DemiGodChapter 16 Betrayal
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Day 1:
He blinked, and was in a different place. The stone disc, the arch with two flames, surrounded by unending dark were all as they’d been described. He took those in at a glance. What interested him the most was his own body. Bracing himself for disappointment, he looked at his feet.
Toes. Ten of them. Somebody was saying something, but that wasn’t important right now. He’d get back to them later.
Heart pounding, he lifted both hands. Ten fingers, two thumbs, two palms.
He rubbed his eyes experimentally. Two working eyes. He stuck his fingertips into his ears. Both of his ears!
He looked up at the arch and roared out.
“I’m whole again! Is this real?”
It felt real. Really, really real! He might be naked right now, but damn if it didn’t feel like he was standing here on his own two fucking feet.
Welcome Visitor. What you experience as real in this place is as true as anything you do outside of it.
That was in English.
“How do you know my language?” He asked.
This place is an artifact of the Network. Ensuring accuracy when transporting beings from one world to another was of paramount importance when it was created. I was given the ability to interface directly with your mind, here, so that there could be no mistakes.
“That’s a little frightening.” John said.
When no response was forthcoming, he spoke up.
“Could you repeat the thing you first said to me? I didn’t catch it.”
Welcome Visitor. This is your connection to the Network. As you have not completed any prerequisites, only the First World is available to you. This world has many different inhabitant races with the same basic size and shape that you do, so you may assume the form of one of them. Be aware, this decision is irrevocable, and will have consequences with regard to your interactions with other races. Would you like to hear your options?
“I would like to hear my options.”
He held his breath.
You may choose from the following list:Your unedited appearance
Plains human with random characteristics
Islander with limited random characteristics
Nomad
Changelyng
Cambion
Nord
Be’d’yin
War-chyld
Previous testers had tried out all of the options, so they’d been able to tell him beforehand what he could chose. He’d been afraid that his lack of limbs would hinder the possibilities, but it seemed that wouldn’t be the case here.
“If I chose a Nord,” he asked, “if, do I get to chose what kind of parents I had?”
You may not. Your lineage is chosen randomly from among those deposited into the Network.
“Deposited? What does that mean?”
This information is not available to you at this time. Please chose. You may not remain here too long.
“All right, I choose to be a Nord.”
A blast of wind and snow knifed through him, and he staggered. Squinting his eyes to see, it seemed like he was still in the entry place. Only now there were unending swirls of snow buffeting him from
every side. He looked down, and realized he was not remotely still in the entry room. He had on thick fur garments: pants, serviceable boots, jacket with hood, mittens and a cloak. All were fur-lined leather. He pulled up a face wrap that was around his neck, to protect his nose and mouth. A belt at his waist held a knife, with a foot-long blade. He drew it out, and in the dim light could see it was crude, iron, but serviceable.
He scanned his surroundings, but with what seemed to be a blizzard going, couldn’t see or hear much past the edge of the platform. The stone he stood on looked just as it had in the entry room, and the flames, now blue-white, gave enough light for him to see that deep snow covered the ground in every direction. It seemed like it was night-time, and though he was cold, none of the snow falling was sticking to the platform, nor the arch. It took him several minutes of careful searching to notice dim lights clustered in the distance. That was the only thing he could make out beyond the platform itself, and light meant some level of civilization, so he started walking in that direction.
In the viewing room, the two techs were busy checking connections and testing the computers.
“Is this really what he’s seeing?” Johnson asked one.
Jaiden Coronal was the senior of the two, so he answered.
“It must be. Everything checks out.”
“Is this the first time someone’s started in harsh weather?” Johnson confirmed with everyone in the room.
The general agreement made him scowl.
“Then why’s he different?”
Jaiden spoke up. He was the grandson of Guatemalan immigrants. It was his grandfather’s stories from home, and his father’s from military service that had prompted the young man to pursue a career in video game graphics. He was a whiz with maintaining their visual feed, which basically amounted to whatever image the subject’s eyes took in. Everyone found it disconcerting when subjects blinked, so he’d written a script to keep the last image on screen until updated. This meant they weren’t dealing with several black-screen flashes a minute.
“Because he knows what he’s doing.” He pointed.
They could see John tucking his head against the wind, and only occasionally checking his course. His steady movement, and calm respiration bespoke his skill.
“He’s right.” Malcolm agreed. “John isn’t fazed by this. Maybe whatever happens in the entry room that blocks us also takes the measure of who we send.”
“That’s a frightening thought.” Steve commented.
“Yeah.” Johnson agreed.
Chin Hoto, Jaiden’s partner, and another computer whiz pulled up some information on their status monitors. Born in Korea, his parents immigrated to the U.S. when he was six. He’d programmed his first piece of software at the age of ten, and was hacking computers all over the world at fifteen. It was his job to guarantee their network security. He was also a genius with numbers and statistics.
“He was in the entry room for twenty seconds longer than anyone else so far.” He told them.
“John’s the best we’ve sent in yet.” Veronyka said to the room, catching Colonel Mason’s eye.
He nodded subtly in reply.
It was extremely slow going. The snow was both deep and loose. He really wished he had snowshoes, but couldn’t see any vegetation with which to make some. As soon as he’d stepped off the stone, the flames on the arch winked out. Without their light reflecting off the swirling snow, he could see his destination a little more clearly, but nothing else. It looked like a crude stone palisade, with a tower at one end. Torches were mounted at long intervals on the wall. He figured the structure was about half a mile away, give or take a few yards. Walking there was going to suck.
He put his head down and trudged through the powder. That was the trick to operating in cold weather: keep your work steady, and conserve energy. The heat loss due to sweating from over exertion would kill more quickly than just the cold. A brief glance into the wind every few minutes, which about froze his eyes every time, confirmed he was on course. Snow trickled into his clothes. Wind tore at him and his legs burned from the effort of breaking new ground with every step. It was an accident, a brief break in the wind, an unexpected moment of stillness, which saved him from disaster.
There was a crunch of snow from behind, not made by his feet, which alerted him and he spun. A slightly darker streak of white and gray blurred towards him and he tried to dodge. He managed to avoid being struck squarely, but the thing still knocked him into the snow. He tried to scramble to his feet, but getting traction in the loose powder proved difficult. The thing spun, and he got a brief glimpse before it was on him. Four-legged, with wide paws. Thick, long white and gray streaked fur covered it from neck to tail. That tail was long, and thick and he got the impression the tip was sharp as it lashed the air behind it. He would’ve called it a wolf, save for that tail, and the thing’s face. It was as though the skull, with an enormous snout and a mouth full of crocodile-like teeth, had been stripped of all fur and skin and muscle. The eye-sockets were empty, and no tongue lolled from between the jaws.
He remembered to yank out his blade just as the not-wolf lunged at him. Crab walking away didn’t work, so instead he slid underneath it, wrapping both arms and legs around it. He kept his forearms high on the thing’s face, trying to keep it from biting him. He tried to slice into its neck without letting go, and thought maybe he’d cut it once or twice, but no blood stained either his blade or the fur and the animal squirmed to break free without pause.
He tried adjusting his grip, so he could roll them over. Unlike humans, most four-legged animals do not fight well at all on their backs. He managed to jam the knife into its side, but traded a nip on his trap muscle as the thing tore a chunk out in exchange. That hurt like hell! But he was already moving, trapping a fore-leg with his arm, and the rear one on the beast’s same side with his own leg. It now had no way to stabilize, and his heave rolled them. The thing was cunning, and tried to keep the roll going, but in this the snow helped cushion their movement. He braced with an arm to stay on top, but it skidded on the compact area beside them as the thing squirmed like a snake.
Throughout the fight, the animal made no sound. No growls, barks, hisses or any verbal noise at all. It was eerie, being the only side demonstrating any exertion. A blow to his back, blunted by his coat but strong confirmed that the thing’s tail was a weapon as well. He pushed his weight up, trying to keep the animal down while he plunged the knife into its chest and belly several times. He kept his other forearm locked underneath its jaw, to push its head back. He hoped doing that kept the animal from seeing him very well, and certainly prevented it from biting him again. He had no desire to get any part of his body near that ugly snapping maw.
Again, no blood spurted, and the beast seemed unfazed by the stabs. Another blow to his back, this time lower. A piercing stab near one of his kidneys. He did his best to ignore the pain, and kept his arms inside the thing’s front legs so it couldn’t throw him off. For all its thrashing and scrambling, he definitely had an advantage with it flipped onto its back.
“Just. Fucking. Die already!” He growled.
He angled his knife, sliding it into the neck just below his own arm. Pushing forward with all his weight, he jammed the point as far down as he could, then sawed the blade across its throat. Now that got a reaction! The beast howled an awful, screeching cry which punched his ears like nails on a chalkboard. Another blow to his back, but this time with his body more forward, and his weight pressing down on its head, it was only a glancing one. His jagged cut lengthened, splitting open the fur-lined skin. An ugly mass of maggots and other slug-like insects spilled out into the snow.
He had to cut the thing’s head completely off before it went still. It wasn’t easy, and he had to find a space to slip the blade between vertebrae in its spine to finish. But once that was severed, and he pulled the skull free, it stopped fighting.
Gasping for breath, and realizing he’d lost his cloak in the brawl, he rolled off away from the disgusting mess that oozed from the beast’s now-exposed insides. He wiped his blade off on its fur, sheathing it and digging around for his cloak. His body was trembling from the adrenaline dump, and he knew he needed to get warm quickly. It took a solid minute of searching, but he located the garment and swung it over his shoulders. Shivering now, he stuck his fingers into the dead thing’s eye-sockets for a hand-hold, then slung the rest of the carcass over his shoulders. He tipped to one side, so the gross mass inside could drain out.
Inside the viewing room, the techs, Veronyka, Steve and Malcolm were cheering. Johnson patted both techs on the shoulders.
He looked over his shoulder at Veronyka. “You were right.”
She smiled at him, and mimed writing that into an imaginary notebook.
He resumed his trek as quickly as he could. He could feel the sweat evaporating from his face and wrists. He wasn’t in danger of hypothermia yet, but he couldn’t stay outside without a fire for too much longer in his state. He could feel blood trickling down his back from both his shoulder and other wounds. Keeping his feet moving was getting more difficult, but this wasn’t his first time trekking while exhausted.
The forty-mile ‘forced march’ through back-country wilderness he’d completed, in under nineteen hours, all while carrying a full rucksack and rifle was an infamous part of the selection process. He’d never felt more tired while walking than during the final leg before the cadre told him: “You’re done.” He didn’t even know where that last point was, just that he had to keep moving from rendezvous point to RV until they told him to stop. At least this time he could see his destination. He angled so he’d come to the wall where the tower was. He was pretty sure he could make out someone standing on it. He just hoped he wasn’t carrying their favorite pet’s carcass. That probably wouldn’t get him off to a good start.
He stopped just inside the circle of light thrown by the torches and raised his head. He could see there was someone standing on the tower top, but their details were in shadow. The man, he could hear a deep voice, said something to someone inside the wall. A few moments later, the iron-bound door at the base swung open. Two other men edged out. Both were covered from hair to toes in fur-lined leather. Even their faces were covered, with only a narrow slit for their eyes. One held a lantern aloft, naked sword in his other hand. The other, slightly ahead held a long spear with a narrow head and cross-piece to keep it from over-penetrating.
He stayed still as they approached, allowing the spear point to hover inches from his chest. After a moment, the lantern-bearer spoke. John was familiar enough with the five languages to know they were speaking Norse (which they’d explained bore no resemblance to any current or known Scandinavian language).
“Where did you get that?” A sword pointed at the skull in his hand.
“I killed it over that way.” He jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “Is it yours?”
“Mine?” The voice sounded horrified, though he almost didn’t catch the tone. He realized their method of translation was quick enough that he had to work to hear variances in tenor. “Why do you ask that?”
He dropped the skull, and slung the rest of the body onto the ground in front of him. Standing up straight, he said, “I’ve never seen one before. Don’t rightly know what it is.”
“Ah! Stranger, you are not from here? The varg belong to the draugyr. His master will be most displeased by your actions.” He explained.
“And you? What’s your take on it?” He asked pointedly, resting a hand on his belt, as near his knife’s hilt as he dared with a spike inches from his heart.
The voice scoffed, “Bah! We hate the draugyr, and their vile pets. Difficult to kill, hard on the animals. You travel alone in the night?”
“Yeah, I guess I am.” He admitted.
“You were lucky. They do not normally hunt alone. Mostly packs, five or more to bring down large game.” The man said. “Come, bring it inside. Rorik will decide what to do with it. And you.”
He turned around and led the way back into the enclosure. The spear-bearer moved around behind him. With a sigh, he hefted up the carcass again, scooped up the head and stepped inside.
The village wasn’t large, maybe fifteen or twenty buildings total. Most were made of snow-lined rock, with more mounds of snow atop dried brush roofs. There were few windows, and those he saw were shuttered against the still-falling snowstorm. The lantern-bearer led him over to the biggest building of all, larger than any two others combined. It was a little taller, too, with a dug-out stairway leading down into a large open room. An enormous fire-pit dominated the center, ringed with rocks. Crude stone stools and benches were clustered around stone tables, topped with animal skins. There was a bar at one end, the only wooden piece in the whole place. It filled one wall, and looked sturdy enough to put the rest of the furniture to shame. Various weapons, mostly spears, small shields and a few short swords hung at points on the walls, with a few mounted trophy skulls above the bar itself. He didn’t recognize any of the animals, though one looked like an oversized human skull.
The man standing beside the bar looked over at them when the lantern-bearer called out.
“Rorik! We have a visitor.” He sheathed his sword and set the lantern down.
John stepped inside and stopped as the occupant gave him a good examination. John studied him back, and liked what he saw. His clothing was leather, thick with metal studs set into it. A bone-handled knife and odd-shaped hatchet hung from his belt. His arms were corded muscle, and his face bore several scars. He had very short blond stubble all over his head and chin. He set down the metal mug he held with a thud, and nodded at a table near John.
“Set the thing down there, and let’s have a look.” Rorik directed.
John did as instructed, placing the head next to the gaping neck. He stepped back and dropped his cloak onto a chair. The room was hot enough to make him sweat. He pulled his hood back and unfastened his coat.
“Fey!” The spear-bearer behind him yelped.
John felt a jab at his shoulder, and jumped away from the others. The spear-wielder advanced on him, and now that they were inside John could see this one was smaller than the lantern-bearer and Rorik. He kept backing up, but pulled his knife out when the spear kept coming.
“Hold!” Rorik roared.
John glanced over. Both men had their weapons out. The sword looked simple and functional, if a little worn. Rorik’s weapons, though caught his eye. The hatchet was a tomahawk, with a black ax head and long reverse spike. The metal was blued, with some kind of silvery symbol on each side. The haft was bone, with a knob at the base, and a carved pyramid spike at the top. The bottom half was wrapped in leather, but he could see intricate carvings covering the entire handle. The knife too was blued, with carvings on the bone handle. It was double-edged, with a metal ball pommel below the bone. It had silvery runes on the fuller.
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