The Arbiter

'Take a hand and throw him in the dungeons. A year will show him the error of his ways.'

The arbiter delivered his judgement colourlessly as if he was discussing nothing more important than the weather. Or the price of a loaf at the local market. He shifted his gaze from the man dismissively and scratched the sentence on thick parchment before him.

'Please milord, no! Not a hand. Please!' The man begged as two burly guards in mail pulled him from the dock toward the ominously dark doorway of the dungeons. 'It was only a little coin. I'll pay it back!'

'And the tongue. Take the tongue. I won't tolerate back-chat in the court.'
'Milord noooo!'

His cry of despair echoed back throughout the court as he thrashed at the guards dragging him away. The few remaining prisoners shuffled quietly in their chains, trying hard to look anywhere but the arbiter as he sternly peered at the few remaining names on his list. One of them, an older man slumped slowly to his knees shaking with fear. His fellows pulled him up before the arbiter could notice.

'Get up fool.' The man nearest him hissed. 'You want to lose something too, a hand, an eye?'

The arbiter sat at a raised desk above the prisoners. His finger tracing down the roll of parchment until it found the right place. He looked up. He was an old man, sixty summers and the years weighed heavily upon him. Silver hair atop a worn and severe face. The black robes of office merely emphasising his gaunt frame. His harsh judgements were infamous throughout the city and his name was never uttered except in frightened whispers.

The city of Greydawn had one of the lowest crime rates in the empire and the Duke who ruled was notoriously proud of his famous arbiter of justice. He was oft heard to claim that if he had a few more like him there would be no crime at all.

But there were none like him. The job was a demanding one. Yes, there had been crueller arbiters. None could compare to the arbiter who sat in judgement now. He glared up at the stragglers left from the days judging. He could be fair it was admitted but devilishly harsh when guilt was ascertained.Those who came before him were lucky to leave with their liberty and their limbs intact. It was said that even the nobility were frightened to come before him with their numerous petty complaints lest he judge them too.

The last judgements were issued rapidly. The second to last prisoner babbling incoherently as the Arbiter casually pronounced that putting out an eye out would be sufficient punishment for his crime.

Then there was but one prisoner left.

'Ameria.' The arbiter called in a bored tone.
'Milord.' A guard pulled Ameria, a diminutive old woman before the Arbiter. She stood facing him with a defiance rarely seen in the courtroom.

'Selling lucky charms and witch potions.' The arbiter read slowly and deliberately from his scroll. 'It's not often we see witchery here. There are multiple witnesses. What say you?'
'Do what you will Arbiter.' Ameria gesticulated contemptuously at his desk and the guards. 'This is a sham and I will have no part of it.'

'A sham? Well, its refreshing to hear something other than begging for once.' He motioned to the guards. 'Two fingers from each hand.' He paused, a ghost of a smile playing on his lips. 'Let her choose which ones.'

The smile, if indeed there had been one was gone. He bent his head to his parchment. Ready to end the day.

'Arbiter. Think twice before you hold this course.'
'What? He looked up at the old woman. 'You... think twice? How dare you? Take the tongue as well.' He clucked to himself 'This is what happens when I show mercy. Oh well. A day in which you learn nothing is a wasted day.'

He looked up. The woman was still there. Odd. The guards were moving toward her, their progress however was painfully slow as if moving through treacle. The old woman cocked her head to the side and studied him. shaking her head in disappointment.

'The tongue you say Arbiter. This tongue?'

She snarled a laugh and stuck her tongue out almost girlishly at him. It was a blackened thing, the very sight of which made him feel nauseous. The guards snapped back into motion and he shuddered as she was hauled away, her cackles receding till out of earshot.

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He moved around his bedroom snuffing the candles till only thin moonlight illuminated the room, bleeding through the windows thin grey drapes. It had been a long day and he was tired. Swinging himself into bed he thought about his garden and the flowers he intended to sew for Spring. If there was anything the Arbiter loved it was his garden. The humdrum day to day of the courtroom faded to nothing as he imagined tending to his blooms. He felt himself nodding off.

Arbiter

His eyes snapped open. What was that? He peered at the murk around his bed. Must have been nothing.

Then he heard it. A scrabbling noise, something on the floor. Gods damn you, if that was mice he would have serious words with his housekeeper.

The scrabbling stopped. He relaxed and lay back on his pillows. Mice, hmmph. It could have been a rat judging by the noise. He was definitely broaching this tomorrow with his housekeeper. It was simply not acceptable. He pulled the sheets up from his chest where they had slipped.

Something tugged the sheets taut. He attempted to rise but the sheets and blankets he had been deliciously comfortable in only moments ago now held him cocooned tight. He tried to work a hand out from under them but to no avail. He was held fast. The candle beside his bed flared into life and he froze in utter terror.

At the bottom of his bed, slowly, ever so slowly were hands. Lots of severed hands, their stumps still bloody and waving jerkily above them as they crawled spider-like toward his head.

'No, nooo, noooo!'

He struggled harder, bucking his body under the sheets but their advance didn't falter. Then they were at his face. Calloused fingers tugged at his cheeks. Dirtied nails clawed at his eyelids. His eyes bulged as his jaw was wrenched open, the stink of dead flesh making him gag.

The sea of dismembered hands parted. He stopped struggling. Beyond simple fear, his bladder emptied itself at the sight confronting him.

Inching its way caterpillar-like toward his face was that tongue. The foul blackened tongue of the witch. Closer and closer it undulated, bigger now, fatter. He tried to scream but foul tasting fingers were in his mouth hooking open his jaw painfully wide so he was only capable of a strange ululating cry.

The filthy black tongue reached his chin, pausing as if to scent the air and then reared up into his mouth. It forced its way right to the back blocking off his air. Snot flew as he bellowed through his nostrils in rapid snorts.

A solitary hand slowly crawled over his face and firmly pinched his nostrils shut between finger and thumb.

All was silent.