The Devil's Influence Read online

  Pik died during a battle against demons from Hell while saving a mutual friend, Phyl, an annoying satyr. Bale never liked Phyl very much—he did not feel comfortable around the satyr, or his ambiguous innuendos, or his penchant for the latest clothing styles in the kingdom of Albathia, especially since he wore none himself. He was a satyr after all. Bale’s distaste for the satyr came to a head when Phyl married his last surviving sister. Bale refused to associate with Phyl from that point on.

  Bale eventually married as well, a harpy who had been on the opposite side of the short war they had fought in. As a member of the small army known as The Horde, she became lost in life after their general, Praeker Trieste, abandoned his troops mid-battle. Bale had felt bad for her after the war and tried to cheer her up. That led to marriage, even though it took well over a year for Bale to realize that they were indeed married. He had no idea how many children he had, just that new ones kept appearing. He deduced that it was over a dozen during an argument one day where she screamed at him, “Bale Pinkeye! We have over a dozen mouths to feed, not including that talking rabbit of yours. Go get a job!”

  He had found a job, to appease his wife’s wishes. Well, many jobs, actually.

  Very few were legal.

  Over the years, he had tried to find a group of friends, since he lost his closest ones during the Demon War, either to death or poor life choices. For some of the more recent years, he participated in many less-than-legal jobs with another group that had been in the disbanded Praeker Trieste army.

  The small band consisted of himself, Lapin, a hobgoblin who did not say much because his tongue had been cut out, a minotaur, a one-armed human, and a werewolf. The werewolf was the leader, but what confounded Bale was that he called himself a werewolf even though he never transformed into anything other than an imposing bipedal wolf creature of bristled fur and corded muscle. “Why’d he call himself a werewolf?”

  Through glassy eyes, Lapin, on the bar top licking up spilled alcohol, looked at Bale and slurred, “What in the name of the thirteen hells are you talking about?”

  “Cezomir, the werewolf. Why’d he call himself a werewolf?” Bale reiterated, incredulous as if the theater of his mind was on display for Lapin.

  Even though he was on all four of his feet, the rabbit still swayed, fighting with his own personal equilibrium dilemma. “Cezomir? The werewolf from the gang we ran with?”

  “Yeah. Why’d he call himself a werewolf?”

  “Because he was a werewolf.”

  Despite Lapin’s diminutive size, Bale discovered long ago that the rabbit was smarter than he, so he simply accepted the answer with a soulful nod. As he contemplated the idea, he got lost in his memories of the time spent with Cezomir and his crew. They started doing small jobs, simple larceny, stealing merchandise or cash boxes from rich people who owned a lot of businesses. Then the jobs became bigger, more dangerous. Then Cezomir killed someone. And smiled about it.

  That job made Bale more than uncomfortable. It started as many did, Lapin using his size, unnoticeable by many, to do reconnaissance. A locked warehouse with one guard doing rounds. It could have been . . . should have been . . . a simple in-and-out when the guard moved to the opposite end of the building. Instead, Cezomir waited until the guard was by the door and then burst in. He killed . . . slaughtered . . . the man. By the time Bale entered the warehouse, he could not recognize what race the guard was.

  After that job, Bale could not take any more, could not handle the stress, would not do what might be expected of him. The very next day, he decided to tell Cezomir and his crew that he was finished working with them. He came to the secret meeting place a few minutes early, just in time to hear the conversation about how the rest of the crew only kept him around for access to Lapin.

  A drunken rabbit was more valuable to others than Bale.

  Bale had his suspicions, but it still hurt his heart to hear the words. He turned and left without so much as a farewell. One of the two smart things, he felt, that he did while doing jobs with that crew was never telling them where he lived. The other was quit when he did—the very next job, Cezomir and crew got caught and arrested. That was three years ago and Bale wondered whatever happened to them. “I wonder whatever happened to them,”

  “Again,” the wobbling rabbit mumbled, “I must ask what you’re talking about.”

  Bale harrumphed. “Keep up! Cezomir and his crew.”

  “They got arrested. Good riddance if you ask me.”

  “I know that. I mean, which dungeon did they get sent to? How long is their sentence? Do they miss us?”

  “Most days, the worst thing that can happen to me is getting shit on my tail. Then you speak and it makes me cherish those dingleberries.” Lapin shook his fluffy head in disgust and went back to lapping up ale from the bar-top.

  Dejected, Bale sighed and returned his focus to his own ale. He moved his arm in a circular motion and watched the liquid slosh and the wisps of foam spiral. “Have I ever told you about the time I saved the world?”

  “Yes! A million times yes. Even after I lived through the experience with you. If I hear it one more time, I will kill you in your sleep and scatter your dead bits through each of the ten hells.”

  Bale could not remember a time he sighed so many times. Maybe this was some kind of personal record? Did a person actually keep track of such things? If so, that must be one sad individual. Still, Bale was certain he was up to thirteen. Definitely a record.

  In one sloshing gulp, he finished his ale. He debated about asking for another one. He stared at the bartender, but the gnome did not come over. In fact, the gnome shook his head and went to the back room. Bale wondered why a proprietor of a tavern would leave the bar unmanned until he looked around. He and Lapin were the only patrons. The place was so quiet Bale could hear each lick, lick, lick of the rabbit’s tiny, little tongue.

  He sighed again. Fourteen.

  All he wanted to do was tell his story. This was the tavern to do that, to recount tales of harrowing adventure. Sure, he had told it already, many times. But he had saved the world! Most heroes save a damsel, or a family, or on rare occasions a kingdom. He single-handedly used his brain to save this whole realm. He could not articulate the finer points of depression, but he knew he was sad, and it went deeper than being bereft of ale.

  Sighing for the fifteenth time, he thought about going home. He really did not want to, especially while not having a job at the moment. He did know of someone who knew someone who needed some muscle. Bale did not like that, being desired for all his bulk and none of his brain. Plus, when people wanted to hire “muscle” it was usually to beat up other people. Bale was not too fond of that either. Almost reaching a final decision, his internal debate was interrupted by a tugging on his pant leg.

  Looking down, Bale saw a child, one who had ogre features. Bale asked, “Yes? Why are you tugging on my good pants?”

  “Are you Bale Pinkeye? The brave ogre who saved the world?” the boy asked.

  Lapin stopped drinking off the bar top and watched the scene with a dubious look in his eye. Bale’s lips pulled into a wide smile, looking like oddly shaped sausages being stretched over two rows of yellowed stones. “Why, yes. Yes, I am. Would you like to hear that story?”

  “No, I most certainly would not, for I have heard it many times, a score or more by my estimations. I am your son, Rue. Mother has sent me to fetch you.”

  Shoulders slumped, Bale slid off the barstool. Saddened, he snatched Lapin from the bar top by the scruff and placed the rabbit in the left, front pocket of his pants. Not only did Bale not get to tell his story to the boy, he now had to go home and that made him feel bad. Then he realized that he did not recognize his own son, a feat that should have been easily done, and that made him feel worse. Attempting to uncoil the feelings of guilt that twisted around his innards, he asked,
“So, Rue, how was your day?”

  The boy smiled. With a haughtiness far greater than what was typical from a soft, pre-pubescent voice, he said, “Well, Father, in school today . . .”

  Bale tuned out.

  During the boy’s tale, Bale looked into the night sky as he trudged behind his son. The word “school” instantly pulled him from the story. Bale never liked school and therefore never went. He had no use for it. What could he do now if he had gone to school that he had not already done? He had saved the world and did so without cracking a single book nor solving an arithmetic problem. School was not worth the part of a pony hidden by its tail! He’d have to talk to his wife about removing the children from school, or else they might not be able to save the world.

  Of course, that thought was shoved from his head as soon as he opened the door to his house, quickly replaced by the reverberating cacophony of noise found within.

  “Daddy’s home!” shrieked Joy, the youngest of his daughters. Her feathered wings flapped quickly as she launched herself at Bale. Finding her target, she wrapped strong green arms—the only ogre part of her otherwise harpy form—around her father’s neck. Bale’s response was, “Huuuurggk!”

  The remaining daughters, Blessing, Comfort, Extol, Delight, and Mirth, all joined in tackling their father. Bale could hardly breathe and could not move. If not for the pain and lack of oxygen, he would have chuckled. He could not get mad, though. What price is a bit of discomfort when it was a byproduct of others expressing their love? Even from the boys—Woe, Remorse, Flop, Fiasco, and Bane—who gave shoves and tackles and punches to their father after the girls had relinquished him.

  All his children had some form of ogre-harpy mix: taloned legs supporting ogre bodies, ogre legs from harpy bodies, wings sprouting from ogre backs, green skin and gray feathers. Feathers everywhere, constantly floating about the house like perpetual snowfall.

  Bale sneezed out a stray feather that had found its way into his nostril as he plopped down in his oversized armchair, made comfortable by feather filled cushions. Half of the children ran around the house at play; the other half, mostly the younger ones, found entertainment bouncing on or poking at their father. While someone’s talon twisted the patch of his already knotted hair, Bale looked to his wife, Cherish, in the kitchen sweeping up feathers. Rags that had stopped being clothing months ago hung loosely from her body, gray feathers covering most of her ample curves. Her face was so delicately human, if not for the small hooked beak above her mouth. Her talons scraped thin lines in the hardened dirt floor as she moved about. Bale asked, “Dinner?”

  Without looking up or pausing from her chore, she asked, “Job?”

  Bale sighed again. “Food?”

  “Bread.”

  Cherish’s wings flexed with every sweep. Bale did not know much about the machinations of the household, and he would willingly admit he could not even name half of the children running around, but he knew that when her wings twitched like that, she was mad. She said two words, so Bale deduced that it must be one of them causing her the consternation. He highly doubted that bread could outright anger anyone, so it must be his lack of job and the argument from last night.

  Frustrated about their current living situation, Cherish mentioned that she found work she could do. Knowing that he met her on the field of battle because she was following some power-hungry warlord, Bale did not like the sound of whatever work she was willing to take. When she was desperate, she made bad decisions. Bale loved her and did not want her making bad decisions, so he decided that he would be the one to make the bad decision. He cleared his throat and said, “Umm, I did find a lead today. I know someone who knows someone who’s looking for someone. I’ll go see him tomorrow.”

  Cherish stopped sweeping and looked up to Bale. Her face softened. “Don’t just sit there. Come in the kitchen and get some soup.”

  Bale did as instructed. He dreaded whatever tomorrow might hold, and hated the prospect of being hired muscle. And he was certain there would be limited opportunities to save the world. But it made his wife happy and that was good enough for him.

  two

  If one knew how to navigate through the Looping Forest, it was a wondrous place filled with curious beauty. If two or more individuals knew how to navigate through the Looping Forest, then it was the perfect place for clandestine meetings. It was no small task to learn the ways of the forest. An enchantment lay upon the forest, not of manmade arcane sorcery, but that of nature where all the trees were the exact same species, thick footed and sporting a full overreaching canopy of sharp-toothed silvery leaves. The trees all stood roughly fifty feet high and sported unevenly spaced limbs, short and straight. The exposed roots resembled legs and were covered in broken patches of thick bark. The rest of the trunk was covered in patches of thick moss, yet soft as down to the touch. What confounded any interloper were the roots—they formed bowed arches, giving the illusion of looping circles as far as the eye could see.

  Silver was one of the few who knew how to navigate the forest for the same nefarious reasons as those he and his band of fellow wizards sought. He had participated in many of these types of meetings in his past. Money exchanged hands for pilfered goods. Contraband passed from party to party. More than a few times an illicit tryst with a philandering wife or the daughter of a dignitary took place. He could not stop a tiny smile from tugging at the corner of his lips. Chenessa, a dark elf with judging eyes, looked at him wryly and Silver felt the need to push away those pleasant memories, considering the current circumstances.

  Informants had notified him of an impending exchange. Like all assignations such as this, Silver knew the time, place, and an idea of what was to be exchanged, but not those doing the taking or giving. However, despite the empty feeling in his stomach for doing so, he contacted the authorities and asked them to accompany him for this investigation. To his chagrin the local constable had contributed only three members for this exercise, but, the more he reflected upon things, the more he was able to convince himself that a smaller group would be better suited to breaking up the illicit activities about to unfold. Larger groups tended to hinder their own efforts either by the noisy need for communication or the silence indicating a complete lack thereof. Coordination was key in these types of covert operations and Silver was thankful that he knew the members of his group so well.

  Chenessa was a thinker, tight-lipped and thoughtful, though perhaps a little bit too quick to contribute a scowl. A thick mane of blood red curls buoyed about her shoulders. Her skin was darker than a starless night and flawless to both the eye and the touch. Silver pushed this memory to the side as he caught himself smiling at her sharp profile, most notable for the slender, streamlined nose and chin. A more beautiful dark elf he had never seen. Her skill with basic wizardry and advanced evocation made her a useful source of offense in a fight. However, it was her skills in debate that had almost convinced Silver to take more of a leadership role within their local guild. Almost.

  “What are we looking for this time?” she asked.

  Silver led his band of four and the trio of local law enforcement—the constable and two volunteers from the town watch—deeper into the forest. The paths they followed mimicked the tree bases, curved and serpentine with any fork in the path looking like snakes slithering away from each other. “Don’t know yet. But it is this way.”

  “You know this how?” Chenessa asked, the playfulness in her voice unbefitting the tension of the situation.

  “I just know,” Silver whispered.

  “Experience maybe?”

  Normally he would ignore any reference to his past as a thief, but for Chenessa he offered a noncommittal shrug.

  “It hardly matters why he knows what he does, as long as the information is accurate. Thus far, as with prior missions, it has been,” Millinni said. More than twice Silver’s age, the old woman, humped at th
e shoulders and stiff in the knees, had seen and heard far more than everyone else gathered. Her arthritic fingers were no longer quick with a conjuring, but her mind defied age in a way that her body had not. She honed her magic to suit her situation, sacrificing no power to modify the spellcasting into more of a verbal effort, her tongue and mind the thrust of her keen potency. Her hair was thin and lank, hanging down in greasy strings . . . more scalp was exposed than covered. Physical infirmity demanded that she wore a flimsy shift of tattered cloth and shapeless slip-on shoes that provided only the most modest of protection. Ultimately her appearance was more of crone than of magician, but Silver valued her shrewd council. In Millinni, Silver had a companion who was never at a loss, nor overlooked any missteps, all the while offering steady support with unquestionable judgment. Silver liked her at his back, especially on missions like this one. Her only fault, in Silver’s mind, lay in the fact that she, too, wished for him to take more of an authoritative role within the guild. He felt the inference when she pointed a crooked finger and said, “Lead on.”

  The only member of his team that did not hound him to ascend the ranks of the wizard’s guild was Hemmer, a man about the same age as Silver, but so immersed in his love of magic that he could not care less who governed what. He was just happy to learn and practice new spells, potions, and charms. Hemmer followed any order given to him if it was logical enough to follow. As expected, Hemmer ambled alongside Silver and the other wizards, waiting for a command.

  Silver continued to lead the other six through the forest, a slight chuckle coming from Chenessa every time he decisively chose a path amid the arched tree roots, as naturally as a drunkard walking home a tavern. The end justified the means, so he tolerated her subtle chiding. If he were being truthful to himself, he enjoyed it. Such an intimacy he feared long forgotten. He pushed the nostalgia of emotion from his mind and sharply raised his hand, the universal sign to slow down and remain quiet.