cheeks would have blossomed pink when he realized he wanted her for more than a warm place to put his cock.

  Disgusted at himself for having feelings, let alone those of a prepubescent in a schoolroom, he tried to think of something to say. An idea popped into his mind, but as he opened his mouth to speak, she disappeared.

  Surprised at her speed, Cezomir was unable to blink lest he lose track of her as she bounded from tree to tree, each jump taking her higher. Just as he almost lost sight of her in the distance, she announce
d one final pounce with a roar. A lone bleat escaped the deer Lina attacked.

  By the time Cezomir caught up to the scene, Lina had begun the evisceration, using both hands to scoop the entrails from the freshly sliced belly. The deer’s tongue lolled from its mouth, eyes still open, barely aware that it had died. With one final pull, Lina slopped the remaining organs on the ground. Looking satisfied with the job, she stood and started to lick the blood from her hands. “You were saying?”

  “What?” Cezomir asked, trying to stave off an erection.

  “Before I caught dinner, you opened your mouth to ask me something. What was it?”

  Fascinated in more ways than one, he could not pull his gaze away from her tongue, the way it glided over her claws, sluicing the blood into her mouth. “I thought you said you were only a tracker.”

  She looked to the carcass on the ground, then back to him. “I tracked.”

  “And killed.”

  “It’s called hunting. I’m sure you’ve done it yourself.”

  “There’s a difference between a hunter and an assassin.”

  Lina rolled her eyes, her tone weary and frustrated. “Not this again. If I were going to kill you, or anyone in your crew, I would have done so by now.”

  “Maybe you’re using us to finish the job, then kill us.”

  “Don’t flatter yourself, dog. I don’t need you to finish this job. I tracked our dinner without your help, just as easily as I can track the mad prince without you. Let’s not forget I gathered the information that led us to the Porous Mountains. All you did was corroborate it. Now, pick up the deer and let’s get back to camp.”