Cedrik leveled the revolver and watched it wave back and forth. He fired once and an ear whipped free from the beast, along with a long patch of skin. Thick mucus ran from the dogman’s mouth and sizzled on the hot pavement. Cedrik forced his weak finger back into the trigger guard, then fired again and dropped the gun. Blood spurted softly from a neat little hole in the middle of the dog’s head. It laid its head on the ground gently, as if going to sleep, and the growl petered out into a sort of snore. Cedrik laid back and rested.
* * *
Three dogmen dragged Sylas from the hideout with cruel kicks and punches. He held his hands in the air, but even this seemed a gross gesture to them and they knocked his arms down to his sides with blows as hard as hammers. Their barking in his ears was deep and primal and unmerciful. Across the street, the grenadier dog who had planted himself beneath Jon’s window for the entire battle saw that his comrades were not being shot at, so he moved to join them. He stopped when he heard a wounded comrade crying in the street, clutching at his ruined leg where Jon had laid him out earlier.
“You’re not dead?” said the grenadier.
The wounded dog lifted his face from the great pool of blood all around him, then tapped the axe at his side. “Don’t let them... I’m… not a trophy... send to Valhalla... tell family, tell brothers, that I... that I fought...”
The grenadier nodded, laid a palm on his comrade’s brow, then took up the axe from his side. He lifted the thing in the air and brought it down on his comrades neck, then brought it down again to sever the spine. He took up the head and the bloody axe and joined his comrades across the street.
Jon peered out the window on the higher floor that they’d run to, then slammed the machinegun into place atop the boxes Justinas stacked nearby. Jon glanced back, saw Jake shaking and holding his rifle awkwardly. “Get on that damn window!” Jon shouted. Jake swung his wide eyes toward him, then scurried to obey. Jon swiveled the gun around to the dogs while Justinas ran the belt clip into it. He aimed, then his heart dropped. “Aw, gods... they got Sylas... aw, hell!”
High atop their lonely rooftop perch, Frigidskin pointed and Bloodnose swiveled his rifle around and placed the cross hairs on Jon’s face. “Sad little warrior,” Bloodnose murmured. “Sad little hairless pup. You die quick now, but when you come to the warrior’s paradise, my people will already be there, ready to run a train on you.”
Bloodnose glided his finger along the trigger, delicately, then heard a grunt behind him.
“What?” he said.
His brother did not respond. Bloodnose turned back and saw, beyond all belief, Wodan kneeling over the body of Frigidskin. Wodan jerked his blade from the dogman’s back, and Bloodnose had time to think No one can sneak up on me! just as Wodan sprang forward impossibly fast. Bloodnose had only enough time to roll onto his back and bring his arms up, catching Wodan just before the blood-splattered blade could find his throat. Wodan’s fierce green eyes bore into him as he thrust downward; the dog held him at bay with both arms.
The knife quivered before his face. For one long, drawn out moment, Bloodnose felt fear – then he buried the fear, because he knew that he was only facing a human, a weak little human. He lashed out with his knee and slammed it into Wodan’s side, tossing him away and sending the knife clattering along the ground. Bloodnose rolled and grabbed his rifle, but as he rose onto one knee and aimed, Wodan was already on him again. The two collided, smacked into the edge of the roof, and the heavy rifle fell over the side.
The two rolled away from one another, glaring and catching their breath. Animal instinct kicked in and Bloodnose dove toward Wodan, snarling with arms spread wide, and his belief that Wodan was only a weak human was confirmed when Wodan leaped to the side, unwilling to fight so near the edge of the roof. Bloodnose tackled Wodan, furious that this weakling had killed his brother, and drove his weight into him as he slammed him into the ground.
Wodan looked dazed as his head smacked against stone. He leaned to the side, enraging the dogman with his unwillingness to grapple. Bloodnose grabbed a handful of hair in his fist, lifted his head as he prepared to slam his forehead into the side of Wodan’s head – then found that he was bringing his own head down onto the point of the knife that Wodan had been reaching for the entire time.
As the Blade of the Engels pierced the bottom of his chin and tore through the roof of his mouth, impaling his tongue and silencing him, Bloodnose thought, But how did he know I would toss him down there?
“You followed my momentum,” Wodan hissed, driving the blade up into the dogman’s brain. “Your kind always follows the path of least resistance.”
Wodan kicked the flailing body away from him. His mind was awash with the realization that he had just killed a dogman in hand-to-hand combat, a nearly impossible feat for a human. Had he been lucky? He felt exhaustion wash over him as he thought about the matter, so he drove all thought from his mind.
* * *
Sylas and his captors gathered in the streets and they barked into a radio until Ganson rode up in a jeep followed by two other jeeps driven by humans. They squealed to a halt, wary of the sniper who had caused them to drive around in panic. Ganson glanced at Sylas, reckoned that the mission was as close to completion as it was going to get, then barked at one of the humans and pointed to the jeep with the flat tire. The human cursed, lowered himself near the ground, and set to changing the jeep’s tire. A nearly-headless dogman laid over the steering wheel.
Ganson hopped out of his jeep and the dogs pushed Sylas to the ground. Blood streamed down his nose and one of his eyes was already sealed shut. Ganson towered over him, and shouted, “Are you a leader?!”
Sylas raised his face, blinked, then shrunk into himself.
“Damn it,” said Ganson. He checked Sylas, found no radio, and so he cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted, “We want a leader! Human fighters of Pontius, send us a leader, and we will let this one live.”
There was a long pause and Ganson realized that that approach would never work. The humans had fought well enough, but he knew that most likely they were pissing their pants and calling for backup; that was the way of war when it came to humans.
Ganson thought for a moment, then shouted, “We are leaving, humans, but we are taking this prisoner with us. We know that you are fighting to save Pontius. Send us a leader in order to discuss terms of surrender. In exchange, we will give back your soldier. I know that humans do not believe in a paradise for warriors, so his life must be important. You know that dogmen warriors stay true to their word. We’ll hold true to this bond. A leader in exchange for this soldier. We promise, neither will be harmed.” Ganson conferred with a human driver, then shouted out a radio frequency by which they could be contacted. “I trust you humans have long-range radio capabilities.” He lowered his hands, then muttered, “You humans always do.”
Ganson brought his radio up. “Blood brothers! Come on!” He was annoyed, because the two pariahs usually knew where to be without being commanded.
There was silence, then a human voice came over the radio. “Those two are dead.”
“Who is this?”
“A human.” After a pause, he added, “We will pass along your deal to our leader.”
“Fine,” said Ganson. Having affected some repairs to the blood-soaked jeep, the dogmen mounted up and rolled out.
From the rooftop, Wodan watched them leave. After a long time he heard Jake’s high-pitched voice on the radio. “I can’t believe we survived that! Th-that was insane!”
“They took Sylas!” shouted Chris, his voice wild with mania. “Sylas, man, Sylas is dead!”
“Th-they captured him,” said Jake. “He might be able to-”
“Sylas is fuckin’ dead, Jake!”
Chapter Seventeen
Diplomacy vs. Interrogation
“Khan,” said Naarwulf, turning away the messenger dogs. “One of the fighters has turned himself in.”
“Huh,” said Vito, snor
ting. “Feel sorry for him.”
“Khan, it seems he’s some sort of leader among the humans.”
Vito screwed up his brow, then said slowly, “You mean... do you mean to tell me that that dumb shit Ganson pulled actually worked?”
“Eh-h-h,” said Naarwulf, shaking his head. “Looks like it.”
Nothing in either of their experience could explain the situation, and so they both looked at one another for a long time. Vito hopped up suddenly. “That prisoner Ganson brought in - is he still alive?”
“No clue,” said Naarwulf, snapping his fingers at a radioman.
“What about the other - was he checked for bombs? Weapons? Anything?”
“Unarmed and clean,” said Naarwulf, who turned to speak to the radio operator.
The matter of Ganson’s prisoner was more than a little annoying. Ganson was fairly useful, as far as leashmen went, but Vito knew that things would have gone more smoothly in the long run if Ganson had gotten himself killed. Instead, he now spent all of his time sitting beside his human prisoner, loudly proclaiming that he was in contact with the rulers of Pontius who were feverishly negotiating in order to get their prisoner back. Vito had given Ganson a snide remark about losing only a dozen warriors in exchange for one pudgy human, but the meaning had gone over Ganson’s head, and Vito did not want to openly berate the dog in front of anyone because, technically, he had followed at least part of his orders to the letter.
Vito had little faith in Ganson’s plan to exchange the prisoner for an enemy officer, but Vito let the prisoner live because he could play a part in something Vito had planned. The horde was drawing near the foglands; some of the scouts were already camping there. Water would be plentiful, but he had a pessimistic view as to how much food they could gather there. Vito hoped that Ganson would soon grow tired of his pet, because Vito knew that they would have to start cannibalizing the weak – and he wanted to start with that very prisoner. He had already asked subtle questions to the shamans about whether such a thing had been done in the past, in lean times, and whether there was some spiritual or mythological basis that would make the act culturally possible and psychologically plausible. While the shamans had stated flatly that no dog would ever eat the flesh of men or dogmen under any sort of condition, period, end of story, the shamans had also slyly hinted at a dogman’s capacity to cleanse its pack of sin, and of the worthiness of culling the pack in general. To Vito, the message was clear: The shamans would not back him until after he’d made the first move and proven the new source of food to be spiritually safe and healthy. Meanwhile the livestock grew thinner and thinner, and Pontius was not coming any closer on its own.
Vito made his way through the camp as night drew near and they prepared to move. He came to a small truck and woke the driver. The human growled at him sleepily, then started awake when he saw his Khan. Naarwulf came near with a large radio set, and Vito took it and said, “Who’s this?”
“Great Khan! This is Head Beheader, your good leashman. We’re are coming to you with the fighter who has turned himself in.”
“Where are you now?” Vito tried to calm himself while he listened to the details of the route the dogs took through the valleys. “We’ll meet you halfway, then. And Head... uh...”
“Head Beheader, Khan.”
“Right. Now listen, I want this new prisoner unhurt, you understand?”
“Uh. Yes, Khan.”
Vito shook his head in frustration, for he was sure that the new prisoner was, most likely, barely clinging to life. He could turn Ganson’s silly plan into an opportunity for valuable data, if he was quick about it. But if he didn’t move fast, he would end up interrogating pieces of a dead man, and of course no one would know where the bottom half had ended up.
“Do you have any humans in your pack?” said Vito.
“Yes, Khan,” said the voice on the radio.
“Listen carefully. I want the humans to keep watch on the prisoner. Understand? You dogmen - uh, you must remain on the lookout for… assassins, and things of that nature.”
“Uh...”
“I mean that!” shouted the Khan. “No rape - do you understand me?”
“But, Khan!” cried the dogman. “The prisoner is a man! We would never-”
Vito handed the radio away in disgust, then climbed in beside the driver. He heard Naarwulf climb into the back. Ramos ran up to them, laughing with excitement at the idea of an interrogation, and hauled himself into the back with Naarwulf.
“You better drive like a motherfucker,” said Vito. The driver gulped and squealed tires, throwing up sand all around.
* * *
Wodan knelt in the sand stripped to the waist with his hands tied behind his back, every muscle aching, every breath pushing against fractured ribs that bit into his lungs. His nose was surely broken, a mass of swollen, screaming nerves, and so he breathed through his mouth, spitting blood occasionally. Both arms were numb, the circulation cut off long ago by knotted rope bonds. His head ached so badly from so many blows that he could barely hold it up. He could still see, at least; his captors had enough decency to not punch him in the eyes.
He looked about himself. A tarp had been thrown over stakes in the ground, and a human guard sat in each corner. They were bearded, savage men too simple to carry on conversation with one another, and too bored to bother with looking imposing. Still, they were armed with guns; there was no getting out of the situation now.
Not that that mattered. Wodan was exactly where he wanted to be.
He cast his thoughts back to when he gave his farewell to the others. “You can have this sniper rifle, Chris,” he had said. “It was used by kings from Hargis. It’s a good rifle, so it should belong to a good sniper.”
He gave the Coil Magnum to Jon. “When you get tired of that machinegun, try this thing out. I used it to put a bullet in the Head of the Ugly, and he never complained about it. I don’t think you will, either.”
To Cedrik, he said, “This crazy looking knife is for you. It was made by someone worshipped by the warmongers of San Ktari. He shaped it out of cans of a type of beer that’s popular among those people. It’s never failed me. When you get rested and feel like wrestling with another dog, try sticking him with this.”
“Don’t worry,” he said, mounting up on his bike. “I know it sounds crazy, but I’ve got a plan. If there’s a chance to save Sylas, or at least get close to the leader of those dogmen, I’ve got to try it, at least. Listen to that radio channel that the dogmen gave us. We’ll see if we can’t get our friend back yet!”
They had put up some resistance, but Wodan could see in their eyes that they thought he was paying penance for what could only be cowardice during their battle. He had not bothered to show them any of the bodies of his kills because he did not want to try explaining something to them that he himself did not understand. For all they knew, he had run and hid for the entire battle. But he had journeyed with them long enough that they would not begrudge him a bike and a little gas if he wanted to run and hide in the nearest primitive village while Pontius was destroyed.
It doesn’t matter, thought Wodan. It doesn’t matter what they think of me. All that matters is for me to be able to turn on when I get close enough to-
A slit in the tarp opened up and a huge, black-furred and dark-skinned dogman entered. He was by far the largest dogman that Wodan had seen in the entire camp. His arms were as thick around as Wodan’s waist and his hands were like knotted wood. His face was fierce and bestial, but with a hint of intelligence - no doubt, he led this horde. Then another entered, a heavyset black man with long dreads and motley armor. He had a grim expression that seemed practiced and unnatural. The two stood on either side of the entrance and Wodan wondered why the great dogman seemed to stand at attention. Could there be an even greater dogman in charge of this horde?
The third who entered was short, but thick and powerfully built. He was very hairy, and Wodan thought at first that he was a dogman, but his p
iercing, intelligent eyes were undoubtedly human. His hair was long and brown, and his hands looked like they were made of worn concrete. Resentment and anger were ground into the lines of his face. Wodan could see that this short brawler was the leader of the horde because there was something noble about him; his nobility did not come from inheritance or carefully cultivated demeanor, but from long years of experience and suffering and a willingness to shatter boundaries that others feared.
As the man looked at him, fear flooded Wodan’s system. He remembered his interrogation at the hands of Barkus, and later his brother Boris. The same sense of powerlessness gripped him. He could not breathe.
I’m not the same as I was then, he told himself. Back then, I wanted to survive. I was terrified that I would die, or be hurt, and that everything I had worked for would be destroyed. This time, I know I don’t have long. I know I’m going to die. As for pain, I’ve already suffered plenty of that. What more can this man show me?
Wodan slowly gained control of his fear. He thought of saying something defiant, then stopped short. Even before the man spoke, Wodan could see that he was different from Barkus and Boris. Both of those brothers had had something intensely childish and sadistic in them. Even as they pushed and hurt and threatened Wodan with death, they had also called out for validation from him. They needed him to acknowledge their power. Wodan could tell that Vito wanted something from him, but it was most likely something practical. Vito would have to be savage if he was the leader of an army of dogmen, but he was a man, not a whimpering child.
[Demonworld #4] Shepherd of Wolves Page 15
