Demonworld Book 6: The Love of Tyrants

by Kyle B. Stiff

  Zachariah joined him on the icy stretch. From a distance the mountains had seemed vertical and entirely hostile, but now they stood on a gradual incline among slanted planes covered in soft snowdrifts. The cold was not nearly as merciless as when they were airborne.

  “I need to keep going,” said Wodan.

  Zachariah looked about to see what could be determined about the weather. The sky was entirely white.

  “I heard some talk about a second camp further up the mountain.”

  “There is. I want to make for it today. You with me?”

  Blond Magog approached them from the camp, waving and clearly smiling behind his scarf. Wodan remembered the early days of their nation, when he first met Magog. He had heard tales of how Magog had wielded his massive sword alongside Yarek and Naarwulf, how he had fought against demons to avenge his slaughtered tribe. But the Magog he now met was a quiet, unassuming, and shy dogman. Wodan remembered being hungry and desperate during their first winter, and how he and Magog had crawled inside the corpse of the giant crystalline demon to pry cold, greasy chunks of meat so that their people could eat. Magog used his sword like a wedge or a lever while Wodan pulled and pried as best he could, and the two would joke and laugh as they set about their grim, ridiculous chore. While others complained about their plight, Magog was always ready to set aside his pride and try to make the best of a bad situation. That was the Magog that Wodan befriended.

  Dogmen lived under intense cultural pressure to become Rangers, Enforcers, ghoul slayers, or outright thieves, but more often than not they scraped by as menial laborers or scavengers. Magog avoided all of that by exchanging his sword for pens and brushes. He put on a great deal of weight as he abandoned the old ways, and now Wodan spent many quiet evenings with the dogman artist planning out new issues of the dark, intense comic serial Vendicci… Revenger!, one of the most popular serials in the Black Valley.

  He seems to enjoy his life, Wodan thought, but there’s something sad and lonely about him. Maybe that’s the price anyone pays for abandoning a clearly-defined path for something strange and new.

  “Magog,” said Wodan. “You want to come with us? We’re going to look for a path.”

  Magog stopped and craned his neck about, seemingly looking for a sidewalk leading to the holy land. “Going up already?” he said. “Will Haginar come with us?”

  There was silence for a while, then Zachariah realized it was his turn to speak. “I have no idea,” he said. “I didn’t even know he was on a ship until recently.”

  Wodan laughed loudly. “You didn’t buy him that winter gear he’s wearing?”

  “I don’t even give him an allowance!” A hint of shame crossed his face, and he added quickly, “He never asks for any, but sometimes money goes missing. I thought it was his mother. It could be him.”

  “Yarek!” Wodan called suddenly. “Let’s go! We’re going!”

  General Clash stalked by them with his ear against a radio. “Path to Camp Two is screwed,” he said, not bothering to stop as he passed. “They laid some lights and guide-ropes but they did it all ass-backwards-”

  “We’ll figure it out. Come on!”

  “Can I get ten minutes?” said Yarek, still walking away. “A week ago I couldn’t get you to tour the new training grounds because you were worried about your cat… or a goat or whatever, but now all of a sudden you’re-”

  “Just keep an eye out for us,” said Wodan, turning to go.

  ***

  Wodan, Zachariah, and Magog set out with half a dozen Rangers. The path was a gently rising incline of stone with a few footholds marked by unnecessary signs placed by Valliers who had landed earlier. Within an hour their legs grew tired and when they looked back the camp was far below, tucked away within black folds of rock and pale mist. After another hour they took a break and began to feel that the mountains, so fearsome from a distance, would soon be conquered by a long walk. But after their break the wind went wild, cold and biting as it flew up the face of the mountain. Their fine winter gear provided great comfort, but they had to tie their scarves tightly about their faces and could no longer speak to pass the time.

  Many times the clear path disappeared among crushed stone, or was lost in treacherous ice, but inevitably they would hear Rangers above them, screaming to be heard over the wind, pointing a clear path or setting flares and hammering guide-ropes into the stone.

  As they continued on the freezing path of stone it grew steep, but the mist cleared momentarily and against the sharp blue sky individual peaks distinguished themselves from the unbroken wall of granite that stretched out on either side. They found a rocky finger hanging over a cleft between dark walls and rested there. Strange blue moss clung to a narrow fissure at the base of the overhang, and when they looked within they saw something like white shells clinging to the moss. They had never seen anything like it, and were surprised that anything could live in such a place. They shared an uncooked meal, then rose and went to the edge of the overhang. Great clouds of mist were sucked through the valley below with a sound like a waterfall, the white noise of a stark existence.

  Magog forced his scarf away from his mouth and pointed below. “Wodan,” he said, “we’ve got to have a winter issue. Rocks with chiaroscuro shading, with clouds and snow as either negative space or… or maybe white paint on black paper? We can make black the default, and…”

  “All black and white?” said Wodan.

  The dogman nodded violently. “Everybody’s going crazy over color these days, and I get that, but black and white doesn’t have to mean ‘no color’… you know? I…” Magog shook his hands as his verbal skills hit a brick wall.

  “No, I get it,” said Wodan. “I’m sure it’ll look great!”

  While Magog continued to study the dark cleft and its river of mist, Yarek arrived with a line of Rangers and two Slayers. Wodan immediately noted that he did not seem annoyed about being left behind. His scarf hung limp from his bearded face and his yellow eyes gleamed.

  “Feels clean, doesn’t it?” he said in greeting.

  They continued on the twisting path. They came to a waterfall of glass where the wind whistled a single piercing note. The sun fled quickly; for a few moments the frozen waves clinging to the mountainside glowed pink, then night fell. They clung to a guide-rope driven into the wall and slowly made their way around a narrow curve, overwhelmed by the sense that they were small and insignificant things clinging to something vast and cold. Finally rounding the curve, they looked up and saw brilliant stars shining overhead. Each traveler was shocked by the complicated swirls, the snapshot of a slowly winding galaxy burning against deep darkness, and each traveler stopped and gaped such that the man behind him inevitably bumped into him. This continued until the entire line passed through the curve, then someone far above lit flares and called out, and they saw that they had reached the tents of Camp Two.

  They found Rangers there who greeted them and laughed at the ice built up on the scarves around their faces. The glare of their lights on the snow was blinding. While everyone greeted one another, Wodan went into the darkness, shaded his eyes, and craned his head about. The sky was clear. The sloping earth was black and reached out endlessly on either side. Finding any clear direction was impossible. The lights from the camp gave the illusion that they inhabited a small, frigid island in a sea of void.

  He heard commotion below and saw that Jarl and another line of Rangers and civilians had reached the camp. Jarl stood nearly a head over everyone, and his conical hat was pinned to the side of his head-wrappings so that it jutted out like a single limp ear. The night grew colder and everyone gathered around fires or threw up more tents. Once all greetings had been given, they worked or sat in dull silence. Just as Wodan started to doze in a tent full of huddled travelers, Naarwulf entered with a bundle perched on his shoulders. His old eyes sparkled and he loudly clapped his hands for circulation. He carefully laid his bundle down, rubbed it vigorously, and when it stirred Wodan saw that it
was Haginar sitting atop a flattened backpack. The boy did not open his eyes, but immediately crawled over to the sleeping forms and laid among them.

  The next day Wodan and his counselors set out with two dozen Rangers and a handful of civilians. There was no path left to follow, so they carried equipment and tents on their backs and loops of heavy rope bouncing at their sides. Thick mist sat far below, and the sky was sharp and blue and sparkling ice fell from the heights. The going was slow and breathing was difficult, and they often rested and debated their route. The sound of their hammers ringing on steel pegs echoed far across the frigid land, like ghosts repeating single moments across eternity.

  At noon a light snow fell, but they could see no clouds and the sun shone so brightly against the frozen path that they were nearly blinded. Someone cried out a warning and, following his gaze, some of the travelers swore they could see eyes watching them. A debate broke out when several men swore that they were only seeing light reflecting from mist, but Wodan gripped Capricornus when he thought he saw the eyes move. His breath came out in a boiling cloud; he was positive something was watching them. A young Ranger fired his rifle in the air, then the eyes raced along the mountainside – shadow rippled along their pale sides and they could see that they were something like white bears. Again the men argued about whether the gun should have been fired, then the creatures shrieked and everyone fell silent, terror-stricken, as the cries reverberated along the stones and in the blood and the creatures flung themselves from the mountainside. Wodan and Yarek raced to the edge and saw their forms falling into mist. They were not bears, but long, narrow animals with membranes stretched between splayed limbs. They fell slowly until they met their shadows atop a white cloud, then disappeared. Only their horrifying screams remained.

  They continued climbing, taking breaks only to hammer pegs or guideposts, until the sun fled. The sky dimmed into ochre yellow, and when they came to a wide shelf covered in strange snow-forms Wodan called a stop. In silence the travelers set up Camp Three while Wodan started several fires, a wood-carrying Ranger sitting beside him like a dead man propped up. The sky darkened, then they could see only a pale red halo stretching across the distant north, then night overtook them. Everyone sat shoulder to shoulder around the fires, and nearly a quarter of an hour passed before they found their voices once again.

  Yarek stared at Wodan for a moment, then said, “King.”

  Wodan nodded, immediately understanding his intention. “Fine,” said Wodan. “This is your operation from here on out. We’re close, so there’s no sense in taking any chances.”

  Yarek nodded, fully relaxed now that the weight of authority was on his shoulders. “Let’s rest here a day so that some others can catch up. I don’t want to face any hostile unknowns with only a few handfuls of tired men.” Yarek thought for a moment, then said, “Any alcohol?”

  After a long pause, several Rangers muttered, “Sir.”

  “Alright. We’ll nip a little. But only a little, and just to get warm. And if I catch any man openly drunk, I’ll remember his face for shit detail when we move again.”

  “I reckon civilians can be openly drunk,” said Jarl, holding a comically oversized flask in his gold-trimmed gloves.

  The next day they rested. Others joined them, having a much easier ascent due to the guide-ropes and trail markers. When the camp became crowded, Wodan climbed to a high place to be alone. The sun was bright and diamonds seemed to be sparkling in the wind and on the new-fallen snow. He was filled by the sight, overcome by the stark beauty, the harshness of it.

  The wind died down and Wodan heard Haginar below. He turned about and saw that the child was sitting with Zachariah and Jarl on a perch below his own.

  “See?” said Haginar, pointing.

  Zachariah eyed the sparkling clouds. “There’s probably tiny particles of ice floating in the clouds. They catch the sunlight, and refract it, and that’s why it seems to sparkle. Looks like diamonds, doesn’t’ it?”

  “Refract?”

  “Breaking or bending light through a medium.”

  Does Haginar really understand such talk? Wodan wondered.

  “Light moving through moisture,” Zachariah continued. “Did you know that’s where rainbows come from?” Haginar’s jerked slightly. "It's true," said Zachariah.

  “Then why aren’t there always rainbows during the day?”

  “Well. Got to have the right kind of moisture, right elevation, right angle of sunlight, I guess. If conditions are just right, then you get a rainbow.”

  “Just what is a rainbow?” the child said vehemently.

  “I just told you!”

  “No! But what... why...”

  Jarl cleared his throat and politely broke in. “Sometimes we can explain what something is made from, but not why it’s there in the first place. You want to know the meaning of a rainbow? Not even the wisest man in the world could figure that out. It’s not something you can…”

  Haginar groaned loudly and muttered something that Wodan could not hear.

  “Maybe that’s why it comes up in stories,” said Jarl. “There’s some old stories that say treasure is hidden at the end of a rainbow. Of course, you can never really get to the end of a rainbow. And there are other stories, very very old stories, where a rainbow is a bridge.”

  “To where?” said Haginar.

  “To another world. To the land of the gods. Who knows? The old stories said only certain beings could cross the bridge…”

  “That’s probably not true,” said Haginar.

  “Taken literally, no, it probably isn’t. Then again, the Entertainers have plenty of records that show some of the Ancients were obsessed with the idea of… well, other worlds.”

  “Other worlds? Are there other worlds?”

  “Who knows?” said Zachariah, shaking his head. “Whether humans are alone in the universe, or if there are other worlds with beings like us - it’s pretty fantastic, either way.”

  “But a rainbow… it couldn’t reach…”

  “I wouldn’t get too hung up on the specifics,” said Jarl. “Some Ancients were convinced that there were alternate realities, places we couldn’t see or interact with, alongside our own reality. Alongside of, on top of, beneath, inside of – or in directions our brains can’t even imagine.”

  Wodan began to listen intently. Such theories were ridiculed by the scientists in Haven, and he’d always assumed that it would be the same elsewhere. He was about to leave his perch and ask if Jarl had heard any rumors about the Ancients travelling to other dimensions, but was surprised when Haginar asked that very question.

  Jarl paused for a long time. “They tried. We know they tried. They conducted all sorts of bizarre… experiments. Or rituals? But their history disappeared with them. They just… they began producing so much propaganda at the end. They seemed to go insane. There’s no way of knowing anything for certain. Sorry.”

  ***

  Early the next day Yarek pointed out a possible route leading to the spine between the two nearest peaks, and after Wodan approved it they set out with Naarwulf, Zachariah, Jarl, Magog, little Haginar, no less than sixty Rangers, and a handful of civilian adventurers. The land became steep on all sides. They found paths of razor-sharp freezing stone that would have seemed too treacherous the day before, but were now ideal because they were the only paths the mountains offered. They lost their breath even when resting.

  At midday a fierce wind blew up from the base of the mountain and beat against their backs. Wodan watched in wonder from the edge of a ravine where snow drifted upward as if the world was upended. Within an hour of enduring the horrible wind, great clouds covered the sky. A blight fell upon the weakening sun and they trudged under a gray funeral pall. The wind drove against the sheer cliffs such that old snow was driven upwards in heavy black flakes and consumed by the darkening clouds. The pilgrims trudged on, only taking breaks alone or in pairs on the side of the path and watching the black snow rising overhead. />
  Wodan lurched over a series of tumbledown boulders on all fours. He saw spots in his vision and realized he had pushed himself at the head of the line for far too long. He sat atop the pile of rocks and covered his eyes against the terrible wind. Other travelers arrived and he helped haul them onto the boulders, his motion mechanical and unthinking. All of them were half-crazed by the constant abuse. When everyone seemed to pass onward, he craned his head, saw dark stone rising until it reached a ceiling of roiling gray cloud, and then he sat down again before he could stop himself.

  Wodan was worn out. Ever since he had gained his unnatural strength, his appetite had increased considerably. He became weak and light-headed when he didn’t eat, but he also didn’t want the others to see him stopping and eating every few minutes. Now he had a chance to eat, but he had stopped carrying perishable food in order to lighten his pack. Perhaps it was because of his hunger that his worries grew stronger and seemed more real. He wanted to see the legendary tower north of here, and he’d had in his mind a vague notion that he would bring his people here, have a look around, and then find a way to the tower by himself. But now that he had come this far south in person, the distance seemed too great. Would he climb all the way up the mountain only to climb all the way back down? He was already so tired and hungry, and there didn’t seem to be any real end in sight. And the harder he worked now, the further it took him from the tower, which might not even exist. What if he went there and it was only the ruins of an ancient skyscraper?

  The shrieking of the wind grew distant, and Wodan closed his eyes. He did not feel cold. His thoughts took on a strange tone, as if he was dropping off to sleep. He saw himself with his father. He was young and working in their grocery store, back in the butcher’s area, cleaning goo from an electric saw and complaining about several failures while his father listened. The stink of the dimly-lit room took on a terrific immediacy, as if time had rewound and he was back there. Finally his father laid his apron aside and said, “Listen, son. Listen. All that stuff you’re worryin’ about… I don’t know, sounds like you’re blowin’ stuff outta proportion. Remember, as long as you’re doin’ somethin’, then you can’t do wrong. Not really, you can’t. You follow?”