Demonworld Book 6: The Love of Tyrants

by Kyle B. Stiff

  “If I told you,” said Lucas, “you would not understand. You are blind to what I am. I am exactly where I want to be.”

  The black robes whispered among themselves, unsure of where to go from there. Globulus cleared his throat and they fell silent, leaning forward intently. “Tell us,” said Globulus, “what you and your disciples plan. You have stirred up a great deal of resentment. What is it that you tell the people?”

  “I said nothing in secret,” said Lucas. “Why flaunt your power like this and make me repeat things I’ve already said? You can ask anyone about me. I’ve no secrets.”

  Jared’s arm whipped out and the air crackled. Lucas jerked to the side, struck by an invisible appendage. The blue robes hauled him back to his feet.

  “Is this the way you speak to the High Priest?” Jared shouted.

  “If I said something wrong,” said Lucas, his red face still composed, “then correct me. Why strike me when I speak the truth? Is it so difficult to hear?”

  “Are you then the son of God?” said an aged black robe.

  They sat in heavy silence. The black robes felt a rising sense of wonder that maybe, just maybe, the accused was an honest man... and, if honest, easily trapped.

  “You are right in saying I am,” said Lucas.

  The black robes made a spectacle of howling and jeering. A few even tore their robes, and the blue robes pounded their iron staves on the ground. “Do we need any more testimony?” a black robe cried. “He’s damned himself willingly!”

  Globulus turned to Jared and nodded. Most could not stand to look at Lucas, who was a tower of stillness amidst the bedlam.

  ***

  In the crowded courtyard at the base of the stairs, the Valliers were going wild, shouting and throwing stones at a line of Cognati students and teachers who blocked the way to the Temple. The Cognati's faces were drenched in sweat, contorting with pain each time a rock hit their shield. Several young green robes collapsed and had to be dragged away by blue robes.

  Yarek, fearing worse violence, shouted a command that no firearms were to be used or even displayed. He called out for Naarwulf, who could not be found.

  A few black robes were in the crowd counseling native Srilans to be at peace. Roc wore a hood and hid among the crowd, his heart a tumult of rage and fear. He had not seen any of the other disciples, and had to assume they'd scattered and fled. He drew nearer and nearer to the line of the Cognati, perhaps hoping that they would suddenly leave and allow him to find his lord.

  A young Vallier woman tossed a chunk of broken masonry at the invisible wall, shouting, “Holy land!” either as an accusation or a reminder that this was not the sort of place where prophets should be imprisoned. The girl stopped to watch the masonry break in mid-trajectory and fall, then she noticed Roc.

  “I know you,” she said. “Don't worry, we don't put up with this kind of shit where I come from. We'll help.”

  “Wh-what?” said Roc. “I... what are you talking about?”

  “You’re one of his disciples, aren’t you?” said the girl. “I’ve seen you. We’ll help fix this mess.”

  Roc looked about and saw that other Valliers were looking at him. His pulse pounded in his head. He knew their sympathetic eyes could draw the worst kind of attention. “Sorry,” said Roc, shaking his head. “You must have me mistaken. I... I don’t know the man.”

  “But I saw you preaching with him. You don't have to be afraid. You can-”

  “Woman!” Roc shouted. “I don't know the man, alright?!”

  Others turned and watched. Roc turned and ran. Seeing a black robe staring directly at him, he turned again and fled from the courtyard. He did not stop until he came to a dark, silent place in the rocky foothills.

  Roc stopped to catch his breath. He remembered how he had pledged to stand by Lucas's side even in the face of imminent death, and how he had fantasized about being revered as a hero among his people. The hypocrisy of his betrayal stabbed into him and he collapsed and could not rise.

  “Oh, gods...” muttered Roc, weeping and hating himself. “What have I done?”

  ***

  In a black chamber deep underground, Lucas crashed through a wooden partition and fell bleeding on the stone floor. His body was a chorus of raw nerves. Several dead-faced Cognati casually stepped through the hole, laughing.

  “This son of a bitch can really handle a beating,” said one.

  Jared floated through the opening and landed before Lucas. His eyes were alight, senses sharpened, awed by the sight of the man crumpled on the floor. He hadn't felt this rush in years. Lucas drew in breath, then choked on dust. Jared smirked, wondering if poor old Globulus would ever understand that this was the true nature of power.

  Lucas raised his head, and though he could not open his eyes because of the dust and the nausea from repeated impacts, he forced himself to speak. “I know your kind,” he said, following the sound of footsteps. “You green robes have so much potential. You could be like gods. If you studied your abilities and worked hard, in time you could erect cities by thought alone. You could create worlds! But instead you… you only give in to your most base desires.” He paused to rub grit from his eyes. “Is this really the best you can do?”

  When he opened his eyes, he saw the seven Cognati standing over him, their faces either expressionless masks or empty of remorse.

  “Listen to the wise one!” said Jared.

  There was a terrible hum in the air, then Lucas felt something like a sledgehammer crash into his chest.

  “So make a prophecy for me, wise one!” Jared said, laughing. “Who hit you just then?”

  ***

  He lost all sense of time; the pain of one blow presented itself, then another, then another. While the Cognati worked in shifts, Jared never grew tired of the torture. Lucas drifted in and out of consciousness. The taunting of his captors became meaningless chatter when compared to the terrible hum of their thoughts and the buzzing pulse in his head that came with each blow.

  Sometimes Lucas felt the divine cloud around him writhing and heating up, as if it wanted to burn those who harmed him. Lucas was not tempted to use it. As the blows from invisible hammers and claws continued, he imagined his body as one ingredient in a divine ritual of transmutation. His will, his desire, always shaking and straining, were the hands that mixed the raw ingredients. Even the awful, dim-witted torturers were necessary. In some sense, he knew they should be thanked for doing their part in the ritual.

  At one point he even felt the divine connection return, and he saw a vision of an avenging angel racing to him, flying over the land like the wind of a storm. But Lucas did not need the angel.

  The torturers in the black chamber fell silent. Lucas forced open one eye, expecting another blow at any moment. He saw Jared's thin green shoes, but could not lift his head to look at his face. Jared crouched, and Lucas saw something like a wet ball in his hands. As his eye adjusted, he saw that Jared held the head of Sun-On the Immersionist. His face was purple, eyes askew, mouth open in silent awe.

  ***

  Kommander Won Po, in full armor with ceremonial sash, sword, and black-plumed helmet, stepped onto a balcony overlooking the crowd. They stretched all around the walls of the southern face of the Temple, their words echoing off stone like distant thunder. Soldiers of San Ktari lined the balcony, the surrounding ramparts, and the high ground dividing the Temple from the gathering throng. Won Po felt reassured by the soldiers' stillness, their disciplined posture.

  He saw black robes in the crowd, and he resented their presence. For a long time he had debated with Globulus, but was unable to understand him. How the old man could put himself in such a bind, then expect Won Po to get him out of it, seemed woefully incompetent.

  It’s no wonder they were conquered, he thought. One who escapes responsibility leaves it in the hands of others.

  Won Po had questioned the accused himself, and he was not sure what all the fuss was about. He understood that the man had sai
d things considered disrespectful to the holy men and scribes, but what was their foundation? How was anyone supposed to make any sense out of the mountains of holy books that the Temple sat upon? One holy scripture said a thing was bad; here was another that said it was permissible. It was better in the Empire where the people had the word of the Emperor, and the Party was able to clear up any confusion concerning the word as it passed down the ranks. Without the Party to dispense truth and punish wrongdoers, people became confused about what to do. Won Po shook his head, thinking that that was a sure way to end up in a situation where a bunch of scribes wanted to kill a rabble-rouser and the local authority needed a foreign military leader to clean everything up.

  Fortunately Won Po had a plan to save Globulus and Lucas at the same time.

  “Bring forth the accused!” His voice boomed over the crowd. Two soldiers stepped onto the balcony carrying Lucas between them. They held him propped up, and he seemed half asleep, eyes bloated slits, legs too weak to remain straight. In the light of day it was obvious that he had been savagely beaten, his skin a patchwork of black bruises. “Behold the man!” Won Po shouted, wincing inwardly because he knew his command of the language was not as it should be. “This man is accused of blasphemy-” His words were drowned out in a torrent of hatred. The crowd pushed forward and the soldiers strained to hold them back.

  How did the people turn against him so quickly? he wondered. Are they really so fickle? Or did the black robes only fill the crowd with their own loyalists?

  “Bring forth the other accused!” Won Po shouted, hoping to bring the crowd to order.

  More soldiers hauled the ghoul Vendicci onto the balcony. He was chained and beaten, but still unafraid of hissing at his captors. The crowd grew quiet, fascinated by the hideous sight. “This creature is guilty of the murder of two most beloved brothers of your Temple!” said Won Po.

  Won Po tried to adopt a diplomatic yet authoritative tone. “Now, in light of new brotherhood between Great Empire of San Ktari and Holy Land of Srila, as governor I announce in respect of our union new tradition. We do not rule like tyrants! Great Emperor is most benevolent, and allows people to rule as they like their own culture. Now I give you choice, and as free men you must decide. I will release one prisoner and punish the other. So tell me who you want: Lucas, accused of blasphemy, or Vendicci, guilty of murder.”

  Vendicci glared at the crowd below. He knew they would want his blood, and he considered working up a big wad of spit just for them. He turned and looked at the other prisoner. He was shocked. Despite the man's ragged appearance, he could clearly see nobility there. It was the same quality the King had shown him on the terrible night of his awakening. He hated his captors all the more for imprisoning such a man. His crime was blasphemy, which meant he disagreed with what was in the books. Vendicci thought of how he'd hurt others when they made light of his comic books. How young and foolish he'd been. Humans were stupid and angry over nothing, the emotion contorting their faces so that they could never be as beautiful as the King or the Prophet. He regretted that he had once looked like that.

  But he knew the people would release Lucas. That was fine. They'd never done anything but hate Vendicci, and once he was dead, his pain would be at an end.

  “Release Vendicci!” someone cried, and then the crowd echoed, “Release Vendicci! Release Vendicci!”

  Won Po jerked his head toward the innocent man, then forced his eyes back to the crowd. “You misunderstand!” he shouted. “Silence! I have examined this man myself. He is guilty of no real crime!”

  “Give us Vendicci!” they cried, louder than before.

  “What crime has he committed?” shouted Won Po, but the crowd only raged still louder. Won Po opened his hands, shouting rhetorically, “Then what would you have me do? What would you have me do?”

  The voice of the crowd shook like a legion of monsters, then they picked up the chant, “Execute him! Execute him!” Won Po shook his head, but the cries only continued. “Execute him! Execute him!”

  Kommander Won Po turned away in disgust. As he marched past several black robes he growled, “I wash my hands of this nonsense.”

  They led the condemned man away. Vendicci stared at his back, whining like a wounded animal. He felt his shackles pop open. He was free, confused, stricken dumb. He knew that he should be happy, but instead he only hated the thing that had released him and taken one much greater.

  ***

  On the night scheduled for his execution, they led Lucas into a square courtyard open to the night sky and enclosed by high stone walls. Through a haze of pain and thirst Lucas saw men crowding all along the walls: black robes, soldiers of Ktari, and the hateful green robes of Jared and his Cognati. In the center of the gray courtyard stood a tall black Execution Cross.

  The soldiers snapped to attention. They seemed ready for trouble, but he was weak and concussed, and when they leaned him against the cross he felt relief for the support. Ropes crossed his chest, arms, and stomach, and the bindings only complicated the difficulties of breathing due to fractures and internal bleeding. He relaxed as best he could.

  My part's over, he thought. I can rest. I've done it. There's nothing to be disappointed about.

  On the wall, Jared's heart thundered and the air crackled around him. Poor old Globulus didn't show up, he thought. He talks and talks about power, but when it comes down to it, he doesn't have the heart to show up and claim his reward.

  He watched Lucas's head flop around on his broken body. The soldiers marched before Lucas and formed a line with stiff movements, each checking that his rifle was loaded and ready. Just then a group of black robes on the wall began whispering, their tone frantic and fearful. Jared glared at them, swearing that if they lost their nerve then he would pluck one of them up and twist his head off if they needed their resolve bolstered.

  An older black robe spoke to an officer, who called down to the soldiers in their foreign tongue.

  “Idiots!” said a black robe. “Do they mean to make a martyr of him?”

  After some confusion, more soldiers arrived with a ladder. They laid it against the Execution Cross, ignoring Lucas as they pulled out several long nails and brought the crossbar down.

  “There,” said a black robe, satisfied that the Execution Cross was now only a simple black pole. “That should do it. Let's continue.”

  Lucas came to when a soldier barked a shrill command and the line of riflemen snapped to attention in a clatter of armor. Lucas fell into a state of awareness that usually put him in close contact with the Father. He knew he stood on the precipice. He had no power left. If something special was to happen with his death, it would be through the Father.

  “Ready!”

  The voice of the Father had grown weak during his trials, a whisper passing through a dream. Perhaps in anticipation of the end, the final movement.

  “Aim!”

  The Father was silent. There was no connection. There was nothing, only static.

  Something was not right. Lucas gasped. “Father,” he said, “Father, why have you for-”

  Crack sang the rifles, and Lucas fell limp as the echo rushed through the courtyard. His blood hardly touched stone before the cloud of nanomachines that surrounded him executed their last line of command. In a shrieking, blinding blast his body caught fire, a white sun blazing in the night, so hot that everyone in the courtyard fell, hair and clothes and armor singed, unable to breathe.

  The spectators along the wall cried in terror, then they heard an inhuman howl from a tower above them, and some fell to their knees. The thing howled in rage, and only Jared could stand to look at the avenging angel. He saw King Wodan, face shining in the light of the burning prophet, and the shadow he cast behind himself was worse than any demon with arms outspread.

  Wodan leaped and landed in the courtyard, shadows dancing around the flame as the green sword sliced anyone around him, sending the limbs of soldiers flying. A black robe prostrated himself with a pray
er of forgiveness on his lips going unheard. Wodan kicked the black robe's head clean off his shoulders and sent it bounding against one wall, then another. While black robes and soldiers trampled one another to get away, Jared looked down on him, heart blasting with terror.

  Wodan turned to look up at him. “Jared!” screamed Wodan, voice worn raw by his inhuman cry. “Jared, I'm going to kill you!”

  Immediately Jared pulled himself into the sky, and his elite Cognati followed. As they flew from the fire and the slaughter, Jared looked back and saw that Wodan had somehow leaped onto the wall. The soldiers tried to fight back, but were cut to pieces by the green-shining sword. Black robes pushed against one another in the single nearby doorway, crying and praying. A wave of gore fell on them, then Wodan was upon them, his sword passing through them, casting wild-eyed heads and limbs and spewing entrails over the stone wall.

  The Cognati followed Jared as he launched himself over the Temple and onto a secluded balcony far from the horror. He could see that the others were badly shaken. One even wept like a child.

  “Jared! He'll kill us with that sword of his!”

  Another Cognati whose face was drained of blood said, “They said Lucas was a prophet, and we killed him! Jared, what if Wodan is… I mean, you saw him fly! He's not human, he's some kind of angel and now-”

  Jared stepped through the man's thought-field and slapped him. “Weaklings! All of you, weaklings!” He was manic, adrenaline coursing through his system, his face pulled back as muscles tensed out of his control. “Don't you know we can do anything?!”

  “We've got to find Globulus!” said another, more angry than afraid. “That monster will find him and kill him, I know it!”

  “To hell with Globulus!” shouted Jared. “The old man's done. We do things my way from now on! Come!”