Demonworld Book 6: The Love of Tyrants

by Kyle B. Stiff

  Demonworld Book Six

  Lords of the Black Valley

  By Kyle B. Stiff

  For news and info about Kyle B. Stiff’s writing projects, including Demonworld and Heavy Metal Thunder, visit his web site at www.kylebstiff.wordpress.com. To contact Kyle B. Stiff, try primeentertainer@gmail.com and @KyleBStiff on twitter.

  1. Man has the right to live by his own law—

  to live in the way that he wills to do:

  to work as he will:

  to play as he will:

  to rest as he will:

  to die when and how he will.

  2. Man has the right to eat what he will:

  to drink what he will:

  to dwell where he will:

  to move as he will on the face of the earth.

  3. Man has the right to think what he will:

  to speak what he will:

  to write what he will:

  to draw, paint, carve, etch, mould, build as he will:

  to dress as he will.

  4. Man has the right to love as he will:—

  "take your fill and will of love as ye will,

  when, where, and with whom ye will."

  —AL. I. 51

  5. Man has the right to kill those who would thwart these rights.

  - Aleister Crowley, The Book of the Law

  Table of Contents

  Part 1: Alien Eyes

  Chapter 1: Flag of the Black Valliers

  Chapter 2: Freedom, Destruction

  Chapter 3: The Illusion of Obstacles Overcome

  Chapter 4: Lashes and Whacks

  Chapter 5: The House of Ishtar

  Chapter 6: Nine Years in the Black Valley

  Chapter 7: Perseval’s Confrontation

  Chapter 8: Vendicci… Revenger!

  Part 2: The Master

  Chapter 9: Journey to Srila

  Chapter 10: Conquerors, Penitents

  Chapter 11: Forgiveness, Revenge

  Chapter 12: The Mind Readers

  Chapter 13: Heaven, Earth

  Chapter 14: Tower

  Chapter 15: Undying, Immortal

  Part 3: The Slave

  Chapter 16: Entertainer Interlude

  Chapter 17: Robots, Friends

  Chapter 18: Agony Education

  Chapter 19: Leviathan’s Runts

  Chapter 20: Steel Demon

  Chapter 21: Memory Fabrication

  Chapter 22: Echo of the Past

  Chapter 23: Does Naarwulf Serve for Nothing?

  Chapter 24: Mercy, Cruelty

  Chapter 25: The Redeemer

  Chapter 26: SHADOW, FORM

  Chapter 27: A Mighty Hunter Before the Lord

  Chapter 28: Sphinx

  Chapter 29: The Little Demon

  Chapter 30: The Book of Job

  Chapter 31: The Passover

  Chapter 32: Return to the Serpent’s Den

  Chapter 33: It’s Time You Knew

  Chapter 34: Education, Indoctrination

  Chapter 35: Brothers

  Chapter 36: Chimera

  Chapter 37: Guardian Demon

  Chapter 38: The Passion of the Clone

  Part 4: Hymn to the Wasteland Gods

  Chapter 39: The Choice

  Chapter 40: Circle of Blood

  Chapter 41: Behold King of Kings Lord of Archons Yaldabaoth

  Chapter 42: Identity, Masks

  Chapter 43: Do What You Will

  Chapter 44: The Master

  Appendix: Information Gleaned from Smith Archives

  Part One

  Alien Eyes

  Chapter One

  Flag of the Black Valliers

  My Lord struggled with a riddle. How do you save the world from being devoured by creatures whose strength we cannot match? He came no closer to the answer as the years passed. My brothers and sisters in the Order knew that one city after another went silent as they were swallowed by the wasteland. The hand of our ancient enemy was moving against us. It was terrifying to know that no man, save my Lord, had turned his mind toward stopping this ineluctable onslaught of death.

  Why did we count on him? Why did we put such faith in one man? Why did the rest of mankind go about as if the world would continue forever?

  I admit that we did it mostly because my Lord turned the end of the world into some of the best years of our lives. He had the audacity to create an entire nation while the rest of the world’s future was slated for abortion.

  But to truly understand my Lord, you must see his nation. So I begin my account through the eyes of one who died fighting for his belief that no one should live in fear.

  - from The Entertainers: Chapter Jarl: 81:1

  ***

  Nine years had passed since the Throne of Wood was established in the Black Valley Nation. The Smith War ended in victory for the Valliers, and trade was reestablished between the Valley and the city of Pontius. Wealth flowed down the river into Pontius while zeppelins flew people and goods into the Black Valley. No flesh demons had been seen for years.

  Despite the scarcity of demons, there was little happiness to be found in Pontius. The wealth that flowed in from the Valley only reached a few hands, and most of those hands were already accustomed to handling wealth. The people of Pontius were bitter over the privations endured during the war, when the authorities snatched up everything they could in order to ensure a victory that never came. Many people dreamed of escape, but it was considered indecent to speak of it. Immigrating to the Black Valley was tricky business. Public murals declared that only cowards and traitors were eager to believe the tales of easy living in a land populated by murderers who once prayed for the destruction of Pontius, and wouldn’t it be better to dig in your heels for good old Pontius?

  Perseval was a bright young man of twenty years and, having no prospects in Pontius, he quietly developed a plan to try a new life in the Valley. He did not want to leave because he dreamed of “striking it rich” like so many others. Perseval dreamed of escape because he was the bearer of a secret that could shatter the very fabric of reality, and in his heart he knew that he would die if he remained in Pontius.

  His technical schooling was at an end, and he worked long hours as a clerk. In order to save money for his flight he stopped going out, stopped using his electronic air conditioner, stopped smoking, and even stopped attending plays. He disappeared from the lives’ of his friends. His mother required expensive medicine, but he lied to his siblings about the amount of money he had so that he could keep it all. This caused him no end of grief.

  Perseval finally gathered funds that he hoped would get him into the Valley and secure him food and a home while he looked for work. Unfortunately Pontius paper money was worthless in the Valley, so he had to convert a great deal of his cash into chips of gold, silver, and a few bits of jewelry. But precious jewels and metal were plentiful in the Valley and were shipped into Pontius rather than out of it, so his meager savings were destined to decrease in value with each step taken toward the Valley. He ended up selling nearly everything he had, even his expensive paper books that he dearly loved.

  Securing a spot on an airship was even worse. No one could give him specific information on the process because there was no standard process. In dealing with government emigration officers, luck was the prime factor. He had to pay the Shipment Tax, the Booking and Handling Tax, his identification handling fee, his record upkeep charge, his Ticket Tax, his Ticketing and Movement Tax, the Additional Overcharge Tax, a bribe to a clerk who found a problem with one of his forms of identification, and a bribe to another officer who claimed that he matched the description of a known felon (Perseval was terrified during this part of
the process and only later found out that it was a common scam). When he retrieved his suitcase from the Inspection Bureau he found that several of his shirts and a pair of shoes were missing. He ran out of paper currency halfway through the ordeal, and had to give away some of his gold and jewels. When he finally found his way into an office where he could finally buy a ticket, he did not have enough for a position on an airship.

  Luckily a shady man with a government badge took him to a backroom and got him a forged ticket which looked no different from an official one.

  ***

  Perseval sat on the deck of an airship in the middle of a moonless night watching the stars. Any time his attention drifted from the wonder of flying through the heavens, or even the minute details of adjusting his blanket against the cold, he was immediately overwhelmed by the terror of leaving his family and his home behind. He could almost hear his old self calling out to him, begging him to return somehow. He watched the grim-faced airmen in their thick coats busying themselves with the details of the miracle of flight and he knew there was no way he could convince them to turn around. He swallowed only with great difficulty. There was no going back.

  Just before Perseval could break down, two young men approached and sat on the bench on either side of him. They were not shy about invading his space, so he assumed they had been drinking below decks. One was large and had a black beard that made him look older than he was, and the other was wiry and had a chin that jutted out. The pair reminded Perseval of a giant and a gnome from one of his fantasy books.

  "You mind if we share your blanket?" the big one said even as the smaller one began the process of unwrapping Perseval.

  "W-well," said Perseval, "I suppose-"

  "Nice, nice. I'm Erb, and this is my brother Jack."

  "Perseval. Persey, if you like."

  Once all three were comfortably wrapped in the blanket, Perseval heard himself launch into a detailed listing of all his difficulties in boarding the airship and leaving Pontius. The two listened for a while, then Jack laughed and Erb shook his head.

  "What?" said Perseval.

  "Man," said Erb, "you should have hired on as a luggage handler for someone important! That’s the way you do it."

  "It... is it?"

  "He's right," said Jack. "That's what we did. There's almost no paperwork and we get paid on top of that."

  "How was I supposed to know that?" Perseval wondered aloud. He felt wounded, as if his struggle was a joke.

  "Brains, really," said Jack, nodding in agreement with himself. "See, if your tools of reason aren't sharpened to a keen edge, then shit, man, I don't even know what to-"

  "Don't listen to any of that," said Erb. "Dumb luck was our ace in the hole. We’ve done nothin' but move boxes... at least, that's all Pontius ever wanted out of us. We lucked out because the outfit we used to work for was owned by some big-shot who wanted to pack up and move to the Valley. The company gave us the option to help with the move or stay in Pontius with our thumbs up our asses."

  "But you didn't have to pay for anything?" said Perseval.

  "Don't you know how things work?" said Jack. "The lady who got our tickets is so rich she probably didn't even have to pay for her own ticket."

  Perseval clenched his jaw, then muttered, "That makes no sense."

  Before Erb could reply, Jack pointed with his chin, then said, "Let's keep it down. I think that's our boss over there."

  Perseval turned and saw an armed guard escorting an old woman across the darkened deck. Her fur shawl shivered in a gust of wind. As she passed by an electric light near the front, he could see that her short hair was an even mix of black and white, her aged face was severe, and her clothes were of an incredibly fine make. The guard helped her into a seat that had been set up just for her, then took his place at her side.

  "That's her, alright," said Erb. "I think her name's Miss Oliver. I reckon she has a rich husband in the Valley who got tired of whorin' around and decided he needed Ol' Dependable to fly out and take care of him."

  “No, no, man, it’s not like that,” said Jack. “She did something during the Smith War.”

  “Like what?” said Erb, incredulous.

  “Like… a diplomat… or something? I don’t know man, I heard some talk while we were moving her stuff onboard.”

  “Well, I wouldn’t go believing everything I heard humpin’ boxes. People talk when they get bored. But Persey, you wanna see somethin’ really crazy?”

  Perseval blinked. “I’m not sure.”

  Erb quickly leaned in and pointed. “You see that wrapped up bundle she’s sittin’ beside? The long one?”

  “I… think so.”

  “There’s a dead body in there.”

  Perseval paused as if waiting for the shadowy mummy to lift its head and nod. “Who is it?”

  “He did somethin’ during the War. Some old Lawman, I think. Hell, man, it’s hard to say. You know how the news is. If it’s not made up or just there to distract you from something bad, it doesn’t get printed. But what I heard is that that guy was a friend of the King. He got blasted, or something, so Miss Oliver’s taking his body to the Valley.”

  “A friend of the King of the Valley,” Perseval mused quietly. “I wonder what he’s like?”

  “Wonder no more, my man,” Erb said suddenly, producing a case from his backpack with hurried, jerky movements. “Check this out. This here’s my treasure. Exported from the Valley.”

  Erb revealed a stack of comic books, all neatly organized and in pristine condition. Most of them were from the series The Blood King, a dramatization based on the life of the man who founded the Nation of the Black Valley. Perseval moved to get a better look and Erb shouted, “Don’t touch them! Shit, Persey, these things are in mint condition!”

  “Sorry!”

  “You know how much these things are worth?!”

  “Sorry, man!”

  “You know how much they’re gonna be worth in a few years?!”

  “Alright, I get it, sorry.”

  “Relax,” said Jack. “Erb, show him that part you just showed me.”

  Reluctantly, Erb produced issue number thirty-two. On its cover was a picture of a castle on fire, and in the corner some bold, garish text read, “In a desperate battle against the Ugly!” With shaking fingers, Erb delicately turned the pages. “This one here,” said Erb, “it’s about the Blood King, before he was a real king, when he was fighting a one-man-war against the Ugly. To get revenge because they killed his family. Look at this...”

  Erb craned the book toward a lamp and they all crowded around. Perseval was impressed by the artwork, which featured dynamic panel layouts and a lush four-color printing process the likes of which he had never seen. Several panels showed the muscular figure of the Blood King in his skin-tight, armored outfit standing over a pile of Ugly corpses. Another panel showed Boris, the leader of the Ugly, equally muscular and imposing. His foot was on a crying baby’s head, and it looked as if Boris had used this hostage to disarm his opponent.

  Erb began to read the word balloons, quoting, “ ‘I will... I’ll... won’t... never...’ ”

  “ ‘I’ll never give up,’ ” said Perseval, reading easily.

  “Ah! Go on, man.”

  Perseval cleared his throat. “Boris says, ‘I’ll never give up!,’ then Blood King says, ‘You killed my family, you dog. You have insulted my freedom-loving ways. I chose the path of live and let live long ago. But you did not. And so, death is your fate by my hand!’ ”

  “That’s some good-ass reading, man. Then check this out. It looks like Boris is unarmed, but then, look - his fake arm falls off and we see he’s got a Smith gun instead of a real arm. Things look bad for Blood King, but then…!”

  “I can’t tell what’s going on,” said Perseval.

  Erb repositioned the comic in the light. “See? Blood King was disarmed, but he had a freaking bullet in his mouth. He spits it out so hard that… see? Fwoosh, wooooosh! He totally blew of
f the side of Boris’s head, man!”

  The violent display was a bit much for Perseval, but he had to admit that he was intrigued by the over-the-top visuals. He wondered if the tale had borrowed from the time when the Smiths destroyed the Ugly with the help of another gang. He vaguely remembered running with his mother to another house, and how she wouldn’t let him stand at the window to watch the smoke and flames.

  “And it pretty much happened just like that,” said Jack, drawing out a small canteen of whiskey. “Hey Erb, show him how it starts... where the Ugly kill his family and he vows to destroy them.”

  “Right, right,” said Erb, replacing the issue and carefully drawing out another. “The art’s not as good in the early issues, technically, but it has a raw kind of feel that I find appealing...”

  Perseval huddled with the pair and shared their whiskey and spent several hours looking through the comics, and the terror of having no money and flying in a strange ship to a land he knew almost nothing about became unreal, like a child’s fear of a dark but familiar room. While he enjoyed the visual display of the garish little books, he could not get into the actual stories. Eventually this feeling bubbled over and, encouraged by the whiskey, he finally said, “You guys keep saying these things are historically accurate, but-”

  “They are!” said Erb. “I mean, pretty much!”

  “But it looks like this guy just blows away anyone that gets in his way. And how is he forcing all these dogmen to do what he wants? I don’t get it, it just… it seems a bit unrealistic, doesn't it?”

  “Okay, sure,” said Jack, “but you gotta admit that normal people don’t go the Valley, chase off a bunch of demons, and then set up shop.”

  Perseval was not sure how to counter that, or even if he should. Even before encountering the comics, he had heard legends about that man. “The King of the Black Valley,” he said, partly to himself. “I wonder just what kind of man he is. I’ve heard… well, I know you’re not really supposed to talk about it, what with the war and all, but I’ve heard that the Valley is…” Perseval’s voice trailed off to a whisper. Finally he forced out, “I’ve heard that it’s full of heroes.” He instantly felt ashamed of himself, then added, “But my mother, and plenty of others, they say that there’s anarchy in the Valley - and that means that the devil rules.”