“You really think they’d help?”
“Not really. But we have to try.”
“Looks like the city isn’t going to send any heavy support to head out with my team,” said Wodan.
“I wouldn’t order any Hargis soldiers to accompany you guys,” said Zach, laughing darkly. “They’ve seen what we’ll be up against. You know this is suicide, right, Wodi?”
Wodan smiled with one corner of his mouth.
“So why you doing it?” said Zach.
Wodan scratched his gut, then said, “I... don’t feel like I have much longer.”
Zach sat in silence for a while, then said, “Got a gift for you.” He produced a metal briefcase and clicked it open. Inside was a broken down rifle, long and sleek and sitting alongside a sniper’s scope.
“It’s beautiful,” said Wodan.
“It used to belong to the greatest soldier in Hargis. Vito the Half Breed, they called him. When he disappeared, he left it behind. Along with his uniform, printed books, photographs, everything. My father had it commissioned especially for him. It’s an improved version of the rifle he used himself, back when he was a young ranger.” Zach handed the case to Wodan and explained its various functions, the nature of its form, and how to keep it clean in the wasteland. Then they watched the stars through the scope.
* * *
Wodan straddled his motorcycle and ran his hands along the handlebars. It was a large bike fitted for use in the wasteland, and could supposedly ride through anything short of a sandstorm. The thing felt natural to him. He was reminded of the horse he had stolen from Barkus, long ago.
“Nice, huh?” said Chris Kenny, who knelt over a collection of guns spread out on a blanket.
“Real nice,” said Wodan. “Can you patch me up when I crash into the wall on the way out?”
“Patch you up, bury you, I can do it all,” said Chris, smiling wickedly.
“The Mortician,” said Wodan, nodding to the array of guns. “Looks like death will be your art.”
Chris laughed slightly. “I just hope I don’t make a self-portrait.”
* * *
“You’re sure about going through with this?” said Miss Oliver. She sat with Wodan in Virgil’s kitchen, her fine suit out of place in the dingy surroundings.
Wodan nodded. “I know all that money was promised with the understanding that none of the kids would make it back alive.”
“Yes and no,” said Miss Oliver, running a finger along her cheek. “We do mean to pay any of the survivors. But, you’re right. The Businessmen figured that, in a best case scenario, the invaders would be slowed in order to buy a little time for reinforcements. We knew that the scent of the money we promised would draw out desperate types who don’t have much to live for.” Miss Oliver regarded Wodan for a moment, then said, “I never expected someone like you to throw yourself into something like this. You know, we Businessmen also have a plan to pay off the invaders, so that they’ll leave and move on to Sunport. You sure you wouldn’t rather stay and be a diplomat in that operation?”
“No, not really. But I’ll be sure to mention that to the dogmen before they kill us.”
“Yes,” said Miss Oliver. “Please do.”
* * *
Wodan leaned back on his bike and pulled out a map of the wasteland. Just then sad-faced Jake Herndon walked by, stopped, and leaned over to see. Wodan moved to give Jake room, then Cedrik’s oversized head moved into view.
“God damn,” said Wodan. “It’s not a picture of a naked girl, you all.”
Cedrik snorted but Jake groaned inwardly.
The map showed the city of Pontius. Below that, the long trek that awaited them: wasteland, dryness, heat, featurelessness for miles and miles. His eyes moved southward, along their route into the south. Hills that extended near the horseshoe ring of mountains around the Black Valley. A lowland marked as Fog, one of the few places free of the law of dryness that cursed the wasteland. Below that, a series of treacherously sharp hills. A little further south lay the ruins of an ancient city, sacked by vultures a thousand times over, worthless and off their course. South of that lay a deep ravine. Legend had it that in that ravine, the echoes from the whispers of insects lasted for years. The ravine was covered by several natural land bridges. Legend also said that the ravine was bottomless, though none could agree on whether it was burning hot or freezing cold the deeper one went. South of the ravine, there were miles and miles of waste all the way to ruined Hargis, the birthplace of their enemy.
Wodan elbowed Jake. “Where you wanna be buried, man? I want that spot right there.”
“Too late, I already claimed that spot,” said Jake, shaking his head, totally deadpan.
“We’ll have to fight to the death and see who gets it, then.” Wodan turned to Cedrik, then said, “Can you use those big-ass arms of yours to bury the winner, Ced?”
Cedrik snorted. “Not gonna bury you all.” He paused, then added, “Ya’ll can bury your own dumb asses.”
* * *
Wodan pushed his cart out of a liquor store and stopped before a wide square filled with zeppelins. There he saw Edwar Bruner, the inventor and exile, marching by and directing Smiths in their flight preparations. Edwar stopped suddenly and looked across at him. Edwar was a tall man with straight hair pushed back.
“You’re Wodan,” the inventor called out.
Wodan nodded.
Edwar watched him for a moment, then said, “The Ugly took my invention and turned it into something monstrous. I’d like to thank you for destroying them, but right now I’m very busy.”
Wodan nodded again, saluted, and pushed his cart through the square.
* * *
Oxen jerked against ropes and chains and the southern gate grinded open. The diesel truck lurched forward, Wodan tapped the visor of his helm shut, and the riders revved their engines. A crowd had gathered and some carried flowers or colorful hand-made signs, but they stood about as if they were at a funeral. Justinas drove the truck through the gateway, and thick black smoke issued from the opening. When he was through, the riders blasted fuel through their charges and flew ahead. They passed through darkness as they drove through the wide wall - then brightness, harsh and white, settled in their eyes and they saw the wide sweep of the wasteland before them. The burning world was open and endless. Wodan felt the bike writhing underneath him and decided that if he looked back at the city he might crash, so he kicked the engine, hard, and drove on.
* * *
Several nights ago, Matthias sat in the dark cockpit of his airship. He glanced at his gun, then nervously played with it in his deft fingers. He grew disgusted and put the thing away.
He reflected on the fact that his entire trip was absurd and embarrassing. Once he and Langley and Justyn had found out that not only was Wodan not a superbeing, but was also dying of cancer, their mission was over. The fact that the Imperial Engineer, Big Dad, had still been disappointed in them – for whatever reason – had affected him far more than it did the others. Matthias was deeply embarrassed by the fact that not only had he taken to the air with the intention of killing Wodan, but then as soon as he was airborne he’d decided that he would piss off Big Dad by befriending Wodan. He hated the people who surrounded him because they took orders without question. He’d spent hour after hour in the airship daydreaming about the fun times he would have with Wodan, including chasing down anyone that Wodan didn’t like and beating the pulp out of them. Of course, as soon as he’d snuck into Wodan’s apartment, he’d immediately gone into hardass mode. He shook his head, wondering if there was any end to his own idiocy.
“So you’re not a superbeing, Wodan,” said Matthias, drumming his fingers angrily. “But you’re certainly not normal.”
Matthias grinded his knuckles into his eyes. Why had he acted like such an asshole? Certainly, he hadn’t expected kind little Wodan to react with such anger. No, not even anger. Hatred. Matthias felt that he could learn to hate himself, even, for bringin
g that out of Wodan.
Matthias started the plane’s engine and eyed the cloud cover in the east. “Sorry, Wodan,” he said aloud. “Hopefully that shit town of yours will treat you better than I did.”
Chapter Four
Horde of Cretins
Dogmen pups loped through the ranks of half-sleeping forms, barking and crying out, “Challenge! Rite of challenge has been invoked!” and at once many older dogmen were up and barking as well, banging fists on chests, clattering guns against the sides of jeeps and shooting into the air. The humans among them, mostly rebels and ex-soldiers, blinked lazily on their mats. Most of them buried their heads in their arms, weary of being kept up all night by the dogmen’s constant drinking and howling, but a few of the men eventually rose and joined in, for they had grown tired of civilization and were ready to see blood.
One particular dogman stomped about, throwing his hairy hands in the air as he barked in a deep voice. He was very tall, with white skin and dark hair about his chest, shoulders, head and back. He had many scars from many battles. Several dogmen loped about him, clapping him on his back as they called out his name. “Grindwurst! Grindwurst! Challenge invoked by Grindwurst!”
Vito sat on the ground drinking coffee with the large black dogman who was his guard and most trusted man. “Naarwulf,” said Vito, “find out what this is all about. Sun just got up and already some pup wants to cock up my works.”
Naarwulf took a last sip, tossed his bowl to the side so that a servant could clean it, then stood and shook his mane. Just then a skinny, pale dogman called Bloodnose, a sniper and tracker with dead eyes, strolled up and bowed. A few dogmen nearby moved away from Bloodnose, because it was well known that he was cursed. “My Khan,” said Bloodnose.
“What’s up, leashman?” said Vito.
“One called Grindwurst has invoked challenge. He calls your honor and your lineage into question, and would meet you in combat.”
Vito grinded his jaw but made no other sign. “Lanky, is he?”
Bloodnose nodded.
“I know the pup.” Vito had often seen him staring from afar. Most likely the dogman had been talked up by another chieftain, one who praised Vito’s leadership to his face but, behind his back, resented the authority a human had earned among his people. This sort of challenge was common among the dogmen. The very trait that Vito needed among them - their aggression, their willingness to give themselves up in battle without a thought for themselves - was also a trait that tore tribes apart. Their willingness to fight kept their people in a constant state of chaos such that, outside the field of battle, their people had been easily controlled by humans. As Khan, a chieftain of chieftains, Vito had the right to send Naarwulf to battle for him, as a champion. Most chieftains were fat, older dogmen who had enough sense to stay out of battles and manage their people. But as a human, Vito’s strength was constantly in question. Naarwulf could beat the pup easily; none, not even Vito, could match him in battle. But Vito knew that no second-in-command could ever really defend a leader’s honor, but could only delay a crisis. Vito would have to kill the pup himself. He would have to kill a soldier who could have been useful in a real battle.
Vito detested the idea of hand-to-hand combat. He was strong and knew dozens of tricks that could save his life and end another’s, but he was experienced enough to know that luck always played a large part in the outcome. Too large a part. The fact that a dogman would invoke a dozen gods before any battle was proof enough of that; the greatest fighter among them could have an eye knocked out, a wrist broken, a kneecap shattered, internal bleeding, infection, prolonged death after short-term victory... and not only that, but the rite of challenge had the unfortunate side-effect of culling the best fighters among them. How many substandard fighters could survive unnoticed, while the strongest among them were routinely called out and crippled before their time? It was no different from the demonic influence among the villages of the primitives, where devils routinely demanded sacrifice of the most intelligent, the most talented, and the most beautiful. The sacrifice of those most envied by the weak, who gladly took part in the sacrifice, for it filled them with a sort of self-righteous validation of their own mediocre souls. Vito shook his head and sighed.
“My Khan,” said Naarwulf.
“I know,” said Vito. “I know that you would meet him, my friend. But I’ve got to kill him myself and send him on to a better world.”
Naarwulf turned suddenly, howled loudly, then shouted, “THE KHAN WILL MEET THE CHALLENGE!”
Wild barking and howling met them. Hundreds of dogmen loped off to a place that had already been marked as the killing grounds.
* * *
One Year Ago
Vito sat in a tent in the desert with Hakkal Tsun, who was most likely leader of the People’s Revolutionary Corps, the largest clan of freedom fighters in the nation of Hargis. As a soldier, Vito had tracked their terrorist cells and ended them one after another, but the leader had always eluded him. Now, having abandoned his post, having taken on the robes of a desert wanderer, having spilled the blood of former allies, Tsun readily revealed his location to him.
Hakkal Tsun took a dish of tea from a servant and, in doing so, twitched his fingers ever so slightly. Candlelight caught on his jeweled rings. Vito detested the movement, then wondered if he had only imagined the vain gesture. Tsun sipped without hurry, then gestured toward the tea servant. Vito shook his head. After a long silence, Tsun said, “You are Vito, the pride of Hargis.”
“I once was.”
“Many of my followers would be most joyful if I killed you now.”
“Then tell your men to rejoice. The man who was Vito is already dead.”
“Oh?” Tsun lifted an eyebrow. “And what was it that killed him?”
“I killed him.”
Tsun gestured for the servant to roll him a cigarette. “You have also killed many others, I hear. Others loyal to Hargis. Better still, you have even destroyed their property.”
“I have.”
“Why do you do these things now, Vito, when Hargis has treated you so well in the past? Fed you, clothed you, given you women...”
“I had heard that you listened to the teachings of Globulus.”
“I... have,” said Tsun, seemingly perplexed.
“Then you will understand what I mean when I say that I could not remain honest, free, or pure within the confines of civilization.”
“The confines of Hargis...” said Tsun, thoughtfully.
“The confines of civilization,” Vito repeated.
Hakkal Tsun puffed on his cigarette thoughtfully, then said, “Vito. It was my understanding that you came to me for a position of leadership. You are… interested in our cause. But one must understand... how do I say this... this is a delicate matter. Among my followers, I expect a certain devotion. Devotion to a certain ideal. A certain selflessness, a certain willingness to follow through, utterly, with the vision supplied them by the holy PRC. I have met Globulus, and he is a very wise man, and it brings me joy to know that his ideals match my own. That is why I say that my counsel now would most likely be his own, to which I hope you will listen.
“Vito, all that I have just said is true, but I feel I must add that among my commanders, I expect a certain degree of... shrewdness. Cunning. An aptitude for self-preservation. If all of my commanders showed the... zeal which you show, which I expect from my foot soldiers, down to every last man, I must add that the commanders should understand that, even as they preach violence and self-sacrifice, they should also remember that the PRC must be able to sustain itself for an extended campaign against the state. I ask you, Vito: If all of my commanders, and myself included, joined in the fighting in the streets and blew themselves up, where would our army be?”
“In a land without states,” said Vito, hard and vehement.
“Vito. Vito. Ve-e-e-e-eto. Now, how did you come to be a powerful and honored soldier with such an attitude?”
“I did no
t come to be a great soldier with this mindset. I became a great soldier by listening and nodding and learning from others and by copying the rules of the game and by killing whoever the state had no use for. Is that the Vito you would like to speak to now, Tsun? Would you like to pin a medal on me and speak in code? Or would you like to fulfill the vision you yourself preach to those fighting and dying in the streets?”
“Vito,” said Tsun, darkening. “Some amount of tact is called for in all situations.”
“No amount of dishonesty should ever be tolerated, Tsun. Lying to oneself, in any form, is the same as selling your soul to the state. Are you no different from the charlatans of greed in Hargis? Or are you a soul of the wasteland, as you preach to be?”
“I am trying to build a better nation, Vito!”
“You’re lying to yourself. You’re trying to destroy a system that has no place for you in it. Pure... and... simple.”
“How dare you! You come to me and ask for a position of leadership, and then insult me, and imply that I am no different from one of the fat assholes in the city who use and manipulate and-”
“I do not imply, Tsun. And I do not come to you for a position of leadership. I come to you for the position of leadership. This is not my job interview, Tsun. It is yours.”
“Get out of my home!” shrieked Hakkal Tsun.
“You would turn down the opportunity to destroy Hargis in a day? To wipe clean the slate of existence - as you’ve preached, and as Globulus has preached?”
“Get out before I have you killed!”
Vito rose and stood over the terrorist leader, then said, “If I had a nation, I would not allow you to be a part of it, either.” He turned and approached the tent flap.
Before the opening to the tent, Vito stopped. He knew that there were guards just outside who had heard the exchange. Vito pushed the flap open, saw movement, drew back - then dashed outside. Over his left shoulder he saw a guard who had made for the flap the moment he saw it move, then stepped back awkwardly when Vito had paused. Vito saw a gun in his hand. He flew forward and grabbed the guard’s wrist, brought it up, then twisted and came up behind the man and jerked tendons out of place before the man even knew what was happening. As the gun fell Vito grabbed it up, then pointed it toward another guard who awkwardly held his own gun forward.
Demonworld Book 4: Shepherd of Wolves Page 3
