[Demonworld #4] Shepherd of Wolves

by Kyle B. Stiff

  Wodan and Jon leaped atop piles of stone and climbed over several sharp boulders. Wodan saw that the apex of the rocky spire was bisected down the middle from base to zenith. Between the two halves lay complete darkness, and so the two crawled within and nestled deep in shadow.

  The horrid wailing of the invaders swept throughout the crevice, echoing without end, and the two covered their ears against it. A troop of wolves rushed by the opening, then another, then a great mass filed past, hissing and bumping into one another. The two hunkered further down, completely run through with fear. Jon glanced at the end of the crevice by which they’d entered and saw still more wolves passing by on that side as well, and he knew that they were trapped. Wodan looked above and saw that the narrow crack of sky was dusty and sickly green, and he realized that the sun would not set for many long minutes but that every second held the possibility that they could be discovered. He wondered if they should do something, find a gun somehow, make a run for the river or-

  Just then a giant dogman whirled around the corner right next to them. His body was a black silhouette but they could see feral eyes piercing into them. He held a rifle and Jon immediately darted up, grabbed the muzzle of the rifle, and pointed it upward, his arm shaking against the strength of the dogman. Just as Wodan rose to kill the monster before it could cry out, another dogman joined the first, barking savagely as he aimed an automatic rifle. The world slowed down as Wodan’s mind crystallized with terrifying realization, in sharp detail he smelled sweat and rancid breath – then both of the dogs fired on them at once. Wodan felt something shatter against his ribs and superheated laceration passed through his guts. He could clearly see rocks whirling about him, but the sounds of the guns seemed distant and hazy as he laid down gently on the cool stone. Warm blood covered him like a blanket, and he closed his eyes to sleep.

  * * *

  From atop a wooden tower, Zach watched through the scope of a rifle that once belonged to a deserter and saw the horde charging, saw the mines go off under their feet and send ripples through the tide, saw artillery shells dropping and scattering them by the dozens, then saw the gaps filled in by wolves without number. Zach handed the rifle back to Chris so that he and the other Hargis snipers could scan the area. They had their orders: Look for targets of importance, leaders, drivers of vehicles, carriers of artillery pieces, even flag bearers if they could find any.

  “Lord,” said a sniper, “there’s hardly any equipment among them. It’s just one big mass of dogmen!”

  “It’s possible they lost their heavy weapons in the crossing,” said Zach. “But we know they had it at some point. Fire into the mass occasionally, but keep looking. Other than that, make sure none of them ever gets over the wall.”

  “There’s a truck,” Chris muttered quietly. Zach watched him aim, breathe, become as still as a corpse, then fire. He cocked the weapon again and repeated the process. “Got him,” he said, laughing slightly.

  Zach could see that he did seem to have some experience with the rifle. If Wodan really had given it to him, then Zach had no need to kill him, as he’d planned. Still, the man would likely never admit to killing Wodan if that is indeed what he’d done, plus he had the reek of death about him, something untrustworthy. Despite his awkward mannerisms, he had a gruff sort of poise, a coolness and lack of fear that did not seem human. Zach did not like him.

  Zach turned back to his own scope. The dogmen charged and fired as they ran, and he could see the machineguns in the trenches opening up. Dog after dog fell and clustered into shaggy mounds of fur matted with blood, then others ran and leaped over the dead and were blasted as well. The invaders seemed intent on a head-on frontal assault, without any heavy backup or tactical maneuvering. The suicidal dead stacked high into mountains of death and still the dogs charged, quickly gaining ground. What sort of leader do they have, anyway? Zach wondered. Someone had done the impossible and unified tribes of savages that hated one another, but then threw tactical finesse to the side. Their leader had faith in weight of numbers coupled with inhuman speed and savagery.

  The guns along the first trench faltered as they reloaded in staggered intervals. The dogs raced forward, firing, dying, and gaining ground.

  “Virgil!” Zach shouted into his radio. “That first line of trenches - it’s gonna get overwhelmed any second now!”

  * * *

  “Get your men further back!” Virgil shouted into his radio. He stood along the stone wall, covering one ear against the racket of the machineguns blasting nearby. “Pull back to the second or third trench!”

  “Already am!” shouted a commander. “Lords, aw gods, man, they jus’ keep comin’!”

  “Virgil,” another voice broke in. “Artillery here - I’ve got radios down, I’m not gettin’ shit for intel on where to fire!”

  Virgil looked over the wall and saw nothing but howling death, and shouted to the Smith on the radio, “Man, just fire anywhere! They’re everywhere!”

  Virgil looked over the wall again and saw the dogs piling into the first line of trenches, filling them to the brim with swinging fur and gunfire. Men who moved like slugs compared to the dogs were cut down or flung to the side. Other dogs leaped over the trench farther than any man could jump, then ran and shot and were cut to flailing ribbons by machineguns from the second trench. Finally another lethal string of artillery landed in the mass, but still they came, howling without end.

  * * *

  Wodan opened his eyes and saw a strip of sky between black stone overhead, purple run through with pale green, clouds burning orange. He felt the deep bass of constant explosions quivering through the stone at his back. He pulled a hand free from a thick layer of cold, hard blood. He rose up and felt sharp stabbing, grinding nausea, and dizziness. He dropped to his side, pulling in each breath with difficulty, and saw that his green garment was drenched with black blood. He shifted his position and tried to ignore the stabbing pain from his ribs, then he saw Jon’s face lying next to his own. His friend stared back at him with dead eyes, face pale and gray lips parted slightly.

  Anger shot through him and gave him strength. He did not want to spend his time lying in a cold pool of his own blood, so he gritted his teeth, rolled onto a large stone, forced his legs beneath him, and pushed himself up until he could sit on the rock. He closed his eyes and felt about his chest and belly, then pulled his hand away quickly when he found several small holes that burned like fire at the touch.

  Wodan forced himself to stand. His feet touched hard, cold, wet stone, and he realized that he no longer had any boots. Jon’s blue feet were bare as well, his skinny legs poking out from pants drenched in black. Wodan turned ahead and took one step, then a wave of intense nausea rolled through his ruined guts, the earth rose up, and he smacked face-first against the hard earth and heard his nose break. He was drowning in a whirlpool of agony.

  He rose again. He knew that his own gasping breaths must sound like sobbing, but he heard only echoes rolling through the crack in the high stone walls. He took one step, then another, with one hand laid against the wall and another against his stomach. He pushed ahead, dragging his feet across dagger-sharp stones. He could feel blood pouring down his leg as he pushed a hand into his side. A gust of warm wind brushed against his face; in the stink of so much blood, he felt as if he was slogging through a dank, fetid swamp.

  Wodan was not sure if he believed in destiny, but as he pushed himself on and the sky visible through the crack in the rock widened, the echoing cry of the endless horde sounded almost like a coliseum cheering him on, raving at the sight of his blood and his will to push himself further. Wodan felt as if he was promised an encounter with something meaningful if only he would push ahead, enduring one breath at a time, suffering one footstep at a time. He could not give up.

  He came through the crack and stood in the open sky above a plain swarming with dogmen. He saw zeppelins high in the air, saw bombs dropping, saw the great orange and white blossoms flash within the dark ho
rde. The wolves were firing an endless spray of bullets, and then a zeppelin flared and spiraled downward in a winking inferno and fell among the horde. He moved his head slowly, painfully, then saw fighting all along the stone wall surrounding the city. Men fired down on wolves that were climbing up the sides without the help of ropes or ladders, or even leaped off the piles of their own shaggy dead. They were an endless swarm. A wolf ran right by him and Wodan fell back against the wall, completely ignored, like one already dead.

  Wodan pushed off the wall again and the garment swung about him, heavy and limp with blood, and the blood spattered along the ground as he staggered into the light. He rounded a bend slowly and saw the tiers of the rock towering high above him. Thousands of wolves crowded and pushed below, and he also saw several wolves perched on the stones above, staring ahead with uncharacteristic solemnity. Three figures stood near the ledge ahead of him, watching the city: Ric Ramos, tall Naarwulf, and Khan Vito dressed in a heavy cloak of gray wolf’s fur.

  “Vito...” said Wodan. No one reacted as he stumbled nearer. Wodan drew his will into his chest, then he shouted, “Vito!” with such force that it echoed along the stones.

  The eyes of dozens of wolves turned to him.

  “Gods below!” barked Vito. “Wodan! Where the hell did you come from?!”

  Naarwulf sniffed in confusion, then said, “I never smelled him! Khan - I only smell death! He… he smells like he’s dead!”

  “Well, if he’s already dead,” said Ramos, cocking his submachine gun, “one more clip won’t hurt.”

  Wodan stumbled forward, his face a contorted mask, his shaking legs unable to keep up with the raging and unbreakable will in his heart. His foot caught on stone and he nearly tumbled over, gripping the wall with one hand as he suppressed a cry of anguish at the sudden movement.

  “Vito!” hissed Wodan. “You said... that a wolf... could call out another wolf... in the rite of the duel...”

  “You’re not a wolf,” said Vito. “You’re dead. Just lie down and rest, Wodan!” He took a step forward, seemingly concerned, but nodded to Ramos subtly.

  “Not… dead,” said Wodan, barely able to draw in the air to speak. “I… won’t…” Before he could continue, he stumbled once again and crashed down onto one knee. Ramos shook his head in pity, then raised his gun.

  As Wodan fought to stand once again, Naarwulf stepped forward and pushed Ramos’s gun aside. “Khan,” he growled quietly. “The rite of the duel has been invoked.”

  “You’re kidding me,” said Vito. “Look at this poor guy! Devil’s balls, let’s just put him out of his misery.”

  “No!” Naarwulf shouted. Wodan looked about and saw dozens of wolves all along the rocks with their guns trained on him. “Khan, the rite has been invoked. Far too many of our ways have been forgotten and trampled upon. But… no wolf should die like this! This form, this rite, is the most important of them all. If it alone is honored, then all other infractions can be forgiven.”

  “Fine, then,” said Vito. He let his wolf’s fur cloak drop to the floor. He knew that he was strong enough to crush a man’s rib cage with a single punch, and perhaps even stop a heart from beating. He wanted to put the poor, tiresome boy out of his misery as quickly as possible. “I’ll respect the wishes of the dead.”

  He strode up to Wodan. He was surprised at how tall the boy was. He remembered that he’d only seen him kneeling before, but he hadn’t expected him to be quite so much taller than he. Vito shook his arms out and felt strength rippling through his muscular frame.

  Wodan glared at the great Khan as he pushed himself away from the wall and tried to stand on his own two feet. He could feel something trying to take hold of him, a certain coldness, a numbing massage. It was not like the quickening he’d felt before; it was, perhaps, death itself. He saw Vito coiling up within himself, saw his eyes widen for a moment, hard and blue, and he realized that the man was switching modes. This was no longer Vito the speaker, or even Vito the leader. This was Vito the fighter - the wolf, unleashed.

  Just as Wodan pulled his hand free from the coagulating gunk at his side in order to hold his fists before him, Vito tore through the air impossibly fast and his arms disappeared in a blur. A fist smashed into the center of Wodan’s chest and he heard several ribs cracking all along his sides even before he felt the wind gush from his pierced lungs. The sky blurred around him and he smashed into the ground and slid backwards along a trail of his own blood. The pain came over him in waves and when he finally drew in breath a hot geyser of blood welled up in his throat and poured over his face. He drew in one long breath that was only hot blood, then he felt nothing, as if a hand had passed over a switchboard and turned off his nervous system.

  Wodan laid still.

  “You satisfied?” Vito shouted, turning on Naarwulf. “Don’t forget which one of us is the Khan here, you pup!”

  The roar of alien engines hummed far overhead. In the dying light Wodan saw three fat transport planes overhead. He recognized them as Guardian ships from Haven. Some kind of grim payload dropped from their sides.

  * * *

  Zach and Chris and the other snipers fired round after round, tossing wolves from the walls as men fired into them, retreated, and were torn apart or flung over the sides. “The hell are those things?!” Zach screamed as the strange newcomers blasted the wolves from far above.

  Chris ignored him, his face streaming with sweat, and continued firing.

  A great fire burst out along the wing of one transport, then sparks fell in a shower from one of the engines. In between taking shots at the wolves climbing the wall, Zach peered at the thing and saw it circle, lower and lower, until it finally careened into the wolves further afield, scattering them. He saw wolves retreating from the downed aircraft and noted that this seemed to be the first thing that brought any sort of reaction from the invaders besides dogged persistence; as the other two transports circled over the fallen ship, the wolves scattered and trampled one another in the violent wake of retreat.

  * * *

  The wide doors of the grounded, smoking transport flew open. A line of black-clad Reavers regarded the fleeing dogmen. “Lucky shot,” said Yarek the Deserter. “Let’s see what else these subhuman freaks have in them.” The Reavers jumped down into the swirling dust. A heavy engine roared to life, the plane wobbled back and forth, then a massive tank grinded through the narrow opening. A single massive cannon was perched on its head and a dozen heavy machineguns lined its armored sides. “Cover us!” Yarek said to the circling planes, then to his comrades he said, “Let’s keep behind the tank and head for that rock over there. We’ll cut this army in half so the beasts in front won’t have as much backup to depend on.”

  Even through his sealed helmet, Yarek could somehow smell the stench of animal musk and adrenaline-fueled rage and blood and the bitter aftertaste of gunpowder. “This is the real world!” he shouted. “This is what we came for!”

  “In the name of the Exile!” cried several of the Reavers. They fell in step behind Yarek and the heavy tank and leveled their guns at the wasteland savages.

  * * *

  In the skies far above, Edwar looked down from his zeppelin and realized at once that Haven had come, but had come with little. The weapons of the fighters were amazing; gunfire poured from the tank on all sides, chewing up enemies even as they fled, and the great cannon at the front carved out a swathe of open ground by flinging dogman corpses high into the air. The black-clad soldiers behind the tank fired round after round that seemed to cut through multiple targets. The planes had no armaments of their own, but from the openings in their sides men crouched at machineguns and fired all around, or rolled out massive bombs by hand and dropped them onto the wolves below.

  He watched the tank and the fighters, and soon he understood that they were cutting right through the horde in such a way that those attacking the city would, for a while, be without a constant stream of reinforcements. He shouted to a Smith, “Get some ships on ei
ther side of that crew down there! Give them some cover! The dogs won’t fear them forever, and those Havenders will need to get behind city walls soon enough!”

  * * *

  “Now, what in the hell?” said Vito. “Get on that radio, Ramos! Tell someone to charge that thing. Bring that heavy vehicle down!” Ramos scurried for a radio, then wondered who exactly he was supposed to call. As far as he could tell, all of their commanders were so taken up with bloodlust that they no longer remembered they were carrying radios. Before he could say this to Vito, he saw all of the wolves turn and look behind them.

  Wodan stood once more.

  “I shattered your ribs!” said Vito. “You… you were choking on blood! Why aren’t you dead?”

  “Shattered? What shattered you, Vito?” Wodan’s voice rang clear across the ledge of stone as he stared into Vito. “What caused the world’s strongest man to crush anyone who opposed him, just so he could meekly bow to the will of demonkind?”

  Vito’s face hardened into a mask.

  “It’s not too late to join me,” said Wodan. “If you’re the type to fear what he doesn’t understand, then, well…”

  Wodan spread his arms slowly. A light gust of wind blew at the hem of his heavy, blood-soaked garment.

  Wodan did not question the miracle. As he’d lain choking on his own blood, he could feel his body knitting bones and flesh. Waves of heat had coursed through him, replacing dead tissue with something else. The process wore him out; he was exhausted, but his nausea and dizziness were gone and replaced with clarity. Strangely enough, even as he felt strength coursing through him, he could tell that the raging thing inside was, for whatever reason, holding back.