Wodan watched the sun rise on the battlefield. The Ugly leaped from cart to cart, abandoning each platform as it was overtaken by quivering, slobbering demons. They passed guns and ammunition back and forth and fired death all around. They kept up their black prayers and none panicked, except when a few were cut off and overwhelmed. The mercenaries often fired wildly, ran out of ammunition, then threw their guns and ran only to be hacked apart or gored by bull-devils. Wodan could find no more merchants, only twisted bodies in brightly-colored robes. He swung his head about, but had no idea where the maddening song came from.
The Ugly seemed to run out of ammunition all at once, just as they scattered a cluster of demons. They climbed down from the few remaining carts, panting as they slipped over demonic corpses. They produced knives, clubs, axes, hammers, and long chains. The last of the demons gathered, then charged into them. The scarred fighters stood their ground and beat and lashed and hacked open the monsters, seemingly unperturbed even as comrades died screaming beside them. They gathered around a hobbled, bull-shaped demon as it turned awkwardly, beat it with heavy chains, then hacked open its stomach so that steaming red innards covered their legs. The blood-drenched Ugly emerged victorious, mist rising from their limbs, faces unreadable. The song cut off suddenly and Wodan looked around in alarm.
Nearly twenty Ugly survived. They stalked silently down the line of wreckage. The last of the mercenaries gathered before them, wailing and pleading, and the Ugly bashed their skulls in or jammed knives into throats. They climbed into the shells of the carts, tossing out goods and smashing open crates. A few survivors were gathered and knocked around. Wodan could hear their captors shouting about alcohol, single-minded and maniacal; unfortunately for them, Pontius was the greatest exporter of alcohol in the wasteland, and no merchant would bother to carry the stuff into a city already drowning in booze. Unable to understand any arguments concerning supply and demand, the Ugly hacked down the last of the mercenaries in wordless exhaustion.
Wodan crawled backward along the stone to leave the scene. His foot brushed against something soft. He whirled onto his back and raised his empty gun. The shock of what he saw wrenched his guts out of place, for all along the ledges of the rocky spire above him stood a silent host of black-haired, pale-skinned women. Their lips were long and red and misshapen and their smiles revealed the points of wicked canine teeth. Their eyes were cloudy and sickly yellow, and they wore dresses and robes covered in rot and mold. One stood over Wodan and he could see that she was not human. Her mouth parted and her eyes glazed over as she was overwhelmed by the possible tortures she could inflict on him.
Chapter Four
Sing, Devil Syrens, Sing
There was a blur of motion, black hair whipping about, and before Wodan could move a devil woman had a hand about his throat. She lifted him up easily, and he dropped the gun to hold her forearm with both hands so that he would not be hung to death in her grasp. He felt muscles coil and bunch up under his fingers as his feet swayed beneath him. Her face was malevolent and only vaguely human. Her lips broke in a crooked smile full of sharp yellow teeth. He felt the pressure of doom building in his forehead and jaw.
Several she-devils bounded down the rocks humming a low note. Black spots gelled in his vision, but he dimly made out the devil holding him push her raggedy dress down one shoulder to expose a fat, blue-veined breast without a nipple. She pulled one of his hands loose from her arm and mashed his hand into her breast. It was hard and lumpy. Just as she began to enjoy the game, she gasped and shouted, “You! You!” She released Wodan and hit fell. He hit stone, then rolled away and fell to a lower ledge and felt his left arm go numb as his elbow smacked against hard rock.
An Ugly below cried out, “Demons! Demons! Why? Why did you attack us?”
“Silence!” one succubi shouted.
The Ugly knelt down and held their faces near the bloody sands, quivering with fear.
Wodan lifted his head, barely able to see through bleary eyes, and crawled toward another ledge and rolled off it. His stomach lurched for a moment and he smacked down into the sand, right on his ass, and just as he strained to push himself up a succubus was upon him, lifting him up easily before throwing him down again. Everything was a painful blur. Strong hands grasped his arm and dragged him through the sand toward the prostrate Ugly.
The monsters stood over the Ugly. One of them shouted, “Be still! Keep your faith! Say something stupid, and our patience will be sorely tested! You have survived our game, and for that you will be blessed. Blessed! But don’t you see? All this time, you have been travelling with this… this killer from Haven!”
Wodan’s head spun; he had no idea how the monsters knew who he was. The succubus dropped him before the Ugly, who raised their heads and glared at him like attack dogs.
“Don’t listen to them!” said Wodan, mind racing. “I’m a Smith! I can get you advanced technology, anything you want!” Wodan felt around in his pockets, then produce the compass that he’d stared at so much while on the ocean. “See this? It proves I’m a Smith! Listen to me, we have to fight these monsters… they tried to kill us! I – I even have a gun that shoots bullets without making a sound-”
A succubus grasped his wrist and twisted it. She studied the compass in his hand, snarling. Greasy black hair hung in his face.
“We kill Smiths!” an Ugly screamed. “They all deserve to die!”
“But I - I can be ransomed back to them! I’m very important!”
Wodan was cut off as the succubus snatched the compass and crushed it in her hand. The creature clutched Wodan’s throat, forced his head back, and stared into him. Her mouth opened, showing twisted fangs as she growled like a dog, then said, “You! You shot me in the belly! You burned me with myself!”
“Wh-what’re you... talking... about...”
“You invaded the land of my exile! You killed my servants! You took Serpens Rex from me! You and those savages in the desert, you killed me as I ran and played! I was the great dragon, I spat thunder and ruled the storm! But you led me to my death! You left a trap for me and murdered me!”
The succubus was shrieking and crushing Wodan’s throat with every accusation. He pushed feebly at the arm, slick skin stretched over steel. Confusion mixed with horror, inescapable, a nightmare.
“And like a coward you were sneaking around here, killing me again and again with your little toy! How can you possibly atone for my blood?!”
“Kill him!” screamed an Ugly, pounding his fists into the sand. “Oh, lords, please kill the Havender!”
The succubus suddenly let go and Wodan fell back, coughing, air piercing his throat. He pushed away, sputtering and glaring at the Ugly. “Those monsters… attacked your friends… what did... Haven... do to... you?!”
An Ugly with one eye and a series of scars down the side of his face rose onto one knee, then pointed at Wodan and shouted, “Don’t pretend to be innocent! Haven sent spies among us! Our good men were out gathering workers, and your people murdered our men in their sleep and humiliated the leader of the Right Arm! When we sought justice, they used their tricks and killed our soldiers with their unnatural machines! You’re a monster!”
Wodan lifted his face to the gentle blue above. No argument would work. He was surrounded by monstrous, blood-hungry victims completely detached from reality. A succubus wandered up, smiling as she carried the dead priest’s execution cross on her shoulders.
* * *
The Ugly stripped naked, laughing and joking, seemingly unmindful of their fallen comrades as they prepared for a combination of religious ritual and party. The cross was laid on the ground, then three succubi stretched Wodan’s arms and legs across the thing. Wodan fought at first, but the succubi were so strong that he soon relented and glared ahead stoically. He was reminded of doctor’s offices, medical procedures, even the regimented schedule of going to school as a child, the forms similar but taken to their ultimate limit. He knew that the Ugly and the demons needed
him to die a spectacular death in order to support their imbalanced, top-heavy egos. Only the blue sky far above gave him any sort of solace. He breathed deep, set his jaw firm, and swore to himself that he would try to stay strong until the moment he was dead and free of them.
An Ugly bent over him and used a belt to tie his left arm to the execution cross, then tightened it until his arm was numb. Chuckling, the man patted Wodan’s face condescendingly as he moved to the other arm. Wodan saw a succubus sucking on an Ugly’s face, caressing his scars with long, dirty nails. The Ugly pushed her ratty black dress down her shoulders and arms, then let it fall to the ground. He grabbed the butt of his god with fat fingers and ran his tongue along her ear and neck. The monster hissed, smiled, and craned her head back. The Ugly nearest Wodan snapped his fingers and another belt was tossed to him, then tied tightly around his arm.
A very young Ugly approached. His smooth face was marred by a horribly bisected nose. “You wan’ another belt, sir?” he said.
“What are you, son? A Coilboy?” said the older Ugly, laughing.
“HELL NO SIR!”
“’Cause ’round here,” said the older Ugly, producing a rusty blade, “we do things the Ugly way.” With that, he raised the knife and slammed it down through Wodan’s hand and into the cross.
The pain was overwhelming, a biting, burning numbness of screaming nerves and tendons thrown out of place. His mind was filled with blinding white brilliance and he felt himself struggling, arching his back. He heard giggling near his face, then heard a second dagger pierce flesh and wood as his other hand was nailed to the cross. He felt no pain this time, but only a strange jerking motion as his point of reference was jerked free of his body. As in a dream he saw a succubus lift the cross with one arm and place it in a hole as several Ugly pushed sand around the base. With passionless detachment he saw his own body hanging and writhing. The faces of the Ugly appeared inhuman, their bodies pig-like as they rubbed their tongues and hands on the succubi. The monsters and the bestial men intertwined with one another around the cross and Wodan was struck with the thought that they were not human, nor even animals. They were automatons. Had they lost what was good in them, or were they always empty vessels? What was it that filled them? He saw his own hands nailed to the wood of the sacrifice and he knew that they would never be of any use; his feet dangled free and his delicate flesh was torn by his own weight held aloft by dirty steel.
His vision clouded and he returned to his body. He could not breathe, nor think through the pain, and everything was dark. He braced his feet against the cross and pushed up, sucked in one breath of air, then felt the daggers tear into his hands, pain careening through his arms, so he relaxed and began drowning once again.
All around him the non-men and the demons were thrashing and gasping, going through the motions of living in a hateful, mocking ritual. He saw the Ugly taking the succubi two at a time, slapping their asses by way of genuflection. Suddenly one of the succubi broke free and approached Wodan, sweat running down the curves of her heaving belly. “Drain you,” she whispered, lifting his shirt. “Make your progeny like us.”
Her fangs parted, then she pushed a slimy tongue along his belly. He could smell her rotten breath, and could feel the stench trying to influence his body, telling him that he was going through a ritual that would transform him into something greater than himself. Suddenly her head jerked and showered him in blood and bits of meat. The devil bitch smacked into the ground, and Wodan realized that he either knew less about sex than he thought, or something had not gone according to plan.
The demonic sisters shrieked and threw the Ugly away from them. They stared at a far point on the horizon. Wodan lifted his head weakly. Three figures stood on a crest of sand, featureless and black with the sun burning behind them. One of them was tall and lean and carried a smoking rifle. One was smaller, a female in robes. Her dark hair blew in a light gust of wind. The third was a giant in a cloak and hood. He removed a large, flat bundle from his back, then unwrapped it, revealing a huge, double-headed axe gleaming in the rising sun. It was Justyn, and he had brought reinforcements.
The succubi rushed at the newcomers and the naked Ugly fumbled about for their weapons. Wodan blinked once, and in an instant the newcomers covered the distance between them. Justyn bowled over several of the succubi, then ran to the group of Ugly. He lifted his heavy axe, then brought it down with such force that one of the men splattered as if struck by a comet. Another Ugly ran behind him and tore the cape and hood from his back. Wodan was shocked as the sun struck Justyn and revealed him: His skin was gleaming and pale, limbs muscular, hair long and curly, eyes slitted and small but shining brightly. He wore red pants and thick boots, but nothing else. He turned to the Ugly and swung the axe upward, cleaving the man and holding him in the air without effort. Justyn regarded the small bag of limbs quivering overhead with curiosity. Ugly charged all around him, shrieking out vengeance. Justyn shifted his weight, dropped the dead man, then swung his axe in a series of death-arcs that slid through faces, arms, and intestines, splitting men into pieces around him.
The other tall, lean newcomer shouldered his rifle and unholstered two large handguns that hung at his sides. His hair was greasy and black, face as pale as Justyn’s, but with sharper features. He wore rough brown clothes of foreign make. In a blinding flash he began executing Ugly all around him, each shot shattering heads and jaws and throats with inhuman precision. Several succubi streaked toward him, but his hands moved in a blur to calmly eject spent cartridges, reload, and then blast the devils before they could draw near.
In the distance, Wodan could see that most of the succubi were throwing themselves at the white-robed woman, who moved and slid along the sand unnaturally while her hands danced strangely. He saw one succubus fly apart in a spray of red ribbons, then another fell as her legs shattered to pieces beneath her. “Stay away from me, whores!” the newcomer cried. “You’re not even real women!” Another succubus charged, then bounced back as she seemed to rebound off some invisible wall. The newcomer turned and flicked her wrist, then the monster was bisected down the middle in a spray of gore.
Sure that he was dreaming one last dream, Wodan sunk down into himself. He no longer felt the nails in his hands, nor anything at all. His vision grew dark. The face of the woman in the white robes floated before him. Her face was hard, shining, as smooth as glass, and her long black hair waved about her as if caught in the waves of some invisible sea. Her green eyes were brilliant diamonds not of this world.
As he passed into dark sleep, he felt himself rise, then the daggers flew out from his hands.
“We took a vote,” she said. “Does that make us Havenders, too?”
Chapter Five
The Floating World
Wodan woke on a soft bed in a metal room. He rubbed his eyes, then felt thick bandages around his hands. He remembered, then forced himself to look at his hands. They hurt, but he could move his fingers with effort. He slowly unwound one of the bandages. His palm was purple and covered in yellow tracers, but remarkably enough, only a slim pink line remained as proof of his crucifixion. He let the bandages fall to the floor and rose. He was weak and dizzy, but felt strangely at ease.
He still wore his black prison clothes, which were splattered with maroon stains. He rubbed his face and felt prickly hairs on his jaw. He did not need to shave often, so he must have been out for some time. He saw an open door leading to the outside. Sharp, blue daylight and a cool wind drifted in.
There was another bed nearby. Posters were tacked on the walls. He saw a photograph of some band, men with wild black hair, slanted eyes, posing and looking very tough and cool. The poster was labeled with foreign, alien symbols. He saw a map labeled with the same alien language. He could make out Haven, Sunport, Pontius, and cities further along the coast. The map extended far to the east and showed other cities labeled in blue and green. Some even had borders that enclosed several cities; not just city-states, but nation
s. One nation bordered in red dwarfed them all, but he could not read its name.
Wodan turned and saw seats and a control panel; the room looked like a cockpit. He was in the hold of some kind of vehicle.
He turned back to his bed and saw his bag. He opened it and found the jewels still inside. Relieved, he tucked them into a pocket. Then he noticed syringes, a scalpel, clips and dirty cotton swabs near a jar of clean ones. He saw some kind of scanner attached to a viewscreen. It was not the sort of thing he expected to see outside of Haven. He sat and put on his boots, which was difficult because his hands hurt badly, but he felt no rush.
As he rose, he noticed some kind of printout tacked to the wall, a grainy black and white close-up of a man’s face. Long black hair framed his white face. His eyebrows were thick and stern, and his eyes were large and dark. He had a long nose over a grim-set mouth extending down to a slight chin. The face radiated gravity, power, even malevolence. A heart was drawn around the face. At the bottom, in girlish script written in the western language, he read
All hail JOSEF
Warmaster of San Ktari!
Victory and all that!
Wodan went to the door and looked out. He saw a beach with great white clouds hanging over a gently rolling sea. A rocky outcrop extended outward. He saw Justyn and the other two strange people. The two men sat shirtless on the ground while the woman stood in the distance, watching the sea. She had exchanged her robes for some sheer white suit. Wodan descended a set of stairs, then looked back and saw that he had been in some kind of small airship. Wicked-looking wings extended from a blocky hull. It looked rough and practical, but not as impressive as many of the airships from Haven.
Demonworld Book 3: The Floyd Street Massacre Page 3
