The Devil's Grasp Read online

  Irabel’s efficacy depended entirely upon quick success. One good defensive stand, Durandenn hoped, would shatter the illusory cooperation that united the Irabelian army. Once that was accomplished, the confounded Irabelian army would take their frustrations back across the ocean.

  His words were viewed as the wisdom of a savior and an army was assembled under his ultimate command, with the various governors and mayors assuming positions of rank. They met the Irabelians at the shore on the morning of their landing. Durandenn held his force together by sheer force of will, but his slipshod army of peasants, farmers, bricklayers, and fishermen was quickly pushed back as far as they could run.

  At the close of the first day, they had given up as much ground as could be covered by an army in such a span of time. Durandenn called his officers to him, and they met all night, exhausting strategy and alcohol in a session that lasted until shortly before the morning sun’s rise. Just as words of surrender tickled the lips of the officers, an enigmatic visitor appeared as if hand-delivering an answered prayer.

  An aged man with a scraggly beard and bare pate to complement his prodigious belly stared at him with eyes of cobalt blue. The stranger professed to be a wizard of some magnitude who expressed concerns of his own for the kingdom of Albathia and claimed that Irabel marched with a rare stone in their arsenal that he deemed too dangerous for them to possess. And that stone was the wizard’s only asking price.

  The wizard traveled with a dozen equally experienced in the craft. All thirteen were also equal in appearance as well, prosperous waistlines, clothing as unkempt as their beards, as menacing as a band of bristled weasels. But they did Durandenn’s bidding, and they did it well—the war ended within three weeks.

  The first victory came the following day—the wizards ordered Durandenn’s makeshift army to retreat again, leading the forces of Irabel through a narrow valley. Landslides from both sides crushed the entire Irabelian army, taking mere minutes to create a graveyard for hundreds.

  Taking offense at such an ignoble defeat, the entire able bodied populous of Irabel had been launched forth upon any ship with the ability to stay afloat. Tens of thousands desired revenge and an undeniable urge to conquer a new continent. The wizards were prepared. Silhouettes of ships appeared against the crystal horizon like insects on a placid pond. By the time they reached the shores, apocalyptic black clouds reigned supreme, unleashing swirling winds and erupting waves; more than a dozen ships became airborne. In the end, all of the ships finished beneath the water.

  Even though the events leading to the war’s finale seemed more coincidence than magic, Durandenn paid the price with neither complaint nor hesitation. He rewarded the wizards with what they sought—a mysterious black stone, darker than ceaseless night or the emptied grave of a murderer, the void of pitch seemed to whisper poems of fear and death. The wizard refused any other reward and insisted that Durandenn keep the remainder of the Irabelian treasure.

  “Father?” the voice of Daedalus snapped his father’s ear like the tip of a whip.

  Theomann grasped his robes as he stumbled backward as if slipping on the profuse sweat pouring from his brow. A hundred heartbeats seemed to accompany every quivering breath rushing over his parched lips. His head ached as if a battle-axe had split it in two. He even ran his hand through his time bleached white hair to make sure there was no such gash.

  “What are you doing?” Daedalus asked.

  Panting like a dehydrated dog, Theomann replied, “My mind momentarily escaped me. It … does that from time to time. Unfortunately, it seems you and I may have that in common.”

  Daedalus squinted, his thoughts trying to process the meaning of his father’s words. Patronizing old man, entered his mind, but what exited his mouth was, “I know not what you mean.”

  Theomann sighed, disappointed with his failed attempt to relate. “We … also have more in common than just that. You are quite a gifted thinker.”

  “Not gifted enough to become the future ruler of Albathia, though.”

  The king sighed again, this time rubbing his temples. “Daedalus, you know very well the crown must fall upon …”

  “… Oremethus.” Daedalus spat the word out faster than he would a rotted piece of fruit.

  “Son, I have said many times, my love is spread equally among you and your brothers.”

  “However, it is Oremethus who receives the best education, Oremethus who receives the best training, Oremethus who leads the Elite Troop on a daring quest to prevent the kingdom from falling off the precipice of war.”

  “Daedalus …”

  “Sorry, Father, I must leave now.”

  Feelings of failure washed over his heart as Theomann once again gazed out his window, wondering how his firstborn was faring.

  ***

  Well beyond the watchful eye of Phenomere castle, Oremethus scratched an itch on his palm. From the horse beside him, General Iderion leaned over and said, “That means someone is talking about you.”

  Oremethus laughed. “Only in good ways, I hope.”

  Both men laughed as they and their mounts climbed the final hill to the entrance of Freeman’s Way. Behind them, Dearborn followed close, leading the rest of the Elite Troop. However, once they reached the pinnacle, everyone came to a halt.

  What remained of the town’s gates were charred black and withering. Iderion gave a few hand gestures, ordering his troops to continue forward with caution. The troops entered the town silently, save the sound of horse hooves against the dirt road. Pensive, hands ready to draw weapons, the troops made their way past the first block of burned and crumbled shops until they reached the center of town.

  The entire populous was there, the women tending to the wounded while the men began repairs to the largest buildings, making sure there would be at least a place for everyone to rest their heads for the night. Even though all were busy or injured or both, Oremethus’s presence did not go unnoticed as the assembled took a moment to bow for the crown prince.

  Shocked by the desolation, Oremethus barely remembered to gesture for everyone to rise. Dismounting his steed, his words were but a whisper, “What happened here?”

  Haddaman Crede approached from the crowd to reply, “The Horde.”

  “Any indication as to why?” Iderion asked, dismounting as well, signaling the rest of the troops to follow suit.

  “They weren’t very forthcoming with their intentions, but they did seem to be searching for something.”

  Oremethus surveyed the surroundings and said, “We will stay and assist with repairs until the morning sun reaches its peak. Send a rider to let my father know of this tragedy.”

  Being one of the few in the troop who could read and write, Dearborn scrawled a message on parchment while Iderion issued orders to his men. When finished with the communication, she gave it to the second oldest of the Elite Troop, the second message rider of their journey so far, the first being sent with a standard update days ago.

  As Dearborn watched the message rider depart, she wondered if she would ever reach that point in her career with the Elite Troop. Before every job, they would meticulously plot their course. The oldest members were given the responsibility of carrying messages back and forth to the king, strictly following the pre-plotted path so the multiple riders could convene along the way, keeping the chain of communication free-flowing. Being assigned messenger duty was a form of reward for many diligent years of service.

  Wondering through the near abandoned streets, Dearborn reminisced about her childhood in a village similar to this one. Similar roads led to similar buildings. She found what she was looking for with ease. The blacksmith shop had three men, one working on repairs to the building while the other two hammered and molded what the town needed the most—hinges and nails.

  Stripping herself of her cloak and armor, she immediately helped the man, more of a boy, wrestling with a post, jamming it under a support beam. Without saying a word, she showed him the futility of his actions.
Instead of supporting the top of the beam and trying to kick the bottom into place, which simply dug further into the dirt, she supported the bottom with her foot while pulling the top into place.

  “Wow,” the young man said, his eyes surveying her massive body, settling on her angelic face. “That was amazing.”

  “This isn’t the first time I’ve repaired a blacksmith shop before,” she replied, choosing to believe his comment was directed toward her accomplishment, rather than her striking height and musculature.

  Her own words echoed in her mind, fluttering around like a drunken moth, skimming across latent memories. That day was very easy to remember. It was the day she received her first dress.

  Being the child of a blacksmith preordained her with a challenging life—especially for a girl whose mother died during child birth.

  As soon as Dearborn was old enough to walk, her father put a hammer in her hand. He was a reclusive man who knew nothing other than his craft and became more so after becoming a widower. His love for his daughter unwavering, he provided well and took every opportunity to give her more than he had when he was her age. The king had a soft spot for the blacksmith, granting him many privileges saved for nobility. When offered, the blacksmith would send Dearborn to every class available for reading and writing. However, he could not provide for her what a mother could.

  Even though Dearborn attended schoolings, she spent most of her days helping her father. The lucrative contracts he held with the king provided the best of foods and the fuel needed to put muscle on her tall frame. Forging from dawn until dusk left little opportunity for fat to find a place on her body. Almost as if fate dictated compensation and balance, while her body grew more massive, her face became more beautiful, which caught the attention of a young stable hand named Oshua.

  The teenage boy with sapphire eyes and flaxen ringlets haphazardly sprouting from his head showed up twice a week, either to purchase new supplies or for horseshoe repair. A lean body tapering from broad shoulders acted as a harbinger for his future as a strapping man. His acquaintance with Dearborn began with a shy smile to her while she all but hid in the back of the shop. She slowly worked her way up to a pleasant salutation. After inadvertently humiliating her last crush, Daedalus, by being too aggressive, she decided to try being a bit more demure, or at least as demure as her physique would allow.

  Within months, quaint conversations accompanied Oshua’s visits. Dearborn’s father did his part, leaving to find lunch just as Oshua approached. Although Dearborn felt a connection with Oshua, she made it a point to keep a thick animal hide apron over top of her long sleeved baggy shirts. But her infatuation was doomed to be incomplete.

  On Dearborn’s fifteenth birthday, her father bought her a dress. Her first dress. It was wrapped in the signature paper from the most popular seamstress in town, the one exclusive to nobility. As part of her present, he gave her the remainder of the day off.

  Dearborn took her present and ran out of town to the neighboring glen. On the pinnacle of the nearest knoll, she stopped and changed into her new dress. It was two inches too short and too wide in the waist. Her eyes welled up with tears as her heart swelled from her father’s love. She knew very well that even at her young age, there were no women in the town even close to her stature. Deduction led her to realize that her father swallowed his pride and used himself as the model for the seamstress to fit the dress—he was a couple inches shorter with a waist made by many ales. She also assumed he slipped the seamstress a few extra coins, insuring she would never speak of that moment again.

  Barefoot, she ran, danced, twirled through the tall grass on top of the hill. Laughing, she picked flowers to tuck away in her flowing hair. Daydreams of a wedding, marriage, and a family flooded her thoughts. Until she gazed toward the town.

  Thin strands of smoke streamed from the edge of town, the exact spot where the blacksmith shop was located. She ran, wrapping her hair into a makeshift bun along the way. By the time she reached the shop, black billows of smoke engulfed the roof.

  She ran inside to find her unconscious father sprawled on the floor near a table with a large gash across his forehead. Flames crawled across every post and every lintel, dancing along the rafters. Charred thatch rained within the shop, smoldering pieces pelting Dearborn. Worried by the wound, she tore off one of her sleeves and wrapped it around his head, stopping only to extinguish stray embers attempting to ignite her dress. Without concern that the structure might collapse, she pulled a wooden chest filled with forty pounds of coins from underneath the table. Normally, she would care little about the money; however, the gold in the chest did not belong to her father, but to others who entrusted him to guard it. It would be quite difficult to divvy it out properly if the coins melted together.

  Aided by adrenaline, Dearborn slung her father over her right shoulder. After gaining the balance needed, she crouched down and scooped up the chest with her left arm. Addled by the extra weight, she toddled her way to the nearest door, still ablaze, and kicked it off its hinges.

  Relieved by her escape, Dearborn dropped the chest and placed her father on the ground. Onlookers had gathered, many formed a line from the town fountain to the blaze, passing buckets back and forth. However, once she stood from tending to her father, slowly coming to consciousness, all activity ceased.

  The townsfolk, even the older ones who were adept at discretion, stared like wide-eyed simpletons gazing upon their own reflection for the first time. Before them stood a sight they had seen before, but never in that way, a girl barely in her teens, the tallest person there with the musculature of a poetic hero. There she stood—sweat-streaked soot hid her angelic face, her dress torn and burnt—feeling like an abomination. The dress only covered one shoulder, the other side so shredded it covered no part of her torso. Had she any bosom, it would have been exposed.

  Oshua witnessed Dearborn rescuing her father. He gawked as did every other crowd member. At first, fear paralyzed him as his eyes scanned her body, until he realized her chest was more muscular than his. He ran, never to see her again.

  “Dearborn?” Iderion’s words snapped her from her unpleasant trip down memory lane. “Why am I not surprised to find you at the blacksmith’s shop.”

  Forcing a smile, Dearborn replied, “Smithing holds many memories for me.”

  “Well, I hate to pull you away from your first love, but we have a mission to complete. We must be on our way.”

  Noticing a man standing next to Iderion, Dearborn asked, “Are we getting company for this journey?”

  The man outstretched his hand and said, “Yes, Sergeant. Your general confided in me what item you seek. I believe I may be able to help, and I humbly offer you my services for a favorably negotiated price, of course. My name is Haddaman Crede …”

  Six

  Halcyon Hills’ appellation was only partially accurate. Not only were the hills closer to mountain range size, but the pelts of lush, green grass and fields of frolicking flowers only grew on one side, the valley side. The other side was as barren and grim as The Scorched Sea, the desert that the Halcyon Hills encircled.

  Poets often described The Scorched Sea as a victim of circumstance, despising its lot in the world and making it known to all who entered. A colossal mountain range lined part of the continent’s northern shore, hindering any southern bound storms. Any minimal weather front that made it through rarely moved past Halcyon Hills and usually finished its precipitation cycle within the fruitful valley, leaving the desert destitute with no water to nourish the ground and no cloud cover to hinder the blazing rays of both suns.

  Open fields of grass lined the valley, sprawling from the Halcyon Hills to the edge of the thick forest. Speckled throughout were flowers of all kinds, adding just the perfect pinch of color. The air was crisp and clear, allowing bird song to flow; even the flapping of butterfly wings seemingly echoed in the valley. Nature had formed the perfect patch of tranquility.

  “We’re lost!” Diminutia’s v
oice cracked the air like thunder. Startled, small animals raced from the fields to the forest, seeking shelter before taking the chance to examine the noise.

  “We’re not lost,” Silver said, his squinted eyes darting along the perimeter of the forest. “We know exactly where we are.”

  “Fine! We know where we are, but we don’t know where we’re going.”

  “We do know where we’re going,” Silver replied. “Did either of you see anything suspicious in the forest?”

  “If we know where we’re going, then why aren’t we there yet? And the only thing suspicious around here is that map!”

  Nevin stopped walking and sighed, reminding himself that his impetuous partner was a thief, not an adventurer; one who would rather examine the intricacies of a lock, not the landscape. “Dim, this map is quite old, and some parts are very faded. It shows that the stone is located in a small cave in The Scorched Sea. It even shows a short path through the Halcyon Hills leading right to it. The difficulty we’re having is trying to find the start of the path. And yes, Silver, I have also noticed some unusual movements in the forest.”

  Diminutia grunted, running his fingers through his blond hair as if trying to comb away his frustrations. “Sorry. I guess I just need a bit of a break.”

  “I know of a small town nearby,” Silver said. “I wouldn’t be opposed to a hot meal and a cold drink.”

  “Sounds good to me. I must be in dire need of a rest, the ground looks like it’s moving.”

  “Moving?” Nevin snapped his eyes away from the map to look around. Mere yards away, a strip of grass seemed to glide closer. Drawing his knife, he saw another strip of grass move. “Spine snakes!”

  Just as the other two thieves brandished their weapons, the spine snakes made their presence known. The aptly named snakes’ green scales were long and thin, and when raised offered wonderful camouflage within a field of long grass. Four serpent heads arose from the grass as the snakes surrounded the thieves, boxing them in. Each snake was twice as long as any man was tall and thicker than a thigh. The thieves moved closer together, keeping their backs to one another as the circling serpents slithered closer.