Dread Fort Perilous - Legion X "Infortunatus"

Prologue: Judge, Jury, and Executioner

In the Kingdom of Byle, a realm under Imperial rule, the luckless peasant Loran is waiting in a long queue of Bylite miscreants, chained to the line and dreading her inevitable doom at the hands of Judge Mentle.

'Bisthus of Northmount Peak,' said a scratchy, whiny thin voice. 'Charged with the crime of "stealing a pig from lands under Imperial rule."'

Loran felt a dreary stillness pass down the chains of the line. They all knew what was coming next. Everyone heard what had happened, especially with how fast the news had got around. Imperial messenger falcons travelled fast.

Falcons were horrible things, Loran thought. She was quite certain that they were demons in disguise. Those terrors were faster than the wind, faster than what should be possible for a bird their size. How did a bird the size of a monkey fly off from one point and fly back not an hour later with fresh news from another realm? She quickly made the Sign with her three fingers, once over each eye, and once over the heart. To see the Light in the darkness. To look Evil in the eye, and to stand your ground in the name of the Dawn. More out of reflex than anything else, it was an empty prayer now since the United Kingdoms of Dawn had lost Byle to a surprise attack by an undead plague, the trademark scare tactic of that dreaded Legion VI Insidious. The United Armies had stepped in then, and began smiting the grotesque cadavers, but already the numbers of undead were overwhelming and every Allied death became another enemy risen back from the grave. It was an unprecedented disaster. The Dawn had never lost before, never this badly. The Legionaries in her village never stopped talking about it. We can win, they told each other. We can beat fate, and win.

And they killed King Cedric, too. Stabbed him through the heart as he pleaded for truce.

The voice continued.

'I bet you think you're funny,' whined the voice.

'Pardon, sir?'

'It seems that there is no recorded punishment in the ledgers for the crime of "riding a pig stolen from lands under Imperial rule towards Imperial Legionary village police barracks",' he said. 'Nor is there anything for "launching a pig stolen from lands under Imperial rule at Imperial Legionary village police from a makeshift catapult."'

There were some snickers in the line, at that one, alongside the quiet chants of 'Dawn Prevails!' You beat us once, they seemed to say. But we are of the Dawn, and you will never break us.

'However, do not delude yourself with the thought of being free of suitable chastisement. With the powers granted to me by the Imperial Supreme Court of Trataris, I, Judge Mentle, sentence you to death by gallows.'

No one spoke. The clicking of Legionaries unlocking chains sounded, before they were interrupted.

'Sir, there must be some mistake,' said the man named Bisthus. 'It was a harmless prank. No Imperial Legionaries died, I swear -'

'- Yes, you are correct. There has been a terrible mistake. Please accept my sincerest apologies.' The Judge muttered and tutted pettily at his 'silly error'. Loran heard the sound of a script being striked through, and the Judge shifting in his creaky wooden seat from within the tent ahead, before clearing his throat. 'By said powers granted to me, I condemn you with the sentence of "death by gallows", after the punishment of "cut hand for thieving" has been fulfilled.'

The hammer came down.

"NEXT!"

Hells take me. Loran winced at the sound. There were only two people left in front of her, and from the look of the watchful orcs standing guard, trying to pick the lock would only lead to more trouble. It wasn't even the worst thing she heard that day. According to Judge Mentle, insulting a Legionary officer was punishable by being grilled alive and fed to the orcs, because apparently an insult is a more grievous offence than murder.

Tratari tyrants. She spat at the ground.

The ground was wet. Water shivered in the deep muddy recesses made by the feet of many. There was no sky reflected in those murky ripples, just the dim glint of the torches from the Judge's tent. Occasionally, when the ripples smoothed away, Loran could see the swirling fog of the Gloom, and her face.

She wasn't special, she decided. Just another pale-skinned Bylite on the way to the gallows, condemned by an Imperial hand. She was worth about as much as an orc slave, in Tratari eyes. No, she was worth less than a slave. The orcs were tall and well-built, and with muscles like that you could tell they had full meals every day. Their steel armour alone was probably worth at least two well-bred mares in her village. Each was armed with what they called a 'blaster', a strange sort of handheld device that spewed bolts of sorcerous energy. They seemed to work like crossbows, Loran thought. No arrows, but they had a trigger, at least. They pulled it and sizzle-BOOM. Death.

"NEXT!"

The hammer falling jolted her from her thoughts, and she was roughly dragged forth into the tent by the hand of a mighty orc.

Inside the tent there were two more orcs, green skins encased by a perfect suit of solid gold plate, set with precious gems. What utterly useless armour, Loran frowned. A child can pierce that with a butter knife. Obviously, Judge Mentle cared more about ostentatious presentation than practicality, and even in the most squalid of temporary tents he would not deign to waste an opportunity to flaunt his excessive tastes.

'Loran of Southern Mines,' he read. 'A Dreg Pit girl? Never matter. You are charged with "stealing an apple from lands under Imperial rule."'

He stopped, and pulled out a hat from under the table. He shook the hat, and took out a crumpled piece of paper, which he boredly unfurled and read.

'Another gallows? How uninspired.'

Rolling his eyes, he passed the sentence: 'Death by gallows!'

'Wait!'

Judge Mentle raised an eyebrow. Loran glared back.

'You aren't following protocol! You haven't read from the ledgers!'

'Indeed, it may look like so. But I assure you, all the ledgers are present.'

The Judge smiled, and pointed at the hat.

It was then that Loran realised that the Judge, out of simple boredom, had ripped up the ledgers and turned them into a sorting hat lottery of death.

He saw the realisation dawning on her face, and visibly savoured every moment. It was clear that this was all just a very entertaining game to him, he didn't care about upholding Imperial laws in the slightest. If you could picture the pure joy on a pyromaniac's smug face after burning down their local monastery, that was his face right then.

'You are clearly quite astute,' he said, still smiling. 'Which leads me to my question: how would you like to have your death sentence revoked?'