The buzzing grew louder; in moments Beelzebub would assume his throne. Some of the demons shifted uneasily, but the initiate looked upward without a trace of apprehension. Adramalik thought again that he had chosen well.
Chapter Three
ADAMANTINARX-UPON-THE-ACHERON
There could be no day or night in Hell. What was regarded as day would have been as twilight in any other place. Only red Algol, which some regarded as the Above’s Watchdog, could be used as any true measure of Time. It scratched its lonely path through the blackness at intervals regular enough to be measured and useful, and it was the wan star’s pallid rise that heralded the day. Its light affected nothing.
When Algol finally rose over Sargatanas’ finished palace, many millennia had passed. Its spire-ringed dome, now empty of the thousand winged workers, reared up over the city like a mighty mountain peak. The Audience Chamber within had no rival for its dark architectural beauty. Sargatanas’ aesthetic had been so sublime and its execution by Halphas so deft that when he first entered the chamber Eligor nearly forgot that he was in Hell. Mineral resources from all over Hell had been brought together, floated on barges down the Acheron, and used with such craft and subtlety as to strike dumb all who saw the chamber for the first time.
It was a hundred spans wide and the domed, pale-obsidian ceiling above soared half again more than that. Sargatanas took each visiting demon dignitary around himself, pointing out details, like the carved smoked-crystal capitals atop each of the five hundred gold columns or a particularly eloquent vein in the polished bloodstone floor. While the palace’s shell was built traditionally of bricks, there was not a soul-brick to be found in its core; all the materials used in the arcade, the Audience Chamber, and the dome had been painstakingly quarried from veins of native rock. That, alone, made the edifice unique. Sargatanas had had no desire to incorporate the suffering of souls into the heart of his great building-of-state. Some might have called it a monument to ego, but Eligor knew that it was a sincere attempt to keep the memory of the Above close at hand.
He, Valefar, and sometimes Valefar’s lieutenant, the Demon Minor Zoray, were frequent guides to the sights of the palace. When the great Earl and Demon Major Bifrons arrived with his large entourage, his three eyes widened with the sheer size of the chamber. As befit Sargatanas’ Prime Minister, Valefar took the lead, showing them the splendors of the new palace. Gasps came from the corpulent earl—gasps of admiration, Eligor was sure, and not due to the demon’s bulk.
“My lord,” Eligor said, dropping back with Sargatanas, “if Earl Bifrons, whom none could call abstemious, is impressed, everyone who enters here will be awed. You will be known across all of Hell for this marvel.”
Sargatanas stopped and cast his gaze up toward the distant oculus. Dark clouds slid above it. “I am sure you are right, Eligor. But what he will not realize is that I built this place as a symbol for Them—so that They can see that some of us still have our… dignity. Even now.”
Eligor was joined by Valefar, who had broken away from the visitors. He looked intent.
“It always seemed to me, my lord, that we were doing the best we could given our circumstances,” Valefar said. “I never considered that They cared at all about us since the Fall.”
“They care, I am sure, enough to watch us, if for no other reason than to guard against our return. Which means that They are paying us some attention.” Sargatanas’ face was shifting. Gaps were opening and closing; tiny eyes or teeth appeared and disappeared again. He looked at Valefar and shook his head. “Look at us, Valefar; look at what we have become. Perhaps we deserve all of this,” he said, indicating his steaming form. “Certainly most of us do. But I will not allow Hell to change me more than it must.”
“Lord, I agree,” said Valefar, “but our stance will do little to endear us to the vast majority of demons. They, in their anger and bitterness, have happily made peace with their transformations. To them, it stands as a symbol, a badge of their hatred for the Above.”
“I know,” said Sargatanas. “I have been to Beelzebub’s court too many times, met with too many demons, not to have seen that. I do not care. This is my court and this is how I would have it.”
“Your court is unlike any other in all of Hell, Lord,” said Eligor. “It attracts those who share your enlightened beliefs.” Suddenly a fork-shaped sigil appeared before him glowing insistently. “See? Even as we speak,” he said, in-cheating the floating mark, “yet another stranger begs an audience. This one, too, hails from the Wastes. The storms seem to be driving them all to our doorstep. Should I send him away as I have the others?”
“No. I have a palace to fill now, Eligor.” Sargatanas looked at the sigil. “He is a high-ranking fellow and I will meet him. There,” he said, nodding toward the immense pyramidal dais that rose from the center of the chamber. “Bifrons may stay, if he likes.”
Valefar raised his hand and the stranger’s sigil was augmented by two smaller glyphs, which whisked it away. He, Eligor, and Sargatanas made their way to the dais, crossing over Sargatanas’ enormous circular sigil that was inlaid into the floor. It was complex and made of poured silver that gleamed against the polished stone.
Even as they began to ascend the stairs to the pyramid’s flat top, they could see the stranger, having just reached the far columns, begin to cross the floor. A contingent of Eligor’s Flying Guard, Sargatanas’ personal bodyguard, was already landing atop the dais. As Sargatanas settled into his throne and his two aides took their positions on either side, the Guard moved in to flank them. The newcomer could be seen energetically striding toward them; he was quick and his movements were oddly clipped. Perhaps too quick, thought Eligor, too eager.
They waited as the newcomer began to climb the stairs. The many-layered garments of skin he was swathed in were covered in the convoluted patterns of tiny perpetually lit embers characteristic of a Waste dweller. Steam poured off him in thin clouds, billowing with his precise movements. When he reached them he respectfully knelt, undoing the muffler of skin that had covered his face.
He was bluish in hue, and what the trio of demons could see of his hard, chiseled face was outlined in a linear tracery of small glowing spots. Whether these were his own or acquired and applied from Abyssals they could not tell.
Sargatanas gestured for him to rise, and when he did, his mantle opened somewhat, revealing a strong body, carapaced in articulated bone strips and covered with many ossified scars. The Wastes had written their distinctive signature upon his body; the fierce conditions and denizens encountered far from the cities rarely destroyed demons, but one could always spot a Wanderer by their many scars. And he had another Waste-dweller trait that would mark him to a knowledgeable demon—he moved with an almost jerky deliberateness, which some of the Fallen found inelegant and distasteful.
“Tell us about yourself,” said Sargatanas. “What is your name?”
“I am called Faraii, Lord. I fell far from here, well past the Flaming Cut, out beyond the Fifth Gate of Seven. I did not fall intact but spent much time searching for my burned-off arm. After I recovered it and had it set back upon me, I wandered the Wastes and many of the outlying frontier-encampments. I have lived alone, mostly, and with some of the Waste dwellers, occasionally.”
“Really. Your survival skills must be extraordinary.”
“Perhaps, my lord,” said Faraii with great humility. “By necessity. I explored, hunted Abyssals for provisions, and made many notes on the indigenous dwellers and their culture, Lord.” Faraii seemed to Eligor at ease and yet respectful. He also seemed a little stiff, something that Eligor put down to his having been away from the cities for so long.
“Well then, you and Eligor, here, will have many things to discuss. He thinks of himself as something of an ethnographer and spends much of his free time compiling material on the creatures of the wilds, as well as what the souls can remember of their civilizations.”
Faraii’s expression did not change. He bowed
his head slightly in acquiescence.
Sargatanas was silent for a long moment. “You haven’t mentioned that you are a baron,” he said unexpectedly. Valefar looked at him for a moment and back at the newcomer.
“I was a Seraph Minor in the court of Iuvart before the Fall, Lord. Forgive me; no guile was intended. I do not like to think of my prior life.” He looked away for a moment, the pain evident upon his face.
“It hurts all of us who choose to remember, Faraii. Myself included,” said Sargatanas after a moment. “The War… the War had to be fought. We lost and we paid for it dearly.” He looked at Valefar and Eligor and both nodded. “Well,” Sargatanas said more brightly, “I think that you will be a fine addition to our court. With your knowledge and experience we will be able to more confidently traverse the outlying regions with little fear of running afoul. Welcome.”
A glyph appeared from Sargatanas’ chest, a duplicate of one that hovered near where his heart had been torn out. It floated toward Faraii’s burning sigil, where it intertwined with it, becoming one. The pact of a new alliance had been sealed.
Sargatanas rose, patted Faraii on the shoulder briefly, and strode down the stairs. “Get him settled in, Valefar,” he said over his shoulder. “It is time the Baron had someplace to call home.”
As Sargatanas strode from the chamber, Faraii looked relieved, if not outwardly pleased. But when Valefar and Eligor approached him with outstretched hands he readily took them, clasping them in a grip that surprised both demons. Valefar said, “Welcome to Adamantinarx, Baron Faraii. Whether you chose this city by chance or not, this is the best of all cities in Hell. You will see.”
Faraii smiled faintly. His eyes shone brightly.
Eligor studied the newcomer with interest, wondering what lay behind his laconic stoicism. This demon of the Wastes might well be worth further study.
Valefar, however, seemed more reserved in his interaction with Faraii, walking a pace behind him as they left the chamber, watching his peculiar movements closely and taking in every detail of this newest member of the court. Eligor realized that this was as it should be, that Valefar was dutifully performing one of the most important functions of his office—that of appraising those who might aspire to Sargatanas’ inner circle. This exotic figure, clad in burning skins and moving in his odd, angular way, was, in fact, a baron, not some untitled itinerant, and he deserved a respectful but thorough evaluation.
The three demons exited the huge chamber, and at its main threshold guards handed Faraii his bundled traveling kit. This included a rolled protective hide, worn cooking utensils, and a strangely wrought blade that did not go unnoticed by either Eligor or Valefar. It was black and very long, with a grip ample enough to have been used with two hands. Unlike most weapons, it seemed to have been fashioned from the sharpened spine of an Abyssal and had teeth, small bells, and dried eyes dangling from short cords tied into its hilt.
“An interesting weapon, Faraii,” Valefar said.
“Acquired in an interesting way, Lord Prime Minister,” Faraii said, handing him the blade. “As part of a ritual of acceptance into one of the local Waste tribes I had to hunt and kill what they call a Great Gouger, and take its skull-spine for a weapon. They are regarded as the tribe’s totem and are formidable creatures standing nearly thirty feet high.” Faraii seemed very matter-of-fact.
“Did you use an Art Martial to kill it?” asked Eligor, who found this mysterious figure more fascinating by the moment.
“That would not have been acceptable,” said Faraii. “The tribes are neither demon nor soul but, as you know, were here before us. They live an austere life out there, and rely on nothing but their cunning and traditional skills to combat the elements. As a sign of respect to their culture, I killed it with their simplest weapon—a heavy sling.”
Valefar hefted the weapon for a moment, then handed it back to Faraii.
“If you like, Captain Eligor, at some future time I will show you some of the traditional fighting forms that the tribespeople taught me,” Faraii said, shoving the sword back into his bundle.
“I would very much like that, Baron.”
They walked through one of the axial arcades that led out of the palace complex and exited out onto the center mount’s parade ground. The ragged clouds had parted and a high-altitude firestorm burnished the city’s tiny buildings below a coppery orange. They continued around to the court residences. These massive plain-facaded buildings were set into the mountainside, their large quartz-glazed windows commanding an unobstructed view of Adamantinarx.
Unlike the palace, the residences were constructed of massive soul-blocks, each one comprised of at least fifty compacted souls. They had been intentionally finished and laid down so that their many eyes were exposed, blinking constantly in the ashy wind.
Eligor and Valefar left Faraii at the entrance to his suite of rooms. He bowed slightly but did not say any words of thanks as they turned away. It was, Eligor was sure, simply his way.
Chapter Four
DIS
She lay naked, facedown on her bed upon a pile of bleached skin covers, their tangy odor filling her nostrils. She was as white as the clouds Above, and the soft curves of her undulating body, the smooth angles of her shoulders as they swept into her back and on to the rounded rise of her buttocks, were a landscape of undiluted sensuality. She glistened in the half-light, tiny stars of perspiration forming on her pale skin from the slow, half-conscious gathering movements of her hips.
Eyes closed, she clutched the skins with strong, trembling hands and ground herself into the bed, filling the room with her soft gasps. Her nails tore through the blankets, scraping on the pallet beneath as her movements became more urgent, her gasps became cries. And when she had finished she rolled slowly over, cloud-white breasts rising and falling, as she tried to focus on the barely discernible patterns on the ceiling of her world.
She had once been given a true world of her own, but that had ended badly and this, this was anything but what she had had in mind. Six rooms sheathed in flattened and polished bone with only one door and no windows. It was her world, which was situated in the center of his, its, world. Which was all of Hell.
She had had many names to many peoples, but with the passage of eons she had come to think of herself as Lilith. Especially because her lord had difficulty enunciating it. A tiny victory, perhaps, but even the smallest gesture helped her swallow her unending disgust with finding herself bound for eternity to the Fly. She shuddered and shook her head violently, trying futilely to clear it of unpleasant memories. It was her special punishment, no matter where she existed, to belong to another. She accepted it because she had no other choice, but her soul rebelled at the reality of it.
Lilith heard a rustling in the next room. It was, she knew, Ardat Lili, her devoted handmaiden, removing her traveling Abyssal-skins after her long journey back from Adamantinarx. She had been away for some time, but it had been an opportunity not to be missed. Lilith swung her body upright and dropped one of her feet to the floor. The four thick claws, stained reddish-brown from blood, scraped on the tiles.
Will I ever get used to seeing them? Despite the changes to her feet, she had, she knew, been more than lucky when she Fell. Her body had been unscathed; even her heart—the only one in Hell—was left within her. She sometimes felt, though, that that might have been her worst punishment. No one should have to have a heart in Hell. Perhaps Lucifer had done it somehow, to preserve her when he had thought she would be by his side. She did not know.
“Ardat Lili?” said Lilith, standing. Her nude white body, voluptuous in its curves, almost disappeared against the whiteness of the room.
“Yes, my lady,” came the reply from behind the closed door.
“Come in and tell me how you fared. Did we manage to put a few of them into good hands?”
The handmaiden entered, still removing her outer garments. Ash fell from the folds onto the white floor, and she looked down in dismay.
> “Yes, my lady. That city is so different from ours… so much easier to walk about in. All of them are gone. Each and every little statue,” Ardat Lili said enthusiastically. She knelt and began to neatly pile the ash. “One soul looked at his and even said that he thought it was you. He said that he’d seen you; can you imagine that?”
“Yes, I can,” Lilith said, softly drawing on a robe. She walked over to a small bone table. Upon it were some carving tools and a half-finished bone statuette. The resemblance to its maker was uncanny; even the clawed feet were perfect in their detail.
Ardat Lili had mounded up a handful of the black ash and was sweeping it into the hem of her skin skirt.
Lilith picked up a small chisel, blowing bone dust off its tip. “That would be a hundred or so that we have sent out into the population, true?” she said, rolling the tool absently between her long fingers.
“Yes, Mistress, one hundred and fifteen tiny missionaries.”
“And neither Lord Agaliarept nor Chancellor Adramalik knows anything about them, right?”
Ardat Lili looked up, nearly spilling the ash. “I have been so careful. You know how much I love you, my lady, how long I have been by your side. I would be destroyed before they would find out!”
“I do know. And I love you as well. You know that. I am just nervous every time you go out. The slightest things make those two suspicious. And one never wants to be the object of their suspicion,” Lilith said with conviction. She turned to the polished bone wall—the source of her raw materials—and looked for a moment at it. There were small pits scattered upon its surface. She ran her hand across it, and then she tapped on a particular subtle twist of bone and said to herself, “This bit would make a fine figure. Larger than most. I must remember this.” And with the tip of the tool she etched a small glyph upon the surface.
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