The Devil's Influence

by Chris Pisano

  Diminutia felt his heartbeat through his whole body, even in his now throbbing fingertips and toes, as Praeker pondered the decision. His heart almost stopped as the scorpions fell away from Praeker’s body once more.

  twenty-nine

  Oremethus blinked. He rubbed his eyes as if waking from a dream, digging through sleep to find a better view of reality. He then stared, mouth gawping open. Daedalus had never imagined seeing his brother look so old. The scraggly hair of his beard hid his quivering lips, as tears flowed over his worn cheeks, following the early formation of wrinkles. “You have changed so much, brother.”

  Daedalus nodded and smiled. For most of his life, he had hated the crown prince, one of the many people he blamed for not getting what he wanted. But now, standing before this aged individual, almost a mockery of a person, Daedalus felt pity. Being locked away from reality behind the unbreakable bars of paranoia for ten years was a far worse torture than Daedalus could have ever come up with. He had always fantasized about sneaking into his brother’s bedroom and sliding a dagger’s blade into his ribs while he slept. A quick death. Maybe not painless, as he sometimes added a twist of the blade into his imagination, but quick. Not a death like this. “So have you.”

  “Aye,” Oremethus nodded as well, mimicking the same speed and gesture as his younger brother. “One must change in a time of vigilance. Or one will die.”

  But you already have died, dear brother, Daedalus thought, for this was not the child he grew up with being the first to get all the best in life, or the adolescent who could do no wrong, or the adult who was a near perfect specimen of a human. The man whom Daedalus hated was one who was ready to become king at any moment, adored by the public. The man before Daedalus now was no king, no prince, no perfect specimen; he was a husk that many would assume to be a homeless beggar, a madman upon first conversation. The man whom Daedalus wanted to kill was already dead. “Like Father?”

  Oremethus pointed to his brother. Wide-eyed with emotion. Daedalus braced himself for an assault or a tongue-lashing at best. He was almost speechless when Oremethus responded with, “Yes. You did a great service to our country by killing him.”

  “I . . . I . . . what?” Daedalus stammered. Ten years ago, his plans to trick Praeker Trieste into helping him find the five stones of Wyren failed. The mad wizard played a much better game, manipulating many more pieces than Daedalus, and collected the five stones. When combined, it gave Wyren the ability to control the demons of Hell. The Demon War lasted mere hours, but the damage had been done. Daedalus had lost the game. As did Praeker Trieste, but in his frustration, he and his detestable Horde attacked Phenomere. Daedalus escaped, but not before satisfying the fantasy of killing his father, killing the king. “How . . . how did you . . .?”

  Oremethus frowned, and waved his hand at his brother, shooing away the words before they hit his ears. “To be vigilant, I had to seek the truth. To find what I needed, I had to deal with those who deal in rumors. I heard many rumors about you. But you were vigilant, and Father was not. He spent so much time grooming me and worrying about the wrong things for his people, that he spent no time, no time at all, worrying about the demons.”

  Daedalus blinked, the same speechless way a dullard would be mystified by a street magician’s sleight of hand. He heard the stories of Oremethus and the Satan Stone; his descent into madness, his close encounters with the guardian demons. But to be so nonchalant about the murder of his father by his brother’s hand? “What happened to you?”

  “I could ask you the same question. I never thought I would live to see the day my youngest brother came before me as a homeless beggar,” Oremethus sneered, his voice holding the haughtiness of one-time royalty.

  Daedalus looked down at his clothes and filth-covered hands. He laughed. This was the first time in their lives that they looked alike—hair long, greasy, unkempt; clothing bland and stained; the thinness of not eating a full meal every day; eyes possessing the weariness of hard experience. Their beards were the only difference, with Daedalus sporting uneven stubble while Oremethus wore a much thicker one. But Oremethus’ surprise was warranted.

  When adolescence made its intentions known to claim Daedalus, the young prince suffered a horse riding accident landing him in mud and manure, giving the nearby spectators many a reason to laugh. Numerous ailments plagued him for the following weeks; the vomiting and diarrhea were made worse by a set of broken ribs. Ever since then, Daedalus hated dirt and grime and filth. Daedalus hated people as well. Not only do they carry dirt and grime and filth, but they laughed about it, laughed when anyone became dirty or grimy or filthy. When he was a prince, he touched no one and washed three, four, five times a day. That changed after the Demon War.

  Daedalus spent the night in a mound of mud, hiding from the war he had lost. Wyren had tricked the prince—tricked everyone—into gathering the stones and bringing them to him. The mud had saved him, kept him hidden until he found the right time to flee.

  As he wandered around, he found a flowing stream, his old habits of needing to keep clean resurfaced for a moment. Running to it, he stumbled upon a family with a full horse-drawn cart trying to escape the war. Jealousy ripped through him; if he as prince could not escape the war, then none of his subjects could! After he ran the mother, the father, the two young sons through with their own carving knife, he jumped into the water. As he scrubbed, he realized that he was no longer a prince. These people were no longer his subjects. A sense of freedom washed over him, cleansing him more than the water rushing around him. He rolled around in the mud of the nearest bank.

  He took the horse and cart into the nearest town and then sold the family’s goods to the first person with a sack of coins. Then he was on his own.

  For the first time in his life, he had no servants, no trainers or tutors, no brothers to compete with, no king giving commands. He was free. With freedom came fear though. What would he do for food? Shelter? He had a small bag of coins, knew their denominations, but little idea as to how to use them. What was a good price for food or shelter? His question was answered when a middle-aged woman with sagging breasts and three missing teeth approached. “Lookin’ a bit lost, eh?”

  “Not lost,” Daedalus replied, not wanting to appear weak in any way. “Just looking for a place to stay.”

  “Got me a place behind the butcher shop,” she said gesturing to small, dirty building wedged between other small, dirty buildings. “Behind it is the abattoir. It stands separate with a room above it. Ain’t much and it smells sour, but it’s two bits a night, snogging included.”

  He handed her a coin and tried not to take notice to the relief of his father molded on the one side. Her eyes widened and she led him to the room. She undressed him and shoved his cock in her mouth as soon as she shut the door. Daedalus enjoyed his new freedom. Until the next day when he awoke alone and robbed.

  He immediately began to look for her, finding it interesting how easy it was to move about the masses while dirty and anonymous. How some gave away information simply because they were asked. He asked a lot of questions while weaving his way through the people looking for the thief. Getting his money back was not his motivation; it was the need for revenge that blazed within his belly.

  “It wasn’t my idea,” the woman said when Daedalus found her. “It was my owner, Mallen! He made me! He made me!”

  Daedalus killed her, one blade slice across the throat. Next, it would be Mallen’s turn.

  He found the letch wobbly-legged drunk in a corner tavern. Daedalus had patience and waited until the scoundrel made water in the alley. It would be days before anyone took notice of a dead man between two buildings. After Daedalus exacted his revenge, he took back his pouch of coins and went inside for ale. He had never had one before and wanted to know why so many people sought one out after a long day. No sooner than he sat down, a large, surly fellow sat next to him. “You Ma
llen?”

  Daedalus remained silent, and the man took it as affirmation. “All right, about the job tomorrow . . .”

  The job was to steal or kill, maybe both, Daedalus could not remember now. He just knew it was a new start to life, a life no longer clean and manicured. He looked at his brother now, and replied, “I do look like a beggar, but anonymity offers freedom.”

  Oremethus smiled. “That it does, brother, that it—”

  Qual interrupted, yelling, his voice echoing through the expansive cavern. “He did it! He led that creature right to where I told him and broke that infernal magical barrier by opening the door. He found it!”

  “Who found what?” Daedalus asked his brother.

  Running down the steps toward the center of the room, Oremethus said, “I cannot guess as to the who, but I believe the what to be the Eternity Seed.”

  “The Eternity Seed?”

  “Yes,” Oremethus answered, excitement growing in both his voice and body language. “The last one we need to start the process, to begin the next phase of my plan.”

  Again, so many questions flooded Daedalus’ mind. As before, he kept his mouth closed and eyes opened. The answers would come to him.

  With a simple wave of his hand, Qual ripped through the fabric of reality and created a portal to a land of lush plants and green grasses. He shouted commands to Cezomir, Lina, Bigol, and Riz. The mercenaries followed their orders and rushed through the portal. They returned to the cavern carrying individuals wrapped in giant leaves, prisoners. However, one was not wrapped up but appeared unconscious, and another man walked through the portal next to Qual wearing a triumphant smile. This must be the individual who found the Eternity Seed and notified Qual. Some of the captives looked familiar to Daedalus, but one he knew. Dearborn Stillheart.

  “Praeker, you coward!” Dearborn yelled. She squirmed so violently that it took both Riz and Cezomir to carry her. They were not gentle when they dropped her next to the other captives. They all wriggled like worms across the floor to position themselves better against the nearest wall.

  “It is not my fight, Dearborn. I need to protect my people,” Praeker said as a farewell. He, and the scene of Vierennia behind him winked away as the portal snapped closed.

  Ignoring the shouts from the captives as if he had forgotten they were even there, Qual rushed to Oremethus. Like a servant presenting a gift to his god, Qual held the seed with both hands, giving a slight laugh with every breath. “We have the final World Builder, my lord. You know what it is you need to do.”

  As dispassionate as swatting a fly, Oremethus unsheathed his dagger and sliced his own forearm, deep enough to start a flow of blood.

  “Oremethus?” Daedalus whispered, surprising himself for the level of concern bubbling up from within.

  “No worries,” Oremethus replied, his tone of that of a theatre-goer bored with having to sit through the same performance again and again. He held his arm over the Eternity Seed, his blood trickling onto it. Once there was enough to coat the seed, Oremethus used his hand to rub his blood over the seed. “I have done this eleven times before. I must give a piece of myself so I can control the dragons once they have hatched.”

  Satisfied that the prince completed his part of the ritual, Qual took the Eternity Seed to the egg with a shell of dull brown leather. A bulbous sack grew from the egg like a pus-filled boil, half the size of a person. Using both hands, Qual parted the flesh of the egg and slid the seed into it, muculent slime oozing from the new opening. The dragon within the egg screamed; its silhouette squirmed and pressed against the fleshy shell. The egg itself changed color, the skin to a deep emerald green while the veins brightened to a chartreuse hue. After a few seconds Qual withdrew his hands, gobs of viscous liquid slopping onto the floor. He approached the prince once again.

  Head bowed, he extended beggar’s hands and asked, “May I have the final piece, my lord?”

  Oremethus undid the tie to the pouch attached to his belt and reached inside. The wizard’s heart. A mass of black with ichor the color of ink. He placed it in Qual’s waiting hands.

  Daedalus almost opened his mouth to scold Oremethus for giving the wizard his heart back, wondering how his brother possibly got this far without his help. Rather than attacking Oremethus, the wizard took his heart to a growth in the center of the room.

  The same size and shape as the sacks attached to the eggs that held the World Builders, the mass on the floor twitched when Qual insert his heart into it and beat on its own after Qual removed his hands. The twelve fleshy cords that connected the mass to each of the eggs twitched, undulating with each pump from the wizard’s blackened heart. The veins along the eggs pulsed. The dragons inside squirmed and moaned.

  Speaking in a language reserved for Hell itself, Qual went from egg to egg, touching each one as he went, except for one, the black one. He spoke to it, giving it the same unholy blessing as he gave the others, but moved away from it as quickly as possible. When finished, he returned to the center of the room, to the quivering mass on the floor. Qual spoke louder and gesticulated with the same zeal as an excited stage performer, and the mass pulsed faster. The dragon noises changed from moans to screams.

  The creatures within pushed and clawed against the thick skin. Daedalus was unable to look away, to even blink, as he approached his brother from behind. “What is your plan for your dragons?”

  “Protection. They will protect me from the demons. They will guard these mountains, while your crew will hunt down the remaining demons.”

  “We know nothing about the demons, Oremethus.”

  “That is why Qual will be paying you handsomely.”

  Daedalus pointed to the mercenaries in question. They paced and fretted, paying no attention to the squirming prisoners and no longer looking fearsome in the presence of dragon eggs. Haddaman clapped his hands in glee while watching the ceremony. This concerned Daedalus, but he would deal with that later. Now, he had to convince his brother to move beyond his own limitation. “You’re thinking too small. Maybe we kill a dozen, two-dozen in our lifetime. You will die with hundreds or thousands more still roaming the world.”

  “Then I will hire more mercenaries, more soldiers. I will create an army against the demons.”

  “Still too small! There is already an army that you could use and they are doing nothing at Phenomere.”

  Oremethus pulled his gaze from the maelstrom in front of him to lock eyes with his brother. Daedalus could see the confusion on his brother’s face, as if he had forgotten all about Phenomere. Daedalus continued, “Yes, our brother sits on the throne doing nothing. He is not being vigilant. The people may sing his praises, but they are as ignorant as chattel being led to slaughter. If the demons find out how complacent they are . . . how complacent Perciless has made them, then they will attack.”

  Tears welling in his eyes, Oremethus looked away. His head shaking beyond his control, he mumbled, “But . . . but . . . the dragons . . .?”

  Daedalus grabbed his brother’s arm and squeezed, reclaiming his attention. “What good are dragons in this mountain while the demons destroy the rest of Albathia? I killed our father for you, Oremethus. For you to rule, to protect our people, our country. You do not need twelve dragons to protect a broken mountain. You need twelve dragons to protect your throne.”

  Oremethus stood straighter; he ran his hands through his hair and over his beard, a feeble attempt to gain control of his mane. The fog of monomaniacal obsession lifted, leaving behind lucidity. Daedalus was concerned that his words stripped away too much madness, leaving the crown prince clearheaded to command Qual to stop the ritual. Instead, Oremethus put a hand on Daedalus’ shoulder and said, “Let us go and reclaim my throne.”

  thirty

  “We need to attack.”

  “We need to see what he’s doing first.”

 
Landyr had never seen Zellas so angry. The general had been red-faced, teeth-gnashing raging many times before, but that was focusing his emotions during a time of need. This was different. During battle, Zellas was in control of his emotions; now, Millinni was in control of them by going against his wishes.

  Jaw jutting, the general ran a hand through his thick hair as if trying to scrub away bad thoughts. “Woman, we know what he is doing. Evil. He is doing evil.”

  Millinni folded her arms and spat on the ground. “Typical soldier. Oversimplifying. He has just taken the Eternity Seed. We need to see what he plans on doing with it.”

  Zellas approached the crone and gestured toward the cave opening, his eyes wide and maniacal. “Something nefarious going on with those very large eggs down there.”

  Landyr walked to the edge of the cave and watched the activity below in the center of the round cavern room. There was no doubt that the dark wizard was performing a ceremony directly linking the World Builders to the eggs. After Qual received the Eternity Seed, he inserted it into a something that resembled a boil growing on the side of one of the eggs. Veins webbed each of the eggs and merged together at the bases. Like umbilical cords, they ran along the floor to the very center of the room, to a black, greasy mass. Qual laughed, that of a maniacal victor, and started his wicked ritual.

  “Is that Silver?” Landyr asked about the unconscious man the hobgoblin had dragged through the portal.

  “It is,” Chenessa replied, concern in her voice.

  She then added, “The blond man is Diminutia, the woman is his wife, Dearborn.”