Perseval sniffed loudly, then said, “No, why.”
“Because you’re a Vallier now.”
With that, King Wodan continued down the stairs. Perseval sat and let the tears flow, burning and cracking his old mask. He watched the King disappear into the night, and finally he understood the world Wodan had made, and he understood why only he could rule it.
Chapter Eight
Vendicci... Revenger!
All of the families gathered in the dark ravine, a narrow place where they could make a fire without being seen. Figures sat crouching in huddled groups, pale bald heads sticking out from fur cloaks. The coughing was constant. Rough hands with dirty claws scratched at scabbed-over sores. A mother held a small child covered in blue veins, its eyes crusted over with dried mucus. Vrrd sat among them. He held a long, rusted piece of metal, and flicked the sharp end back and forth, an open invitation to anyone who wanted to quarrel.
Even Vrrd had trouble counting their numbers. He was one of the few who could count in sets, which was the secret of letting one finger represent an entire hand of fingers. When all of the clan-families were finally together, he guessed that they numbered... he had to count by double-hands. Ten fingers multiplied by six fingers, at least. An impressive sum.
But no so impressive, he thought, when you considered that this was the sum of his people, the last of his race, the lowborn, who only became less and less while the highborn grew and grew. This was why the clan-families had come together. Something had to be done, or they would cease to be.
Someone made a gesture and then the males who could speak gathered in the center and stood near a fire. Vrrd rose to join them, then laid his metal stick across his knees as he sat once more. His strength was known, and he did not need to carry a weapon in order to be respected. All the same, he had not earned a superior reputation by walking around unarmed and unprepared.
Finally Four Winters was led into the circle. His body was decrepit, a host to dozens of diseases. His eyes were blind, milky orbs set into a knobby skull that bounced on a thin neck. He alone of the inner circle was a mute, like so many of their people. It was said that he was so old he could remember when none of them spoke. But he was the wisest of their people, and by using the hand language he could address those who had come at his behest.
Four Winters took a coughing fit that lasted for several long minutes. Many others took to coughing as well, a polite acknowledgment of all their suffering. Vrrd watched the stars above, though it was difficult for all the smoke. Finally Four Winters clapped his hands together and they watched the words in his gestures.
Every generation we get stronger. Every generation we get weaker.
A strange thing to say, Vrrd decided. This was a part of Four Winters’s genius; he could say strange things, then help them to make sense if one had the ability to listen and understand.
Here is truth, he gestured. Children are stronger than their parents. Our bodies grow stronger all the time. I have seen highborn without guns fight lowborn, and lowborn win. But lowborn do not have guns. We can outrun them, too. But we grow weaker all the time. Our numbers are less every year. Highborn hunt families like animals. So I mean that one lowborn can get stronger and stronger, but all of us together, we get weaker. And there is always sickness. If you ignore my words, you will die.
Vrrd could picture it in his mind, and he guessed that some others could, too. Four Winters was a great one. Strange, that he could be such a master of words, and not even be able to speak! Though he was too old and weak to hunt, Vrrd respected him greatly.
Four Winters took another coughing fit. The father of a large family said, “I speak now,” but Four Winters hissed at him like a wild animal, stabbing his bony arms in the air, and so the father grew quiet.
Listen to me! Here is a plan which I have discussed with some. It is this. We must understand that this land is no longer ours. If we want to have more great-grandchildren, then we must leave. All of us.
There was great shouting and hissing. Vrrd suspected that there were some among them who could not even understand hand gestures, but joined in just to be heard. Disgusted, Vrrd sucked in air until he felt the tickle that threatened to become a cough, then blasted out a great roar that echoed off the walls of the ravine. Finally the others grew still.
There is more to the plan. It has two parts. If one fails, maybe the other will not. You have heard the first part, now hear the other. We know that the Great Father of the highborn gives them power and makes them do the things they do. We know that he is strong. So while most of us will leave the land, a few strong lowborn will stay behind to kill the enemy Great Father. Now you know both parts of the plan… it has two parts. Most of us will choose Life, but a few will become Death. They will stay behind and kill the enemy Father...
While Four Winters rambled on with his bony hands, Vrrd shook with excitement. He knew that it was his destiny to be a member of the assassins, and that he would kill the Great Father of the highborn. How he hated the highborn. The highborn had everything, limitless food, warmth in winter, guns that could kill with a gesture. His own people had nothing. They were only creatures to be slaughtered, problems made to disappear because they did not benefit the highborn. But Vrrd was a great fighter and hunter, and his intelligence was matched only by a few. He knew that he could lead the assassins. The sense of destiny was so great in him that it even surpassed the thing he felt when looking at the brightly colored pictures of the books he’d gathered from highborn garbage dumps. Few of his kinsmen could appreciate the pictures. Many could not even understand that the abstract lines and shading were actually representations of people and objects. But Vrrd understood.
After much debate, the larger families decided to go along with Four Winters’s plan, and the smaller families followed their lead. Some volunteered for the assassination. The merits of each candidate were discussed, then Four Winters gave his final approval or disapproval. One who had lured a slayer to his den, then killed him with a stone, was approved. Another who had kidnapped a lone highborn female, then kept her for the amusement of his brothers until she died, was also approved. When another who was hated by those who had a long memory - he had stolen an actual gun, then broke the thing before they could understand its workings - was approved, Vrrd knew that he would surely be allowed admittance.
“Listen!” he shouted suddenly. “I am Vrrd. Many of you know me. I am strong, and I can speak. I am a hunter. I volunteer! I will kill the Great Father and save our people, even if I die. Those who call us ghouls… they will eat our hatred and choke on it!”
Many of the others gave their loud approval.
Four Winters gestured, What does this name look like?
Vrrd strode up to the wise one, then knelt. Since he was blind, Vrrd traced out his name directly onto his bony chest. An upraised fist striking downward, followed by an open palm gliding slowly on a horizontal plane. This meant that not only was he strong, he could also sneak and go unseen if he had to.
I know you and know your name. You will not kill the Great Father. You will come with us. You will choose life. Do not growl. This is final.
Crushed, Vrrd backed away. How one so wise could not see his destiny filled him with such rage that he even thought about raising his weapon and bashing in the old one’s head.
He sat and watched as six lowborn fighters were chosen for the team of assassins. Vrrd decided that he could best any of them in a fight. But then Vrrd noticed a pattern: All of those who were chosen were not especially strong or smart, but they had done something to hurt the highborn. The assassins were chosen for malice over prowess, it seemed. Still, noticing the pattern did little to cool his anger.
While a holy woman prayed over the six assassins, they discussed the particulars of the plan for those who would go and live in another land. Avoiding the cold mountains, they would cross into the southlands. They knew it was large and inhospitable, so they would take with them a great store of supplies and move u
ntil they came to a new land, a land where they could grow and become highborn themselves.
***
The weak were made to carry dead animals and water sealed in highborn containers, and they went into the burning lands far from home. They had only the vision of Four Winters to guide them: Walk, and keep walking, until we find a new home.
The heat during the day dried out their skin and sores and many of them had cracked faces that peeled until they shone bright pink. Those who could speak complained until it seemed that only the mute among them had any sense, until they too fell to hissing and bickering. At first Vrrd ranged out with other hunters, but there was no easy game and the fear of becoming lost continually slowed them down, so eventually they stayed with the herd and ate only what they brought. Their water did not last long. Vrrd missed his home. He imagined highborn men finding the cave where he used to live and pillaging the things he’d left behind. He dreamed of running home and killing them.
One day as they rested, Vrrd pulled a few of the picture books from his bundle and looked through them, hoping to escape his situation for a few moments. A male from another family came up to him and leaned over so that his shade covered the pictures. Vrrd turned away. The other did not leave. “Why do you look at that highborn garbage?” he said.
Rage tore through him and without hesitation Vrrd picked up his metal stick and swung the sharp end into the other's face. He fell back, howling, covering his face. Vrrd could see black goo spurting between his fingers and knew that his face must have been split open. While Vrrd bashed his head in, the victim’s brothers rose shrieking and ran at him. Vrrd fled to a stony rise, leaped on top of a boulder, then swung about and caught a runner in the side of the head, dropping him. As the others tried to climb after him, Vrrd swung at heads and shoulders, bellowing like an animal. Four lay dead before others came and restrained the brothers. Vrrd fled farther up the rise, hissing and spitting in defiance. His head swam with anger and thirst.
“Listen!” someone shouted. “Listen! Four Winters speaks! Watch!”
Vrrd, the old one signaled with jerky movements. Why do you do this thing?
“He insulted me! I killed him! I killed others who helped him!”
Was his insult so great that it was greater than our plan? He could have helped us reach our new home!
“He insulted me! Made me feel small! I killed him!”
Vrrd prepared to shout as loudly as he could in order to send a message to anyone else who wanted to challenge him, but Four Winters gestured, Vrrd, you are powerful. But when you hunt a bull, and the bull gores your ankle, do you become angry and strike the horn of the bull?
“No! I stab his belly! I kill him!”
Then why do you strike at the horn of the bull now? Vrrd, you have done that which is unimportant. Here is a lesson, Vrrd. This thing we do is great. It is survival itself. Survival for us all. Vrrd, when you use your power, you must strike at what is important, not what is unimportant. Do you understand?
The faces of all the slobbering, growling lowborn disappeared as Vrrd saw the truth of it. The big picture. Dropping a little thing while on the path of something greater. It was difficult, but it was a truth.
“I see it!” he said. “I thought that I did right, but I did not!”
Then come down and join your brothers again. You did not do so bad. You have provided us with a meal, at least! We will not fault you.
When Vrrd came down he saw others stripping the dead and tearing into their stomachs and limbs with their teeth, cracked lips peeled back from black gums. Vrrd endured their scornful looks. He pushed someone away from the dead, lifted one limp hand, and bit into the bony fingers.
***
Their food and water were gone within days. They could barely sleep under the burning sun. When night came and the old and the weak refused to rise, the lowborn would gather around, open their veins, drink, and then eat.
One night the moon was full and bright and they saw something amazing. The hunters in front ducked, signaled, and pointed upwards, and everyone watched as the ships of the highborn sailed overhead, covering the face of the stars, flashing as they carried fires to distant lands. They watched in silence as the ships passed overhead. One mute hunter signaled that he had seen other ships just the other day. One old woman seemed to go insane with despair, signaling that the highborn world was larger than they had figured, and that maybe all worlds belonged to them already.
One mute gestured angrily, We should have gone into the mountains! It would have been cold, but we could have covered ourselves in fur cloaks! What can cover us out here?! The highborn, the sun, everything in the world hates us!
Vrrd watched as nearly every mute gestured without listening. He pounded his metal stick on the hard earth, then said, “Shut up! Four Winters is great. His plan is difficult, but good. Your bad ideas only make you weak. Your weakness will make the rest of us weak. And then you won't even be good enough to eat.”
The next morning only one of them died, an old female, so they had little to eat. A fight broke out over who should suck out the marrow from a thighbone. The arguments ended when someone with good eyes called out and said that he had seen a wrecked highborn airship. Vrrd and several hunters crept ahead and, sure enough, they saw a highborn airship perched atop a hill of white sand. They watched highborn men walking back and forth along the deck.
“We should attack,” said one hunter. “Who can say how fat they are with food and water?”
An older hunter signaled, Dangerous. Highborn who look alone are not. They have ways of speaking and being heard over long distances. Others may come.
“Stupid!”
“No, it's true,” said Vrrd. “But we are desperate. We must attack.”
They crept back to the others and Vrrd explained the situation. “Four Winters,” he said, “I believe this is a thing worth doing. I remember your lesson.”
Four Winters nodded his old head, which by now looked like a dried up sponge. Do it. But if you fail, we all die.
Vrrd picked three sets of five males armed with spears and knives. They were the strongest of the lowborn, but they were all wheezing, blinking, and teetering back and forth.
“Wake up!” Vrrd shouted. “Even if you die, get your revenge first!”
The hunters set out. Vrrd saw the pale moon watching them from the heavens and he knew that the survival of their people truly did hang on the outcome of this attack. When they drew near, they came to a field of boulders and crept from stone to stone. Vrrd felt his mind sharpen; the face of every stone stood out in sharp relief. He felt nothing save a hot, empty clarity. He peered around a boulder and saw a man leaning over the side of the wooden airship. His face was unbelievably smooth, shining in the night. His strange hair blew in the wind, and his eyes were like clear diamonds sparkling with life.
They are gods, thought Vrrd, tightening his grip on his weapon. They are great in all ways.
“Kill,” he said, glancing at his hunters.
They loped over the rocks and flew across the sandy stretch toward the ship. It was at least twenty-five feet high on one side. The hunters leaped, dug their weapons or claws into the side, and clambered upward easily. Vrrd swung over the side and fell into a crouch. He saw in sharp detail the terrified expressions of the highborn, beautiful men and women that were shocking to behold. Their piercing screams seemed wild and alien, then they were drowned out by gunfire. Vrrd felt the wood shake as some of his brothers fell over the side. Vrrd ran, swung his weapon, and his wrists stung as he connected and a man’s head came apart and splashed heavily onto the deck.
His brothers ran past on either side, swinging and shrieking. In disjointed flashes Vrrd saw a man with a knife stand before him. The blade thrust forward slowly, slowly, and as if in a dream he saw himself sidestep and bring his metal stick thrashing upward, breaking the man’s arm at the elbow before jamming the sharp end into his belly. A woman ran and he jerked her head back by her hair. His claws raked ag
ainst her back, tearing her shirt as he cast her down. He saw the smoothness of her back and was overcome by the beauty of the bright skin and gently sloping curve, then he crushed her spine with several blows from the metal stick. He stood still and heard other highborn crying out before silence took them, craning his head to listen to the strange, rich notes. They were such an amazing people.
His sense of hard reality returned once his team of hunters finished their work. Some fell to their knees and began eating immediately, but others called out from below decks. Slipping on blood, he moved to join them.
The ship was fat with crates of food and barrels of water. Vrrd sighed with relief. Just then a gun went off and one of his brothers dropped a smoking gun, clutching at his ruined chest. He looked at Vrrd apologetically as black blood seeped through his fingers, then he crashed to the floor.
“Idiot,” Vrrd hissed. “You! You there. Go and tell the others that we have a lot of food.”
Vrrd gorged himself on delicious spiced meat, washed it down with cool, refreshing water, then ate a piece of bread while he explored a room. In a drawer he found jewels and pieces of dark cloth bearing serpentine designs of every imaginable color. He covered himself in motley gear. He found a belt made to carry a gun, then slung the thing around his neck and put the gun that had killed his brother in the holster so that it clattered against his chest reassuringly.
For hours they gutted the ship and relaxed on soft chairs and beds. One who could speak loudly sang, “Vrrd the Hunter! Vrrd the Highborn Killer!” while several mutes clapped and grunted. Another tossed a heavy cloak onto his back. Vrrd’s calloused fingers stroked the material lovingly, then he put leather gloves on and his hands felt powerful and immortal.
[Demonworld #6] The Love of Tyrants Page 10