The Devil's Judgment

by Chris Pisano

  Dearborn scowled and shook her head. “That was day one of his quest for vengeance against me. His hatred of the world was unfocused and by defeating him I gave a name to his hatred. My name.”

  “But you also gave your name to hope. You showed us that evil could be defeated. You showed us that charity and compassion still existed. You spent time with each one of us who lost to that bastard.”

  “The time I spent all those years ago was worth ten years of being a surrogate parent to children you had never met?”

  “It was a blessing, every minute of it.”

  A tear slipped free from its well, leaving a shimmering streak along her cheek. She smiled. It was not wide and beaming, but it brimmed with emotion. She inhaled deeply. “I must thank you for many things, including being a blessed mirror, showing a reflection of me that I had always wished to see. Now, if you’ll excuse me, Kallistah Pass is four days away, three if we push ourselves, and I feel sleep beckoning me.”

  Dearborn walked away.

  The fire from the spirits had long departed Draymon’s body, but he hardly noticed as a new warmth grew from within his heart.

  twenty-six

  Dearborn watched Draymon. The way he moved in the saddle, his muscles compensating for the gait of the horse in a pleasant rhythm. It had been three days since their discussion. This was the first time she looked at him as a man, not a trainer or surrogate guardian for her children.

  He was certainly a handsome enough man, although after having no one else other than Bale to look at for ten years, even Phyl had become “handsome enough.” He was almost as tall as she and very fit, not a single roll along his waist from excess ale or spirits. She could still lift him with one arm, but she could overlook that if he could, and it certainly seemed like he was willing to do so. Or was he?

  Dearborn replayed the “thank you” conversation they had three nights ago. He made no pledges of undying love, nor made any form of amorous intentions. But he pledged loyalty, and to a man, that was akin to love. And he did have a look of yearning upon his face. Even the best of gamblers could nary hide that special look of fondness for the heart of another.

  If he did indeed wish more from Dearborn than to repay her for something she had done a lifetime ago, should she be interested? He did an amazing job with her kids—both healthy and capable adults whom she was exceedingly proud of. They were none too happy with him now, but that would pass. She might even have to intervene and accelerate the forgiveness process should she deem it prudent to do so. But what of her feelings for their father?

  Ten years separated her from the time she had lost him, but those ten years left her no opportunities other than to pine over her lost love, to replay his death in her mind. It made matters worse that her son was a spitting image of her deceased husband, his hair color the only difference. Nevin stripped away all chance of her ever forgetting what Diminutia looked like. How could she fall for another man when the ghost of her husband would forever haunt her? Then again, due to her size she had never dreamt of finding love once, let alone a possibly for twice. Her daughter was equal in height and build, her younger muscles always rippling when she moved. Did her daughter share her same anxieties as she at that age? Dearborn had been in the army for three years by the time she was her daughter’s age, having given up the idea of ever having a husband or family. Maybe it would give Ideria hope that she could find a man if her mother acted as an example.

  Dearborn almost slapped herself to bring her attention back to the reality of the moment. Daydreaming flights of fancy were for school girls infatuated with farm boys and stable hands, not an army trained enemy of the current regime. If she wanted a man, she would get one. So would her daughter if she wanted to pursue that path, as she was far stronger, smarter, and more confident than Dearborn had been at that age. Dearborn felt foolish and almost neglectful focusing on a single person this whole time instead of everyone else in the caravan.

  Over the past day and a half, they had crossed paths with and joined three other groups of people. They were getting closer to Kallistah Pass and more people were braving the landscape of snow to trust the rumors about a way to escape from Albathia. This new caravan numbered over two dozen. Considering what happened the last time they allowed a stranger to join them, she needed to be more vigilant, less trusting. These people, however, were nothing like grizzled miners. Mostly women and elderly, a few men, four wagons total and another dozen horses. The travelers from Bulderswith even brought three goats and two chickens. And they were generous in sharing milk and eggs.

  The temperature dropped as thick forests gave way to rolling hills covered by a thin blanket of snow. Dearborn’s children and Draymon had a few extra furs and blankets as did Perciless and his small cohort. It was enough to keep from freezing, but not enough for comfort. The group from Orsrun had over-prepared with plenty of supplies to combat cold weather in one of their two wagons, but they had no protection against the bandits or the wild. They had been fortunate for the first part of their journey, having no run-ins with any thieves, but a pack of wolves had begun to harry them and the beasts started to grow in number. The refugees from another town burned by the king and his dragons feared an attack until they crossed paths with the other caravan from Orsrun. All of the travelers were so happy to find a party of benevolent warriors to accompany them for the rest of the journey. The refugees shared what they had, especially since the werewolf and cat woman were able to provide enough deer and boar for everyone, every night.

  Just because none of them seemed nefarious did not grant them innocence. Yes, among the travelers there were nothing but faces full of hope and promise. That did not mean there were no cutthroats, no assassins, nor mercenaries with pockets stuffed full of the king’s gold. Dearborn’s tingling nerves sang to her songs of doom and betrayal. She wanted to confer with her children and guided her horse among and around the other refugees, greeting them with smiles and waving hands as she passed. She found Ideria and Nevin with a small group of others who seemed to be their contemporaries in age, all laughing while exchanging stories.

  Dearborn sighed. The worst part about chasing ghosts was no one else could see them. Were there even ghosts to chase? It had been so long since she had been around others in any form of social situation that she no longer knew how to act, what to look for in how people acted. Ten years of dealing with guards had made her paranoid. The only one who never treated her, or Bale, too badly was Methel.

  Methel. She should have savored the twist in fate the brought him to her as a captive. There were no bars around him, but his hands were bound together and tied to the horse’s saddle. A blanket was draped over his lap to keep the bindings hidden from curious eyes, while the hooded figure of Perciless rode next to him, away from the main group, discouraging interaction. Landyr and Thorna remained near them and vigilant. Methel had remained silent this entire journey, not answering a single question, nor making any requests. He ate when food was brought to his mouth, drank from water skins and uttered not a single syllable. Dearborn had tired of his silence and was determined to end it.

  Sitting up straight in his saddle with a bored look in his eyes, Methel seemed as if he were on an uninteresting trail ride. Perciless still rode next to him, but his hood was up, casting shadows over his face, just a rider wishing for solitude. Dearborn’s horse matched the gait of Methel’s as she guided it closer. “Why?”

  Methel grunted a form of chuckle as Perciless turned his head to face the conversation. Words heavy, thickened by the pasty tongue of a dry, unused mouth, Methel answered with his own question, “Why what?”

  These were the first words he had spoken since capture. Possibly they had simply been asking him the wrong questions. “Why were you kind to me?”

  Methel snorted. “If you considered my actions nice, then I worry about the life you had before you wound up in the dungeon.”

 
“Everything is comparable. Compared to the life I had before, your actions were those of diseased vermin. Compared to the insults and taunts from the other guards and the way the army recruits treated Bale, then your actions could be considered nice.”

  “Verily?” Perciless asked from the other side of Methel.

  “The lock of my cage door was easy enough to pick open and Methel always turned a blind eye anytime I slipped free to garner meager supplies or help the other prisoners. He never spat on me or in my food. Never disciplined me when I eschewed the advances of a spirited recruit following the urges of his cock. I just wish to know why.”

  Methel went back to answer with silence.

  Dearborn leaned closer. “Perhaps your cock suggested a different way to find your way into my bed?”

  Methel laughed, a scratchy cough of a dry throat. “Cunt always has a price to it, no matter if it belongs to a wife or a whore. You ‘eschewed’ handsome and healthy recruits by giving them bruises and broken bones. I don’t believe an old man like me could have survived your rejection. I never felt the need to act beyond that of a guard, because I found you . . . interesting.”

  “Interesting?”

  “Indeed. My wife was a dull woman. Sweet and kind, for sure, but a dull woman, nonetheless. After she died, I started pounding metal before the Morning Sun came up and didn’t stop until well after the Evening Sun disappeared. I needed to feed my daughters. I needed to slip as many coins as I could to any educator I could find to help my daughters move beyond dullness. They, too, died. Not only did I lose the ability to recall their faces, but I lost who they could have become as well. To see you, a strong, proud, smart woman . . . well, because of you, my daughters have faces in my memories once again.”

  “My father was a blacksmith.”

  Methel chuckled again, this time hiding a sadness within it. “See? Interesting.”

  “It sounds as if there’s a heart of a good man behind that chest of yours, Methel,” Perciless said. “How did you end up being general of the Elite Troop?”

  “Being a good man gives you a dead family. Your brother gave me opportunities. I would not be alive now had I turned down any of those opportunities.”

  “You receive your orders from him, don’t you?”

  “Directly from him.”

  “How . . . how is he?”

  Methel laughed. “Daedalus? Mad, of course. His mind is that of a stepped-on hornets’ nest. And getting worse.”

  “Worse?”

  “Yes. Your efforts have been a constant source of agitation as well as the war effort. Everything’s now compounded by Dearborn’s escape. Oremethus is making matters worse by either chasing demons or mismanaging troops.” Methel looked at Dearborn as he completed his thought. “And then what your daughter did has him shitting razor blades sideways.”

  Perciless tilted his head, the hood falling just enough to expose one quizzical eye. “Dearborn? What did Ideria do?”

  Dearborn was proud of what her daughter accomplished, wanted to sing her praises from the tops of mountains. Ideria, on the other hand, was uncomfortable with her actions and requested that her mother share the story with no one. The gears of Dearborn’s mind slipped as she tried to think of a believable lie or a way to steer the conversation away from this topic, but she was too late.

  A smile grew along Methel’s stubbled face, one Dearborn assumed to be sadistic, yet a sparkle in his eye made her think he, too, was proud of Ideria. “Well, your Highness, judging from the commotion over there, I think we’re all about to find out.”

  Next to one of the slowly moving wagons, her children walked with a few other humans roughly their age. Dearborn was too far away to hear specific words but judging from her daughter’s frantic gestures begging silence from her audience, she was upset by whatever they had learned. Dearborn snapped the reins and her horse sped to a trot. Sure enough, as she got closer, she could hear that Ideria’s secret was out.

  “Shhh! I beg you,” Ideria said, her index finger bouncing off her lips. “Please don’t tell anyone.”

  “But we must!” one of the girls said. “It’s because of you that we’re still alive to make this journey. Papa! Papa! Come quick.”

  “No, please. Please, don’t.”

  Too late. The girl’s father rushed around the corner of the wagon, eyes wide with fear, just as Dearborn arrived. Ideria looked up to her mother, and repeatedly whispered, “I’m sorry.”

  Grabbing his daughter with both hands, the older man asked, “What is it? Is something amiss? Are you hurt?”

  The girl’s smile was so bright and warm it could have melted the snow around her. She put her hands on her father’s. “Quite the opposite, Papa. We’ve just learned that Ideria was the cloaked figure that saved us from the king’s dragons.”

  The man’s eyes shimmered from the pools of forming tears as he released his daughter and slowly walked to Ideria, looking her up and down in scrutiny. “Blessed be. Is this true?”

  Ideria stood in silence, her cheeks turning pink from more than just the chill in the air as those within earshot began to gather. The girl ran up to Ideria and grabbed her arm. “It’s true, Papa. It’s her. She was the one who pulled the metal dragon away from the mine shaft.”

  “And then killed it,” a voice called out from the gathering crowd.

  “Blessed be!” another voice said.

  “Is this true?” came from behind Dearborn.

  Perciless.

  The people around Ideria separated enough to accommodate the horse. They exchanged pensive looks and whispered among themselves questioning who this cloaked rider was, but they let him through. Perciless dismounted the horse and stood before Ideria. “Is this true, Ideria? Were you the one who killed the metal dragon?”

  “Yes, but I didn’t mean to. It was an accident.”

  Perciless reached up and lowered his hood. All of the refugees gasped, his name passed around the group as if whispering it imbued the speaker with magic. “Oh, Ideria, do not hide behind the walls of modesty. From what I’ve heard you lured the metal beast away from children hiding in a mine and then tricked the lightning dragon into destroying it.”

  Head bowed down, Ideria reiterated, but with less conviction this time, “It was an accident.”

  Nevin stepped beside his sister and put his arm around her in a conciliatory manner. “It’s true that you had no idea the lightning dragon had the power to reduce the metal dragon to a pile of molten slag, but it was your hand that sent the knife on a perfect trajectory into the lighting dragon’s eye.”

  Ideria’s blush deepened in color as a gleeful murmur spread through the crowd.

  Perciless stepped even closer to her. “Ideria, you are a hero. What you did was nothing short of miraculous. You alone did something that entire battalions haven’t been able to do. It’s because of you that Albathia still has hope.”

  Random locks of her blonde hair shielded parts of her face, but Ideria lifted her head and looked to her mother for guidance. Dearborn understood her daughter’s apprehension, unaccustomed to so many eyes upon her. Despite her confidence, ability, and desire to fight, she was would rather not have the attention and accolades that came with being a storybook hero.

  Perciless must have read the same story Dearborn did because he waved his hand with a flourish, his voice deepened by bravado. “Good people of Albathia, please join me in my journey to Tsinel, our neighbor and greatest ally against the scourge known as Oremethus and Daedalus. My brothers are not good for this kingdom, nor are they good for you fine people. You deserve more. You deserve better.”

  The people applauded as he mounted his horse and turned to face the last few miles to Kallistah Pass. “Within the borders of Tsinel, I will make plans to end this misery. I will to return this country to you, the people, after all, we have a drago
n-slayer with us!”

  Everyone cheered, even Dearborn, swept up in the charisma of Perciless and the hope emanating from the people. Emotions flowed like a full barrel of ale after tapping as the caravan continued onward. Perciless informed everyone that he intended to make his way to Tsinel to confer with their king. He felt that the time to strike against his brother was nigh and wanted to garner council from his allies. He promised a bright future.

  The last few miles passed by within minutes. Smiles and laughter, plan making and dream sharing allowed everyone to move forward through the snow with no complaint of sore legs or cold feet. Dearborn could not help but get caught up in shared enthusiasm. Deep within her still stirred the instincts of a soldier, telling her to place king and country before herself. She reminded those stirrings that doing so had led her to nothing but heartbreak and time in a dungeon. Had she no other priorities she would have given aid to Perciless, but now she had children to think about. The dirt in Tsinel was just the same as the dirt in Albathia. She might have to learn different crops, but she had existed as a farmer before. Not just existed, thrived.

  The downside to inspiring speeches and hope for a bright future was that her children were getting swept up into the current. She was proud of them for wanting to fight for the betterment of tomorrow, but she hoped they would never have to. Duplicity was never in her nature, but she feared that she must become a quick study. Once in Tsinel she needed to find ways to pull them away from this situation, show them that they could have long, healthy, productive lives if they stepped back and let someone else fight. The mood of the group intensified as they ascended one final ridge to Kallistah Pass.

  The flat plain of land did not quite level out, rather the incline was far less steep. The mountains had grown in size as they had trekked closer every day, but Dearborn still felt a sense of awe course through her as they approached the base of the range. Gray and angry jagged chunks of stone pierced the ground as if the discontented underworld wished to escape its confines. Shades of white tipped the mountains, while the browns and greens of lichen and moss ran along the base. The pass itself, with its opening wide enough to house a small town, looked almost inviting. So inviting, that another ten-person caravan was setting up camp.