The Devil's Grasp Read online

  “Okay, Nevin,” Diminutia whispered, not even attempting to hide the fear in his voice. “I’ve never seen one of these before. What do we do?”

  “They strike fast, but they aim for their victim’s head. When they attack, duck and thrust your blade upward,” Nevin whispered back.

  “Referring to us as ‘victims’ wasn’t quite the confidence boost I had hoped from you.”

  Diminutia focused on the snake in front of him, half its body raised from the ground, its morose yellow eyes aligned themselves with the thief’s. The snake squinted, then its eyes widened, then squinted again, repeating the process to pull all of Diminutia’s focus into them while its head drifted from side to side like a falling leaf. Continuing its lulling dance, the viper waited until the perfect moment, then attacked.

  Diminutia had fallen into a slight stupor, unable to react as the spine snake launched itself at his face. Mesmerized, he lacked the reflex to even blink as the open maw of fangs rushed toward him. However, he did jerk back as the snake’s head exploded and burnt chunks of reptile meat pelted his body.

  All eyes focused on the forest to find a grizzled wizard in tattered layers of cloaks, arm still extended from the fireball he released, rendering the striking serpent to smoldering shreds. The smoke trail slowly sank in the windless air like dismissed cobwebs. Three more wizards appeared from the forest as if oozing free from select trees. One of the other wizards, wearing similar garb as the first, whispered an incantation while extending his fist. As he unfurled his fingers, a cloud of glittering dust mushroomed from his palm. Shimmering particles hovered in place. Pursing his parched lips, the wizard released the slightest exhale. Growing from mote to spear, needles shot from the cloud to pierce a second snake in the blink of an eye. Tens of thousands of impaling filaments struck the snake, killing it long before it hit the ground. Despite being mere animals, the remaining two snakes knew enough to retreat.

  “Dim! Are you all right?” Silver asked, running to his meat-covered friend lying in the grass.

  Keeping his dagger unsheathed, Nevin turned to the closest wizard. “Who are you?”

  “My dear friend, is that any way to thank us for saving your lives?” the wizard replied.

  “I assure you, the three of us are very grateful. However, the coincidence of your arrival seems suspicious.”

  “Typical elf, quizzical and untrusting.” The wizard paused to allow Silver and Diminutia, still removing pieces of snake meat from his clothing, to join Nevin. “I am Belhurst. And this is Grymon.” Grymon hobbled forward, the crags in his face rivaled those of any mountain range, and his tattered robes did little to hide his wooden leg.

  Belhurst introduced the other two wizards, Follen and Moxxen, who followed the pattern of gnarled features and shoddy clothing; however, they each stood apart in their own way. Every labored breath Moxxen took could be seen by all. His shoulders pulled back slightly, and his waist expanded while drawing in a breath; a shrug and a concave waist escorted his exhale.

  Follen had a twitch. Nevin saw it right away, always noticing the many imperfections of humans. Follen’s right eye fluttered, a quick half blink that twitched faster the more Nevin stared at it. But what annoyed Nevin more was the occasional twitch of Follen’s left thumb, tapping nonstop against the staff in his hand.

  “Pleased, we’re certain. I’m …,” Nevin started.

  Belhurst interrupted, “We know who you are, Nevin. We’ve been following you for some time now.”

  Nevin gripped his dagger tighter. “And why is that?”

  “Because we seek the same thing, one of the sister stones to the Shadow Stone.” Belhurst outstretched his arm, resting in the center of his palm was a stone blacker than a starless night, as if he were holding a small hole to oblivion.

  The thieves could only stare at the stone as it seemingly stared back at them, through them. No light could escape from the darkness of the stone, including that within their souls, stripping away layers of confidence, leaving only an inexplicable fear. Mouths agape, the thieves slowly realized the precariousness of the situation in which they found themselves, hypnotized until a ground-shaking voice boomed from behind them. “Is that the stone the map leads to?”

  All attention turned to Bale Pinkeye, lumbering out from the forest, followed closely by Phyl, Zot, and Pik. Dried mud caked all four from foot to waist, however, Phyl had picked away most of it from his thigh fur.

  “So you did get a good look at the map. And …” Diminutia started to reply, but found it difficult to complete his thoughts once the stench of the ogre wafted past his nostrils. “Ugg! Bale! You smell worse than usual!”

  Nevin backed away, lifting his shirt over his mouth and nose. “What could precipitate such a foul stench upon you?”

  Outstretching his hand and gazing skyward, Bale mumbled, “I don’t see any rain.”

  “The Fecal Swamps,” Zot grunted. “We followed you to Freeman’s Way, and some idiot antiques dealer gave us wrong directions.”

  “I don’t even see any rain clouds in the sky,” Bale continued.

  Knowing very well who the “idiot” antiques dealer was, the thieves did their best to stifle their laughs. The wizards did not understand the inside joke, but enjoyed another. “You four traversed through The Fecal Swamps on the word of a stranger? Oh, that is rich!” Belhurst laughed.

  Unappreciative of the joke at his own expense, Bale slammed his fist against a tree near Belhurst. “Small animals shouldn’t make fun of big animals!”

  Contrary to his frail appearance, Follen lunged forward with a youthful nimbleness, gesturing with his right hand. He struck the ground with the staff in his left hand and yelled, “Mollyhogawath. Quandro!”

  Streaks of lightning skittered through the grass, nipping the toes of the bumptious Bale and his cronies, reducing them to a memory blanketed by a puff of smoke.

  Again, the thieves drew their daggers. “We have never been fond of those trolls,” Nevin said, “But they certainly did not deserve death.”

  Belhurst laughed. “My friends, we are hardly the types to kill without provocation. That spell merely sent them back whence they came—in their case, The Fecal Swamps.”

  The thieves looked at each other and laughed so hard they had to support each other from falling. “Belhurst,” Diminutia said, “We’re heading to that town over there. It would be my honor to buy you and your friends an ale.”

  “We graciously accept. Balfourd’s Bounty has a fine wizard’s guild, and we are in dire need of supplies,” Belhurst replied, gesturing to Moxxen pulling a cart holding a large cabinet replete with dozens of doors and a hundred tiny drawers.

  The thieves and wizards chortled their way to Balfourd’s Bounty, wasting no time finding a suitable tavern. Had the Barren Mermaid been a patrician establishment burgeoning with the upper-class citizens of Balfourd’s Bounty, then its ramshackle roof and decaying door would have proved an effective disguise to the eyes of an outsider. For seven exhausted men who earlier that morning snatched back their mortality from gaping jaws, a rundown shack with porous walls that failed to contain the streaming aroma of stews and slurred shanties was a welcome sight.

  With a passing gesture and a fleeting word, Belhurst caused the wheels on the elaborate cart to lock with an audible click before entering the establishment. Its current state of immobility would deter any would-be thieves, while the doors and the drawers only responded to a wizard’s touch.

  Lively eyes found a plain serving wench, to whom Silver introduced himself with coin. A quick point at the sole empty table completed the transaction, and within moments, watery ales and slabs of cheese and bread appeared as if conjured by the wizards. The barmaid was swallowed in the shuffle of the bustling throng as quickly as a coin dropping from a slit pouch. As with any tavern this crowded came the assault of many different conversations.

  “… A spiny plant …”

  “… Feldryn’s an idiot …”

  “… Beer is better …�
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  Covetously, the wizards fell upon the food and began several rounds of stuffing their mouths and swigging drinks in a rhythm the ocean would have envied. Nevin watched in disgust, the sight of humans feasting appalled him. Like a drowning man scrabbling for flotilla amongst a churning sea, he turned to Diminutia, but the human was too busy scanning the crowd to notice.

  Diminutia found what he was looking for—their waitress. Cheese and bread sated his appetite, but did little to satisfy his desire for flavor. As she passed close to their table, Diminutia, in one fluent motion, spun from his chair, caught her by her arm, and escorted her to a nearby corner.

  Even by the miniscule light of the oil lamp, the bar maiden could see Diminutia’s eyes were like sky-blue topaz that he had stolen on numerous occasions. His gaze gripped her tighter than his hand. He moved closer, his eyes, his mouth; all the while, his hand caressed her arm, settling on the nape of her neck. Her heart raced as his hot breath tickled her ear.

  “Stew,” he said.

  “Excuse me?” she replied, clearly hoping for a more suggestive statement.

  “Stew,” he repeated, pulling away. “My companions and I are resting from an arduous job, and we’d like some stew.”

  “Job? So what do you and your companions do?” She finished her question with an extended lick of her lips.

  After a curt glance over his shoulder, Diminutia pulled the bar maiden close, chest to breast, and leaned in again. Her breath shortened to mere gasps as his lips once again grazed her ear. “We’re thieves.”

  “Really?” she asked with a slight giggle. “That must be quite exciting?”

  “Very.” His fingers began to tangle in her hair.

  “Well, dread thief, where might you be laying your head tonight?”

  “My companions and I have yet to decide. The night seems fair; maybe we will set up camp in the forest?”

  “Nonsense. I know not about your companions, but the tavern owner grants me a room on the second floor. No need for you to settle for a stone as a pillow if you have another option.”

  Watching Diminutia do what he did best, Nevin could only shake his head, confounded by the simple animal desires of humans. Still uncertain of his surroundings, he continued to scan the conversations of the crowd.

  “… Strange gift indeed …”

  “… Left the alembic open … ha, ha, ha, ha …”

  “… Good with bread …”

  Mouth full of bread, Moxxen expressed his gratitude to Nevin. “We would like to express our sincere thanks to your group for this food and drink. Despite our rather hardy appearance,” he thumped his sallow chest in emphasis of his sarcasm, “we seldom get to satisfy our appetites.”

  “… Middle of the night …”

  “… Burned off his eyebrows … ha, ha, ha, ha …”

  “… Good with meat …”

  Nevin gaped at the wizard, unsure if he had heard him correctly through the din or how to phrase a polite response. “Did you just say something about spanking us to satisfy your appetites?”

  “… Front of the mayor’s house …”

  “… Ha, ha … he’s hairless now … ha, ha, ha …”

  “… Women don’t like it …”

  “Um-huh.” Moxxen smiled past his mastication, picking up as little of their conversation as Nevin.

  “… Middle of the night …”

  “… ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha …”

  “… Never run out …”

  Silver, all the brief while, watched Belhurst, mindful of the strange wizard companions. During their brief trek from where they met to this tavern, Silver said nary a word, simply watching their new companions with distrust in his eye. He waited for the wizard to place an exceptionally large piece of bread in his mouth before he spoke.

  “You wizards are all alike. High and mighty sycophants, you show up when a situation is well in hand, spread some smoke and fire, then drop weighty words down atop the oh-so-lucky-to-be-alive commoners like typical, self-proclaimed saviors, while the needy then satisfy your whims with their lifeblood. It’s all sleight of hand and nonsense, if you ask me.”

  “The life of a wizard,” Belhurst said, “is hardly a bountiful existence. Fear and distrust pervade every thankful handshake a wizard receives. Loneliness permeates his being. Young man, have you ever walked through the shadows and stared upon the great eidolon?”

  “I have faced death many times without shrinking from the sight, thank you,” Silver replied.

  “Not death, young man. It is night I speak of.”

  “You speak in riddles, like a poet. Or a fool. It is verbal trickery …”

  “How do you sleep?”

  “What? Why do …”

  “A simple question … no tricks. How do you sleep?”

  “Lightly and with one eye open.”

  “You mock me, but it is no matter. In your mind, you know a different

  answer as truth. In the last decade I have slept two complete nights and both of them fitfully. As a shade walking amongst shadows, little upon this world is clear and real to me. All is distorted as by a haze. Paltry concerns of employment, finding a bride, building a home have little value. I can survive …”

  “Save your dissertation for dimwitted peasants and starry-eyed children,” Silver interrupted with a wave of his hand. His attention shifted from the wizard’s cryptic conversation, and he found himself staring at the older man’s mug of ale. It was an earthen-colored drink, but for some reason there was a large, dark splotch rising towards the surface. As Silver stared at it, a small creature, buoyed by the billowing foam, raised from the liquid and perched itself on the mug’s rim, ultimately mirroring his stare. Realization struck him at the same instant that Belhurst said, “Children indeed!” and raised the glass to his lips.

  “Stop!” Silver shouted reaching out for Belhurst’s arm. Belhurst, startled, looked from Silver’s pointing finger to his mug.

  “Odd! Scorpions aren’t indigenous to these parts …”

  “Nevin,” Silver called while scanning the interior of the bar.

  “Silver, you wouldn’t believe the things this guy next to us has been saying,” Nevin mentioned to his dark-haired companion, gesturing to a nearby patron.

  “Scorpions, Nevin! Scorpions!”

  Silver clutched his friend’s jerkin, pulling himself to his feet. Wild-eyed, he began pointing and gesticulating in earnest at various points around the bar.

  “There … and over there … and there.”

  “How could I be so daft?” Nevin began. “How could I have missed it?”

  “Missed what?” asked Silver.

  “I overheard patrons talking about the mayor receiving a mysterious cactus. Let’s go. Everyone. Now!” Nevin said, his rising voice tinged with hysteria.

  Quizzical looks aimed at him from all sides missed their target as he was already a blur of movement. Nevin glanced back once on his way to the door, but Silver and Diminutia were already in tow, sucked into the maelstrom of his motion.

  He reached the decomposing door and shoved it aside with alacrity. Before the commotion of the streets could be noticed, a man, openmouthed with a look of disbelief in his eyes, fell into the elf’s arms. Without thinking, Nevin pushed the man away and was befouled for his efforts. A great spout of gore issued from the man’s mouth as a sword cleft it like an over-ripened melon, covering Nevin’s face. Not pausing to wipe himself clean, Nevin locked eyes with the murderous assailant, unable to determine what kind of creature he was dealing with. It resembled a human; however, the skin had a tint of green while its tattered strips of clothing of the same hue and the befouled stench coming from it was more befitting an abomination spawned from mildew. Never being one to allow awe to distract from survival, the elf allowed his trusted dagger to make short work of the creature’s throat. Nevin hurried the group on as he stepped over the fallen townsman.

  A city under siege, the structures of Balfourd’s Bounty smoked like a forest fire.
Flames winked at Nevin and his companions as they darted from behind one smoking building after another. Realizing that the wizards had stopped to retrieve their cart, Nevin and his friends waited behind a relatively untouched structure, while Moxxen and Follen pushed the bulky cart with as much haste as the frail wizards were able to muster.

  Nameless assailants, hooded with black cowls, tracked down the fleeing residents, severing lifelines with slashing sabers. Nevin noted the movements of one attacker in great detail, noting how he swept a man’s feet from under him as he fled, then drew himself up straight, looming titan-like over the fallen wretch, before ending the attempted escape with brutal finality.

  As Belhurst drew even with him, Silver dared a brief exchange with him.

  “Well, mighty wizard, shouldn’t you be helping these poor people?”

  “Our duty does not allow us to take that risk.”

  “Truly? All this talk of ‘eidolons’ notwithstanding …”

  “Dear boy, the security of what we guard cannot be compromised, or far more blood than was spilled in this town will flood this world.”

  A huge chunk of earth dislodged beside them as a great torrent of energy blasted through a small gathering of assailants, ending their exchange. From the other side of the square, several of the resident wizards stood atop the parapet of their guild, combining incomprehensible speech and wild gesticulations. Periodically, some dramatic effect would manifest itself as a tangible result of their sorcery. A gout of fire, a lance of energy, a stroke of lightning, each conjured and controlled by wizardly will loosed its primeval fury on the flesh of an attacker, leaving a sundered heap or burned out body.

  In response to this display of defense, a wave of insurgents massed against the tower. An arrow from the ground took one of the wizards in the throat, disrupting the verbal element of his spell. As he toppled over from the impetus of the missile, his body blazed with the unleashed energy of his ruined thaumaturgy, catching in a flaming nimbus one of his comrades, who stumbled off the edge of the roof in his blindness.