At the age of seventeen Freyja saw the legendary soldier Vito at a royal ball. He looked very fine in his uniform, though he was very short and exceedingly hairy. Many men in suits surrounded him and openly praised the efforts he made to fight the terrorists who threatened their nation. When the ass-kissers departed, she watched Vito and saw that no one asked him to dance. He wandered around alone, and her heart went out to him, for she felt that she understood his sadness.
At the age of eighteen Freyja met Nilem, an older girl of questionable lineage who had recently married into a noble house. It was rumored that she was very cruel to her servants. Her husband died under mysterious circumstances. After their meeting, Freyja forgot about the woman almost immediately.
At the age of twenty Freyja began to seriously wonder what she would do with her life. Her father was no longer warm toward her, and she had failed to tie down a man of noble birth. Her search for the young butcher proved fruitless. She had not even lost her virginity yet, and felt as if she was finally going quietly insane.
But she did not have to search her soul for very long. The gilded bubble of her world was trampled when the demon-horde stormed Hargis, tore down its walls, burned its houses, and killed its inhabitants. She slipped in the blood of one of her own sisters as she fled her home. She hid in a deep well, and did not crawl out until days later when hunger overcame her fear. She met with a group of men who were looting the city, was raped, was taken to the ex-soldier Vito who had become Khan, and served as his slave-bride. She was raped by him many times. For a long time she kept a wellspring of fury burning just beneath the surface. She considered killing him, then killing herself in order to escape a leaderless horde of dogmen. But eventually her hatred of Vito dimmed; she came to see him as a child, an emotional eunuch, lost and pathetic. She chose to endure and survive instead of lashing out.
Freyja placed her hands on the unfinished red bow, exhausted. She had not spoken to anyone of these matters ever before. No one had asked. She and Wodan looked at one another for a long time.
Wodan smiled, and seemed as if he was about to speak, but then they heard voices, activity, axes beating against trees, laughter. They could smell meat cooking. A few dogs shouted, “Hup! Hup! Hup!” as they ran ahead. Wodan tapped the palanquin, and the carriers took off at a jog.
They came to a massive clearing. Only a week had passed, but the grounds of the fort were completely changed. Men and dogmen hauled wood and nets full of fish over well-beaten paths, sawed timber that was thrown onto carts, and bartered loudly. Many were still at work even though pots sat boiling over dinner fires. In the distance, grass and tree stumps were being uprooted to make room for farmland. Wodan saw the great, curving line of the wall he’d helped design, a series of intimidating angles topped by hard-faced men and dogmen carrying long bows or resting over heavy, mounted machineguns. The single gate stood wide open so that several lanes of foot traffic could pass by one another.
But most impressive of all was the great wooden skeleton that towered over it all: The Fort of the Black Valley. Laborers crawled all over the open walls and towers, hammering and passing lumber and calling out to one another. Wodan ran through the open gate, staring in awe at the masterpiece that easily dwarfed any of the square, garbage-bin shaped buildings in Pontius. It was a temple made of the forest itself, a living sanctuary that could easily house every human inhabitant once it was complete. Wodan realized that it looked nothing like the original plans that the designers had once bickered over.
Wodan ran to a manager, who looked exhausted as he called his men down to dinner. “You!” said Wodan. “Which of the architects designed the fort?”
“Ah, Khan! Don’t you know? It was that young landless king from Hargis. He scrapped the old blueprints and made up this one.”
“He did this?”
“Yes sir, I believe so.”
Wodan stepped away and looked up at the great wooden skeleton. He decided that his worries about his friend were completely groundless.
Why, he thought, if the Usurper sword is half as great as this…!
* * *
Naarwulf strode through the dark halls of the fort, stepping over sleeping dogmen as he went. He climbed the twisting stairwell to the second floor, which was full of gaps open to the stars and the cool night air. He heard a woman’s laughter and followed the sound.
Khan Wodan leaned against a balcony with his back to Naarwulf. The giant dogman approached, then stopped short when he saw Freyja sitting on the railing, watching him. Naarwulf turned away from her cold gray eyes, noting that she took any opportunity to shoot a little venom his way. He knew that she must remember the treatment he had given her under Vito’s rule. He stifled the thought that the new Khan pampered and spoiled his women even as he neglected them.
Naarwulf often spoke with Jarl, and the storyteller told him that all Khans were strange. Otherwise one would simply become head of a tribe, which was no small feat. Khans were fated, chosen by destiny; as such, their ways were beyond reason. Still, as loyal as he was, Naarwulf could not help but realize that the camaraderie he’d had with the former Khan was gone. Even now, Khan Wodan stood and watched the forest, lost in his own thoughts, his own world, with his back to Naarwulf, unmindful that his second-in-command stood and waited at attention.
And the whole time, Freyja sat and glared openly at him. A woman… looking down on him!
“Khan,” said Naarwulf, clearing his throat.
Wodan turned and looked at his leashman absentmindedly. Finally he smiled and said, “Naarwulf, there you are. Come and stand by me.”
Naarwulf did so. He towered over Wodan, and for a split-second he wondered if he could take him in a duel. He thought that most likely he could - but then he sealed that idea in a box and locked it by deciding there was nothing to gain from such a thing but stress and more stress.
“How are things, Naarwulf?”
Naarwulf was grateful that his Khan wouldn’t draw things out with a lot of uncomfortable trivialities, which most humans did. “Khan, there are still no shipment of goods from Pontius.”
Wodan nodded. “It hasn’t been that long. Still, I’m sure they resent what we’ve already taken from them. Either that, or the whole city is fighting over the wood we’ve sent them. Are you still having wood sent downriver?”
“Yes, Khan.”
“Let’s cut it off then. We’ve already sent as much, maybe more, as they get from a year of farming. Once they’re done killing one another over what we’ve given them, or once they get tired of plotting how to get more wood from us for free, perhaps they’ll finally decide they want to do business without any blood in the bargain.”
Naarwulf shook his head. “It’s a wonder to me that your kind place such value on wood.”
“And another thing,” said Wodan. “I’ve seen that a few farmers are clearing land in front of the fort, but if we don’t get any supplies from Pontius before the cold season, then we’ll need a lot more farmland cleared. Spread word to the farmers. Tell anyone with seed stock to start planting. Any land they can tend and manage belongs to them. It’s theirs.”
“Ah... Khan, there is no shortage of game from the woods...”
“Naarwulf, I was just wondering: Do dogmen have an aversion to farming?”
“Ye-e-es...”
“Women’s work, right?”
Naarwulf nodded slowly.
“Well, just keep the dogmen hunting and patrolling. There’s no need to castrate them with work that isn’t in their nature. But, Naarwulf, it’s different among humans. Don’t feel ashamed when you talk to the farmers. If we keep hunting and killing and eating meat, then eventually we’ll ruin this beautiful land before we have the chance to turn it into a home. We’ll need bread, vegetables, herbs. You understand?”
“Ah - yes, Khan.”
“But now that that’s out of the way, I need to bring up something else. I saw some dogmen with strange cloth...”
“Ah...”
> “Like thick shawls, or maybe rugs, with green and white and blue markings. Who made them?”
“My Khan, a pack of dogmen went into the mountains to hunt. They claim they were beset by a band of primitives, and killed them, and acquired those goods from them.”
At once Wodan darkened and gripped the rail of the balcony. “A band of primitives hiding from demons in the mountains saw a pack of dogmen - and attacked them?” He shook his head. “Naarwulf, you know those dogs found a village and killed the people there.”
“Yes, Khan. I know.”
“For sport, Naarwulf! Did I not command them to not attack other humans in or around the valley unless it was in defense?”
Naarwulf felt the creeping dread of his own failure, and said, “You did, Khan. But you know, those young dogs... once the leash is out of sight, they’re impossible to control.”
Wodan hung his head and slowly released his breath. “Naarwulf, we’re trying to carve out a home in this wilderness, not murder others that we catch off-guard! How many generations did they live, I wonder, outwitting flesh demons only to fall victim to the cretins who follow in my wake?”
Naarwulf hung his head for a long time. He watched the fires in the courtyard below, the dogmen lolling about on the ground, sleeping, scratching at fleas, yawning.
“I don’t mean to pin it all on you,” Wodan said quietly. “Have they started grumbling yet, Naarwulf?”
Naarwulf nodded, then growled and said, “You’d think they’d be satisfied to finally have a leader who can’t be beaten in a duel.”
“No, the rite of the duel isn’t enough,” said Wodan. “It’s only meant to seem as if it brings the strongest dog to the front of the pack. That’s not the true purpose. The rite itself is the goal - they want quick transfers of power, the spectacle of blood, the illusion of change rather than actual change. The rite of the duel is about releasing tension. If I lead for too long, it doesn’t matter how I lead. They’ll get bored eventually. They’ll feel stagnant. Then they’ll…”
“There’s something else,” said Naarwulf. “Another pack, within the valley, was attacked by a monster. Something like a bear, only it was a giant...”
“A bear?”
“... and it killed and ate several pup warriors.”
“Was it black and white?”
Naarwulf nodded.
Wodan thought for a long time. He remembered the story of the supposedly intelligent bear cubs that Miss Oliver in Pontius had told him about. Wodan was beginning to think that the insane old man he’d met in the valley over a year ago was none other than the cruel animal trainer that Miss Oliver had brought with her many years ago. He had most likely raised the reptilian creature that Wodan had killed during his escape from the valley. If that was the case, then the monster had been a mutant – not a flesh demon at all. It may have been turned into a monster because of the trainer’s cruelty, and the bear cubs might have turned out much the same. Still, as preposterous as it sounded, if the bears were intelligent then perhaps they could be communicated with.
“Naarwulf. Send out the word. If any strange bears are encountered again, giant or not, they are not to be harmed. I’m to be contacted immediately.”
“Khan? Did we not come to fight monsters?”
“I have reason to believe that they’re not monsters. I may be wrong.” Wodan stood silent for a long time. He thought of the families of primitives slaughtered by his own dogmen. He thought of his mindless goons descending on them, laughing as they clubbed them down. He turned to the forest, to the deep woods. It called out to him. He wanted to leave; he could not suppress the thought. He thought of how the people of Pontius dragged themselves to work every day, weary, full of hate for the masters who profited from their enslavement. He thought of the humans who depended on him, how tirelessly they worked to build a new world, how full of joy they seemed. Wodan had to stay, if only for them. He had to keep the dogmen in line. He had to suppress their awful urges, their blind hunger. But to do that, he had to suppress one of his own urges. There was something that he wanted to find, something that he tried to keep from Naarwulf.
Finally it broke from him, and he said, “Naarwulf, has anyone found a… a cave nearby?”
“Several, yes, Khan.”
“No, I mean, a… a very special cave. A strange cave.”
“Well, no, Khan, nothing like that. I can ask around, though.”
“Don’t bother. That’ll be all, Naarwulf. Get some sleep.”
Naarwulf nodded and left. Freyja watched Wodan stare into the forest once again. She wondered how she could resume their conversation, but before she could speak, Wodan turned to her and said, “Freyja, I need to know some things about Nilem.”
* * *
Nilem stalked about her private room in the fort. It was one of the few rooms with complete walls, but even with the window open it felt hot and cramped. She regarded the heavy pants and jacket that her Khan had given her; in his infinite wisdom, he’d seen fit to do everything in his power to keep her warm in a jungle that was already a steamy, muggy hellhole half the time. She threw the clothes into a corner. The bare, nondescript walls of her room closed in on her slowly. She was sweating and felt covered in filth. This was a new low, the deepest pit she’d fallen into since her enslavement.
Something stirred beneath her window and with the name of Jago on her lips she ran to see. Two massive, black-gauntleted hands gripped either sides of the opening. She squealed and scurried backward, covering herself. Yarek Clash, in his black plastic-mesh armor, swung through the opening and landed inside. She glared at him. He stared down at her with hard, yellow eyes.
“You might not believe it,” he said, “but I came here looking for a friend.”
“I’ll scream!” she hissed.
He ignored her, walked in a circle around her room, examined a few things, then sat down on her cot.
“Well, I can go if you want,” he said, “but I could really use a friend right now.”
She looked into his hard eyes once again. He was not difficult to read. He might keep close to his Khan out of some misguided sense of male-to-male loyalty, but the truth of the matter had to be that someone as strong as Yarek – a born leader – could find little in common with someone like Wodan. Wodan could barely even speak, and spent most of his time lost in thought. He could not even bring himself to touch his own women. Yarek was clearly a man of action, and could possibly be of some use.
Nilem moved toward the cot, and as she moved to sit behind him, she arched her ass into the air ever-so-slightly. Of course his eyes darted there for a moment before resting on her eyes again.
“Guess this is a pretty lonely place,” she said, curling her lip at him.
She wore only a thin, raggedy slip of pale cloth. He glanced to the mound of her breasts, then said, “Check this out.” He unsheathed his specially-crafted handgun Teufelmorder, the weapon he’d used to slay a dragon one year ago. It was long and silver with black trim. “Wanna hold it?”
She shook her head quickly.
“It shoots with so much force that it has a heavy iron strip all along the bottom of the barrel to keep the recoil from dislocating the wrist. The magazines hold thirteen rounds each, Murder Crow hollow point bullets designed to expand and explode on impact. There are strips of metal in every round that embed themselves in the target. It’s so heavy that few men can lift it, much less aim. Its name means “devil killer” in an ancient tongue.”
“So what do you do with it?”
Yarek snorted slightly, then said, “Just guard the Khan.”
“That’s it?” said Nilem, crinkling her nose.
“He certainly hasn’t sent me out against any devils.”
“I’d heard that you left your home just to find him.”
“I didn’t come here just for him,” Yarek said immediately.
Nilem hummed a note, then stroked a finger against the barrel. Under the pretense of getting a better look at the gun, she la
id an arm across his shoulder and leaned in close.
What a child, she thought. How many idiot girls has he impressed with this silly thing?
“Is that the only gun you use?” she said.
Yarek laughed, then said, “I was just about to show you my other gun.” Nilem could hear an undercurrent of lust in his cold, gravelly voice.
Yarek reached down to his boot and revealed a small, black automatic handgun. “This is my Baby Six,” he said, twirling the thing in his hand. “Small caliber. But don’t laugh at it: The bullets are small, but at close range it can pierce the skull and then ricochet around in the brain.”
“Oh,” she said, disappointed. Still, he was no more stupid than any other man, and he held a highly coveted position. It was all well and good to dribble honey into Jago’s ear and use him to listen in on the secret talks of those who had no love for the Khan, but eventually some action would have to be taken. And Yarek was close to the Khan - very close - and she knew that any male could be turned against any other male, given a deficit of females and surplus of power.
She leaned in closer to Yarek, breathed warmly against his neck, and said, “Surely you have another gun, Yarek, strong Yarek. A gun I would be interested in... a gun that I could use... that would please you...”
“Ah,” he said. “I think I know just the gun you’re talking about.”
* * *
“You underestimate her,” said Freyja. “You already know that she’s cynical and ill-tempered and spiteful, but that’s a speck of sand in the wind. She’s a lot more than that.”
Wodan waited while she gathered her thoughts, then said, “You said you knew her before the demons came to Hargis, but you forgot about her.”
Freyja nodded quickly. “She’s not a very memorable person. She hardly says anything, and her face is always a mask. She was from a noble house, like me, so I saw her in full makeup and dress. When… when Vito took us, she was dressed in rags. She looked completely different, and she never acknowledged that she knew me. She never spoke to me at all, really, unless it was to give an order or a reprimand.”
Demonworld Book 5: Lords of the Black Valley (Demonworld series) Page 11
