Demonworld Book 6: The Love of Tyrants

by Kyle B. Stiff

  “Thanks, Jarl,” he said. “I know it wasn't easy to tell me that. I… I'll have to keep it in mind.”

  Jarl sighed with relief. Then he smiled, and his posture straightened so much that Wodan wondered if an invisible monster had been sitting on the Entertainer's shoulders all this time.

  Yardalen placed a hand on Wodan's wrist. “Will you take a walk with me, Wodan?”

  Wodan rose and nodded to Jarl, who lowered his hat over his eyes. Wodan left the circle of dancers and followed Yardalen. Away from the light and warmth of the fire, the forest became dark and heavy. Wodan could see fragments of blue and gray overhead. Was it the morning of the next day?

  “Wodan,” she said. “There's something about you.”

  He glanced down, saw an ear peeking through strands of gold. He saw her not as a web of ancestors, but as flashes of other beings with a single persistent identity. She was an old man, yellow-gold skin and white beard, powerfully built under a regal cloak. But she was tiny… was he a giant looking down at her? Then she was a woman again, green-skinned, seemingly shocked by his presence. The whole world was lit by tongues of lightning. Then she was a pale being, slitted eyes, yellow-white hair pulled back, insignia like a deer's antlers on her uniform… she smiled at him. Again and again he saw her, each version completely incomprehensible.

  Have I known her before? he wondered. But then the vision faded as the drug finally wore off.

  “Something about me,” he repeated, his voice dull in his own ears.

  “Yes. You're open to experience. You're not like others. You don't assert what you are – you listen to the world, and learn from it.”

  He sighed. “It's been a long night, Yardalen. I can't say I follow. Can you...”

  “It's about Lucas. Please listen. Lucas is going to be killed. I may sound paranoid, but there's a cycle. It happens like clockwork because most people are programmed, and this is a part of the programming.”

  “Cycle?” said Wodan.

  “The cycle starts with someone standing out. Someone wakes up. They tell others the new idea they've had. A few others see the sense in it, and the idea starts to spread. But then the establishment notices. The revolutionaries enter into conflict with the establishment. The establishment usually wins. Few people notice that part of the cycle, but it's true. In the end, the person who woke up has to be sacrificed. Those are the rules the establishment made, and that's the path that the revolutionaries have to take in order to be allowed into the establishment… sometimes in leadership roles.”

  “Allowed back in?” said Wodan, curling his lip in disgust. “You don't think Lucas's disciples will protect him?”

  Yardalen sighed. “I'm sure they mean to. I'm sure they want to. But from what I've heard of the records they keep in the Temple, and from the stories we keep in the Vale, that's what happens. The followers get scared. Their bravery comes from anticipating victory. When inevitable victory flees, bravery follows. No, Wodan, his disciples won't help him. There is not one traitor among them, but twelve. They can't help him. I... I can't help him. But maybe you can.”

  “Do you think Lucas can't see this cycle?”

  “He probably does. But he might not care.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because the cycle always includes a consolation prize. When the sacrifice occurs, it's not just about killing the one who woke up. Slowly but surely, the establishment will… incorporate the teachings of the sacrificial lamb into itself. The rebel will become an authority figure, long after the murder.”

  “That's utterly bizarre,” Wodan said, even as he saw the truth of it.

  “Isn't it? But just because it's a cycle doesn't mean it has to be eternal. What if more people who were aware and awake were a part of the cycle? It could deviate from the norm if less automatons were engaged in the process.”

  Wodan stared at the woman beside him. Such a strange creature! he thought. He admitted to himself that he was in awe. She sounded to him like some kind of beyond-human being who stood outside of the immediate day-to-day affairs of reality. She spoke and thought from a grand perspective. Though he wasn't really a part of her life, he felt a strong sense of kinship. Then he was struck by the thought that such people were always undervalued. It's always people like the High Priest, or Barkus, or Vito, who are valued, he thought. For people like Yardalen, or Edwar Bruner, or me, the struggle to influence people is so difficult.

  She looked up at him. “I want to stop it,” she said. “I want to end the cycle. I… I don't believe in sacrifice.”

  Wodan was struck by the image of primitive people giving up their own to demons. Though sickened, he also knew it was impossible to effect change through conversation. “He's a grown man,” he said. “What do you think I can do about it?”

  “He is an adult. He's not a child like most people are, and that's the problem. No normal man could convince him otherwise. But you're not normal.”

  Wodan remembered the first time he'd met Langley, and how strange she had seemed. It was humbling to realize that others saw him that way as well.

  “Lucas is doing what he wants,” said Wodan. “Most dream of living the life they want. Few are given the chance. Why should I stop him?”

  “Because the message that will get him killed – it is important. It must continue on!”

  “I don't even know what his message is!” Wodan stopped and held her in place.

  “It's that your identity is bullshit.”

  “What?”

  “A lie.” She waited for the words to settle in. “I don't mean yours in particular. I mean the mask that people wear. The thing in the mirror they hate, the force they imagine holds them back, the story they tell themselves about why they can't live happily. It's made up, a fable, nothing more. Once you open your eyes, you'll see that you are a god.” She smiled. “That's his message. It's simple.”

  She continued along the path. So this ruthless Satanic being is also a messiah, he thought. Is it my final test to stop his martyrdom?

  He followed her. They walked in silence, and he considered the idea. He immediately thought of the Golden Calf Party, the representatives who had pulled something of a coup in the Black Valley. Those were men who desperately wanted to be great. They relished their power, but hungered for more. He knew it would be better for them if they dropped their masks and took an honest look at themselves and their capabilities. Perhaps they could live honest lives in small-time management positions. They could act as secretaries or assistants to people who truly were great. If they applied themselves to small tasks rather than dreaming of conquering the world, they might find some measure of happiness. They would certainly live longer.

  Yardalen stopped and motioned for Wodan to proceed. They had reached the edge of the forest. Wodan could see Lucas finishing up a conversation with a couple of local people, who did not shake his hand but bowed in admiration. It was strange to see Setsassanar in the small, sun-beaten man. He radiated power, a carried himself with dignity that had grown far beyond the fear of death and pain and sickness and doubt. He and Wodan locked eyes. When the others left, Wodan went to him.

  Wodan followed Lucas as he descended the grassy hill. They walked along the edge of the forest until the lights of the bonfires were far away. They ascended a rocky rise. Wodan could see a faint blue line along the horizon before them, though the roof of clouds was dark overhead. Reaching the top, he saw a great spine of stone that laid above the line of black-leafed trees. Far away, the spine connected to a greater hill of stone, where they could see more fires.

  They walked along the spine together. Wodan felt giddy. He could not shake the idea that the so-called son of God would turn to him with a wink and say, “Just kidding, Apprentice!” Instead, it was obvious that he was struggling inside.

  If only you knew what you truly are, he thought.

  Just when Wodan could take the silence no more, Lucas suddenly said, “Are you an angel of the Lord?”

  Wodan gave the str
ange question serious consideration. On the one hand, of course he was not. He was king of a small nation, and he was here because of his curiosity. It was simple. But on the other hand, it was true that he was nothing like other men. Something burned in him ten thousand times brighter than the human norm. It drove him on and on, to greater heights and darker depths. He had been gifted with a body forged in ages past by the eternal flame of creativity. He personally knew the God that Lucas worshipped, had walked with him and spoken with him. In a sense, he was the very thing that Lucas suspected. The thing was both true and not true.

  Before Wodan could stop, he heard himself say, “Yes… and no.”

  Lucas took the statement without argument, mulling it over quietly. Wodan understood why Setsassanar hated to see him protest. Lucas was proving to him that it was much better to listen and at least try to understand, rather than argue childishly.

  “I've had dreams of you,” said Lucas. “We are in another place together. Perhaps among the stars, on one of the 'heavens' or other worlds mentioned in some of the documents in the Temple. In the dream, I am… a different form of God. You are one of my angels. I test you. I push you mercilessly. And you pass every test. I am so proud of you… because you are unstoppable. But a part of me also hates you. I imagine killing you.”

  “Why?” said Wodan, unable to hide his alarm.

  “Because you are incredibly intimidating. Who can possibly handle all of the tests thrown at them by the creator of the universe? Who could overcome again and again, or fail and get up again and again, all without crumbling and begging for the pain to end?”

  Wodan almost said, “That's not how it is from my perspective,” but stopped himself. He also suppressed mentioning all the times he had protested and begged for Setsassanar to ease up on him. He wondered if Setsassanar was somehow “sending” these visions to Lucas consciously, or if the two were simply connected on some subtle level beyond understanding. Instead Wodan muttered, “Quite a dream.”

  “But I didn't kill you,” said Lucas. “Because I think I have this hope… that you'll be able to do what I could not.”

  Wodan stopped. This is what Setsassanar wanted me to hear, he thought. This is why he wanted me to come back to Srila. He doesn't want to lord his power over me, or to embarrass me by showing me his own most embarrassing moments. He only wants us to be able to work together… not holding anything back. To work as equals.

  Wodan realized that, all this time, he had been holding back. Not in terms of physical effort. Still, he had been lazy, and he hadn't even realized it. So many times he had been thrown off balance by Setsassanar's bizarre behavior, unexpected moods, even his ridiculous past. But what would people say if they could see into Wodan's heart and Wodan's past? Would they nod and approve because everything he did made perfect sense? No. They would be shocked, disgusted, perhaps inspired every now and again, but mostly they would pass judgment.

  That's how life is, he thought. You do the best you can with what you're given. Sometimes you have to do incredibly bizarre things to make it through situations you can't possibly be expected to understand. I was a fool to ever judge Setsassanar. He probably saw me in the backroom of my father's store, muttering and complaining to myself as I moved boxes and took inventory. And yet he still believes I have what it takes to stand up to monsters so powerful they overthrow the human race!

  Wodan looked up and saw breaks in the cloud cover, streaks of pale blue light from the hidden dawn. He could not wait to get back to Setsassanar. And he could not wait to experience what else was waiting for him in the Deepest Vale. Mostly, he could not wait to tackle life without holding back.

  He looked at Lucas. The man was studying him.

  “Did you speak with God just then?” Lucas asked with utmost seriousness.

  Wodan realized he had been looking at the sky and smiling, perhaps even wiping away tears. “You could say that,” he said, laughing, a little embarrassed. He looked at Lucas with new eyes. He's doing the best he can with what he's been given, he thought. And he's inspired someone who, once again, thought he had all the answers.

  Lucas smiled a little, then continued on. Feeling bold, Wodan said, “Lucas, tell me about turning water into wine. And please, be honest.”

  “I always tell the truth,” he said, with sudden earnestness. “You're no fool. I'm sure it's easy to guess what happened. A man I knew in the village owed me a favor. I went to him and got several skins of wine. But I couldn't hand a bunch of wine-skins out to my guests like they were about to go on a journey… it would have looked like rude, like I was telling them to leave. So I poured out the jars of water and poured in the wine. The story took off. You have to understand… I mean, everyone was completely drunk.”

  “But Lucas! You can't let people believe that you-”

  “I never did,” said Lucas. “I even told a few guests the entire story. They were either so drunk they forgot, or they never cared. That's how people are. I heard you were a war hero. Ever hear any tall tales about your deeds? Once you corrected the details, did the new story replace the old one? No. You know that's not how it works.”

  “I know it,” said Wodan, satisfied that Lucas was not wrapped up in his own myth. “But there's another tale, Lucas. They say you brought a little girl back from the dead.”

  Lucas glanced at him. “There's a bit more truth in that one.”

  “How much truth?”

  Lucas took a moment to gather his thoughts. “I was travelling with my disciples from village to village, and we heard some talk about a wealthy man with a sick daughter. I went to see the man. The house was overrun with family members. Some wanted to help, some wanted to be in charge, some wanted to take advantage of the father – it was a madhouse. I couldn't get any details, no one was clear on what was happening. Some were even grieving that the girl had already died. It was a mess.

  “I had my disciples throw everyone out. They held the doors so that no one could enter...”

  “You threw a family out of their own home?”

  Lucas nodded once. “Then I went to see the girl. She was alive… barely. Terrible fever. I knew it was going to be a long night for her. I laid my hands on her-”

  “What?”

  “These things,” said Lucas, holding up his hands. Wodan noted the hint of fanatical faith in himself that was slowly showing itself. “I stayed with her the whole night. Without the family and their dramatic, possessive, chaotic nonsense, the long night was peaceful. The girl was free to fight her battle. When dawn came, she was not healed, not fully, but her fever broke, and her life was saved.”

  “That's it?” said Wodan.

  “What more should it be? Minds intent on sickness delight in chaos and noise. Calm minds can move the universe. And my hands – it's true, they can heal. There's a force that… ah, but how to explain it? You've either never experienced it, so explaining it would make no sense, or you have experienced it and so you need no explanation.”

  Wodan was unsure. As far as he could tell, Lucas had no Cognati powers. He had only seen them used once for healing, when Langley had used them to mend the bones in his hands long ago. But what else could Lucas be referencing to? Was there any other form of action-at-a-distance that a human could employ? The nearest analogue he had seen was the repair of the robots in the Tower, how their broken pieces came together if given time. He wasn't sure how it was done. Still, this was flesh and blood, surely different from fixing robots.

  “But I don't blame the people for saying that I raised a dead girl,” Lucas said suddenly. “That's how stories are. Imagine being powerfully affected by someone. How do you inspire the same sense of awe in another person who wasn't there?”

  “Sometimes,” Wodan said slowly, “the truth has to be bent...”

  “In order for the absurd nature of reality to be conveyed from one to another,” Lucas finished.

  “But we don't do that. You and me, I mean.”

  “We're a different breed. Others feel c
ontent when they've found their “ultimate” truths. Not us. We keep searching and searching. It's in our nature.”

  “Your nature,” Wodan said, almost to himself. Thinking about how few of the people in his care really had a solid idea of who he was, he asked, “Do you think your followers truly understand you, Lucas? You, your message, your intentions, how much do they really know for sure?”

  “Who is it that people say I am?” said Lucas.

  “To hell with what they say. I'm asking you. So what is it? What's the end goal? Peace on earth?”

  Lucas gave him a sidelong look. “Where that idea comes from, and how it reproduces in so many minds, is beyond me. I came here to bring strife. I came here to bring a sword. Arguing, discontent, frustration, anger...”

  “Really?” said Wodan. “But you're a healer!”

  “I'm also not stupid. Anyone who throws away the plans of others and creates their own plans is a bringer of violence. That's the simple truth. I'm not a puppet. The black robes, the High Priest, the soldiers from San Ktari, even the flesh demons – Wodan, have you ever noticed that all of them chase after the shadow of this thing they call peace? Have you noticed that none of them consider themselves to be evil, or cruel, or obsessed with control, and yet they are? Why is that?” Lucas paused to let Wodan consider the idea, then he answered it himself. “It's because they're asleep. All of them are sleep-walking automatons. They are slaves of shadows cast by a form they don't understand. I want people to wake up. My intentions are good, but whose aren't? I'm not a fool. I know violence is the end result of my actions.”