The Devil's Influence

by Chris Pisano

  “I thought you said you didn’t need me?”

  “I don’t. I’m sharing my kill with you and your crew, but I’m not giving it to you. You need to do at least some work for it.” She went back to cleaning the blood from her hands, starting by seductively sliding her index finger into her mouth. She turned and sashayed away.

  Cezomir smiled, content to sling the gutted deer over his shoulder and follow her swaying hips. Catching up with her, Cezomir continued his accusations, “Then to take our cut of the money. Once Qual pays us, you’ll kill us to take our money.”

  “Bigol and Mallen are likely to spend whatever gold as soon as it touches their hands, so I wouldn’t even get a chance to look at their share. I don’t want to think about what Riz does with his. And I certainly don’t need your cut of the fees. Plus, it doesn’t seem like Qual gives a rat’s dick about money. He probably pulls gold and gems from thin air, and might be willing to match whatever price we ask.”

  “If he asks for more jobs in return?”

  She shrugged. In between sliding one finger out of her mouth and inserting another, she answered, “Maybe if it’s a tracking job. Maybe not. You?”

  “I’d certainly put the theory of endless gold to the test first.”

  Lina stopped walking and looked into Cezomir’s eyes. He had a hard time reading her catlike face, but he could sense her earnestness. “What happened earlier today didn’t bother you? You’d be satisfied with having an evil master that cavorts with creatures even more evil? There’s enough gold that could satisfy you while knowing your death will come by the claws or teeth of demons?”

  It was Cezomir’s turn to shrug. “You seemed to hold your own against the spawn of darkness.”

  “Then you were watching the wrong battle. I was blindly slashing just to survive. Qual’s first instinct was to sacrifice us, if not for the man who calls himself Mallen. Neither of your crew did well, nor did I. Qual saved us. How often do you think he’ll save you?”

  Lina walked away, leaving the question to linger in the air. Cezomir gave it no more thought that night, but now, standing in an unknown cavern of Porous Mountain, he heard her words as clearly as if she had spoken them again. He answered the question she asked that led his mind through the uncomfortable field of memories. “Yes. I recognize the scent. The creature of darkness we encountered in Bernum.”

  As she walked past Cezomir, Lina leaned close enough for him to feel her breath as she whispered, “Do you think Qual will save us again?”

  Cezomir did not know. If Qual was powerful enough to save Cezomir and his crew, why did he need them in the first place? If they kept finding themselves in situations where they needed to be saved, how many times would Qual do it until they were no longer worth his exertion? He pushed those questions from his mind. First, they needed to find Prince Oremethus, and then they needed to get paid. He would consider everything else later. For now, he simply followed the wizard.

  Qual led them to the far end of the cavern, to a wall. Cezomir readied a few jibes about following a daft wizard, but considered his recent conversation and thought better of it. His comments would have been for naught anyway; Qual started to float up the side. No, not float. Just an illusion. There were steps in the wall, but their construction remained hidden to Cezomir until he was right next to the wall.

  The last up the stairs, the werewolf joined his crew at the opening of an archway, one crafted by someone other than nature. Scholars would wonder about who made an archway in the middle of a mountain. Cezomir did not give a damn, as he was more concerned about where it led. And why they had not gone through it yet.

  Qual simply stood at the precipice and stared at the cavern they had just traversed. At this height, it was impossible not to feel insignificant, unable to affect the great stones that formed towers and pillars, pulled gauze petrified by time. Cezomir did not like feeling small and was anxious to keep moving. But Qual remained still.

  Thoughts of pushing the wizard over the edge entered the werewolf’s fantasies, but he knew very well it would do no good. Then he saw why they waited. Two Elite Troop soldiers entered from the other end of the cavern, each doing a quick reconnaissance. From this vantage point, they looked the size of children. After a few moments of looking around, they turned and waved, signaling the others to enter. Thirteen in total, just as Lina had claimed. Ten soldiers, including the one who ambushed Cezomir, and three wizards. Cezomir tensed while looking for the alleyway demon, confused when it was not to be found. However, he wondered about the one wizard, the dark elf. Her skin the color of a starless night, she had hair the same deep shade of red as the demon. Could it be her? Could such a beautiful woman turn into such a nightmarish creature? Questions that would go unanswered.

  Once all thirteen made their way into the cavern, Qual swiped his hand through the air. With no notice, a dozen stalactites fell. Each as large as a horse, they crushed the interlopers beneath their mass. Sprays of blood punctuated the sounds of stone slamming into stone. Dust billowed softly from the impacts, masking the recent gore.

  Cezomir watched in silence, just as everyone else did. He heard someone gulp and assumed it was Mallen. More ominous than usual, Qual said, “I knew we were being followed. Don’t ever doubt my awareness of activities happening around me.”

  Qual turned and walked through the arch. The rest shared wide-eyed glances, finally turning to Cezomir. He nodded his head toward the arch and they followed, one by one. Cezomir entered last, but not before Lina walked past him and whispered, “Still thinking about all that gold?”

  No. No, he was not. A wave of the hand was all it took. The wizard dropped half a mountain with a mere wave of the hand. Cezomir knew the wizard was powerful, had seen a glimpse during the rescue from the demon in Bernum. The demon he so effortlessly killed now with a wave of the hand.

  Cezomir had killed before. Everyone in his crew had. But not so callously. He never assassinated anyone, killed anyone in their sleep, stabbed anyone in the back. Always face to face. Sure, he killed men that he grossly overpowered, but each time they could have run, could have pulled a secret weapon. Those men knew their fates were sealed. The thirteen in the cavern did not. He had no interest in fighting the wizards, but he almost yearned to taste the blood of the soldiers especially the one that ambushed them in Bernum.

  Would Qual even view Cezomir differently than those soldiers and wizards? Qual knew he was being followed and dispatched the enemy. Would there be a time when Qual saw Cezomir through similar eyes? Was there a difference between ally and enemy in Qual’s mind, or was everyone else a mere pawn in his grander game?

  Halfway down the stone hallway, Lina turned back to Cezomir, nostrils flaring, eyes wide. In the brief time that he had known her, she had never once seemed panicked or confused. Then he caught a whiff of what they were walking toward. The fur on his back bristled. In a lifetime of being a predator, never once did he feel like prey. Until now.

  Lina slowed her pace, wary of what lay ahead. She walked with her shoulder pressed against him, her claws slowly extending from between her fingers. Shadows danced along the walls at the end of the hall caused by firelight on the other side. Qual exited the hallway and the rest followed, each gasping as they entered a new cavern. Even Cezomir.

  The enormity of the place almost crushed him, making him feel more insignificant than he did in the last cavern. Not only the size of the cavern but how it had been manipulated. The room was round, concentric circles forming a dozen steps to the floor. Along the perimeter were eleven other doorways like the one they just came through, carved archways with pillars done as relief. The space was well lit. Many holes in the domed ceiling allowed plenty of sunlight to touch the walls, thick curtains of ivy and vines grew where the light mixed with dripping water. Never-ending plumes of fire flickered throughout the room, burning from harnessing the natural gases seeping from the ground
.

  But what made everyone gasp, what tapped into the primal side of Cezomir and Lina, was what was in the center of the room—twelve eggs, each the size of a house. Ambling among them was a man, long hair and beard merging into one stringy mess, clothing like a street beggar’s. Eyes wide with madness, he mumbled to himself as he examined one of the eggs, face mere inches from the thick, fleshy shell. He jumped when he noticed the newcomers, regarding them with the bluest eyes Cezomir had ever seen. The man was tall and thin, but he still had the stature of a hero from fairy tales, an air of regality.

  They had found Prince Oremethus.

  twenty-four

  Diminutia lay on the ground. The grass was soft and comfortable, although the tickle from it caused an itch to start in his left armpit. He stared at a group of clouds trying to imagine that they looked like his wife’s face. A small patch on the farthest edge began to blacken with the storm and he considered that this was like Dearborn’s angry look, for which she was well known. He laughed at his own musings. The itch moved across his chest while he looked for another group of clouds to examine.

  A new cloud cluster floated into view and he began his search anew. These brief moments of solitude were to be relished for their rarity. Life was always hectic and no task ever stayed finished for long it seemed, as new ones constantly fought their way onto the list of things to be done. He could not make this cloudbank work and looked at another one to his left. The itch moved down to his stomach. Suddenly he was aware how much blackness had moved across the sky. The entire horizon to his left warned of an approaching storm. This was the time to stop lazing and get inside, lest he get soaked.

  If he could only move.

  Arms and legs fused to the ground, the clouds above darkened even more as the itching moved to his hip. Something was wrong. Something . . . Diminutia awoke with a start. It was dark, although a campfire burned not too far away from him giving him the benefit of some light. The warning of his dream fresh in his mind, he stood up and felt a weight fall from his body. More luck than anything else, he jumped backward, narrowly dodging the viper strike.

  A snake of some kind launched itself at him. He spied the movement, and let reflex take over. The snake missed again, but Diminutia had a hard time gathering his wits about him. He knew nothing about the serpent, just that it was one and incredibly fast and seemed very determined to bite him.

  Diminutia shuffled his way toward the fire, all the while searching frantically for more movement as he attempted to discern the reptile’s whereabouts. Again, he saw the movement at the last second, but he was still able to twist his way out of harm. He concentrated on the area where he heard the legless beast land and was rewarded for his effort. He spotted the snake, coiled up as it prepared to strike yet again.

  Diminutia had scuttled too far from where he had been sleeping. His daggers were in his boots, his boots by his head when he slept, now on the other side of a snake desperate to kill him. He needed a weapon if he truly intended to end this standoff, but the snake blocked his way to his weapons and to the primal safety of the campfire. Since the snake was nocturnal, Diminutia assumed that it lacked acute vision, but made up for it with its other senses, especially hearing. He worried any undo noise, like calling for help, would trigger another strike. He avoided two but knew a third could be deadly.

  It was difficult to keep his eyes on the snake and be mindful of his footing at the same time, but despite his efforts to stay focused, he wondered where Dearborn had gone. It was her turn to take watch and yet he had no idea where she was. Granted it had been some time since she was a sergeant in the King’s Elite troop, but Diminutia did not believe that she could have forgotten all her training this quickly. Perhaps she was already a victim, writhing in mute agony, wondering if he would come save her. A lump formed in the back of his throat at this thought. The serpent moved through the grass like lightning and Diminutia’s thoughts focused back on his predicament. He had to save himself first or he would be of no use to her.

  He walked sideways, hoping to make it around the snake to the fire, or at least close enough to one of his companions. Suddenly he heard a clicking noise. It was quiet and intermittent, and he wondered what new creature made such a noise. He heard it again and caught a glimpse of movement. It was just a blur but it was far too small to be another snake. From his other side, he heard a similar sound and caught a glimpse of a similar blur of movement. Just great. Diminutia, you’ve really stepped in it this time.

  Suddenly the clicking noise to his left was answered by a clicking sound on his right. The snake then began to writhe and twist upon itself. Hissing, the serpent bit blindly. No, not blindly, at what was attacking it. Scorpions. A scorpion had attacked the snake, while it was focused on Diminutia. It weaved and danced between the wildly undulating coils of the serpent using its sting as it went. A second scorpion skittered away as the snake’s erratic movement caused it to uncover the creature that hid beneath the serpent’s own body. A third. A forth. Two more joined in. All six poked the reptile with their tails, their venom slowing it down. With one final twitch of its tail, the snake died.

  Then an image of Dearborn, too weak even to writhe in pain, surfaced in Diminutia’s mind. He set off to find her. In hushed tones, he called her name, but no reply came.

  On the other side of camp lay the still sleeping form of Haddaman Crede. His lips were curled slightly at one side, as if in a permanent sneer. Diminutia could only imagine what dreams led him to be in such a state. With a snort, Haddaman rolled over, all the while mumbling something unintelligible, before grunting out a brief chuckle. Diminutia wondered if he wanted to know what the man had said, and then a hissing noise caught his attention. Dearborn, alive and well, waving to him from a spot about twenty feet past Haddaman.

  A flood of relief washed over him. If Dearborn was fine, then the world would always be in order, or at least the parts of the world that mattered to him. Picking his way across the distance that separated them, Diminutia wanted to take her in his arms and let out a yell of joy but decided against waking the others with such a display. When he was close enough, Dearborn snatched him by the wrist and pulled him down into a crouch beside her. “What are you doing skulking around in the middle of the night? You should be asleep.”

  “I was asleep. Now I’m not,” he answered.

  “Ah, I get it,” she whispered. “You don’t trust them, either.” She beamed at her partner in the false security of her mistaken knowledge.

  “Is that what you’re doing here? Watching Haddaman? He’s asleep.”

  “Haddaman schemes even in his sleep. He’s been mumbling to himself ever since he slipped into slumber. Praeker is no different. Look at what he’s doing.”

  Praeker slept far away from the fire, but even from this distance, Diminutia could see the dozens of scorpions moving over his body, manipulating his flesh to mend the burn wounds.

  “Right now,” Diminutia pointed at the two men, “they’re asleep. And they are only two parts of our camp. I don’t mean to tell your business, but doesn’t being on watch consist of watching everybody?”

  “The safety of this camp and everyone in it matters to me. It just so happens that the biggest threats to it are lying right there.”

  “I beg to differ, Dearborn.”

  “You don’t know what they are capable of. I’ve seen him both do terrible things. They’ve stepped on people, sacrificed others. Look at what happened to that boggart, Wort or whatever his name was. Stabbed in the back at the arena.”

  Diminutia snorted and shook his head. “Vogothe killed him, or one of his goons. Wort owed money to a criminal. There was going to be no other outcome.”

  “Haddaman had something to do with it. Why would Wort ferret him out in the first place? The boggart was just another sacrifice.”

  “We’ve all done that. We’ve all manipulated people.”
<
br />   “No, not like them. We’ve sacrificed of ourselves, not others.”

  “You have. You’re doing it now. You’re sacrificing those in the camp.”

  “What are you talking about?” she asked defensively. “I’ve been awake this whole time watching things.”

  “No. You’ve been awake this whole time watching one thing,” Diminutia countered.

  “They need to be watched. If I don’t watch their every move, I will miss some part of their machinations that will get one of us killed.”

  “That is not necessarily true. We need them. Like it or not, we need their help. You need to watch over everyone in this camp or your selfishness will doom us all.”

  “Selfishness? What are you talking about? I’m watching them to protect what we have together. I will not allow either of them to take our happiness from us.”

  “Your hatred for them has blinded you, Dearborn. Your selfish need to see them be the monsters that you expect them to be causes you to be single-minded of purpose. We need to make sure that they survive and then we can leave them to their own devices. We don’t matter to them the way they matter to you. They want to succeed for their own purposes and once that’s accomplished they won’t even remember that we exist. They will leave us alone.”

  “You don’t know these men the way I do. They may ‘leave us alone,’ but they will not stop with whatever wicked plans they’re concocting. Trust me, if they view us as hindrances to those plans, they most assuredly will not ‘leave us alone’,” Dearborn argued.

  “We’ve been traveling with them for five days—”

  “Through the forest lined valleys uncharted on any known map.”

  “Be that as I may, neither of them have done anything suspicious. Praeker has been quietly letting his scorpions patch him up and thanks to Silver threatening to put some rather nasty spells on him, Haddaman has been keeping his mouth closed most of this trip. Your hatred for them puts our mission in jeopardy. Puts us in jeopardy. It’s stronger than your love for me, I think,” Diminutia said. A dizziness overcame him, from the impassioned words of truth, finally speaking what he had been thinking. He reached for the wineskin of water that Dearborn had next to her.