The Devil's Influence Read online

  “Your life is an accident,” Dearborn growled.

  “Okay, everyone,” Silver said, standing and easing his way toward Haddaman. When he was close enough, he offered the shopkeeper his hand. Voice so soothing, Diminutia assumed he was using a spell, Silver continued, “Whether we like it or not, we need this man’s help. It does no one any good to berate him so.”

  Dearborn turned her back and mumbled, “Fine.”

  Accepting Silver’s aid, Haddaman struggled to his feet while wincing in pain, his grimaces so keen that they balanced between emoting and acting. Performance finished, he asked, “Other than to be the scapegoat for the worst moment in Albathia’s history, to what do I owe the pleasure?”

  “We are looking for an item. A very powerful item,” Silver answered.

  “Oh, are we?” Haddaman asked, looking directly at Dearborn. “We are looking for a powerful item, you say? What item are we looking for?”

  Diminutia walked by Haddaman and cuffed the back of his head. He put his arm around his wife but continued to scowl at the rude shopkeeper. As Haddaman rubbed his head, he displayed a bizarre amalgam of a disappointed frown and a satisfied smile. He said to Diminutia, “Marriage has changed you, my friend. Stripped you of your humor as well as your good sense. Now, one last time lest you feel the need to manhandle me again, what is this item of power?”

  “The Eternity Seed,” Silver answered.

  Haddaman brought his hand to his chin, fingers massaging his jaw as if to circulate the flow of memory. “One of the twelve World Builders, no?”

  Both Diminutia and Dearborn turned to Silver for an explanation. The wizard answered both questions with, “Yes. One of twelve magical items that, when combined, could build worlds.”

  “Or destroy them, I suspect,” Haddaman added.

  Diminutia had known Silver for a long time, over half of his life. They had been in many precarious situations together during their days as thieves. When survival meant remaining still or holding your breath or choosing the correct way while fleeing down an alley, you trusted your partner-in-crime to do the same. They developed that trust when the constabulary perpetually nipped at their heels but solidified that trust a decade ago when demons had been in front of them. Now, concerned that Silver withheld pertinent information, Diminutia felt the trust beginning to waver when the wizard confirmed, “Yes. Or destroy them.

  Dearborn’s muscles tensed. Arm around her, Diminutia felt every one of them harden to stone. He knew what question tumbled around in her mind, and he knew that she held her tongue for fear of ruining an already strained relationship. Instead, he asked it. “The other powerful items you mentioned had disappeared. They are the other eleven, aren’t they?”

  Silver’s answer came in the form of avoiding eye contact, shame etched on his face.

  “This changes things, Silver,” Diminutia said.

  “As I knew it would.”

  “Oh, this is rich!” Haddaman blurted out. “Do you mean to tell me that the Wizard’s Guild has lost the twelve most powerful items on the planet?”

  Finally displaying some form of annoyance with the shopkeeper, Silver hissed, “They were never ours to begin with. We know of these items. We know of their potential. The philosophy of the Wizard’s Guild is no power that great should be yielded by so few. What if someone tried to enslave the power of the twin suns? That would bring ruin to our world.”

  “Yet, someone—or someones—are collecting the World Builders, trying to wield such power. Logic dictates that one who knows how to find these items must be a wizard.”

  “Or an antiques shopkeeper,” Dearborn said, the implication of her words more obvious than if she accused him of being the culprit.

  “A purveyor of antiquities would not be in business very long if they didn’t know about the twelve.”

  “Which is why the children of antiques dealers had been kidnapped,” Diminutia said.

  “Children have been kidnapped? Why?” Haddaman asked, his tone sincere for the first time this conversation.

  Thanks to a communication with another band of wizards just yesterday, the trio knew the answer to this question. Diminutia interlocked his fingers with his wife’s as she tensed even more whenever the topic of kidnapping children came up. Silver answered, “Yes. We believe that whoever is looking for The Eternity Seed kidnapped and hoped to ransom the children for information as to its location.”

  “Did . . . did anyone come forth with this information?”

  “No. We thwarted their plans for the first time since these items have been disappearing.”

  “You have no idea of who is taking them?”

  “We have some suspicions.”

  “As do I,” Dearborn said. “Do you not find it odd that similar shops from neighboring towns were targeted, but not this one?”

  Haddaman frowned. “The children of those very shops owners were kidnapped. In case I need to remind you, I have no children, no frayed bits of string attached to my heart with which to tug.”

  “I’ve never heard selfishness described so poetically.”

  “Selfish intentions keep one alive and thriving, my dearest.”

  “So I’ve witnessed.”

  Arm still around his wife, Diminutia urged her toward the door. “Come. Let’s leave this place and return home. Silver needs to gather heroes, not farmers.”

  Smiling like a viper ready to strike, Haddaman said to Silver, “I accept. I will join you in finding The Eternity Seed.”

  Dearborn halted; Diminutia was powerless to move her any further. Voice stripped of emotion, she said, “We are not going home. We have to accompany them.”

  “No,” Diminutia said. “No, we do not. Silver lied by omission, failing to relay to us how truly powerful and dangerous this item is that he asked us to find.”

  “Which is precisely why we need to go with them, to find this item.”

  “We don’t need to. We have children to put first.”

  “Exactly. What would be their future if whoever finds what they’re looking for in these . . . these . . . World Builders? Or worse—what if Haddaman gets a hold of them?”

  Diminutia looked to the other two men in the room, angry at the one for lying, at the other for being such a horrible influence in his wife’s past. “Fine. Let’s get this over with. But it’s Haddaman’s gold we spend.”

  Face contorted as if smelling soured vinegar, Haddaman nodded in agreement.

  As they resupplied and readied the horses, Diminutia could not help but notice for the first time this trip Dearborn looked at something other than the crystalline image of their children. She never once stopped watching Haddaman with a condemning stare.

  eleven

  “Are you sure you’re up to this?”

  “Worry about yourself. I can handle my business just fine,” replied Draymon Skar.

  “So says you, but we have yet to see you in action and we need to know that we can count on you if the going gets rough.”

  “Then why did you hire me on?”

  “We needed an extra pair of hands,” shrugged Bartholomew Kreen.

  Draymon regarded his two companions. He had joined the duo but a scant month ago. They had been summoned by the King, and he had an idea as to why. He wanted to be a part of that. And they paid.

  The leader, Bartholomew had the look of the trade about him. Broad in the shoulder but well tapered at the waist, Bartholomew had the build of a man who spent more time working the fields than working a barstool. Obeed David, was a small and wiry rake of a man, with green eyes as sharp as a freshly sharpened poniard and closely cropped hair as dark as any malevolent desire. His smile was slightly crooked, far too quick, and disturbingly salacious.

  Bartholomew, his head sporting a spiky crown of hair the color of a haystack, worked th
e plug of wyvern grass from one jaw to the other. He spat the green juice to his left, never turning his attention away from Draymon. “You were quick enough to gather our supplies and run a few errands, I grant you that. But we have not gotten a weapons demonstration yet,” he paused to move the wyvern juice again and as he did so his eyes settled on the ruined hands of Draymon Skar. Like gnarled tree roots, his fingers were the coils of a knot. Bartholomew stared intently at them for a minute.

  “Stare all you want,” Draymon said. “I’ve come to terms with the looks long ago.”

  “Oh, I’m not one to worry about hurt feelings,” Bartholomew leered, spitting another mouthful of drool to his side, “I’m more worried about broken asses . . .,” he pointed to the dent in Draymon’s forehead, “. . . and how good you are at keeping mine whole.”

  “This?” Draymon asked, rubbing at the permanent indent, a crater two fingers wide. No flushing came to the area that was permanently stained a furious black purple, like an area that was constantly cast into shadow. “A reminder of who to trust.”

  “I’d wager,” interrupted Obeed, “that there’s more about you of merchant, than of brawler.” His eyes flashed. “You hold that stick of yours more like you need help walking than you could be menacing with it.”

  Draymon smiled. “We can put on a little demonstration right now if you’d like, but I’d bet that afterward I wouldn’t be the only one who bears a scar.”

  “Oh, I need a piece of this fool,” said Obeed as he reached down for the sword that lay on the ground behind him.

  “Stow it,” said Bartholomew. He waited a long minute, rolling around the wyvern grass in his mouth as he eyeballed Draymon. “We’ll get our chance to find out his mettle soon enough. No hard feelings, kid, but it’s hard to trust a stranger. I’m not standing before you today because I trust too easily. Once we hit Phenomere and get our meeting with King Perciless out of the way, we’ll send you into the fighting pit. If you can get out the other side, then you can stay.” Bartholomew spat out another mouthful of juice. “Let’s get going. It’s bad form to keep a king waiting.”

  In silence, the three men retrieved their goods and headed back on to the road. The only sound among them was the carefree chewing and occasional spittle noise of Bartholomew. He was vigilant, mindful of his surroundings and made no attempts to hide that he was watching Draymon as well the shadows of the forest lining either side of the road.

  Obeed took the rear and chuckled each time Draymon had to move his pack from one shoulder to the other. Although he had a bigger frame than Obeed, Draymon lacked the lithe man’s grace and endurance.

  Draymon, who walked between his two companions, had far more on his mind than either of them. He worried over the fighting pits, for, although he was sure of his ability with weapons, he had no idea what the other entrants could do. The first time he had ever ventured to enter combat games he did not fare so well. Absently, he rubbed the permanent bruise on his forehead. He had a different name then and wondered if King Perciless would remember that day, as well.

  * * *

  “King Perciless . . . the group you hired is here, sire.”

  The King smiled. “Please do not make me ask you again not to call me ‘sire’. ‘Perciless’ will do.”

  “But, sire . . . I mean, sir . . . I mean . . . it is improper.”

  Perciless hated to see people unsure of their own actions. He leaned forward in his throne and placed a hand on the man’s shoulder. “You may call me what you wish. Now, please show our guests in and then you may retire for the day.”

  “But . . . duty dictates that I must await the conclusion of your meeting so that I can show them out again, sire. It’s only proper.”

  “I can show them to the door of the castle myself. You deserve a respite. Go enjoy the festival for a while. And thank you.”

  “For what, sire?”

  “For being yourself,” Perciless smiled. “No king ever was prouder of his people.”

  The flame in the candle before him barely had time to flicker twice before the servant returned and announced Bartholomew and company to Perciless. The procession of three filtered into the room, bowing before their king. Bartholomew waited for the servant to leave before he spoke.

  “Greetings, my king. You sent for us, but failed to inform us how we could be of service to you.”

  “I did, indeed, send for you, Bartholomew. Tales of your efficiency precede you and I must say they are quite impressive tales. You are quite the sell-sword it would seem. A handy bit of muscle if the call needs to be answered.”

  “It’s all quite legal, my king, I assure you. If you require to see the writ that authorizes us to serve as bodyguard—”

  “That will not be necessary, thank you. But I must ask you . . . how are you at bounty hunting?”

  “My king?”

  “Bounty hunting . . . you know, the tracking of a person or a group of persons . . . bringing them back to the person paying you to do the job?”

  “Are they criminals that you speak of, my king?”

  “No.”

  “Then what, my king?”

  “Just a man. He has lost his way and needs to be found.”

  “I see. This man, King Perciless . . . does he happen to be dangerous?”

  “Is there any other kind of man, in your professional opinion?

  “Well, the world is full of all kinds of men, sire. Some more dangerous than others, depending on their skills . . . and the thoughts that fill their heads.”

  “I’ll be honest,” Perciless said with the dryness of a late autumn leaf, “both should be of great concern to you.” Perciless rose and stepped off the dais as he approached the group before him.

  “Is it my bravery that you question, King Perciless? I have no doubts about your own, approaching three known mercenaries and with no guards to be seen. This makes me wonder . . . why do you not seek out this man yourself?”

  “I have sought this man out myself, many, many times, using all the means at my disposal. I have no doubts about your bravery. I’m inclined to trust in the tales. It’s your methods that I question. Your integrity. I want this man returned to me unharmed even if that proves to be difficult.”

  “The pay is commensurate with the level of danger, I assume?”

  “You will be well paid,” Perciless said stopping in front of Draymon.

  “Who are we looking for?”

  “My brother, the lost Prince Oremethus.”

  Obeed spoke up. “King Perciless, are you sure that he still lives? I mean, not to be ungentle, but he has been gone a long time in a dangerous world. And the rumors of his sanity—”

  “Might simply be rumors. He lives, mercenary, I have no doubt. I will pay you well to find him and bring back to me.”

  “Let’s say that we accept your offer, but after months of searching, we find no clue of the man . . . do we still get paid for our invested time?” Bartholomew asked.

  “We will set up a monthly stipend. You need only stop each month and check in with the constable of whichever town you find yourselves closest to. I will send word throughout the kingdom that you should be paid without hesitation. The wizard’s guild will keep tabs on your progress so I’ll know if your efforts are disappointing, at which point the contract will be terminated,” Perciless stated flatly.

  “Very well, we accept your proposition, but I wonder . . .?”

  “Yes?”

  “If we find and return the crown prince to Phenomere, what will you do if he demands the throne?”

  “The honorable thing. I never wanted this mantle, but the burden fell to me. I shall be happy to relinquish it at the proper time.”

  “What if he’s not the ruler that you are?” Bartholomew asked.

  Perciless fixed the mercenary with a look letting
him know that this conversation was over. “Let’s not try to cross any bridges before we reach them, shall we? You two are free to go. Gather what supplies you need from my staff. Here . . . give this writ to the stable hand, and he will see that you are outfitted with good horses. You,” Perciless indicated Draymon, “I’d like for you to stay for a moment. I have something else to discuss with you.”

  “As you wish,” bowed Bartholomew. “Draymon, you can meet us at the inn outside the city gates. We’ll secure a room, and gather general supplies. Tomorrow we’ll finish our discussion. We’ll see where that leaves us.”

  Perciless raised an eyebrow. “Discussion?”

  “Obeed and I have worked together for years. This fellow, for weeks. We need to make sure we can trust him.”

  King Perciless always wore a smile more befitting a friendly neighbor quick to lend a hand. Smile now gone, he looked at Bartholomew square in the eye and said, “You can trust this man with your gold, your secrets, and your life. I hope you add the weight of my words to his side of the scales during your discussion.”

  Obeed audibly gulped as Bartholomew worked his jaw.

  “I will, Your Highness. Draymon, we leave at dawn.”

  The two mercenaries bowed as they left the throne room, their footfalls echoing through the empty expanse.

  “Draymon, is it?” Perciless asked. “Since when?”

  “My Lord?”

  “Your name is Arten, is it not? You are the son of a jeweler if I have my wits about me. I know you well, do I not?”

  “Yes . . . yes, my king. I’m surprised that you remember me.”

  “How could I forget,” Perciless asked. “My brother, Daedalus, gave you those wounds. I wish that it had been otherwise.” Perciless went gray in the face upon mentioning his brother, Daedalus. Draymon wondered how that weighed upon the king’s heart to have one brother insane and missing, the other brother being the impetus of the Demon War.

  “You tended me, King Perciless. I have never forgotten the compassion that you showed to a mere plebian boy. I remember being nervous standing on that log on festival day. I was so nervous I could barely hold the staff, my palms sweating. Prince Daedalus gave me a dismissive look as he took his place opposite me. For a few moments I thought I might have stood a chance against him and then . . .,” Draymon flexed his hands as best he could, “. . . after that . . . well, I still feel the impact of that staff against my skull, right before the world went black for me. When I came to, you were standing over me helping the healers rouse me. Unfortunately, they could not do much else for me. I couldn’t help my father make jewelry after that. I never forgot how you took it upon yourself to give me what aid and comfort could be found.”