Chapter Fifty

  Auren checked in his glove again. The coin was still there. ‘Even so…’ He told himself and slipped it into his boot when he got up that morning.

  He walked beside the wagon with the coin rubbing against the sole of his feet for the entire day, tap, tap, tap, scrape, scrape, scrape, the russet-haired man-at-arms regretted that hiding place until they stopped that night.

  He bit his lip against the pain as he eased the boot free when the day ended, eyes darting around to see that nobody was suspicious. A few of the pilgrim travelers had their eyes on him when he made noise, though they said nothing, Auren felt like he could read their thoughts. ‘They know something is wrong, they know you stole this. They know it. Everybody knows you’re up to something… Selji keeps looking your way? What’s he know? Did he see, is he waiting for the right time to demand half?’ Auren watched as Selji stirred the field stew.

  “Want some? Are your feet alright?” Selji asked and held up the wooden spoon. “I can just bring you a bowl if you need to relax? I feel great.” The soldier smirked a little at his boast about his endurance.

  But it was not what Auren heard. ‘Like someone with nothing to hide, that’s what you really mean. I’m carrying the coin, they’ve got nothing on you, they hang pickpockets in Kami Miyako, if he waits to expose me there, I’ll die… I have no story for how I got this, and I’m a simple peasant man-at-arms… what can I say?!’ Auren’s thoughts ran wild in his mind.

  ‘Nothing. You can say nothing. You stole from the gods, and from the people desperate to serve the gods… anyone who knows the truth, they’ll never let it go, nobody will ever trust you now. You’ll lose your job, you’ll have to become a criminal to survive, dealing black dust or raiding the very wagons you used to protect, everything has just gone wrong… you stole it, you stole someone’s prayer offering, is there anyone lower than that?’

  He could hear the remonstration in his head, and it went on for day, after day, after day.

  Until Kami Miyako loomed large before his eyes, but all Auren could see was that it lay in the shadow of his own crippling fear. ‘They know. They’re just letting you take your time walking to the noose.’

  He closed his eyes to pretend it wasn’t there.

  ‘Thief. Betrayer of oaths. You stole from the faithful. Thief. Thief. Thief.’ He heard the word in his own head on a loop.

  And the blackness did nothing to quiet the voice, nor stop the nightmares when he slept, and heard the crack of his neck and the snap of the hangman’s noose over… and over… and over again.

  Demiurge looked over the last of the nine cities, it was empty of all intelligent life. A handful of humans were dancing with glee as they used their newly repaired limbs again and plundered the homes of the beastmen for enough food to live off of. ‘There is a surprising degree of variation among fruits. Meats too, some obviously belonged to humans, but also cattle, goats, and other creatures…’ It sparked the curiosity of the archdevil, the beastmen cities were carefully laid out with ample space between structures, far less cramped than human cities. But more noteworthy than that was that they had ample green ground between them, the roads were laid out in a grid, most rooftops had a small garden, and public fountains were plentiful, there was even an aqueduct that ran from the nearby mountains into the open city and fed into common areas to be drawn from freely.

  The liberated human animals paid no mind to these wonders… gibbering like monkeys as they sought to go where they were told, to go west to meet with other survivors.

  Normally, Demiurge would have already gone, his work over this city was done, the beastmen survivors from their last battle had clearly been very convincing after all. But he wanted to do something else. Something without being observed or forced to ‘talk’ with lesser creatures.

  So he waited, hovering far above the city, held aloft by currents of the air striking against his wings, it took most of the day for the last humans to be gone, and then as the sky began to redden and he was alone, he descended to touch the ground just outside the palace of the governor or local lord.

  It wasn’t very large, which was strange, but it was a noble looking place, with soapstone and marble patterns, no piece wasted, if he was to judge by the varied patterns in the steps. A high arch carved in the shape of trees with branches on either side connecting at the center, this ‘nature motif’ was evident throughout their architecture, as he walked through the building he noted that the walls themselves were painted in a fashion that provided depth and the appearance of a forest, with the floor patterned like a path of grass.

  The only breaks in this ‘clean’ look was a slew of what the crystalline eyed archdevil first thought were paintings.

  “No… no those are not paintings…” He said and approached to take a closer look. They were of people, clearly, beastmen people at least, in various scenes of dinner or battle or at state, or even the occasional solo ‘portrait’ but none of them were composed of paint.

  Demiurge removed his glove from his right hand and reached out to touch it, he felt the slightest give, and the feel of canvas beneath. “Feathers?” He asked himself the rhetorical question, as they were clearly feathers. He looked closer, then stepped back. The paintings, or what he thought were paintings, were in fact portrait tapestries composed of thousands upon thousands of feathers whose shades and colors combined to create vibrant shapes more alive than any form of ‘painting’ Demiurge had seen outside of the library of Ashurbanipal.

  The archdevil was many things, a sadist, a monster, a destroyer and a torturer and he reveled in his darkness, but above all of that, he counted himself a scholar, a devil of learning, and as such he appreciated intricacy and artistry.

  In his own mind, the entire population of humans was only as good as their best and brightest, those who might bloom into useful servants, the rest were the worms or the dirt the worms lived in. Useful only in that they might make a flower bloom.

  Now the beastmen, who he initially derided as mere brutes, displayed some similar merit. ‘I had planned on crushing them further… but… perhaps something else will do instead.’

  With that resolved, he took a few of the canvases down, rolled them up, then stored them in his item box before donning his glove again. They would serve as an argument for preserving the beastmen against eradication, and instead molding them into useful things.

  With that done he exited the palace, there was no need to see more, curious though he was, it would have to wait.

  He left the building behind and ventured out into the light of day again, leaving only one more moment to appreciate the brilliance of the architecture and the layout of the city before he ventured east.

  The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

  Demiurge felt no real sense of haste in this, nor did he worry about whom he might encounter. ‘If there were any real threats, they had their chance to present them and failed. I wonder how many magic casters are even left among them?’

  Few, that much he was certain of at least. Down below after a few hours of flying, he saw the stream of refugees, they were starting to converge into one massive host, and even from where he was in the sky, Demiurge could hear the noise of fighting and arguing between those who brought plenty, and those who brought little. ‘I think there will be a decrease in their numbers by the time they reach the capital of the country. Perhaps a very sharp decrease at that.’

  In the distance he could see the lights of the capital city of Ubar. It was larger than he expected, though it lacked walls as most beastmen cities did, it was a sprawling place with a great river cutting through it and a blooming forest surrounding it on two sides, while on the far end, expansive fields dotted by small villages and towns.

  Even at a glance it had to have a hundred thousand people at the minimum, though the closer he got, and saw the terrace style buildings that centralized large parts of the population, along with an extensive network of canals that ran outward from the city and toward the distant villages, he changed that number to five hundred thousand.

  Demiurge took careful note of the layout for future inspiration. ‘The Empire of the Supreme Beings deserves magnificent cities, the dwarven engineers with their runecraft may be even more useful than I imagined. What could we build if we had magic to lighten the weight of materials or to increase their strength…’ The possible applications for what they already had were multiplying in Demiurge’s mind so much that he lost himself in the view down below.

  Each innovation he saw, he sought to improve, and thought of some magic or technology either available or innovatable that could make what was on the ground, even better than it was.

  It was reason enough in his mind to recall the words of Lord Ainz. ‘Evil for evil, good for good.’ And whether intended or not, they’d given Demiurge something valuable.

  ‘Only one more, then.’ He said to himself, and descended on the domed palace of what could only be the lord of the beastmen.

  Guards at the entrance, tigermen who towered twice as tall as Demiurge himself, dropped down to a ready position. He was fairly sure they would have attacked at once if he’d been human, but with wings and tail, that was obviously not the case. ‘As if they would have a chance.’ It was laughable to even think it. He activated his bardic command skill and said at once, “Take me to your King.”

  They stiffened, their eyes wild with confusion as they turned around. Demiurge moved forward to walk between them, and at a glance it would have seemed to anyone that they were escorting someone of their own volition.

  It was only obvious that this wasn’t the case if one looked closely at their legs and saw that the striped furry warriors were walking stiff legged as if fighting against their own bodies.

  But early in the morning as it now was, there were few who might have noticed, and none of those were present to see it.

  They led Demiurge all the way to the heart of the palace, and as they walked Demiurge saw more of the artistic wonders that these creatures were capable of. This time there were vibrant statues that were highly idealized. They nonetheless were smooth and flawless, with lifelike faces and poses so real that he would have thought they were living people if they’d been painted to look it.

  His magnanimity increased a fraction, enough for him to decide to give their King a chance to save himself.

  A pair of wide double doors carved from a single piece of stone and engraved with vibrant nature designs came into view, and when they reached it, the escorting guards pushed the door open, allowing Demiurge to step through.

  When he saw the interior of the throne room, it was at least familiar. Beastmen nobility lined the walls on one side, commoners and others seeking the King’s aide lined the other, a strip of red carpet led to a stop a dozen paces from the throne.

  And an oversized ligerman sat on a great wide chair, he was a giant even compared to his comrades, looming like a mountain over mere hills, in front of him, a survivor of the struggle was kowtowing and repeating the story of their defeat.

  “I had those doors closed for a reason!” The King bellowed, looking past the kowtowing survivor, the court of commoners and nobles swung their heads around to see who dared to interrupt their lord.

  “Shut up.” Demiurge’s bardic voice was far, far too strong for the beastman, and his jaw snapped shut. “Prostrate yourselves.” He commanded, and the court uniformly fell forward on their faces in his direction, save for the one who had been kowtowing to the king, who was stuck as he was, facing away from the archdevil.

  “I speak for Emperor Ulbert Alain Odle, Demon Emperor of the Draconic Empire, and the eighth God of this world. I speak also for His Sorcerous Majesty, Ainz Ooal Gown of the Sorcerous Kingdom, which you may now think of as the Sorcerous Empire. You will not invade the Draconic Empire. You will not send warriors, raiders, hunters, fighters, slavers, takers, marauders, of any kind into the west. Am I understood?”

  The King struggled to move his mouth. “You may now speak.” He pointed toward the King, and the white and black striped liger roared.

  ‘You had your chance.’ The archdevil thought. “You may now move.” He kept his hand pointed at the King, who sprang to his feet with yellow eyes filled with rage and brought a clawed hand almost the size of Demiurge’s entire torso, toward the archdevil. Demiurge held out one hand and caught it at the wrist. The court could only stare, the King did not even get to cock his head in confusion. He yowled in pain as the squeezing began and the blood inside his body began to catch fire, spreading as it melted the flesh and bone away until what was left of the hand fell to the floor. “You will not invade the west.” Demiurge repeated, and grabbing the liger by the fur, he yanked down, tugging the King to his knees, then grabbing the available neck, he pushed, sending the behemoth onto his back onto the floor.

  “You will not invade the west.” Demiurge said it again, and brought his foot up, then down through the belly of the king, sending the smell of intestines and other guts into the air. Nor did he stop there. The archdevil folded his hands behind his back, then raised his foot up and brought it down again, and again, and again. Crushing bone after bone, organ after organ, until the defiance of the giant beastman was stomped out of him, along with the life of his body, and there was nothing left of him but a smear of blood, fur, teeth, claws, and shattered bones.

  Demiurge then pointed to the prostrated survivor. “You may stand.” Demiurge said, and the prostrated figure rose on trembling legs to turn and face the archdevil and see with his own eyes the horrific mess that had been their monarch.

  “What will you not do?” Demiurge demanded with a fang filled smile on his face.

  “We will not invade the west.” The survivor said in a small voice.

  “Louder.” Demiurge repeated.

  “We will not invade the west!” He screamed his answer again.

  “Good. Then you are King. If I have to return to put my foot down again, my masters or I will lay waste to what is left of your Kingdom.” Demiurge snapped, and then looked at the still immobile, prostrate figures.

  “What about them…” The survivor asked as Demiurge turned around to leave.

  “You may now speak. And you may move when you vow to follow him.” Demiurge pointed toward the survivor who now stood a few feet from the throne. “He, at least, is wise enough to save himself. Maybe he can save you too.” The archdevil cackled, and walked back out the way he came, and none pursued him, allowing him to easily take to the air, and start the long flight back to his maker’s side.

  Whether the survivor, whatever his name was, would be a good king or not, Demiurge had no idea, but at the very least he could be sure, ‘His fear of that day coming again will keep him from foolishness. If the rest get rid of him and repeat their folly, what’s one more day of destruction?’ It was a pleasant thought, and it kept Demiurge smiling for many, many hours.