Brad stared down at his hands, head shaking, mumbling, “I’ve been… you know, tired from… fighting raiders… you know…”
“Just boys!” she shot back, full of venom. “Nothing but boys!” She turned and stalked off, and the two boys stared at her butt as she walked away.
“So embarrassing for you,” said Brad, shaking his head. “You were so scared of her, man.”
Agmar tapped Wodan, said, “There’s someone I want you to meet.” Grateful to be taken out of the situation, Wodan joined him.
They made their way across the bar. Agmar looked back, saw Wodan doing some kind of strange jig as he walked, and flashed him an annoyed look. They arrived at a table where three men sat staring at a pitcher. One man was tall, with long, greasy brown silk-hair that hung down his cloak. The other two wore red, neat uniforms under roughly patched cloaks. Even among the mix of people he’d seen in Sunport, he could tell the two were foreigners by their straight black hair and slitted eyes. One of the two had pomaded hair that was divided down the middle, and he ignored all around him. The other was smaller, lean, sitting like a coiled spring and staring intently at Wodan. He had the look of a fighter, or a soldier that had grown wild away from civilization.
The long-haired man saw them approach and waved. “Agmar!” he said. “That really you? Come and sit! How’s your family?”
Agmar glanced nervously at Wodan, then said, “They’re fine, they’re fine, good to see you too – hey listen, I wanted you to meet this young man. His name’s Wodan. Wodan, this is my old friend, Jarl. He’s… something of an artist, you might say.”
Jarl shook his hand, then said, “I’m on a mission these days, if you can believe it. But I never expected to see you here! Didn’t you retire from-”
“I’ve been living with the tribals south of here. City life didn’t suit me. Listen, right now me and my friends are trying to find a ship that can get us out of here. You’re welcome to come, of course…”
“Ship?” said the smaller foreigner. “You go to east? Why you have the business east? You speak now!”
“We’re not going east.” Agmar stared at the foreigner, then said, “Jarl, who are these jokers?”
“They’re my travelling companions,” said Jarl. “Don’t mind them, they’re quite civil. They’re scouts for the Empire of San Ktari. They’ve been checking out our walls, our fighters, our weapons – and our bars – for the past few weeks so they can make a report on whether or not Sunport is worth invading.”
“Not spy,” said the fighter, his voice high-pitched. “We diplomacy!”
Jarl and Agmar laughed. “Jarl, why would you trust two rats from a society that exists solely to feed a military infrastructure? And what about demons, what are you going to do about them?”
“That reminds me,” said Jarl. “I wanted to ask you a question about the flesh demons.”
Wodan leaned forward.
“I’ve been doing some studying,” said Jarl. “The old men... I’ve been listening to their stories. They lived back when there was much less communication between city-states. What strikes me is that the world seemed a lot more dangerous back in their day.”
“Old men are like that,” said Agmar. “They run from one demon when they were young, then the tale changes through the years until they were fighting a pack of a hundred.”
“Maybe,” said Jarl, “but think about your own experience. You’ve told me about how you hid from them when you were young, all the things you did to avoid them in the wasteland.”
“Yeah...”
“How come they never caught up with you? How could you keep gambling your life without running into serious trouble?”
“As I got older, I, you know, I tended to travel with groups, I guess.”
“Oh? And are those groups seeing constant harassment?”
“We only met one demon on the way here,” said Wodan.
“You yourself told me,” said Jarl, “that traveling with groups isn’t that smart. They’re loud, they stink - they draw the demon out, and they get killed if they’re not armed to the teeth and more than a day’s ride from any city. You see? I think that something’s changed in the wasteland, something that we don’t quite understand. Agmar, I think that the presence of the demon is waning.”
They sat in silence as they considered this, then Wodan said, “That thought has been in the back of my mind these past few days. Where I’m from, we stay hidden. Most of us have never seen a demon. We have stories, we have some recorded history, but the history I’ve heard makes it seem like the demon is everywhere in the wasteland. Now that I’ve been out in the world, I’m left with the feeling that history’s version of the demon’s presence is a little different from my own experience.”
“Exactly!” said Jarl. “That’s what I’m saying! There are less demons than there used to be, and I’m going to take this chance to go to San Ktari... and do my work.”
“What kind of work?” said Wodan.
Jarl looked about, then said quietly, “I’ve joined a secret society. A very secret secret society. I’m not allowed to speak about it, but it’s the reason I’m making this journey to the East.”
“I see. I won’t ask about it, then.” Jarl nodded, seemingly disappointed. “But you might want to consider giving your old friend Agmar some idea of what you’re getting yourself into.”
“Very well, if you’re going to twist my arm about it,” said Jarl, nearly cutting him off. “I’ve joined… the Entertainers.”
Agmar leaned back in his seat. “My… God.”
“Oh…” said Wodan, nodding slowly, confused.
“Dear God in Heaven,” said Agmar, closing his eyes slowly.
“And they’ve given me a mission,” said Jarl.
“You’ve abandoned your humanity for those weirdos!” Agmar screamed. Wodan, whose attention had been drifting, jerked as if stung by a bee.
“It had to be done!” said Jarl. “For the same reason you used to wander the world, looking for something, looking for an answer to a question you couldn’t put into words. I had to do it. My mission is to go to San Ktari and investigate their gods.”
This is so weird, said Wodan. In Haven, the Entertainers are just a guild of artists looking after one another.
“Their gods!” said Agmar. “They’re savages, Jarl. You should have just asked me before you hooked up with these two nut-balls. All their gods are war gods. Their entire pantheon is composed of psychotic, blood-drinking lunatics. Messer the Reaver, Fat Brahmut, the Red Sisters – they’re all the same!”
The scout with the pomade in his hair, who had been making a great show of ignoring everyone, turned his head even further away to make it clear that he was not listening. Wodan saw him scratch his ear idly, but as he did so he cupped his hand behind his ear so that he would not miss a word.
Before Agmar could say anything else, the fighter slapped his chest and said, “We have new gods! Gods with skin.”
“You idiot!” said Agmar, his voice shrill. “I don’t doubt that at all! You probably have some demon in league with your leaders, telling your people what to do and who to kill. It wouldn’t be the first time something like that’s happened.”
“No!” said the fighter. “We serve Die Engelen. Is much beauty!”
“And that,” said Jarl, leaning forward to stop the two from arguing, “is exactly what I need to see. I’ve been charged with a holy duty. And I mean to do it.”
“So you’re going to cross the waste with just these two?” said Agmar. He looked at the two scouts, said, “How exactly do you plan to do that?”
“Have big balls,” said the fighter, “and big ass guns.” His eyes closed tightly as he smiled, beaming with pride.
“This is so strange,” said Wodan. “Do the Entertainers have to work in secret? Because where I come from–”
“Boy, what are you listening at?” said Agmar, craning his head. Wodan turned and saw a young boy with black hair. He was dressed in rough
clothes and wore a collar.
“Sorry,” he said, leaving them quickly.
They said nothing for a moment.
“I should have kept my mouth shut,” Jarl said through gritted teeth. “I’m a dead man. A dead man, for sure!” He turned to the scouts, said, “Tomorrow, leave tomorrow? Haul ass?”
“Yah,” said the fighter. “Tomorrow, haul ass, we go. Another pitcher, now.”
“Fine, another pitcher,” said Jarl, signaling a waiter.
Agmar watched the boy until he disappeared in the crowd, then said, “Jarl, you sure you don’t have any connections that could hook us up with passage on a ship?”
“I don’t even have connections that could get me on a ship,” said Jarl. “You have money?”
“We’ve got horses.”
“If you have several then I’m sure you could buy passage for all your people, depending on how far you want to go.”
“Thing is,” said Wodan, “we need to buy a ship. We can’t have people finding out about my homeland. I can get us in the general direction, I think, but we need to...”
“What?” said Agmar.
“Shit!” said Wodan, slapping his forehead. “Damn, I forgot. Agmar, unless you know how to pilot a ship on top of everything else you know, then we need some kind of navigator!”
“That’s true,” said Agmar. “I was thinking we would just book passage with a few of the horses.”
“No!” said Wodan. “Agmar, my homeland is a secret place! No one but us can know about its location. We have to buy a ship... and, damn, even a captain who will promise to live with us, I guess.”
Agmar frowned and pulled his face into his beard.
“I can’t believe I didn’t think about that,” said Wodan. “I feel like an idiot.”
“Talk to Filius Bilch,” said Jarl. “The dwarf over there. He’s a slave dealer, owns some ships. He might sell you a ship, even a slave crew. But ships and crews cost a right fortune, Ag. I hope your horses piss whiskey and shit silver.”
“What a mess,” said Agmar. “We might as well try.”
Wodan and Agmar left Jarl and crossed the dance floor. An announcer frantically narrated an event happening onstage which included a competition between a musician trying to complete a piece of well-known music on his banjo – without mistakes – while a famous drunk attempted to fill a large glass jar with his own urine before the piece of music ended. “Who will drink the golden elixir!” the announcer shrieked. “The master of music or the master of drinking? Place your bets, the table’s still open until the glass is half full – or half empty, depending on your point of view!”
“Don’t fail me now!” screamed the man pissing into the jar. “Relax! Don’t fail me now!”
We should get out of here sooner rather than later, thought Wodan.
* * *
The dwarf sat in a high seat at his favorite table, not so near the band and dance floor that he would be jostled rudely, and not so far away that the other merchants would miss the size of his jewels and fat-breasted escorts. His bald head was cracked and scarred, full of shingles and psoriasis and even some eczema; he had poured several small rivulets of molten gold into many open sores to cover his sickness, and scratched at his shining crown constantly. He wore robes of alternating strips of pink silk and purple velvet. He had two half-wits on either side of him, men with bloated muscles and lopsided heads and mouths perpetually hanging open. Pregnant slave girls fanned him and passed around his favorite cup, milking their breasts into it so that he could drink; it was known that he made the girls consume a quart of scotch every night so that he might father a generation of slaves incapable of outwitting or overpowering him.
Agmar and Wodan stood before him.
“Are you Filius Bilch, sir?” said Wodan.
The dwarf’s face was lined with trenches, and when he narrowed his eyes at them his skin bulged as the wrinkles deepened into serpentine runes of age.
“You see before you the most powerful man in the universe,” said the dwarf in a high, croaking voice, “a thing of wonder whom an entire city calls ‘master,’ a god whose single word can destroy families and whose friendship can be the sun in all your days - and then you wonder if it is truly the Filius Bilch upon whom you gaze in awe?”
The two worked their mouths.
“Dumbstruck,” said the dwarf. “Not the first time I have seen the mighty laid low, and, because my greatness is everlasting, probably not the last. Worry not, sweet children, you have found the living treasure that you seek.”
Wodan felt something bump into his legs. He moved, began to apologize, and saw that two armed men were moving chairs under them. He thanked them and sat beside Agmar. One man bent down to Wodan’s ear and whispered, “He likes you. Watch yourself. One quick move, one false word, and I’ll make you wish the demon had you instead of me.” Wodan nodded.
Agmar cleared his throat politely, said, “If I may introduce ourselves-”
“You may,” Filius said magnanimously.
“My name is Agmar Epemi, and this is my associate, Wodan. We have heard of your reputation for kindness, and though we wish to do business, we have little to offer in the face of your greatness.”
Wodan wanted to laugh. As exhaustion overtook his awareness, the dwarf and his ridiculous entourage became surreal beyond belief. He had difficulty following Agmar’s plea for a ship and a slave crew. To see a man who, until now, had never been anything but paternal and hyper-rational turn into a raging sycophant only added to the dreamlike unreality of the situation. Wodan suppressed a yawn, then smiled at one of the slave girls. She had a mound under her dress, rich black hair, and purple eye makeup that concealed a great bruise. She looked away quickly.
The black-haired boy that Agmar had chased away earlier wandered up to the group. The group paid him no mind. Wodan noticed the boy’s collar again, then saw that Filius’s half-wits and slave girls also wore dog collars. The boy stared directly at Wodan.
“A ship,” said Filius, “and a captain and crew? Not a problem, my friend, and I would be more than happy to oblige. But, you ask for so little - I must insist that you take my entire fortune as well, and perhaps even myself, as your devoted slave.”
There was a long delay, then the slave girls and armed men laughed weakly. Agmar looked downcast.
The crowd exploded with applause. Wodan saw the musician curse wildly, then he turned up the jar of urine. The narrator pointed and said, “The winner! The winner!” and the crowd laughed. The famous drunk cut a neat jig as he held his pants up with one hand.
“You joke, sir,” said Agmar.
“Funny,” said Filius, “I thought that you were the one playing me for a fool. Listen, mortal: Ships are worth a small fortune. A ship costs far more than the amount of gold you can carry around in your raggedy purse. I’m sure such an amount would stagger your comprehension. Furthermore, each of my ships is a vessel worth ten times any other man’s.”
“Ah,” said Agmar, “then perhaps we should seek business with men who have more affordable vessels.”
“Nonsense!” said Filius. “As the richest man in the world – nay, as the richest man in all the history of the world - I have in my fleet ships both expensive and thriftily-priced. Ask any other merchant, and he will hum and haw in indecision, then make fun of your appearance, then refuse to deal with you. I, on the other hand, can offer my wares at a discount, and will gladly get rid of a number of my slaves, who I am sure you will find as worthless as I have.”
This is absurd, Wodan thought. Why not state a price and be done with it? Or is he after something more than money?
“Master,” said the slave boy, “we do have that one ship, you know, the one you’ve been wanting to get rid of...”
“Who pulled your string!” the dwarf raged. “God damn you, boy!”
“You said yourself that it was worth nothing to us anymore, it’s so old.”
“Ten lashes for every impertinent word that slides off your
tongue!” said the dwarf. “And ten more for the cost of burying your whore of a mother!”
The boy’s face flashed red and he stared at the ground, grinding his jaw.
“Sir,” said Wodan, “I’ll take that pile of junk off your hands and sink it for you. It probably costs more to keep that thing in port than it’s worth, I’m sure.”
“Spare me your malicious words,” said Filius, turning slowly to Wodan. “That vessel has seen high adventure the likes of which your pale face could not dream of. I will not part with the Hero of Old for less than... well, more than you could ever give.”
“Just listen to us, for a moment,” said Wodan, and Agmar jerked in his seat, terrified that Wodan would say the wrong thing. “We have no cash at the moment, but we have plenty of goods to barter. Specifically, horses and guns. You could supply a small army with them and knock over one of your competitors. Or start a demolition racing league where every rider is equipped with a gun and a single bullet. By giving up a single ship you don’t even want in the first place, you could build a gambling enterprise that would have money constantly pouring out of it.”
[Demonworld #1] Demonworld Page 31
