The Devil's Judgment

by Chris Pisano

  More children filed in, the older ones carrying the babies, the toddlers holding hands of those with more years of experience walking. Some looked around, a few of the babies cried. More and more came in, and Bale had a hard time counting that high. They continued to squeeze into the aisle between the two jail cells, bodies pressed together, faces against the bars. The children were all different heights, yet each was only a fraction different from many others. Their hair color varied slightly as did their noses, chins, mouths. But they all had the exact same set of eyes, the eyes of their father. “One hundred, Dearborn. Or, should I say one hundred Dearborns. All named after you. There will be a hundred more and a hundred after them, and when they’re ready to take from the world what’s theirs, then everyone will know their names. Everyone will know your name.”

  Silent tears flowed from Dearborn’s eyes as her knuckles turned white from the pressure of her squeeze. Daedalus laughed. “Come, children, it’s time for your schooling.”

  Daedalus started to exit along with the one hundred children but stopped at the doorway. As the children flowed around him, he turned to the Dearborn in the cell and smiled, one of disarming warmth. While petting the newborn nestled in the crook of his arm, he said, “Oh, I almost forgot. I found out about your children. Don’t worry, I won’t kill them. But I will cut off your son’s eyelids, so he won’t miss a single second of the time I spend with your daughter.”

  The last of the children left and then he followed.

  Dearborn roared a noise that sent lightning strikes of fear through Bale’s entire body. It was a sound he had never heard before. It was undistilled hatred. He trembled even after she stopped screaming and made her way to her bench. Bale realized what she was doing when she reached underneath and procured two halves of a dinner knife and a fork with one tine. Her lock picking kit.

  Bale fell to his knees and lunged for his bench, grabbing his kit as well. Using the same three implements, he raced to pick his cell door before she could. The logic of his actions had yet to catch up to him. He just knew that she was going to attack the prince and he had to stop her.

  The only sounds in the room were the two prisoners racing to unlock their door first. Bale looked up to assess her progress but saw that there was no benefit to peeking. Picking a lock was an all or nothing scenario, any gradient between “opened” and “closed” was insignificant.

  Bale had no talent for picking locks, nor any form of a proclivity toward why he felt the need to get his cell door open before she did. He struggled to keep his thick fingers steady as sweat threatened to blur his vision. He had never beaten her at anything before. Until today.

  Bale opened his door a split second before she could open hers. It was just enough time for Bale to lunge across and slam it shut on her. So angry, no words came from her mouth, just the wide-eyed glare of bloodshot eyes.

  “Dearborn, wait. We have a plan.”

  Dearborn pushed on her door. It budged. Bale’s feet slid across the floor as she pushed harder, prompting him to talk faster. “You can’t kill him now. Think about it. If you kill him now, in front of a hundred children—a hundred of his children—they would seek revenge on you, and that’s even if you live that long. Don’t you think you would die shortly after you killed him?”

  Bale’s feet continued to slide. The door continued to open. “And that’s even if you could kill him. His skeleton hand is strong, Dearborn. He bent the one bar of my cell door. His hand bent metal.”

  Bale’s statement made her push harder, the opening almost wide enough for her to slip through. “And his brother! The king! If you kill Daedalus, you won’t be protecting your children. King Oremethus will hunt them down and kill them.”

  With one final push, Dearborn opened the door enough to exit her cell. Bale let go of the door and backed down the aisle, hands out in front of him. She could get past him, by out-maneuvering him or out-muscling him. Either way, it was going to hurt. Bale started his day with pain, so he figured he might as well end with it. “Dearborn, please. We have a plan to escape. We have a plan.”

  Fists clenched, she was on him faster than he anticipated. Her arms were around him and he expected her to pick him up and slam him to the ground. Or to squeeze so hard that his lungs could take in no air and he would pass out. He did not expect her next move.

  She buried her face in his chest and cried. In between sobs, she whispered, “My babies, Bale. He’s going after my babies.”

  “We have a plan. It’s a good plan. We have a good plan and it will work.” Bale kept repeating his words as Dearborn cried.

  thirteen

  The void dragon engulfed the hobgoblin with one bite, then chewed, and swallowed as it landed in front of Perciless’ general. The dragon and human communicated with each other. There were no sounds accompanying the images Methel watched, just silent defeat.

  “Have you seen enough?” Juruk asked.

  Methel regarded his sergeant, an albino satyr, and a nasty looking one at that. Much larger than his brethren, long alabaster scars ran the length of the milk-white skin of his bare chest. His leg fur was becoming yellow tinged from time, patches on his left thigh permanently lost to long-forgotten battles. Thin black chain wrapped around his right leg, one end embedded in his hoof, the other end anchored to his hip. Eight more black chains formed a dangling ladder up the right side of his torso, waist to shoulder. Each chain’s anchors were six inches apart, a knotted scar where metal dug into skin. There were only three chains on his face: a short length under his right eye, one from his nostril to his ear lobe, the final one from the center of his chin to the back of his jaw. Any time Juruk spoke, Methel wanted to grab all the chains and yank them from his pale skin. “I have. You can cease your spell, Lazzim.”

  The wizard with the cloak of fire grunted and closed the mystical window that allowed everyone to see the failure of the Elite Troop’s three-man assassination team. The wizard’s voice was that of a hissing campfire. “Anything else, General?”

  “Nothing for now.”

  The wizard left them to join the rest of the Elite Troop camped out at the bottom of the hill. The wizard was a powerful one and had no qualms demonstrating his abilities, such as with his cloak. Cowl and cape of dancing flame, yet it did not burn anything it touched unless Lazzim wished it to. Methel was no friend of the wizard, nor with any member of his Elite Troop for that matter, but he trusted the wizard more than the others. Lazzim was quick to do heinous work in the name of the king when first approached so many years ago. Methel had Lazzam’s allegiance as long as he gave the wizard the opportunities to use his magic to inflict pain every once in a while. Juruk had no allegiance to anyone, just to his sword, a lover’s promise to keep it bathed in blood.

  Standing next to each other atop a hill overlooking the town where they had sent their assassins to find and kill the once King Perciless, Methel and Juruk watched in silence. From this distance, the town looked peaceful enough, as they were unable to see the happenings on the street, but Methel knew there was a commotion, townspeople running amok and looking for answers. Perciless and his crew were packing their things and planning their next move, Methel was sure of this. Juruk broke the silence first. “We should move in now.”

  “That would be very imprudent.”

  Juruk inhaled deeply through his nose. “Is that fear I smell?”

  “If the word ‘imprudent’ is too big for you, all you need to do is ask for the definition instead of exemplifying your ignorance through boorish insults. It would do us no good to go charging into a town that is dealing with the chaos that happened in one of their markets.”

  “Chaos is always good. Less chance of deception coming from a person who is confused and scared.”

  “Chaos has a time and a place. It is true the citizens might be more willing to give us information now, but they have none to give. Those we’re s
eeking are faceless strangers to the people down below.”

  “They certainly would know Perciless.”

  “There is no indication that he was even there.”

  Juruk laughed and shook his head. “I have yet to understand why Prince Daedalus has chosen you to be general of the king’s Elite Troop. Either you’re arguing for the sake of arguing or you’re too short-sighted to realize that if Perciless’ men are there, then so must he be.”

  Methel frowned and crossed his arms over his chest. They were not quite as thick as Juruk’s, but he knew how to use them, and he could best Juruk if he had to. This, he was certain of. “His men could either be running reconnaissance or lagging behind to verify that they aren’t being followed. As to why I’m the general, I’m better than any other candidate offered to Prince Daedalus. I could demonstrate that now by either shoving your horns up your ass or by coming up with a plan for what we do next. If you wish the first choice, I’ll make it quick because I’m starting to get hungry and want nothing to stand in the way between me and a quick bite to eat. If you wish the latter, then fetch Lazzim and Samillia.”

  Right hoof kicking at the dirt like a bull ready to charge, Juruk snorted and shook his head. “You can’t truly mean that you’d be willing to—”

  Impassive, Methel looked nowhere else other than the town below, almost bored. “You’re choice, Sergeant.”

  Juruk gave the impression that he contemplated the options before him, but Methel knew that was merely posturing. Even if Juruk opted for combat and somehow won, Daedalus would never accept that and there would be a steep price to pay for the satyr. No one wanted that. Juruk did as ordered; he left and returned with the two Elite Troops members Methel had requested.

  “You wish to see us?” Samillia asked, her forked tongue quivering with every “s.”

  Turning his back to the town below, Methel kept his arms crossed, tone even, as he regarded the snake woman. She was one of his best warriors and took great pride in being a member of the Elite Troop. Her leather armor was always clean and well maintained, segmented to accommodate her serpent tail. Green snake scale covered her body, even her human torso. “I have a mission for you, Samillia.”

  She smiled, an event so rare that Methel had forgotten that she could be quite alluring. Even her vertical-slit yellow eyes went from menacing to enticing. “I will carry it out to success or die trying.”

  “I have every confidence in your abilities.” Methel nodded at Lazzim. The wizard held out his hand, and the air rippled above it. Two streams of fire arced from his palm to form a frame, the image of Landyr’s face in the center. Methel pointed to the image. “Find and seduce the prince’s general. In case you’ve forgotten, his name is Landyr.”

  Samillia’s smile disappeared. “My mission is to fuck a human? Is that all I am? The Elite Troop whore?”

  “I couldn’t give a rat’s dick if you lay with him or not. Just seduce him enough to make him give you information. What is their path? How many soldiers in their secret army? When do they plan on unleashing it?”

  “Seduce a human. Normally humans do not find me seductive.”

  “Obviously, he’s no normal human.” The image within the flame changed to Landyr embracing the dragon’s tongue and licking it. “It seems to me he wishes to share intimacies with a dragon. Meaning, if he wants to fuck a dragon, then he’ll want to fuck you.”

  Juruk snorted in amusement. “I’d have a better chance of seducing him than Samillia does.”

  The snake woman slithered closer to Juruk and drew her sword, just as curved as her twitching tail. Before any of this bravado turned into murder, Methel snapped, “Samillia! Despite Juruk having zero control of the words that leave his mouth, he is still your sergeant. And I am still your general giving you an order.”

  She sheathed her sword, her tongue poking from between her lips in short, tight flicks. Methel opened the small sack tied to his belt and pulled out three coins. He tossed them to Samillia, and she caught them with ease. “Go into town and buy civilian clothes. I’m asking you to do something we never trained you for in the barracks, but it is something I’m certain you can do.”

  She offered him one last glare before slithering down the hill.

  Samillia made her way through the grasses on the way to town and Methel dismissed Lazzim back to camp. Juruk moved close to Methel, his breath stale and hot as he said, “I believe you still retain allegiance to ex-king Perciless.”

  The albino satyr was wrong. The ex-king did the same for Methel as he did for all of his other citizens. Nothing. The only true favor from Perciless came as an opportunity for Methel to swing a sword rather than forge one.

  Before the Demon War, Methel was a blacksmith doing his best to raise two daughters after his wife died around their youngest’s fifth birthday from consumption. His work was not the highest quality, but none could compete with his prices or turnaround time. He wanted coin in hand as quickly as possible for his girls and wanted to make sure his community had what it needed to hinge doors, nail boards, and shoe their horses. For two years after his wife’s death, he pounded out a good life for his daughters. Until the Horde came.

  Praeker Trieste and his horde of villains raided Methel’s town looking for cursed gemstones. As Methel defended his shop against three orcs, a griffin devoured his daughters. To this day he could still see his youngest daughter’s severed arm dangling from the corner of the creature’s beak.

  The retribution was swift and bloody. Methel mourned, sitting in the center of his blacksmith shop with what remains of his daughters he cut from the griffin’s belly and crying until he passed out. The following day, the fraction of the town’s populace that survived gathered to decide their fate. The entire town has been either burned to ash or broken into splinters and pebbles. They decided to make a pilgrimage to Phenomere, capital and castle of Albathia. They arrived at what they had just left.

  While the mad wizard Wyren ripped open the membrane to Hell and released its demons, Praeker and his Horde attacked Phenomere, decimating the city.

  The new king Perciless was quick to devise plans for rebuilding after the war. Methel thought about offering his skills as a blacksmith but decided against it. He smithed for his daughters and his community. His daughters were dead, and the people of this city were strangers. He joined the army instead.

  So depleted, the king’s army had little concern about his advanced age, just his willingness to learn. And he did. Others were faster, smarter, more talented, but Methel was dead inside and executed every order without question or complaint. Six years of unwavering service got him promoted to castle guard. He volunteered for the night rounds because it gave him the least contact with anyone else and whatever might be lurking in the shadows of the hallways was far less terrifying than what lurked around in the shadows of his heart. Until Oremethus came back.

  The transfer of crown from Perciless to Oremethus was swift but sloppy. Perciless escaped. The new king was obsessed with demons. The youngest brother was a sadistic nightmare. And dragons were involved, damnable filthy beasts. But Methel kept his mouth shut other than to say, “Yes, sir,” and ended up being the main prison guard for the ex-soldier woman and the ogre.

  Over the years, Methel turned many a blind eye to Dearborn’s antics. She skulked the halls to supply the bounty of her rat farm to the other prisoners and he pretended not to notice. He even opted to stay as a prison guard when he accepted the opportunity to hunt wizards.

  As with every operation under the Oremethus regime, opportunity came in the form of orders from those higher in authority, and Methel was ordered to become a wizard hunter. He knew little about the motivations of those behind the Demon War, but he knew a wizard had started it. During his tenure as a wizard hunter, he captured and killed the most, garnering the attention of Daedalus. The twisted prince wished to besmirch the name of Dear
born Stillheart and all that it stood for, so he turned his eye toward the career that she loved—The Elite Troop.

  Daedalus wanted a group of bloodthirsty miscreants ready to die for an opportunity to kill, and willing to kill to complete any mission given to them. Methel was his first choice for general. However, Daedalus also picked the other forty members as well, much to Methel’s chagrin.

  “No, Juruk, I owe Perciless nothing. My every opportunity and advancement came during Oremethus’s rule. You, however, were pardoned by Perciless for all the war crimes that you committed during your time as one of Praeker Trieste’s Horde members yet faced a life of nothing but following orders ever since Oremethus ascended the throne. Of the two of us, who do you think Prince Daedalus would suspect to be the most treasonous?”

  A growl rumbled from deep within the satyr’s throat, but he did nothing else other than turn and walk away.

  Methel knew his time was short, but he wanted to see what Perciless had planned before he brought the prince to the king.

  fourteen

  Nevin watched. Ideria was his sister, but observation was his best friend. His mother taught him the benefits, but noticing the machinations of the world came easily to him. When a person opened their mouth, their other senses closed, so being a naturally quiet individual allowed Nevin access to the world’s input.

  With a sister like Ideria, it was easy to go unnoticed. If asked, she would deny being infatuated with social interaction, using the excuse of needing to hide in shadows or behind cloaks. Those instances were not as often as she made them out to be. The need for a common guise within a crowd was only necessary if there was potential danger. In reality, she was quick to accept conversation anytime it was offered. Laughter was easy to elicit from her. She never quested for attention, but she always received it, making it easy for Nevin to hide in her shadow. Even while wearing a cloak, she could not go unnoticed when walking into a room. Nevin would watch those watching her. Especially when entering a crowded tavern such as this one.