Demonworld Book 6: The Love of Tyrants

by Kyle B. Stiff

  Wodan lost track of time in the darkness. It was impossible to estimate how far he had climbed. Only the effort of climbing, of continuing on, made up the whole of his being. He was drenched in sweat and exhausted when he finally reached a curve that led to a small horizontal chute. He crawled inside and had only enough room to kneel. His head bumped against a hard surface. Wiping his eyes, he was horrified to find that the cramped tunnel only extended for a few feet. He turned about, looking for the chute, only to find that it had disappeared. He felt about, growling in frustration, fingers probing wildly for some opening, a handle, a switch, anything - and found nothing.

  Wodan crouched in the coffin and gathered his thoughts. The dull panic passed. He knew now that the Tower was, in some sense, alive. If it wanted to kill him, surely it could have done so already. Was he being observed? Did it want to see him scream or beg? He had room enough to wield his sword, so he drove the point into the ceiling. He braced himself and forced it in deeper. He broke through the surface and suddenly the sword hummed in his hand and gave off a violent green light. He pulled it free from the roof and a thin line of brilliant light stretched down into the darkness of the coffin.

  Wodan spent many long minutes driving his sword into the ceiling, piercing and cutting. After he had cut nearly half of a rough circle, he saw that the first place he had cut through had already mended itself. But the sword drank the light from the unseen room above, feeding its strength to him, and his determination drove him on such that there was no room for frustration, so he continued hacking and stabbing a circular opening. Finally, when the circle was three quarters complete, he pulled Capricornus free, braced his back against the ceiling, and pushed. The living metal broke with a sharp whine and he was nearly blinded by white light. He blinked, sheathed his sword at his back, and hauled himself into the opening.

  Wodan crouched in a long hallway filled with white light. The walls were made of large rectangular panels, each glowing brilliantly white, with narrow black spaces in between. The hallway seemed too wide and too tall, as if inhabited by giants. The floor was made of the same white panels as the walls, and hummed underfoot. While Capricornus drank the light, he watched the hole he had cut in the floor, knowing that it would heal and cut him off from an exit. Pressing on was his only option.

  The hallway never went too far before it curved, or sometimes split in two directions. It was a featureless labyrinth, and so he turned randomly. After some time, he came upon a portrait within a wooden frame. It was a painting of a human, a round-faced man with short blond hair, glasses, and a simple suit of foreign design. The man’s eyes were knowing, and he held a small smile as he stared ahead. A silver plaque at the bottom read:

  Cecil

  The portrait’s inexplicable presence in the alien environment gave Wodan a terrible sense of foreboding. Once again he was reminded that there was an intelligence behind this place. There was something here that, until the kidnapping of Dove, had shown no need of anything from anyone. A thing that violently enforced its isolation from the rest of the world. Though he hadn’t been trapped in the crawlspace and killed outright, certainly the laser would have annihilated him had he moved only a little slower.

  He walked for a long time. Finding no further landmarks, he began scratching deep rents in the walls with his sword. At some branches he returned to find his own marks slowly healing, and so realized that he might have been wandering in circles. He continued making his marks and eventually found that right-hand turns always brought him back to former branches. He switched to left-hand turns at the branches and, finally, found new walls without marks. He was making progress.

  He came to an intersection of hallways. In the distance he saw a wide, winding staircase ascending further into the Tower. Wodan walked toward it when suddenly, silently, something walked from a side hall to stand before him. The sudden fear of finding another presence in the alien structure rushed through him. He backed away quickly with Capricornus held before him.

  The thing was a robot, a slender humanoid nearly as tall as Wodan. It was made of intersecting, organically-curved white plates. Its face was decidedly inhuman, a round white surface with simple features painted in red: Two dashes for “eyes” and a cupid’s-bow smile. The pathetic attempt at human warmth added a horrifyingly comic element to its cold composure and too-fluid movement. The robot walked to the center of the intersection, then raised its hand in a warding gesture.

  They stood in silence for a long time. “Step aside,” said Wodan, feeling a little foolish for talking to the thing.

  The robot stood as still as a statue, open palm extended.

  Wodan braced himself, then ran at the thing with Capricornus held high. The robot quickly lowered its hand, raised the other, extended a single finger - and Wodan felt Capricornus jerk in his hand. The green light was snuffed out and the sword became like a hundred pounds of dead weight. The cold gray sword crashed into the ground before him, jammed into the ground, and he crashed stomach-first into the handle, rocketing backward. Breathless, clutching the pain in his gut, he threw his eyes between the dead sword jutting from the floor and the smiling robot. The thing lowered its hand, then tilted its head to the side, a mocking gesture.

  “God damn you!” said Wodan, finally forcing air into his lungs.

  The robot gestured with its chin and Wodan heard a hiss behind him. Whirling, he saw a hole opening up in the ground. Expecting some new attack, Wodan rushed to the hole. It led down into a dark shaft, much like the one he had originally ascended. He had lost his supplies and his sword - but he was, at least, being provided with an exit.

  Wodan turned back to the robot. “Never,” he growled.

  He glanced at the winding stairwell beckoning behind the robot. He felt his body tensing and his fingers curled into fists unconsciously. He knew there was only one way to proceed.

  He rushed at the robot again. Gathering speed and building momentum, he aimed a punch at its solar plexus. The thing quickly spun aside, only narrowly avoiding the blow. He stopped, violently shifting his momentum as he threw a backhanded blow in its direction. The robot only whirled aside again, arms flailing as if in a dance. Wodan assumed a combat stance, legs wide, bouncing, arms raised. He moved toward the thing and it bounced back on the balls of its feet. Wodan maneuvered so that he was nearer the stairwell; as soon as he did so, the robot jerked sideways to intercept him, head weaving from side to side, back arched and arms held limp at its sides in a strange and relaxed stance, like a doll held by the strings of a puppeteer.

  Wodan threw his fist, more to read the enemy than to hurt it. Rather than back away, the robot raised an open palm to ward the blow away. Wodan quickly stepped in and threw the entirety of his weight into a gut-shot. The robot smacked Wodan’s wrist with its other palm, but not before the blow slammed into its torso, forcing it backward. Wodan bounced away, feeling his wrist grow numb at the point of contact. He was alarmed at the strength it held in its small frame. The robot found its balance once more, then resumed its awkward stance, seemingly unfazed.

  Wodan blasted at the thing with a flurry of blows. The robot’s arms moved quickly, smacking his wrists and forearms to defend itself. Pain tore through Wodan’s arms, his bones threatening to break with every block. He ignored the pain and continued hammering at the thing, and soon landed several blows on the robot’s body, staggering it. When his hands were completely numb he stepped in and slammed an elbow against its head, sending a crack through its face-plate and breaking its smile in half. Wodan raised a knee to smash the robot’s gut; when it moved to block, Wodan brought his boot crashing down on its knee. The thing staggered, so he wrapped his arms around one of its arms, spun, slammed it into the wall, then forced his knee into its side and pulled with enough force that its arm cracked with an ear-splitting blast. He felt the arm go limp in his grasp. He was exhausted from his assault, and hoped to lean against the thing and gather his strength – but the robot jerked about and he stumbled sideways. The r
obot whirled, fist extended, and backhanded Wodan in the chest. Like a tank slamming into him, Wodan flew through the air before the pain even registered, crashed into a wall, slid along it, then toppled to the ground in a pool of his own sweat.

  Lungs emptied, overwhelmed by pain. Wodan knew that several ribs were cracked, if not broken. Before he could draw his first breath he crawled along the ground, his back to the wall, to gain some distance from the mechanical beast.

  Wodan felt his muscles burning as his blood surged and his body shifted to heal bones and possibly even damaged organs. The robot turned to him slowly, its smile smudged and broken, one arm dangling lifelessly. Then its body bulged, in and out, white plates rising against black mesh in a parody of breathing. The metallic black mesh continued to bulge and shift as if filled with pumping liquid that gave life to inorganic muscle mass. He was horrified to see the thing growing, becoming truly monstrous as it stretched and grew. The white plates became thin sheets of armor surrounding a black thing that stood over him. It reached up with its free arm and in one smooth movement tore off its other arm, gushing clear liquid before the flow was cut off. It lightly spun the severed limb like a weapon.

  Wodan finally caught his breath, then agony ran the length of his torso as cracked ribs were moved about. His body nearly exhausted itself mending the terrible wound. He forced himself into a crouch while the pain was still stabbing, unrelenting, and the enlarged robot advanced.

  Once he was within the robot’s kill zone, it swung the severed arm in rapid, blinding arcs. Barely able to stand, Wodan rolled away as the robot brought the arm down in a blow that crushed a floor panel, darkening it. Wodan scampered away just as the thing swung sideways, blasting the nearest wall panel in a shower of sparks. The fear of dancing around the thing cleansed Wodan’s mind of conscious thought - all he felt was the rush of movement, the fight against certain death, as the robot bashed walls and floor and sent a cloud of dust and metal through the air. Wodan dodged lightly to the side as the robot brought the arm down right beside him, crushing a panel that cast them both nearly into darkness. As if his body understood that it stood near the brink of death, his awareness of pain and exhaustion was shunted off into a dark corner of his mind. Distraction receded and his mind sped up and he saw with intense clarity the turning of the robot, the muscles in its arm and legs shifting, the swinging weapon and all of its possible trajectories. He had never felt so high, so focused, so empty of trivial suffering.

  As the deadly arm swung downward in a murderous arc, Wodan slowly stepped to the side and felt wind rake against his flesh as the thing narrowly passed by. The ground shook under his feet as another floor panel was destroyed, snuffing out the light below. As if in a dream Wodan planted his foot on the weapon, holding it down with his weight, then concentrated all of his force into a punch that rocked the robot’s face and sent it reeling back on its heels. He watched with detached disinterest as the mask fell away, revealing a featureless face of smooth, glossy black, then he lifted his foot and kicked the thing in its groin, casting it to the ground.

  As the robot tossed about, its equilibrium seemingly thrown off, Wodan’s battle-high ended and his terrible exhaustion returned. He fell alongside the robot, as if to sleep by its side, but wrapped his arms around its head. Immediately the robot shrieked and pitched about, jamming its elbow into his side like a cannon firing, and also pushing them along the floor with manic, jerking footwork. Wodan held onto the thing, knowing that if he relaxed he would surely be ground to a pulp, and jammed his fingers under the robot’s chin. He curled up, desperate to minimize the pain of the elbow slamming into him, then dug one foot into its side and pushed against it. One floor panel after another shattered violently as the robot pushed them along and the entire hallway filled with dust and flickering darkness, but Wodan was able to focus his breathing as he pushed against the monster. With excruciating effort he pulled until metal cracked, mesh tore, wires snapped and tendons popped apart – and the robot’s head came loose in his grip. Wodan rolled away, utterly empty, as the robot went limp and a cloud of dust settled around them.

  Wodan lay back, taking in great breaths as his body slowly mended itself. It was a wonder to him that he had overcome such a terrible encounter. He looked at the limp robot beside him, and he knew that if another like it came for him then he would surely be killed. He began to speculate what other awful things lay in wait for him in this place, mind reeling with nightmarish possibilities, then he forced all thought from his mind so that his body could do its work.

  Within a minute the darkened, shattered panels blinked and gave off a pale light, and he sighed bitterly because he knew that the hallway was mending itself just as he was. Just then a flash of green light blasted to life from another hall. Wodan was on his feet in an instant, running, and found Capricornus glowing brightly, still embedded in the floor. Laughing, he grasped the hilt and wrenched it free. New strength rushed into him. He felt light and optimistic despite the fact that he could not trust his own sword in this place. He limped toward the stairwell.

  He heard the click of something like a door shutting. He froze. He heard feet shuffling, then the whir of something mechanical drawing near. He braced himself, preparing to throw his sword before it could be turned off. A robot entered from a side hall – but Wodan stopped himself. The robot was shorter than the other, a stoop-shouldered contraption wearing a suit and a coat with tails. Its hands and face were gray, seemingly old and nearly worn out, and on its face were painted red features: Two drooping, downward dashes for eyes, and an exaggerated frown. The thing shuffled past him pathetically.

  “What do you want?” said Wodan.

  The robot stopped, looked up at him apologetically, then turned to the dead robot and shuffled toward it. Wodan watched as the mechanical servant bent to pick up the pieces of its fallen brother.

  “Don’t put that thing back together,” said Wodan.

  The servant hesitated, then carefully picked up the fallen robot. Stooping under its weight, it awkwardly knelt and picked up the head. Wodan watched the robot until he was satisfied that it was not going to somehow repair the first one, then he turned and began his ascent of the white, winding staircase.

  As he climbed, he heard shuffling footsteps following behind him. He stopped and waited. Soon the stooped servant caught up with him.

  “Well, what do you want?” said Wodan.

  The robot stopped and looked up at him, but said nothing. Wodan sighed and shook his head. The thing did not appear threatening, and it seemed a shame to bring his sword crashing down on those drooping eyes and exaggerated frown.

  “Come on then, if you want,” said Wodan. “But don’t cause any trouble.”

  Wodan continued up the staircase and the robot shuffled slowly behind him.

  They climbed for nearly a quarter of an hour, then came to a landing. A large, open doorway led to a massive chamber where amber walls gave off a warm golden-red light. Translucent amber columns supported a high ceiling, and swirls of golden splashes covered the black floor in strange, foreign runes. Wodan looked about the massive hall until the servant robot caught up with him, gazing fearfully about the chamber as it entered. One of the dead robot’s arms swung back and forth as the servant shuffled forward.

  Wodan walked through the long chamber. Suddenly a piercing shriek stabbed into his ears, lights shifted, then scenes played along the walls and columns, moving images from hundreds of angles. He saw men and women making love, a series of pornographic films shot in dark wooden rooms. The focus shifted in a strange way he had never seen in Haven, sharp color and image shifting against dim, blurry backgrounds, as if the camera was an eye constantly bouncing from one point of interest to another. Just as Wodan’s confusion at the moaning panorama seemingly reached its limit, he realized that there was only one man shown in each scene – it was him.

  In dozens of dizzying images he saw himself with the various prostitutes of the House of Ishtar, all filmed before the S
mith War ruined his idea that inconsequential fun and the wielding of power had only ever been estranged by accident. As soon as he found himself in the middle of the war, he saw his people as delicate children in need of protection by a superman, not equals with whom he could frolic and play. Now, standing in the middle of an orgy of his own childish nature, he felt only humiliation.

  As if the room wanted to make things more difficult, he saw one recording of himself trying to prepare for his first true visit to Ishtar by pacing around his little house and yard while drinking his own specially-prepared brew. He watched as the famous king and demon-slayer nervously looked over his pigs while taking shots in a fit of nervous energy as he tried to steel his nerves and finally lose what was left of his virginity. Another recording showed him later that night, drunk beyond belief as he walked down a hallway in the House of Ishtar with one of the ladies, a rabid simpleton who constantly rambled on about some inconsequential thing that happened to her earlier in the day. Wodan’s memory of the event was that he had remained composed, the living embodiment of masculine distance from anxiety, but the recording made him look like a sailor desperately trying to keep his footing on a storm-tossed ship. His eyes were distant and half-closed; most of his brain had already drifted into sleep. As soon as they entered the girl’s room, Wodan fell sideways and his head smacked against a window, shattering it and forcing the prostitute to take a break from her dull tales.

  Why am I being shown this ridiculous nonsense? Wodan wondered. And how was any of this even recorded in the first place? Certainly he had no memory of a technologically advanced video recorder following him around by a rope hanging overhead.

  Wodan made a conscious effort to close his mouth. If the force that ruled this Tower had watched him in the past, then it must be watching him now.