The Devil's Grasp Read online

  The following house had a large retriever the color of burnt taffy. The dog lifted his head at her approach, but did not come out of his shelter as he was wont to do when she passed him. Even animals tire of routines, it seemed, and she wondered briefly when she could trade in hers, but she had reached her destination before her mental reserve could fully elaborate on the subject.

  “Morning, Melthas.” She knew he was engaged in his tasks and not within earshot, but she always greeted him anyway. The sound of her voice seemed disquieting as if a mere whisper would shatter the perfect silence of this morning. In a large pail she placed a silver coin. Melthas was the peasant responsible for placing heated rocks within the fountain, and he was never lax in his duties, despite the lameness in his right leg. Dearborn always contributed well to his cause. His wife had passed on recently, and his son had grown and gone, leaving the old man with only his labors for companionship. This kinship to the old man she acknowledged with coin.

  She stared intently at the fountain, a stone structure with walls about four feet high crafted in the shape of a schooner. It was done to scale, and the mast hid a pump that shot water high into the air above. It was caught in its downward arc on the sails of the foremast and cascaded back into the pool. It was a piece of marvelous craftsmanship and Dearborn had always found peace in its shadow.

  “Dearborn! I had no idea you came here this early. No surprise, though, really. I mean, given your dedication to the rigors of training. One simply cannot underestimate the importance of an early start.”

  Frissons danced down her spine as she savored the sound of his voice. She did not look at her commanding officer as she spoke.

  “General, I …”

  “Iderion. Simply, Iderion. How many years have I known you? On the battlefield you may use epithets, but not here. Dispense with the manners, Dearborn. They distance people.”

  Iderion was a mountain of masculinity and looked every bit the way a general should. None of the forty members in the Elite Troop were taller or wider. No soldier in the rest of the army had his height, and only a handful had the girth, but Iderion wore it the way a king would wear a coat of arms. Even though his waist was forged from many years battling tankards of ale, his chest exploded with muscle, leading into shoulders as broad as a feed wagon and capable of handling a yoke far better than any ox. His arms, thicker than most men’s legs, were chiseled from handling pikes and halberds, occasionally considering the mace a finesse weapon.

  Like most of the men in the Elite Troop, his hair was thick and long, just as his beard. Iderion stood apart from the others, though, as he kept both impeccably groomed. Dearborn often fantasized about losing her hands in his hair as she would lose her face in his beard.

  “As you would have it, Iderion.”

  “It’s a beautiful work, this fountain. I often come here when my mind is overwrought with problems and the answers are evasive. There is solace in the sound of softly falling water. It is nature’s laughter, I believe.”

  “Oh yes! I have often thought as you do. I … I … I must be going … I’m simply a sight … I …”

  “A sight, you are, but not an eyesore.”

  Unsure of how to react to his comment, Dearborn shifted her glance to the ground. Attempting to be coy, she shifted her eyes to his; however, he was looking at her left arm, fully flexed supporting the shoulder bar. As ladylike as possible, she set the buckets on the wall of the fountain and replied, “You are far too kind, sir.”

  “You make it very easy to be kind. In fact, you are the only member of my Elite Troop who bathes more than once a week and refuses to frolic in flatulence.”

  Dearborn laughed. “Despite my cleanliness, I am still your best warrior.”

  Dolt! Dearborn scolded herself, never wanting to appear in any way unfeminine in front of Iderion. However, simply standing before the general seemed to counter her comment.

  “That you are,” Iderion laughed.

  “I … have been coming to this fountain since I have been in the Elite Troop and have never seen you here. Any special occasion?” Dearborn asked as she dunked her buckets into the warm water.

  “I just came from the armorer. It was just coincidence that I happened to pass through your morning ritual.”

  Confused as to why he would see an armorer, Dearborn glanced down at the armor he toted along: plate mail for his chest and shoulders, chain mail for waist, while the whole was covered in bear skin.

  Iderion never lacked confidence, to the point where a few years prior he proclaimed that he would die from neither weapon nor man. Seeking a true challenge, he sought a battle with nature to learn fear. He had found everything he was looking for in the form of a mountain grizzly and contested it without weapon and free from clothing, save a few strategically placed leather straps to contain and protect certain body parts that defined him as a man. He took from that battle many scars and the bear’s hide, which he had fastened strips of to his armor, not as a trophy as some had thought, but as a symbol of respect.

  “You’re not thinking about switching to new armor, are you?” Dearborn asked.

  Iderion laughed. “Not at all. Even though my wife did a fine job attaching the skins to the metal, an expert is needed to readjust and tighten some of the fasten points now and again.”

  My wife … my wife … my wife … shrieked through Dearborn’s mind like an angered banshee. My wife … my wife … Thrusting a dagger between her ribs, followed by a twist, would have been more pleasant. My wife … Dearborn’s morning had just been ruined. “I must be going,” she said as she hoisted the bar and buckets across her shoulders.

  “So soon?”

  “My … water … is getting cold.”

  Dearborn hurried away as if retreating from Iderion’s parting words, “I shall see you at breakfast. And don’t forget about our meeting with the king and his sons.”

  The return trip to her room went quickly, her eyes glazed from unpleasant emotions, unable to concentrate on the surrounding scenery. However, instead of the relaxing soak she desired, she found herself scrubbing, trying to bristle away her lovelorn feelings. Disappointed with her bath and disgusted with herself for her intolerable reaction to the mere mention of Iderion’s wife, she resolved to get dressed and simply go about the rest of her day.

  Her boots were thick leather and knee high. Running down each shin was a strip of heavy steel, spines sprouting from it, wrapping around her calf like a silver rib cage. From wrist to elbow, she donned the exact same protection. The rest of her armor boasted only slight variations; the same thick hide, except circles of steel in even patterns were fastened firmly, leaving only parts of her thighs and arms exposed. Since the local armory found it difficult to fit a woman, she had crafted the outfit herself, blending the protection of mail with the stealth of leather. Being the daughter of a blacksmith had many benefits. Her cloak, as thin as the air of a stale summer morning and as red as a freshly stoked forge, clasped by a single chain below her neck, flowed as she strode down the hallway. She never liked wearing it, feeling cloaks to be too deceptive, but Iderion requested her to do so whenever she faced a situation requiring formality. And a meeting with the king himself after breakfast certainly seemed a formality.

  Her stomach rolled from the thought, ruining the breakfast feast the king’s servants prepared as she entered the mess hall. Two inviting tables stood in the center of the room, each long enough to fit an army let alone the motley crew for whom it was intended. With scarcely half the king’s Elite Troop present, the din far surpassed that of a full mead hall. The troop force numbered forty, always. Iderion declared that number; any more would be too difficult to control, any less would discount the use of complex battle strategies. In the rare occasion of a member following the path of death, or even the less frequent instance of a member following the path of retirement, a replacement was provided by the regular army. Such was Mahlakore, the newest member, finishing his meal with a few of the other men as Dearborn joined
them.

  “We were just talking about you, Sergeant!” Grother said, food spraying from his lips as he laughed. “We were just telling Mahlakore here that he wasn’t an official member until he tries to best our sergeant.”

  “I never had to face an opponent so pretty before,” Mahlakore said, laughing as well, his eyes never looking below her face to see the outline of her body beneath her thin cloak.

  Dearborn squinted, eyes as cold as her sword, her gaze gliding across Mahlakore. He was young. His youth showed in his grooming, with trimmed hair and nails, as well as his health, his waist leaner than his chest. Most new recruits started like that, but quickly turned into Grother—appearance indistinguishable between man and beast.

  Under any other circumstance, Dearborn would all but swoon over a compliment, any compliment. However, the need to be a sergeant outweighed the desire to be a woman. In one fluid motion, done so many times before, she flipped her cloak open, her broad shoulders burst free like a bull charging through paper, as she sat and planted her elbow on the table with her palm open, waiting for his. Blanching to the shade of a dead man’s, Mahlakore’s skin kept his jaw from falling clean from the rest of his skull. The mess hall erupted with hoots and hollers, food and drink spraying from every mouth.

  As timid as a wedding night virgin, Mahlakore placed his elbow on the table, his hand clasped Dearborn’s. Grother signaled the start of the match with an earth-splitting belch.

  Like all men, Mahlakore started hard, wasting most of his energy with the first thrust to get only a modest gain. Dearborn always liked to hold fast, forcing her opponent to tire himself, however, today was different: she did not have an enjoyable bath. Veins sprouted in her arm, flirting with rupture from the ire pulsing through them. Slow and steady, the way the oceans reduce shores to sand, she overpowered him, giving one final push to slam and bloody his knuckles against the tabletop. Again the mess hall erupted with cheers and laughter.

  Massaging his wrist, Mahlakore looked more dejected than a kicked pup. “What is to become of me?”

  “Nothing, boy!” Grother said, slapping the young man’s back. “I said ‘try’ to best our sergeant. All of us have lost to her! The only man she has never beaten is …” A glance to the head of the table replaced his words. There sat Iderion.

  Dearborn attempted to stifle a blush, unaware that Iderion had entered. Disgusted with herself for appearing less than feminine twice in one day in front of him, and even more disgusted with herself for caring, she spent the rest of breakfast not once looking up from her plate.

  Three

  There were places in the world where the land was clean and smooth like unblemished skin; where its voice honeyed and melodious, the air filled with the aria of birdsong and brook speech; where it exhaled steadily and unhurried, its breath a delicious blend of dandelion and marigold. On a stand of countryside just such as this, a contingent of the most finely gifted architects and artisans had erected Phenomere Castle, home to the ruling family of Albathia. Constructed of granite with a pallid marble facing, the castle loomed high above the ground, its highest turret rising spear-like towards the heavens, often transfixing a stray cloud upon its spiny tip. Silver and white banners, the colors of the current monarch, draped from balconies and turrets, flaccid in the stillness, their lengths exposed to view by the surrounding countryside.

  There was but one road that led to the castle, and it was well weeded and unmarred, circling off into the temperate day like a band of gold marrying the capital to the country. Beyond the outer bailey, fields of bracken flushed with moss rose, stretched off to either side, extending unbroken beyond the limits of normal vision.

  The land to the south was an agrarian paradise, well suited to pasture and vineyards. To the far west grew great stands of trees, and many a man was known to have procured a more than meager existence from their abundance. In the east flowed a mighty river, and on its banks numerous peasants were employed both in spawning and harvesting fish. Northward lay the great stone quarries that had yielded the skeleton of Phenomere Castle and countless other less impressive structures. All manner of professions tied to the virtues of the land were commonplace in this microcosmic paradise. In the country of Albathia, food and drink were plentiful, and, during peacetime, life in Albathia was not a life of wanting.

  From atop a parapet on the western wing of the princes’ level of the castle stood the youngest of the king’s three sons. He gazed in resentment upon all that his family had accomplished and reaped. Eyes of virgin flint lay beneath an unworked brow, furrowed deeper than any valley. This expression was the norm for Prince Daedalus. A trail of sunshine draped from beneath his crown to the middle of his back. Ruddy, well-toned skin stretched tautly across his thin frame, evident beneath the damask cloth he draped about his shoulders. Daedalus ferociously contemplated Father’s request for his presence at the military meeting about to take place. As third son to King Theomann, his counsel was rarely sought and even more seldom acknowledged. This could only mean that the matter was serious.

  Two scorpions, a brown one and a black one, clattered about in a small brass cage at his feet. He grabbed the tiny and lethargic brown scorpion, leaving its black twin in the cage. Brown for yes, black for no. About its segmented body he secured a thin tube of reed. Satisfied that his message would ride intact, he placed the creature within a basket woven of dried and toughened straw. He then placed the basket within the talons of a falcon as pure white as innocence, making it near impossible to spot against the clouds floating within the blue agate sky that reigned over Albathia. The falcon had come to him some few weeks before bearing news from Praeker Trieste, the leader of The Horde and an ally to Daedalus. When the raptor reached the center of the desert, its tiny passenger would grow agitated from the heat and inject the bird with his venomous essence and plummet to his master’s hand. In this manner, no messenger bird could ever be traced. Clever and vicious, this was the nature of Daedalus.

  His diabolical thoughts ceased as the din of rapping from his chamber door echoed throughout his room. It was time for the meeting. As if haste were an indignity, Daedalus strolled across the room to the door. With a hand hovering over the latch, he waited. He had little power, and he exerted it whenever he could. Once the person on the other side knocked again, Daedalus opened the door.

  “Perciless?” Daedalus expected a servant to fetch him as usual. “What a surprise.”

  Second in line to succeed the throne, Perciless stood four inches taller than his younger brother, a trait gifted from their mother’s side of the family. Having the stature of a decorative tree found in the courtyard, straight and sturdy, his army training teetered the scale from lanky to lean. Of his two brothers, Daedalus hated Perciless the most.

  Being the first born prince, Oremethus held the keys to the kingdom. That alone warranted the youngest brother’s hate. Perciless, however, accepted nature’s cruel joke, accepted that their father decreed him nothing. A year separated each brother, and Daedalus never accepted that two years stood between him and a future seat on the throne, unable to fathom how Perciless tolerated one year. Even when they played as children, Perciless followed every rule to every game, never wavering from instructions given to him. An acrid taste, brought forth from his stomach, tickled the back of Daedalus’s tongue by the mere thought of his brother’s blind compliance.

  “Let’s go,” Perciless said. “We don’t want to keep father waiting.” The words scraped down Daedalus’s spine as if a dagger tip scraped raw nerve.

  “No, we wouldn’t want that,” Daedalus said under his breath.

  “Father said that we should …”

  The voice of his brother droned on, but Daedalus heard only an incessant murmur. To his ears, it simply trailed off as the hand of memory reached in and reversed the hourglass of years. His vision grew dim as he walked while he was taken back many years to a well-remembered scene from his youth. …

  … The courtyard had been transformed as if by pas
sing sorcery. The daily dust of the marketplace had been replaced with hanging banners, the livestock converted to courtesans with their bright livery and fancy speech, hawkers and gawkers melted into frolicking children, shouts traded for laughter. The midsummer’s festival was sponsored by the crown and an event not to be missed. Laborers, craftsmen, and hagglers alike dedicated themselves to their specialties with extra zeal in the months preceding the celebration in preparation for the time off. Such splendor … such extravagance … such an incredible waste of time, effort, and resources even to Daedalus’s then adolescent mind.

  While the adults loitered and chatted idly or strolled down the network of aisles of freshly erected stalls examining foreign-made handcrafts or fresh-from-the-hearth baked goods, the children engaged in all manner of games, some traditional, some extemporaneous. The teenaged Daedalus stood on the stone portico of the market’s auction house, the only permanent structure in the outer bailey. It had been designed to serve as the command center for the castellan in times of war to direct the castle defenses but had never been used in that capacity. A simple shame and a squandering of further resources, Daedalus mused. One simply did not build structures one did not intend to use.

  From between the columns that supported the edifice’s roof, Daedalus stared out at the assemblage of vagrants. Amongst their number, he noted, were his two older brothers. Oremethus and Perciless, swallowed in the midst of the local rabble, engaged in bland banter with the native peasantry about the current status of the kingdom, exchanging handshakes and hugs as though they were smiles. It was one thing to acknowledge the lower class as though they were deserving of royal attention, and entirely another to mingle with the sweat-stained, stinking serfs, let alone come into material contact, as though disease and pestilence were nonexistent.

  His eyes swept the field of the inner bailey, until at last they found the field that had been cleared for the games. Disgusted with his brothers and disinterested in everyone else, Daedalus drew up an entourage of guards about himself and moved with haste to the sporting ground.