The Devil's Influence

by Chris Pisano

  thirty-one

  Perciless paced. Hard decisions faced him and he had never been one to back down from adversity before, but this time the fate of his people rested in his hands. He was scared to face that fact.

  “Your majesty . . .?”

  The hawk-faced general was only prompting him for a response. Perciless knew this, but he wanted to snap, to lash out at the man for breaking his concentration. Yet he knew that he was not concentrating, could not concentrate, could not ignore the pointlessness of trying. Squint with the effort if it so amused him, but the answers that hung before him were immutable, regardless of perspective.

  “Have the people evacuate,” he answered at long last.

  “Sir, I—” his general protested, but Perciless stopped him with a raised hand.

  “I respect your advice, general, but my mind has been made.”

  “There is no safety to be found on the open plain, nor in the forests surrounding Phenomere. Everything will burn.”

  “There is no safety behind our stones walls, either. At least running will give them something to do, some way to occupy their thoughts. There is no torment greater than waiting for the inevitable.”

  “They could fight, your majesty. Have them take up arms—”

  “To what end?” Perciless asked.

  “Every enemy life claimed is a step closer to victory. That is the end to which I would see them apply themselves. To be useful to their neighbors and friends and family. I was taught to fight for victory, my king, not to fight for the sake of being able to say that I did so in front of a mangled assortment of old wartime comrades. I expect no less of those around me.”

  “They are farmers and merchants, general. Rouse the militia and the army with my blessings, but not the commoners. They won’t even make a fair distraction. Besides we cannot equip the entire populace of the city and surrounding areas. Best to save the choicest equipment for the choicest warriors to wield them.”

  “You deny them their manhood—”

  “I deny forcing them to face an inglorious death.”

  “What about their right to defend themselves? To choose their own fate?”

  “Dragons,” Landyr said, his voice like churning gravel. “Or haven’t you heard?”

  It had been hours since Landyr showed up in the throne room via a magical portal with the remaining members of the Elite Troop as well as other stragglers picked up along the way. After they arrived, Perciless listened to their tales. He fed them, gave them plenty of drink, and gave them much-needed respite. Yet they still looked lost and beaten, dirty and weary. They all milled about or slumped against the wall in the throne room.

  Landyr walked toward the general, eyes half shut from fatigue. There was no anger in his voice, almost a hint of sarcasm. “How do you propose whipping farmers into fighting shape against dragons enhanced by world shaping magic items? Do you think their dignity, their right to fight will be enough to thwart the imminent danger?”

  Wearing the same fatigue like a cloak, Dearborn approached Landyr and stopped him. With her hand on his chest, she spoke only to him, but Perciless overheard. “Landyr, you are a general now.”

  Her words affected him, injecting him with much-needed vitality. Standing straighter, he looked to the remaining members of the Elite Troop—his Elite Troop—and barked commands. Ignoring the indignant scowl of the other general in the room, he ordered half of the Troop to remain with the king. “The rest of you with me. We’ll join the soldiers on the parapet and aid them with the ballistae.”

  “I’m coming with you,” Chenessa said, joining him by his side.

  “Is that what you wish?”

  “It is. Hemmer has gone to the wizard’s guild to assist in their preparations. Being outside, I will be able to better track Silver.”

  Perciless twitched at the mention of Silver’s name. Mere hours ago, he was entertaining an audience of advisors when a hole in reality formed in the middle of his throne room. His heart bandied about different emotions as those who came through gave word about his brothers, about what they had been doing, and what they were about to do. Perciless heeded their warnings and sent his advisors to fetch his general and whatever this assortment of heroes needed. Then there was the wizard, Silver, trapped inside the body of a horrid creature, another wizard named Qual. A thing of nightmares. As soon as the portal closed, Silver growled something about being outside for everyone’s safety. A look of sadness came over the dark elf. It remained with her even now as she left the throne room with Landyr.

  King Perciless turned back to his general. “Let’s follow Landyr’s example. Use half the army for protection, the other half for defense. Your best to meet the threat, your newest to help the citizens escape from it.”

  “Your Highness—”

  “How many times must I say it to assure you that my mind has been made up?”

  Shoulder slumped and with the slight limp of carrying a lifetime of war upon her back, Dearborn walked past the general on her way to the exit. “Since you’re so resolute on making citizens fight, I’ll take the first regimen I find and lead them to face the menace in the streets.”

  Diminutia and Bale bowed to Perciless and then followed Dearborn.

  “Good luck, Bale!” Phyl called out. Bale hastened his pace.

  King Perciless offered a look to his general, one that demanded only one course of action from him.

  “Understood, your Highness.” The general gave one last bow and then left the room.

  “Thought that horse’s ass would never leave,” came from beside the king’s feet. Perciless looked down to see Lapin in gleaming plate mail. “Don’t worry, King. We’ll stay behind to protect you.”

  Perciless looked up to Phyl and Tingle, both moving to hide behind a nearby column, and tried desperately to think of something diplomatic to say. The rabbit sighed. “Okay, if not them, then maybe them?”

  The King followed Lapin’s gaze to the four mercenaries who helped reunite Daedalus and Oremethus. Walking toward them, Perciless said, “Let us see their intent, sir rabbit.”

  All four huddled in the far corner like forgotten shadows. Arms crossed, heads low, they seemed discontent, confused. They had an opportunity to do the right thing, something good, and they had no idea what that meant. They shifted as Perciless approached. When he got close enough, Cezomir asked, “Ready to throw us into the dungeon?”

  “Do you wish to go to the dungeon?”

  “Might be safer there,” Lina mumbled, unable to look up from the floor.

  Perciless nodded. “True. I may join you there.”

  That garnered the attention of all four mercenaries. Cezomir chuckled. “Heard you’re a king who would no hide from his duties.”

  “That is also true. How about you? Where do your duties lie?”

  “Usually wherever the coins fall.”

  “Usually? Implying there might be other means of motivation?”

  Cezomir looked to the other three, almost asking their permission to speak for them. The other three nodded. He took the conversation to where the king wanted it to go. “We took the job from the green wizard because he freed us from a dungeon and paid us an obscene amount of gold. He told us to find Oremethus, but that was merely a test.”

  “Did you pass the test?”

  Cezomir’s fur bristled. “No. Once we learned what he wanted us for. Once we saw the evil he infused into the dragons . . .”

  Even though he did not finish his thought, Perciless knew where it was going. “And now?”

  Cezomir turned to his comrades again. With a glimmer of hope in each of their eyes, they nodded. “Now? Now we wish to pledge ourselves to you, to help stop what we tricked into starting.”

  Perciless smiled and nodded as well. “I accept. Do you still need obscene amounts of gold
?”

  The werewolf’s upper lip curled into a smirk. “No. But we would find it rude to decline if you happened to offer.”

  The king laughed. “Manners are everything, after all.”

  “Indeed,” Cezomir replied with a bow. The other three bowed behind him.

  “Sire!” The voice of a young squire not yet finding his teen years echoed through the throne room. The boy’s ruddy face almost glowed as he sprinted the entire length to get to the king. “They’re here! They’re here!”

  The king looked to Cezomir and said, “Time to put our manners to the test.”

  thirty-two

  Screams.

  Cries.

  There were no differences between the sounds of pain and fear. Dearborn hated those noises, knew the anguish behind them. She had hoped never to have had to hear them again. She had dedicated the first part of her life to stop the sources of pain and fear, but now all she wanted to do was be a mother, wife, and farmer. She never wanted to be in the middle of a city under siege by dragons.

  The dragons were not fully grown—each large enough to swallow a person, but needing to chew first, as Cezomir had so eloquently put it—but were almost unstoppable, being imbued with the power of the twelve World Makers. Difficult to fight, but not impossible.

  Dearborn came to a dozen soldiers wearing fear like badges upon their uniforms trying to come up with ways to fight when their swords and shields were useless.

  “We were falling back from engaging the fire dragon, and then we came upon this,” said the soldier who looked the least likely to piss his britches.

  On the main street, she could see flame leap from a side street a few blocks down, from where the soldiers came. The soldier pointed to the closest side street as if no one else could hear the pleas for help. A few of the soldiers visibly jerked after each new scream. She wanted to scold them but knew that training could hardly prepare men to face a dragon born from acid.

  The street was long but led to a dead end where more than twenty people huddled together. Halfway down the road was the dragon, wisps of smoke twirling from a trail of discolored ground that led to it. A man missing a leg crawled away from the beast while another flailed and yelled to escape from under the dragon’s front foot.

  A sickly shade of yellow, droplets of acid rolled along its scale crevices, dripping to the ground in small hisses and puffs of smoke. Its belly constricted as its shoulders tightened, neck rippling as if it were getting ready to heave. With a gurgling cough, it spewed acid, enough to drench both men.

  The huddled mass of people screamed in unison as the skin of their neighbors bubbled and melted. A pink goo oozed from the two masses of pulped meat. The dragon paused from terrorizing to enjoy a snack.

  Dearborn looked around for a solution, a way to fight without the need for swords. A tavern. A smile tugged at her face as she thought of something her husband would say, “You can always find solutions in a tavern.”

  Keeping one eye on the dragon, she commanded the men, “Get the barrels. All of them. Hurry!”

  For the first time since running into them, the men stopped shaking and focused on the task. As soon as they rolled them out, she stabbed at the tops with a dagger, opening enough of a hole to release the liquid. After each one, she told the men where to take it and empty the contents. Finally, the last few barrels.

  Half of the soldiers rolled the unopened barrels to the side street where the fire dragon was, three blocks away. In unison, they rolled the barrels and ran. Small explosions echoed in the street. Surely, there was no damage done to the dragon, but the suddenness of it and the noise was enough to make the dragon take flight and leave the side street be. More importantly, the resulting fire lit the path of rum and followed it along the main street to the alleyway where the acid dragon finished eating. As the fire turned the corner, the other soldiers rolled more barrels into the alleyway. Perfect timing—the barrels exploded right when they got to the dragon.

  Screeching, the dragon took to the sky. The flames dancing along the left side of its body were extinguished as it flew higher, away from the side street. The soldiers cheered. They didn’t kill it, but they certainly hurt it. Dearborn told them to guide the survivors to the best way out of the city while she continued along the street to see where she could be of most help.

  More screams. This time, children.

  A group of six, all around the ages of her own children, huddled together and paralyzed by fear, watched as the Eternity Seed dragon moved from the roof of a nearby building down toward them. Dozens of vines poked up from the ground around the children, arching toward each other. The vines connected over the children’s head, forming a rounded cage. Now the children recognized the horror and grabbed the newly formed bars and shook them. Dearborn ran to them, but they were so far away.

  The dragon crawled down the wall, leaving behind footprints of thorny weeds with every step. Its tongue curled around its muzzle in anticipation as it got closer, prickly and green like a thick cactus pad. It drew closer, the children’s hair moving with each of the beast’s breaths, but it suddenly reeled back, and screeched. Backing away, it used its front feet to claw at the dagger in its eye.

  Diminutia! He created the distraction and used another dagger to hack at one of the wooden bars. Amid the screams encouraging their rescuer to hurry, the dragon swiped the dagger from its eye and focused on the person who put it there. It lurched forward and snapped its jaws. Its attack was unsteady from lashing out with blind instinct and Diminutia avoided it with ease. He ran toward the dragon’s body, confusing it. The dragon followed with its head, then fluttered its wings and shifted its tail. It lost its prey.

  The cries of the children grew louder as Diminutia slipped back to the weakened bar and continued to cut away at it. He pulled and the bar cracked. The dragon realized where its prey went. Diminutia hacked at the bar a few more times. The dragon lunged. The bar broke away, and the children ran free.

  The dragon chewed.

  And swallowed.

  The world stopped around Dearborn. The children faded from her periphery. The cries of the townsfolk muted to nothingness. Whatever war raged around her slipped silently into oblivion. She was not even aware that she was still running until she slammed into the dragon.

  The dragon reeled back, knocked off balance and seemingly surprised there was something that could do so. Dearborn did not stop. She jumped on the dragon’s back, straddling the base of its neck, and stabbed it. Repeatedly.

  The dragon twitched and twisted, rising on its hind legs, trying to reach Dearborn with its front. Unable to stop her, it summoned forth more vines from the ground, snaking upward toward Dearborn, but they proved more cumbersome as it became tangled within its own creation. A dozen cuts and a dozen more stabs and slashes before the beast decided to take flight. But to no avail.

  Dearborn’s grip was too tight, her legs around its neck, her left arm wrapped under its jaw. The dragon changed directions and rolled, but Dearborn continued to stab where its skull met its neck. Flesh like a burled tree trunk, Dearborn hacked at it, digging through the knots and twists, finally getting to the meat underneath. The dragon screeched and flipped again. Dearborn refused to let go.

  Her eyes stung, the flowing tears made worse by the wind. Her heart burned hotter, exploding from the loss, from regret. Throughout helping Silver, she and Diminutia could have turned around at any time, gone back home to their children, continued being the happy family they had been for the past decade. Her sense of duty, her quest for revenge, her distrust in others. All reasons why she eschewed the idea of turning around. She wanted to do the right thing for her country, she wanted to make Haddaman somehow pay for the pain he had caused her all those years ago, she wanted to make sure she knew Praeker’s motivations before returning home. She wanted to do right by her children, but instead lost their father,
her husband.

  Spurts of green dragon blood sprayed from numerous wounds as she stabbed, again and again, her arm a piston of hatred. The dragon struggled to stay in the air, descending a little more with each new stab. Feeling the change in altitude, Dearborn stopped stabbing it and wrapped her arm around the dragon’s jaw and pulled, steering the beast toward a three-story building made from stone, content to sacrifice herself to kill the thing that ate her husband.

  No! Her children. She still had her children. As the dragon aimed for the base of the building, Dearborn saw a second-floor window. She leaped as the dragon’s head crashed into the back wall and angled her body to land on her hip. The one favor Fate gave to her was a clear path for momentum to carry her through to the front of the building. She jumped out the window as the beast reduced most of the building to rubble.

  Twisting her body, she tucked her head and landed on her shoulder, rolling like a carnival tumbler. She wasted no time to assess the situation, her vengeance not finished, and ran to the dragon.

  The front wall remained intact and firm while the debris of the collapsed building pinned the dragon down, its head poking out from the front door. Its spiny tongue flopped about as it screamed, struggling to free itself from the wreckage. Dearborn timed her attack perfectly, grabbing between two of its upper teeth, still stained with her husband’s blood, and pulled.

  The awkward angle put the dragon at a disadvantage. Dearborn pulled its head like one half of a lever, the door jamb being the fulcrum. Muscle against muscle. Magic against emotion. And Dearborn was winning.

  The dragon screeched, attempting to flail, the panicked reaction to imminent death. The rubble of the building shifted from the struggling beast, and then shifted again. Dearborn never noticed, never stopped. She thought of Diminutia, smelled him on this thing’s breath, and dug her feet into the ground. She kept pulling.

  The snap reverberated through her entire body.