The archers ran ahead of the five remaining swordsmen and leaned over the ridge, sniffing the air. Wodan crept along the side of the steep ridge, but could not hide the sound of his desperate panting. One dogman shouted and pointed with his bow, and then the others fired downward into the bushes while one of the weary swordsmen blew a shrill cry into his whistle.
* * *
Nilem stumbled through the dark forest. It was difficult to walk; in order to finalize her negotiations with the assassins, she had to let each of them have their way with her the night before. Eventually she’d lost count, but she was almost sure that a few shamans had snuck in and taken part in the orgy. And now she could barely catch her breath because she was mercilessly lashing her own psyche, panicking at the thought that her carefully-laid plan was going to fall apart. She had seen six Reavers stalk across the fields, then split up into teams of two. Their guns had been in hand, as if they somehow knew what was about to happen.
How they knew was a mystery to her. The plan seemed perfect, too simple even for a dogman to screw up: Surround the Khan while he was alone and kill him. Split into three teams to cover more ground, but carry whistles so they could regroup at a moment’s notice. What could go wrong?
Still, she knew that dogmen were terribly stupid, and something was indeed going wrong. As she stumbled through the woods, she knew that the best she could hope to accomplish was one dead oppressor and a lot of dogs caught red-handed – and ready to spill everything to the Reavers. She’d had a lot of hope for Yarek, but in the end he had shown no real disloyalty to the Khan. He had complained about him, but ultimately he would be more than willing to throw her to the wolves if it made it easier for him to fill the power vacuum himself.
She had never forced herself to cry before, but she knew she would have to stir up a mess of tears if she wanted to make her innocence seem believable as she fell on the body of the Khan. She would have to convince the other Reavers that Jago was the mastermind behind the plot. It would be unfortunate to give him up so early, and tiresome if he survived the attempt and protested his own innocence.
Still, the death of the Khan would be worth it. She decided that it would work out for the best if poor Jago got himself killed during the assassination attempt.
* * *
Jago was hopelessly lost. He was a part of the axe team, the advance-guard of the conspirators. But they had somehow lost their whistle and, since he was the youngest, they had appointed him to run back and forth between the teams to relay the embarrassingly idiotic message, “We’re still looking for the Khan. By the way, you got an extra whistle on you?”
He was humiliated. The night before he had vowed that he would soon bathe in blood, but he was now covered in wounds from tripping through brambles and getting his axe hung up in thick brush. The glory he had felt during the battle against the ghouls was long gone. Now he only felt like a pup, embarrassed and lost in the woods in the middle of the night.
He heard a shrill whistle ahead. His first thought was that his team had finally found a whistle of their own, and was now testing it to tell Jago that they no longer needed him. Then he remembered that that signal meant that one of the teams had found the Khan. The battle had been met. There was still a chance to save his reputation!
Jago howled and ran through the trees, unmindful of the thorns that bit and clung to his thick hair.
* * *
“He’s not down here!” one of the dogmen cried as he whacked at a tangle of bushes with his sword. He knocked aside half a dozen arrows with each stroke.
“Sneaky bastard!” said an archer. He held onto one side of the ravine and slid down. Soon the others followed him into the densely-packed, overgrown gorge. “He could’ve crawled away anywhere!”
“Well, fan out, then! Find him!”
The dogmen beat at the bushes with their swords. The archers peered about as they notched fresh arrows.
“Blood! Over here!”
“Follow it, follow it!”
“Ah... the blood stops here. He left a mess of it, but that devil’s already healed up!”
Another dogman, older than the others, cast his eyes into a tree above the pool of blood. “No... he’s there! Up in that tree!”
Several archers fired blindly into the tree. As they grunted and fired, Wodan crept out from his hiding place behind them clutching a sharp stone in one hand. One swordsman, with the instincts of a hunter, turned and saw Wodan directly behind him – just as Wodan brought the rock down on his head with enough force to cave in his forehead. The dogman’s bowels emptied as his legs went out from under him. As Wodan deftly dropped the stone and retrieved the dead dog’s sword before it hit the ground, the others turned toward him, howling with rage. Two archers stood nearby, hands shaking with berserker lust. Wodan brought the sword over and down in a wide arc that wiped one archer’s face from his skull, revealing something like a mask of raw meat; when another archer notched an arrow, Wodan brought the sword against his head so hard that the blade broke in half as the dog fell dead.
Two of the four swordsmen came at Wodan, who prepared to defend himself. But their attack was only a distraction, as they immediately backed away and the eight archers released a volley of arrows. Wodan stumbled forward as three arrows pierced his right shoulder from behind, each in a row. Wodan howled with pain, staggered about to keep his opponents off balance, then took the remains of his sword in his left hand and threw it at a cluster of archers. One standing in the middle caught the spinning blade directly in his throat, gurgling as he fell back.
Several archers sought cover while the others prepared for another volley. The four swordsmen prepared to rush at Wodan. Wodan retreated and stumbled against a rock, then a swordsman leaped at the opportunity and caught Wodan against the side of his head with the flat of his blade. Wodan staggered into some bushes, senses reeling, a red flap of skin dangling against his ear.
Seven archers cried out for blood as the four swordsmen surrounded the bush that held the wounded Khan.
* * *
A large team of dogmen walked through the dark woods carrying a net full of fish they’d plucked from a stream. “Good haul, real good!” said one. “Long as we don’t get lost up in here!”
“Won’t get lost!” said a younger dog, slapping his spear against the other’s.
Just then they entered a clearing and saw a group of nine dogmen with axes stumbling as they ran. They stopped and stared at one another.
“Ho there,” said one of the fishers, an old dogman. “What are you boys about?”
The dogmen with axes threw their eyes about wildly, as if they’d been caught in the middle of something. “You can’t stop us!” said one. “Are you for us - or against us?!”
“The hell are you talkin’ about?” said one of the fishers, gripping his spear.
Two Reavers with guns broke into the clearing. One threw back his helm visor and shouted, “Stop those dogmen! They’re conspiring against the Khan!”
The axe-dogs crouched, weapons held ready. One of the fishers dropped his end of the net and cried out, “You can’t kill the Khan!” As his brothers brandished their spears, he added, “You’re traitors!”
The Reavers fired and the dogmen threw themselves at one another.
* * *
The world slowed down in a wash of rage and pain as Wodan burst from the bushes and leaped onto one dogman. He saw the brute’s eyes widen slowly, as if they were both trapped in a nightmare. Arrows whizzed past them, tearing through the air, and Wodan knew beyond any doubt that he hated these cretins as his hands closed around the throat and, with thumbs jammed into sweat-streaked beard, jerked the head about and snapped the dogman’s neck. The remaining three swordsmen hacked at the bushes with subhuman grunts, desperate to kill him. One sword slid along his back, the kiss of a freezing serpent sliding against skin and leaving a trail of agony, then another jammed into his side and lodged painfully against his ribs. Wodan felt still more pain as he rolled and f
ell, ripping the blade free from his side.
Gunfire tore through the woods. The dogmen turned and saw two Reavers aiming at them. One archer fell immediately, then another joined him as a bullet tore through his intestines. The five remaining archers loosed their arrows and saw one Reaver riddled with sharpened wood as the other spun around the base of a tree. While they drew fresh arrows, the Reaver immediately spun around the other side, fired, and caught an archer neatly in the eye, dropping him. One swordsman abandoned his six brothers and ran low to the ground to catch the Reaver. The Reaver fled, firing behind himself with the dogman hot on his heels.
Wodan was only able to use the distraction to rise to his knees as the two remaining swordsmen fell on him. He saw one stabbing downward, putting the force of his weight into the blow. With both hands, Wodan grasped the blade and felt it tearing flesh as it slid downward. The other blade jammed into the side of his head but without enough force to pierce his super-human skull; instead it tore through flesh, sliced an ear in half, and slid along his face until it caught in his nose. A shower of hot blood poured down the side of his face, his nose, his mouth.
“I’m out of arrows!” cried one archer.
“Why didn’t you bring more?!” shouted another, reaching into his quiver to find it empty as well.
“I thought we’d finish this quicker! Get me one of those swords – you’re closer!”
Thinking that they were speaking to him, the dogman whose sword was caught in Wodan’s hands shouted, “I’ve got problems of my own, you idiots!” as he tugged left and right, unable to free his blade. The dogman flinched as the other swordsman brought his blade back in what would surely be a messy killing blow. At that moment, Wodan jerked the sword free from the dogman’s grasp, spun about, and smashed the hilt into the other’s face before he could land the blow.
The dogman fell back, howling in agony despite the fact that his nose was only broken while Wodan’s face was a blood-streaked portrait of mutilation. The unarmed dogman backed away, unsure of himself, and watched as Wodan stood over the swordsman and beat him to death with the handle of his sword.
An arrow flew, but only stuck to a tree near Wodan, who ignored them all and continued beating the other dogman to a pulp.
“Sorry!” said the archer, pulling another arrow while the others glared at him. “I got him this time!”
The disarmed dogman turned back to Wodan in time to see him standing before him, still holding the sword by the blade, arms caked in blood. The dogman turned and felt the handle crash into his knee, tossing him to the ground.
“Fucking hurry!” he howled, crawling toward the archers. “Aw shit, hurry, this is awful!”
“Told you I got him!” said the archer, aiming with his final arrow. “Don’t worry!” Wodan brought the handle down on the disarmed dogman’s head, beating him with blow after blow until a rush of gore finally belched forth like a ruined melon. Finally the arrow flew and caught Wodan in the shoulder, directly in line with the other three still sticking from his back.
Wodan stepped back, stumbled, then fell to one knee, too exhausted, too empty, to cry out in pain.
“Fuck me for damn sure,” said one of the archers. “I think we finally got that son of a bitch.”
Before they could approach, Wodan’s eyes shot open and he stood. His right arm hung dead at his side. He was covered in blood, but hungry for more.
Now completely out of arrows, the remaining dogmen turned and fled, shrieking at one another.
* * *
Four Reavers stood over their fallen brother, who still held his gun even though he’d been run through with a sword. Near the fallen Reaver laid a dogman with his brains blown out. With them stood a group of bloody dogmen, the youngest still carrying a large net full of fish. The loyal dogmen knelt over another fallen Reaver who had been pierced with many arrows, and they whispered to one another concerning that man’s fight against the conspiracy.
“Commander Clash,” said a Reaver, speaking into his helm radio. “We haven’t found the Khan. Only bodies. We lost two of our own, but some good dogmen helped us out. We’re definitely dealing with an assassination attempt, sir.”
“Keep looking!” said Yarek. “I’m on my way. We have to find him and stop him from getting away.”
“Stop him... from getting away? You mean whoever’s in charge of the conspiracy?”
“No, I’m talking about Wodan!” Yarek shouted. “Without him, we’re finished!”
* * *
Nilem guided herself through the darkness by following the sounds of battle, a horrific drama that sounded like pigs grunting and crying out. Then there was silence. Her panic grew as she tore her way through brambles and tripped over roots. Her ears rang in the awful silence. She began to wonder if she’d well and truly become lost, then tripped over a corpse. She shrieked and jerked away.
She looked around the clearing. Several dead dogmen lay in broken heaps, tongues hanging out of mouths, limbs twisted, eyes knocked out of black sockets. She stifled another cry, then she saw the body of the Khan lying face-down, completely still with four arrows jutting from his back and shoulder. He was covered in dark blood. She sighed with relief.
She guessed at the direction from which search teams would come, then positioned herself behind the Khan’s body so that she would be seen first. Now was the time to work up some tears. She leaned over the body. It would be best if they saw her clutching at him, sobbing, just as much a victim of the conspiracy as anyone else...
Wodan sprung awake and grabbed a chunk of flesh at Nilem’s waist. She yelped in pain as he crawled up onto his knees, then cried out again when she saw his face – a terrifying mask of blood and torn flesh with awful, inhuman eyes burning with rage.
She slapped at his arms and neck but his body was bulging with muscles as hard as wood and she was sure that he felt nothing. She twisted free and crawled away on her back but he locked iron fingers around an ankle and jerked her back towards him. She felt hot blood splash onto her face and neck as he crawled on top of her like an animal.
“Nilem!” he spat.
The name sounded like a curse in her ears. She opened up her hoard of terror and wailed loudly. Wodan raised up and slapped her face, lightly it seemed to him, but the blow nearly knocked her eyes loose and sent her senses spinning in her skull.
A heavy hand stroked her face, reminding her of an animal sniffing its prey, and Wodan said, “Such tears! What’s wrong? Things not going according to plan?”
Hatred gave her the strength to struggle still more. She rained a flurry of blows on his face, spittle flying from her mouth with each ragged breath, and when her fingers found a long, bloody ravine along his face she dug her fingers in and tore downward with as much force as she could muster. Finally Wodan cast her down hard enough to knock the wind from her, then placed a forearm against her throat.
“What is it, Nilem?” he rasped. “Why can’t you be content to live in a new world that I’m making? What is it about me that infuriates you?”
“Fuck… you!” she gasped, unable to breathe.
“Keep in mind,” he said, “I already know the answer.” He waited for a long time, resting his weight on her. The heat between them was stifling and intolerable. “You never tried to kill Vito. Why is that, Nilem? He built his career on the corpses of everyone you knew back home. He raped you and turned you into a slave, an object. I’ve done none of those things to you.”
“Fucking… kill you!” she managed.
“I’ve met your kind before.” She lifted a hand to tear his face open once more, but he immediately grasped and held it down with his free hand. “You think you’re alone, but there are plenty of lost souls just like you. You were born full of hate. You have a catalogue of monsters that you’ve memorized, people that you think turned you into what you are – but empty people like you aren’t made, you’re born. You’re disconnected from your species. The things that come easily to them – dreaming, hoping – mean nothi
ng to you. You want power and control, and because you don’t know the difference between something that’s alive and something that’s dead, you use others as if they were objects, tools.”
“So… fucking… self-righteous!” Nilem said as she fought for air.
Wodan laughed, then said, “And then there’s people like me. People like me burn your ass the most, don’t we? We see right through shams. We see right through masks. Did your husband back in Hargis figure out what you are? Is that why he had to die? Or is it something more base than that, Nilem? Do you see me building a world that isn’t about control, and it just terrifies you to think that you’ll have no place in it? You’d rather live in a world filled with powerful cretins who can be controlled with sex than a world where you have to think for yourself and live for your own dreams.”
“Destroy... everything... you’ve made! Burn... shit... just shit... burn it!”
“Think twice before taking me on again. Twenty dead dogmen say that I’m the lord and master of this place.”
“Master of... nothing!”
“Is that an invitation?” Wodan looked Nilem up and down. She could feel awful heat radiating from him, and for a moment she wondered just what he would do.
“I’m sorry, Nilem,” he said. “I’m not Vito. I won’t be your master. You’ll have to do that on your own. I have important things to do, Nilem. Great things. And you… you don’t show up on my scales of importance.”
Nilem fell into despair. Tears sliced down her face and her body was broken by sobs. She knew then that she would force Wodan to kill her. It was the only way to hurt him. She would summon her will and jerk his strings and until the day he died he would know that he was not the great, self-important, morally-radiant lord of the world that he fancied himself to be because he would never, ever forget the night he killed a defenseless woman in cold blood.
Demonworld Book 5: Lords of the Black Valley (Demonworld series) Page 17