[Demonworld #6] The Love of Tyrants

by Kyle B. Stiff

  Setsassanar continued. “Leviathan is the great serpent of the deep, the terrifying primal depths where no thing that lives in the light of day can go. His power is the power of the mind and force of will. Leviathan represents the rulers. And he must, Wodan, he must be a predator.

  “There are no gaps between Leviathan’s scales. Unlike the beast that roams the land, Leviathan must be inflexible. His inflexibility prevents the weak from gaining admittance and possibly corrupting the entire structure.”

  “But I’m already a leader,” said Wodan. “I’m the king of a nation.”

  “A nation of anarchy where the citizens do as they will while the world slides into extinction.”

  “You don’t agree with my politics.”

  “Whether I do or do not, my opinion does not matter. What I do know is that the world does not have much time left. Not much time left at all. How you govern your nation is up to you, but the way you deal with humanity as a whole must be hardened, sharpened to a fine point. Sometimes spreading happiness in your wake only weakens the lives you touch. You have done this unconsciously, and I do not fault you for it. But the time for sleep-walking is over. You must wake up if you want to end this nightmare we are trapped in.

  “There are two systems of morality, Wodan. One of those systems is beloved by all. It is given from father to son. It is considered to be good and kind and forthright. It turns the other cheek even in the face of outrageous injustice. It is the morality you were born into. It is necessary that the majority of men follow it in order for any nation to sustain itself. It is the “right hand path”, the path most commonly used.

  “But the other path, the despised path, the “left hand path”, is now your path. Honesty, kindness, decency – these are only means in a set of tools that we must round out. You must learn dishonesty, cruelty, and a mode of behavior focused on accomplishment.”

  “It sounds like you want me to behave like a psychopath,” said Wodan, drawing away.

  “No. A psychopath is an automaton. A sleep-walker continually dishonest with himself. Of course, you will have to use others as tools to your own ends, but you will do so in service to your species. A psychopath takes what he wants and sleeps the sleep of the dead because he has no conscience to bother him. You, on the other hand, will lie awake at night while others sleep, never sure if you have done enough in your war against demonkind… and always, always planning how to use others in that very same war, ruining individual lives even as you assure the safety of the whole. We must make your shoulders strong and broad enough to carry the weight of sin that others are simply not equipped to carry.”

  Setsassanar grew quiet. Wodan could think of nothing to say. He felt a sort of vague disgust. He wanted to be free and to help others be free. But he also knew, from fighting the corrupt leaders of Haven, from fighting the Ugly and the Coil, from fighting the dogmen, from fighting the Smiths, and from fighting the demons, that there was something in him that drove him further than others. Others watched atrocities and were outraged, but their goodness shackled their hands with chains of fear. But nothing had ever stopped him. No man or beast ever stood in his path for long before it found itself crushed under his heel. Wodan could not argue with his harsh Master because, deep beneath his discomfort, he felt only the recurring thought that this strange, enigmatic superbeing could give him the world.

  Finally Wodan came out of his thoughts. “You wear an image of a dragon on your breast,” he said.

  “I do.”

  “A symbol of Leviathan?”

  “Yes... and no. Literally, it’s just an image, a reminder of an old friend long gone from this world.”

  “Your friend was a serpent?” said Wodan, rising suddenly.

  “Yes,” said Setsassanar, rising as well. “A member of the Leviathan. But he was murdered and I was exiled. But now the world is dying for that act, and it requires our return if it is to survive at all.”

  ***

  The next day began with more strength training. Wodan’s body was sore, but not nearly as sore as he thought it should be after taking such a severe beating. The Master mostly remained silent.

  “There are wires trailing from the machines into the floor,” said Wodan, finishing a set and flicking sweat onto the wall. “What are they for?”

  “To conduct motive power,” said Setsassanar. “I don’t want your calories completely wasted in this dull room. As you move the weights, some of the kinetic energy is diverted to my own storage systems.”

  Wodan moved to another machine, feeling his bulging arms as he walked. “Surely I’m not generating that much energy?”

  Setsassanar shrugged. “If you want to be the master of your own domain, you have to be prepared. I can’t ask anyone for help. I ran through my thorium reserves years ago, when I was young and foolish. I don’t waste anything these days. You’ll learn, too, how to quit throwing your energy away.”

  “Do I?”

  Setsassanar sighed. “Speak to the next weight machine, not to me. I’ve nothing to tell you now.”

  Wodan wondered if Setsassanar was disappointed in him. Surely he had done well enough fighting the robots yesterday? He thought of keeping his silence, but as he pushed against the weights his mind wandered and he heard himself speak. “Are you going to tell me more about the world that made you? About the Ancients?”

  “Such demands! Patience.”

  Setsassanar directed Wodan to the door that led to the combat training room. At once Wodan felt dread. “You’re not ready to hear of those things,” said Setsassanar. “The canvas must be stretched before I apply my paint. Come.”

  Wodan fought Robot Number Four again, then again, until his body was beaten nearly as badly as the day before, and his mind was whipped ragged by adrenaline and anger. Still, in all the torture, the Master offered no wise words and no helpful assistance. Forcing his face from the ground so that he could glare at the old tyrant, Wodan shouted, “I’m not doing any better than before! How can I learn to fight if you don’t teach me!”

  “You threw yourself at the machines with less fear than you did before,” said Setsassanar. “I would say you have already learned something. And both models fought harder than yesterday. Did you not notice?”

  Wodan wiped blood from one eye where his brow hung open. “All I noticed was pain!”

  “Then I suppose you have a lot to learn, Apprentice.”

  Wodan forced himself to his feet, legs shaking. Frustration thrashed about in his chest. “Take me to Dove Langley,” he said. “I want to see her!”

  “SexBot is in the next room, if you recall.”

  “I don’t want to have sex with some machine! I want to talk to Langley so I know you aren’t treating her like you’re treating me.”

  “Again, patience.”

  Wodan paused while he caught his breath. “You’ll let me see her? Soon?”

  “If I think you’ve earned it - yes.”

  Wodan stifled the sense of protest welling in him. Yohei shuffled forward with a few salty cubes on a tray, and Wodan ate in silence.

  I’ve got to stop these outbursts, thought Wodan. Both today and yesterday I got frustrated and made demands... but that only makes me look like a child in his eyes!

  Wodan munched the cubes. He stared down at Yohei’s comically pathetic face, then at the broken fighters on the floor. And it is childish of me. I came so far looking for a master, looking for someone who could show me how to become what I have the potential to be… and then I whine about it being too difficult. I complain when the rewards don’t come quickly enough.

  Then Wodan realized that he was eating standing up. Yesterday he had eaten off the floor.

  “I’m sorry for complaining,” said Wodan. “It won’t happen again.”

  Setsassanar smiled. It was the first time Wodan had seen him smile since that day’s training had begun.

  “Shall I fight again?” he said, ignoring the fear that Setsassanar would comply despite the fact that Wodan w
as badly in need of rest.

  “No. I don’t want to damage any of your internal organs. Time is short. Instead, I think you’ve earned a reward.”

  “Like what?” Wodan watched as Yohei dragged the fallen fighters about until their broken limbs were aligned properly.

  “Let’s view a drama.”

  “Like a story?”

  Setsassanar ignored the question and led Wodan through a darkened hallway. They came to the crystalline blue room that housed the glowing orb.

  “This is what you called the terminal port, for... various computer programs,” said Wodan.

  Two plush pillows sat on either side of the orb. The blue streaks within glowed softly, as if awaiting an audience.

  “Slave Circuit,” said Setsassanar, “bring up the Scry program.” At once the orb hummed with activity, then the walls shifted in color. An image came into focus all around them: A pale desert with clouds of sand raking across its surface. “We will watch a drama about two wasteland kings who stood against one another.”

  “This technology! It’s amazing!”

  “As is the story. But you already know how it begins.”

  “I do?”

  “You should. It’s about your own apprentice.” Setsassanar smiled wickedly.

  Wodan’s guts coiled around a knot. Then realization dawned on him. He laughed, feigning a carefree attitude. “You’re going to show me that old fool Barkus! Whatever plot of ground did he end up in?”

  Setsassanar placed his hands on the orb terminal, then said, “We’ll review... six days ago.”

  As light shifted on the face of the orb, the images on the wall flowed, broke, reformed. Wodan saw the dark entrance of a cave. Slayers with torches entered. Barkus stumbled slightly at the entrance, fearful and apprehensive. Wodan saw himself enter, his great sword strapped to his back. His eyes looked hard, his shining face unreadable. Even without the dank smell of that place, the sounds and images from strange night brought back the feeling. The sense of imminent destiny, of completion. The feeling of a cleansing act that fulfilled a man’s need for violent justice.

  In the Scry recording Wodan commanded, “Sit down,” then ignored the old man as he fumbled about in the torchlight, looking for a place to sit. The Slayers, two meat-faced men with beards, heavy brows and sharp eyes, dropped their gear and leaned against the wall on either side of the entrance. Wodan felt about his belongings and finally drew out paper and writing utensils.

  It was shocking to see his own face like a quiet storm, and to see Barkus peering at him, obviously in terror, his mangled mouth working lamely. The two Slayers casually lit up small, thin cigars and watched the old man with detached disinterest.

  They’re so non-regimented, thought Wodan. You wouldn’t think they were some of my best fighters.

  “What... what will you... do with me?” said Barkus. He seemed out of breath.

  “Write down your life story,” said Wodan, quickly licking the end of a pen before dipping it in ink. “What little of it that’s left, that is.”

  “My... st-story?”

  “Yes. A record of your crimes, Barkus. Please, begin.”

  The old man threw his eyes about the floor, then rubbed long, bony fingers in his matted hair. “You want me to... to, uh, list the... the things-”

  “Yes, everything. All of your crimes. Start wherever you like.”

  Nearly a full minute went by as the old man threw his eyes about, cleared his throat, rubbed his hands in his beard. Then finally he muttered, “My first crime... I was born into sin.”

  “In this court,” Wodan said sharply, “you will be judged by Black Valley law. It is not a crime to be born. Continue.”

  Barkus rubbed his haggard face for another full minute. “Then, I guess… when I was young... I don’t remember what age... I killed my father. With my brothers. I held my little brother’s hand and... he was just a child, then. We snuck in, the three of us, while my father was bathing. We stabbed him. Mostly it was my older brother Bartholomaias. But Boris, I... I helped him to stay calm. To stay quiet. I helped him to put his knife in, too...”

  “Murder,” said Wodan, then scribbled the word on paper. “Go on.”

  In fits and starts, Barkus continued. At first Wodan often cut him off, saying things like, “Intoxication is not illegal under Black Valley law,” and, “Exchanging money for sex is not illegal in this court,” and, “Betraying information from one acquaintance to another is between you and the betrayed.” Still, even before Barkus muddled through the sordid tale of his teen years Wodan had several pages of paper that read:

  Murder

  Theft

  Theft

  Theft

  Theft

  Murder

  Theft

  Murder

  Theft

  Rape

  Rape

  Theft

  Murder

  Theft

  Theft

  Theft

  Theft

  Once Barkus warmed up to the telling and told in sweeping gestures how he led his clansmen into the wasteland to gather primitives for slave labor, killing any who resisted, Wodan filled page after page with the horrifying account.

  Many hours passed. Finally Barkus reached the end, head hanging and shoulders sagging.

  “Have you any possessions to repay your debt?” said Wodan.

  “Debt?”

  “To your species.”

  “N-no. I only have this old robe.”

  In frigid silence the King of the Black Valley methodically went through the list. It had been years since he’d sat as judge in a court. To go over each crime individually and append some unique punishment would have taken days, weeks. To lump all the crimes into one - traitor to his species - would call for a simple judgement of bullet to the head. Wodan wanted to do neither. Instead, he took only one hour to flip through the pages and affix his judgement. The end result looked like:

  Murder - 40 lashes 10 whacks

  Murder - 40 lashes 10 whacks

  Rape - 30 lashes 7 whacks

  Theft - 10 lashes 3 whacks

  Murder - 40 lashes 10 whacks

  Theft - 10 lashes 3 whacks

  Theft - 10 lashes 3 whacks

  Theft - 10 lashes 3 whacks

  Murder - 40 lashes 10 whacks

  Theft - 10 lashes 3 whacks

  Rape - 30 lashes 7 whacks

  Theft - 10 lashes 3 whacks

  Theft - 10 lashes 3 whacks

  Murder - 40 lashes 10 whacks

  “Here,” said Wodan, handing the massive sheaf to one Slayer. “I’ve granted you mercy, Barkus.”

  The old man lifted his head, eyes wide with expectation.

  “In light of the fact that you did not understand Valley law, I’ve given you the minimum sentence possible for each crime.” Before Barkus could ask for further explanation, Wodan turned to the two Slayers. “You’ll work in shifts. Do not give him too much at once. He’s an old man, and I don’t want him to get off easily. By dying, I mean.”

  Barkus’s head whipped about as one of the Slayers produced a long rawhide whip, swirling it casually along the dark, dank floor.

  “But, Wodan,” said Barkus, stammering. “I... I can’t... I won’t survive if you...”

  Wodan ignored the old man as he spoke to the other Slayer. “But remember to not go easy on him, either. This criminal endured pain in a professional capacity for a number of years. He even sliced up his own lips and face in order to secure his position. When it comes to dealing with pain, I’m sure he has a number of tricks up his sleeve. Crying out in agony is probably only one of them.”

  Wodan rose to leave. One of the large, brutish Slayers lifted Barkus’s robe up by the hem, pulled it over his head, and revealed his nakedness. Meanwhile the other set about tying a coarse rope about his ribs. As Wodan left the cave, Barkus screamed, “Wodan! Please! Don’t do this! Boy, don’t do this to me, please!”

  Wodan leaned against a large stone and prepared to
push it over the entrance. “I’ve left some material to stuff between the cracks of the entrance when you enter and leave the cave,” said Wodan, ignoring the old man once again. “It should prevent anyone from hearing anything.”

  With that, the King of the Black Valley pushed a large boulder before the entrance of the cave, sealing Barkus the Penitent off from the rest of the world.

  Wodan’s attention was jerked away from the recording by Setsassanar’s laughter.

  “And now,” he said, “let’s see how your old friend is doing!”

  The images shifted, then settled on a nightmare scene from the pit of hell. An old man bound on the floor, shaking in a puddle, another man casually flicking a whip against his back, a line of red forming alongside thousands of other dark lines, then again, flick-crack, flick-crack, while in the background another man sat hunched over, eyes shut, ears deaf to the guttural barks and howls of their prisoner.

  “I thought he would die!” shouted Wodan. “How can... oh gods, I thought he would just die!”

  Setsassanar laughed. He leaned back, clapping his hands, obviously enjoying the sadistic drama.

  “I should have just shot him in the head!” said Wodan. “Gods, it’s been nearly a week, how can he be alive?!”

  “Yes, a younger Wodan would have granted him the mercy of a bullet. You reacted with horror last night when I spoke of Leviathan and his cruelty. But look, Apprentice. Look how easy it is! Even I was fooled by your dishonest show of naiveté.” Setsassanar’s lips spread in a vulgar mockery of a smile. “And now I wonder, Apprentice… should I be disgusted, or should I be proud?”

  Chapter Nineteen

  Leviathan's Runts

  Wodan entered a large chamber with a high ceiling lost in mist. Dark gray stones towered on all sides, like smooth mountains in miniature. Bamboo shafts rose from flowerbeds. As he climbed over stones and leaped from perch to perch, he realized that the ascent would be impossible for any normal man. For him the exertion was easy and invigorating.