“You are quite the opportunist,” said Sargatanas. He regarded the statue in his bone-covered hand, weighing it. “I have been told that others like these are out there, but only you have understood its implications, have shown yourself able to do the exceptional by bringing it to me. Perhaps you can be exceptional, as well, upon my fields of battle and under my banners. I will give you your army, Hannibal Barca. And, with it, someone to accompany you, to watch over you, to mold the souls you need however you see fit. Go and gather your host. When you are ready you may join my legions.”
“Thank you, my lord.” Hannibal bowed with some difficulty, top-heavy as he was with the weight of the Burden.
“You will truly thank me in a moment,” the Demon Major said, raising a hand. It glowed with a small but intricate glyph that shot out and touched Hannibal upon the Burden. For an instant, more pain seared through his already-weakened body, but it subsided quickly, replaced by a growing feeling of lightness, and when he looked down, shaking, he saw that his chest was covered with a thick, black liquid that flowed more profusely as the orb began to dissolve. Moments later a large deforming cavity was the only evidence of the cumbersome Burden he had carried. His collapsed head tilted unnaturally until the flesh and bone began to fill in, and when he was completely mended Hannibal, mouth agape, eyes round, knelt before the demon lord almost as one reborn. At Hannibal’s feet a large puddle of malignant blackness had pooled and begun to congeal.
Valefar stepped forward, turned to one of the attending winged demons, and indicated the pool that had once been Hani’s Burden. Light-headed, Hannibal heard him say, “Have that jarred and returned to the Wastes with the proper ceremony.”
Sargatanas lowered his hand and silently looked the trembling soul up and down. Satisfied, he turned quickly to resume his review, his burning robes trailing a thin, rising vortex of steam. A messenger approached him, and Hannibal could not help but hear their conversation.
“Lord,” the trooper said breathlessly, “I have just now come from the border. Lord Astaroth has launched a massive attack on our western margin.”
“Is there any evidence of support from the Prince?”
“No, Lord.”
“Our losses, so far?”
“Demolishers are eating away at the buildings on the edge of Zoray’s Thirty-fourth Ward. Lord Astaroth’s reconnaissance was good; with no true resistance there he has made substantial gains.”
Sargatanas waved the trooper away and then turned to the massed soldiers.
“Legions,” he shouted, his voice like a pure trumpet, “the first move in our campaign has been made for us! We are at war!”
And Hannibal heard a martial cheer spring from thousands of inhuman throats and rise to the heavens, a cheer as he had never heard before.
After conferring for a moment, Valefar turned away from his lord and looked back at the soul. The Prime Minister was shaking his head, an expression upon his bone-plated face that seemed amazed.
“The fruits of your boldness come sooner than you could have imagined, soul!” he shouted through the cheers. “Hannibal Barca, you are now a general in the active service of his lord Sargatanas, Brigadier-Major of the Armies of Hell, Lord of Adamantinarx!”
Chapter Fifteen
ZORAY’S THIRTY-FOURTH WARD
The flight to the border with Sargatanas, Faraii, and Valefar had been quick and easy. War had been imminent for some time, and Sargatanas had had his chosen troops in place long enough for their camp to be well dug in. Upon landing, Faraii headed off to join his Shock Troopers, while Sargatanas and Valefar joined the staff that had gathered beside a conjuring pit. Eligor, wings twitching in anticipation, volunteered to reconnoiter and chose six flyers from the Flying Corps. They took to the air and, after a few dozen wing beats, Eligor realized just how much he enjoyed being in his lord’s service at a time as important as this.
Looking down through a heavy mist upon the remnants of the border outpost, Eligor saw Astaroth’s Demolishers chewing their way through the remaining low buildings. Broad-backed and flattened, each slow-moving creature was, in reality, hundreds of souls compressed together to form nothing more than a giant mobile digestive tract. Myriad enlarged mouths bit off large sections of soul-brick wall and masticated them into pulp. Eligor saw the ruddy haze kicked up by the destruction and the long, straight reddish mounds that trailed behind them, the excreted remains of processed souls. The mounds extended for hundreds of spans, all the way back, he guessed, to the edge of the ward. The slickened ground they left behind was scoured and bloody, smooth and featureless.
The lower he and his half-dozen lightly armed scouts flew, the more distinctly he could see the buildings twisting upon their foundations in a futile effort to protect themselves and hear them crying out. When he had witnessed Demolishers in the past, Eligor had felt a sort of pity for those soul-bricks, mostly, he thought, based upon their complete defenselessness. The wailing only heightened this.
He flew on until he spotted the carpet of slowly marching soldiers that was Astaroth’s army. Glyph-commands sprang up from its officers, guiding the Demolishers, opening the front so the legions could advance. Eligor counted twelve full legions but due to the mist could not find any evidence of Astaroth’s Flying Corps. The more Eligor peered into the concealing clouds, though, the more convinced he was of their presence.
Eligor turned his flight back toward the massed legions of Sargatanas’ advance army. A virtual legion of fleet mounted decurions had been dispatched with utmost haste to the region’s lava-fields to conjure an army as quickly as possible in immediate defense of the distant ward. They had been marvelously successful; arrayed like a vast checkerboard, they only awaited orders to march on the invaders. Eligor knew that, once engaged, these few legions would serve as a delaying force until Sargatanas could bring his approaching ground army to bear.
Eligor descended and swooped in low over the legions, seeking his master’s personal sigil amidst the many glowing unit commanders’ emblems. He found the glowing emblem and, beneath it, his lord standing next to his mount discussing the terrain with the Decurion Primus, a scarred, battle-hardened commander named Gurgat. The one-armed veteran seemed just as interested in Eligor’s findings as his lord.
“It is just as you thought, my lord,” the Captain of the Guard said. “The town of Maraak-of-the-Margins is almost gone. Its inhabitants are scattered. A full dozen Demolishers have seen to that. Behind them is Astaroth’s entire army; he is gambling everything on this move.”
“He feels he has nothing to lose,” Sargatanas said gravely, shaking his head. “We must show him that, in fact, he has everything to lose. Gurgat, rouse the legions. I have orders to issue. It is finally time for this to begin.”
The Decurion Primus mounted a waiting soul-beast and trotted off. Already shrill horns could be heard. Sargatanas turned to Eligor. “I want my old friend Astaroth taken alive, Eligor. I have said as much to Valefar and Faraii as well. It is the least I can do for him. But as for his army, it must be annihilated to a demon.”
“I understand, Lord.”
* * * * *
A red, permeating blood-haze from the Demolishers hung low and heavy above the glistening rubble, making it difficult to see their looming forms as well as their relentless progress. Only Astaroth’s protective guiding seals hovering over them could be seen easily, each slowly growing as they drew nearer. Eligor could hear the siege creatures masticating their way through buildings and streets alike, the cacophony of their thousand jaws mingling with the sound of crumbling walls and the diminishing cries of the bricks. The metallic tang of the pulverized souls’ blood upon the hot air reached Eligor’s nose. The winds were, largely, heading obliquely to them; otherwise they, like the landscape before them, would have been stained red from the mists.
Eligor looked at Sargatanas, who stood, impassive, as if rooted to the ground. His unblinking eyes were fixed upon the vaguely seen Demolishers. The plates of his face shifted, re
configuring his visage into a rigid series of bony planes, barbed and heavily textured. Where there had been eight eyes only three remained, and these were mostly hidden behind protective sclerotic armor.
“Enough of this,” he said softly, almost to himself. “They are close enough.”
Sargatanas raised both hands and a blue effulgence grew between the floating horns above his head. It drew together, growing brighter, and became a quickly rotating ball composed of a dozen tiny repeated glyphs. Eligor could not discern their meaning, but in moments it became clear. The ball split apart and each twisted symbol sped away like a blue-flamed arrow shot at the center of each Demolisher’s glyph. With a crackle of electricity audible even from where they stood, Sargatanas and his legion watched the short but fierce struggle for control that ensued. One by one the blue glyphs disassembled the great fiery-orange seals of Astaroth, casting aside and extinguishing the component glyphs until nothing remained to protect the lumbering Demolishers. Eligor saw the first tendrils of jagged blue lightning scratch at their backs, setting them aflame. It took only a few seconds before all of them were burning. Then, nearly simultaneously, they arched their backs in spasms of pain and burst apart, ripped into glowing chunks that tumbled into the few standing buildings, causing them, in turn, to explode.
A roar of approval rose from behind Eligor and Sargatanas as the front lines of the legions saw the empty expanse of terrain that now lay before them.
Sargatanas mounted his soul-beast and unsheathed the sword named Lukiftias-pe-Ripesol, Light of Heaven. With a flourish of the blade, he and the legions behind began to advance. Eligor and his chosen Guards spread their wings and took up position above him, measuring their wing beats so as not to outpace their lord.
Eligor saw Faraii and his troopers running to create a wedge in front of their lord. As big as they were, they ran easily, powerfully, their thick ax-hands swinging low at their sides. Eligor, remembering Faraii’s ceaseless training, now admired their discipline and their merciless teacher for it.
The legions’ steady tramp could be heard—almost felt—as high as Eligor flew. He banked to the left, coming around until he was over the left wing cavalry, a full brigade of troops who referred to themselves as the Spirits. Eligor had been told, long ago, that this name was out of deference to the souls they rode and bonded with. Now, led by Valefar on the one side and his tribune, Karcefuge, on the other, those expertly ridden souls were walking slowly, matching pace with the center legions. Eligor knew, even without flying there himself, that on the right wing an identical brigade was advancing, lance-hands seated, in a similar fashion.
Returning to the center of the line, he saw Sargatanas issue the command-glyph to halt, a great glyph that rose high, vertically like a banner, so that all could see it; his army was more than halfway to where Eligor knew Astaroth’s many legions waited. Eligor circled lower, keeping his eyes fixed on his lord, watching him prepare for the battle to come. Seated upon his plodding war steed, Sargatanas composed himself, chin down, hands upon the flexing sword that lay atop his saddle, his back straight. He seemed relaxed and Eligor saw him fade into a state with which he could not identify, a state that, undoubtedly, balanced the phantom armies in his mind that needed his commands and the physical armies in the field that needed his sword arm.
Sudden puffs of hot, spark-laden vapor vented from Sargatanas’ flared nostrils, blown out in short, sharp exhalations; some decision had been reached. A few small glyphs appeared above him, blossoming larger and heading off toward the troops. Dozens of horns, made hollow and eerie from the distance, acknowledged their receipt. These were just the beginning of a fountain of glyphs, a fiery cascade of orders that Eligor knew would flow from his master as long as the battle lasted, whether he was engaged in combat or not. Such were the manifold powers of a Demon Major that he could split his awareness, enabling him to wield the legions as he did his own sword. As the armies converged and the glyphs came more rapidly, Eligor grasped his lance more tightly, grateful that he had only to fight.
* * * * *
Much to his disgust, Adramalik found himself accompanying the Duke Fleurety and his ten legions well to the rear of Astaroth’s army, there, he knew, more as a symbol of support than a perceived weapon of final resort in the event that things went badly. Marching behind the ragtag legions, he mused that it was more than likely that he would not see action, that Astaroth’s army would be obliterated quickly, leaving the demons of Dis to simply fade away to do the Prince’s bidding. Adramalik could see that this army of Astaroth’s was as poorly trained as it was ill equipped. Most would undoubtedly perish against one of Sargatanas’ relatively small but well-trained border armies. Fleurety, empowered with a seal from the Prince, would step in and assume control in the Prince’s name of the old demon’s wards while Astaroth would be offered exile in Dis—a choice even he could not be foolish enough to dismiss. And after Astaroth had been escorted back to Dis, after he had fulfilled his master’s misbegotten sense of honor, Adramalik vowed to ask Beelzebub to send someone else on these kinds of official missions. His place was with his Knights, not serving as escort to an impotent lord. For now, Adramalik rode next to the Duke and off in the distance Astaroth and his army etched their fate upon the ash-gray ground with each footstep.
* * * * *
The two lines met with a thunderous impact, like that of many massive stones colliding. Eligor saw the long, continuous point of contact flicker with the incessant sparking of tempered-stone weapons upon tempered-stone armor.
Sargatanas, Eligor saw, was keeping his troops’ line taut, neither advancing nor falling back. The demon lord, protected by Faraii and his enormous Shock Troops, had moved slowly toward the front line of his legions while Valefar and Karcefuge were keeping the Spirits in place.
A shroud of smoky ash began to ascend where the two armies met, blanketing their frenzied ferocity in gray and muffling, somewhat, the clash of arms. Astaroth’s legions fought with an urgency born, Eligor suspected, of the awareness that uncompromising annihilation lay in defeat. There would be no prisoners, no demons left standing to swear allegiance to a new lord. Astaroth had removed that conjured element—that possibility of shifting allegiances—from their seals of obedience. He had committed them that completely in his final cast of the die.
Eligor saw the distant Great Seal of Astaroth dimly through the pall and knew that beneath it that that lord was guiding his army. And for the thousandth time, he wondered how one as great as he could have let his realm sink so far. Turning his gaze behind Sargatanas, he saw his own Guard, lances and shields in hand. Five hundred strong, they awaited his orders with eyes trained upon him, gleaming eagerly.
Sargatanas broke Eligor’s momentary reverie. “I do not trust the air to my next command, Eligor. I must be beyond careful when facing Astaroth; he taught me so many of my command-glyphs. Fly to Valefar then, and to Karcefuge as well, and tell them to advance, to draw up the ends of our line.”
With a nod, Eligor took wing and sped over the five legions between the center and Valefar. He hovered beside the bone-armored Prime Minister, momentarily admiring his effortless handling of the giant soul-steed.
“Valefar, Sargatanas wishes you to begin drawing up the wings.”
“Is Astaroth where we want him?”
“Yes, if he does not alter his position at his army’s center he will be enfolded.” Eligor paused, looking out at the chaos of the battlefield ahead. “It will be sad to see him under these circumstances, Valefar.”
“True, but he will survive. I am to escort him back to Adamantinarx on Sargatanas’ orders.”
“It will be a quiet journey.”
Valefar looked down, frowning. “I had not thought of that.”
He shook his head and then, unseating his pike, spurred his mount with the two large spikes on the insides of his boots, and beast and rider leaped forward. Eligor raised his hand and waved Valefar on. The Spirits around him were whining, straining to break into
a gallop, and in a few short strides got their wish.
* * * * *
They are advancing too fast, too far. Reckless. What is he thinking?
Adramalik could barely see the rear guard of Astaroth’s army as it disappeared across the gray-olive skin of the field and into the haze, and while Duke Fleurety could have issued an order to keep up, he seemed disinclined. So began the betrayal. Just as well, reasoned Adramalik. There was no place for fat upon the bones of Hell. Astaroth, and what was left of his army, would be absorbed by the urban body of Dis.
Reports had been coming in since the two armies had engaged each other. Sargatanas’ destruction of his own town—a bold move after the Demolishers’ elimination—had been a surprise, his ruthlessness commendable. And now, when he could have dashed into the unknown and attempted to overrun Astaroth, Sargatanas’ restraint was proving admirable. It would be interesting to watch him perform upon this field. The Chancellor General smiled inwardly; Sargatanas could be an enjoyable opponent if it ever came to it. But for now, at least, Adramalik knew the Prince had no interest in confronting him.
* * * * *
As he flew back, after conveying his lord’s message to Karcefuge, Eligor saw that the air had grown thick with the gyrating bodies of fighting demons. Both forces had waited until the sky was heavy with smoke to throw their flyers up into the air, an effort to conceal their true numbers. In Astaroth’s case it was a prudent measure; it seemed he could not field more than a legion of the winged soldiers, and this he broke up to create the illusion of greater numbers. But it was this very tactic that spelled their destruction as Sargatanas’ flyers chopped them into even smaller groups until they were no more, raining their crumbling limbs down upon the combatants below.
Nearing Sargatanas’ position, Eligor saw three winged forms drop down around him. He pulled up and saw that it was an officer—a Demon Minor—and his aides. They were in a grievous state, their wings tattered and weapons notched, but Eligor knew better than to think of them as anything but a serious threat. Even with his many battle-earned wounds, the officer—whose sigil proclaimed him as Scrofur—was an imposing demon bearing massive horns upon his shoulders and dozens of tiny, luminous eyes that spattered his face like blood-drops.
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