A blur of shifting images in his mind. He felt weightless, then warm and numb. Everything grew dark, as if he was no longer in the Tower. Strange lights, a sound like an electric instrument being tuned. Then he felt the earth beneath him and his vision cleared.
He was in a dark forest. Night’s desolation made the place feel forbidden, even nightmarish. He looked around and was surprised to see that Marlon and Saul stood with him – two of his companions when he had been exiled from Haven and sent to the Black Valley when it was wild and full of monsters. His awareness was hamstrung by the reality of the situation and the knowledge that it could not be real; the two boys lived and breathed, their faces stiff with terror, and yet the event had happened long ago. Both were long since dead.
Wodan realized that he was looking up at the pair. He was shorter than them – a small boy once again. He felt tired. He looked down and saw that his arms were thin, the hands delicate. His mind moved like syrup, each thought caught in a clogged drain of worry, fatigue, and various anxieties calling for attention.
He heard a mind-splitting shriek and his body was flooded with terror. A hideously tall demon with a head like a skull and black, soulless eyes waded through a mist-covered pool. Its approach, its horrible gaze, and its lipless mouth filled with fangs threatened to push Wodan’s mind over the brink of insanity.
Desperate to break free from the painful memory, Wodan forced himself to look away, to breathe deep and calm himself. Just then he noticed that a honeycomb pixilation effect seemed to hover at the edge of his vision.
Of course, this isn’t real! he thought. This is some kind of simulation.
He clutched his fists at his sides. It was difficult to stand, and his heart was beating so hard that his chest threatened to rupture.
But it feels so real!
The experience shifted violently, and Wodan found himself much taller than before. He could breathe easily and his arms felt like sculpted weapons hanging at his sides. He could think clearly, each idea rocketing to its destination without distraction or hesitation. He looked down at his companions. They were small, their bodies ill-formed, both pudgy and frail, their faces coated in greasy blotches and frozen in terror.
I’d gotten so used to being like this, thought Wodan, holding a hand before his face and ignoring the approaching demon. Have I really changed so much since then?
The demon cried out for attention. “Marlon!” said Wodan. “Grab Saul and stay back. Let me handle this!” He felt like a character from a comic book. Marlon was struck dumb by fear, but he finally nodded as comprehension slowly set in.
Wodan turned to the flesh demon and waded into the pool of water. He felt no fear, only an empowering sense that he had killed this abomination the hard way long ago. Now, things would be different.
He waded through the frigid pool. The demon towered over him, its gaze now seeming only dull and childishly angry. It swung a massive, clawed hand toward him, and Wodan quickly smacked it away with an iron fist. The demon shuddered in pain and Wodan advanced.
Got to tear its stomach open, he thought, or pull it down and break its neck.
Wodan grappled with the monster’s long arms, forcing it into an awkward defensive posture. But the deep water and the mud clinging to his feet slowed him down and made it difficult to move - so difficult that eventually he slipped. Before he could find his balance the creature bore down on him. Long nails dug into his wrists, then he found himself pushed under the water.
That’s fine, he thought, gagging on the rancid water. I can break its fingers, pull it down with me, then outlast it under the water.
But Wodan could find no purchase beneath the water, only slipping mud, burning lungs, and weight bearing down on him mercilessly. He managed to break two fingers, like cracking enormous crab legs. He broke another, then two more, then he realized too late that the demon felt no pain, none at all, as his own air ran out.
Panic-thoughts rushed through his mind, the humiliation of knowing that a raging cretin would end his life – then he woke suddenly, disoriented, and spat a metal tube out of his mouth. He sat before Setsassanar in the blue chamber once again.
“Alright, I screwed up,” he said immediately. “I got cocky. I didn’t consider the environment. I… I... Master, I should have jumped on its back at the very beginning, torn its head off, and ended things quickly.”
Setsassanar laughed.
“I could have done it! Easily! I just - I wasn’t thinking, and I...”
“So I’ve given you a superhuman body,” said Setsassanar, “and this is how you’re going to use it? You would throw it away in a foolish fight against one insignificant beast in a world filled with them?”
Frustrated, Wodan said, “Master, that thing was weaker than a lot of the robots I’ve fought in the training room! One more chance, I know I can kill it!”
“Yes, you could have killed it. But... there are no second chances in real life, are there, Apprentice? You must come to realize that. Make sure you’ve won before the fight begins. Don’t risk your life on a gamble!”
So I failed, thought Wodan, fuming quietly. All that training, and I still failed.
“Here,” said Setsassanar, picking up the tube and placing it in Wodan's mouth once again. “I have programmed four situations from your past into the Mirror. You will not face the final test until I’m sure your training has not been a complete waste. Let's try out the second situation, shall we?”
Setsassanar's voice stretched out as his face blurred. Disoriented, Wodan bit down on the metallic tube.
He found himself standing before Barkus in a large tent in the middle of the wasteland. He was a slave as well as a small boy. The air was hot and close, and awful looking Ugly stood on all sides watching him, laughing as their cruel overlord debated with him. At the time, Wodan had been filled with conviction, a quiet but insistent sense of justification that told him he could change the mind of this world-weary, cynical monster who had enslaved him along with so many others. Now that he could see himself after experiencing so much of the world, he saw only a small child in a desperate struggle against his own fear. He did not sound heroic, but whiny. It was true that the Ugly hated him for what they perceived as arrogance and pride, but now Wodan was embarrassed for himself because it seemed obvious that the Ugly also saw him as comical, a non-threatening little jester. Wodan felt all dignity being erased under the hateful gaze of Barkus and his goons.
Then the scene changed. Wodan, King of the Black Valley, stood before Barkus. He felt himself fully immersed in the situation. He was filled with the same outrage, a feeling he had buried again and again over the course of his life. His hands gripped into fists; he opened his hands only through immense conscious effort.
The tent fell silent. Wodan looked and saw wide eyes and mouths hanging open. What once seemed like terrifying men covered in scars now looked like scared, pathetic, sickly people waring outlandish clothing in a childish effort to anger their parents. Barkus muttered and coughed with discomfort, bringing Wodan's attention back to him.
You're not an old man anymore, Wodan thought. You're a man in his prime, aren't you? Again Wodan's hands flexed into fists as old anger coursed through him. You're a man at the height of his power… and you've set yourself against a god!
Barkus uttered a sound and in an instant Wodan swung his left hand and smacked a guard in the back of the head. The skull cracked, and as the man pitched forward Wodan grabbed a handgun from his holster and tore it free. He pointed it toward Barkus, paused to see the look on the man's face, then decided against playing around with the ancient, rusted weapon and threw the entire thing at Barkus's face. He grabbed the guard on his other side and tossed him into a large cluster of Ugly, then raced toward another group just as the handgun smashed into Barkus's face with enough force to send his nose rocketing into the back of his head. Wodan backhanded a smoking man's head and felt his hand slipping through something like a bag of spaghetti, then punched another shrieking s
impleton in the sternum; the sound of every rib breaking was loud enough to hurt his ears.
As the men slowly, clumsily raised their guns toward him, Wodan grabbed a small goon by his large belt buckle and tossed him before they could fire. Wodan waded into a group of men seated around a barrel, rolling dice in a gambling game only moments before a god showed up and set to work smashing heads together and snapping arms like tree limbs in a storm. He heard guns going off on the other side of the tent. He dived and rolled, unable to dodge bullets but moving too quickly to be targeted effectively. As he came up from rolling he straightened his arm and pushed his palm into someone’s knee, staring in sick fascination as the leg bent backward and resulted in a horrifying shriek that seemed to come from another world.
As Wodan turned on another group he felt a sting in his shoulder, then more along his back. He cursed and punched several men in the corner of the tent, each blow killing so many that they could not fall to the ground but stood propped up against one another. He felt wounds sealing over hot bullets still lodged in him. For a fraction of a second his eyes lingered on faces, blood pouring from noses and mouths hanging slack. He felt a round bite the back of his leg, then another smacked into his back and lodged in the ribs. The pain only fed his rage and the rush that came with turning the tables on his oppressors. He turned away from the standing dead, tripped over the leg of a dead man as bullets tore into the wall beside him, then jerked a large revolver away from a man shaking and spitting up blood on the sand.
Wodan turned and saw the crowd on the far side aiming at him. He aimed – then a lucky round slammed into his fingers, numbing his entire arm beneath the elbow. He grasped his arm and stumbled away…
Damn it! Did I… did I screw this up, too?
… then still more rounds tore into his knee and stomach, shattering organs and tossing him to the ground.
He fell onto a wooden floor. People were crying and screaming all around. The light was piercingly bright, and he felt cool wind against his skin. Strangely enough, he felt no pain from his wounds as he rose. He found himself on the deck of a ship. He was just off the coast of Haven; his primitive friends that he’d brought from the wasteland shouted and pointed in the distance. Wodan saw an ironclad ship and a wreath of black smoke, an armored beast filled with Ugly pursuers coming to kill them.
“Damn,” Wodan said quietly.
He remembered how the ironclad had fired at them, how the ship had tossed and fallen apart, how one of the most carefree times in his life ended with chaos and horror. Wodan crossed to the railing and ignored everyone around him as he stared at the ironclad. He knew he had failed the other two tests by letting childish emotions and ego-dreams cloud his judgment. He'd wanted to be heroic and powerful and crush evildoers, but it had gotten him killed despite his incredible strength.
After fighting and dying twice before, he was beginning to feel like death always followed on the heels of confrontation. But what was he supposed to do? Leap from the ship and swim away, leaving the others to their fate? He could most likely swim and run all the way to Haven without rest… but survival wouldn't be worth it under those conditions. He had to do something.
He looked at the faces of his friends. They were so small, so terrified of the Ugly.
I can do more than I did before, thought Wodan. I just have to be smart about it.
He cleared all divisive thought from his mind, then ran to the rear of the ship and cast himself into the sea. He heard the boom and crack of cannonfire. He focused on the sound of whirring turbines and tore through the water. How little time did he have? His memory of the original event was clouded with panic. He pushed himself to swim still harder.
He did not have to rise for air the entire time he raced toward the ship. The waves were shadows about the ironclad. He cut upward toward the dark blade-shaped shadow of the ironclad, then pulled himself over the side.
The ship was surprisingly small for the number of men and horses it must have carried. One of its cannons fired and shook the ship with enough force to nearly throw him back into the water. A sharp crack sounded in the distance as the stone walls of the island splintered. Wodan crouched and held onto the hot metal. A long chimney of steel spewed black smoke overhead, and beneath that he saw a wide cover that led down into the ship. The entrance was most surely locked, but even if it was not, Wodan did not like the idea of confronting nearly twenty armed men in tight quarters.
He moved in a crouch to the long iron chimney, covering his nose against the noxious stench of burning fuel.
Superhuman, right? he thought.
Thinking that he could bend the chimney shut and doom the ship's occupants in a furnace, he placed his hands against the chimney. He jerked his hands away – it was incredibly hot. Just then another shot from one of the cannons threw up a plume of water perilously close to his friends.
Wodan lashed out with his feet, kicking the iron chimney over and over again. The thing shuddered, groaned, then gave way, first in small dents, then he was able to push a wide segment of the thing in on itself.
The tower of smoke overhead shrank to a dark trickle, then Wodan heard a heavy lock on the metal door thrown open. Wodan slid over to the opening and saw a man's dark face peering out from a plume of smoke like some kind of dwarf from hell. Wodan slammed the door shut, then held it down with one hand while bracing his body against a metal railing. He looked about, wondering if the slavers would reveal a second opening and blast him. Nothing happened. The door bounced and heaved underneath him. He could not help but laugh at the idea of the monsters trapped in the inferno that powered their death-machine.
“Such a heavily-armored ship,” he muttered to himself. “Completely untouchable, aren't you?”
He heard gunfire down below, then the whine of ricochets. An ominous clang, like something heavy falling over. Wodan rolled off the door, then leaped into the clear, cold water. He pulled himself through the deep. He heard an explosion behind him, then a gentle surge of water.
Wodan broke through the surface. One side of the ironclad hung open bleeding thick black smoke. He watched as the thing pitched over and sank. In the distance, the wooden ship that bore his friends moved into the bay, and Wodan dog-paddled to join them. Then he saw another swimmer coming toward him, cutting through the water with long strokes.
Setsassanar drew alongside him, then turned over onto his back.
“What do you think, Master?” said Wodan, laughing and spitting water. “I did better that time.”
“Did you?” said Setsassanar. He wore a ridiculous swimsuit the likes of which Wodan had never seen. “I hadn't noticed.”
“Of course I did! Not only did I survive, I saved all of my friends. We'll be able to stroll into Haven in our own good time!”
Setsassanar remained on his back, letting the waves slowly carry him to shore. “That's true. And if this were a more entertaining simulation, there might be a large congratulatory sign hanging overhead. But you'll never see one of those here.”
Wodan was filled with satisfaction. “You said there were four simulations, didn't you? I'm ready for the next!”
“No you're not,” Setsassanar said suddenly. “You practically took your own life in the other two and muddled your way through this one only because you didn't want to experience the discomfort you earned in the previous tests. You are nowhere near ready for the last.”
They continued on in silence until Wodan realized he was paddling as hard as he could while his Master was only lying on his back, and yet he could not pass him. He could not draw away from the accusatory silence.
“Very well,” said Wodan. “I'm ready to leave this place.”
Setsassanar rolled over and reached into Wodan's mouth. He felt metal drawn across his tongue. He became nauseous, blinked, and found himself sitting before the orb terminal in the blue chamber. He held himself, thinking for a moment that he should be cold after leaving the water. Setsassanar gently pulled his arms apart and drew out the needle
s from his forearms. He felt still more waves of nausea as the room became more solid and real around him.
“Why am I… so tired?” said Wodan.
Setsassanar ignored the question. “In the past,” he said, “you survived because your lack of strength forced you to be cunning. Now that you have begun to feel strong, a part of you wants to embrace the moron's dream of tackling life head-on. A part of you wants to be cheered by the crowd as you rip through your enemies like a superhero, free from the need to think and plan. Free from the danger of risking your dignity in order to survive.”
Wodan felt sleep overcoming him as the Master spoke quietly. “Remember, Wodan. Only laborers dream of living with dignity. You are long past all that. What is dignity to you now? It's a thing you hand out to others, or perhaps dangle just out of reach to make them dance so that you can have your way. Nobody who has it dreams of having it. How you burned with anger at Barkus's goading! How you wanted to impress your friends by fighting the demon! But what are those dreams of applause when compared to what you really want, Wodan? You and your dignity, Wodan. Oh.”
Setsassanar shook his head. Yohei came up behind Wodan and placed a pillow beneath him as he laid down.
Setsassanar rose to leave. “I know what you're thinking, Apprentice. Just remember, there are others out there who have already learned this lesson. They will use your dignity against you, if they can. Why let them goad you to anger? Is being jerked about by your emotions really so desirable?”
Dreams were already mixing with the words of his Master. Wodan felt a strange sense of calm, a sense of separation from his self, or what he thought was his self. He felt sharp clarity and a sort of embarrassment, like looking at a fool on a screen and laughing at his antics, or even laughing at his tears. He wondered what importance the flash and thunder of drama had when weighed against his deepest desires.
Chapter Twenty-Two
[Demonworld #6] The Love of Tyrants Page 32
