[Demonworld #6] The Love of Tyrants

by Kyle B. Stiff

  “Yes, Master.” Jared rose and bowed.

  “But first… send for a virgin, would you?”

  ***

  It was cold and gray in the afternoon when Yarek and Naarwulf stood waiting at the base of the Temple stairs. Finally Kommander Won Po and a line of soldiers marched through the square. Most of the soldiers drew to a halt and stood some distance away while Won Po and two strange masked soldiers approached.

  Won Po nodded to Yarek, subdued yet amiable. “Greetings, Yar’k,” said Won Po, “General of Black Valley.”

  That’s a little better than yesterday, thought Yarek. Is he in a good mood because he thinks this meeting will accomplish something? Yarek nodded. “Afternoon, Kommander. This is Naarwulf, Chief of Enforcers. He’s in charge of our police force.”

  Won Po eyed the dogman, his face suddenly rigid. Averting his eyes, he bowed only with the tip of his nose and lips. Naarwulf squared his shoulders, grunting.

  Yarek eyed the other two. “Special forces?” he asked.

  “Yai,” said Won Po, nodding. “Called Tengu.”

  Yarek looked them over. All three of the San Ktari men before him were at least one-and-a-half heads shorter than he, though Won Po’s ceremonial armor, natural bulk, and wide face distinguished him from the others. The two Tengu were as small as any other Ktari soldier, but their silent bearing gave them an air of menace. They wore form-fitting black and red armor, one polished to a deep luster, the other rough and dull. One wore a form-fitting black mask with purple highlights in the shape of a leering monster, eyes invisible behind tinted slits. The other wore a white mask with red highlights which bore the image of a face disturbingly serene and bloody. They wore sidearms on their hips, but Yarek could see the telltale signs of concealed arms as well.

  “What are their names?” said Yarek.

  “Ah. No individual names... ah, difficult to explain. Names... erased. They live by philosophy of Heaven and Earth. You see?”

  “Not really.”

  “Ah!” Won Po smiled, and even seemed to laugh. “Heaven, Earth. Duality of all things. High, low. Color, gray. Shadow, form. All Tengu are teams of two. We call one, Heaven. Call other, Earth.”

  “Let me guess. One’s the intel guy, the other kills. Like a sniper and a spotter.”

  “In a manner of speaking.”

  They watched one another for a while, breath misting around them, then Naarwulf cleared his throat violently. “Let’s go,” he said.

  They turned and started up the steps to the Temple of the Summons.

  ***

  Globulus sat hunched over a virgin, sweating and grunting, in a candlelit chamber surrounded by black-robed witnesses. The virgin was a smooth-skinned girl wearing only thin panties, a white cloth around her breasts, and a wide blindfold. Her lips were clasped shut, seemingly indifferent to the high honor of serving the High Priest in his duties. Globulus crawled over her like a spider wrapped in black robes, then pressed her breasts together under their cloth covering. He studied her hands limp at her sides, her smooth belly, the fat of her thighs - then in a fit of inspiration rolled her onto her back. His eyes bulged still more as he grinded his tiny member against the fabric around her ass. He felt the witnesses in the background shift their attention, wary for any signs of penetration. Globulus knew that they were quite necessary; he was so worked up that all he wanted to do was hear her moan despite all holy writ. Instead he concentrated on the softness behind the fabric, the play of candlelight on the curve of her back…

  Globulus blasted a line of mucus across her back and immediately several black-robed priests hustled over to the bed, wiping her back, wiping his still-throbbing prick, then others led the blindfolded girl away and helped him back onto his feet. His fuck-addled mind was still full of white noise as he walked the dark halls of the Temple, a train of priests behind him muttering prayers that would cleanse the air. The virgin girl who was a bride to the Ghost and the Redeemer was already back in the nunnery at the far side of the Temple by the time his shaking knees carried him to the end of the hall.

  ***

  Yarek, Naarwulf, Won Po, and the two Tengu ascended the long set of winding stairs carved into the mountainside. The Temple of the Summons was a vast square of gray stone surrounded by columns upholding nothing, with a host of other square buildings and wide terraces and towers ornamented with pennants of seemingly random color. The rear of the Temple connected to the mountain. Seeing openings and walkways along the mountainside, Yarek guessed that much of the Temple was hidden from those who didn’t know where to look. To the left of the Temple, the fronts of square crypts crouched on the curving face of the mountain, extending down far below. As the stairway wound around, he could see that the right side of the Temple hung over a windy ravine, where somber gray mist crawled over deep shadow.

  As they climbed another set of stairs and approached the heavy black iron doors of the Temple, several orange robes greeted them. One lambasted the doors; heavy gears clanged within, then the doors rolled inward on wheels. They entered and saw other orange robes pushing on a set of wheels and winches.

  Through the dark antechamber they came to the cathedral of sermons, a huge room filled with columns and squat pews that was lit by candles shining through red paper. The roof, if there was any, was cast in darkness; the great columns extended upward from the gloom of blood into silent nothingness. The shuffling hiss of footfalls stretched into echoes, and by some instinct no one spoke a word. Far ahead sat the altar, a great slab of cut black marble with veins of purple. Behind the altar they saw tiers where chorus-chanters would stand. The tiers were empty. Far above the tiers hung a great Execution Cross, its top reaching into the darkness.

  Naarwulf stumbled and nearly came to a dead stop at the sight of the thing. Yarek had heard of the Holy Series, of the legend of the Redeemer. How he was killed by his own design, his body hung and then his corpse dragged down and eaten. That the tomb they trapped him in was found empty, and how his followers spread the word until they were killed as well. He saw Naarwulf’s mouth working in silent awe. Yarek felt nothing, but he was impressed by the architecture.

  Short wooden doors lay on either side of the cathedral. The orange robes led them to a door on the right, where the two Valliers had to lower their heads to enter. The orange robes led them through many low corridors, many square rooms. They passed by other black-robed preachers. Yarek noted their cutting, cursory glances, their feigned indifference.

  “Why are their robes black?” said Yarek.

  “To distinguish their function,” said one of the orange robes.

  “Which is?”

  “They are church functionaries. They preach to the many. They help the High Priest in his work. Those who wear the black are allowed to grow their hair. They circumcise the newborn and give funeral rites to the dead.”

  Yarek smirked, then said, “Kommander, do the people of San Ktari circumcise their children?”

  “Never!”

  Yarek was surprised that a nation that excelled in stamping out individual identity would leave its newborns unbranded. “You leave the foreskin on?”

  “Ah,” said the Kommander, “I guess I did not understand the word. Of course we cut that off.”

  They passed through a large dining hall where silent men ate from clay bowls. Some older men sat reading by a fire. Once they passed into another hallway, Naarwulf said, “I see no... there are no...”

  “Women,” said Yarek, nodding. “Are no women allowed in the Temple?”

  “They have their own place in the Temple,” said another orange robe. “They wear the white.”

  White for “purity,” thought Yarek. What is it about these religious types that makes them so uncomfortable around women? They could do with some time in our House of Ishtar.

  They passed through a wide hallway open on one side; outside, on a ledge of stone, they saw many orange robes meditating, their even breaths flowing in mist around them. Unlike the hard-eyed black robes w
ho studied their scrolls and books with great intent, Yarek noted that the orange robes seemed far more serene. Some of them even walked as if in meditation, unconcerned about leaving point A or arriving at point B. Yarek couldn’t imagine them gossiping about the arrival of the Valliers, but he shuddered to think what the black robes were whispering as they passed.

  They passed through a wide chamber with a floor of sand. The ceiling was very high, with many walkways and side tunnels on higher levels. Men and dogmen in blue robes stood at attention with heavy iron staves, and they eyed the outlanders suspiciously. On a walkway overhead, bald men with robes and hats of yellow and purple carried boxes, costumes, heavy bells and stringed instruments. They had a bearing similar to the orange robes, though their faces seemed more clever, their eyes quicker, their destination more sure. They disappeared into another tunnel.

  “What are they?” said Yarek.

  “Who?” said an orange robe.

  “The dudes in the nutty getup.”

  “Oh... they play the ceremonial music, and conduct the morality plays we show to the people of the Temple Grounds. They help the black robes in their ceremonies. They also read and study the holy stories.”

  Yarek almost said, “Like Entertainers?” but caught himself. He knew that, outside the Valley, Entertainers were considered freaks and cultists. He had seen no aggression from the orange robes so far, but he reckoned that mentioning a rival religion would be the surest way to get a negative response.

  They passed through a row of short columns that separated them from many long rooms. One room was covered in white curtains. Yarek stopped and peeked inside. He saw children in pale green robes sitting quietly, peering down at bits of stone and metal laid before them. An old Cognati sat cross-legged at the head of the room, eyes closed, no doubt feeling out the efforts of the children. Yarek felt nauseous and naked before such serene militancy.

  They passed through a dark room with a low ceiling. The room was wide, spreading out into darkness. It was full of stone Execution Crosses. It was cold and damp, with moisture running down trails of mold on the crosses. Yarek spotted a particularly wide cross, thought it might be a good fallback position if things got hairy, and turned to Naarwulf so that he could point it out on the sly.

  Naarwulf’s face was limp, mouth and eyes wide open, and his lower lip quivered slightly.

  ***

  The office of the High Priest was a long, narrow rectangle of dark stone. Both long walls were filled with shelves of books and scrolls, a treasure trove even if only considered in terms of monetary value. Even heretical books - books by rival religious branches that had been snuffed out, books critiquing the Redeemer’s sect, and books of pornography - had their place here, where they could be perused only by the line of High Priests whose souls could not be swayed by strange ideas. Two doors stood across from one another on the narrow walls, both with dull, rust-eaten Execution Crosses of iron hanging overhead. The outlander party entered through one door while High Priest Globulus and Jared the Cognati entered through the far door. Both parties took the long walk and met in the middle at a desk with a wooden cup at its center.

  Naarwulf clattered his chair loudly about the stone floor, awed by the sight of Globulus. He had met the man years ago, when Globulus was a wandering philosopher in exile - the only man whom the great Khan Vito called master. The philosopher had even stood in close proximity to a demon, completely unafraid. Now, his body was wracked by time and travel, but his grand robes and his piercing eyes seemed proof that he had tamed the mysteries of the world. Globulus smiled, revealing long yellow teeth, almost completely without gums, but if he recognized Naarwulf he gave no sign of it.

  “Gentlemen,” said Globulus, “I thank you for coming forth.”

  Yarek was immediately put off by the man’s manner and wording. Naarwulf hung his head and Won Po bowed in his chair, but Globulus focused only on Yarek’s hard yellow eyes. Yarek was not intimidated.

  Globulus, for his part, could not shake the idea of seeing Yarek naked. His eyes beamed with curiosity, wondering if the handsome wastelander was “cut” or “uncut”.

  Yarek glanced at Jared, who sat slightly behind Globulus and peered down at them all.

  He could kill us if he wanted to, thought Yarek. Is it only fear of Wodan that keeps him in check? Or something else?

  “Now,” said Globulus, “let us discuss your hostile occupation of Srila.”

  Rigid, Kommander Won Po said, “Sir. The great Emperor of San Ktari wishes you to join the familial holdings with no bloodshed and as little inconvenience to you as possible.”

  “Civil words, and my people are grateful for them. I assume there will be laws, taxes, levies, et cetera and such, imposed on our nation?”

  Won Po nodded curtly. “Small tax on things grown, things made, things traded, given over in product or local currency, where applicable. Possible draft of males of certain age.”

  “And beyond that? Are the laws of Srila to be replaced by the laws of Ktari, whatever they may be?” Globulus smiled strangely.

  “Mn. Citizens may be subject to local and federal laws, however your future governor may see fit. Nothing in Srila law is anathema to Ktari law. As for Ktari law, is a complicated subject. In general, Ktari law is that citizens of the Empire must obey the Emperor, without exception. His will is the only will in entire world with any claim to legitimacy.”

  Gods below, thought Yarek, why doesn’t Globulus order his Cognati to scatter these invaders? Why didn’t he order them to start killing the very minute Ktari came here?

  “Ah,” said Globulus, nodding his old head. “Seems you have us in a bind. You have all the guns, sir. We have no weapons here. We cannot resist you, though I must say that I will sign no terms of surrender. Understand, sir, that ideologically we resist you. But...” Globulus spread his hands, then said, “But we all know that ideology is meaningless in this world. Yes?” He paused while Won Po looked at him, his face expressionless. “Kommander, may I ask you what interest San Ktari has in Srila? As I’m sure you’ve already noticed, we are a poor nation. Our crops are meager, at best. We have next to nothing to offer you.”

  “Sir,” said Won Po, “you say that ideology means nothing, but I think you say this out of humble baiting. Great Emperor and all citizens of San Ktari live by philosophy of Kon Fyutzu, as written many thousand years ago. Such philosophy has some parallel with this land’s many complex spiritual beliefs. I have no doubt that the great Emperor wishes to set up brotherly studies of such ideas. There is popular legend and corroborating historical data concerning first Emperor, and that his brother was the first High Priest of Srila. If such is true, then to draw Srila within the fold of Imperial Ktari would be a healing of the rift between those two brothers. And we live by the belief that, eventually, all the world will be San Ktari. So this does not have to be thought of in terms of conquest or violent-”

  “Bullshit!” snapped Jared. “Nonsense! Ktari wants the power of the Cognati! You want to put us in slave-armies like any common sand-dog!”

  “Jared,” hissed Globulus, and immediately the Cognati whipped his head to the side, mouth shut and lips pulled back as he sucked on his own teeth. After a moment Globulus said, “Very well, Kommander. You’ve said your peace and I’ve said ours. We will not submit; we cannot stop you; no foreign soldier will step within this Temple without our leave; do with that as you will.”

  He’s trying to push them, thought Yarek. To what end? Unless he uses the Cognati, the old priest is just giving snide back-talk from a position of weakness.

  “And you,” said Globulus, suddenly turning to Yarek. “What do your people want with us?”

  “We are only pilgrims,” said Yarek. “I understand you may be alarmed by our guns. We carry them only for self-protection. We didn’t come here for violence.”

  “Neither of you fit the description of your king, I see...”

  “I represent him. He is about his own business.”

  J
ared turned hateful snake-eyes onto Yarek. Yarek guessed that Jared had dreaded and looked forward to making this meeting uncomfortable for Wodan, and was now furious that Wodan had snubbed him. Yarek only hoped that they would not press him about Wodan’s location or the nature of his sword. While Yarek would not mind being rude, for he did not respect the nature of Globulus’s power, he also knew that the comfort of his fellow citizens was in his hands.

  “Pilgrims,” said Globulus, running the word between his long teeth. “Here for non-violent purposes... but the matter of the golem would seem to contradict this, yes?”

  “Golem?” said Yarek. “Oh. Do you mean the humanoid creature?”

  “Yes. We have been tending its wounds. A strange creature. It seems to be in ill health, though its strength is formidable, to say the least. Its wounds are healing at a remarkable rate.”

  “Is it giving you trouble?” said Yarek, curling his lip.

  “Quite. When it’s not verbally abusing its caretakers, it sulks in anger. Still, we manage to treat it with civility. But what I am getting at is that I’d heard that you people beat it senseless, then your king taunted it unmercifully before he broke many of its bones, nearly killing it. Do you see what I am getting at, sir? You say you come as pilgrims, yet you hold orgies of violence at our doorstep. Am I, then, not to treat you in the same manner I would any other wasteland brute?” Globulus tilted his head slightly in Won Po’s direction.

  “You must understand what the creature is. His kind once infested our land. They are violent, short-sighted to the point of retardation, fast-breeding and with life spans so short that, even if we found a few with some hint of intelligence and forced civilization onto them, it would amount to nothing. As a matter of fact, this is the only instance in which one of those brutes that we call ghouls could form a sentence. Some of them grunt, but most of them can’t even do that. So, yes, to defend our land we cull those things. They’re a blight, nothing more. If it were up to me I would put the poor beast out of its misery. Only the sensitivity of my king sways his judgment in dealing with it.”