Demonworld Book 6: The Love of Tyrants

by Kyle B. Stiff

  “Not at all!” said Wodan, laughing bitterly.

  “Hm. Well, looks like somebody’s here. Better go see what they want.”

  Wodan’s eyes opened, then he heard high-pitched popping in the distance. Gunfire. He found himself running over jagged terrain before he even thought to rise. He saw Valliers pulling themselves up a steep incline on a pegged rope. He heard more gunfire far ahead; not wanting to wait for the tangled mass of men to make its way up the incline, he simply leaped onto a boulder while they watched, stupefied, as he coiled and sprang over their heads and continued on. Wodan felt cold wind whip across his face as he picked up speed, whirling around slow-moving travelers and flying around dangerous turns as if in a dream where death was not real.

  Wodan heard a terrific barrage of gunfire and shouting, then he slid around a corner and saw Rangers crouching around a wide, curved ledge and firing into a wall of gray mist. Wodan was about to call a cease-fire to see what was the matter when he saw Yarek, bare-faced, screaming, “FIRE! FIRE! KILL THAT DAMN THING!” A Slayer produced a grenade launcher and fired. The round bounced off a far wall and sent up a shockwave of dust.

  Wodan raced to the edge and knelt down beside another Slayer. “What is it?” he shouted.

  “A monster!” the man screamed. “A demon!” Wodan saw that the man’s face and chest were covered in blood. Steam rolled off the fighter as the gore formed into a latticework of red crystals.

  “You hurt?” said Wodan.

  The Slayer looked and saw that he was covered in blood. “It’s not mine. But that thing, it ate somebody. It tore him up and then it took someone else!”

  “You say it’s got someone?”

  “Yeah!”

  Wodan turned to Yarek and shouted, “Get them to stop firing!” Wodan shouted the phrase over and over as Yarek, wild-eyed, stumbled over to him with hands cupped around his ears. As soon as Yarek nodded to him, Wodan felt something lock into place inside of himself. He knew that mankind’s ancient fear of demons no longer applied to him. He felt the old taboo grip him, then he shrugged it off.

  No demon can stand against me! he thought.

  While Yarek shouted for a cease-fire, Wodan ran past the line of gunmen until he saw tall rocks carved by wind and water jutting out from the gray mist. He ran, the Valliers stopped firing, then he cast himself into the air. He saw that the ledged dropped down into a ravine so deep that he could not see the bottom through the mist. He landed on one of the tall rocks and immediately launched himself toward another, a dozen feet away with nothing below. He leaped from one to the other, his eyes wide and nearly frozen, lips pulled back, sucking in air, body pumping like a bellows and straining against his winter gear. He leaped to a high ledge, caught it in his iron fingers, and felt his gloves tear as he scampered up and over the edge. He ran up a broken incline through blinding mist.

  Just when he felt confusion bear down on him, the wind shifted and dragged away the curtain of mist. In the distance he saw something large bounding atop the stones, leaping easily from perch to perch on four legs. It seemed to be made out of gold, and Wodan could not understand what he was looking at. It must have felt Wodan’s eyes, for the great monster stopped and turned to him.

  The monster was a giant lion with a dark crimson mane. It eyed him with blazing, intelligent eyes. Reptilian scales covered one side of its face in uneven patterns, living black gems that ran along its flanks and down its long limbs. A man, small from this distance, threw his limbs about as he hung from its jaws.

  The lion was too fast to follow, so Wodan drew his sword and stared in challenge. The lion stood unmoving, serene and powerful. The poor man continued to flap his arms while the two stared at one another, frozen in place. Finally the muscles along the lion’s jaws flexed and the man went limp. The lion turned away, leaped onto another ledge, and then the blanket of gray mist covered him once more.

  The strength fled from Wodan as he sheathed his sword. He knew there was no way he could reach the strange creature, much less fight him. He turned and stumbled back along the high ledge, suddenly intensely cold. When he reached the place where he had originally climbed up, he looked down, saw the tall rocks stretching down into mist far below, and grew sick with dizziness. The Valliers were dots on the horizon. He could not believe how far he had come in so little time. He tried to put his numb fingers in his pockets, then realized he had been carrying a portable radio the entire time. He fumbled with it until he got Yarek on the line.

  “It got away,” said Wodan.

  “You okay?” Yarek shouted.

  “Yeah, but I can’t get back the way I came. I’m going to...” Wodan looked and saw that he might be able to follow the ledge to a winding, uneven path that might eventually bring him back to the others. But it would take hours, at least, and could be a dead end. “I’ll try to join up with you later. Yarek, what happened?”

  “It was on top of us before we ever saw it. I think it ate someone. We fired round after round at it, but it got someone else and then ran away.”

  “That man's dead, too. Yarek, did it have an invisible shield around itself? Like that one demon in the Valley? Is that why you couldn’t hit it?”

  “No, nothing like that. We did hit it, is the thing. I’m looking at some of its blood right now. The bullets hit!”

  “It wasn’t wounded when I saw it.” More tired than ever, Wodan said, “It must have healed by the time I saw it.”

  “That fast?” Yarek spoke quietly, almost to himself. “What kind of demons do they have in this land?”

  “Demons don’t eat and run. They fight until they’re dead. You’ll have to ask Jarl for details on this one.”

  “Why?” Yarek sounded incredulous.

  “Because that was one of the four wasteland gods.”

  ***

  It was long past nightfall when Wodan climbed over a final outcropping of freezing cold stone and saw the lights of flares burning in a camp sitting in a wide snow-covered plateau. He had been lost most of the day, already exhausted by the time he realized he had been following a dead-end, then an eternity spent climbing without equipment, sucking on his fingers to keep them warm. His awareness had been wiped clean of nearly everything but the will to live. He stumbled toward the lights of the camp, then drew Capricornus and held it aloft. Green light cast a halo within the vortex of rising snow. When he saw figures rushing toward him and heard them calling, “King! King!” he sheathed his sword and blacked out on his feet.

  He opened his eyes and felt his hand on a man’s shoulder while others guided him to the camp. He saw Rangers standing with guns drawn, looking about nervously. He was blinded by the lights of the camp, then they passed by the spotlights on the perimeter and he saw that the camp had been set around a cluster of white trees illuminated by colored lamplight. Snow fell softly. All was as quiet as a dream.

  He saw a few looking at him through their tent flaps. He looked at their eyes. He saw dread, but not panic, and took that to mean that the lion had not come back. No one spoke above a whisper. Terminal Camp had no illusions about their ability to fight the thing that stalked them in the darkness.

  Wodan woke suddenly and found himself lying on a cot in a dark, warm tent. The silhouette of Naarwulf sat beside him, keeping watch. Wodan closed his eyes and slept.

  ***

  They stayed in Terminal Camp for several days. Yarek sent men back along the path to set more markers and to make sure other travelers understood the danger presented by the monstrous god of the mountains. Wodan’s strength quickly recovered, but he was annoyed by the fickle nature of his unnatural strength. He could hear the others spreading stories about how he had leaped over ravines and chased the lion for miles, and how he had outwitted the lion by not letting himself be drawn into any traps before returning safely to his people. He found the stories embarrassing. As far as he knew he was stronger than any man or dogman – as long as he wasn’t caught between meals or feeling under the weather, like a child feigning s
ickness to avoid chores. He was haunted by the memory of the lion. He sat among the white trees and flexed his large hands, thinking, I was given more than any other man… but it never seems to be enough, does it?

  More travelers came to Terminal Camp. Just before anyone could press ahead, a dry storm wracked the mountaintops, making it impossible for them to cross the spine of the range and finally make their descent. The day wore on and the night was pitch black. Then, with terrifying violence, a shriek woke the camp. Several brave souls ran from their tents and scanned the dark clouds. An awful howl resounded, then many ran back to their tents as fiery lights descended from the black heavens. Wodan saw the lights himself, white and shrieking like angels of destruction. Finally the lights disappeared over the horizon and their deathly trumpeting degenerated into a dull roar, then grew quiet.

  “The hell was that?” said Yarek.

  “The lion!” cried a man. “That was his roar! Oh gods! He’s calling spirits to come and-”

  “Stow that nonsense!” Yarek snapped.

  “This didn’t have anything to do with the lion,” said Wodan, swallowing his fear. “Whatever those things were, they’re on the other side of the spine now. I doubt they saw us.”

  Several travelers stayed awake to drink and talk the matter over. While they were comforted that their king and his loyal general were unfazed, deep down they were filled with the realization that they were in an alien environment, hostile and otherworldly, and the heavens had become a vast darkness spawning only terror.

  ***

  The next day Wodan and his companions set out with nearly a hundred Rangers to brave the gray storm along the spine. To their surprise the winds died down as soon as they drew away from the camp. They came to a cracked plain of stone under a gray roof, and before they reached the end the clouds departed. They stood at the edge of the spine under an intensely blue sky overlooking a sweeping valley filled with green. The path below was dull gray stone covered by clumps of persistent ice, a forgiving and merciful terrain compared to the mountain’s other face. Men cheered and threw off their scarves and hoods despite the chill. One man was struck by a laughing fit as he reported their findings over the radio.

  They took their time in the descent, and Wodan let Yarek trail far ahead of him. Wodan, Zachariah, and Jarl went their own way, climbing a squat, muddy hill in order to see ahead. They passed a pair of binoculars and a bottle of whiskey back and forth.

  After a meal, Zachariah took up the binoculars once more. Wodan watched as his mouth opened silently. “Wodan,” he finally said. “Those lights last night, the sound. Those were airships. Metal airships with combustible engines. Like the ones your people have in Haven, except... it’s not…”

  Wodan grabbed the binoculars. Zachariah guided him until he saw banners fluttering in the wind, scarlet with a single black dot in the center. He scanned the area, then saw strange men in red armor armed with rifles.

  “San Ktari,” said Zachariah, swallowing with difficulty. “The great empire has come to the holy land.”

  The radio blared. General Clash reported that he was under fire and in need of reinforcements.

  Chapter Ten

  Conquerors, Penitents

  “Haginar!” Zachariah shouted, running downhill before Wodan could join him.

  As the sound of echoing gunfire reached him, Wodan knew he would have to kill to defend his people, and he felt sick inside as a memory of the Smith War came over him. Wodan had been in hills, tracking down units from the latest wave of Smith Magi, when he was woken by a Smith sniper passing through the woods. Wodan was painted and camouflaged and the man did not see him. Judging from his rifle, Wodan immediately guessed that he was a particularly notorious killer who had been targeting travelling civilians. Wodan watched as the man looked for a position that would give him a clear shot of the road. He noted that the man was large and his expression was hard and dead. Years ago, Wodan would have found the man terrifying. Now he only seemed like an unhealthy lump of a man, breathing hard after walking uphill because he was overweight from an awful diet of Pontius food. The man was probably uneducated, most likely had no interest in personal development, and definitely a tool for weaklings who fought wars behind desks. Wodan felt sorry for him as he quietly rose, leaped, and flicked Capricornus from its scabbard and removed the man’s head from his neck in one smooth motion. But then the corpse jerked and the heavy rifle fell from its perch. Fearing that it would go off and hurt someone, Wodan dropped and laid against the body, wrestling with the dead man’s finger still wrapped around the trigger guard. His face was next to the exposed meat of the wound, hot and spurting into his cheek and eyes. He felt revulsion, a raw and primal disgust at the act of turning people who were damned into corpses that were good for nothing.

  Wodan came back to the present but the feeling of revulsion was just as real as it was in the past. He didn’t want his people to end up in another war with humans while demons were safely biding their time.

  He turned back to Jarl, who was pale with his jaw hanging slack. “Run back along the path!” said Wodan. “Tell them to go back to the camp! Back!”

  Before he could respond, Wodan leaped and ran. He passed Zachariah easily, picking up speed as he raced downhill. He leaped from stone to stone, zig-zagging around other Valliers who were stationary blurs. Radios transmitting news of the battle were drawn out in a Doppler hiss.

  Behind a cluster of broken boulders Wodan saw Rangers firing. He nearly slipped, then thrust his heel before him and came to a grinding halt before Yarek.

  “Little bitches from San Ktari!” Yarek shouted at him. “I saw them moving a machinegun into position!”

  “Any casualties?”

  “No.”

  “Good!” said Wodan. “Keep it that way! Tell our people not to kill unless they have to!”

  Wodan found a Ranger wearing a white cloak. “Can I borrow that?” he said as he went for its clasp. The Ranger was incredibly proud to be able to assist his king, but he was also afflicted with a terrible stutter, so while Wodan unclasped his cape the man could only bear down on his tongue with his front teeth while nodding.

  Wodan leaped over their cover and ran with the white cape streaming behind him. He saw red helmets bobbing up and down from a stony rise – on the left, on the right, straight ahead – and the flash of gunfire. He felt an optimistic rush as he ran, thinking that surely the foreigners would order a cease fire, then bullets rang and skipped by his feet and he was overtaken by the terrifying thought that a white flag may mean something different in the east than it does in the west.

  He came to a wide field of ice and dead grass, so he leaped behind the last bit of cover, a squat stone that might at least prevent his head from being blown off. He was surprised to see that the white cape was peppered with holes. Before he could catch his breath and come up with a new plan, his radio was overtaken by garbled, inhuman voices. Then came a clear, barking order:

  “You surrender! You surrender!”

  “Hell no!” came Yarek’s voice. “You back down or we blow you off this mountain!”

  “You surrender! White flag, you give up, lay down arm.”

  Yarek paused, unsure of Wodan’s intent, so Wodan picked up his radio and said, “This is King Wodan of the Black Valley. I waved a white flag so we could set a truce. Let’s meet and talk.”

  There was a long pause, and Wodan knew that Yarek was cursing him for revealing that he was a figure of some importance - a figure whose position was known, and could be taken and held for ransom, if not murdered outright.

  Wodan’s mind raced. Bullets still barked at one another in the distance. “You hear me, San Ktari?” said Wodan. “We are travelers from a distant nation. Let’s talk about this before anyone is hurt.”

  “You in Imperial territory!” said the voice on the radio. “Illegal crossing of border! You bear arms against us!”

  “Not against you. All of our citizens bear arms, but not against you. We’ve come
to the holy land of Srila to-”

  The radio beeped a violent interruption. Wodan released the switch, then Yarek said, “Wodan, they’re edging up to your position! I’ve got two eyes blinking!” Code for I’ve got two snipers setting up.

  Wodan drew Capricornus and tied the white cape around it, then waved it overhead violently. Fearful that his arm would be blown off, or that he had stranded himself in a place that would soon be obliterated by explosives, he screamed into the radio, “San Ktari, I need to speak to someone in charge! My name is King Wodan and I am a friend to those you call Die Engelen!” Just on the edge of hearing came the chatter of foreign words echoing off the stones. “I know Matthias! I am a friend of Justyn Daaz! I have met Dove Langley!”

  Another long pause, then the voice on the radio said, “You come out.”

  “No!”

  “Thank you, yes,” the voice responded almost immediately. “Wait one moment please.”

  Wodan waited with his back against cold stone. Capricornus shone bright green overhead. The sound of metal clinking against stone chipped away at his mind; undoubtedly several large machineguns were being set up, if not some kind of light artillery piece. Time dragged by.

  “Eyeballs open,” Yarek hissed into the radio. “One is on a wig.” Snipers ready, some sort of leader is targeted.

  “Wait,” said Wodan. “Wait.”

  A stern, heavily accented voice came over the radio. “This is Kommander Won Po, San Ktari Imperial Forces. Who are you and why do you come into our territory?”