The Devil's Judgment

by Chris Pisano

  At first, the others were apprehensive of a large group of strangers holding swords and having ogres in their party but relaxed in their stances as they were greeted with smiles and outstretched arms. Leading the way was the father of the girl who exposed Ideria as the dragon slayer.

  Hair whiter than the snow, his head poking through the opening in the center of a simple diamond shaped animal skin, he led the way with extended arms. “Greetings fellow travelers! We, too, are going to start our journey to Tsinel in the morning. And we come bearing something greater than food and clothing—hope. With us, we have the great King Perciless, and we accompany him to a better way of life!”

  Those were his last words.

  A clump of bones fell from the sky and crushed the man. As red seeped along the snow, the bones disentangled themselves to expose a large, white satyr concealed in the center. As the skeletons separated from each other, Daedalus landed his dragon in a blast of snow and wind. Dearborn knew that she would never see Tsinel.

  twenty-seven

  Normally a dragon made of bone ridden by a mad prince would have been the tactical priority for Landyr, if not for the massive satyr and a dozen armed skeletons in front of him. The dragon paid no mind to him or Thorna, turning its attention to those refugees that were setting up camp by the Pass entrance. One blast of dragon’s breath and the prince suddenly had another dozen skeletons. The dozen in front of Landyr was a more pressing matter.

  “I’ll take the six on the right, you take the six on the left. We can share the satyr,” Thorna said.

  Landyr appreciated her confidence, despite it being misplaced. They each had a sword, but so did all the ambulating skeletons, and the satyr had two. Landyr and Thorna drew closer together as their bony adversaries surrounded them. He stole brief glances to see if any of his companions were in any position to help. Too many people were running around in circles with no place to hide. Dearborn’s children ran to the newly formed skeletons, the passion of youth guiding their hearts. Dearborn chased after them.

  The circle tightened. A few of the skeletons were missing parts, a couple of leg bones, a few arm bones scattered around where the dragon had dropped them. He whispered to Thorna, “We should focus on the weaker ones.”

  “I agree,” she replied.

  A shadow slid across the ground, followed closely by a second. Something was flying overhead. Rather, someone.

  Two streaks of green flashed before Landyr and raced upward. Three of the skeletons disappeared, leaving behind eddies of snow. Landyr wanted to call out his gratitude but Hope and Woe dashed away too quickly. They used the skeletons they picked up as projectile weapons, hurling them at Daedalus and then swooping out of harm’s way. The prince cursed as the dragon impotently snapped its jaws and coughed out its pernicious mist.

  The ogre children’s attack left a sizable gap in the perimeter of skeletons. One big enough for Landyr and Thorna to exploit. Instead of a shrinking circle, it was now a curved line. The skeleton at the front of the line had no chance to swing its sword before Landyr disarmed it at the shoulder allowing Thorna to decapitate it.

  They were able to destroy two more before the rest were able to regroup. The skeletons moved slower than humans, magic an inferior substitute for muscle, so Landyr and Thorna dodged their attacks with ease. The chimera skeletons were more troublesome.

  The secrets of how Speekore created these monstrosities were revealed, chunks of metal held bone to bone, extending limbs past the lengths that nature intended or combining parts of two creatures that never belonged together. Three of these chimeras remained and each stood half again as tall as Landyr. They were slow, but their sword swings were strong and constant, their longer arms reduced their chances of decapitation.

  The skeletons moved around, surrounding the two remaining Elite Troop members. A fire ignited within Landyr’s wrists and rapidly spread up his arm. The sword strikes were coming from everywhere and all he could do was block them, his sword singing from the repeated beating. Thorna grunted after every clang. The hits were getting harder and harder, shaking the ground with every blow. No. Not the swords. They were not what caused the ground to shake.

  Bale.

  The ogre rumbled his way through the fight, crashing into the bone combatants.

  Landyr and Thorna exchanged glances, each savoring the all too brief moment of respite. In a tangled web made of bone, Bale did a masterful job of avoiding the swords, but that meant exposing himself to the raking claws of free hands and bites from sharpened teeth. Unable to stomach the notion of allowing another to absorb pain meant for him, Landyr took one more deep breath, raised his sword to jump into action, only to be met with a backhand to his nose.

  A hundred exploding stars burst into his vision as he stumbled backward. Juruk had now joined the fray, making his presence known with a sword through Thorna’s gut. Doubling over left her exposed to take a knee to her face and she dropped to the ground, lying motionless in the snow. Both swords at the ready, Juruk strode toward the skeletons.

  “Bale!” Landyr called out as he stumbled his way closer, the lower half of his face throbbing.

  The ogre heeded Landyr’s call and threw a smaller skeleton at Juruk. The mess of bones slowed the satyr, just enough. Focusing on one of the chimera skeletons, Bale kicked at its misshapen legs, breaking them both at the knees. With a roar of determination, the ogre yanked the sword-wielding arm from its socket. The bone hand still gripping the sword, Bale wielded the arm as best he could. Even though it was flopping around by the hinge of its elbow, Bale used it well enough to clash steel with Juruk. With his other hand, he worked his fingers into the rib cage of a smaller skeleton and used it as a shield against the other skeletons.

  Landyr rushed to Thorna and placed his hand on her cheek, his thumb under her nose. Her skin was still warm, and he felt her breath. He carried her to the closest wagon and placed her on it. There was enough clothing strewn about to make ersatz bandages. It was far from ideal, but it would have to do; Landyr needed to help Bale.

  Take the easier opponents first, this was his plan. Using his sword like an ax, he swung at the exposed joints of his enemies any time an opportunity presented itself. Even the larger chimera frames had a difficult time defending against Landyr, while Bale repeatedly bashed at them with a skeleton torso, its arms and legs long gone.

  Stabbing yielded no results. A blade skidding along bone was as good as a miss. Landyr could only chop, but these actions were effective. If he missed a joint, he still cleaved away at bone, weakening it with cracks. Limbs fell away as if he were hacking at moving trees, damaging it to a point where he could easily lop off its head until he felled them all.

  Juruk took a step back and tightened his grip on the swords. Landyr knew of him, heard the stories and saw the aftermath of Daedalus’ bastardization of the Elite Troop. Calling himself the general of a troop that consisted of four members felt foolish to Landyr, almost patronizing. But he would be damned if he would let this monster tarnish its name and live. “Bale, we need to—”

  The ogre roared and lunged at Juruk. The satyr dodged the attack with ease and slashed at Bale. Green blood streaked the snow and Bale dropped to his knees.

  There was only a subtle difference separating bravery and foolishness, and Bale crossed that line. But it gave Landyr an opportunity to draw blood from Juruk’s arm, the spray as black as the chains decorating his body. The satyr struck back. Landyr blocked the blow and it felt like stopping a rolling boulder.

  Juruk moved faster than he should for a creature his size, each strike that Landyr blocked a punishment. The attacks came so quickly that Landyr had no other recourse than to block until his arm went numb. He faltered and Juruk’s knuckles connected with his cheek.

  The snow felt good against his face. Landyr had no memory of hitting the ground, just a dull recollection of being in a fight. And dang
er. Move came to him suddenly. He rolled over to his back, unable to do more. Juruk stood over him, inky blood sliding down his arm, cascading over his sword, the implement promising Landyr’s demise. Juruk snarled, his ugly face twisting horrifically, as he raised his sword over his head. A quick prayer to whichever gods listened to the thoughts of washed up soldiers raced through Landyr’s mind. He wanted his final thoughts to be pleasant ones, of Chanessa, the dark elf, the demon, the dragon. He wondered if, by some miracle, she would appear out of nowhere and rescue him once again. Instead of a dragon, however, he got an ogre.

  Bale grabbed Juruk from behind and hoisted him over his head. With the force of a collapsing mountain, Bale slammed Juruk’s back against his knee. The resulting snap shook the snow from nearby tree branches. The satyr roared and twisted, with his dying blows trying to reach Bale with one of his swords. Bale put an end to his flailing with a final twist of the satyr’s neck.

  Landyr tried to stand, but vertigo pushed him back to the ground. His world spun, but he could still see the ogre. “Bale? I thought Juruk finished you.”

  “Ha! It’s a small cut on a big belly.”

  Landyr chuckled, but the very act made his view of the world ripple.

  “Come on. The others need our help.” Bale gestured for Landyr to follow, as he ran toward the dragon.

  Landyr got to his knees, the best he could do, as he fought with his blurring vision. He concentrated and the world around him came slowly back into focus just in time to witness the horrors of Daedalus. The dragon breathed out once again and more lives of good people were ruined. The refugees tore away their own skin, desiccated insides spilling to the ground like an overturned bushel of long rotted fruit. More skeletons now ready for battle. These poor people would never garner the freedom they sought.

  Cezomir and Lina fought with the newest skeletons. Lapin aided them as well, but his actions accounted for very little, except skeletons wobbling where he had gnawed at their ankles. Woe and Hope continued to pester the dragon, dropping rocks and branches on it. Phyl, Rue, and Dearborn did what they could to usher as many refugees into Kallistah Pass, fending off as many skeletons as possible.

  Dearborn fought with two skeletons, alternating her attack from one to the other. She jammed her sword through the skull of one, but it became stuck. Instead of attacking Dearborn, the other skeleton grabbed a nearby refugee, a woman trying to sneak by. By the time Dearborn freed her sword, the skeleton dragged the screaming woman away from the pass.

  Such an odd tactic, Landyr thought since the only drive the other skeletons had was to kill. Dearborn rushed to the woman’s aid and Landyr wanted to yell out a warning, but the only noises coming from his mouth were raspy grunts with every exhale. His faculties were returning, but not fast enough.

  Dearborn lopped away the limbs of the skeleton as if trimming an unruly bush and then cleaved its skull in half. A few pieces of shattered bone twirled through the air as the rest of the skeleton fell into a clump. Then the trap was set.

  The skeleton had used the woman as bait, separating Dearborn from everyone else. With the mountain to her back, her escape options were limited. Daedalus and the dragon appeared preoccupied with the greater battle, but it was only an act. Landyr’s heart turned to ash when the dragon whipped around in a half circle and ran for Dearborn.

  Trapped, Dearborn looked left and then started to run to the right, but the dragon shifted too quickly, forcing her to retreat to her original position. Without wasting time with theatrics or speeches, Daedalus tugged on the reins. The dragon’s head reeled back as it opened its mouth. Snapping forward, the beast released its bone-white breath. Before any could touch Dearborn, Methel launched himself into her and knocked her clear.

  Within the mist, the woman Dearborn had just saved wailed as her muscles shriveled and fell away, her innards turning to dust and dispersing as miasma on the wind. Methel’s skin sloughed from his bone as he remained still, looking at Dearborn. Before his face gave way to the skull beneath, he used his final breath to say, “Interesting.”

  “Baaah!” Daedalus yelled in disgust. “You fool! Your sacrifice only added mere seconds to her life as I command you to kill her!”

  The woman’s skeleton stood and shambled next to Methel, angled toward Dearborn as she got to her feet, defenseless. Methel had hit her so hard she dropped her sword. The skeleton that was once Methel bent down and picked up the weapon.

  And promptly decapitated the skeleton next to him.

  Landyr rubbed his eyes with his palms and shook his head. The hit he took must have left him daft because he just saw one of Daedalus’ skeletons kill another. Sure enough, the remains of Methel turned to the dragon and advanced.

  The beast sprayed its mist again, with no result. Daedalus snapped and tugged on the reins, but the dragon was too confused to obey. It growled and backed away, releasing yet another bone white cloud.

  The cold of the snow seeped through Landyr’s clothes as he took a few wobbly steps forward. He wondered if Daedalus regained control of the dragon or if the creature knew the proper course of action. It flapped its wings in quick, strong bursts, just enough to leave the ground and bank around the corner of the mountain’s edge, into the Pass. Finding future soldiers, it landed, pinning many of the living against one of the walls.

  Landyr entertained the novelty of prayer once more, hoping for divinity to help again. The rescue came in a way he could not have possibly fathomed and he seriously wondered if he might truly have direct access to the gods.

  The dragon stretched its neck parallel to the ground and spread its wings upward, ready to strip the life away from everyone in front of it. Then a howl pierced the air. Not of a dog or wolf, but of a great cat that had been backed into a corner, warning of impending danger. A second yowl echoed through the pass, joined by others.

  Everyone looked around. Landyr limped his way closer to the entrance of the pass, fighting through his intermittently blurred vision to scan the nooks and cracks of the mountainside for the source of the noise. A lion jumped from above the dragon.

  Not a true lion, rather one shaped like a human and wearing clothing. As soon as the cat creature dug its claws into the dragon’s neck, more of its kind flowed down from the walls. Twenty. Thirty. Landyr was unable to count, just surprised that they were swarming the beast.

  Daedalus slashed at the cat creatures with his skeletal hand, drawing blood with each swipe. The dragon clawed and bit as it backed against the mountain wall. It blew another breath of mist, covering half a dozen cat creatures.

  Nothing happened.

  Another roar of frustration this time from Daedalus. His command to everything around him was a scream of, “Die! Die!”

  The dragon spun and pushed his wings down, taking a brief flight out of the pass and back onto the snow-covered field, clear of the cat creatures. Crouching with its wings drawn tight to its body, the beast was poised to attack, its rider screaming, “Kill them! Kill them all!!”

  Landyr was thankful that his friends and companions were no longer trapped and for these mysterious cat people, but he had hoped for more time for them to retreat farther into the pass, or at least find places to hide. Some might survive the impending attack, but there would be deaths.

  Then they disappeared.

  All of them.

  Perciless. Dearborn and Bale, and all their respective children. The others he traveled with. The remaining refugees. All the cat people. Vanished in a blink.

  The dragon’s head reeled back, and Daedalus screamed again. No words, just one long scream of anger. The dragon spun a few times and then finally took to the air.

  “Landyr,” a pained whisper came from behind him. Thorna. Alive and on her side, she pointed. The Elite Troop wizard.

  Hands aglow, the wizard waved them toward the pass opening. He had made everyone disappear and Landyr
wanted to know where and why. He could think of no better way to ask than tackling him and driving him into the ground.

  twenty-eight

  Swords and claws encircled the wizard. Ideria wondered what good any of that would do against an entity that wore fire as clothing and just made everyone disappear.

  As with most magic, the act of vanishing was an illusion, a deception. The wizard turned everyone invisible, making Daedalus think they had all slipped from the confines of this realm. It was an impressive trick, but a trick nonetheless, and it did not diminish Ideria’s thankfulness for it.

  She and her brother fought against the skeletons to give the refugees a chance to enter Kallistah Pass, only to fight against the refugees as Daedalus’ dragon turned them into more skeletons. A battle she thought they were going to win after Methel in skeleton form rebelled against his master.

  But Daedalus was determined, and he still commanded a dragon. As Ideria and the others tried to sneak the refugees and themselves deeper into the pass, the dragon landed in front of them, cornering them against the mountain wall. Ideria hated the thought of dying by Daedalus’ hand. She just found her mother. She knew nothing of the Yullians, where they came from or why they helped, but she was thankful for them attacking the dragon. But even they did not seem to be enough. The dragon’s breath had no effect on them, but the beast had other ways of defending itself. Then everyone disappeared.

  “It’s obvious that you made us all invisible to my brother and his pet,” Perciless said. “But you are a member of his Elite Troop, so I question your motives in assisting us.”

  The wizard did one full rotation, studying the faces of everyone in the circle around him. The flames of his robes and hair faded. Long white hair flowed over dull brown robes. Then his hair fell out, a few locks at first, then in waves to reveal short dark hair on a weathered and weary face. “I was with your brother’s Elite Troop for one reason only—to infiltrate.”