The Devil's Judgment

by Chris Pisano

  prologue

  Fat droplets of blood flowed down her forearm in three streams. The cut on her wrist from the shackles was not too bad. It was the imperfection of the wood digging into her back that agonized her the most. Attempting to shift, to change her body placement, to move off the burl in the wood failed. Discomfort was the purpose. She was chained to a rack after all.

  Arms spread wide, legs spread even wider, Dearborn Stillheart was naked except for the cold metal around her wrists and ankles. She still had free range of motion for her head though, which she took advantage of. “You don’t have to do this.”

  The guard, a squat knuckle of a man named Methel, was still panting, trying to catch his breath from the ordeal of dragging Dearborn from her cage to this room of cold, cut stone. The other four guards were breathing heavily, one shuffled about with a limp from where her foot bent his knee in the wrong direction, and another paced along the far wall massaging his arm because of the twist she had given it when he first grabbed her in her cell.

  When the six guards had come to take her from her cell, they made assumptions. They thought that living on bread and water in the dungeon for a year would have weakened her. At first, it did, but she found a mischief of rats. Her bread went to them, and when they became large enough, they went into her belly. Through careful planning, she managed to help the colony grow, their population burgeoning to the point of feeding herself three times a day as well as setting up trade with the other prisoners close enough to pass their bread to her through the bars. The guards expected a weak sack of meat, not an Elite Troop soldier still capable of putting up a fight. They had discovered their mistake after she killed one of the guards by jamming her fingers into his eye sockets and wriggling them around.

  “Shut up,” Methel growled, bending over to pick up the rags that were once her clothes. He had made a joke earlier about wanting to get Dearborn naked, even if she were taller and more muscular than most men. A knee to his groin ensured that he regretted it.

  “You’re going to end up like your friend, the one I killed.”

  Methel wheeled around, pointing his index finger so close to her face that she could smell the dirt on his glove. “He was no friend of mine, just a shitbag who forgot who you are. I didn’t, and now you’re chained up. You ain’t killin’ me. You ain’t gonna kill no one.”

  “If I don’t kill you, the king’s brother will.”

  She hit upon a concern, could see it in Methel’s eyes. He tried to hide it, but they widened just enough as his stubbled face lost a bit of the anger. He leaned in to whisper into her ear, “King’s brother will kill you first, I believe.”

  Dearborn wondered if he might be right. Shadows played across the hallway walls just outside the door. The king’s brother was coming; Prince Daedalus was coming for her.

  The five guards dropped to their knees when Daedalus entered the room, even the one with the bad leg, tears streaming down his face as he bit his bottom lip. Daedalus did not acknowledge their action, showed no sign of recognizing that there was anyone else in the room other than Dearborn. When he entered, she forgot there were other people in the room as well.

  Daedalus strode in with arms extended as if receiving exultation from a coliseum full of spectators. He wore an outfit befitting such an entrance—snakes. Dozens of snakes of all sizes and colors slithered over his naked body. Pythons wound themselves around his legs, over his waist. Smaller garden snakes draped over his shoulders and languidly traveled along his arms. A few wriggled between the forearm bones of his skeletal arm. There was only one snake that concerned Dearborn—the erect, single-eyed snake with its burgundy head.

  Smiling with the glee of a child with wealthy parents on his birthday, Daedalus brought his hands together; flesh fingers intertwined with bone fingers to create an unintentional allegory about the union of life and death. Taut but thin muscle moved beneath the serpents, as well as a belly starting to go soft from too many of life’s tastier indulgences. Loose curls of black hair fell about his face and neck, slicked into haphazard locks from sweat. “Oh, Dearborn, look how we find ourselves. I’m so happy to see that you dressed for the occasion.”

  As he laughed at his own joke, Dearborn felt her nakedness, her weakness. No, not weakness. Just the perception of such a notion. Just because she wore no armor did not mean she was unable to protect herself. A quick mind and well-timed words could protect just as effectively as flawless plate-mail and sharpened sword.

  Daedalus continued toward her, his erection guiding him, his smugness a thicker cloak than the snakes. “This is a momentous occasion, Dearborn, one that will crown so many of my accomplishments. Now, I will mark this occasion, celebrate—”

  “The first anniversary of usurping the throne,” she interrupted.

  Daedalus stopped, his face twitching with indignation, not expecting to have his prepared speech interrupted. Dearborn continued before he could gather his wits. “Yes, I know very well that today marks exactly one year since your brother took the throne and you seized control of the kingdom.”

  The angry prince’s nostrils flared as he started walking toward her again. “Very good for you for finding a way to keep track of time in your dungeon cell. It won’t change your fate, though.”

  “I didn’t think it would. I’ve been expecting this all year, preparing myself to make this unenjoyable for you.”

  Daedalus stood between her legs, close enough for a few of his snakes to leave his body and slither over hers. He tried to sneer, display confidence, but her comment visibly disrupted him “You’ve been expecting this? Chained to a rack, as I—”

  “Of course, I have. You’re so predictable.”

  As if struck by lightning, his body tensed against his will. More snakes slid off him, his rage burning inhospitably hot. Eyes wide, he grabbed her hips, the tips of his fingers digging in. His skeletal right hand drew blood. “Predictable?”

  Pushing past the pain, resisting the urge to flinch, she pressed on. “Yes. I knew you would do this, and I knew you would wait for the first anniversary, fabricating some celebration fit for a charlatan to culminate your obsession with me.”

  “Obsession?” he shrieked, hands squeezing tighter.

  She wanted to fight, to squirm. She had the urge to scream and vomit. She went against everything her body wanted to do and just stared at him, fighting to extinguish any form of spark her eyes might hold. “You’ve been thinking about me ever since I’ve bested you in the quarterstaff competition during the Summer Festival when we were in our teen years. Every once in a while, when you lay awake at night, you feel a dull throb in your lower back where I hit you with my winning blow. Any time you best an opponent, you put a little extra into your victory because you know there is one victory you could never have. This act now, this moment is all part of some misguided fantasy about revenge against me, but lest you forget, it’s your hatred for me that has driven you to this. Your need for revenge against me has made you better yourself, raise yourself to the necessary level to use your brother as a mere figurehead to rule the kingdom. If not for me, you’d never have the country of Albathia. You should be thanking me.”

  With every word she spoke, his eyes became more bloodshot, his breathing more ragged. Saliva dripped from his chin as foam bubbled from the corners of his mouth. “Thanking you? Gave me the kingdom? This. This is what you are owed!”

  He thrust.

  A cold lump of skin slapped against her vagina.

  As if watching gold turn into mud, Daedalus looked down and took a step back. Dearborn thought about laughing, but that tactic wo
uld yield nothing but pain. Instead, she tried, “You can’t. And you know why.”

  The mask of sanity had been tossed aside, Daedalus looked back to Dearborn with anger, questions, questions about his anger. Without needing him to ask, Dearborn answered, “You can’t because I would bear your child, probably a son. It’s highly unlikely that your brother will produce an heir, so my child would be rightfully in line for the throne. You wouldn’t be able to kill him, to kill your son, because you need to be better than your father. You’d raise him to be the future king, seeing my face every time you’d look at him.”

  Almost naked from lack of snakes, Daedalus retreated a few more steps. He pointed with a bony finger from his skeletal hand, his whole arm shaking. “Kill you! I’ll kill you right now!”

  “Really? That would be your revenge? Please exact that revenge against me!”

  Every breath a growl, Daedalus looked around the room for answers. “My men. I have five guards right here. I will order them to tear you apart!”

  The guards all kept their heads down, giving no acknowledgment that they were the topic of conversation. “But the hands tearing me apart won’t be your hands. You would have no satisfaction from giving a mere order.”

  The vengeful prince’s eyes darted from side to side. Were his mind a clockwork machine, springs would have snapped from gears grinding so hard. Suddenly, his breathing slowed, his face relaxed. A wide smile slid across his face while his brows remained trapped in a deep furrow. “Your name then. To this day, I still hear how a select few people talk about Dearborn Stillheart. The reverence reserved for gods on the tips of their tongues. I shall make it so everyone will know your name. The whole kingdom will know your name. They will hate it. They will spit your name from their mouth as if rotted fruit. I will keep you alive and healthy and unsullied so you may have your body strong and your mind crisp when you see my ultimate revenge against the name Dearborn Stillheart. So you may see my face every time you hear that name!”

  Completely naked, his erection returned, looking more like a malignant growth without the cover of serpents. He made his way to leave but paused to garner the attention of his guards with a finger snap. “Take her back to her cell. We will gild it and keep her food plate from ever going empty. And when I find Perciless, I shall make sure to display her like an exotic animal found at faire and show my brother what is to become of him.”

  With one final snap of his fingers, he left, leaving the guards to follow his orders.

  When I find Perciless. He hadn’t found his brother, Prince Perciless, the king of the usurped throne, yet, and there was no mention of her children. Daedalus did not know they existed. As the guards released Dearborn from the shackles, she maintained direct eye contact with Methel, even when the shorter man furtively looked away. Her lips curved into a smile, one that could be mistaken for a manifestation of sinister thoughts. But it was a true smile, one of happiness. If Perciless avoided capture and her children were still alive, then there was hope, and that made her happy.

  one

  Ideria Wahl pulled her long blonde hair back and wrapped it firm with a thick leather tie. It was time to work. The ogre she had been watching all morning finally left the leather shoppe with a small pouch in hand.

  The ogre was young, about her age, and rather fit for his kind, one of the few who had a chest larger than his waist. From a pocket on his vest, he pulled out a pair of spectacles and donned them as he wandered to the nearby fruit stand. With the meticulous eye of a jeweler, the ogre examined a Tsinel Valley plum, picking it up and holding it mere inches in front of his face. There was not a cloud in the sky and the Day Sun’s descent and Evening Sun’s rise offered plenty of light to look for imperfections. Satisfied, he nodded to the stand’s proprietor and placed the fruit in his pouch. He plucked another plum from the bin and started the examination process over again.

  As if she were simply strolling about town enjoying the weather, Ideria crossed the street, careful not to sully her boots in any horse offerings. She was impressed at how well the ogre handled the plums. They were dense, heavy fruits, but with a flimsy skin. All too often people would have to endure a day’s worth of purple fingers from mishandling a Tsinel Valley plum, but the thick-fingered ogre finished his purchase of half a dozen with clean hands and placed them in the leather bag. After a quick tie of the pouch to his belt, he pulled out a folded parchment from another pocket. He focused on the paper as he started down the street. Ideria followed him.

  After a few blocks, Ideria sensed trouble. The Constable and his wife were chatting as they walked down the street, either oblivious to the ogre walking toward them or expecting him to move out of their path. Either explanation would not have surprised Ideria; the Constable and his wife wore hubris as if it hid their flabby bodies more than the fine clothes that adorned them. The wife’s rings and necklace glinted with her every step. It wasn’t the expensive clothes or the flashy jewelry—fancy glass if the rumors were to be true—that Ideria worried about. Her concern was for the leather pouch tied to the Constable’s belt. Ideria hastened her pace.

  As if there could not have been any other possible outcome, the Constable collided with the ogre. His wife whooped and then laughed, each roll of her fat jiggling in time with her cackles. The Constable bumbled and blustered, threats of arrest the first words from his mouth until he noticed that the young ogre was a full head taller than he. The parchment fell from the ogre’s hands.

  “A thousand apologies, sir,” the ogre said adjusting his glasses. “It appears that these spectacles have malfunctioned on me.”

  The Constable’s wife tittered. “Oh, dear boy, you gave me such a delicious start. But I’m okay now, no harm done.”

  “You are too kind, madam. Forgive me, sir, but I may have wrinkled your jacket. Here let me help,” the ogre said and brushed his hands over the Constable’s arm. “Oh, my paper.”

  The Constable glared at his wife as the ogre bent down to pick up what he had dropped, his hands still brushing over the Constable. “Last wrinkle here. Bit of dirt on you as well, sir.”

  The ogre straightened to his full height and displayed the warmest of smiles. “Good as new, M’Lord, M’Lady.”

  The Constable’s wife hooked her husband’s arm as they continued their walk down the street. She waved with her other hand. “It is, dear boy. Well done. But you watch where you’re walking from now on.”

  Just as they had practiced many, many times, Ideria walked behind the ogre as he waved with his right hand, the parchment flapping away as a distraction, while she took the pouch he had waiting in his left hand. No one saw a thing.

  Ideria kept walking, eyes straight ahead. People only noticed what was directly in front of them unless someone else brought something to their attention. If she looked back, that might cue others to do so as well. She turned down the first alleyway where a harpy waited.

  Long black hair hung low, obscuring the harpy’s face. Ideria always wondered why Joy felt the need to hide. Even though her skin had a green hue, she was very pretty. In fact, if not for her legs being covered in black feathers and having talons for feet, she could pass as a human. She would also have to do something about her wings, as they twitched behind her back. Without saying a word to each other, Ideria tossed the leather bag to Joy and she took flight even before it was in her hands.

  Ideria had one last thing to do before the meeting, one last part to play. She exited the alley and heard, “Hey! Hey, you there! You, the big girl!”

  Predictably, it was the Constable running toward her as best his flab would allow while holding his purple-stained hand away from his body as if infected by a strange disease. Also, predictably, he referred to her size—taller with more muscle covering her broad shoulders than most men. She stopped and forced a tiny smile as she greeted the Constable. “Yes, sir?”

  He wheezed from both the sudden exerc
ise and red-faced anger as he waddled to a stop. “The ogre. Where is he?”

  “I’m sorry? Ogre?”

  “Yes, ogre! The one I was talking to, who ran into me.”

  “Why would I know where an ogre who ran into you is?”

  “You walked right past him!”

  “Doesn’t mean I know where he is. If anyone should, it’d be you. You say the ogre ran into you and you held a conversation with him. Logic dictates that you would have a better idea of where the ogre is than a random girl on the street who never saw an ogre in the first place.”

  The Constable’s jowls flapped, and his head shook. Eyes like two white islands of anger in the crimson sea of his face, he said through gritted teeth, “You. You lying—”

  “Now, Dear,” the Constable’s wife said as she finally caught up to him. She still attempted to be prim despite the rivers of sweat cascading from her hairline. Using her husband’s arm as a guide, yet keeping a mindful eye on his stained hand, she pulled him away. “We’ve had quite an unfortunate day. Let’s leave the poor girl alone and go home. We’ll find the ogre later.”

  Ideria walked away as well as if nothing had happened. No need to bring any further attention to herself. She followed the road out of the town of Bulderswith but took a seldom-used footpath that branched off and led into the forest. The road itself led to Hemmson, but a path was starting to form between Bulderswith and the burgeoning village of Orsrun, at the base of Green Mountain. Half a decade ago, it had been discovered that the sneaky mountain had been hiding gold, a thick vein running from one end to the other. Ideria loved visiting Orsrun; a new block, a new section, a new shoppe seemed to appear every month. No two visits held the same sights. Of course, with a population growth such as that, it called for constant policing by the king’s guards. Ideria had been taught from the time she was a child to avoid the king’s guards. At all cost.

  Deeper in the woods, Ideria strayed from the footpath, past the trees that looked like lovers clutched in a tight embrace, around the three boulders that had many myths about why they were there, and into a small clearing that few knew about—mainly woodland creatures and Ideria’s friends. No woodland creatures at the moment, but her friends were there waiting for her.