“Yes,” said Yarek, discarding plans as fast as he could come up with them. “Yes, it will.”
“What do we do, Chief Yarek?”
Yarek looked at his personal guards. Each one was large, well-armed, and full of violence. Each was the best his clan had to offer, and when they were together, they made up the spearpoint of their tribe’s collective fury. Yarek slowly removed his own bandages and thought, It would be a shame if these dogs died from starvation.
“If things are only going to get worse, then starting tomorrow morning, we prepare for the worst.”
Yarek spent a sleepless night putting the pieces together in his mind. His shaggy guards slept on the floor of his room in the fort while he sat beside a window, lost in thought. He knew that if they were going to survive in this jungle hell, then they would have to use all of their resources to the utmost – and they had no resources except for each other. Any time he closed his eyes and came close to laying his head on his desk and sleeping, he saw the men and women and dogmen hanging about within the walls of the fort, their faces lined with worry, shoulders bent with oppression, hands hanging at their sides with nothing to do. Whenever he saw their faces, he snapped awake, hungry and angry and determined.
When he finally saw the blue of morning, Yarek banged his desk. His guards immediately jumped from their mats. Yarek nodded at their military efficiency.
“Go and get my Reavers,” he said. “I’ve got a plan. This is going to be a busy day.”
* * *
Yarek walked the grounds of the fort with his four remaining Reavers and several Asher guard dogs. The grounds within the wall were a hive of activity, with people shouting and forming into groups or running here and there.
On one side of the camp, Yarek could see the giant warrior-woman Amiza shouting at a group of humans holding long, heavy bows. Behind her, targets were lined up in staggered rows all the way to the rear of the grounds leading up to the foothills of the mountains. “Now your commander on the wall has just ordered you to fire wooden arrows without tips at targets approaching from a three hundred hekta distance,” Amiza shouted. “At what angle do you hold your bows?” Yarek noticed that Amiza stood directly in the line of fire as if to inspire the archers. “You and you, a little higher. That’s good. Now…”
Yarek could see other amazons whittling longbows and arrows of their own design. They worked efficiently and handed the weapons over to farmers waiting on the sidelines.
In another part of the camp, Yarek saw blond Magog, the last of his tribe, showing dogmen and a few large humans how to handle the weapons they had received from the mines. “If they attack, the heaviest fighting will be at the wall,” said Magog, correcting one man’s posture. “Those ghouls will probably climb on top of one another to get over the side, but don’t think that that wall is going to stop a dogman warrior. They won’t need ladders to climb over, but the wall is at least tall enough to stop one from hopping right into your lap. They’re going to be jumping and grasping the top, and that’s when you strike. Those with swords, swing down like this – see? Aim for arms first, heads second. See? No, no, you’ll get tangled up with your buddy standing next to you if you hold your sword like that…”
In another part of the camp, beneath the arms of a tall, ancient tree that no one had had the heart to cut down, Naarwulf stood with a strange mix of men, women, dogmen, and dogwomen. “The way of the berserker isn’t about your size, or what weapons you use, or what strategy you’ve practiced,” said Naarwulf, stalking back and forth. “It’s about channeling your rage and becoming a nightmare to anyone who wants to do you harm. It’s not even about survival. It’s about making your opponent’s life a living hell! Do you have ancestors who died in misery? Good! Summon their hate! Scream out in rage, channel their strength and their hate from the burning pits! Have you ever felt beaten down, spit upon by others? Good! Vomit up that anger, that hate! Let it send you to a place where you can no longer feel pain!”
Yarek could see Naarwulf shaking as he spoke. He’s not so shy about leadership anymore, Yarek thought. Not when he’s talking about his area of expertise, at least.
Yarek could hear a small, older farmer ask a question, but could not make out the words. “I tell you truly,” Naarwulf responded, “I have seen a young dogwoman hold off a dozen attackers by channeling her rage. Her opponents came for rape, and they were confident because they were numerous and armed, but half of them were tripping over one another while the other half spent their time trying to get away from her. Because she tapped into her rage, she was no longer a small, frail woman, but a whirling, screaming, spitting monster!”
Yarek continued on and saw other warriors training humans and dogmen. Everyone was hungry, but he was proud to see that, besides a few lazy dogmen, nearly everyone was involved and active.
“Where are Zach and Chris?” said Yarek.
“Basement,” said one of his Reavers. “Basement of the fort.”
“Didn’t know it had a basement,” said Yarek, making his way toward the fort.
They had little trouble finding the basement, for as soon as they entered the fort they could hear something dreadful beneath their feet. One Reaver took the lead, found a latch on the floor, and pulled a trapdoor open. Immediately they were blasted by a wall of sound – moaning, shrieking, the stomping of feet. Yarek placed a hand on his handgun, Teufelmorder, then prepared to descend a rickety ladder.
As soon as he did so, a hand clamped down on his shoulder.
“I wouldn’t go down there if I were you,” said Zachariah Hargis. He was drunk, and his eyes were red-rimmed and empty.
“Why not?” said Yarek, his voice hard-edged.
“Maena’s leading a secret rite. She would kill you, in her state. Her and the others. You can peek – but don’t go any further down there.”
Annoyed, Yarek craned his head to peer down below.
Several giant cauldrons bubbled on top of fires in the center of the chamber. Half-naked mountain women danced around them, teeth and eyes flashing, feet whirling. He could see Maena, Zachariah’s wife, leading the dancing and chanting. Her black and white body paint was complemented by fresh lines of red lightning bolts.
“Gods below, Zachariah, it reeks like a distillery down there!” said Yarek.
Zach did not answer, but there came another shriek, deeper than all the others. Yarek saw Chris Kenny in a corner, naked and swinging the priceless sniper rifle like a club, bellowing beyond madness.
Yarek drew away from the ladder and slammed the trapdoor shut. “Damn it, Zachariah, what the hell is going on here? Why didn’t you tell me these primitive bitches were hoarding fruit and making alcohol?”
“It was my idea,” said Zach. “You don’t know what I had to go through to get them to include us in their rites.”
“I knew you were a drunk,” said Yarek, towering over Zach, “but you of all people should understand what we’re up against.”
“I do know what we’re up against. I watched Hargis burn as it was overwhelmed. I was one of the few to survive, Chief Yarek, and one thing I learned real quick was that bullets and blades and regimentation account for little when the enemy’s first line of assault… is fear.”
“So we need drugs to compensate, is that it?”
“Not everyone can be a dragon-slayer, Chief. Not everyone can stand the sight of guts hanging out of bellies or the awful sound of a thousand enemies screaming like mad. When those monsters come, believe me, you’ll be glad that the people standing along the walls will have a little… something… to bolster their resolve.”
Yarek glared at the smaller man for a moment, then turned on his heel and stomped out of the room. As he exited the fort he saw a tall, lean man in a red cape and a tall red cap leaning against the wall near the entrance.
“What are you up to, Jarl?” said Yarek. “Trying to be the first in line to sample some dead man’s draught?”
Jarl smiled coldly. “I’m waiting for the same thi
ng everyone else is waiting for. I’m waiting for my Lord to return.”
Yarek frowned. “I’m the boss around here now. You know that.”
He was surprised to see Jarl return his gaze. “Then perhaps I should give you the bad news. The tribe of Grimweld will leave us tomorrow.”
Yarek was dumbfounded, and placed a hand against the wall to steady himself. “How do you know this?”
“I’m an Entertainer. I listen well.”
Yarek thought for a long time. Grimweld were called the “housedogs” - not much respected among the tribes, but they were the largest of the tribes, by far. If it came to war and the pitting of dogman against dogman, they would need force of numbers on their side. Yarek knew that individual honor counted for little in the thick of things, when bodies were pressed up against one another, stabbing and hacking and straining for air.
“Do you know why they’re leaving?” said Yarek. “Specifically, I mean.”
Jarl shrugged. “They say they will leave because it seems to them that everyone else is leaving.”
“Then they’re useless.” Yarek shook his head, disgusted by their cravenness. If Grimweld leaves and joins Paun and Qemel, plus the demons and the ghouls, thought Yarek, then that will leave us with only two tribes. Asher, my tribe, and Nook, whose leaders now answer to Naarwulf. We’ll be outnumbered for sure, not to mention up against whatever other tricks those demons can come up with.
Before he could stop himself, Yarek turned on Jarl and said, “Why do you think Wodan is coming back?”
“Did he ever speak to you about the Secret Bacchanal that was held in Pontius some time ago?”
“No.”
“Then I won’t, either,” said Jarl, turning away. “But I will say this: Don’t discount him so easily. You see his smile, but you don’t see that it’s a mask. I saw him at the Bacchanal. And I can tell you, Yarek Dragon-Slayer, that he is… terrifying. I… I almost feel sorry for his enemies, and I am grateful that we are not counted among them.”
Yarek laughed. “I wouldn’t count on getting anything from him.”
Jarl looked up suddenly with a strange smile on his face. “Oh, of course, Yarek. But he’s counting on you not counting on him.”
* * *
Worshippers howled in the night beneath the shining towers of the crystal lair and a constant stream of hunters dragged carcasses in from the forest and cast them down at the feet of the reptilian, feather-maned overlords. Not all of the bodies were animal, but even the fighters from Grimweld, who had only recently opened their eyes to the new way, joined in the butchery.
Zamael hung high within the towers, bathing in the adoration that raged down below. With his subtle Cognati fingers he sometimes picked up a worshipper, and would watch as the others howled in wonder at the miracle of spontaneous levitation, and then set the dog down among his brethren newly-sainted. Only the ghouls watched the miracle without adoration, their empty eyes bearing witness to the fact that every event was one great zero. They crouched or stood like gargoyles in the crimson cathedral.
Zamael was filled with wonder at this raging, screaming, blood-caked thing he had created.
How your former leader was so frustrated by your nature! he thought. But how necessary, how beautiful, it is to me!
Now is the time to strike. Now, while they are weak with hunger, while they are cut off from reinforcements. We will strike them down with one decisive blow. I will cleanse this land of mankind’s hatred, and the Grand Mother will finally end my shameful exile.
Come, uncle. Rise… rise! Wake from your sleep, and give birth to terror!
Zamael focused his strength and sent out a summons. The worshippers felt the earth shake, and deep in their chests they felt something groan deep beneath their feet. The lights within the crystal towers grew dim, then cast the horde into darkness. A hush fell on them – then the lights renewed with terrible intensity, flashing pink, red, and harsh white. The towers leaped, dirt shook and was cast into the air, trees shivered in their moorings. The towers jerked, then rose; the crystal floor on which they were attached rose as well, and mounds of dirt fell from the crystalline structure in a streaming cascade. A great roar shook the trees. The dogmen ran, pleading for mercy, for they saw that the crystal towers were only growths protruding from the armored back of a single, massive demon. The reptilian demons only chirped in a shrill, guttural language and held onto the towers as the monster rose beneath them.
The towers creaked and groaned along its back, and long spidery limbs as thick as tree trunks rose up from the earth and bent on joints high overhead. Four great limbs and one powerful tail pushed the enormous demon out of the earth. The monster’s entire body was coated in hard crystals the color of blood, each plate as hard as the depths of the earth, and where the light shone they could see thick veins, pulsating organs, and pathways of muscle and sinew.
Finally the head of the beast rose from the earth and swung about, eyes dull and deep within a clear mask, the face lined with horns of glass. Its crystalline-fanged mouth opened wide and bellowed one long brass note, inorganic, unmerciful, and terrible to hear as any heart nearby labored to beat despite the wall of sound.
The massive crystalline flesh demon thundered slowly through the forest and the dogs of war and the legion of pale ghouls ran beneath its legs, tearing through the forest, ready for murder on a divine scale. Many reptilian stormtroopers rode on its back, throwing their heads back as they gave vent to their strange, shrill cries.
Down below, among the tribe of Qemel, those dogmen who were known for their thirst for vengeance, Jago walked calmly with the Usurper sword in hand. He alone had not taken part in the worship, but kept himself apart. He felt that he was a member of a greater religion. Usurper was his holy law now, and he believed in the great destiny that awaited him.
Jago marched beside the dogmen who ran shrieking through the woods, ready to destroy the fort and its inhabitants. He stopped when he came upon the large red reptilian devil, who stood glaring at him with its single eye. Jago clutched Usurper. Was it possible that the flesh demon could see into his heart? He had heard tales that there were two other reptilian demons like this one, one that was invisible and another small, blue stalker. Were they preparing to turn against him?
“Lead the way, devil,” Jago growled. “We will see who spills more blood in this battle.”
If the devil heard, or even understood, Jago could not tell, for the monster only turned and walked. Jago followed.
Zamael slithered down from the back of the crystalline demon and drifted alone through the dark forest. There was fire in his blood. He sent signals of horror through all the torture cells of his mind, and the brains and souls within hummed in tune to his hateful brooding.
It was there that Freyja lived.
She was lost in a terrible thunderstorm, lying on ground that slipped away, continually breaking up, inducing both vertigo and the awful feeling of drowning. She reached out, desperate to find something stable, and was surprised when she clutched a hand.
“What is happening?!” she screamed, the first thing that came to mind.
“I have a function,” said the other, his voice strained. “I have an identity. Saul, that’s who I am!”
“Just hold on! We’ll get through this!”
Saul was not lost in a storm, but sitting on his purple hill and watching the pale, flickering sky. He held the unexpected hand as tightly as he could. He did not want to help the other one too much, nor even look at her. He knew that he was free from the torture that plagued the others only as long as he held Zamael’s identity intact. If he remembered himself, and thus remembered Zamael, then he could sit on his empty hill and feel no pain.
“Just stay still,” he muttered. “Hold tight. Pain is everywhere, so you have to stay still.”
“Why does he want the entire world to be like this?” Freyja gasped, coughing on the stream rising beneath her.
“The entire world is like this.”
“No, it’s not!” said Freyja. “It’s not! It’s so hard to remember, but I… I remember, there was someone… someone who was kind to me!”
“No there wasn’t,” Saul said quickly.
“There was!” Freyja shrieked. “There was someone who treated me like a human being. I remember-”
“Then he’s dead! Or he will be. Nothing will survive what’s coming. You’ll see! Zamael wants this so much. Don’t you see? His name is Zamael!”
“Saul, please!”
“I have a function! And so do you! And his name is Zamael!” Saul felt the hand in his weakening, so he shouted, “Understand one thing. If we remember his name, and he remembers ours, and if we help Zamael get what he wants, then we’ll get what we want! We’ll be allowed to die. We’ll be allowed to die, and then feel nothing!”
For a moment, Saul felt his eyes open, and he saw the forest stretching into the darkness before him. He felt the ground shaking as thousands of feet pounded against the earth, saw the trees shaking as a great giant tore through, and he heard the music, the beautiful music, of small lizard throats singing the only note they knew how to sing.
Chapter Twenty-One
Ancient Power
Wodan crawled through the narrow confines of the pitch-black cavern. Already he could hear the battle of two conflicting signals: One in the back of his mind, a warning shouting that he was not welcome, and another in his blood, calling out to him, commanding him to move forward. For over two years Wodan had tried to bury the memory of the cave so that he would never have to experience it again. But Wodan knew that the time for running had long since passed.
He came to a dimly lit chamber of red stone, cut smooth and square. He had room to stand. Red lights flickered in the chamber, then Wodan froze in fear when he saw other people in the tunnel with him. He quickly realized that the people were not real; instead, strange three-dimensional holograms played in flickering loops, a record of the ghosts of visitors from the past. Wodan saw Didi and the man called Childriss, whom Didi had used as a scapegoat during his trial in Haven. The images only lasted for a few seconds before they flickered, faded, and were played again without order. Both men seemed intent, but also small and scared.
Demonworld Book 5: Lords of the Black Valley (Demonworld series) Page 31