The Devil's Judgment

by Chris Pisano

  “Let’s not forget, Cezomir and Lina tried the same thing I’m proposing and have made it work ever since.”

  “If you’re looking to explore the potential with someone that you’ve known for so long, then what about Brokar?”

  “He and Rolin tried the same thing I’m proposing years ago and had made it work.”

  “Wait . . . what? Really? I never knew.”

  “Clearly. You’ve been too busy pining over a dragon.”

  “That’s not—”

  “Fair? Nothing about this journey has been fair.”

  “I know that. We’ve all sacrificed way too much. I was going to say accurate.”

  Thorna snorted and stood. As she did Landyr turned and noticed the satyress across the tavern sitting with two other satyrs. She smiled and waved to him. Thorna noticed the gesture and shook her head. “Right. Not accurate in the least. I’ve made a fool of myself, so I’m just going to go to my room and remove this ridiculous powder.”

  Landyr wanted to call out but had no idea why or what he would even say. Letting her leave, no matter how misguided her anger might be, was the best strategy for all involved. He kept repeating that to himself as he went back to his ale, hoping he would believe it soon enough.

  “Trouble with your woman?”

  The voice had smooth femininity and an enticing throatiness, but the last thing he needed tonight was anything to do with another woman. She was sitting to his right and he turned just enough to see red hair from his periphery. That was also far enough to show that he acknowledged her. “She’s not my woman.”

  But she could have been. Landyr thought about that as he turned back to his left to look for Thorna, but she was gone. Maybe he should go to her room?

  “Well, that’s good,” the woman continued, “Because I’m tired of all the men in this tavern telling me that they’re married.”

  Landyr shook his head and chuckled. It was immediately obvious that men told her that because she missed the subtlety of politeness. As much as he hated to be hurtful, he was in no mood for the company of a stranger and needed to express that as plainly as possible. “I’m sorry, but I’m not—” he started, but when he saw the green scale of her skin and the slits in her yellow eyes his intentions spun half circle and he finished with, “—from around here.”

  “Interestingly enough, neither am I.”

  A snake woman. A beautiful one at that. Landyr originally thought that the satyr had satisfied his needs, but his burgeoning erection proved him wrong. “Pity. I was hoping to meet a local to show me around this city.”

  “Oh, really?” A smirk tugged at the corner of her lips, while her left eyebrow arched. “That truly is a pity, then, since it doesn’t appear that I’m able to assist you.”

  “I never said that.”

  “But you clearly stated your wishes.”

  “Just one wish and it wasn’t even really a wish. More like hope.”

  “The difference between the two concepts is . . . ?”

  “Hope can turn into a wish. Here, I’ll demonstrate. I wish to know your name and I hope you’ll tell it to me.”

  “My name?” She glanced away, and then quickly looked back into Landyr’s eyes. If she had been fending off her smile, she lost the battle. Her lips parted to expose a forked tongue that flickered a little with every “s” and two rows of evenly jagged teeth. “Samillia. My name is Samillia.”

  “You paused to debate about giving me your true name or not. I’m flattered that I received it.”

  “Why do you believe that I gave you my true name?”

  “The way you look at me. The way you smile.”

  “So, I’m that easy to read? Well, let’s see how well you do. Your name is?”

  “Landyr. Am I lying?”

  Landyr liked the way the tips of her forked tonged slid over her bottom lip as she contemplated her answer. “No. You are not.”

  “No?” He kept his eyes locked onto hers as he took a long pull from his mug. She was so mesmerizing that his mead tasted differently from the last time he sipped it. The sound of her voice raised the temperature in the entire bar, his skin warming with her every word.

  “I can tell by the way you look at me. The way you smile.”

  “That’s my line.”

  “It is, and I’m sure you’ve used it on many women.”

  “Only the beautiful ones.” Landyr surprised himself with those words. They were true, but not his first choice.

  “So, therefore you’re a stranger in this town? Because you ran out of beautiful women to seduce in your home town?”

  The world along Landyr’s periphery began to blur as her eyes became all that he could focus on. A soothing warmth flowed through him. The truth with her was so easy, felt so right. “No. I’m here because I’m aiding King Perciless in the building of his secret army.”

  “Now that you’ve told me this, I fear it’s no longer a secret.”

  Landyr took another swig of his mead, unable to pull his gaze away from her comforting eyes. “Very few people don’t know about our secret army. Even Prince Daedalus, the pile of human manure, knows about it. He just can’t find us.”

  “How do you know I’m not working for Prince Daedalus?”

  “Because you’re a woman.”

  “What does that have to do with my allegiance for or against the prince?”

  “You’ve undoubtedly heard what he does to women. Rapes them. Keeps them captive in his castle. Has his twisted master of the sciences do sick experiments on them. How could any woman hold allegiance with filth like that?”

  Her eyes disappeared. No. They did not disappear, but rather Samillia looked away and the rest of the world reappeared. Landyr’s own eyes burned, watering as if he had not blinked in weeks. The warmth disappeared; the hairs on the back of his neck standing on end from the chill of his cooling sweat.

  The past few moments were muddled in his mind, leaving him uncertain as to why Samillia now looked so rueful. Was it something he said?

  As Landyr turned to reach for his drink, he caught sight of something from the corner of his eye. Thorna. Green powder long gone, she had traded her corset for a loose tunic and no longer wore the hat. Whatever flirtations her face had once known were forgotten, now replaced by an anger that would make the devil cringe. Landyr cursed his luck, demonstrating to himself that her accusations were accurate, having denied them just moments earlier. As he stood to go to her, she stormed away to the tavern exit.

  “Landyr?” He so enjoyed how Samillia said his name and it hurt to ignore her. Instead, he followed Thorna, trying to determine the proper set of words that would better this situation.

  “Thorna?” Outside, the cool night air rejuvenated him, sweeping away the stuffiness of the too warm tavern. He still had no idea how to manipulate the conversation to his favor, but he felt more prepared for it. “Thorna, wait.”

  She made it to the other side of the road before she stopped and spun around. “No. Whatever you’re about to say, don’t. I’m not some bar trollop to seduce with sugary words, nor am I your betrothed to whom you need to explain your actions. You have made it abundantly clear that our relationship is to be professional only, with no chance whatsoever to explore anything more.”

  “I just wanted to explain myself.”

  “You don’t have to.”

  “I feel like I must. What you saw was not at all what you might think.”

  “No? Is that why you brought her along, to corroborate whatever pathetic excuse you attempt to muster?”

  “Bring her . . . ?” Landyr turned to find Samillia had followed him. “Samillia? Why—?”

  She flicked her tail and a glint of steel caught his eye. A knife.

  “Why do you have—?” Landyr started to ask but stopped
short when she threw the blade at him.

  Too surprised to dodge, Landyr could only watch the knife fly between Thorna and him and sink to the hilt in a stranger’s throat.

  The man dropped the dagger he was holding and brought both hands to his neck as he fell to his knees. Two more men with daggers rushed toward Landyr and Thorna. He had no idea what was happening, but his training and reflexes kept him alive more than his conscious mind. The dagger slices were wild and uncontrolled, easy to block or dodge. These were the attacks of a brigand whose knowledge of a blade failed to move beyond cutting food or threatening innocents. Taking the dagger proved little challenge for Landyr, and even less so to use it to end this cretin’s life.

  Thorna also disarmed her attacker, however, her killing blow was more than a simple throat slice like Landyr’s. Instead, she stabbed the man. Repeatedly. Well past his death. Landyr wanted to say something to make her stop, but as the sprays of blood splashed her face and tunic, he thought better of interrupting her. He assumed some other external catalyst would make her stop, much to his chagrin the external catalyst came in the form of screams erupting from the tavern.

  “What is happening?” Landyr asked the attacker that Samillia saved him from. However, the knife had gone too deep and the man lay dead in a puddle of blood pooling from his neck. “Damnation! Thorna, the tavern!”

  Questions about Samillia buzzed around Landyr’s mind like agitated hornets, but he swatted them away, no time for them now. The men they had disposed of were not an isolated trio of bandits. Up and down the streets other men with weapons laughed and whooped as they chased women or bludgeoned the elderly. The town was under siege, but not from some army or militia. A consortium of the wicked. Was Samillia a part of this? Was she setting him up? If so, then why save his life by killing the lout who tried to sneak up behind him? A part of it or not, she followed him and Thorna as they ran across the street to the tavern.

  Thorna aimed for the door, brandishing the blood-slicked dagger she recently procured, but Landyr grabbed her arm. Using prudence as a divining rod, Landyr dragged her to the closest window to see what they were about to rush into.

  There was too much commotion within the tavern to get an accurate count of those within, but Landyr estimated more than two dozen. That number stunned him. How was it possible to have a band of miscreants so large? Every plan Landyr concocted was dashed to shreds as the skirmish in the tavern intensified. The patrons attempted to fight back, but they were outnumbered. Then everything stopped, all eyes looking up to the second-floor landing. King Perciless.

  The window’s glass was too thick to hear distinct words, just muffled voices. Perciless walked down the stairs, Cezomir, Lina, and Brokar in tow, and allowed themselves to be taken into the custody of the attackers. Landyr shook his head in awe—his king was willingly giving himself up to stop the invaders from hurting anyone else. Undoubtedly, he was telling the brigands the truth, letting them know who he was. Whatever he was saying seemed to be working. The fighting stopped. Any citizen in the clutches of an attacker was freed. The group of miscreants escorted the king and his protectors out the door and down the street.

  Hiding in the nearby alleyway, Landyr pointed his dagger at Samillia. “Were you a part of this? Did you help set us up?”

  Her hair flowed like water as she shook her head. “No. I swear. I just wanted a nighttime tussle between the sheets.”

  Landyr believed she was not a part of this sudden invasion, but as he thought about the weightless feelings of being ensnared by her eyes, he knew she was up to something more sinister than a simple cure for loneliness. “No? You are quite skilled with a blade.”

  She shrugged her shoulders and pointed to Thorna. “So is she. A girl can’t be too careful.”

  Thorna snarled at Samillia and walked out of the alleyway. “Come on. We need to follow them.”

  Landyr slid the dagger between his belt and his pants. “Do you know who those men kidnapped?”

  Samillia shook her head. “No. Should I?”

  “That was King Perciless and thanks to your skills, you’re going to help us rescue him.”

  eighteen

  Daedalus stood in the hallway, arms crossed over his chest to keep his anger from exploding from it. The stench was the only thing that distracted him from his rage. The smell of the festering meat, the sourness of death made sticky by the moist air. How did Haddaman keep his room so humid?

  Four barrels. Two castle guards poured four full barrels of oil on everything in this room. The hundreds of dead slugs, the piles and piles of bones from whatever animals Haddaman had been feeding to the slugs, the rotted hay used for bedding, and the remains of the room’s master in the center of it. Both guards had already vomited from the sights and smells, and Daedalus considered adding them to the list of things to be burned. Such weakness should not be tolerated. Alas, he had more pressing matters on his mind, as General Perrator kept reminding him. “Your Highness, we must devise a plan to deal with the ramifications of this.”

  “I wish to enjoy this moment, general, and I wish to enjoy it in silence,” Daedalus hissed.

  The guards demonstrated that they did not share the same wishes as the prince. As soon as the liquids had been emptied from the last barrel, both guards scurried from the room with their heads down, the one burying his face in the crook of his arm to stifle retching noises. Daedalus let them leave.

  Ten days ago, he had received word of Haddaman’s death, the notion bringing a smile to his face. But the cost of such good news was too high. Dearborn had escaped. Not only did Daedalus lose his prized possession, but she had help from her children, the very things he sought. It took only two days of sleepless flight to return from his hunt, and then he began to scour the surrounding towns and cities looking for that bitch and her whelps. His efforts were fruitless, and he was fatigued. He needed rest, a fresh mind to solve this puzzle. But first, he needed a bit of merriment.

  Holding a stick of wood to the flame of the nearest wall sconce, he savored the time it took for the end of the wood to catch fire. Almost ceremonially, he took three steps to the side, away from the doorway. Perrator moved away from the door opening as well, except in the opposite direction. Daedalus smiled and tossed the burning stick into the doorway.

  The flame caught with ease, yellows and oranges danced with each other in the room, flaring into the hallway any time they hit a larger pool of oil. Once the heat dissipated enough, Daedalus moved to the doorway and watched the contents of the room burn. Satisfied that Haddaman had not somehow possessed the foresight to procure the services of a necromancer to raise himself from death should he meet it, Daedalus walked away. General Perrator followed. “Has your catharsis been satisfied?”

  “Until you opened your mouth.”

  “I feel I would be doing a great disservice to you and the king if I did not bring up that you just completed a funeral pyre for your advisor.”

  The prince’s chuckle came unannounced and in the form of a snort. Advisor, indeed! Daedalus allowed the sick creature to live because of his ability to pull information from the shadows. Any suggestions made by Haddaman benefited Haddaman. If any part of his advice benefited the king our country, then it was merely a scrap of food left over from someone else’s feast. “Am I to assume that you wish to take his role?”

  “I do not wish to, but I see that you are lacking any other feasible option.”

  “Baah! I have plenty of better options than you.”

  “Am I to assume you wish Speekore to fill Haddaman’s role?”

  “Don’t be so daft, even in jest. That slimy hobgoblin is a dozen hells worse than the foul wretch whose remains I just burned.”

  “Very well. Who else will ascend the ranks to become your new advisor?”

  “General Yulunda Griff. That fellow is both cunning and far more affable than you.”


  “Clearly not, or you wouldn’t have damned him to Speekore’s laboratory last month.”

  Daedalus stopped in his tracks and regarded General Perrator. Everything about this man exuded war, from the battle scars to the muscles forged from fighting. Were the general a sculpture, then the artist used a battle ax to carve him from a rogue mountain boulder. There was nothing Daedalus could do to threaten this creature. He assumed Perrator drank poison for breakfast and used knives to scrub his skin clean while bathing in acid. How many soldiers would it take to subdue Perrator? Would it be worth the cost?

  Daedalus knew to give that order would be to waste one of his greatest resources. Since he had no means at his disposal to threaten the general, then the notion of garnering the truth through the liberal use of fear was nothing more than a whimsical fairy tale. Yet when Daedalus looked into the half-giant’s eyes, he saw no hint of a duplicitous nature. The general would tell him the truth simply because he was a good soldier. “Very well, advise me.”

  “The troops the king has removed from Kallistah Pass—”

  Daedalus slammed his skeletal fist against the wall, leaving a crater as bits of stone shot in all directions. “Damnation! I knew I would regret the decision to make you advisor, but I never imagined it would be mere seconds afterward. I have heard enough about that damn pass. I demand silence from you regarding the topic.”

  “You may command everything within the castle, sire, including my silence, but outside these walls, you have no influence over Tsinel moving troops into Albathia.”

  This brute could fold the average man like a single sheet of paper, yet somehow had the wherewithal to know exactly which words to choose to manipulate Daedalus with similar ease. But was that not the job of an advisor, to make those he advised think? To give as much information as possible to make the best decisions? Had he come up with the idea first, Daedalus would shower himself with congratulatory platitudes for picking such a skilled advisor. “You’re telling me that Tsinel will invade us through a tiny road cut through the Timeless Mountains?”