[Demonworld #6] The Love of Tyrants

by Kyle B. Stiff

  He clung to the beast-god and could see that he was on something like a white, shining worm. It spiraled away from the gate at horrific speed. The complicated geometry of the gate fell inward on itself, simplifying as fractal-arms closed or broke off. Wodan forced himself to stand and ran along the beast, buffeted by something like wind but desperate to reach the gate before it sealed shut permanently.

  “I know you wanted to kill me!”

  Wodan ignored the small voice and ran. His chest heaved and, horrified, he realized there was no air to breathe. Still he ran, ready to collapse from the heat, limbs numb with cold. Things like fish streaked past, coming from below and disappearing up above. They had long limbs streaming behind them, pale and corpse-like, and he was almost sure that he could hear them singing.

  "I know you tried to kill me!"

  Just when he thought he would be left alone, yellow hair-like tendrils wrapped around him. He slowed down, then was pulled backward. A tongue probed at his back. The gate shrank in the distance, seemingly forever out of reach. Soon its geometrical patterns would be too simple for this realm, and would then cease to exist, forever.

  "I know you tried to kill me, and it's alright! There is no death! Only constant waking and forgetting!"

  Wodan fell and slid along the body of the god-beast. Tendrils wrapped around his face. He saw a humanoid being, strangely colored, in a halo of burning violet. Shapes moved and pushed the being away from him. It extended an arm to him.

  "Take my hand," it said. "Death is the last illusion, but you have to go back to forgetting. There's more for you to do."

  Wodan tried to extend his hand, pushing against yellow tendrils that only dragged him backward. Tightly they coiled against him, burning against his skin. The being stretched forward, straining, and in flashing, fading light Wodan knew the portal was closing.

  ***

  The chamber of the summons grew utterly still, with black robes cringing among the dead as the horrible greenish glow of the portal faded. Yardalen hugged Haginar close, Vendicci blinked stupidly, standing numb, and Barkus glared at the closing gate. Won Po, the soldiers of Ktari, and the Valliers stood or squatted like statues.

  Yarek picked himself up and entered the chamber, stumbling over twisted bodies and choking on the acid mist that clogged the air. He stared in disbelief, for the gate still hung open overhead. It was only a dark circle, sometimes square, sometimes like a cloud of vapor.

  "Wodan!" he shouted. "Wodan!" There was no answer. "Wodan's gone," he said quietly. Behind the horror of the situation, a thought quietly made itself known: He would rule the Black Valley now.

  “Oh, God," said a black robe, crying as he peeled himself off of a dried, desiccated corpse. "He... he sacrificed himself. He saved us! So he was a... a good man, after all..."

  Yarek was horrified by the statement. He could only imagine a gang of scrawny parasites trying to convince others to do what they wanted by invoking Wodan's name or pointing at paintings of Wodan dutifully throwing himself into a black hole to save a church. Before he could stop himself he ran to the far side of the chamber and picked up a length of rope near the Execution Crosses. "Wodan was not a good man," he said, heaving the rope overhead. "He’s a great man!"

  He flung one end of the rope into the black gate and it flared to life again. The room shook with renewed violence and the rope ripped free of his hands, sucked upward with incredible force. Yarek grabbed the end, hands burning, shoulders nearly pulled out of socket as he was thrown off his feet. He regained his footing momentarily, but the gate twisted and screamed overhead, and he was pulled toward a dislodged chunk of masonry. He jammed a foot against it, then held the rope with all his might.

  The black robes leaped to their feet, shouting, demanding, begging that he let go. "You don't know what could come through there!" said one. "Just let it go, please!"

  Feeling as if he would be pulled in half, Yarek recalled a memory from long ago: A small boy sailing away, sacrificed for the careers of old men, waving goodbye without malice.

  "Get the fuck away from me!" Yarek shouted, and the nearest black robe fell as if pushed.

  As everyone ran from the shrieking hole in reality, Vendicci ran against the crowd and made his way to Yarek. Yarek no longer had the strength to tell the creature to stay away from him, much less fight him off. To his surprise, the ghoul grabbed the very end of the rope, then crouched down, both feet on the broken masonry, and pulled. The two glared at one another.

  "Why are they helping each other!" a black robe cried. "Someone get them to stop!"

  "Don't let go," Vendicci rasped, his uneven eyes stabbing into Yarek. "Don't let go of him."

  The gate vomited up something from its depths, then shut with a grinding hiss. Yarek and Vendicci toppled over. A heavy blanket of silence covered the room, then the fallen thing hacked and coughed. Yarek leaned against Vendicci, then Wodan rolled over and looked at them. His skin looked beaten by the elements, his hair was charred black, and his suit was a torn, smoking mess. He smiled at the two, exhausted but alive.

  "Wodi," said Yarek. "Wodi, man."

  "We got you," said Vendicci. "We got you."

  Still smiling, Wodan rolled onto his back and closed his eyes.

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Identity, Masks

  Zachariah found Wodan washing his face over a basin in the Temple infirmary.

  “Did he get me a plane?” Wodan said by way of greeting.

  “Yes, yes, Yarek got you a plane from Won Po. But he says only a few of us can come and go in Srila. He got orders.”

  Wodan did not respond, so Zachariah watched him. He was a mess. Most of his hair had been burned off, and what remained of it stuck out in stiff tufts. His wounds had mostly healed but his skin looked rough and raw, and his eyes were red and baggy. He had put his ruined suit back on; it was singed, full of holes, missing a sleeve, and baggy in parts where it had simply collapsed. He could not help but think that Wodan looked like some kind of giant raider.

  Zachariah cleared his throat. Wodan gathered his things, and seemed to ignore him. “They say you were translated into the heavens,” said Zachariah. “You know that makes you a saint to them, right?”

  Wodan ignored him as he gathered his things. “You know how people talk,” he finally said.

  Zachariah sat and lit a cigarette. He offered one to Wodan, who shook his head. “People,” he said, filling the silence. “I think I’ve grown to hate the people here.”

  “What?” Wodan said immediately.

  Zachariah shrugged. “You know the orange robes devote themselves to meditating… their whole lives, gone… because they’re afraid of dying.”

  “That’s like saying people eat because they’re afraid of starving. It’s more complicated than that. You’re a philosopher, you should know that.”

  “So you did see something, then? On the other side?”

  Wodan looked at him. He could see that Zachariah’s absolutist statement had been something of a trap. Wodan studied his face, trying to see how much of the statement had been contrived, and how much was genuine.

  Zachariah sighed. “I annoy you.”

  “It’s not that. I have to be somewhere. Tell Yarek and the others to meet me on the Fields of Epimetheus, will you? Near the Tower.”

  As Wodan drew near the door, Zachariah said, “You know, Wodan, if you keep going the way you’re going, eventually you won’t have anything to talk about with anyone.” Wodan stopped and tilted his face toward him. “Just don’t get lost in your own mythos, will you?”

  Wodan shook his head slowly. “Lucas was right. Identity is bullshit. I’m just here to do some things, and I don’t have a lot of time. That’s all.”

  Wodan left without waiting for a response.

  ***

  As Wodan made his way through the Temple, he could see that reinforcements had arrived from San Ktari. There were soldiers everywhere, and most of them had clean uniforms and polished armor. He did not see
any black robes, and assumed that those who were not killed were most likely turned out. It would be good for them, he decided. If they craved drama, then they did not need to live in a temple filled with old books and scrolls and endless peace. The boredom would drive them insane.

  Wodan left the Temple, and as he crossed a courtyard he felt eyes watching him from a low balcony. Among a cluster of women dressed in white, he saw Naarwulf in blue robes and Vendicci with an orange sash over his shoulders.

  Wodan and Vendicci eyed one another. There was much to be said between them, but they had been through too much together. Vendicci looked for the words, but did not know how to tell the King that he admired him and hated him at once, that he wanted to be like him even though what he ultimately wanted was for his loneliness to end. After a moment Vendicci nodded, his demeanor strangely shy and childlike, and then left. Wodan turned to Naarwulf.

  “My king,” said Naarwulf. “I… I am ashamed… I…”

  “Don’t be,” Wodan said quietly. “You’ve always done your best, Naarwulf. You always wanted to be good, and you always wanted to serve what you saw as a higher purpose. A noble purpose. I get it. Will you stay here?”

  “I thought I would… well, look after the High Priest…”

  Wodan could see that the old dogman was incredibly uncomfortable.

  “Work hard, then,” said Wodan, lifting a hand. “Don’t be too hard on yourself.”

  Naarwulf blinked, lowering his head, then looked to the side. He bowed and stepped away. The new High Priest, dressed in simple white robes, stood at the edge of the balcony and glared down at him.

  “Are you leaving?” said Barkus.

  “Yes.”

  “Good.”

  The two watched one another. Wodan barely recognized him, with his smooth skin and white hair. He had lost the mania of his youth, the demented leer of self-loathing. But their history weighed heavily between them, and both felt pain simply looking at one another.

  “Who are those women?” Wodan said suddenly.

  “White robes. They’ve been locked away for years. The black robes used to pick the prettiest women from the village and… well, you know how that goes. Many of them haven’t seen the outside for much of their lives. And that’s… that’s why I wear a white robe, too. We’ve all been locked up. But now we’re…”

  The corner of Wodan’s mouth turned up, and Barkus caught it instantly. Wodan had wanted to break the tense calm between them, to test Barkus one last time. A flash of rage crossed Barkus’s face, then he calmed himself.

  “Wodan,” he said, “there’s a lot of people around here who are in awe at what you’ve done. They’re all talking about the hero, the king, the living saint who fought on their behalf, and… well, that’s what they’re saying. You and I know better, though. Don't we? What you did to me was sick. There’s something wrong with you. Don’t you see that? Can you not see that, Wodan?” Barkus locked eyes with him. Wodan said nothing. Barkus sighed. “You’ve done some good, but let’s just say… you’ve done enough. I want you to leave and never come back. Do you understand?”

  Wodan kept his face an empty mask. “Do not disappoint me,” he said.

  ***

  People watched him as he made his way down the winding stairway. Some Srilans stopped and stared, some gestured to others further down the line. By the time he arrived at the stone courtyard between the Temple and the village, a crowd had gathered on either side, watching in silence. There was a sense of unreality to the thing, as if the gray clouds overhead were curtains for a stage, and he was a deep well of emptiness playing a part he had long prepared for. The Srilans chanted quietly, om, om, om, as he entered the village. Even the reinforcements from San Ktari stopped to watch.

  What stories will they tell about me? he wondered, not out of a sense of arrogance or even curiosity, but out of a need to piece himself back together. He was still tired, and was no longer sure what was real or dream after returning to Srila. Had he really seen another world? Was this the world he was from? Is this where he was supposed to be? Were the people in the muddy streets really standing in awe at the living saint, or were they characters from a dream who had fallen out of sync with the narrative and were making a sound as they created new personalities and new scripts to read from?

  As he drew near the edge of the village, he saw Yardalen sitting with some wild, tattooed people from the Deepest Vale. Had they been waiting for him? As he passed by, she looked at him. Again Wodan felt the weight of emotional baggage, that too much had happened for him to speak or even gesture toward her. He had failed to save Lucas. Should he use his influence to make her High Priestess and let Barkus work for her? Would that make up for failing to save her lover, or would she even want such a thing? Finally she nodded and turned to leave, and the crowd parted for her and her people, and then filled the gap as they departed.

  The crowd stopped at the muddy airfield where the presence of soldiers held them back. Just as Wodan drew away from the crowd, a short man in a hood stooped and picked up two bags of luggage, then walked by his side. They were certainly not Wodan’s belongings, but the man seemed to be playing the part of a servant carrying his baggage. He did not seem dangerous, so Wodan said nothing.

  They walked past a group of soldiers and the servant pointed out his plane to him, a short, fat little airship much like the Gul-in Kami. His reward for helping the Empire secure this territory. The servant opened the door for him, loaded the bags, then gestured for Wodan to enter. As soon as he did, the servant squeezed in beside him.

  Wodan put a hand on his shoulder. The man finally turned, and through a narrow opening in his hood Wodan saw that it was Ryo Jo, the soldier who had taught him how to fly.

  “Sorry, please,” he said quietly, “but I have pretend to be killed during the battle. I would like… please, if I am turned in, I will be killed. I thought… that I can be allowed to come to your nation, and stay to work a dream?”

  At once Wodan felt his old identity slide back into place. There was something for him to do here. This world was real enough, and he had a role to play. He immediately reclined his seat and laid a piece of cloth over his eyes.

  “Fine by me,” he said. “But you’re flying. Wake me up at the Tower.”

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Do What You Will

  They spotted San Ktari airships on the Fields of Epimetheus. Ryo Jo communicated with them so that they would not be shot down, but Wodan heard nothing, and could only gaze at the scene in astonishment.

  The Tower had become ash, and as it broke apart it fell in heaps of black dust. The dead Tower was so massive that a blizzard of ash swirled across the field. As soon as the plane landed, Wodan ran into the roiling black cloud.

  He ran choking. "Langley!" he cried out. "Langley!" He was blinded by the ceaseless torrent, the tears forming a mask of sludge on his face. He crashed shoulder-first into something large, and fell. Wiping his eyes, he saw a giant skull planted in the sand. When he recognized it as the remains of Y'diamach, the guilt stabbed into his chest.

  "Dove!" he cried, voice breaking.

  He felt the hum before he heard it, then the storm grew still around him. He wiped his eyes, smearing gunk on his face, then saw Dove Langley standing over him, wearing a torn, gray wedding dress.

  "There's my hero," she said, voice flat, face devoid of kindness.

  "You ended up in a wedding dress?" he said. "After everything I did?"

  "You did?!" Her eyes flashed, and the shield crackled around them. "I killed that robot! I broke the containment field! I brought the Tower down!"

  Wodan sighed. "Did you hear or see a large cat?" he said, tapping the skull.

  "I... I heard a lot of things in there."

  "You're strong, Dove, but not stronger than the Tower. He knew ways around Cognati fields, and his nanomachines could've killed either of us easily. So I..." Wodan choked for a moment, then pushed himself to his feet. "This lion was friends with him, long ago, b
ut there was a misunderstanding. I drove the lion here. I manipulated him, I used his childhood trauma against him. He was strong, but I reminded him of when he was weak. I made him kill Setsassanar. I... it was... it was the only thing I could... think to do."

  "Oh." Langley was taken aback. "Oh. I guess I... didn't realize..."

  "Are you okay?"

  She nodded quickly, dark hair falling across bare shoulders.

  "Good. I saw Ktari airships nearby. Let's get you out of here."

  "Wait!"

  He stood in the dark bubble with her, watching.

  "You want to fight demons, don't you?" she finally said.

  "Of course."

  "But you two could have... worked together."

  "I couldn't get you out by talking to him, and I wasn't strong enough to fight him. I... I had to, Dove. I had to kill him to get you out."

  They stood near one another. He was painfully aware that not only was she the most powerful woman in the world, she was also the most beautiful. Her eyes moved over his face, and he could feel her judgment swaying. Anger was turning to something else. She leaned into him and all thought fled as he moved toward her. Their lips touched and the world outside the bubble ceased to be. He laid his hands on her sides, her body like a bolt of lightning, quivering and unmoving at once. Light pierced his closed eyelids as she opened her mouth slightly and he touched the tip of her tongue with his own.