The Devil's Judgment

by Chris Pisano

  “No!” Lapin yelled. “No, you don’t.”

  Ideria smiled. “I see I’m not the only one being driven mad by this forest.”

  Dearborn squeezed her hand. “You seemed unsettled even before we entered the forest.”

  Ideria looked around and over each shoulder to make sure she knew the whereabouts of all five of the tag-a-longs. “It’s the miners. I don’t trust them.”

  “No? Any particular reason?”

  “They just don’t seem like refugees.”

  “Not the scared women and helpless children you were hoping for?”

  “Not hoping for. Expecting.”

  “So burly men can’t be refugees?”

  “I never said that.”

  Dearborn chuckled again. “I know. I don’t trust them either. Over the years, Bale has become family, but there are certain limitations to being trapped in the same room with him for an extended period. It just feels so good to actually debate something other than colors or smells.”

  The argument between Bale and Lapin about whether or not the word “tree” started with the letter “p” or not was now impossible to ignore. It was Ideria’s turn to squeeze her mother’s hand. “I can only imagine. Actually . . . I can’t. I can’t imagine the horrors you must have to endure being in a dungeon for ten years.”

  Dearborn took the reins with both hands and sat straighter. Her eyes focused forward as if watching a stage performance. “It was long, but Daedalus’ hatred of me was two sides of a coin. He gave me, and by extension Bale, far more comforts than any other prisoner. Some could argue that we ate better than many of King Oremethus’ citizens. He wanted to torture me, but thanks to my training with the army and Elite Troop, physical torture would have been rather meaningless. So, he created Dearborn Day.”

  “Dearborn Day?” Ideria asked. She swallowed the lump in her throat as her mother took a shaky breath to compose herself.

  “Yes, he made his own personal holiday dedicated to besmirching my name. Every month he would find . . . an unwilling sacrifice and impregnate her. Every month for nine years.”

  “By the gods.”

  “They have nothing to do with this monster. Just recently, Daedalus introduced me to his children, one hundred strong, all of them named Dearborn.”

  “I’m . . . I’m . . . so sorry.”

  “Don’t be sorry, at least not for me. For those children.”

  “The children?”

  “Yes, I’m sure Daedalus has been twisting their minds, but I believe they can still be saved. Even the oldest is still innocent enough to feel pity for being raised however they’re being raised. With no mother for any of them.”

  “I at least understand that.”

  Dearborn sighed. “I’ve spent the last decade in a cage, away from the world. I would go to sleep not knowing if I would wake up the following morning, or what might be waiting for me. I’ve heard the death knell of many men as their last breath gurgled from them. But there was no greater horror than wondering if you and your brother were still alive.”

  “Don’t forget, you put Uncle Draymon in charge.”

  “He volunteered.”

  “He did?”

  “I have still yet to fathom why, though.”

  Ideria giggled. “No?”

  “No. Draymon and I met at the same time Daedalus claimed that I ruined his life when we were in our teen years.”

  “I know this one. Uncle Draymon told us once. It was during a festival and a quarterstaff tournament was set up to be an exhibition for Daedalus. In his mind, it was a chance to prove his superiority over his subjects. He delivered brutal and scarring beatings, including the crippling of Uncle Draymon’s hands. Then you came along and beat Daedalus. When he told the story, it was as if you were angel and warrior.”

  Dearborn chuckled. “I was neither, I’m afraid. Just a girl in her teens trying to find her place in the world. I know he and the other boys who Daedalus beat were certainly grateful to me for winning. But that would have hardly been enough for him to dedicate his life to raising my children.”

  Ideria was almost laughing now. “Really, Mother? Now I realize that Nevin’s cluelessness about how others feel about him is an inherited trait.”

  Ideria’s face was identical to her mother’s so she learned how she must look when she became confused, surprised, and embarrassed. “You must be mistaken.”

  No words were necessary when all Ideria had to do to back her hypothesis was angle herself on her steed to look at Draymon. Dearborn turned to look at him as well. His doe-eyed stare was a portrait of yearning. When he noticed the two women looking at him, he sat at attention and snapped his reins to command his horse to trot farther ahead, toward the front of the group.

  “I . . . but . . . how . . . ?” Dearborn stammered.

  “I think I shall leave you to your thoughts,” Ideria said as she guided her steed back toward the small caravan. The moment of levity was a welcomed one, but the journey was long, and she noticed that the miners were now traveling together in a very tight grouping. She went back to keeping an eye on them.

  twenty-three

  “Samillia.”

  His choice garnered the response he had hoped for. He unbalanced everyone. No matter how small of a reaction they showed, it was enough for Perciless. If they had not reacted, then they were expecting him to answer the way he did. Being predictable could lead to an early grave.

  Perciless thought he might need to educate Landyr about the dangers of predictability because his general reacted just as he suspected. That was an issue to address should there be a later time to do so. “You can’t be serious.”

  It was just another decision. Perciless had been king once. But he had to make difficult choices as a prince before that. None more difficult than twenty years ago when he quested for the Self Stone.

  Perciless’ peripheral vision rippled as his memory ushered his mind into the past. He wished he could stop himself for now was not the time. During these unintended journeys, Perciless felt an unusual closeness to his brother Daedalus . . .

  . . . The cave. Perciless was standing before the final chamber within that damnable cavern. The last challenge awaited him after surviving the last trap, another sacrifice. This time it was Taben, a man Perciless had known as far back as he could remember, a knight of impeccable pedigree, and a friend always available to help without question or compensation. Now he was a mangled pile of flesh after setting off a trap. Taben had stumbled on the uneven ground and reached for the cave wall. Perciless never fathomed that a simple touch would lead to thorn roots bursting forth and snaking around Taben. The roots pulled Taben’s extremities toward the wall while pressing against the center of his form. His spine burst through his chest, while the only recognizable parts of his crushed face were his eyes dangling from a bundle of thorns.

  Perciless blamed himself. This was a fool’s errand. At the beginning of this quest, he thought this would be a simple journey, a future topic of a bard’s tale. After all, he led a venerable collection of knights and adventurers, handpicked by himself, having personally known them all and understood what they could contribute. At the time, it made no sense to hire mercenaries or bring along unknown soldiers. He needed to trust each and every one of the fifty men who traveled with him. What never occurred to him until it was too late—he would have to watch each and every one of them die.

  He stood before the chamber, wondering what horrors awaited him, and why he was even here. This was all for Daedalus. Perciless wanted to connect with him on some level, to save him from himself. The youngest of the trio of princes had always been off center of what most people would consider normal, and Perciless felt responsible for that, for the hardships that Daedalus faced in his young life. He wanted to do something as a form of apology; he wanted to show Daedalus tha
t he cared. He wanted to find the Self Stone and bring it back to his brother. The journey to do so had led him here, to the very item he sought within the dark chamber.

  Then a baby cried.

  So surprised, Perciless fell down as he backed away from the chamber entrance and almost dropped the torch he was holding. A baby? Impossible. It was impossible that a baby would be in a random cave. But this was no random cave. This was a cave within a cursed mountain hidden from most of the world by a hellish forest. This was the cave with the Self Stone. Any nightmare was possible.

  Perciless was mindful not to touch the walls as he got to his feet. The baby’s cries intensified and Perciless started toward the cavern entrance, determined to save an infant clearly in distress.

  Then he stopped.

  Why would there be a baby in this cavern? Demons guarded the Self Stone. Demons haunted all five of the stones needed to open the gates of Hell. This was another test, another riddle to solve, put in place by these very demons, the protectors of the stone. As with every test on this journey, there were dire consequences should the one being tested fail.

  Perciless had lost many of his traveling companions to these tests, wrong choices leading to their deaths. No matter how many times he commanded them not to participate, they went against his wishes, stating that the crown came before their lives. Each time a choice had to be made, the first option failed. One particular puzzle took four of his friends. After each one tried and failed, their bones dissolved leaving them as living piles of skin. Every part of their bodies still worked as they slid about the ground like snakes wearing the flesh of men, moaning incoherent words. Perciless had hoped that once the puzzle was solved that they would go back to their original states, bones returned to give them support. No such convenience. The party had been given their pass; the four who failed were doomed to live among the creatures of the ground. They had been given mercy by the tip of Taben’s blade, an act Perciless was unable to perform himself.

  The crying baby was a test. But a test of what? He had been walking along the path of horrific outcomes from impossible choices. The infant in the other room was just one more puzzle to solve. Perciless straightened his posture while reminding himself of what he had learned from the teachings of great scholars and the tales of heroic warriors. Whatever test he must face to rescue this infant, he found the resolve to do so. He took one step forward.

  Then he took one step back.

  These were demons protecting an ancient item of immense power. This test was not one about finding the resolve to do something he would have willingly done under any circumstance, rather finding the will to do what he could not do. The demons wished him to kill the baby crying within the chamber.

  No. He could do no such thing. He would do no such act. The journey was over now, and he would turn on his heel and head back to the safe confines of his castle. And reduce the valiant deaths of his friends, of fifty good men, to meaningless acts. He could not bear to send a messenger to fifty families letting them know that their son, father, husband had died, because this spoiled whelp lost his nerve while pretending to be important. But the only other alternative was to kill a baby?

  Perciless debated, so paralyzed by indecision he sat on the ground to weigh his options. Maybe it was an illusion? Maybe he was mistaken about his assumption of the task at hand? Maybe there was no baby? Every rationalization he concocted a feeling deep within his heart told him that he was wrong. After sitting for so long that he had to shake the feeling back into his legs when he stood, he decided to do it. If he had to slay an infant to give meaning to this mission, to acquire what he sought, then so be it. It had to be done.

  Then the crying stopped.

  Perciless paused, his breathing and the sputtering flame of his torch now the only noises in the cavern. No. He would not be denied his reward. Perciless ran into the chamber.

  A room cut into the stone, small enough for his torchlight to touch all of the walls. In the center was a simple cradle, rocking from side to side, the wood rockers scratching against the stone floor echoed throughout the chamber.

  Perciless clutched the torch with both hands, ready to swing it like a club should he need to, and crept closer to the cradle, heart throbbing at the base of his throat, faster with every step. Close enough to touch the cradle, he stopped and looked inside. It was empty. The cloths lining the bottom were warm to the touch. There had been a baby in the cradle mere second ago.

  Suddenly he was no longer reliving the past, but rather completely in the present, his friends surrounded by his brother’s Elite Troop. He blinked away the last images of that journey of decisions. He had learned that a bad decision was better than no decision. Since then he had lived with the guilty knowledge he was capable of ending the life of an infant to fulfill his quest, even though he did not commit the act. The subsequent knowledge that the Self Stone had never been in that chamber when he arrived—rather it was found decades earlier and kept by the warlord known as Praeker Trieste—did not make him feel any form of relief. He knew that a journey could not conclude unless the first step was taken and decided never to be indecisive again. Thus, his decision to choose Samillia as the sacrifice, and then to reveal that he had deduced her to be a member of the Elite Troop. He came to the conclusion after watching her fight. His brother had kept not only the name of the Elite Troop but the same training techniques as well.

  It did not help the situation as he had hoped. The information he revealed certainly caused surprise and confusion, however, it was the Juruk who took advantage of it.

  Perciless fought the urge to scream from the immense pain of the dagger blade protruding from the palm of his right hand. His friends snapped to attention and formed a barrier between him and the Elite Troop. Judging from Juruk’s words, it was a futile act. Perciless prepared himself to lose the last four friends that he had.

  Until an ogre fell from the sky.

  The green beast landed feet first on one of the centaurs, the breaking bones sounding like the snapping of branches wrapped in wet cloth. The centaur died before it could release a scream, its front hooves twitching, death stealing the last reflexive moments.

  Perciless was mesmerized by the horror and beauty of what he just witnessed. The ogre had not fallen from the sky, he landed. He had wings. Big, glorious wings. And he was not alone.

  A harpy with skin the same shade of green as the ogre swooped down from the sky and then back up again, raking her claws up the torso of the other centaur and ripping away curled ribbons of flesh. Blood gushed from the gaping ravines of butchered meat. The centaur screamed and convulsed, dropping to his knees then his side.

  The ogre spread his wings and then leaped into the air, taking flight right behind the harpy. All eyes were on the flying creatures, following them as they arced through the air and landed among a motley assortment of individuals, most armed with drawn swords.

  Perciless recognized five of them, those who aided with his escape from Phenomere when his brothers laid siege to it a decade ago, including, if memory served him correctly, a talking rabbit. There were three that had the same green skin as the ogre and two with the same bright blue eyes as the huge woman. Five more men, four human and one orc, stood ready with picks and knives.

  “My name is Dearborn Stillheart. I suggest you take this bastardization of what you call the Elite Troop and return to Phenomere. Whatever your mission was, it failed. Leave now or we will slaughter you like livestock.”

  Juruk laughed. He still had over two dozen troops

  Perciless assessed his troops as well. He knew nothing about the newcomers other than they were loyal to him in the past and that they certainly seemed proficient in battle, should it come to that. He assumed Cezomir would go after the wizard, while Lina would start with the weakest of the enemies, which in this situation were the three soldiers next to Juruk. Landyr and Thorna would let
the battle flow and then react to the biggest perceived threat. However, this was war and situations were always in a constant state of flux.

  “So, you’re the great Dearborn Stillheart, slayer of the demon war general Ar’drzz’ur,” Juruk said.

  “I am. I sent him to Hell twice, actually, and I’ve recently escaped from the Phenomere dungeon to do the same to you.”

  “You have, have you? Did you fail to notice that you’re outnumbered?”

  “Only by a few.”

  “Oh, I think it’s more than a few.” Juruk snapped his fingers and the five miners grabbed the blue-eyed young adults.

  “Ideria! Nevin!” Dearborn yelled, reaching for them. She stopped when one of the men grabbed Nevin from behind and held a knife to his throat. The other four pointed their picks and blades at Ideria.

  Juruk smiled and ran his hand over his torso, starting at his hip. His fingers wiggled over each length of black chain, stopping at a short length dangling from two piercings on the other side of his nipple. “Such pretty blue eyes they have. I believe I shall display them from this chain. It’s up to you if I pluck them out while they’re still alive or after I kill them.”

  Dearborn cried out and started to lunge toward the Elite Troop soldiers who had been impersonating miners. It took all three ogres to hold her back. The rest of the Elite Troop started to encircle the two different groups. This was something Perciless refused to allow happen.

  Gritting his teeth to keep from screaming, he extracted the blade from his hand. The knife was designed for throwing and Perciless had impeccable aim. The blade whistled through the air, true and straight, and the point slid with ease through the left temple of the man holding Nevin hostage. This act was the match that lit the powder keg.

  The ogres released Dearborn and joined Ideria in finishing the other three human miners. Dearborn raced to the orc and ripped the tusks from his bottom jaw. His screams only stopped when she jammed them both into his neck.