The Devil's Judgment

by Chris Pisano

  eight

  Landyr was having a pretty good morning until Rolin’s head exploded.

  A simple day of shopping in the market. It was easy to forget that he was on a perpetual mission to protect the king and save the world. It was easy to forget that he was a general to the man next to him and not his friend. They should have been sparring, not attempting to find the ripest melon in the bushel. Due to his forgotten priorities, Rolin’s headless body fell to the ground and the other patrons close enough to have witnessed it began to panic.

  Landyr ducked behind the produce stand just as more blood splashed on him. The chest of a man next to him blew apart. Two notched sticks of gleaming metal were lodged deeply into the building behind him. How could two featherless arrows have caused so much damage? A streak of blue punching a fiery hole into a nearby cart answered his question.

  An archer on the rooftop of the building across the street. As he drew back the bowstring, crackling blue energy swirled around the arrow. It glowed brilliantly as it flew through the air. Landyr dove from behind the fruit stand just as it exploded.

  The barrel he now hid behind offered little in the way of protection. It was not large enough to obscure his entire body and he doubted it would serve well as any form of shield against iron arrows carrying blue explosive magic. He absolutely hated magic, so unpredictable and extremely difficult to fight against. The one saving grace about magic was the wielder was still a being of flesh and blood. Flesh and blood were still no match for tooth and claw.

  Cezomir, the werewolf never able to turn human again, scaled the outside of the building across the street and reached the roof with such speed that the archer had no time to react. The beast set his teeth into the archer’s neck while dismembering his fresh kill. Unfortunately, after tossing the body parts over the side, Cezomir snapped the bow in half. Landyr hated magic, but he would have loved to have gotten his hands on that weapon.

  Doubting that this was a random act of a lone zealot bereft of motivation, Landyr peered around the barrel to assess the situation. The market patron with the hole in his chest the only civilian fatality and the last of the screaming market goers were fleeing the streets. Except for one—a hobgoblin down the street aiming a glowing blue arrow at him. Landyr was slammed to the ground just as a streak of crackling blue zipped by his face.

  Thorna. Despite almost dying, or perhaps because of it and the accompanying rush of newly heightened senses, Landyr was acutely aware of Thorna straddling his body. Her thighs pressing against him, the smell of mint within her long, brown hair tickling his face, her ass against his crotch. “Let me up.”

  They were behind another produce cart. Thorna never looked away from where the attack came and gripped the cart edge for support, but she did as commanded. As she moved along the length of the cart in a crouch, the thick leather of her pants pulled tight, accentuating her hips. She was too distracting. If he lived through this, he would need to find some form of release. He was in the mood for a centaur lass. It had been quite some time since he had been with one, so he would have to check the local brothels to see if there were any available. That was if he got out of this alive.

  Another bolt of blue light flashed over their heads and hit something behind them close enough for Landyr to feel the heat of the explosion. Glancing over the cart, he wondered how quickly the hobgoblin could reload such an extraordinary device. No time at all apparently, as the hobgoblin had the bow drawn all the way back, the new projectile swirling with blue light.

  Returning the favor of saving his life, Landyr pushed Thorna away and then jumped in the opposite direction. Curled on the ground with his arms covering his head, Landyr braced for the explosion, readying himself for a flash of fire, or at the very least the flaming remains of the cart to rain down upon him.

  Nothing.

  Still protecting his head with his arms, he opened one eye. No fire. No destroyed cart. He opened his other eye. As still as a statue, Thorna stared straight ahead with her mouth agape.

  Landyr thought she might be ensorcelled, coerced by dark magic to stand perfectly still while the archer took aim. But with the weapon like that, there was no need to aim to hit the target. He hurried to Thorna, and reached for her to rouse her from her stupor, but stopped short when he saw what captured her attention. Cezomir.

  The werewolf had taken care of this assailant as well. As with the one on the rooftop, Cezomir had broken the enchanted bow and separated the hobgoblin’s torso from his waist. The hobgoblin’s lower half dangled from the beast’s left hand, all but forgotten. The arms jiggled every time Cezomir shoved his snout into the hobgoblin’s ribcage, the torso in the beast’s right hand.

  Getting his fill of the organs found within the shell, Cezomir dropped both halves. Sticky green hobgoblin blood stained his muzzle while small chunks of meat slopped to the ground from his claws. Even though Cezomir insisted that there was still a human element within him, Landyr often wondered how much. Looking at this beast now, he assumed the percentage to be quite small. Any thoughts of scolding the werewolf for destroying the mysterious weapons of the enemy evaporated from his head like spilled water in the desert.

  Uncertain as to how close to the surface the animal within came, Landyr addressed his travel companion with a simple, “Thank you for saving us.”

  Cezomir used both hands to wipe the goblin slop from his face and tongue to lap it away. “Thank you for setting up the delicacy for me. Hobgoblins are such unique creatures—disgusting and foul on the outside, but so delectable on the inside.”

  Thorna’s face turned a shade of green that almost mimicked the hobgoblin’s skin. Bringing her hand to her mouth, she looked toward the rooftops. “We must be wary. They were clearly together, so there may be more.”

  “I agree. We need to protect King Perciless, first and then try to figure out who . . . ?” Landyr’s question faded away as the answer came to him. The hobgoblin wore loose black clothing with leather strips to bind it to his body. It was a uniform. Even before Cezomir’s influence, the clothing was dirty and torn, but it was a uniform nonetheless, with a sigil emblazoned on the metal of his accessories. The Elite Troop of the King’s army. Landyr wore a similar emblem.

  When Perciless sat on the throne in Castle Phenomere, only the best and bravest of the best and bravest wore the mark of the Elite Troop. Now that Oremethus was king, he altered the emblem and gave an Elite Troop position to those who were the deadliest, most lecherous. Not a single member now had any form of honor, only happy to hunt and kill whoever the king told them to. As of late, Landyr had heard tales that the Elite Troop spent their days hunting and killing wizards. Obviously, they had a new objective. “He’s a member of Oremethus’ Elite Troop. Get everyone together. We’re leaving now.”

  Thorna started to walk toward the headless body of their comrade. “What about Rolin? We can’t just—”

  Landyr grabbed her arm. “We have to. We will mourn him, and we will recount stories of him over drinks, but we cannot take him with us. The townsfolk will either burn him or bury him. That’s the best we can hope for.”

  “But—”

  “If Perciless dies then Rolin’s sacrifice will become meaningless as would the past ten years.”

  Without so much as a glance toward Landyr, she turned on her heel and led Cezomir away. Landyr’s guts twisted from the loss. Having spent every single day with a person for a decade while traveling half a continent, shifted labels from “subordinate” to “friend” even “family.” Rolin would be missed. Later. Now, Landyr had to do some reconnaissance. Were these archers with the mystical bows the only representatives of the Elite Force? Were they scouts? Assassins?

  A threat still remained. He could feel it. The townsfolk felt it, too, none coming out of the surrounding buildings, their sense of survival outweighing their curiosity. Landyr drew his sword, his muscles tensed. Stepping in s
low circles, he eyed the tops of the buildings as he moved down the street, the same direction his colleagues had run. Any alleyway he passed, he paused to see if there was anything suspicious, then moved on. It would take some time to meet up with the others, but he had to make sure no one followed them.

  He had been involved with the military in some capacity for two-thirds of his life, his thirtieth year alive having been celebrated a few months ago within the sheets of a satyr prostitute. These past ten years on the run without any formal discipline or ways to train had made him dull. He needed the help of a few hidden citizens screaming for him to duck to avoid the battle ax.

  Dropping to his knees, Landyr felt the rush of air over his head. Tuck. Roll. At least a few innate reflexes still lived within him. Back on his feet, he readied his sword and got a better look at his assailant. Another hobgoblin. But this one didn’t look like the other two and possessed no ensorcelled weapons, just a half-rusted battle ax and a slightly bent dagger.

  The hobgoblin’s plate mail looked as if it had been forged by a blind smith. Dents and pockmarks infested the metal in between the random folds. The armor was not fitted over his arms and chest, rather his torso shoved into it. Patches of calloused green skin grew over, through, and around the armor, even along his hands. The armor did not extend below his chest, his thick leather pants seemed to cover only flesh. But the armor extended upward, strips of metal creeping along his neck and face. A dull, silver band wrapped around his head, embedded in his gnarled skin, with only two holes available for his bulging eyes. It hissed as it raised its ax and charged.

  Too used to sparring with his comrades or raiding a poorly guarded army supply chain now and again, Landyr was ill prepared for the ferocity of his attacker. He took one step back for every three the hobgoblin took forward. He still had a bit of intuition, though, ducking the battle-ax again. It struck the stone wall of the nearby building hard enough to make the hobgoblin yelp in pain, but he did not drop the ax as Landyr had hoped, and it still had the wherewithal to stab with his dagger. The jab came from an awkward angle and Landyr dodged it with ease, but he was too close to use his own sword, so he lowered his shoulder into the creature’s chest and shoved as hard as he could. He pushed his attacker backward and tried to take advantage of his offensive press. He slashed three times, each strike blocked by the ax.

  Landyr ran.

  Cursing his lackadaisical attitude toward training these past few years, Landyr thought his legs were faster, remembered his cuts and turns to be quicker. He ran between buildings and down alleyways, timing his spins to swing his blade at his pursuer. The ax was large, and it slowed the hobgoblin, the price of wielding such a piece. Landyr found a road that led out of town, through a field to a nearby forest. He hoped to outrace the hobgoblin to the nearby forest and find a tactical advantage there. He was wrong.

  The hobgoblin was losing speed but still had enough strength to throw his ax, the handle striking Landyr between the shoulders. Fighting through the pain and the following momentum, he tucked his head and rolled. Back on his feet, he faced his adversary. Like in town, the hobgoblin’s attacks were furious and unrelenting. Basic jabs and slices with his dagger, Landyr blocked or dodged them with ease, but had no opening to make any true offensive of his own. The only times the hobgoblin stopped attacking was to reach for the battle-ax on the ground, but Landyr kicked it away each time. The fight went on for too long and his energy waned. He could not keep the hobgoblin at a far enough distance and a well-placed punch knocked him to the ground.

  Landyr was dazed. No, he was tired. His body might not have moved as fast as it once did, but it was his soul that had given up. He had been a nomad for so long, traveling with a secret king who went from town to town preaching dead ideas like a counterfeit messiah. A soldier fought for his country, something tangible, something real. Fighting for a possibility, for a dream that dissipated every time he reached for it, was not for him. He had nothing to fight for. The hobgoblin sensed it and ran his pulpy tongue over the slivers of steel fused to his lips as his eyes grew even wider.

  Landyr debated about closing his eyes as the hobgoblin retrieved his ax but with his last strip of soldier’s dignity, he would meet his end, greet his release, with his eyes open. That decision changed his life.

  The air rippled behind the hobgoblin. So briefly Landyr assumed it to be some thick vapors caused by an unknown source of heat. Then it split open as if the sky itself opened its maw to yawn. Or a window letting salvation through in the form of a dragon.

  Blacker than the void of nothingness, it flew through, wings spread wide. Within one flap, the dragon tucked them against its body, scales so dark the delineation between wing and body disappeared. Like a lightning strike, the dragon attacked, clamping its jaws shut so fast that the hobgoblin had no idea he died. The dragon could have swallowed the hobgoblin whole but decided to chew on him while it settled on the ground.

  It was her.

  It was his love.

  It was Chenessa.

  She was as beautiful as the last time he had seen her ten years ago when she first became the dragon. Not so much became the dragon, he reminded himself, but rather possessed the void dragon. Chenessa was a shadow demon born in the pits of Hell after all. However, she was unable to free herself from the dragon. Even if she wanted to, it made no sense in light of the current state of the world. She was one of the reasons why the country of Tsinel had been fighting King Oremethus to a stalemate these many years instead of falling to his army of skeletons. Of course, never far behind was the other reason—Silver.

  Hovering in the air, close to the still opened portal, was the wizard Silver. He, too, no longer inhabited his own body. Instead, his essence was forever trapped in the wretched body of an ancient wizard, one of shimmering green skin and glowing red eyes. The body had only a torso, head and arms; organs and lengths of entrails hung freely as if in an abattoir’s display case from tattered black robes.

  Landyr hated wizards. After all, the mad wizard Wyren brought the Demon War upon the world twenty years ago, and the equally mad wizard Qual fused the twelve World Builders with dragon eggs ten years ago, which led to the ascension to power by Oremethus and Daedalus, possibly the maddest of the bunch. Sure, Silver aided in bringing an end to the Demon War and possibly saved the world by inhabiting Qual’s body, but Landyr hated him because he got to be with Chenessa.

  “Chenessa,” Landyr whispered.

  The dragon swallowed what she had been chewing and shook her head, neck and shoulders rippling as well. The ridge of spines running from the base of her head to the center of her back turned crimson red, the color of fresh blood. The scales running parallel to the ridge shifted to red as well, giving the illusion of long, flowing hair. Like she had when she was a dark elf.

  Landyr had met her ten years ago while he was a member of King Perciless’ Elite Troop, on a mission to find missing children. Chenessa had been a dark elf with long, blood red hair, the hair that had haunted his dreams these past many years.

  “Beautiful.”

  Chenessa bowed her head and looked away. Her voice vibrated the ground he lay upon, yet remained feminine, enticing. “Thank you.”

  “How did you know I needed you?”

  She swung her head back around. Her black eyes were one shade different than the blackness of her scales. “I felt it.”

  “Take me with you.”

  “That would be no life for you.”

  “This is no life for me.” Landyr sniffled and realized he was crying.

  Chenessa brought her head close enough for Landyr to lean his forehead against her snout between her nostrils. Her forked tongue snaked from her mouth and ran along his chest, his neck, his cheek. As it glided along, Landyr cupped it with both hands and licked it as it passed over his face. The taste of charcoal and death sent his eyes rolling back into his head with ecstasy
.

  Chenessa took flight and left him with, “After Daedalus has been defeated and Perciless returned to his throne.”

  Before Landyr could shout any farewells, Chenessa and Silver disappeared into the closing portal.

  Panting, he took a moment to collect himself. He needed to rejoin the group and make plans to leave this place quickly. However, when he rolled over, his erection swelled to the point of pain and he decided to find a nearby tree to hide behind so he could relieve the pressure.

  nine

  Draymon worried about the kids. It had been over half an hour since they left the tunnels behind and the siblings showed no sign of grief. Plenty of anger, but no grief. In the tunnels, he and Bartholomew mentioned where they were heading, and as soon as they got out, Ideria charged ahead, a step slower than running. Nevin caught up with her and they exchanged whispers, ending with the young man turning to cast silent aspersions.

  Five minutes into the trip, Draymon attempted to offer comfort and break the silence by catching up to them and placing a hand on Ideria’s shoulder. Without hesitation, she slapped it away and said the only word of the journey: “No.”

  Had her grief manifested itself into this anger? Was she so mad at Prince Daedalus that she lashed out at all around her? No, that did not sit right within him. She certainly allowed Nevin within her sphere of influence. Bartholomew made no efforts to open his mouth, simply offering exaggerated shoulder shrugs any time Draymon turned to him. Whatever the cause, he deduced it best to remain silent until they arrived at their destination.

  He was proud of them, though, how they handled themselves. There was no creature in any fairy tale or campfire story a greater monster than Prince Daedalus. The children were ready for him even if they had no idea until today he was why they had to remain all but hidden away from the world. They had been well trained up until this point and had displayed an eagerness to continue learning. And now, it seemed, an aptitude with their skills. In a way, Draymon almost felt sorry for anyone who stepped into their path. At the moment, however, that someone appeared to be him.