Demonworld Book 6: The Love of Tyrants

by Kyle B. Stiff

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Echo of the Past

  Wodan ascended the wide black staircase that led to the Master's throne room. He could see his breath in the chill air. When he stopped, he was almost sure that the floors and wall were moving slightly, rearranging themselves either for aesthetics, logistical purposes, or simply because the tower was shifting its weight or stretching for comfort.

  The last time he had been here, he had been mindless with rage, desperate to seem intimidating but filled with fear. Now he felt only a small twinge of anxiety because he had not begun the day with his usual routine of exercise and education. Instead, the voice of Slave Circuit had summoned him shortly after waking. But behind the anxiety was a deep well of confidence. Wodan knew he could handle any challenge that waited for him. He increased his pace.

  I doubt this is my final test, thought Wodan. I still have so much more to learn.

  Recorded images flashed to life on the black walls of the stairwell. Wodan saw himself with Langley, different angles, different encounters, different days of the past week, all playing simultaneously along his winding route.

  She talked to me, he thought, but still refuses to speak directly to him. Is the Master jealous? He wondered about such an ancient being, whose neocortex had grown and developed in unnatural isolation for perhaps thousands of years. Was he even capable of jealousy? Were these recordings played through conscious effort, or did memories simply appear along the winding passages?

  In one recording Wodan saw himself sitting with Langley beneath a sculpture of a flowering pink tree where lights moved about like living things. Langley was dressed in a shining blue robe that caught the light in jagged strips. She bent over a large dark bowl filled with sand, and Wodan watched as it rearranged itself at her direction.

  “Look,” she said. “See this character. The word for world is wode. Funny, right?”

  “Yes,” he said, nodding as he memorized the symbol that formed in the sand. “Got it.”

  “Here – piggy. Or just pig. That's pronounced non-ee. See?”

  The symbol was surprisingly complicated, with all four quadrants or spaces available to “letters” filled by ornate shapes. “Got it,” he said.

  She glanced at him and smiled. Watching the recording, his heart broke. He saw himself beaming, excited to continue the lesson. He had remembered himself displaying a little more cool reserve than the recording showed. It was a wonder to him that the magical Cognati power that moved the sand was less interesting than the dark-haired beauty with her smile and her dancing fingers.

  “Hmmm,” she said. “Here, this means path. Like a street, but I guess… smaller? You'd have more reason to use it in your land...”

  The recording shifted and he saw her in a black dress with lace that wound around her throat and arms. She sat atop a square black podium while he walked around pillars set beneath her.

  Why does he have to show me this? he thought, taking the steps two at a time to avoid the images. I don't want to see this!

  “Have you ever considered,” she said, “that people don't want freedom?”

  “Nobody goes to Pontius,” he said. “But it's that very thought that leads them there.”

  “Is that what you think of me?” She pursed her lips, seemingly hurt. “I'm only asking if you've considered it.”

  Wodan stopped his circuit. “No,” he said.

  “No?”

  “My people will never have to worry about me doing anything perverse to them.”

  “Perverse!” She scoffed. “As if leading people naturally implies abusing them!”

  “Leading,” he said flatly. “Is that what you call it? When your people turn against other nations, crush them, end them…? Is that the end result of a leader's inspiration? Nobody wants war unless a leader inspires them. Nobody wants enslavement unless a leader sells the idea wrapped up as something else. That's perverse. Why do you serve them, Dove? Why not just leave?”

  “I can't!”

  Wodan saw his face turn hard, his eyes small burning pits. “If their gods had the strength of will to stand up and go home, then the people would be forced to-”

  “I don't have a home! My homeland, it's...”

  “Gone, I'm sure. You're obviously not racially related to the people of Ktari. They destroyed your land?”

  She wiped her face. “Annexed,” she said quietly. “Same thing.” They sat in silence. It was a wonder to Wodan that he could plainly see now, but could not at the time, how she had been lashed by his words and wanted only a little comfort. At the time, he had only been preparing another volley to send her way. “Wodan, I don't know. I don't know what you want from me.”

  “Come home! To the Valley!”

  She laughed at the impossible idea, snuffling back tears as she covered her mouth. She fell silent again. “Wodan, when… I mean, when San Ktari finally comes to...”

  “Destroy the Black Valley?”

  “I'll try to stop them. I'll talk to...”

  “And they would obey you – why? They were cunning enough to enslave a god. Twelve gods! You, convince them? You can't even motivate yourself to break out of here.”

  The silence grew heavy, her gaze sharp. “Motivate myself?” she said darkly. “You said you were going to get me out of here.”

  Wodan could not stand the sight of how he'd raised his chin, a subtle but infuriating gesture. Had he really imagined his callous arrogance to be heroic? “It's like anything else in life,” he said. “You have to get yourself there. No one can ever do it for you.”

  Her eyes became hard, sharp, dead things. “Get out.”

  “Langley-”

  “Get out before I kill you,” she hissed.

  He had not spoken to her since. At last he reached the top of the staircase, not out of breath but mentally worn. Even at the top, the wall around the entrance was a screen for images. A single moment in time had been frozen, the face of Dove Langley glancing sideways – perhaps at him – with lips curved in a slight smile. He stopped and finally looked at her. Large, curving eyes, brilliant green. A shadow behind her nose perfectly connecting to the curve of eyelids and brow. Darkest black hair next to pale skin reflecting soft violet light. The doorway cut through her cheek, a dark vacuum absent of organic curvature.

  Even among gods, he thought, she must be considered the most beautiful of all.

  He stepped through and entered the throne room. It was different from before, an open expanse of archaic columns and tiles in red and black now turned to glass cubes of the same infernal color scheme. The throne now sat on a series of glass squares, with the robots Yohei, SexBot, and Black standing motionless nearby. Strips of hard-edged black, red, and amber slowly trailed up sheer glass walls. Wodan had the impression that the room had broken down into abstract components of its former theme.

  “Ah, Wodan. You've come.”

  The Master was sitting not in a pose of authoritarian arrogance, but distraction. He blinked and leaned forward.

  “I have something for you,” said Setsassanar, motioning to Yohei.

  Wodan stifled his curiosity. “Why do you show me images of Langley?”

  “Do I?”

  “Are you toying with me?” Wodan suppressed his anger only for a moment, then failed. “Are you jealous that she speaks to me and not to you?”

  He prepared for the retort that Langley had not spoken to him since he'd enraged her. Instead Setsassanar merely shook his head, then gestured toward Yohei once again. He did not seem to be engaged with the conversation.

  Yohei moved toward a long black rectangle that slowly rose from the floor. Wodan watched as Setsassanar stared at Yohei. His head drooped slightly, then he looked away as if bored of the proceedings.

  “Master,” said Wodan, “you must think about what you're doing with Langley.”

  Setsassanar sighed, then rubbed his eyes and brow. He slouched in his throne.

  “At least,” said Wodan, “tell me what you’re plannin
g. Help me to… to understand this-”

  “Wodan,” said Setsassanar. He lowered his hand. His eyes were slack. “Do you ever think of your family? Would you like to see your parents and sisters in Haven?”

  “Why bring that up?”

  “Don't you think your father misses you, Wodan? Your… real father? Don't you think he'd like to see his son?”

  Wodan felt something writhing in his chest. He'd had to bottle that up so long ago. How was he expected to fight a war if he thought about… but he couldn't think of things like that, not when he had to win, to stay alive in situations that most men would shrink away from. Finally the heavy lid fell back into place inside of him.

  “Sounds fine,” said Wodan. “But I wonder how many people would die while I go for a visit? Then again, the demons would probably wait while we're off duty.” Wodan waited, but the response seemed to have no effect. “Why ask me that? Why aren't we training, Master?”

  “I wonder… what would you do if…” Setsassanar's hand slowly moved to touch his own face, then he froze. For a moment the images on the walls ceased moving, then continued at a fraction of their former pace.

  Yohei stopped. Wodan looked at SexBot and Black. They sat frozen, sculptures created and abandoned. Only the room seemed to slowly shift and move about them.

  “Master?” said Wodan. “Master? Are you alright?”

  He's the tower, thought Wodan. These robots I talk to – even Setsassanar – they're things, mere projections. Has he forgotten them momentarily? Fallen asleep? Will they ever-

  “Ah, Wodan. You're here.” Once again Setsassanar moved. His eyes seemed clear, brighter than before. “I have something for you. Yohei – ah, you already have it. What a good little chap.”

  Yohei approached and handed Wodan a long curved sword in a sheathe of polished leather. Wodan unsheathed the sword a few inches and was bathed in the green glow of Capricornus. He felt strength and vitality coursing through him. The handle had been redecorated in a more elaborate design that fit his fingers perfectly. He sheathed the sword and ran his hand along the sheathe, a smooth and lustrous work of minimalist art.

  “That sheathe,” said Setsassanar, “is made from skin grown in the same sort of vat where I grew this body. That's the flesh of your trusty Master. Show it some care, will you?” He smiled.

  Before Wodan could respond, Yohei handed him a dark padded one-piece garment similar to his old winter gear, but more expertly tailored. Now it would stand out from all others.

  “I've modified your travelling garments,” said Setsassanar. “This set is equipped with a microscopic technology that will help you retain heat in the cold and shunt heat away in the wasteland.”

  “Why?” said Wodan. He took a backpack from Yohei and found it packed with the same nutritious cubes he'd been eating the past few weeks, as well as a canteen of water. He was alarmed.

  “Because you will return to Srila.”

  All pretense that Wodan could confront Setsassanar about Langley's imprisonment fled. “But why?” he said. “My training… I don't want to leave!”

  “Whether your training continues or ends here is entirely up to you.” Setsassanar's eyes shone with their old power once again. Merciless, unyielding, and just. “Once you feel you have completed your time outside, return to me and we will continue.”

  Despite his offer, Wodan felt as if he was being cast adrift. “But Master, won't I lose a lot of the progress I've made? Don't I… I need to...”

  “You need to relax. What progress? The only thing you've learned is that it won't kill you to put forth more effort. Perhaps you've learned that too well. Now you need to learn that it won't kill you to take a few moments to recollect yourself. You've changed, Wodan. You've lost yourself in your training. Now it's time for you to go and find a mirror in Srila. Find yourself once again. This is not an obstruction. There is no obstruction. This is the path.”

  Wodan still felt uneasy. Though he was uncomfortable with the balancing act between Setsassanar and Langley, he had grown used to the streamlined path of development. He had grown used to this place where there were no worries about sustaining himself, where reward was limited only by the amount of pain he was willing to endure.

  “There is nothing in Srila,” Wodan said flatly. “The people there – they're not like us. Surely they have nothing to teach me.”

  Even as he said it, he felt like a child who misspoke simply for the attention that correction would give him. Again he was embarrassed.

  “Oh?” said Setsassanar. “You've learned this already? Was it the handful of hours spent at the foot of the stairs of the Temple that told you this? You spent more time lurking about in the foothills looking for a place to stick Barkus than you did talking to any of the inhabitants. You’ve yet to enter the Temple of the Summons. You’ve yet to inquire about the Deepest Vale of Srila, much less see it yourself.”

  Wodan sighed in order to feign resignation, then tried a new tactic. “Master, if I’m to leave the Tower, I’d rather return to the Black Valley, to get things in ord-”

  “No. I forbid it. I don’t want you chasing after a few worthless parasites as if they were of any importance. You will not return to comfortable routines until you have proven to me that you can endure at least some small amount of discomfort.”

  Though still ill at ease, Wodan had to concede. The Master knew best; he had to trust in his methods. Even the Smith War had been a constant series of pains and discomforts, and that had been a conflict against weak, unhealthy humans. Surely a war against demonkind would require much more from him.

  “Very well,” said Wodan. “I'll go back. For now. But Master, you’ve told me nothing of your past. I still don't know anything about the world of the Ancients. What if… what if I trip on a rock and crack my head open? It would be a shame to have known nothing about your world.”

  Setsassanar lifted an eyebrow, staring at him with hard, violet eyes. Wodan shrugged. “You would regret it.”

  “Very well,” said Setsassanar, hiding a smile. “Slave Circuit, let's show the Apprentice a little bit of the place where… where the wasteland was born.”

  On the walls and on the columns, images formed. Wodan saw towers of bright glass shining in the sun, clustered and soaring like branchless trees stabbing through the heavens to drink from the sun. One fractured image showed people walking down a street – so many of them! More than Wodan had ever seen gathered in one place. Then the sun set and Wodan saw the cities at night, alive with flashing lights, traffic moving like blood through a god made of light, nodes glittering and spread all across the face of the globe. Wodan's heart raced.

  That's what we once were! he thought. And all of it… all of it was erased!

  “Impressive, isn't it?” said Setsassanar. “And to think that this era was called the Rebuilding. It was referred to as a Renaissance only cynically. A shade of what came before it.”

  “Rebuilt?” said Wodan, unable to look away from the globe-spanning network of shining glass. “Rebuilt from what?”

  Wodan saw gutted out corpses of towers, shattered windows seeming like eyeless skulls, twisted metal skeletons jutting out from ruined concrete. Then images of shanty towns spreading around the avenues of death, filthy people gathered around trucks carrying food distributed by armed men in ill-fitting, brightly-colored uniforms.

  “Even in my childhood,” said Setsassanar, “some places were still like this. The disaster that caused it… ah, but they did strange things with information back then. It would be hard for you to understand. Anything recorded could be manipulated. People could be told that recorded images and sounds were easily manipulated, but the human mind was not capable of processing that. History became like myth. The history of the world could change as soon as you stepped over an abstract border. Dissenters could find themselves in prison, or simply ousted from normal social gatherings.”

  “Master, how long ago was this?”

  “It would be... difficult to say,”
Setsassanar said. “I wouldn't even know where to begin, retrieving information like that from my mind. When you've lived as long as I have, concepts like time lose much of what they mean to people who live fifty, sixty years before they die. I rarely calculate in such terms.”

  Wodan turned around, overwhelmed by the dissonant images of unstoppable progress alongside utter decay. “But Master, are you… are you older than the wasteland?”

  “Yes and no.”

  Wodan stopped and turned to him.

  “What is the wasteland, Wodan? Is it the sun bearing down on land unshaded by any green thing, where the few surviving animals are forced to cling to every fragment of moisture? If that is the wasteland, then no - it is older than I. Though not by much. I remember the propaganda, when I was a child. As humans retreated from a world increasingly hostile toward them, they were told one tale after another about how the world was being reclaimed. I remember how the best minds, the ones who might have saved us, were stifled by absurd schemes dreamed up by influential, charismatic idiots. The world was falling apart, and news agencies owned by rival propagandists were busy selling stories about how the other side was responsible for the encroaching wasteland. It was impossible for anyone to think clearly in a world defined by ideology. Trying new methods became impossible, a sort of sedition.”

  “I don't get it,” said Wodan. “Arguing over politics, or sports, that's common for low-brow types. But it's not like those people become policy-makers, right? Or scientists and thinkers who get things done.”

  “Would that that were so.” Setsassanar was sullen, his eyes fixed on a single point far away. “You have to understand that the world we inherited was built on an edifice of warring ideologies and myths woven from pieces of truth. Enough truth was in any of them to make completely opposing histories or ideologies seem true. Some said ruin came like dominos falling one after another; others said it was a single event of such horrific proportions that generations thereafter were scarred and adopted short-term thinking and incredible psychological pain-management strategies in order to survive. The event that mutilated our species… well, as I said, history had become propaganda. The Ancients, as you call them, could manipulate any media. Perhaps it would be foolish to… to bring up...”