The Devil's Influence

by Chris Pisano

  The injured were tended to, physical wounds so much easier to heal than the mental ones. Landyr had three members of his Elite Troop left, their wounds superficial. The mysterious mercenary named Draymon seemed no worse for wear. The satyr cried and the rabbit did his best to console him. Bigol the hobgoblin sustained injuries, Cezomir dragging his unconscious body to the closest group of healers. Lina looked on, worry etched on her face. King Perciless—he was wounded the most.

  He had no physical wounds, but the devastation caused by his brothers ran deep. He was inconsolable; looking to blame himself no matter who assured him that he had done all he could.

  “I should have been prepared.”

  No one could have been prepared for what had happened.

  “I should have started looking for Oremethus sooner.”

  He did not want to be found.

  “I should have looked for Daedalus.”

  Everyone believed him to be dead.

  After a week of reminding the King that he was the one people wanted, he was the one who brought Albathia back from ruin, he was the one who should be sitting on the throne, antiquated laws about lineage be damned, a plan was forged. Today, they took the first steps.

  Landyr assisted in loading a wagon with supplies. The other Elite Troop members were concerned about how full it was becoming, but he reminded them that they were soldiers. If they were strong enough to survive a dragon attack, they should be strong enough to push a damn cart. They had enough hands to do so, and when it came time to need those supplies, it would no longer matter. Plus, Cezomir was large enough to cart the wagon by himself and Lina could probably handle the burden by herself as well.

  Bigol decided to stay with Praeker and his remaining scorpion creatures, now only dozens, the scorpions in the hundreds. Praeker, too, had a mission. Landyr was dubious, but found no other recourse other than to accept whatever it was Praeker meant when he said, “To find others like us.”

  “Do you know of any others like your followers?” Landyr asked.

  Praeker smiled. “No. But Vierennia is no longer safe. Since Haddaman betrayed us to Perciless’ brothers, Vierennia is no longer a secret city. Draymon pointed that out to me after they left. He reminded me who Daedalus really is and what his sick mind is capable of. King Oremethus will one day bring his dragons to Vierennia. I cannot simply be a stagnant king to my people. Many of them died to rescue King Perciless, the one king who could conceive of friendship with a secret city, such as ours. Now, my people and I will find those other secret cities, those lost tribes and communities, and warn them of Albathia’s new king and advisor, encourage them to stand for King Perciless when the time comes.”

  “I owe you a tremendous debt of gratitude,” King Perciless said as he shook Praeker’s hand. “Mostly having to do with saving my life, but still more for believing in me.”

  Praeker stepped back and bowed deeply. “My king.”

  Landyr did not like this, not one bit. He leaned close to Draymon, and whispered, “Do you trust him?”

  Draymon slung a large sack filled with supplies over his shoulder and adjusted the placement for comfort. He was ready to leave. “Trust is a pawn in a chess match. It is slow moving and easily removed from the board, yet if it reaches the final square, it could transform into something quite powerful.”

  Landyr rubbed his chin while pondering Draymon’s words. “True. True. But Praeker is no pawn.”

  Draymon smirked and put his hand on Landyr’s shoulder. “And this is no chess match.”

  The leader of the defunct Elite Troop chuckled, and then changed the topic. “Are you certain you cannot join us? We could use your talents.”

  “There is no greater honor than protecting the king, save keeping a promise to an old friend.”

  “Agreed. Fare thee well, new friend.”

  “You as well.” With that, Draymon slipped away.

  Landyr strolled up to the supply cart and checked the bindings, making sure they were all tight enough. As he came around the one corner, he almost ran into Phyl who was just standing there. On the ground next to him was Lapin, still in his plate mail armor. Landyr tried desperately to think of an excuse, any excuse, why they could not come along on the mission. The rabbit might be useful, but the satyr was a dreadful liability. Luckily, he did not have to.

  Phyl cleared his throat, and then said, “I know you were looking for us to find out why we could not join you.”

  “Ummm . . .?”

  “It’s because of Bale.”

  “Bale,” Lapin repeated. “I would travel through the nine hells for that guy. The centaur? Not so much.”

  Phyl heaved a dramatic sigh and rolled his eyes. “You see, Bale was my brother-in-law. Even though he did not approve of my love for his only remaining sister, I still owe it to my nieces and nephews to be there for them, to be a great male role model for them.”

  The rabbit laughed but quickly started to cough once he noticed the attention had shifted to him.

  “Very well,” Landyr said, controlling his desire to do a small jig in celebration of never having to see these two again. He stuck out his hand. “You must do what you must do.”

  Phyl ignored Landyr’s hand and hugged him. As diplomatically as possible, Landyr pushed Phyl away just as the satyr whispered, “I must do what I must do.”

  So shocked by the experience, Landyr could only stand there with his hand up, a farewell wave frozen in time, while Phyl and Lapin parted ways. He was unable to move until they were gone from view, especially since he swore Phyl blew him a kiss right at the end.

  A hand on his shoulder startled Landyr. He tensed, but relaxed when he saw that it belonged to King Perciless. “If we could all have their enthusiasm.”

  “True,” Landyr said, not knowing how else to reply.

  “Shall we be off?”

  “Yes. Let us go.”

  The king smiled, a hopeful glimmer in his eye, as he pulled up the hood of his plain, brown cloak. He lowered his head and put a hand on the supply cart to get it moving, looking like an ordinary peasant traveling in a typical caravan. The king was a testament to a person’s ability to adapt, to do whatever was necessary. Landyr, too, adapted. Mere weeks ago, he was a young sergeant in the Elite Troop. Now, he was leading this party, leading the king, to the neighboring country of Tsinel.

  Undoubtedly word had spread to Tsinel of Albathia’s new liege. They would not be so easily conquered, and none believed Oremethus to be better at diplomacy than Perciless. The king had allies in that country.

  Now all Landyr had to do was sneak him across the border.

  thirty-six

  Hander Wahl watched the dragon force a clump of bloodied wool from its teeth. His own jaws hurt from gritting and grinding as he fought the desire to grab a halberd, rush outside and drive the weapon through the monster’s heart. Practicality was a cruel bitch, though—this was the metal dragon and such an attack would only yield splintered wood. He could easily grab a sword, though, and make short work of the four men standing in his house. However, they were from Castle Phenomere, and the ones the dragon accompanied, so running them through would be the last thing he would ever do. Instead, he held his tongue as he signed the parchment.

  “Don’t know why you’d wanna buy that farm anyway,” one of the men grunted, looking out the opposite window. All four men were new soldiers for Oremethus’ army. Three were brainless dolts. It was obvious that the streets were their educators, not schools, and their greatest life gifts were backs sturdy enough to support their armor and arms strong enough to hold swords. The only one with any aptitude for numbers sat at the dining table with Hander, holding the deed flat as Hander signed his name.

  “Albathia needs farms, and since the country has experienced an exodus of farmers, then those who decided to stay need to pick up the slac
k, no?” Hander answered.

  “Don’t know why they ran. King Oremethus will conquer Tsinel and beyond.”

  “Well, that may be true, but that will not happen this season or next, so Albathia needs to support those of us who remained.”

  The soldier by the window grunted. “But the farm you’re buying belonged to a traitor. Aren’t you afraid the land will rebel against you?”

  “That’s pure superstition.”

  The soldier grunted again. “Still wouldn’t risk it. Even though she’s imprisoned, she could will her land to go bad on you.”

  Dearborn was no traitor and Hander knew this. But one of the first pieces of politics that Oremethus completed was to claim her land in his name. The first thing Hander did was offer to take it off the king’s hands.

  The soldier looked over the deed one last time before rolling it up and tying about the middle with a thin piece of leather. “All right then. Everything is in order, so that will be forty coins.”

  Hander handed him a small pouch, which the soldier immediately opened to count the contents. His face went rigid. “There’s only thirty-two pieces in here.”

  These words caught the attention of the other three soldiers, now moving their hands to the hilts of their sheathed blades. Hander ignored them and nodded toward the window, toward the dragon. “It’s for the sheep. Market price is eight pieces.”

  “And?”

  Hander snorted and feigned indignation. “And you’d better add eight pieces to the pouch!”

  The soldiers drew their weapons in unison and stood within a lunge of Hander. The brightest one leaned back in his seat and crossed his arms. “Or I could sit back and watch my colleagues hack you to bits, take your thirty-two pieces and your farm and all of your precious sheep.”

  “Do not forget to retake the farm I just bought as well. And good luck finding a dozen more farmers.”

  The soldiers exchanged confused glances. The one who grunted a lot said, “My math skills don’t reach beyond how much a whore charges for a knob pull, but I see only one farmer.”

  “That is true. You only see one farmer. But I assure you, when word gets out that the king’s men slaughtered a man offering coin to help the new king, the dozen will leave under the cover of night. To Tsinel. To sail across the ocean. Anywhere that is not here. Each farmer is working lands that take two or more to work. That is quite a bit of food this country will lose. Not to mention taxes. How long do you think it will take to get back to King Oremethus that it was your fault? Or his brother?”

  Hander refused to say the name, “Daedalus,” under his roof, but the soldiers got his point. They shifted, nervous about Daedalus becoming a part of their lives. Hander knew men like these. They simply wanted to exist without garnering the attention of anyone higher than them in rank. He got the reaction he wanted and pressed on. “You can always tell the King that you used eight of his coins to buy a sheep for his dragon. Because that’s what a king does—pay for his dragon’s dinner.”

  The soldiers were turning pale now, and Hander did not let up. “Perhaps you could hurry and slip the coins in the coffer before anyone notices. Unless . . . does anyone know how he controls the dragons? Why is this one not eating you now instead of the sheep? Do you know if the king can see through the dragon’s eyes? It does look like some form of machination, doesn’t it? A way to allow the king to keep track of all your actions.”

  Two of the soldiers swallowed with audible gulps, now looking out the window at the dragon. The soldier at the table stood and reached into his pockets. He produced two coins, tossed them in the pouch, and then shook it at his comrades. The other three sheathed their swords and deposited two of their own coins into the bag. With only cursory nods, the men left Hander Wahl’s house, mounted their horses, and rode away. The dragon took flight and kept pace with them the whole way into the horizon.

  Marrim peeked out from the backroom and Hander said, “It is okay. They have gone.”

  His wife exited the room, followed by Draymon, Ideria, and Nevin. The children stayed close to Marrim. She placed her arms around their shoulders and said, “That was close.”

  “It was,” Hander agreed. “But they do not know that the children exist, so they were not looking for them. Draymon and I will start making a tunnel from this house to Dearborn’s. Maybe even other tunnels in case they need to escape.”

  The children shook and wrapped their arms around Marrim. The old woman crouched down and said, “We will not need those tunnels. They are just a precaution. But the good news is your parents’ house is now your house, so let us go see it, okay?”

  Brother and sister fought back tears but nodded. Marrim offered them a soft smile and escorted them from the house.

  “A tunnel system?” Draymon said. “That will be quite a bit of work.”

  “It is, but necessary. Once we get started, we will get the kids to help. That will put some muscle on their bones, and help with their training.”

  “Are you sure about this?”

  “You and me training them? Absolutely. Dearborn would want that.”

  “You talk as if she is dead. She is very much alive from what I have heard.”

  “Yes, but her husband is dead. The dungeon of stone she is in now is nothing compared to the dungeon of her heart. Keeping her kids safe, making them strong, will be the only way to break her out.”

  “Very well. I will teach them everything I know, and find other masters willing to teach.”

  “Good. I do not know what the future holds, but it will be centered around them.”

  Draymon watched Marrim and the children through the window. The children were young, but so was everyone once, the unifying factor between every king and every pauper. But he felt Hander Wahl’s words. In his soul, he knew them to be true . . .

  an imprint of Sunbury Press, Inc.

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  NOTE: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2018 by Chris Pisano and Brian Koscienski

  Cover Copyright © 2018 by Sunbury Press, Inc.

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  ISBN: 978-1-62006-133-6 (Trade paperback)

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2018945707

  FIRST HELLBENDER BOOKS EDITION: May 2018

  Product of the United States of America

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  Set in Bookman Old Style

  Designed by Crystal Devine

  Cover by Lawrence Knorr and Amber Rendon

  Cover art by Koa Beam

  Edited by Lawrence Knorr

  Continue the Enlightenment!

 

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