Demonworld Book 6: The Love of Tyrants

by Kyle B. Stiff

  “Revenger!”

  Part Two

  The Master

  Chapter Nine

  Journey to Srila

  Wodan woke in his dark, cold room in an airship with the torn fibers of a dream still hanging on the edge of his awareness. He had been back in the cave, that mysterious place built by the Ancients and tended by a dreaming machine. He could not remember much of the dream, but the last thing he had seen was the face of a superbeing – someone like himself, but with short dark hair and inhuman violet eyes that dominated his will. For nine years he had been haunted by the same vision. He had few doubts about the dream’s meaning: Long ago someone like himself had challenged the demons. The demons had won. Now the descendants of those who had given up the struggle pretended that demonic armies were not rampaging across the world.

  Wodan forced himself up and lit an oil lamp. He donned his winter gear, a single piece of thick, padded leather that left only his head, hands, and feet exposed. He stretched, satisfied by the design, which he had convinced a famous Vallier tailor to make and distribute as quickly as possible. With a few words he had convinced others to embark on a large project. He wondered what he would have thought if he could have seen, years ago, the king he would become. Would he have been impressed? Intimidated? Confused?

  Perspective changes with age, he thought as he put on his boots. A few years ago I was worried about this demon or that demon chasing me around. Now I worry about armies of them. But it’s all the same… fruitless worrying.

  He threw his hooded cloak over his shoulders, then lifted his sword from the floor and slung it on his back. It was ridiculously heavy, as if sluggish with sleep. He had long since accepted the fact that Capricornus was alive. He entered the darkened hallway, where he smelled pork cooking nearby. But he always allowed his sword to eat first, so he made his way up the stairs. He was nearly out of breath when he reached the top.

  Sharp wind hit him as soon as he reached the deck. The sky was shockingly blue with clouds like stone tinged by volcanic orange. Others were already gathered on the deck, wrapped in cloaks and blankets. As soon as he wrenched the leaden sword from its sheathe, others turned to look. He concentrated on the hilt shivering in his hand. Nine or more years in the spotlight had taught him a great deal about human interaction without ever changing his nature. He was not a leader by nature; it had always been his way to try something on his own before asking for help, much less tell someone else to do something. But he had learned that people didn’t watch him because they were scanning for weakness.

  How could they not watch something like this? he thought, smiling slightly as Capricornus suddenly blazed with life. Green light surged along the length of the blade as it drank in the morning sun, and as it grew lighter in his hand he hoisted it upward. Several Rangers on deck nodded respectfully and a few whispered stories of how the King had wielded the magical blade during the Smith War.

  No longer a hindrance, Wodan sheathed the blade on his back. He heard a shrill cry, then one of the airmen bellowed in panic.

  Zachariah’s son, Haginar, swung treacherously near the edge of the ship on a loose rope that hung from the upper rigging, whooping with joy as he danced with death. “Gods have mercy!” cried the airman, looking about for assistance. “If you fall, boy…! If you fall…!”

  “He’s fine,” said Zachariah, not bothering to look as he peered over the other side of the deck.

  “Zachariah! If that boy of yours falls! Oh, gods!”

  “He’s fine. He does that sort of thing all the time.”

  Haginar whooped once more, then crashed onto the deck and ran down the stairs. Wodan took a seat beside Zachariah, but he faced inward rather than outward. He knew that if he looked over the side with his friend, he would be sick. He started to speak, but was interrupted.

  “Grandstanding with your sword again, I see,” said General Yarek Clash.

  They studied one another. Yarek’s red hair was short now, and he had a beard already gray at the edges. He had put on weight. But his face was still dark and hard, and his yellow eyes still showed no trace of mercy. Years ago he had fled his homeland not only to track down Wodan and see what he had become, but also to test himself against the world. He had once thought he’d made a mistake. Wodan seemed tpo soft, too immature, too quick to make a dramatic gesture and risk his own life rather than work out sensible plans with others. But the War had greatly changed Yarek's opinion. Wodan had stayed and shared the misery with everyone. He had taken Yarek’s advice in their war counsels. It took a certain sort of man to follow Yarek, but from his perspective it seemed that everyone wanted to follow Wodan – whether they wore suits, overalls, robes, fighting uniforms, it didn’t matter. They had won one another’s trust many times over. Even if it was a fact that they had little to talk about and few interests in common, it was also a fact that Yarek was one of the few men that Wodan could speak about demonic armies with, and who would not shy away or change the subject.

  “King,” said Yarek, his voice colder than the thin air. “You’re sure about the Cognati? You really think they're real?”

  “I thought the same as you, at first,” said Wodan. “There’s a lot about them that I’m sure is nonsense, that they can read minds, predict the future, things like that. But they really can move objects just by thinking about it. They can even stop bullets. You’ve met a demon who could do the same, remember. I’m sure we’ll learn more about them soon enough.”

  “You’re absolutely certain that your sword can cut through their shields?”

  Wodan hesitated, then nodded slowly. “We’re not going there to fight them, Yarek. They’re mercenaries. They work for people trying to profit from conflict. If we throw a little gold around, we’ll be fine.”

  Yarek grunted noncommittally, then turned away.

  “There, Wodan!” said Zachariah. He pointed over the side of the rail.

  “I can’t look, Zachariah, or I’ll puke.”

  “You need a good puke sometimes. Look.”

  Wodan turned. Far below, several rings of small buildings squatted in waves of gray sand. He saw no walls, no roads, and no crops, only dust creeping through endless wind.

  Wodan thought for a moment. “That’s not Hargis, is it?”

  “Not the capital city, no. But it was an outlying town in our territory. All gone. Overrun by demons.”

  Wodan thought of their own land overwhelmed, overrun, laid to waste, its people erased and forgotten as if they had never existed at all. The demons had swept east a decade before, after the destruction of Hargis. How many cities had they laid to waste? How many people had survived, only to revert to savagery?

  Zachariah, who rarely spoke of the destruction of Hargis since they had created a new home in the Valley, could only mutter, “I wonder how long we have…”

  He shook his head quickly. Wodan watched him and tried to feel out his thoughts. He knew his friend had never fully recovered from the loss of his old life, his old home. When Hargis was destroyed, Khan Vito had gathered an army of dogmen with promises of still more destruction. Vito had been shaped by Globulus, who Wodan had never met, but who had been the official Court Philosopher of Hargis before his mysterious exile and subsequent journey into the holy land.

  “You’re thinking of Globulus,” said Wodan.

  “I have to see him,” said Zachariah. “I have to confront him. I might end up doing what my father should-”

  “You see, he admits it!”

  Naarwulf, Chief of Enforcers, strode up to them. The dark dogman was still massive, but gray patches stood out in his thick hair, and he carried an elaborate jeweled club that he used for a cane. His booming voice was cracked with age. Strangely enough, he was only somewhere in his late twenties by his own reckoning. He had only been in his teens while serving the Khan, but dogmen matured quickly. Forty years was a ripe old age among their kind, though some of the greatest shamans were said to have lived past fifty.

  “What’s that,
Chief?” said Wodan.

  “Your friend Zachariah! He openly declares that he’s going to cause trouble with the holy men in Srila.”

  “He bought his ticket, Naarwulf. There’s not much I can do if Zachariah gets it into his head to do something crazy.”

  “Nothing you can do? My King, this isn’t some backwoods Valley town, this is a military operation. You have every right to-”

  “It’s not a military operation, Naarwulf. Think of it as a pilgrimage.”

  “I’ll try, Lord, but if your friend causes trouble, I’ll break him.” Zachariah scoffed loudly, but Naarwulf continued. “It’s been a few years, but you must remember that more than once I had to put you in a headlock and sing you a lullaby.”

  As Naarwulf edged in between Wodan and Yarek, several of his heavy gold necklaces nearly smacked the general. Wodan was used to the dogman’s lack of a sense of personal space, but he knew that Yarek must be bristling at the close contact. Naarwulf studied the view, the sun now burning bright orange over a pale landscape. “But you’re right, King,” Naarwulf said quietly. “This is a pilgrimage. It's a wonder more dogmen didn't come with us. Srila is a holy place to my people.”

  “What does that mean to you?” said Yarek. “What makes it so ‘holy’?”

  “It just is,” said Naarwulf. “Surely you have something holy among your people that you can’t put into words?”

  Yarek screwed up his brow and gritted his teeth. As he prepared to launch a volley of words, Wodan’s guts clenched up. He knew that an argument was inevitable, but it was altogether too early in the day to be subjected to two hard-headed fighters engaging in the same tired debate that believers and non-believers found endlessly important. Neither Yarek nor Naarwulf had any great metaphysical insight, so it was inevitable that they would trot out arguing points that had been clearly defined since the time of the Ancients. Wodan had seen things strange beyond belief, wonderful and terrible things that defied definition. Whether the world was the handiwork of some invisible architect or the result of chaotic forces crashing against one another was beyond his understanding, so he found it wearisome when others were eager to quarrel over hasty conclusions to complex riddles.

  Just as Yarek’s mouth prepared to fire, a man in a red cape and a wide-brimmed hat presented them with a tray of cups and an insulated flask.

  “Coffee, sirs?” said Jarl the Entertainer.

  “Yes!” said Wodan, grateful for the interruption.

  Jarl smiled as the others gathered around. “I couldn’t help but hear you esteemed gentlemen talking about the nature of the holy land. It just so happens that I’ve spent quite a bit of time poring over Entertainer archives in preparation for this journey.”

  “Well,” said Yarek, “I was just about to tell Naarwulf that-”

  “One dogman creation myth,” said Jarl, “tells of a garden, a perfect place of rest where all needs were met. The founders of the dogman tribes lived there. Would you believe that they grew up with the lion who would later become one of the four wasteland gods?”

  “I know it!” said Naarwulf, nodding as he took a steaming mug.

  “Accounts vary on what happened. Some stories say the dogmen and the lion quarreled, and that they were either ejected from the garden or they destroyed it in a battle. Others stories say that a terrible sin was committed and the garden fell to rot. Whatever the case, nearly all shamans agree that the birthing garden was in or near present-day Srila.”

  “Might we find that garden?” said Naarwulf.

  Jarl shrugged. “I mean no offense, Chief, but the garden may be a metaphor. Perhaps the garden was a state of mind? But they say that Srila is an oasis, much like our own Valley. Perhaps the entire land is already as perfect as any garden simply because it’s beautiful and has more variety than the wasteland. Who can say? But did you know, Naarwulf, that the creation myth of the dogmen is eerily similar to a human creation myth found in the Book of the Red, the holy book of the Ugly? In that story, two humans are placed in a garden. A patriarchal deity called Ghost commands them not to do a certain thing. A serpent creeps in and tempts the couple with godlike power. Curiosity gets the best of them, and they do exactly what is forbidden. So the Ghost ejects the people into the wasteland. It’s similar, isn’t it?”

  Naarwulf shrugged, unable to articulate his notion that humans and dogmen could not possibly have similar roots.

  “Ghost?” said Wodan. “Is that a reference to one of the four wasteland gods?”

  “Possibly,” said Jarl.

  “That’s the thing about stories,” said Yarek. “Possibly this, possibly that, and nothing’s ever clear.”

  “They’re both religions of exile,” said Zachariah. “They’re explanations for inherent guilt.”

  “Why so glum, Zachariah?” said Jarl. “Ah, forgive me. We must be… drawing near your homeland… forgive me for-”

  “No, it’s not that. I’m thinking about Globulus. He was exiled, you know. I don’t know why. I was young, and everyone kept the truth from me. But the general opinion was that my father should have killed him. Exile was a mercy he didn’t deserve.”

  Naarwulf was taken aback. “But you yourself were exiled from Pontius, weren’t you? Come now, what do you know about Globulus? He was a philosopher like you. And a great one, too, from what I’ve heard! All great men dabble in troubling ideas. Why, half the things I’ve heard you say warrant a club to the head, if you ask me, though I’d never allow such a thing to come to pass.”

  “Naarwulf has a point,” said Wodan. “And if Globulus really is in Srila, we’ll find out more when we get there.”

  “That we will!” said Jarl. “We’ll fly straight over mountain passes that no Entertainer has dared to pass for longer than any of us knows. Why… who knows what stories they’ve kept hidden from the rest of the world?”

  Yarek sat back and crossed his arms. He glanced at the shared look of wonder that passed between the old dogman and the Entertainer, and while he said nothing, the look on his face was plain for Wodan to read: We’re walking into the unknown, stories are for children, and God is dead. Only danger is real.

  ***

  “King Wodan! The Captain’s got radio contact with an advance ship.”

  Wodan followed a Ranger into the warm cabin, where several men sat around a coal-burning heater. The Ranger cast off his cloak as he joined them. “This is about as cold as I ever been, no lie,” he offered.

  The Captain looked like he was attending a funeral as he nodded at Wodan and gestured to the long-range radio. Wodan took the mouthpiece and said, “Wodan here.”

  “King,” said the thin voice on the other end. “First few ships have had to set down at the base of the range. Seems the wind whips right up the face of those mountains. When it does, it’s too violent to navigate.”

  “Anyone lost?” said Wodan.

  “No, sir, but they had to set down, see, so-”

  “That’s fine. Tell them to make a camp. We need semi-permanent dwellings where we can prepare.”

  “Sir?”

  “Srila’s in a valley within the range. Going around the mountains isn’t an option. Looks like we walk the rest of the way.”

  Wodan handed the mouthpiece back to the Captain, who looked as if he’d been slapped.

  “This company promised its passengers they’d see the world, right?” Wodan smiled wickedly. “Who would have thought the road to the holy land would be paved with promises?”

  ***

  Wodan stood at the prow in a biting wind and looked on the mountain range ahead. The great range of Srila seemed unreal, a towering wall of shadow beyond human comprehension. As they drew nearer, small features became immense granite stretches greater than any mountain back home. Long after he thought they had come near enough to set down, the mountains only grew and grew until all the world became a dark and alien wall. Her peaks were shrouded in freezing mist, a ponderous, merciless heaven made for no living thing. Finally he saw the tiny spark
s of flares shot from a hidden cleft, then the ship slowly began its descent. Wodan looked over both sides of the ship and saw only darkness and the dull glare of a pale, frozen nothingness.

  They hovered over Camp One, a cluster of airships with limp balloon sails. The wind beat at them on all sides, hissing and slicing the ears of anyone unfortunate enough to be on deck. All at once the ship dropped like one hundred tons of dead weight and Wodan heard the Captain bellow like a stabbed animal just before they slammed into ice and stone, his voice suddenly cut off by grinding wood. Wodan crashed into the rail, then saw the child Haginar sliding and rolling along the deck, surely dead, and Wodan reached out to stop the child’s body from being ground into pulp against the railing. When they came to a rest, the ship was still intact. For a moment Wodan heard only the stomping of his pulse, then a wail of cursing from men below decks, and then Haginar rose and cursed as well.

  Wodan crouched as still as stone. Finally he heard laughter and shouting. Satisfied that no one had been seriously hurt, he leaped from the deck and landed on hard stone. By the time he had surveyed the ship and seen no obvious damage, the others finally disembarked, still talking about their brush with death. Only a few Rangers moved about between the other ships sitting in the desolate camp.

  “Odan!” Wodan heard from above. He looked up and saw little Haginar staring at him from the deck far above. Without giving the matter much thought, Wodan clapped his hands and spread his arms. The child stared for a moment longer, then leaped just as Wodan had done. Wodan caught him easily, amazed that the child had risked his life to see what the fall would feel like.

  Wodan cradled the boy and looked at his flushed face, his wild red hair and teeth gritted against the cold. When Haginar finally overcame his dizziness, he struggled, and Wodan set him down. The boy ran off without a word.