But Wodan was not in as much pain as he seemed, so when the ghoul saw an end to the battle and dove forward, Wodan caught him by the wrist, whipped himself around, and ended up behind the ghoul with its arm bent back painfully. The ghoul writhed violently. It was stronger than a dogman, and Wodan was already worn out from healing his wound. Wanting to end the fight quickly, Wodan jerked its arm upward. The sound of snapping bone was loud enough to be heard over the crowd. The beast cried out in agony. Wodan released his grip, then swept his heavy boot into its shin hard enough to shatter bone and send the ghoul into the air and crashing to the ground face first.
Wodan bent and unsheathed Capricornus and the crowd grew silent when they saw the green-shining blade.
“Funds from this head will go to anyone who was hurt trying to defend me!” said Wodan. More cheers as the blade went into the air.
The broken ghoul jerked its head upward, blood pouring from its mouth and nose. “Bastard!” it shouted. “Monster! Odan! Odan the Murderer!”
The ghoul’s raspy, pained voice sent a wave of silence passing through the crowd. Wodan froze, horrified. “You… you speak?”
Tears burned their way through the ghoul’s swollen eyes. It rolled onto its back, sobbing, one arm bent at its new elbow. With black eyes fixed upward on Wodan, it drew in a hoarse breath and shouted, “Odan, tyrant! You kill my people! Murder us all!”
Wodan lowered his sword and stepped away. “You can speak,” he heard himself say.
“Monster,” the thing said quietly. It rolled onto its side, sobbing. “Oda-a-an... monster-r-r...”
Wodan closed his eyes at the obviousness of the horror. I saw their rudimentary artwork when I first returned to the Valley. I knew... I knew they had some capacity for... intelligence. But I never let myself think about it... The murmur of the crowd was sandpaper on his ears, and he felt rage as his mind split in two. But they’re savages! I’ve never seen them do anything besides attack, destroy, kill!
He forced his eyes open and watched the ghoul crying on the ground. Never saw them in pain, never saw them speak. Never saw them lash out at... injustice.
Wodan sheathed Capricornus and forced the lump down beneath his throat. “Are there others of you that can speak?” he said.
The ghoul only wept, seemingly on the verge of passing out.
“Are there others of your kind that-”
“There are no others at all! My people are all dead! Killed by you, Odan!”
Wodan nodded and turned away from the ghoul. If what he said was true, then his people could rest easy at night without fearing that subhuman monsters would break into their homes. The genocide was complete. But Wodan did not feel the satisfaction of a job well done, nor even a sense of all-encompassing shame. He was ashamed that he had taken the easy way out, had thrown money at a problem without studying the issue or considering the pain he could be spreading to another sentient species. And he resented the ghoul, too, resented him and his entire brutish, stupid, violent species. Why had they not come to him sooner? They had certainly grown larger and stronger, and while it made sense that they would also become more intelligent, Wodan realized that he had never allowed himself to imagine this obvious – no, inevitable - possibility.
But what should he have done? Gathered them into internment camps where they could be educated, trained, civilized? Wodan hated his own laziness and inconsideration, but he hated the ghoul as well. He resented the fact that the ghouls had waited until the very end, then thrown this pathetic “champion” into his lap so that he could learn, finally, that he was in the middle of an inextricably foul moral quandary with no easy solution.
Wodan looked at the ghoul again, the poor pathetic wretch lying on the stone floor. Though it made no sense, he wanted only to kneel before the beast, unsheathe his sword, and rake it along the length of his own throat. He understood, then, the real need to be destroyed by one’s victims. The need to be punished for doing wrong. But this ghoul, last representative of his people, was simply too weak to enact any sort of justice.
Swallowing in a dry throat, Wodan turned to the crowd. “This ghoul displays intelligence. He is not to be harmed. The Bounty Program does not apply to him.” He felt gross and unclean hearing his own words, feeling his need to smooth over a “sticky situation”.
I’m no different from Aegis Vachs! he thought.
He saw a group of orange robes in the crowd. He waved them forward, and they came and bent over the ghoul. The beast tried to move away from their touch, then groaned and fell still.
“We will tend him,” said one.
Wodan nodded, then left.
Barkus, he thought. How childish I was. Now I understand. You were angry at me, angry at my forgiveness. Now I understand… that I have a duty to you.
***
Later that night, when he was finished with his prayers, the Penitent made his way over the broken rocks that led to the cave where he lived. He was tired and his bare feet were numb against the cold stone, but he knew that he would not light a fire when he arrived. That would be too-
He stopped, terrified. Wodan, the outland king, sat on a boulder watching him. Barkus was sure that he had not been there only moments before, when he had glanced ahead while picking his way over the stones.
“Barkus,” he said, turning slightly.
The Penitent saw that Wodan had stripped down to his waist. His body was covered in scars, but the sight of his muscular left arm was truly disturbing, for he could tell that the scars that stretched from shoulder to forearm were too regular to be accidental.
“To fight the Ugly, I had to become one,” said Wodan, green eyes blazing in the night. The Penitent was frozen in place. He tried to speak, but his tongue was thick and dry. “Isn’t it odd to think that we’re the last of the Ugly, Barkus? Life’s full of strange turns.”
The Penitent saw the intent written on Wodan’s face. Fear blasted through him; his heart called out for flight. He turned aside to escape, but saw two others approaching from the shadows. They were Valliers, rough-looking outlanders with guns.
“Come with me, Barkus,” said King Wodan.
Chapter Twelve
The Mind Readers
Wodan woke huddled in his sleeping bag on a rocky perch above the stony avenue which was very likely the most uninteresting place in all the holy land but from which he had scarcely moved since arriving. Whether waking or sleeping he had moved only from one worry to the next. Heavy gray clouds stretched overhead, the same omnipresent and timeless roof that had covered them since they’d arrived.
He turned and saw that the stone courtyard was already filled with pilgrims, penitents, and orange robes talking around fires and going about their business. Then he saw something truly strange: A far corner of the stone courtyard was filled with dogmen and dogwomen standing in lines and enacting some kind of slow, ritual dance. The movements obviously had their origins in hand-to-hand combat, but they were graceful, like an underwater dream. He saw children and elders. A red-haired dogman in blue robes – the same robes as the guards that stood at the foot of the steps to the Temple – watched and corrected the others on their breathing and posture. Wodan was about to wonder at the civilized nature of these Srilan dogmen when he saw the blue robe suddenly smack a young practitioner in the back of the head as he pointed out his sloppy footwork. If Wodan had heard of Vallier managers treating their workers like that, he would have been enraged, but among the meditative dogmen the violence seemed to be an important aspect of communication and correction.
Maybe this is why they’ve always been seen as a problem in human society, he thought, awed by the sight. These dogmen are obviously content. Their brash, childish egos have been put in service to something that’s physical, but also non-destructive. Maybe that’s all they need, all they’ve ever needed. Maybe they don’t have to be criminals or soldiers. Maybe they just need to focus on something that’s uniquely their own…
His thoughts were interrupted as Yarek
climbed the stony rise to meet him.
“That San Ktari bureaucrat,” said Yarek. “Their Kommander. He wants an audience with you. Demanded it.”
“When did he want to see me?”
“Couple of hours ago.”
“Hours ago!” Wodan yawned and rose slowly. “Yarek, don’t you know that when the Empire says jump, you say how high?”
Yarek laughed. “You want to go down and get some breakfast? There’s some people down there cooking up all kinds of crazy stuff.”
Wodan nodded. As they made their way down, he said, “Have there been any repercussions over the Barkus situation?”
Yarek was silent for a long time. “Not really. Some talk, you know. Mostly among our people. Everybody has a different idea of how they would have perfectly handled the situation. General consensus is that forgiveness is a real motherfucker.”
***
Deep within Temple Village the two Valliers found a squat, corrugated metal building like a muddy shed surrounded by wet, limp Ktari banners. Red-armored gunmen stood erect, their narrow eyes unreadable. One moved to stop them as they approached the door, barking and jabbing his finger at them. His anger seemed practiced, a show, a welcome break from the monotony of guard duty.
“Our presence was requested,” said Yarek. “This is the King of the Black Valley, and I’m his general.”
“You come by appointment. What time it is now?”
“We came by our feet and we leave the same. Your boss want to see us or not?”
“Your attitude is disrespect!”
Before Yarek could respond, another voice barked within the building. The guard bowed at once and opened the latch, then dragged the door through a channel of mud.
It was stifling warm inside and electric lamps cast a soggy glow on the forms inside. Several guards in full armor stood at attention, stoically enduring the heat, while one unarmored secretary knelt at a desk in a dark corner and worked feverishly at shuffling papers and dabbing ink on others. The Kommander knelt at a squat desk in the center of the room, but what drew Wodan’s attention was a well-lit, detailed map on the rear wall. It was the world shown as a battleground of harsh pen strokes and alien script. San Ktari was somehow at the center, a red monstrosity. Tiny blobs of nations surrounded it, one blue, a few smaller ones green or gray. Wodan was shocked. He had seen a similar map perhaps a decade before, but it had been more colorful, less red. Far on the western periphery of the bloody simplification stood a nondescript horseshoe ring of mountains. A tiny alien word was planted nearby, and Wodan guessed that it either read resources or future garbage dump.
Wodan turned his attention to Kommander Won Po. The man was short like the others, but broad-shouldered and barrel-chested, and his face was wide and ruddy. His expression was a practiced study in unreadability. His black hair was done up in a top knot. He wore red armor far more elaborate than the others, a mesh of woven leather that jutted out from his shoulders with finely decorated metal plates on his chest. The cloth underneath was shockingly white. A long ceremonial sword was belted at his waist, but in his seated position the handle awkwardly jutted over the desk like a phallic reminder of imperial power.
“Greetings,” said Wodan. “I’m King of the Black Valley. This is General Yarek Clash.” The Kommander did not rise to shake their hands, but only jammed his head downward, a quick gesture like a vulture picking at carrion. After a moment Wodan and Yarek sat cross-legged before the squat little desk.
They waited in silence for a long time. Wodan could not tell if the Kommander was looking at them or the far wall. Yarek sat rigid. After a while Wodan scratched his ear, then said, “So... what’s up?”
“You will fly with an escort to an appointed place,” the Kommander said immediately, as if he had been speaking all the while but his volume was suddenly turned up. “There you will offload and meet with a representative who will oversee your conduct as you meet with-”
Yarek violently cleared his throat as if a dozen angry retorts had bottlenecked in his larynx, and Wodan shouted, “Kommander! Don’t take that tone with us.”
At once the room erupted as the guards barked maniacally, guns in hand, even the secretary whirled about howling invectives, and Kommander Won Po’s eyes widened into perfect circles of outrage. Yarek’s eyes darted on either side, scanning to see who could be disarmed, who could be shot if he drew his sidearm in time, and whether he could dive and use the Kommander as a human shield, while Wodan sat silent and bore his eyes into the Kommander’s head.
Kommander Won Po shouted a single syllable of command and the guards fell silent and backed away.
“Listen,” said Wodan. “We are a sovereign nation and we don’t take orders from anyone, including you and your bosses. You’re probably not used to dealing with free men, so I understand that this may be difficult. If you want to deal with us, then we negotiate as equals. You want something from us, fine, but give us something in return. We trade. But if you treat us like slaves, then we trade bullets.”
Wodan felt his will harden. He knew that what he was doing was monstrously foolish, but it was his experience that being careful and avoiding risks was a sure path to a dead end. He watched the Kommander close his eyes and inhale slowly. He could tell that the man was entering into some sort of meditative state. In a flash he immediately understood that Won Po was a human long before he became a tool of a violent empire. He could order every foreigner to be gunned down without consequences, but he had probably seen blood and heard the cries of the dying, and he was not the kind of man who sought out such things. On the other hand, he came from a culture composed entirely of masters and slaves. One either took orders or gave them, and that was how all things were accomplished. By comparison, Wodan and his own people must seem like wild children without the sense or composure necessary for proper living. Wodan and Yarek’s demand for equal treatment was an affront, a challenge, or even a demand that they be seen as the masters of Srila. Thus, conflict.
“I understand it’s your job to make Srila your own,” said Wodan. “We don’t challenge that. If it’s to be another red bit on your map, so be it. We’re pilgrims. Just pilgrims. We’ll leave after we’ve had our fill of the experience. But please understand that it’s not our custom to bow to authority. I know we seem brash, but we mean you no insult, Kommander.”
After a moment, Won Po exhaled and opened his eyes. “I have orders. From Die Engelen.”
Time seemed to slow down as Wodan’s mind sped up, and in that moment something bitter and vulnerable crossed Won Po, and Wodan saw that he was just another man trying to complete a taxing job while feigning an image of ease and unbreakable strength. As a Kommander, he was supposed to embody the ideals of San Ktari despite facing a logistical nightmare. He was in charge of conquering a land offering no resistance, with no clear lines of battle or even objectives to overcome. Was hanging the red and black banner enough? Should he tax a submissive people who had little to offer? Could he tell his troops to shoot an unarmed man if he stood in their way? Was he given proper reinforcement from headquarters, enough equipment to move and feed thousands of soldiers in a foreign land, or was he given leftover gear and unclear orders because his masters only needed someone to take a fall while they stalled for time and formulated a better plan?
And now Won Po had orders from beings that the rank-and-file considered perfect gods of war, but were actually subject to human whims, human moods, and unrealistic human expectations. Wodan felt sorry for him.
“I understand,” said Wodan. “If we can accommodate, we will try to do so as long as it is not to our detriment.”
Won Po’s demeanor relaxed. “The holy Die Engelen know of you. Please forgive earlier behavior.”
“It’s nothing, Kommander. Our reaction was hasty and disrespectful. So, what do they need?”
Won Po blinked in discomfort - for a god needs nothing, of course - then said, carefully, “They would like to see you.”
“Where are they?”
“Northwest. Field of Epimetheus. They are at Tower.”
At once Wodan’s pulse quickened, and he failed to hide his curiosity. “What... are they... doing there?”
Won Po blinked uncomfortably once more. “I cannot give their business. They... request... your presence.”
Such a hard thing for him to say! thought Wodan. “And you are ordered to escort me there.”
Won Po nodded, the motion nearly imperceptible.
Wodan could feel Yarek’s discomfort. “I admit,” said Wodan, “that I would like to see them again. Who is at the site, exactly?”
Won Po said words that Wodan could not comprehend. Seeing that Wodan did not understand, he added, “In your language, difficult to say. They are... Axe of the Dawn is one... ah, Winds of Death, perhaps... very difficult to say... also there is Holy-Thought-Move.”
Could those be proper names for Justyn and Matthias? thought Wodan. The memory of how they had saved him from the Ugly in the wasteland thrilled him. It has to be them! Could the third one be Dove Langley?
Again he felt his thoughts race, straining toward advantages and probing at weaknesses in the other. “I understand that it can be difficult to move and manage resources,” said Wodan. “But if you give us one of your airships… and a pilot who can teach me how to use it, then I will gladly do as you ask.”
Won Po sat in silence for a long time. Yarek stirred behind him only slightly. Heat and stillness blanketed them.
“I will have a ship ready tomorrow morning,” said Won Po. “A pilot will assist you.”
“Fine,” said Wodan. He could think only of the Tower. “Is that all?”
“Ah.” Won Po blinked quickly, unused to those of lower rank ending a meeting. “I suppose, yes...”
Demonworld Book 6: The Love of Tyrants Page 17