Demonworld Book 6: The Love of Tyrants

by Kyle B. Stiff

  “I see,” said Globulus, nodding as if in agreement. “So when your people see a problem, you tend to eradicate it?”

  Rage filled Yarek, for he felt the old man was trying to herd him into admitting that the Valliers were no different from any other quick-tempered savage. “You have only dealt with one ghoul,” he said darkly, “and so you can afford to treat it with condescending kindness and pat yourselves on the back. But if your land was overrun with monsters, you could not afford the luxury of passivity.”

  Globulus laughed, a sort of dry cackle that stabbed at the ears. “If?” he said. His laughter died as Yarek understood the implication, but still Globulus added, “If this land was overrun by monsters...”

  “Monsters don’t meet you at the negotiation table,” said Yarek, baring his teeth.

  Globulus fell deathly still, eyes piercing. “But they do.”

  “High Priest,” Naarwulf said suddenly. “What is that word you called the ghoul?”

  “A golem,” said Globulus, eyes lingering on Yarek for another moment. “A creature of legend. Myth has it that a certain people shaped a man out of clay and, when they were beset by invaders, their god brought the man of clay to life. On behalf of its people, it fought the invaders and drove them off. Just as God created man in His image, from clay, so these people made the golem in their own image. And once the golem served its purpose, it returned to lifeless clay, just as any man who has fulfilled his destiny also dies and becomes dust. We call this creature a golem because it is humanoid… though it is imbalanced, its flaws blown out of proportion. It literally reeks of death. It is closer to death and the dust of the grave than a normal man is in his lifetime.”

  “Sir,” said Yarek, “do you see that creature as a savior for your people?”

  Globulus smiled sharply. “Who can say? Perhaps the poor monk who named it thought his prayers for our salvation were answered.”

  “And our people do need salvation,” said Jared, sharply. “There is the matter of the Penitent who went missing. We know foul play was involved.”

  “I remember,” said Yarek, “but I don’t know what happened to him.”

  Jared glared at Yarek, but Globulus’s head bobbed backward, for he believed Yarek and was taken aback. Yarek caught the movement, then saw Globulus give in to a few nervous movements, the first in the entire meeting.

  “If Barkus has been killed,” said Yarek, “there are a lot of things in this land that could have done it. For instance, when we were coming up the mountains we were beset by a giant lion. Some kind of monster that some of our people say is one of the wasteland gods.”

  “A flesh demon?” said Globulus.

  “Ah,” said Won Po, “we also have encountered this. On a post in the mountains, it killed and ate some men, left others alone, ran before a counterattack could be launched. We thought at first it was demon. But...”

  “I don’t think it was a demon,” said Yarek. “It ate and ran, like an animal. Plus I’ve heard that demons are not fond of the cold.” Yarek turned to Globulus. “Do you know of this creature?”

  “No. I do not.”

  “As simple as that?” said Yarek, surprised at Globulus’s pith.

  Globulus nodded slowly. “If it is the wasteland beast-god that is sometimes called ‘One’, then there are many records documenting it. If it is a demon, then... either way, it’s a thing to be waited out, endured, until it moves on.”

  It’s just a fast-healing creature with a mythos of fear built up around it, thought Yarek. If it’s migrated into this area, I should have some words with Won Po later about blowing it to hell with some heavy weapons, if necessary.

  Kommander Won Po cleared his throat. “High Priest, sir, this meeting has gotten away from matter at hand. That is, Ktari occupation of Srila. I must respectfully reiterate that Srila is now a territory of San Ktari and is subject to its great Emperor. But, must also state that this land will be treated as holy land. A place of study and contemplation.”

  “But that’s the thing, now, isn’t it?” said Globulus, unperturbed. “San Ktari sees Srila as the holy land that it is, that it’s people are a calm and submissive people who live simply and seek after a higher form of living. And Ktari, lusting after such simplicity, tries to take by force what can only be asked for in submission. Kommander, I think you will find that once you plant a flag into the holy land, the holy land will simply disappear. Erect a grand office of government here, with all its dull routine and degrading ritual, bring in your throngs of wealthy tourists and idly curious dullards, and the land you have conquered will be nothing more than a rocky ditch with a few pathetic natives tending their crops. Our monks, whose happiness and simplicity your Emperor covets, will degenerate into shopkeepers in a silly, trifling theme park.” Globulus opened his arms, said, “Here is Srila, mighty Kommander. It is yours, and you can never have it!”

  Naarwulf bowed his head lower still, and Yarek let them all sit in uncomfortable silence, knowing that anything he said could put his fellow pilgrim Valliers in a difficult position. Then, after it seemed both Globulus and Won Po were content to sit in hostile silence, Yarek finally said, “High Priest, I’d like to make a request.”

  Globulus turned to him, eyebrows raised.

  “I understand if you don’t want a lot of outlanders tramping around in your Temple. But there is one among us... he’s the official historian of our people. He knows quite a bit about religion, mythology, things like that. Would you mind if he came into the Temple, or at least parts of it, and learned about your ways? I’m thinking specifically about all of your documents. Of course, he would be more than glad to reciprocate in an exchange of information. His name is Jarl.”

  “That’s fine,” Globulus said almost immediately, his former sharpness replaced by a dreamy detachment.

  “And one other thing, if I may. Not that we keep much track of our people, but I think we’ve limited ourselves to the mountains, the Upper Valley, and the Temple Grounds village. I know there is an area called the Deepest Vale. Would you mind if we explored there as well?”

  “Fine, fine,” said Globulus, waving a hand as if swatting an annoying gnat. “Though you won’t find anything there besides superstitious farmers.”

  “Superstitious?” said Yarek, then laughed slightly.

  Globulus nodded at the obviousness of his statement.

  “Not to be rude, sir, but... well, seems everyone here is a little... you know. I mean... all this...”

  Globulus took the meaning as if stabbed. “Outlander, here in the Upper Valley, we follow the strict guidelines of the Redeemer and the Ghost as set forth in the Holy Cycle. Ours is a time-honored tradition. Do not be fooled by the other churches you see here; our Temple of the Summons dominates all. However, the people of the Deepest Vale worship all manner of idols and whatever so-called prophet happens to be fashionable at the moment. They are a lot of pagans and deists. Listen to their babble at your own risk.”

  Sure, Yarek thought, like the shit they believe in is any crazier than this. But he filed the information away, thinking that he could throw Zachariah at the people of the Deepest Vale, as a distraction, and hopefully keep him away from the Temple of the Summons so that he would not try to murder Globulus.

  “Alright,” Yarek said loudly. “Guess we’re out of here.”

  Won Po balked as Yarek moved to rise, completely unused to such brazen unwillingness to drag a meeting out. But Naarwulf leaned forward quickly, and said, “High Priest! Sir.”

  Yarek did a double-take, for the grizzled dogman’s face was filled with awe.

  “Ye-e-es?” said Globulus.

  “Sir. What is... that cup?” Naarwulf pointed a hairy finger at the simple wooden cup in the center of the table, his hand held back a respectful distance.

  “That,” said Globulus, “is the Death Cup of Suffering. A symbol. It is full of nothing - save pain. To drink from it is to bear the responsibility of suffering on behalf of your people. I alone drink from
it, as I bear the suffering of my people.” Globulus stared darkly into Naarwulf, his mouth a smudge with teeth like uneven gravestones. “But there may come a time when all the world drinks from it.”

  Naarwulf bowed his head once more, and Yarek thought, Naarwulf could break that man’s head open like a rotten melon. I’ve got to get him out of here before he goes soft on me.

  ***

  Near sundown Jared found Globulus sitting alone on the aerie of the Temple, the open roof of the highest tower. Gray clouds were edged in pink, and the land far below was dark gray with veins of mud marking the Temple Grounds village, descending into the shadowy green of the Deepest Vale. Violent cold whipped at the thin penitent’s robe that Globulus wore. To Jared, the great High Priest seemed a thin old man, worn and tired from his trials.

  “Master,” said Jared. “Why do you wear the gray of a penitent?”

  Globulus sighed as Jared approached him carefully. Jared saw that Globulus held the symbolic cup in his lap.

  “Master, do you grieve for Barkus, killed by outlanders? Is that why you wear it?”

  Globulus shifted in annoyance, then relaxed in paternal resignation. “Jared. Do you remember when you first became Cognati?”

  The cold was terrible, and Jared gave some thought to creating a layer of neural tendrils about them, thin and fast moving, in order to create friction against the air so that they would be warmed. But he knew that Globulus preferred the cold now, and since his master suffered, he would suffer alongside him.

  “I remember it well.”

  Jared remembered the old Cognati scout who came to his village between the Upper and Deepest Vale. The old man had touched him and the other children with his invisible hands, then settled his eyes on Jared. Jared remembered the old man speaking quiet words to his parents, who had cried, then Jared went off with the old man into the training grounds of the Temple of the Summons. His only possession was his pale green robe, his only friends the other children with Cognati potential. Unlike the others, he did not cry when he realized that he would never see his old family and would never be a normal peasant ever again. That life held nothing for him. Some snuck away from the Temple - a stupid, fatal clutching at normality, for everyone knew that those who could become Cognati, but did not, would eventually lose their minds and die from refusal of the gift. Jared threw himself into his meditations, into his studies. In time, bending spoons and lifting pebbles and shaping currents of air became commonplace to him. Where others struggled, he found it easier to shape reality by force of will than moving his own body. Jared surpassed his teachers. In a few years he joined the elite ranks of the warrior monks who worked as mercenaries in other nations, traveling to Pontius and the towns of Hargis so that the wealthy and the powerful could pay great sums of money to the Temple for the use of the Cognati in their games of murder.

  Now, Hargis was no more, and Pontius had no one wealthy enough to buy their services. The former High Priest, who studied account ledgers as well as holy books, would have found this unacceptable. Jared knew that Globulus saw this as a small symptom of the great reordering of the world.

  “When you were a child,” said Globulus, staring into the distance, “you were brash, filled with indignation at the weaknesses of others, and often gave yourself over to anger.”

  Jared smiled sharply, for Globulus had not known him until he was nearly twenty. But Jared knew that his master still considered him a child, even now.

  “Jared, can you imagine going back to the village of your youth, finding every bully who ever made you feel small, and killing them?”

  “Of course not.”

  “And any man you ever killed in foreign lands - did you ever do it unless there was some profit to be had?”

  “No. Only for the gain of Srila. For our people.”

  The old man shifted his weight, shivering slightly. “I’m wearing these penitent’s robes, boy, because of my great sin. The sin that I will never commit again. The sin that I cannot commit again... because the survival of the human race depends... on me.”

  “You’re thinking of Hargis.”

  Globulus nodded slowly. “I tried to save them. Tried, Jared. The world is changing. The tides are shifting and the blind cannot see it.” Jared saw true torture cross the face of his master as he said, “If it weren’t for the foolish pride of their old king... who refused the cup of suffering, and… and exiled his savior, then-”

  “It was not your fault, Rabbi.”

  Globulus turned to Jared. “This is our last chance. You burn with indignationn against the flags of foreigners in this land, boy, but I tell you we must walk a fine line. A fine line. The creatures called flesh demons are tearing through all nations, and San Ktari is doing the same. We have secured our position, but not for long. When that other race is done with their circuit of the world, they will turn on Ktari, too. We will be the last… and we will have no bargaining chips against a race that needs nothing from us.”

  Jared sat down beside his master. “I know what you would say of power,” said Jared. “You would say that the presence of Ktari means nothing, in terms of our daily lives. That, whether they are here or not... it makes no real difference to us. A new tax, a symbolic submission, and nothing more.”

  Globulus drew back dramatically. “Jared! Are you pretending at being dense? Of course their presence here means something! If they are here, then we have a road into a possible future of survival! Jared, there is an overt power, and there is a subtle power. Let them strut about with their guns and their flags all they want. We will have need of such overt power! But the subtle power... Jared, once their world-weary generals and governors come here to study enlightenment, who will they come to for the cleansing of their many sins?”

  “The High Priest...?”

  “And whose name will reach the ears of the Emperor? Whose name will be shrouded in wisdom and mystery? When the condition of the world seems to spin out of control when the other race turns on them, to whom will the Emperor turn for counsel?”

  “The High Priest.”

  Globulus turned away. “Let them have their shadow of power, Jared. If we walk this line delicately, we will guide humanity in the new world. On bent knees we will control the future.”

  Uncomfortable, Jared gnashed the concept between his teeth. “But, Master. Perhaps not on bent knees. You have faith that... the Ghost... will return. That it can be summoned.”

  “The secret histories tell of the shadow cast in our world by His unearthly form. And we will have need of such a god, for ammunition in our invisible weapon.”

  “Even if such a thing is real, can it be controlled?”

  “Bent knees, Jared. In this game of survival, the meek must have a tyrant god at their disposal if they are to skirt around extinction. San Ktari understands this, with their Engels.”

  Jared stalked away suddenly, shaking his head, and could not stop himself from saying, “When you want me to make a display of the Vallier foreigners by running them out, tell me.”

  “Fine,” said Globulus, his eyes on the sunset. “But let’s have them eating out of our hands first.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  Tower

  On the morning of the third day in Srila, while the Valliers had their meeting with Globulus, Wodan walked through the sleeping village of Temple Grounds with only his winter gear, backpack of food and water, and Capricornus slung on his back. The smell of wood smoke still hung in the air and he waded through detritus left from yet another festival the night before. No one stirred. He passed by a papier-mâché icon standing atop an abandoned float that depicted a dark man in dark armor with a cruel hooked nose and fiery wings. Words in several languages were scrawled all over the float, but in his own tongue he read, “Flying with the army of utter black heaven.” No other explanation could be found.

  He came to a lane of mud that led to a hard-packed field that was being used as an airstrip by San Ktari. Soldiers sat smoking or sleeping around sandbags and
machineguns near two fat-bellied transports. At the far end of the strip Wodan saw a small airplane painted red and gray, with comically-oversized rotors on either wing. A skinny soldier smoked as he poured fuel into the plane. He wore a red uniform, a cap with long earflaps, and no armor. Unlike the other soldiers, who either ignored Wodan or glared at him, this one waved at him from across the field. Wodan smiled and waved back.

  Once he drew near the ship, the smiling soldier approached and bowed. Wodan tried to replicate the gesture but the soldier laughed, embarrassed by Wodan’s attempt.

  “Greetings!” the soldier shouted.

  “Hello!” said Wodan. “I guess you’re my contact?”

  “No, I just the person you suppose to meet. I hope my language is good enough to understand? I am Ryo Jo.”

  “Good enough!” Wodan stuck out his hand. Ryo Jo looked at it, then placed his hand inside Wodan’s. Wodan shook it up and down and the man’s mouth widened slowly, as if unsure what would happen next. “I’m Wodan.”

  “Yes, I know! Great wasted-land king! Very cool. This, you see, is your ship… Gul-in Kami!”

  Wodan was relieved that the soldier seemed excited about meeting a foreigner; he had been worried about a long flight with a right-wing hardliner who would scrutinize his every move. They boarded the tiny cockpit where Wodan had to sit hunched over with his knees in the air.

  Wodan noted the ridiculous array of dials and gauges and switches in the cockpit. The few things that were labeled were in the Eastern tongue.

  “So… you’re going to teach me how to fly this thing, right?”

  Ryo Jo powered the engine. “Ah, you not worry too much about those things, okay? Listen, I went to airplane school for six month before I get inside airplane. But I not learning how to fly a plane until I finally get inside one. You understand? Sit back and watch Ryo Jo, you pick it up before long.”