The Devil's Judgment

by Chris Pisano

  Stars burst all throughout Cezomir’s vision as he stumbled backward. He jumped out of the way to avoid snapping jaws right in front of another human-shaped creature attacked. This one had two heads on long independent necks and extended snouts holding an impossible number of teeth. Attack strategies ran through Cezomir’s mind as the two creatures converged. He backed away and any attempt he made to sprint around them was quickly thwarted by the swinging claws or gnashing teeth. He could only move backward. They were herding him.

  The other members of the Elite Troop did the same to Cezomir’s companions, some with swords and spears, the others with weapons grown from their bodies. Cezomir looked for a weakness in the encroaching circle of warriors, and one did not exist. Both centaurs were armored from head to hoof, their metal shaft spears unbreakable. The minotaur was twice his size. And the chimeras . . . these creatures were the best parts of claws and teeth and talons from every kind of deadly beast sutured and soldered together. Their wizard walked with fire, his cloaks perpetually burned, while his hands were engulfed in flames. There was no doubt in Cezomir’s mind that if he made it out of this alive it would not be without injury. He decided that when the time came, he would charge at a centaur, staying low in an attempt to hobble it.

  “Hold,” came from behind the line of soldiers. A man’s voice, laden with weariness. “Let me through.”

  Two of the soldiers moved apart to let a human and a satyr through. Judging from their medals—the human wore his on his uniform, while the satyr had his medals affixed to his skin—they were the leaders, general and sergeant Cezomir assumed. Gray streaks decorated the stocky human’s hair and the satyr was an albino and the largest Cezomir had ever seen. Black chains and other piercings adorned the satyr’s white skin.

  “Prince Perciless,” the human said in a familiar tone as if greeting him at a dinner party.

  “Methel,” Perciless replied, just as casually.

  Methel ran a hand through his hair as if the act would take away his frustration. “You know what I want, correct?”

  “For me to come with you, back to my brothers.”

  “Correct. Let’s just do that. We will need to kill one of your protectors, of course, but the rest we will let live. They call you the king of the people, renowned for your love of them, your willingness to sacrifice for them. Well, you now get a chance to save four out of five of your subjects. All you need to do is pick one—”

  “Samillia.”

  Looks of confusion swept across everyone’s faces, none more so than Samillia’s. A few members of the Elite Troop laughed. Landyr turned to Perciless and snapped, “You can’t be serious.”

  Perciless looked at the dagger in his hands, as if in contemplation and then suddenly brought it to his own throat. “I am. No matter what happens, they won’t kill me. If I don’t go with them, then you all die, and I’ll still live. If I go with them, they won’t kill you, or I will slice my own throat. I could only imagine the horrors Daedalus would perform on them should he find out that they had me in their clutches and then failed to deliver me alive.”

  Perciless’ logic intrigued Cezomir. How far with his threat was the prince willing to go? Everyone in the Elite Troop shifted nervously, none smiled or laughed at the thought of disappointing Daedalus.

  “Be that as it may, how could you make a decision like that so rashly?”

  “As I said back in Murveen, people underestimate me, often mistaking benevolence for weakness. Lest you forget, I quested for one of the accursed gemstones needed to summon the demons of the Demon War. I assure you during that adventure I . . . I . . .”

  Perciless’ words trailed off as his eyes went vacant. Something playing about in his mind demanded his attention. The temptation to smack him out of this stupor passed through Cezomir’s mind. Alas, he had to do no such thing as Perciless jerked as if awakening from a dream and continued his thought, “. . . I had to make impossible choices and do unspeakable things. So, this decision is an easy one compared to those. I sacrifice the one I know the least, who also happens to be a member of the Elite Troop.”

  This time it was Cezomir and his companions who were confused, while the mood of the Elite Troop soured.

  Samillia looked back and forth between Perciless and Methel. Perciless gave her the same soft smile he gave to anyone he came across, but this time he gestured with his free hand for her to join her true companions, shooing her away.

  Back rigidly straight, she slithered to take her place next to Methel. Before any words could be exchanged between the two, the albino satyr punched the back of Methel’s head, dropping the human to the ground, and then sliced Samillia’s throat. As soon as the blade cut free from her neck the satyr threw it at Perciless. The knife pierced the prince’s hand, forcing him to drop his dagger.

  Everyone tensed, weapons ready to kill, as the satyr strode closer to the captives. “My name is Juruk. I’m the new general of the Elite Troop now. I do not play foolish games like Methel. We will be taking Perciless back to Phenomere and the rest of you will die.”

  Cezomir believed Juruk’s words to be true.

  twenty-two

  Ideria eyed the miners. She doubted that they were who they said they were. But she had been the most vocal about trying to help refugees and other people in need during their trek to Kallistah Pass, and just because these five burly men—four humans, one orc—had perpetual scowls carved into the crags of their stone-hard faces did not mean they were in any less need than a houseful of orphans. Although, Ideria would have chosen to travel with orphans even though she never liked the concept of children. They were helpless, noisy, needy, and ungrateful, but very few could be described as killers. None of these men confessed to such an act, but Ideria could sense it from them. Maybe now that she, too, fell into that category she could recognize a kindred spirit. Of course, her friends’ Uncle Phyl was now the newest member to carry that exclusive title, and he had not been dealing with it very well. Not well at all.

  It had been two weeks since the incident and he still sat upon his saddle with drooped shoulders and watery eyes. Lapin sat next to him on the saddle, half on his lap, and stroked the satyr’s leg fur in attempts to comfort him. Neither Bale nor any of his children rode the horses. Other than Hope, they were simply too large. The young half-harpy chose to stretch her wings and spend most of the journey in the air. She said it was for reconnaissance purposes, but Ideria suspected she just wanted to fly above the malaise. They all, however, took turns walking next to Phyl in attempts to liven his spirits. Bale proved to be the worst at it, his meandering words and circular logic often left Phyl frowning rather than pouting. Woe did markedly better by keeping silent, only breaking it with short statements like, “It had to be done,” or, “You did the right thing.” Rue had success as well, reciting the flowery words of poets. Phyl closed his eyes and looked relaxed as if slumbering in a field of roses when Rue spoke. Hope was the only one to elicit a smile, though, simply by gliding low enough. Feet off the ground, she would kiss his cheek and fly back to the treetops.

  Ideria knew little about Phyl, other than this satyr was a true uncle to the ogre-harpy half breeds. He was married to Bale’s sister. After Bale had been captured by King Oremethus, she ran off with Bale’s wife. Bale had learned about this only two weeks ago, so he was not quite as jovial as the ogre from tales she had heard from her friends.

  Phyl had always been nice to her and Nevin, treating them kindly and feeding them if they happened to be around for supper. As a child, she had found the bickering between Lapin and him to be quite amusing. Who could resist the comedic endeavors of a satyr arguing with a rabbit? Even though her interactions with Phyl had been relatively superficial or as a bystander to life affecting him, she felt bad for him right now. It was downright heartbreaking.

  * * *

  The night following the breakout, she dealt with her fee
lings about killing people for the first time the same way she had always dealt with anything else—by turning to her brother. She could not consciously recall the actual battle. It was merely a concept that eluded her. She knew how much pressure was needed to puncture skin with a sword and how hard she had to swing to separate a man’s head from his body, but not the experience of learning that. She remembered seeing the aftermath, though. So many bodies.

  Nevin helped in the escape as well, taking the lives of those soldiers who stood between him and his mother. Unlike Ideria, he remembered each kill. The morning was a bizarre mixture of running and tear-filled “I love yous” from almost everyone in their party. The remainder of the day was spent with the two families congregating while walking without a predetermined destination. Dearborn offered condolences to Nevin and Ideria about finding themselves in a situation to take lives, especially to Ideria. There were so many bodies.

  Night was spent in the forest, far enough from civilization that no one would notice a campfire, but close enough to purchase a few supplies the following morning. They then stumbled upon the farm with the stable of horses and came up with a plan. Ideria had felt good about the idea until the farmer discovered them.

  “Who are you?” the older man yelled, pitchfork primed for stabbing.

  Being the least intimidating, Draymon stepped forward, open palms visible. “Good sir, we mean you no harm. We are travelers just passing through. We have fed and brushed your horses and have taken nothing.”

  The farmer relaxed and lowered his pitchfork. Staying wary he ambled a few paces to peer into the stable. “Brushed and fed the horses, you say?”

  “Yes, good sir. In fact, we were wondering if you would be willing to sell two or three of them? We can compensate well?”

  “Well, I think I could certainly be persuaded to—” The mention of gold lightened the farmer’s mood, but his smile faded as he looked around at everyone in the group. He tightened his grip on his pitchfork. “I heard talk this morning of an escape from the castle’s dungeons. A large woman and a larger ogre. I see those two right here.”

  “They were wrongly imprisoned by a mad king.”

  “It means sheep shit to me if they deserved it or not, I just know there has to be a reward for their capture. Now stay still and no one gets hurt. My sons should be here soon enough, and we’ll all get what we deserve.”

  “We really want no trouble, and like I said, we can pay handsomely for a few of the horses.” Draymon started to approach the farmer as he spoke. Everyone else shifted where they stood and looked nervously to one another. Ideria looked to her mother for guidance.

  “You stay right where you are. My sons are right around the corner. Boys! Boys, come along now!” the farmer called out over his shoulder as he waved his pitchfork around.

  “Good sir, there’s no need—”

  “Boys!”

  “Stop!”

  “Hurry your—”

  The farmer stopped screaming. From her angle, Ideria could only see him cough and sputter, blood splashing from his mouth and over his chin. Only once he fell dead to the ground did she see who stabbed him in the back.

  Phyl.

  He let go of the dagger, still in the farmer’s back, and brought his shaking hands to his mouth. Tears streamed over his cheeks as he blubbered, “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

  * * *

  He had been inconsolable ever since. Bale and Lapin reminded him that he fought in the Demon War two decades ago, but he countered that what he sent to Hell with his blade came from Hell in the first place. The farmer was a living creature, a human. He had misplaced ideals, but he had to summon those because he had trespassers.

  Before the sons, if there were truly any coming, could arrive, they took the horses and fled, Draymon leaving two coins in each stall. They rode for days, staying within the confines of the forest. Guiding horses through such terrain limited their speed, but paranoia kept them away from roads and worn paths.

  They happened upon the town of Murveen after a week and decided to see if they were far enough away from Phenomere that sight of Dearborn and Bale would only garner sideways glances rather than hope of a king’s ransom. Just in case any woman larger than average or any ogre would be met with scrutiny, it was decided that Draymon, Nevin, and Lapin went into town for supplies and information, while everyone else remained in the forest. The next morning, they returned with refugees.

  The news of the dungeon escape did travel, but who escaped concerned no one. It was the death of Vogothe that dominated everyone’s interest. That piece of news had more impact on the lives of the townsfolk. The lands were now full of roving bands of brigands and miscreants fearing no consequence for their actions no matter how reprehensible. According to the locals, Perciless and his caravan fought and killed a large group of criminals threatening to take over the town just two days prior. The prince himself had dispatched the gang’s leader. There were plenty of sources that said the prince and company were making their way to Kallistah Pass, The miners shared the same story with the group.

  “Why didn’t you travel with him?” Dearborn asked.

  The orc spoke, his thick lips, scarred by deep cuts, moved over teeth that looked more at home as stalactites and stalagmites in a cave than in a mouth, “The prince said flowery words to us in the town, shit about light coming to scare away the darkness and patience and rebuilding and other things less meaningful than a steaming pile of horse shit. But after he left, we thought about his words. We were going to find work at other mines and then thought about what the king did to Orsrun. Ain’t no place for us now, ain’t no place for us then, ain’t no place for us whoever’s king. We’d rather drink from the Devil’s pisspot than spend another moment in Albathia. We’re not following Perciless, we just want to get to Tsinel.”

  The other four miners nodded in unison.

  Draymon pointed to Bale and Dearborn. “You know who those two are?”

  The five men shook their heads and frowned even harder. The orc answered. “No. With a face that pretty, we’d remember.”

  “Thank you,” Bale said. “I get that a lot.”

  Everyone laughed, except for Bale, the experience forming a bond with the newest members of the group.

  Even though their motivations differed, the miners offered no encumbrances as the rest of the group decided to push hard along the fastest path to catch prince Perciless. The human miners took turns riding two of the horses, the orc sharing the same size limitations as the ogres. During the abbreviated downtime, they pulled their weight, each gathering wood for a fire or hunting for food. One of the humans even risked the potential of getting bitten by a Hellion Tree Adder, poisonous yet delicious when cooked over a flame. Yet, Ideria still could not bring herself to trust them.

  The path led them to the Looping Forest. Ideria had heard of this place but never had any desire to visit it. There was an undeniable beauty to it, but as it was often the way with nature, beauty was delivered in very dangerous ways.

  There was only one type of tree in the Looping Forest, ones with light gray bark and slivers of leaves that gleamed silver on sunny days. Even the moss that sometimes grew upon the tree bark was gray and velvety to the touch. Adding to the mystique and the danger were the roots of trees. Starting ten feet above ground, the roots of a mature tree curved outward before disappearing into the earth. The entire forest was nothing more than monochrome archways, set to deceive and confuse the senses. Even wildlife found this area confounding, choosing other environments to eke out a life, so the noises of nature were reduced as well. No birds flew through the branches, no animals on the ground rustled the brush. Uneasy worms turned deep within Ideria’s stomach.

  “You’re veering away from the group,” Dearborn said to Ideria as she guided her steed closer.

  Ideria shook her head to escape
from the traps of monotony and her own thoughts. She tugged the reins to get her horse to follow pace with the rest of the caravan. “Apologies, Mother.”

  Dearborn chuckled as she reached over to put her hand on Ideria’s. “No need to apologize. I just want to make sure you are well. You seem unsettled.”

  “It’s this forest. All so . . . gray. And the trees are all the same. And the roots are all the same. Round doorways to madness.”

  “I couldn’t agree more. Yet, somehow this has pulled Phyl out from his own personal well of pity.”

  Ideria leaned forward to get a better view. Bale held Lapin in his palm while walking next to the satyr and said, “I spy with my all-seeing eye an object that begins with the letter ‘j.’”

  A smile played along Phyl’s face. “Is it a tree?”

  “It is.”

  Lapin ran his front paws over his face. “Bale, the word ‘tree’ does not start with the letter ‘j.’”

  “Try again, Bale,” Phyl said.

  “Oh. Okay. I spy with my all-seeing eye an object beginning with the letter ‘g.’”

  “Is it a tree?”

  Lapin sat up on his britches. “It can’t be a tree, Bale, because the word ‘tree’ doesn’t begin with the letter ‘g.’”

  A sense of pride could be heard in Bale’s voice as he said, “It is a tree, but which one is my all-seeing eye looking at?”

  Phyl gave a noncommittal nod to the right. “That one.”

  Bale frowned. “Damnation. How’d you know, Phyl? Don’t matter none. I’ll get you this time. I spy with my all-seeing eye and object beginning with the letter ‘d.’”