[Demonworld #6] The Love of Tyrants

by Kyle B. Stiff

  “But if we go now, before they've dug in, before they've found their stride-”

  “Then the dogmen and scoundrels they're throwing money at to protect them will fight hard because they're still excited about the money and power they've come into. If we wait, the guards will have grown to hate their masters. The Representatives' true natures will be out for everyone to see. The people will hate them. They might even overthrow them for us.”

  Yarek mulled it over. “That's far too idealistic. People don't 'rise up' and 'take matters into their own hands' or anything like that. Normal people keep their heads down, dig in, and grumble about the things they hate. It's people like us who are fire starters. Normal people need people like us because we get things moving.”

  “And that's what we'll do – when the time is right.”

  “Which is… when?”

  “When I'm ready.”

  They looked at one another, each contending with the other's formidable will.

  “You do what you want,” said Wodan. “But right now, I want you to keep our people safe while they're in a strange land.”

  “Your cruelty shocks me sometimes,” said Yarek. Wodan was thrown off balance. Cruelty? He had seen Yarek do incredibly brutal things during the war. To both sides.

  “You think me cruel?” said Wodan. “Remember what I told you long ago. If ever I become… inhumanly cruel, then you need to...”

  “Kill you. I remember. And if you ask me… you already are.”

  Yarek rose and left.

  ***

  Wodan walked among the rocky hills at the foot of the mountains. It was sunset. A strip of deep red shone on the horizon, dividing gray land from gray cloud cover.

  A thousand caves in these hills, Wodan thought. If Yarek put a single sniper out here, that would be the end of me.

  Wodan stood tall on a cracked boulder and looked around.

  He was disappointed that I didn't want to help the Valliers. But after poking fun at him during the newspaper incident… now I've fulfilled his criteria for a killing. He doesn't want to serve a monster.

  Wodan spotted the round stone in the distance, marked by a narrow path. He stepped down and made his way there.

  Smart thing would be to kill him first. But it wouldn't be long-term smart. I want to surround myself with competent people. Not fawning losers. And Yarek is one of the most capable, focused men I’ve ever known. We wouldn't have won the war without him. I don't have a mind for tactics, not like he does. I did well on the frontlines, or alone in the field. I did a good job inspiring whoever happened to be nearby. But planning ambushes? Supply routes? Using terrain to funnel the enemy around?

  If I had been my own general… the war would have ended up in the mountains or caves, with me leading a final stand against superior forces. I would have fought and fought until the Smiths could move artillery into position to seal our fate. We would have lost.

  Wodan rolled the stone away with his hand. He heard a metal rod hit the ground, no doubt a tool used by the Slayers to move the stone when going in or out. He entered and saw the two men standing frozen with hands on holstered sidearms. Wodan nodded and the men relaxed.

  “Rock was movin' so fast,” said one, “I thought one o' them wizards was waving his hand at it.”

  They never drew, thought Wodan. That's why they're special forces.

  Wodan entered and, in the warm glow of the oil lamp, saw the crumpled, emaciated, naked body of Barkus. He was laid face-down on a blanket. His back and legs were purple. He seemed to be dead. Wodan stood over him. Listening carefully, he could hear wheezing. Wet marks on his back rose and fell.

  “Still alive?” said Wodan.

  “Yea-a-ah,” said one of the men, sighing loudly. “It just about beats all reason, sir.”

  “You've been cleaning him? Forcing him to eat and drink water? Giving him breaks?”

  “Yes sir, yes we have.”

  The other Slayer cleared his throat, then said, “He won't get out of this on account o' neglect, sir.”

  Barkus stirred suddenly, jerked from unconsciousness. He turned dark bloodshot eyes on Wodan. He stared, wondering if he was in another dream.

  “Wo… Wodan!” he said. “You have… help… stop...”

  In a flash Wodan grabbed the blanket under Barkus and whipped it out from under him, rolling him onto the cold stone floor. Skinny limbs flailing, the old man latched onto Wodan's leg with surprising quickness. With a dancer's grace Wodan twisted his leg so that Barkus rolled onto his back, then placed a foot against his chest, pinning him. The old man wheezed painfully, face contorted beneath the pale black sun tattoo.

  “You think you can't breathe?” said Wodan. “Imagine how I feel.”

  Flame and shadow flickered along Wodan's immobile face. If Yarek found out about this, thought Wodan, he'd kill me for sure. He's right. I'm the cruel one. Yarek was brutal during the war, but he never tortured anyone. He wanted clean kills and a quick victory. But me? What am I doing here?

  “Wodan… you have to...”

  “So he still hasn't said what I want him to say?” said Wodan.

  “Naw, sir,” said a Slayer. “He's begged, pleaded, you know. He's tried to threaten, too. After that he tried turnin' us against you. Mm, let's see… he's tried to trick us, say what he thought we wanted to hear.”

  The other man snorted.

  “These men aren't stupid,” said Wodan, turning to Barkus. “People like you always assume everyone is a complete imbecile. You think no one sees through you. Hey. Are you awake, old man? Are you listening? Barkus, you've got to stop worshipping yourself. It's shameful and embarrassing.”

  “Wha…? But… but I… I don't...”

  “Gods, Barkus. You're sickening. You're a real piece of work. You really think you can trick me, don't you?” Wodan bore his foot down. “You have this story that you tell yourself, and you expect others to go along. You used violence when you were young, now you just play-act like an innocent child. This whole act of contrition, this harmless old man game. This victim act. Your self-loathing isn't cute, it's an error in thinking. You think the universe made a mistake when it made you. You think you're the sole exception to the perfection of everything. You! What nerve! You think the most sensible thing to do is to hate yourself. To loathe yourself and make a drama of self-deprecation for everyone to see. Grow up, Barkus.”

  “I don't… I swear, I don't… don’t know what...”

  “You think this is about revenge. Don't you? You think I’m getting my revenge on you. Idiot! I got all the anger out of my system when I yelled at you the night we ran into each other, weeks ago. I'm a smart man, Barkus. Do you know any smart people who think about revenge? That's the sort of thing that dopes think about. No, this is charity. This is me helping you to stop being such a whiny victim.”

  “Wodan… I can't… it's just too...”

  Wodan shook his head. “Obviously I haven't done my job!”

  He stepped off the old man. “Playtime's over, gentlemen. He's been stealing our time, our effort, oil from this lamp, and the paper I used to record his crimes. That must be repaid. Add twenty pages of theft along with ample punishment.”

  “No! No, Wodan! Please!”

  “And no going easy on him!” said Wodan, already pushing the stone aside. “He's pretending to be weak. Don't fall for it!”

  As the old man shook on the cold floor, the Slayers stubbed out their smokes and returned to work. Wodan sealed the door to the lower realms once again and walked into the night.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  The Redeemer

  Wodan stepped down into the cave and saw the old man beaten and whipped. Screaming, horrible screaming. The old man strained to look up at him. It was his own father!

  “Oh no!” said Wodan. “There's been a misunderstanding!”

  “Son! Help me! Don't do this to me!”

  The Slayers had monstrous faces, leering grins pulled back impossibly far. Shoulders jerking, lau
ghing at his father's agony.

  “Dad! I'm sorry!” The words were a shrill rasp in his throat. Why couldn't anyone hear him?

  His father lifted a bloody hand toward him. “I'm sorry!” he said. “I'm sorry I couldn't give you what you needed! I did my best! I did my best!”

  Wodan tried to run toward him but a leash tied to his throat stopped him. “Dad!” he said, wheezing. “I wish I could go back! I'd give anything to work with you at the grocery!”

  The words caught in his throat, cut off by the tightening leash. Wodan looked up, a dog peering up at its master, and saw the cruel face of Setsassanar looking down at him. He was dressed in a fine suit, laughing as they tortured Wodan's father, a poor laborer who had nothing but-

  Wodan jerked awake, heart pounding. Someone leaned over him, shaking him, and Wodan grabbed his arm to stop from falling.

  Zachariah hissed in pain as the extricated his arm from Wodan's vice grip. “You okay?” said Zachariah. “You have a nightmare?”

  He watched as Wodan looked around the room like a wild animal. Calm settled as he remembered they had set up in a large house in Temple Grounds. The wood grain walls mixed with stone, the oil lamp, the painting of the Redeemer's body nailed onto the Execution Cross – all became familiar once again.

  “Listen,” said Zachariah. “I know you won't want to do this, you have plans of your own, I'm sure, but… I want you to come to the Deepest Vale with me. I've been there and it's… it's a place of magic. I thought if I told you that, then maybe, just maybe – oh, you want to go? Look at you, you're already packed and everything. Wow. Thing is, I was going to give seven arguments presenting a case for why you should come with me. Now, most of these arguments are based on traditional modes of logic, but the fourth argument is especially interesting because it's based on Diodemas's non-recursive logic. You remember him, don't you? The shoemaker from Prometea? He was… well, that's a tangent. Even though you've already decided on going, maybe I could give you the arguments for going while we're en route. Actually, I’ll just start now – oh, you're already dressed. Never saw anyone put their boots on that fast be-”

  With an impatient wave, the door closed. Zachariah found himself alone, wondering how exactly he'd convinced the King with such ease.

  ***

  The two rushed through the streets of Temple Grounds and did not slow down until they were on a beaten, raised ridge of dirt that took them southeast through lowlands filled with water and tall reeds.

  “You did or did not talk to him?” said Zachariah.

  “What?” said Wodan.

  “To Yarek, I mean. You were mumbling, I couldn't make out your response.”

  Wodan realized that he had spaced out for a mile or more. “Sorry,” he said. “What was the question?”

  “I was asking if Yarek got you up to speed on things.”

  “The... newspapers?” said Wodan.

  Zachariah looked at him sidelong. “What, are you floating around like some kind of ancient space-machine? I'll start over. Yarek says we should be on the lookout for that giant monster. Says it's foolish for us to stray out of Temple Grounds.”

  Wodan thought for a moment. “He thinks all the newcomers have stirred it up, but now that the pass is better defended, it'll come into the valley looking for easier targets.”

  “So you did talk to him, then?”

  Wodan shook his head. “It makes sense. Sort of.”

  “Did you know that thing has eaten a lot of San Ktari soldiers? On the far side of the mountains, that is.”

  “So Won Po has to conquer a land that won't fight back and kill a god that can't be hurt.”

  “He's got more problems than that,” Zachariah said with a strange smile. “He's got soldiers defecting.”

  “What!”

  “It's true. The Kommander's been issuing increasingly harsh rules against defecting.”

  “A good sign something is out of control.”

  “Right. But more than that, Jarl has access to the Temple, and he says he's seen more orange robes who look tough. Physically fit, I mean.”

  Wodan thought the matter over. Most of the Vallier military men they'd brought with them seemed completely bored by the Temple, or any foreign religion. They were more interested in seeing sights, or drinking, or arguing in order to protect whatever religion they were born into. The chances of any of them defecting were close to zero, and it wasn't because they were any more loyal or dedicated than the soldiers of San Ktari. What was happening?

  It was the draft. San Ktari had artificially inflated its military by forcing more people to join. It was no different from forcing people into schools and then expecting them to become scholars, or printing more money and then expecting the economy to become stronger. Strangely enough, the most awe-inspiring, most dangerous military machine in the world wanted to be doing something else. Its leg wanted to take a nap, its arm wanted to cook, its eyes wanted to see paintings. It was an incoherent being. Any time Wodan dealt with one of his military men, he could trust that he was in the presence of someone who wanted to handle weapons and be on the lookout for danger. There was no question that it might be otherwise, so he never had to consider using fear to enforce obedience.

  Won Po may end up shelling the Temple, he thought.

  The path went around a bend covered in tall reeds. In the distance, Wodan could hear Jarl and Magog speaking, but he could tell that Zachariah could not hear them, his senses being duller.

  While listening to the pair discuss how the tone of comic books might change in light of imminent demonic invasion, Wodan looked down at Zachariah. He was filled with sorrow. He could see lines of age on the man's face, splotches where the sun slowly cooked him and cell repair processes could not keep up. His beard looked worn out, like an old animal who laid down for one last slumber from which it would not wake. He blinked too often, a sensitive body used to taking hurts from the world. His teeth were yellowed and cracked. White hairs peeked out from odd corners, and looked like a society that did not bury their dead but propped them up and pretended as if they were still living.

  And yet he was only in his early thirties, still considered attractive by Vallier women. To Wodan, he seemed small and stiff, an old doll covered in dust. A half-being straining for its creator to complete his work and make him whole.

  Wodan remembered how the Engels had seemed to him at first. Inhumanly beautiful, as graceful as animals. Perfect, in the sense that they displayed qualities beyond normal human measure. And now Wodan truly understood that he was like them.

  How do I seem in his eyes? Wodan wondered. Like a film star from Haven? Like an alien being? Like a… a god?

  He felt himself leaning over an abyss. There was an encroaching sense of unraveling. I could easily lose my connection to these people. To my friends… to my species. I could build a tower and… but why would I bother with fighting demons after that? They would surely look like barking dogs fighting over scraps. But then what would I be… if I didn’t… what would I...

  Wodan looked away from Zachariah. Fortunately his friend never picked up on the fact that he was being stared at. From Zachariah's perspective, Wodan had merely glanced in his direction. There had been no time for a crisis of identity to occur.

  They rounded the wall of reeds and saw a gently sweeping green hill under gray sky where Magog sat on a squat boulder while Jarl leaned on his staff. Again Magog was half-naked, hairy and pale as a fish with bony limbs poking out from a fat belly. Jarl was dapper as usual, his red cloak matching heeled boots and tall hat. Magog saw them and waved, then Jarl took notice. His eyes narrowed.

  “There he is,” said Jarl. “The traitor!”

  Wodan's face burned. Did Jarl know he had refused to save the people of the Black Valley? Did he know about Barkus, trapped and tortured by their military? Did he know that he'd abandoned Langley to the whims of a tyrannical god-being?

  Jarl pointed at Zachariah. “There's the man who had a chance to go to the Deepe
st Vale, a treasure trove of living myth, and then thoughtlessly left his friend and Entertainer behind.”

  Zachariah snorted. “You were obsessed with your god-bothering books in the Temple. No doubt you were praying for an opportunity to suck up to the High Priest!”

  The two men argued as they walked and Wodan was never sure if they were simply greeting one another roughly or were truly annoyed.

  ***

  They continued down the path, the philosopher and entertainer arguing, the king annoyed with them both, and the artist observing crickets and cloud formations. They came to a woman who stood beside the path, waiting for them. Her hair was long and blond, curling slightly only at the very ends. She had pale lips, and wore a pale green dress and a necklace of dried flowers. She looked quiet and resolute. Zachariah waved to her.

  “This is Yardalen,” he said as they stopped before her. “She'll be taking us into the Deepest Vale to see Lucas.”

  “Who?” said Wodan.

  “The son of God,” said the woman.

  “Son of God?” said Wodan, as if hearing the phrase for the first time.

  After a moment of silence, Zachariah held his hands apart. “Wodan,” he said, “that's the whole point of this trip. I told you about Lucas. Weren't you…?”

  “Sorry,” said Wodan. “I haven't really been listening.”

  Zachariah’s mouth opened and closed wordlessly.

  “So,” said Jarl, “what did you… ah…”

  “I just got bored,” said Wodan. “I wanted to move, I guess. Maybe I was curious. I don't know.”