The Devil's Judgment

by Chris Pisano

  The Giant’s Den was huge, the biggest tavern Nevin had ever seen. No surprise, though, since it was the most popular tavern in the bustling city of Bernum, large and ever expanding. Trees with thick trunks grew throughout the tavern, supporting the opened second floor, where the rooms for rent were located. Even here, though the crowd was thick when Nevin and Ideria entered, they were greeted with sideways glances and more than a few stares.

  Still angry with their uncles, Ideria offered no form of communication with them other than answers to direct questions. It made for the six-day trek to Bernum one of whispers among two separate groups, the “uncles” and the “children.” Even though they did not react quite as negatively as Ideria did, the children of Bale Pinkeye were upset that they had been lied to for a decade about their father’s demise. Ideria’s stance was simple—no forgiveness until Dearborn and Bale were found. Her contemporaries rallied around her in solidarity. As soon as they secured rooms in Bernum, Ideria went off to ferret out information of Dearborn’s possible whereabouts. Bartholomew believed that she and Bale were being held at either the Hellweb dungeon system or in Castle Phenomere itself. Bernum was positioned between the two; Hellweb one day to the north, Phenomere two days to the south. Taverns held information and Ideria went right for the largest one. Nevin did as he had done his entire life, followed her.

  A couple of coins and a question slid across the bar’s top. The bartender answered with a head nod to a table in the corner. There a man sat alone, even though the round table could support four. Uninvited, Ideria sat in one of the three empty chairs and said, “I heard you know something about someone I’m looking for.”

  The man stayed perfectly still, except for his watchful eyes, until Nevin sat down, then a smile played across his stubbled face. Nevin had observed a smile like this before and made assumptions. Scum. Liar. Cheat. But Nevin did as he always did when Ideria became so singularly focused, he kept his mouth shut.

  The man’s tongue swiped across the dead skin of his dried lips. “I know a lot of things and a lot of people. I’ll need more details and we’ll see if I can help you.”

  “We’re looking for a couple of prisoners held by the king. A large woman. Tall and muscular like . . . like me. And an ogre, like . . . like . . .,”

  “Like them?” the man asked turning to the side. Rue and Woe sat a few tables away with Hope.

  Ideria scowled. “Like any other ogre. Have you heard of these two prisoners?”

  Placing his elbows on the table, the man turned his attention back to Ideria and leaned in, his smile even wider this time. Nevin went from simply distrusting him to downright hating him because of that smile. “Of the ogre and the woman who looks like you? I have indeed.”

  “Do you know which dungeon they’re being held in?”

  “Indeed, I do.” Like the drawbridge of a castle devoted to lechery, the man lowered his hand to the table, empty palm face up.

  Nevin was worried about the phrase “who looks like you.” Was the man just playing off what she had said, or did he know Ideria was the daughter of Dearborn? He wanted to extricate himself and his sister from this situation. Ideria had other plans, as evidenced by the coins in her hand.

  Below table level, Nevin grabbed her wrist. Reasoning with her would be out of the question, but he did want her to think about what she was going to do. The fire behind her eyes burned brighter than any candle or oil lamp in the tavern and he released her arm from fear of being engulfed by the inferno raging within. She was determined to make a bad decision and he could do nothing to stop her. Fortunately, Bartholomew could.

  As if manifested by a wish, the mercenary turned knight appeared between the siblings, his knife slashing downward. The table shook upon impact and Nevin’s first thought was the wretched man’s hand would be affixed to it. Instead, the knife struck between the man’s middle and ring fingers.

  No longer smiling, the man withdrew his hand, a small bead of blood rolled between his knuckles from a wound no larger than a cut received from handling counterfeit papers. With no hint of worry or fear, the man stood, and still spoke directly to Ideria. “There are all kinds of rumors swirling around a place like this. There are quite a few about a girl . . . a girl I’d guess to be your age . . . who killed one of the king’s dragons. Have you heard this rumor? I bet you have, maybe you’ve even been mistaken for her since these rumors state that she was a girl larger than most men. Within all of those rumors, though, there is one thing that is an absolute fact—the king has a bounty on this girl’s head.”

  The man disappeared into the crowd.

  Staying next to Ideria, Bartholomew bent down and spoke softly to her. “We have received information from much more reputable sources that they’re being held in the castle’s dungeon. Try to get a good night’s sleep, because we’ll head out at first light.”

  Ideria stood and walked away, aiming for the table with her friends.

  Bartholomew sighed. “Well, we all know how she feels. How about you, son?”

  “I understand that you and Draymon and the Wahls did what you had to do. I can’t say it doesn’t hurt, but it had to be done. I share my sister’s zeal and anxiety in finding our mother, but not her tactics.”

  “Good. We uncles were counting on you to be the intermediary between the angry and the guilty. I know she won’t listen, but if you could at least suggest to Ideria that she should wear her cloak, then you’ve done everything you can to help allay suspicions.”

  “Understood.” Nevin was not certain Bartholomew heard him as his uncle disappeared into the crowd.

  Nevin knew his role to play. He had been playing it is whole life. Sometimes he was the only one who could talk to Ideria, get her to listen whenever she refused to hear what the rest of the world had to say.

  The table the others sat at was long with two benches. Woe was the largest by far, even larger than Ideria, even though he garnered his extra height through the point of his head and a significant amount of his girth came from the numerous sweet cakes he had consumed over the years. He and Ideria took up one entire bench. Nevin sat next to Hope, her wings fluttering as he took his seat. Rue was beside his sister. “Has Ideria told you our destination for tomorrow?”

  “Yep,” Rue replied.

  Normally Rue spoke for the siblings, but he sat in silence, fidgeting with his spectacles to the point of removing them, scrutinizing them, and then returning them to their perch upon his nose. This became routine whenever he was upset. Everyone at this table had a lot to process, a lot to prepare for. What if the stories of their parents still being alive were false? A clever trap set by the king and his brother? The stories being true were no easier to bear—how could nine enemies of the king breakout two prisoners from the castle’s dungeon, possibly the most fortified location in the country?

  Everyone stared at the table, projecting their hopelessness to the twisting labyrinth of the uneven flow of the wood grain. For no reason, Hope said, “Maybe we need to focus on the one good thing that came from this.”

  All eyes were on Hope. Ideria, confused, bordering on incensed; her brothers weary. Nevin found himself confused as well, never once knowing Hope to make an attempt at optimism. He wondered if an ailment afflicted her. The faintest of smiles accompanied a slight twinkle in her eye as she looked around the table. “Us. I hate to think of it, but if events didn’t happen the way they happened, then we would have never met.”

  Ten years ago, Draymon showed up to the Wahls’ house. The stranger said a few words to them and Marrim Wahl broke down in tears. Even Hander, a retired army officer, hardened by the horrible forge of war, shed many tears. Draymon was introduced as “Uncle,” but neither Nevin nor Ideria believed he was blood. His propensity to care for them knew no limits, so they took to him as if he were a legitimate uncle. He taught them how to fight, and often became a focal point of frustration whe
n it came time to dig the tunnels, but he also taught them meditation techniques, which Nevin enjoyed immensely, and reminded them that the ways of combat were to protect the people they loved.

  A few months later, their other uncle, Bartholomew, showed up. He had rakish good looks for a man with streaks of gray in his hair, and his sinister smile bedeviled those who beheld it. Danger was a shadow to him, never disconnected from him, no matter how seemingly insignificant. Nevin knew he and his sister should have been afraid of him, but he, too, quickly endeared himself through the humor found in his quick tongue and the wonder of sleight of hand magic. His lessons were far less tiring than Uncle Draymon’s, yet more complex. His mastery was of social situations and how to manipulate those within them to get what he wanted. And if that failed, then he would use swift, nimble fingers to pilfer. He, too, soon felt like an uncle.

  Half a year later came another knock on the door. On the other end stood a satyr and a talking rabbit claiming that they fought beside Draymon and Dearborn. Children at the time, both Nevin and Ideria found the whole idea intriguing and funny—a drunk rabbit spouting naughty words! The Wahls’ helped Phyl and Lapin purchase a tract of land with a house on it large enough to hold the twelve children of Bale Pinkeye. Nevin and Ideria enjoyed their uncles but were more than excited to finally get the one thing that had been lacking for all of their lives—friends!

  A two-hour walk, or a one-hour run, and they could visit. They enjoyed the company of all twelve, even the ones too young to join them on adventures. The loss of parents created an unbreakable bond, an immediate understanding from all when an unexpected bout of melancholy struck for no reason or something random triggered a strong memory. All twelve were the product of Bale and Cherish, an ogre and a harpy. However, their mother did not die but instead left them with the pseudo-uncles. The loss of her husband had been too great in her heart, so she ran off with his sister, Uncle Phyl’s wife at the time because she reminded Cherish of Bale in mind, body, and spirit. But the loss of a parent was the loss of a parent, no matter the circumstance.

  Very soon after meeting, Nevin and Ideria learned that the older children of the ogre-harpies had similar skills when it came to pilfering. Tavern owners refused to serve Lapin after a round of inebriated tirades and the children were too young to purchase from distillers, so he taught them the finer points of teamwork when it came to thieving a crate of booze now and again. Plus, the cost of feeding twelve perpetually hungry children was astronomical, especially when the only set of hands old enough to make a wage belonged to a foppish satyr.

  “She’s right,” Nevin said.

  Hope smiled at him. Again, an act that he had seen her perform infrequently. “Thank you.”

  “As tragic as the reason why fate had put us together, we would most certainly have never met otherwise. I can’t fathom how hellish Ideria’s and my lives would be had we no contemporaries to befriend, no others who could understand our situation. Now, we have potentially found something that we thought lost to us. We have the rare opportunity to fulfill a wish that we’ve all made secretly in our beds at night while awaiting slumber. Tomorrow starts our journey.”

  “He’s right,” Hope said to her brothers. “I don’t know about you two, but I . . . I can’t remember what Father looks like.”

  Rue pointed to Woe with his spectacles and said, “He looks like him.”

  “You know what I mean.”

  Rue sighed and returned his spectacles to his face. He put a meaty hand on his sister’s shoulder. “I do. I miss father and am willing to travel across the lands and into the keep of Castle Phenomere to unshackle him. If. If he’s still there and still alive. Now, I’m off to get some sleep, so I may begin this journey with fresh legs and a clear mind.”

  He stood and walked to the nearest set of stairs leading to the second floor. Woe stood as well. “What he said.”

  Hope lost her smile and turned back to Nevin. “Is . . . is it okay that I believe he is still alive?”

  “If it weren’t, then you wouldn’t be named Hope.”

  The green skinned harpy’s eyes slicked over from the promise of tears. Her smile was smaller this time as her bottom lip quivered. She stood from the table as well and whispered, “Thank you,” before she left.

  “Nice speech,” Ideria mumbled. “Put them in a better mood.”

  “It was meant for you, too.”

  “Only one thing can put me in a better mood.”

  “Obviously that’s us getting captured, tortured, and killed.”

  Ideria frowned. “How could you say something like that?”

  Nevin offered a nonchalant shrug of his right shoulder. “I’m simply making deductions based on the information you’ve given. For the past six days, you’ve been moping around like a princess unable to wear her favorite dress to the ball. You’ve shown zero interest in planning anything. And you know very well that you should be wearing your cloak everywhere we go. Without it, you’re begging to be recognized. There is quite a bounty out on the girl who killed a dragon, from what I hear.”

  “Our grandparents died right before we learned that—”

  “That they and our uncles have been lying to us for the past decade. You’ve said that already, repeatedly. I’ve stated my rebuttal and if you didn’t appreciate it the first time, stating it again would do no good. Everyone knows how you feel, except maybe that potted plant in the corner of the room. If you wish to take a moment and go whine to that as well, I can wait.”

  Her eyes were as cold as the blue ice they resembled. Muscles under her ears flexed as she clenched her jaw. Nevin knew exactly what to say to make her scorn dissipate. “Never once did you ask me how I feel.”

  Ideria’s anger crumbled away like a poorly constructed statue. Her face softened, and Nevin timed his next statement perfectly, right before she gave way to tears. “I do feel the same way, trust me, but we need to move our emotions past where they are now because stagnation is far too dangerous. Over the next couple of days, we need to plan, with our uncles, with Rue, Woe, and Hope, and with their uncles, a way to sneak into Castle Phenomere itself and break our mother out of prison.”

  fifteen

  “Are we sure we want to do this now?” Bale asked.

  Dearborn pulled the ends of cloth to tighten the knot. She pulled again to ensure its sturdiness. The makeshift sling needed to support fifteen pounds and it could jeopardize their plan should it give. She slung it over her shoulder, the ends crossing over her chest and back. “The longer we wait, the more time Daedalus has to hunt down my children.”

  “I know, but it will be dawn soon. We need darkness for this plan to work. You said so yourself.”

  “I said it’s better with darkness. And we still have darkness, so we’ll need to quit bickering and act quickly. Are you ready?”

  “Yes. Are you?”

  “Almost.” Dearborn placed the three packages Bale had pilfered from the kitchen, one of them just today, into the sling. She tucked her two knives into the rope garters she had tied around her thighs.

  Bale had also somehow brought back a great length of rope. He told her that during the training exercises he had seen it coiled up by a pile of chopped wood. After a quarterstaff blow to the gut, he needed to void his bowels and ran behind the pile of wood. None of the soldiers wished to see the ogre perform such a bodily function, so they had all turned away, leaving Bale plenty of opportunity to lift his thick tunic and wrap the rope around his chest and waist. Now, he stood at his opened cell door with the rope looped over his shoulder and across his chest. “Okay. Lead the way.”

  Having fought demons without help from any form of divine assistance, Dearborn no longer believed in the gods, yet as she and Bale scurried down the hallways away from their prison, she recited every prayer she could remember.

  Dearborn had never been to this part of the
castle, but she knew where she was going if her powers of deduction did not betray her. For the past nine years, she listened to stray conversations between guards, asked subtle questions of the messenger boys and pushed the limits of where she could sneak off to at night. She knew where she and Bale needed to go by where others had gone. More accurately, they sought one hallway that everyone left out of their stories. It was on the ground floor, and close to the stairwell leading up to the prisoner cells. Dearborn and Bale had little issue getting there, the most difficult part of the trip being the effort of summoning the courage to make the journey to the lone door in the middle of the short hallway.

  Using her foot, Dearborn opened the door with ease. As she suspected, there was no lock, not even a latch, just a chunk of roughly carved wood on hinges. She made no acknowledgment of Bale’s audible gulp and stepped inside the room.

  The darkness was oppressive, had a weight to it, like a wall that stopped the hallway light abruptly. Dearborn felt the need to shoulder her way into the darkness, deeper into the humid room. The darkness created blindness, but she could tell that it moved, every inch of the room. The sound of a million moist sponges being released after being squeezed to its limit filled the room, broken up by Bale shuffling his feet across the stone floor behind her.

  He was here. She knew it. “Light a torch.”

  The squishing noises stopped as did the moving darkness. The only sound in the room was her heartbeat.

  A spark of flint and the tip of a torch was lit. Wavy shadows made the features of the dead minotaur’s face seem even more ghoulish, the somber appearance of death. The sickening voice of Haddaman Crede slid through the thick air, “My dear Dearborn. I’ve been waiting for this day.”